♡ — synopsis: a rather small but challenging argument between you and prince aerion, your betrothed, leaves you in disarray. perhaps there is more than one way the prince can make it up to you?
♡ — word count: 1.1k (pt. 1) (click here for part two!)
♡ — warnings: arranged marriage, u kinda hate him, aerion being two-faced as always, i might have missed something.
♡ — an: (title is not by me. its shakespear.) this is probably ooc but its ok. smut in part 2 ok? mssg me with any requests lololololol
an arranged marriage between a targaryen and a noble house was nothing more than a peace treaty. you began to wonder what on earth your father, peace may be with him, has been confiding with while you’ve been away.
the past few moons, you’ve had little to no interest in royal gatherings or making any appearances at court just for show. it was rather difficult being a young lady in trying times, and seemingly it felt much more like being a pawn on a board than being the player at hand.
the servants and castle keep are far enough as not to disturb your time of privacy, but not daring to stray too far. it was almost like there were always at least one set of eyes on you at all times ever since stepping into kings landing; truly foreign territory.
as cunning and arrogant as aerion targaryen could possibly be seen, he was nothing short of a powerful ruler. it was seen as the highest honour to be bestowed and offered marriage to anyone of the targaryen house. your husband put almost this facade of impeccable courtesy in front of his father, maekar, almost sure to win the court's favor. yet his dark streak and lack of empathy bled between the lines rather often.
but he was not all cruel. especially not towards his bride.
the red keep gardens had become quietest place at court for a nearly-wedded lady, allowing you to be surrounded with blossoming flora and fauna, seemingly the only pure thing left behind under the mid-day sun.
as you were becoming almost lost in a loop of thoughts about family and marriage contracts, the very frame of aerion became to approach your peripheral. it was not by any means that you did not wish to look him in the eye or unacknowledge his presence.. his gaze was simply far more intense than that of any other potential suitors of your past. the pallor of his significantly targaryen visage and the snow-white hair was enough to spot him.
although, you were not fooling the wisest of men by pretending you were not interested in his whereabouts.
a slight turn of your head gave view to a conversation between him and a servant, which could have been rooted with anything of the sort. you were unable to make out the words leaving either of their mouths, but it seemed aerion was beginning to scold the young servant rather harshly. perhaps it was over spilled wine, or a dropped sword.
with a wave of his hand, the servant was turned away and scurried off without a halt, leaving a rather frustrated targaryen alone with his wife.
there was about a few moments until he joined you within your walk along this quaint area of the gardens, but everything was nothing but peaceful.
with a gentle purse to your lips, which may have been brought by your slight agitation with his behaviour, you began to pierce the silence.
“was that necessary?”
your small words of questioning caused him a quick narrowing of his eyes at you. “what was?”
“frightening him.”
but, of course, aerion had grown up royal and had the world at his fingertips since he was a small boy.
“i simply corrected him,” he started, his tone coming off as almost dismissive, like he was well aware no one could tell him how to treat his servants. “you’ve such a tender heart.”
you allowed him a beat of silence. it was always apparent, even when on his best behaviour, that his narcissistic nature would peek through.
“i fail to see the insult.” you quipped back, making it known that his words were not wounding.
“it wasn’t one. it simply explains why we disagree.”
there was a slight furrow of your brows, your gaze narrowing by a hair, “does it?”
“because you concern yourself with the feelings of a servant.” he says, words bitter as ever.
that strikes you in a way that makes you realize: this is the man my father has promised me to.
the gentle stroll you two had started up while talking had come to a sudden halt, stopping in your tracks as you refused to tolerate this any longer. his attitude, that is.
“and you concern yourself with no ones, aerion.”
your voice was hushed, yet still fiery, given you were albeit the slightest bit afraid to express your rebuttal.
he let out a sharp, quick scoff, subtly rolling his eyes with a tight, dismissive jerk to the side. it was clear he was used to being challenged by your words, but this time, there was a bit of a lingering sting to his ego.
“aren’t you ever satisfied? must everything become a quarrel with you?” aerion hissed in mock questioning, followed by a slight cock of his brow. his viper-like nature became more apparent with every passing moment. with any ounce of gentleness that he was capable of, his fingers wrapped around your forearm, in attempts to keep you from straying away from him or rushing to your private quarters.
“a contract signed by our fathers does not grant you my affection. you barely keep my compliance, at best, my lord.” you spat those last two words much slower than the rest of your admission, working in your favor to remind him that he did not possess the entirety of his power over you.
a quick huff came from his nostrils, showing his obvious disdain for your suddenly brazen mouth. aerion’s gaze upon you contracted, using the strong grip upon your silk-clad arm to almost jerk you closer.
“you’ll begin to know your place, i assure you.” his voice became lower, quieter, like he was almost threatening you. very on-brand for the likes of a targaryen. “i haven’t asked you to love me.”
consequently, you could only look down at your feet, avoiding any direct eye-contact altogether. this relationship had been built on the very empty, unwillful promise of an heir, and nothing more. and now you had to concern yourself with the likes of his unempathetic nature.
a breath left you, speaking much softer now, accepting that you’ve lost this battle of wits end.
“you’ve asked me to marry you.”
“you should know those are rather different things, my lady.” he turned, beginning to leave you to reside with nothing else besides yourself, returning to court. “i shall tend to you later.”
with those last harsh words of his, a promise hung within the air.
when he was aware his words had pierced you, he let go in satisfaction. aerion had no problem putting anyone in their place, especially you.
summary: As Princess Rhae’s nameday tourney draws closer, Valarr grows bolder in his affections. However you find Aerion difficult to ignore.
pairing: aerion targryen x tyrell reader x valarr targaryen
cw: Queen Myriah being the biggest reader x valarr shipper, aerion being an asshole, mainly wholesome valarr and plot driven
word count: 6k
“Have you seen it?”
“Seen what, my lady?”
You turned to your handmaiden, Clara, and frowned. You gestured towards the empty nightstand. “My flower.” You said. “ It was here, I left it here. I know I did.”
Clara hesitated for a moment. “I have not seen it, my lady.”
You looked again anyway, as though it might have appeared while you were looking away. It did not. You have already searched the chamber twice over–table, floor, beneath the bed. You decided to look there once more, so you dropped to your knees and pushed the coverlet aside. You peered into the dim space to reveal nothing more than dust.
You sat back on your heels and frowned again. It was a foolish thing to trouble over. You think. Though the small sting of it would not be soothed.
A knock came at the door, and Clara crossed the room to answer it. You heard low murmurs before she turned back to you. “The queen is calling on you, my lady.”
You glanced up from where you sat on the floor, resting one arm on the mattress. You pushed yourself up to brush your hands lightly against your skirt and blew away the loose strand of hair that had fallen into your face. “Could you fix my hair?” You asked.
“Of course, my lady.”
The servant escorted you to the queen's solar. Queen Myriah sat with her ladies gathered about her in easy company. Lady Laerra lounged along one side of the settee with Lady Edeline at her side. They all turned the moment you stepped inside.
You dipped into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Ah, come, come. Sit here.” The queen said, her hand lifted, and beckoned you closer.
You took the place indicated beside her, and a servant stepped forward before you had even settled and placed a hoop of embroidery in your hands with the needle and thread already set.
You looked down at it and then back up again with a questioning look, but the queen only waved her hand. “Hush, busy yourself, dear.” She said,
You blinked and opened your mouth to speak. “Hush,” she repeated as though you were being unreasonable.
You did not know what was required of you, but you set the needle where the thread had been left and began.
Across from you, Lady Laerra made a small sound that might have been laughter. Lady Edeline pressed her lips together, though her eyes betrayed her. You frowned, but did not look at them long. Your gaze fell again to the hoop, and your hand settled into the motion of it.
You had only set a few stitches before the door opened. When you glanced up, Prince Valarr had stepped inside, the tailor at his back burdened with folded lengths of heavy cloth.
Valarr bowed his head, “Your grace.” His gaze found you for the briefest moment, and there was the faintest turn at the corner of his mouth before he looked on. “Ladies,” he added.
“Valarr, dear,” the queen said, rising to meet him. She set her hands upon his shoulders as though to keep him in place. “We have been waiting on you.”
That was news to you.
“So it would seem,” he said. “I had thought to be left to my own devices.
The queen gave a small huff. “Thank the gods I have thought better of it.” She took a square of cloth from the tailor’s burden and held it to the light, turning it this way and that. “The crown has an image to maintain. I will not have you boys undoing it with poor choices.”
You lowered your gaze at once, though a faint smile tugged at your lips.
“A pity,” Valarr said. “I had grown fond of my poor choices.”
A few of the ladies laughed behind their hands, and the queen only shook her head. The tailor came forward then and laid out lengths of cloth upon the table—deep reds and darker shades. He stepped back to look at Valarr to measure him with his eye, then began to drape the fabrics over his shoulders one by one. You looked up only once or twice.
The queen had set herself to fussing over him. She turned him slightly, then smoothed the cloth, discarding one piece for another with little patience. You bent your head again to your work, though your attention did not wholly remain there.
“Stand still.” The queen instructed.
“I am standing still,” Valarr muttered, though he shifted even as he spoke.
“You are fidgeting, Valarr.” She said and shook her head at the tailor who held up a color she did not like.
“Grandmother, I can hardly help it,” he said, a touch lower now. “You do make a spectacle of me before your ladies.”
A ripple of soft laughter stirred through the room. You did not join it.
“Nonsense,” the queen said. Valarr shifted again, then seemed to catch himself and went rigid. “There,” he said. “I am not moving.”
The queen sighed, long-suffering. “Now you are too stiff.”
He let out a quiet breath, something between defeat and amusement, but did not move again.
The exchange went on a moment longer, small corrections and small refusals, the sort of thing that might have been familiar if not for the room full of watching eyes. You kept your own lowered, though you felt the faint absurdity of it.
“Lady Tyrell.”
You looked up at once, the needle stilled between your fingers. “Your Grace?”
“What do you make of this?” the queen asked, gesturing lightly to the cloth laid across Valarr’s shoulders. “The color, I mean.”
You swallowed, though there had been no need for it, and raised your gaze.
He stood where they had set him. His hands hung at his sides, not quite still, as though he had forgotten what to do with them. There was a faint awkwardness in him that made you believe he was enduring the worst humiliation.
You meant to look at the cloth, and you did at first. The color was rich and dark where the light did not touch it, brighter where it did. It suited him—more than suited him. You think. It did something to him, or else to how you saw him.
Your gaze lifted, and his eyes met yours, and for a moment it was as though you had both been caught in the same small foolishness and would not speak of it.
You dropped your gaze at last, and the heat rose quick to your cheeks. “It suits the prince well,” you said, too fast.
Lady Laerra gave a soft laugh. “It does more than suit him. The young ladies will be clawing at one another for a place beside the prince.”
Valarr let out a quiet breath. “They need not trouble themselves.”
“No?” the queen said, her brows lifting. “Not even one fortunate lady has caught your interest?”
Valarr shifted again, “I did not say that,” he said.
Lady Edeline’s smile widened at once. “Oh,” she said, turning to Lady Laerra, “he did not say that.”
A murmur of amusement stirred through the room. The queen laughed and shook her head. “Enough. I have tormented my grandson quite enough for one morning.”
She began to return the lengths of cloth to the tailor’s waiting arms. “You may all go.”
There was a soft rustle of skirts as the ladies rose, and you set your needle and stood with them.
“Not you, dear.”
You stilled. The queen’s hand lifted, indicating the hoop still in your grasp. “You have not yet finished.”
“It is near enough, Your Grace—”
“Sit.” She said once, and that was enough for you.
The room grew quieter once the others had gone. Only the queen’s low voice remained, as she spoke with the tailor in measured tones.
You bent your head to your work, and after a moment, you became aware of him. He stood beside you, not speaking at first. “That is very fine work,” Valarr said at last.
You looked up at him. “It is only stitching,” you said. “But thank you.”
Before you could say more, he had taken the seat at your side. Close enough that you felt the warmth of him and the faint brush of his sleeve against your own.
“Do you enjoy it?” he asked.
You hesitated, your gaze flickered once toward the queen, who had not yet turned back to you. You shook your head slightly. “Not much.” A small, knowing smile touched your mouth.
A laugh escaped him.“It seems difficult enough,” he said.
“It is not,” you answered. “Quite simple once you know the way of it.”
He leaned a little closer then, and his attention settled upon the hoop in your hands. “I do not know the way of it,” he said plainly.
You glanced at him. “Would you like to try?” you asked, and then felt immediately foolish for it.
He shook his head at once, a faint laugh following. “I think not.”
“It is no great undertaking,” you said.
“Very well,” he said and cleared his throat. When you placed it in his hands, he held it as though it might break.
“The needle goes here,” you said, and reached to guide him before you had thought better of it. Your fingers closed lightly over his and adjusted the angle.
He tried, though not with much confidence. “No,” you said, shaking your head, “You will only tangle it.”
He tried again, and the thread caught immediately. You watched him struggle with it a moment; his brow drew faintly as he attempted to set it right without help. When it worsened instead, you leaned in to free it. Your fingers brushed his as you drew the needle loose.
He frowned at that. “You said it was simple.”
“It is,” you said. “You are making it otherwise, my prince.” There was no hiding the note of amusement in your voice.
He huffed softly, and when you leaned in a little more to see the thread properly, he turned his head toward you. You had not realized how close the two of you had drifted until that moment.
His face was inches from your own. Near enough that you felt the warmth of his breath against your cheek and near enough to see the pale flecks of gold in the dark of his eye where the sunlight touched it.
His gaze caught yours first. Then, slowly, it fell lower to your lips.
The room seemed to narrow around you. The queen’s voice faded to a dull murmur somewhere beyond the two of you. You became suddenly aware of everything at once—the warmth of his thigh against yours and the way your hand still rested lightly over his. Then—
“Ow.” He flinched suddenly, which caused you to draw back at once, your breath caught as the moment broke apart, and you looked down to find a bead of red welling at the tip of his finger where the needle had caught him.
For a heartbeat, he only stared at it, faintly perplexed. Then, without thought, he brought the finger to his mouth. You could not help but watch the slow press of his lips against it and the way his thumb rested there as he drew the blood away.
Your gaze lingered far too long. You felt a coil of heat, low and sudden in your stomach. You swallow hard and hope he did not notice.
You did not even realize the queen had made her way over. “You are bleeding.’ She said as though he had not noticed, her brows pulled together in worry.
“It is nothing, grandmother,” Valarr said.
“I will fetch the maester–”
Valarr shook his head. “It is nothing.” He repeated.
“I will not have you losing fingers because you wished to play at embroidery.” The queen said.
“Grandmother—”
But she was already crossing the room, skirts sweeping after her. “Do not bleed on anything,” she called over her shoulder. The door shut behind her.
“Are you hurt?” you asked, taking the embroidery hoop gently from his hands.
Valarr let out a breath that broke into a quiet laugh. “My grandmother worries too much.” He held up his finger between you. “It is only a prick.”
“It could fester,” you said.
He shook his head. “I begin to see why my grandmother is fond of you. You are alike in your taste for dramatics.”
That drew a laugh from you. “Soon your finger will blacken and fall clean off.” You said solemnly.
Valarr grinned at that, “I had not taken you for the morbid sort, Lady Tyrell.”
You lowered your gaze and feigned interest in the embroidery once more. A small crimson stain had bloomed against the pale cloth where his blood had touched it. “The queen only cares for you,” you said.
“She cares too much for everything,” Valarr replied.
You glanced up at him and lifted one brow slightly. “How so?”
“The tournament,” he said. “The flowers and the fabrics we are made to wear.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the door through which the queen had gone. “If she were able, she would arrange the whole realm to her liking.”
You considered that as you turned the hoop lightly in your hands. “She arranges things well enough,” you said at last.
“The queen is bored,” he said plainly.
The laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You looked away, but not before you saw the way his gaze lingered on you in a manner that made warmth creep once more beneath your skin.
You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware again of how close he sat beside you. And so, to break the feeling, you spoke quickly. “Will you ride in the tournament?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“No?” You looked at him in surprise. “I had thought you would.”
Valarr leaned back into the cushions slightly, “For a nameday tourney?” he said. “I would spare myself the trouble.”
“The princess will require champions,” you pointed out.
“She shall have them,” Valarr said. “Her brothers, and others. Though Daeron may fall from the saddle before the melee is half done.” A note of quiet amusement entered his voice.
You smiled despite yourself. “And Aerion?” you asked before you had thought better of it. The name seemed to linger strangely in the air between you.
Valarr did not seem to notice. “Aerion will ride fiercely enough,” he said. “My cousin has never cared much for losing.”
No, you thought. He did not. Your gaze dropped to the embroidery in your lap, though you no longer saw it.
For a moment, you could picture him plain as day— Aerion on his horse riding beneath the banners with that crooked smile upon his mouth that so often bordered arrogance and infuriated most men but stirred something else entirely in you.
The doors opened then, and the queen returned with Maester Rylon close behind her. “Here,” she said at once, drawing him forward with an impatient wave. “He has cut himself.”
Valarr let out a soft sigh but held up his hand obediently all the same. Maester Rylon took it in both hands as one might examine a mortal wound. The old maester peered closely at the tiny mark upon Valarr’s finger whilst the queen watched on with deep displeasure.
You lowered your head and hoped neither of them would see the smile threatening at your mouth.
Maester Rylon gave a small nod. “A prick only, Your Grace. Nothing more.”
Valarr huffed a laugh at that.
“It will heal cleanly,” Maester Rylon assured and released the prince’s hand at last. The queen seemed only partly satisfied, though she inclined her head all the same.
Valarr rose from the settee then. “Good,” he said. “I had hoped to survive the ordeal.”
He bent to press a kiss against his grandmother’s cheek, and some of the irritation left her face for it.
“You will be more careful,” she told him.
Valarr nodded, then turned toward you. “I hope to see you again soon, Lady Tyrell.” He smiled, and his gaze held yours a moment longer before he bowed his head lightly and made for the door.
Only once the doors had closed behind him did you become aware of the queen’s gaze upon you, and you looked back to find her smiling.
Your brows drew together. “What is it?”
“Nothing at all,” Queen Myriah said.
-
The corridors had filled since morning. Voices echoed off the stone, and servants hurried past with lowered heads. You had been in no great hurry. Not until you turned the corner and found him there, and you both stopped with only a handful of paces between you.
Aerion stood as he always did. As though you had invaded his space. One hand rested near the hilt at his hip, and the other was loose at his side. The light from the narrow windows caught in his pale hair, and his eyes found yours at once.
His brows drew together, faintly, and you saw the way his mouth had shifted as though he would speak but then thought better of it.
Your lips parted, and his name pressed itself against the back of your teeth before you could stop it. You stood there too long, staring at him as though you had forgotten how to move. You look like a fool. You think.
You swallowed hard, and the words died in your throat.
Then you moved. You gathered your skirts in one hand and stepped past him. Close enough that the silk of your sleeve whispered near his hand. Close enough that he could reach out and grab you, and for a heartbeat, you hoped thought he might.
You could feel the sudden catch of his hand around your wrist, rough enough to bruise. He would pull you hard into the shadow of the wall and press your back against the cold stone. His mouth against yours with no sense to stop.
But he did not reach for you, nor did he move aside.
You did not turn back.
-
You had not thought much about the encounter after—or you had tried not to. When night came, and you reached for the candle beside your bed, the door opened without warning.
Aerion stepped inside. Why should he knock? You think bitterly. He shut it behind him with a soft thud.
You frowned faintly. “Aerion—”
“Are you ignoring me?” He asked sharply.
You blinked at him. “What?”
“You heard me.” He crossed the room as he spoke, slow and certain, not waiting for leave nor invitation.
“Why would I—”
“Never mind it,” he said, cutting the words from you.
He dropped onto the edge of your bed with careless ease. One of his boots knocked against the floor as he kicked it off. A moment later, the other followed, kicked free, and set aside.
You stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” He leaned back upon his hands as he said it, and stretched his legs out before him,
You let out a soft sigh and climbed onto the opposite side of the bed, drawing your legs beneath you. The mattress dipped faintly beneath his weight.
“It does not appear like nothing,” you said.
“It is.” His gaze wandered the chamber rather than settling on you. “I was passing by.”
“And thought to sit upon my bed?”
“I thought to sit.” His mouth twitched faintly. “The bed happened to be here.” At last, he glanced back toward you, “Do you object?” he asked.
You pressed your lips together and shook your head. “No.”
Aerion nodded and looked back. “Good.”
Silence settled between you two for a moment before you slid closer and settled beside him. “I heard you will ride in your sister’s nameday tourney.” You said a touch quieter.
Aerion's gaze flickered to you, narrowed slightly. “Who told you that?”
“I heard it mentioned.” You lied.
He studied you for a moment and then hummed softly. “Of course I will.”
He straightened a little where he sat. “I will give those piss-poor knights a proper show of it.” His mouth curved then. “Remind them what it means to ride against a dragon.”
For a moment, you could see the bravado falter slightly when his eyes met yours. “You will be there.” He said.
You could not tell whether it was meant as a question or a command.
“I will.” You answered regardless.
His jaw tightened once before easing again. He nodded faintly, though his eyes never left your face. He moved closer then, as if he had grown tired of the distance between you.
His knee knocked against yours, and his hand caught your sleeve. He smoothed out a crease that did not seem to exist. You glanced down at his hand and at the silver ring he wore, then back to his face.
“I will win, you will see.” He said softly, lowering his voice slightly. For all of the arrogance in it, you could hear something else, almost boyish. You think.
-
You woke without knowing when you had fallen asleep. For a moment, you lay still beneath the warmth of the blankets until the weight beside you made itself known. Aerion lay half-turned toward you, one arm cast careless across the coverlet. He had not yet woken.
A knock came at the door. Aerion stirred at that, though he did wake fully. He only shifted with a quiet sound of annoyance.
Before the second knock could come, you snatched at the blankets and threw them over him in a hurried disarray. Aerion made a displeased noise at that, something like a scoff, but he did not rise.
Clara stood in the doorway with a small folded letter in hand. “My lady.” She said and paused only a moment once her gaze flicked toward the bed and the shifting shape beneath the blankets. If she thought anything of it, she had the good sense not to show it.
You took the letter, recognizing the familiar red wax seal with three heads. You dismissed her quickly.
Once the door closed, the blankets shifted violently. Aerion threw them aside with a sharp breath and pushed himself upright with irritation. “Seven hells was that for?”
One hand dragged over his face before his gaze caught on the letter in your hands. The annoyance in him dulled slightly then, replaced by something sharper. “What is that?”
“Nothing,” you said too fast and already began folding the parchment closed when Aerion rose from the bed and crossed the room in three strides.
“Aerion—”
He plucked the letter from your hands before you could stop him. You reached for it, but he shifted away from your grasp with ease, not even looking at you.
“He sends for you now, does he?”
You reached for the letter again, but Aerion held it just beyond your grasp between two careless fingers.
“Aerion—”
“A morning ride.” His mouth twisted faintly. “How tender.”
“Give it back,” you said.
The parchment crumpled slightly in his hand. “You mean to go?” he asked.
When you did not answer quickly enough, something changed in his face. His gaze moved over you slowly and lingered in a manner that made your skin prickle. You had seen that look before and never liked what followed after it.
“Do you warm my cousin’s bed now, too?” he asked softly.
You recoiled as though he had laid hands upon you. “I am not yours to question.” You spat.
“Mm.” The sound was low in his throat. “You have told me otherwise often enough.” He reminded you with that arrogant smirk you could kiss.
You snatched the letter from his hand then. “Perhaps we both say things we do not mean.”
For a moment, he did not move. This hand fell away slowly to his side, and he stepped closer until you had to tilt your head back to keep his gaze.
His mouth curved again, though there was little mirth in it now. A short laugh escaped him, and his tongue pressed briefly against his teeth before he spoke.
“Strange,” he said. “You sounded quite certain before.”
He brushed past you then, and his shoulder struck yours hard enough to stagger you half a step. The door slammed shut behind him with enough force to rattle the candles.
-
The stables smelled of hay and leather with another scent beneath it all that no lady should name aloud.
Your riding boots sank lightly into the packed dirt as you stepped inside and watched stableboys hurry past with saddles and feed.
You tried to not think of Aerion or the look in his eyes, nor the cruel shape of his mouth around his words. You do not care what he thinks, you told yourself. But you knew it was a lie.
You found Valarr beside an open stall, with a stable hand nearby. He had bent his head whilst the man spoke, one gloved hand resting easily against the horse’s neck. He looked less arranged with his sleeves pushed back untidily past his forearms and riding leathers darkened with wear.
His attention had been wholly upon the animal until he noticed you. Then he smiled.
“My lady,” he said as he came toward you. “I am glad you could make it.”
“I thank you for the invitation.” Your fingers busied themselves with the leather of your gloves.
Valarr noticed, and his eyes lingered on your hands a moment before lifting once more to your face. “Come, I would have you meet him.”
Valarr led you to the stall, his hand came to rest against the wood as the horse turned its head toward him. It was a fine animal—dark as soot.
“He’s a good mount,” Valarr said, quieter now.
You stepped nearer, careful in your movements, your gaze moving over the horse slowly. “What is his name?”
Valarr did not answer at once.
His mouth tightened faintly. “You will laugh,” he warned.
“I will not.”
After a moment he relented. “Balerion.
One brow lifted before you could stop it. “Like the Black Dread?”
Valarr gave you a look at once. “You said you would not laugh.”
“I have not laughed.” You rebutted.
There was a faint color in his cheeks now. “I was one and ten when I named him,” he said quickly, as if eager to defend himself. “At the time, I had wanted a dragon. A great one.”
You smiled at that. “It is a good name.”
Valarr gave a quiet motion to one of the stable boys, who hurried forward at once to ready Balerion for the ride.
“You should ride with me,” Valarr said as he took the reins into his hands. “It will be simpler that way.”
You looked at the horse, then back to him. “Are you certain?”
He nodded, and in one smooth motion, he mounted and settled into the saddle with the ease of long practice. He turned then, looking down at you and held out his hand.
Your fingers slipped into his. His grip closed firm around your hand as he drew you upward. For one brief and mortifying instant, your footing slipped against the stirrup, and your breath caught—Then you were there. Seated in front of him.
The reins fell to either side of you. Valarr's arms came forward to take them, caging you in, closer than you had expected. His chest was at your back, the warmth of him sudden and unavoidable, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing
The horse shifted beneath you, and on instinct, you drew back slightly, only to meet him instead.
“It is alright,” he said, his voice low, just behind your ear. You swallowed, and your hands settled at the front of the saddle.
The noise of the stables fell behind you, and soon stone gave way to earth. The walls of the keep dropped behind you, and cool morning air moved through the trees. The scent of fresh grass and less crowded air hit you at once. You welcomed it.
Valarr said little. His hands remained light upon the reins as Balerion moved at an easy pace beneath you, the horse knowing the path well enough without much urging. The wood thickened gradually as you rode farther from the keep, tall elms and dark pines gathered close on either side of the narrow trail, and sunlight broke through the branches.
You found yourself enjoying this more than you had thought. It was like that for a while until Valarr slowed by a stream. He dismounted first, then turned to you. His hands found your waist as he helped you down. You felt them linger there a moment longer than needed once your boots touched the ground.
Then he stepped back. The horse dipped its head to drink, the water ran soft over stone, the sound of it against the morning quiet.
You turned toward the horse quickly, grateful for somewhere else to place your attention. Your gloved hand settled along the dark line of Balerion’s neck, smoothing gently over the sleek coat as he drank.
“There is… something,” Valarr said behind you.
You glanced back over your shoulder. He had not moved far from where he stood near the stream. One hand had gone to his belt only to fall away again a moment later. There was an uncertainty to him now.
“I had wished to ask you something.” You watched him draw a slow breath. “I thought it might be easier in private.”
Then, as if just now hearing himself, he froze. “Though that sounds…” A flush rose visibly on his cheeks. “Not as I intended.”
You lifted one brow. “Are you here to murder me, my prince?”
His head snapped toward you, his eyes widening. “What? No.”
The answer came so quickly that you nearly laughed. “I jest.”
For a heartbeat, he only stared at you. Then a breath escaped him, and he appeared to ease a bit. He looked down briefly, shaking his head once as though embarrassed by himself. “I do not speak well around you,” he admitted.
“Around me?” you asked.
His eyes lifted again. “I find myself… faltering.” A faint huff of breath followed. “And perhaps nervous.”
That more than anything softened you. The prince and heir after the Hand, nervous before you like some green boy.
“If anything,” you said lightly, “I should be the one nervous.”
Valarr’s brows drew together slightly.
You toyed idly with a strand of Balerion’s dark mane, the corner of your mouth curved. “You may yet murder me.”
This time, the laugh came freely from him, and he stepped closer. Your hand stilled against Balerion’s neck. You turned your head slightly toward Valarr, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The sound of the stream filled the silence between you. Then your gaze drifted past him and towards the sky.
What little sky could be seen through the trees had darkened whilst you were not looking. The wind stirred faintly through the branches overhead.
“I think it may rain,” you said.
Valarr glanced upward. “It will not—”
Thunder cracked across the sky as if on cue. The first drops struck the leaves above, then the rain came. Light at first, then heavy.
Valarr moved. He caught Balerion by the reins and pulled the horse from the stream; his other hand found your waist. Before you could properly gather your skirts, he had lifted you back into the saddle, and you scarcely had time to settle before he mounted behind you.
The rain came harder then, and drops hit your face. The rain had soaked through your sleeves and hair within moments. You felt a heavy weight settle on your shoulders before you realized it was his cloak. You pulled the dark wool over your head against the rain.
Trees blurred past on either side as the horse thundered through the wood. Water ran from your brow to your neck in streams, and your skirts clung, damp and heavy, to your legs.
You should have been miserable in this moment, but instead, you heard your own laughter escape you. You clapped a hand over your mouth far too late to stop it. And for the first time in longer than you cared to admit, your world did not feel so terribly small.
Behind you, Valarr laughed too, quieter than you had, but you could feel the vibration in his chest against your back.
The gates of the keep rose ahead through the rain, and by the time you rode through them, the storm had worsened. Rain came down in sheets across the yard and turned packed earth to mud.
Balerion slowed at last, and a stable boy came running through the downpour. Valarr was off the horse before it had fully stopped moving. He turned immediately toward you, reaching upward as rain streamed from his hair and brow.
His hands closed firmly at your waist as he lifted you down, and your boots sank slightly into the mud. The cloak clung damp and heavy about your shoulders, dragged low enough over your head that you had to blink rainwater from your eyes to see him clearly.
“We should get inside,” Valarr said.
Rain hammered against the yard around you, though you did not move. “Wait.”
He turned back. His hair fell loosely, and it clung to his temple. He had to squint against the rain. “What is it?”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the soaked folds of his cloak. “What did you mean to ask me?”
For a moment, he only looked at you through the rain.
Then he shook his head once. “Another time,” he said. “I had thought…” His mouth tightened faintly. “I had thought it might be better said than this.”
You stepped toward him before you had fully decided to do so and grabbed his hand. Cold and wet, your fingers closed around his.
“Say it now,” you said.
His gaze dropped, not to your hand, but to you. Perhaps to the way the rain had undone you. You released his hand at once, sudden heat bloomed in your chest.
Then he stepped closer. One hand rose carefully to your brow, his palm turned just so to shield your eyes from the rain. The other gathered the cloak more tightly about your shoulders, drawing it close and in doing so drawing you close as well.
The rain ran down his arm and gathered at his wrist. It fell in drops from his fingers where they hovered at your brow.
“I would have your leave,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the storm. “To court you.”
Your breath caught somewhere between one heartbeat and the next. “Court me?” you repeated as though you did not hear him the first time.
“I have the king’s blessing,” he went on. “I could write to your father. Ask it done as it ought to be.” As it ought to be. You think.
You had suspected he favored you. Gods, any woman with eyes might have seen it plain enough in the way he sought your company and in the way he looked at you. But this was no longer a passing fancy. It was earnest.
The world seemed suddenly unsteady beneath your feet, though you had not moved at all. Perhaps he saw some trace of it on your face because his mouth tightened.
“Seven hells,” he muttered beneath his breath. Rain dripped from his lashes as he gave a short, nervous laugh. “I have made a poor showing of this.”
“No—”
“I had thought…” He shook his head once. “No matter what I had thought.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully then. Your silence had wounded him somehow, though you had not meant it. It was only that your throat had gone tight, and no words would come.
His hand remained against your brow all the while. “You are beautiful,” he said quietly. “Any man can see that.”
You felt heat bloom across your cheeks and hated yourself a little for it, like some foolish maid hearing sweet words for the first time.
“I have found I enjoy your company,” he went on, his voice softer now.
“Valarr—”
“I must finish now,” he said quickly, “Before I lose what little courage I’ve managed to find.” A breath of nervous laughter escaped him.
“You are kind,” he said. “And clever, and you make me laugh.”
His eyes held yours so steadily then that you forgot the rain entirely.
The lords of the Seven Kingdoms had long memories, and pride that clung even longer.
Prince Maekar learned that slowly, one letter at a time. One refusal after another, each dressed in courtesy and sealed with finality. House Tarly sent a courteous refusal, all neat phrases and careful distance. House Rowan said nothing for three months, then finally replied with a claim that their daughter had been promised already. The lie was thin enough to show through the parchment. House Baratheon sent condolences. Condolences, as if a death had occurred instead of a proposal. House Hightower did not answer at all, and Maekar did not press them. Smaller houses followed suit, each with their own reason. A daughter too frail, a daughter already in love, a daughter too young, too old, too recently in mourning.
The reasons piled up, one over the other, until they blurred together.
A year had passed since Ashford Meadow. A year since his son dragged that puppeteer girl through the dirt by her hair and broke her finger. Since he called for a Trial of Seven over an insult most men would have swallowed with their wine and forgotten by sunrise. A year since Maekar stood in the field with a hammer in his hand and felt the weight of his own name shift into something people spoke of carefully, if they spoke of it at all.
Men who had never stood near a tourney field could recount it with certainty, as though they had been there themselves. They told it with small changes, but the shape remained. A prince undone in public.
He had tried threatening Aerion with sending him away, exile him to Lys, he wouldn’t be the last Targaryen to do so. He had tried locking him down. He had tried shame. But after all that, Aerion didn’t even flinch, he endured it too easily, quiet in a way that made Maekar uneasy.
So now he had turned to marriage.
At last, Maekar wrote to Dorne. Your father was not the ruling prince, but from Lord Orran Martell, his brother. Close enough to matter, far enough to manoeuvre. When the letter reached him, he read it once, then again, then a third time, slower. Only then did he allow himself a smile.
The carriage carried the scent of cedar and dust, and the road behind you stretched longer with each turn of the wheels.
Your father had spoken plainly. No softening, no illusions. He laid out the value of the match, the reach it offered, the place it would secure. He spoke as he would to a man he trusted with consequence. That was his way of showing regard.
He did not pretend the groom was good. He did not ask you to pretend either.
You are strong enough for this, he had said. I would not send you otherwise.
He had expected hesitation, perhaps fear, but he had not found it.
You watched the land shift through the narrow window, red stone fading into green, dry air thickening with damp. The world changing in slow increments.
You turned the name over again and again, testing it.
Aerion Brightflame.
You had heard the Ashford story, of course, everyone had. The mercy of the hedge knight that some called wisdom and others called weakness. What stayed with you was not the cruelty itself, cruelty was common enough among men with power and power made men careless with other people.
I am no man, he had reportedly said. I am a dragon.
You found this almost amusing.
Not because it was foolish, though it was. Because it told you something useful. A man who believed himself a dragon was a man who had built his entire self upon a story. And stories had seams, they could be read, they could, if one were careful, be rewritten.
Maekar thought he was sending you to tame his son. You could feel it in the careful tone of his words, you could feel the hope through the careful diplomacy of his acceptance letter, which your father had allowed you to read. The prince wanted a strong wife for his son. A steady hand. Something that might anchor Aerion to the earth before he burned everything around him.
But you intended to do something more interesting than that.
The journey north gave you time, and you used it well. The rhythm of the road settled into your bones, wheels creaking, hooves striking dirt, the quiet murmur of voices beyond the curtains. Long hours where nothing changed except the light.
You let your thoughts arrange themselves without forcing them. That was how it always worked best. Piece by piece.
By the time you reached the Crownlands, the structure of your plan had taken shape. You named it: Seven Steps to Tame a Beast.
King's Landing announced itself in smell before sight, woodsmoke, salt, something sour beneath both. Too many people, too little space, all of it pressed together and left to simmer. The Red Keep rose above it all, pale stone against a dull sky. It looked less like a crown and more like something grown in the wrong place.
The reception was brief, formal and efficient.
Maekar received you himself. He stood solid and broad, the years written into his face in hard lines. His hair had gone mostly to silver. His eyes were sharp, searching, measuring. You held his gaze just long enough, then gave him courtesy and nothing more.
Aerion was not there, you noticed.
STEPT 1. Keep Your Distance from the Wild.
A wild creature does not welcome approach. Every movement is weighed, every sound judged. You do not step into its space uninvited. You do not reach. You watch. You learn the rhythm first. Where it rests. What startles it. What draws its attention and what it ignores. Rush, and it turns. Wait, and it forgets you are there.
You did not seek Aerion in those first days, even if it took some effort.
There were servants willing to arrange a meeting. Courtiers who offered, curiosity thinly veiled. You declined each time, politely, with reasons that could not be pressed. Fatigue, settling in, amild headache.
In truth, you were mapping him. You began where he could not avoid being seen.
Meals.
He sat very straight, almost too straight, not relaxed. Every movement placed with care, hands set just so. Shoulders squared. The stillness was deliberate, the kind that came from control, not comfort. He ate little. Drank more than he should, though he kept it from showing. His eyes moved often. Not restless. A sweep, measured, taking stock of the room without drawing attention to it. He noted everything.
He laughed twice in three days, both times it was wrong. Too quick, it stopped at his mouth and went no further. The men around him laughed as well, they always did. You watched them more than him in those moments. Watched how easily they bent to it. Mirrors, all of them, they gave him back what he wanted to see.
On the second day, a steward stumbled over a name. A small mistake, barely worth notice. But Aerion noticed. His jaw tightened, just once. A brief pause before he spoke, a fraction longer than natural. Then it passed, the steward went on, unaware. You did not miss it, he disliked error. Disliked imprecision. The world, in his mind, should hold its shape. When it did not, something in him bristled.
On the third day, there was a gathering. Music, wine, low voices. People playing at ease.
You took a place near the edge, beside a column. Your handmaid stood with you, quiet, unobtrusive. You spoke when required, smiled when expected, nothing more.
Aerion crossed the room twice. The first time, he did not look at you. The second time, he did. A brief glance, flat and measuring. The kind given to something not yet worth attention. You were already looking elsewhere when it happened. Your focus set just past him, as though he were incidental.
Still, you saw enough. The slight tension at his mouth, the way his gaze held for a breath, then moved on. He knew you were there. Of course he did, and he was not interested.
Good.
Interest that comes too easily is useless. It has no weight; it does not last. Curiosity had to be earned.
That night, you sat by the window and let the city settle into silence beneath you.
He was proud, that was obvious, but there was something under it. Control, carefully maintained. He was not as unrestrained as the stories suggested. It meant the outbursts were not constant. They built. Pressure, then release.
He was intelligent. More than most around him allowed. That kind of mind, left without challenge, turns inward. Finds its own amusements, not always good ones. He had been told he was exceptional for too long. Ordinary things no longer held him.
Boredom, then. Boredom as a spark.
You suspected he had never been met with anything real. Only reflections and performance. That would have to change. You drew your braid over your shoulder, thinking.
You were not satisfied. You never were, this early. But you understood the ground beneath your feet now. Where it dipped, where it held. You had not spoken to him yet; you had barely shared a room. And still, you were closer than anyone here knew.
The ceremony took place at dawn.
Black candles burned low, their smoke thick and sweet, curling into the corners of the chamber. The maester spoke in High Valyrian, his voice steady as he shaped words that had existed long before the Conquest. Pale light slipped through a narrow window, thin and colourless. Maekar stood off to the side, his posture rigid, his expression set in that familiar way of a man who no longer expected much in return for doing what was required.
Aerion arrived on time.
He was dressed as expected, red and black, pale hair brushed to the side. He took his place beside you without hesitation, carrying himself like a man waiting out an obligation he could not avoid. He did not fidget; he was too controlled to do so. Instead, he held still, composed to the point of absence, his attention drifting toward the candles now and then as if searching for something that was not there.
When the maester's words required it, he took your hand. His grip was exact, dry and cold. It lingered only as long as custom demanded, then released at once, as if he had touched something hot and withdrawn before the burn could catch.
You kept your gaze forward and before you let your mind move forward, it was over.
The feast was small and slightly mournful. The kind of gathering where people ate and spoke because it was expected, not because they wished to. The food was well prepared, the wine even more so. Conversation moved carefully, never quite settling.
You were seated beside Aerion.
He spent the early portion of the meal demonstrating how effortlessly he could ignore you. He spoke across you, around you, treating the space you occupied as if it had always been empty. It was not for your benefit, it was for the others, for himself, for the quiet need to show that nothing had changed.
During the second course, he turned his head slightly in your direction, just enough to acknowledge you without granting you the full courtesy of attention.
"You are quieter than I expected. I was told Dornish women always had opinions about everything."
It was not the sharpest thing he could have said. You suspected he was holding the sharper things in reserve, testing whether blunt instruments would serve before reaching for finer ones. You let your fingers rest on the stem of your cup before answering.
"We do," you said. "We simply learn early which conversations are worth having."
Then you returned to your plate.
The silence stretched. You could feel it tighten, like cloth pulled just a little too far. You did not look at him; you did not need to. Beside you, he drank, then turned away, letting the moment dissolve.
Across the table, Maekar was watching. When the music began, it was him who moved first. You saw the decision before he acted. He crossed the room with purpose and spoke low to Aerion. You did not hear the words, but you did not need to. There was no request in the exchange.
Aerion turned toward you. He extended his hand with slow precision, making absolutely certain that every person in the room understood this was costing him something.
"Will you honour me, dear wife," he said, the words shaped correctly, the tone less so.
You placed your hand in his.
The floor was not crowded. The other couples kept their distance, leaving a space around you that felt exposed rather than open. He danced well, you noted without surprise, he had been trained to do everything.
This close, you could see the pale sweep of his eyelashes, lighter than his hair, catching the faint light when he blinked. The depth of his lilac eyes was clearer up close, not just colour but something layered beneath it. He had two scars under his cheek, but his skin still looked almost unreal in its smoothness.
His hand at your waist was the same as his grip during the ceremony, measured, controlled, with no warmth.
“Let us understand one another,” he said, his voice low enough to remain private, though there was nothing intimate in it. "I did not want this. I want you to know that I know what my father intends by it, and I want you to know that it will not work."
You let the music carry you through a turn before answering.
“I know you did not want it," you said. "I did not ask for your wanting. I asked for nothing at all, if you recall.”
"You will want things eventually. All wives do."
"Perhaps." You met his gaze briefly, then let it drift past him. "But I did not come here to want things from you, Aerion. I came because the arrangement was made, and I do not refuse an arrangement simply because it is inconvenient."
His hand tightened slightly at your waist, not painfully, but enough to notice.
"You think you can manage me." he said almost curious.
"I think, that they have been trying to manage you your whole life." you said. "And it has not served you much. I am not interested in managing you. I am interested in being your wife. That means I will keep this household in order, I will hold my place properly, and I will do what is required of me. Whether you choose to be part of that is yours to decide."
Another turn as the music continued.
"But I will be here," you added, quieter now. "That part is not negotiable."
He said nothing after that, but you did not mistake the silence for agreement.
Your chambers had been prepared with careful attention as expected. The fire lit, the bed done, everything arranged with quiet precision. You dressed for the night and sat near the hearth with a book open in your lap, though you were not reading.
You waited but he did not come.
The fire burned low. The sounds of the city shifted beyond the walls, settling into the deeper quiet of night. Somewhere, the watch called the hour and you closed the book.
You were not offended; you were not disappointed. You had already known Aerion would rather spend his wedding night in a brothel.
You extinguished the candle by the window and watched the room fall into shadow.
STEPT 2. Become a Familiar Shape.
Constant presence, always at the same distance, without sudden change. Given time, you stop being something to watch for. You become part of the world itself.
In the days that followed, you made yourself ordinary. It took more care than it appeared. True ordinariness had to be consistent. Too much absence would be noticed. Too much presence would draw the eye. You chose your places and kept to them. The great hall in the morning, a corridor near the training yard in the afternoon, a chair by the window in the library, once, where you read for two hours without lifting your head when he entered.
You did not seek him out and you did not avoid him. You were simply there. Aerion noticed.
At first, it was nothing clear. A pause when he entered a room and found you already in it. A shift in his attention, brief and controlled. The smallest recalculation. He had expected something from you. You could see it in what he did not find. No coldness, no wounded pride, no performance at all.
You gave him nothing to work with. Three days after the wedding, he passed you on the library and spoke to you for the first time since the feast.
“I trust you slept well. I confess I cannot say the same for the woman I spent the night with. She complained I kept her awake until dawn.”
You stopped reading and looked up at him.
“Kept her awake, or kept her waiting?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “There is a difference, I find, between a man who exhausts a woman and a man who simply prevents her from sleeping. One leaves her satisfied. The other leaves her staring at the ceiling." A brief pause. “From what I have heard of you, I suspect she saw rather more of the ceiling than she would have liked.”
You walked away with your book before he could answer.
You had learned early that a voice could betray a person faster than any blade. Most people used it badly. They made it loud when they wanted to be heard, sharpened it when they wanted to cut. They filled it with weight and urgency, as if force alone could make something true. Your father had taught you otherwise. In his solar, he spoke with the same measured evenness whether he was discussing grain yields or deciding a man's fate. A voice that only rises when threatened, he had told you once, is a voice that teaches people when you can be threatened.
You remembered that.
STEP 3. Let It Hear You Before It Sees You.
A calm voice, used often, without command. No edge to it, no sudden movement tied to the sound. The creature learns the voice first, without reason to fear it. Given time, the sound settles into the background. Familiar, expected, something it turns toward without quite knowing why.
So, you began to speak.
The first time was nothing. A grey morning, the stone still holding the night’s cold. Aerion walked the corridor outside the great hall with two of his usual companions, and you were walking alone, and there was no reason to say anything, silence would have served just as well, would in fact have required less effort, but you spoke anyway.
“The easternmost courtyard is iced over this morning,” you said as you went by. “If you are riding, the south gate will be quicker.”
You did not look at him as you said it. You did not look back after.
Behind you, there was a brief silence, and then the low sound of his companions resuming their conversation. You could not tell if he had answered, it did not matter. The point was the sound itself, your voice, steady, offering something useful and nothing more, left behind in his morning like a small, ordinary fact.
You did this again two days later. And again, after that.
An observation about the kitchens. A remark about a particular courier who had been delayed. Once, on the stairs, a quiet comment about a book you carried, spoken into the space without asking for anything in return.
He said nothing the first time. The second time, he gave you a look, the same one you had seen before, sharp and narrow, weighing, deciding whether what it saw was worth the trouble of attention. The third time, he answered, briefly, as if the words had slipped out before he could stop them.
You counted this as exactly what it was, progress.
The friction came eventually. Midday meal, smaller than the evening gatherings, the kind where people allowed themselves to speak a little more freely. You were seated across from Aerion rather than beside him, which meant you had the less comfortable position of being visible to him rather than adjacent.
He had been in a particular mood all morning. You had seen it earlier, out in the courtyard. A tightness in the way he held himself, a coiled irritation that suggested some earlier conversation had not gone as he'd wished. He kept it contained, but it showed in small places. The set of his shoulders, the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long.
Halfway through the meal, he looked at you directly.
“I saw you speaking with the hedge knight this morning. The boy could barely look at you.”
“Ser Duncan,” You corrected, “Could barely look at anyone,” you said. “He has learned that drawing attention to himself is dangerous. A useful instinct, when one lives in a dangerous environment.”
Around the table, the shift was immediate. Eyes moved away, shoulders shifted, someone found their cup suddenly very interesting. No one wanted to be part of whatever this was.
Aerion's mouth curved, but not warmly.
“You say that as an observation. I wonder if you mean it as a criticism.”
“I mean it as neither.” You set down your knife. “A knight who flinches is a knight who has learned what happens when he does not. That tells you something about where he lives.” You looked at him steadily. “The more interesting question is what it tells you about yourself.”
“I am not in the habit of concerning myself with knights anymore.”
“No,” you said. “But you might concern yourself with the fact that a man who fears you will serve you only as long as he must. Fear is a short leash, and the moment it slackens, the moment you turn your back, a frightened man will not think of loyalty. He will think of himself.” You picked up your knife again. "Respect holds longer. It is less satisfying, I imagine, but considerably more reliable."
The table was very quiet.
Aerion's expression did not change, which was its own kind of change, in the vocabulary you had spent weeks building. The muscles around his jaw held with a precision that was not natural stillness. He was choosing his next words with more care than usual, which meant the previous ones had landed somewhere he had not expected them to reach.
“You speak as though I require your counsel,” he said almost thoughtful.
“I speak because the observation seemed worth making,” you said. “What you do with it is your own concern.”
You returned to your meal.
He said nothing more. But he did not look away for a longer moment than was comfortable, and when he finally did, it was not with a quick dismissal, it was with adjustment.
In the library, three days later, you found him already there when you arrived.
This was unusual. Aerion was not, in your observation, a man who spent mornings in libraries by preference. You entered anyways and took the chair you usually took, near the far window, which had the best light and a view of the inner yard, and opened the book you had brought.
For a time, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly. From outside came the steady rhythm of steel on steel, practice in the yard below.
“The Celtigar boy.”
You did not look up immediately. You marked your page, then lifted your eyes.
“The one my father is considering for a trade agreement,” he went on. “You spoke with him yesterday.”
“Briefly.” you said.
“He is not what he presents.” There was something restrained in the way he said it. Irritation, perhaps, or reluctance, as though the act of asking you something, or almost asking you something, cost him more than he was willing to fully account for.
You studied him for a moment. “No,” you agreed. “He is not. His family's debts are larger than they've admitted, and his uncle's position in the city has been weakening for two years. The trade agreement would favour him considerably more than it would favour the crown.
Aerion's eyes moved over your face, his gaze precise.
“You gathered that from a brief conversation.”
“From the conversation, and from the days before it,” you said. “People show where the pressure is, if you pay attention.”
A pause.
“My father should know,” he said.
“He should,” you agreed. “I thought you might be the appropriate person to tell him.”
You let that rest between you without elaboration, the implicit suggestion that this was a useful thing, that you were offering it to him rather than taking the credit for it, that you were treating him as someone worth offering useful things to. You did not dress it in sentiment. You did not soften it into a gesture. You simply left it there, plainly, for him to take or ignore as he chose.
He chose to take it. Not gratefully, not with any acknowledgment of the exchange's nature. He simply gave a short, almost inaudible sound of agreement and turned back to his book.
You had met, in your life, exactly three people who understood the particular discipline of the open hand.
Your father was one of them. A merchant woman in Sunspear who had built a trading empire from a single stall was another. The third was a maester who had served your household for eleven years and who had, in that time, quietly accumulated more influence over its workings than anyone with an official title. None of them had achieved what they achieved through force, or through the performance of authority. They had achieved it through the same mechanism, over and over, they gave things away, then let them go.
STEP 4. Offer Without Expectation.
Something of value left within reach, knowledge, advantage, ease. Then you step back. You do not insist. You do not demand. You do not watch too closely. The creature must come to the thing on its own terms, or the thing carries the smell of a trap. Patience here is not passive. It is the most active thing you can do, the discipline of the open hand, extended and then stilled, asking nothing, waiting without the tension of waiting.
You began small, that was where patterns took hold.
The first thing was almost accidental, simple enough to pass unnoticed.
Over weeks, you had seen how Aerion’s mornings turned. When his correspondence waited in disorder, something in him tightened. It was a small irritation, but it spread, it created a particular friction that compounded into the broader texture of his day. His steward handled it unevenly, some days careful, others careless.
You said nothing about this to anyone.
Instead, you mentioned to the steward’s assistant, a young man called Pell, anxious and observant. You mentioned once, that mornings that begin clean tend to stay that way, as though sharing a general philosophy, and then you moved on.
Next day, the letters were sorted before Aerion reached his study. You were nowhere near him when he noticed. You were in the eastern courtyard, the air sharp enough to sting your throat, walking slow circles over frost-hardened ground.
The second offering was more direct, and more deliberate.
The previous night, you had lingered in the great hall long enough to catch a conversation not meant for you. Two of Maekar’s advisors, careless in their angle, speaking of the Plumm family, a loan, a disputed inheritance, a claim that had the potential to become inconvenient for the crown if left unaddressed. The kind of thing that moved slowly until it did not.
You wrote it down, simply a single sheet of paper, placed beneath a volume you had observed Aerion taking from the library shelves twice in the past fortnight, angled just so, easily visible to someone reaching for the book.
You were gone before he arrived, you did not check if it had been taken. This was the discipline, the open hand, and then the stillness.
He found you in the corridor outside the great hall two days later. The way he approached told you enough, straight line, no hesitation, you knew the paper had been found and used.
“The Plumm family matter,” he said. “My father addressed it this morning. He mentioned information that reached him through unusual channels.”
“Did he.” you said.
“He did not know the source.” A pause. “I did.”
You met his gaze, nothing more. “Anyone listening could have heard it,” you said. “I assumed it was worth noting.”
“You assumed,” he repeated sceptical. “And the assumption led you to leave an unsigned document in a place you knew I would find it, rather than simply speaking to me, or to my father directly.”
“Speaking to your father directly would have made it mine to claim. It seemed more useful for it to be yours.” You said, you were well aware that he needed to slowly gain his father’s trusts again.
“You expect me to believe you want nothing in return.” He said.
“I expect nothing from you,” you replied. “I noticed something that seemed relevant to your interests. I noted it where you could find it. That is all.”
He studied you for a long moment, measuring again, then stepped past you without another word. You turned in the opposite direction and continued walking.
The pattern continued.
Days filled with small things, each one easy to miss on its own. A map left open to the right page before a meeting. A quiet word to a knight whose behaviour toward Aerion had been developing a particular insolence. Not a warning, only a reminder of how quickly favour could turn. The knight corrected himself. Aerion noticed the change; you were reasonably certain he had chosen not to address it directly.
During a meal he caught you refilling his cup before the servant reached it, an automatic gesture, barely conscious, and he watched your hand as you set the jug down.
“You do not behave like someone who dislikes me,” he said.
“I am not certain I dislike you,” you said, truthfully. “I have not yet seen enough of you to decide.”
“You have been living in the same castle for a month.”
“So, my husband has taken to keeping track now?” you said, a light note of teasing slipping in despite yourself. You lifted your cup and took a slow sip, letting the taste of the wine linger as a small, knowing smile curved at the corner of your mouth.
He exhaled through his nose, not quite a scoff he meant to share. He didn’t answer. His gaze lingered, a fraction too long to be careless, as if he were trying to smooth over something that had caught him off guard. There was a faint tension in his face, in the set of his jaw and the stillness of his shoulders, the sort of thing that suggested he was trying very hard not to let any hint of embarrassment show.
Later you noticed he took the map you left on his desk. Maekar’s manner afterward told you enough, less strain and more thought behind his words when he spoke to his son. Aerion did not mention it and you did not either.
The absence of acknowledgment said what it needed to. He would take what was useful, he would not name the source. Pride held that line, but still, he had used it. He had accepted the offering, even reluctantly, even silently. That mattered more.
Which meant the distance was slowly shrinking.
He came to your chambers late on a Thursday, when the castle had settled into its quieter rhythm and the corridors carried only the distant steps of the watch.
You sat at your vanity, drawing the brush through your hair in slow, even strokes, winding you down toward sleep. Your sleeping gown was light, meant for the warmth of the room and the privacy of it, nothing more. Your hair hung loose, longer than it appeared when pinned, falling across your shoulders in a way that belonged to a version of yourself you did not generally allow the castle to see.
The door opened without warning, but you did not turn.
You watched him through the mirror instead. It gave you a clearer view than facing him outright. He stepped inside, then paused when he saw you, or the version of you caught in the glass. Something flickered across his face, quick and unguarded, before he shut it down.
You kept brushing your hair.
He crossed the room at an unhurried pace. No sudden movement, no sign of haste, still, there was weight in it. He stopped behind your chair and rested both hands on its back. In the mirror, his eyes met yours directly, without the usual angle or distance.
You held his gaze and continued the brush stroke to its end.
The silence lasted several seconds. In the mirror you watched him watching you. The loose hair, the gown, the particular version of you that belonged to this room and this hour, and you watched him notice that he was watching, and tighten slightly around it.
“I have been really patient with you,” he said at last, his voice low. “I have watched you move through this household for weeks. The documents, the steward, the arrangements that appear before I ask for them.” A pause. “No one does this without a ledger. Show me yours.”
“I told you I keep no ledger,” you said.
“Everyone keeps a ledger.” The words came sharper now. “Whether they admit it or not.”
You set the brush down on the vanity and folded your hands in your lap, and looked at his reflection. The candle shifted, and for a moment the light caught him differently in the mirror. The closeness of him. The space between you that had narrowed without either of you naming it.
“You are angry,” you said. “Not because you think I want something from you. You are angry because you cannot determine what it is, and that distinction is troubling you more than you would like to admit.”
His grip tightened slightly on the chair, his frown deepened. “Do not tell me what troubles me.”
“Then tell me yourself.” You said. “You came here and opened that door without knocking. If you have something to say, say it plainly.”
“What you have offered me,” he said, and this time the control thinned, sharpened into something colder, “is the manner of a woman who wants something. The oldest trick there is. Every woman I have met wanted things. Every woman in this castle wants things. You-” and here something almost contemptuous entered his voice, directed less at you than at his own inability to solve you “-stand there with your quiet gestures and your useful information and expect me to believe it costs you nothing, that you want nothing from me.”
“I told you I expect nothing from you,” you said, for the second time in your acquaintance “Which is not the same as wanting nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. For a moment, his gaze dipped, catching on the fall of your hair over your shoulder, the line of your neck in the candlelight, before returning to your reflection with more force than before.
“Then what do you want,” he said lowly, moving a strand of your hair behind your ear.
You watched him for a moment. The tension in his shoulders. The way he held himself still, as if movement might betray him. The closeness of him, the warmth of it at your back.
“To see you for what you truly are,” you said, now turning around to look up at him. “When no one is performing fear at you.”
The room went quiet.
He did not move at once. His hands remained on the chair, though you felt the subtle shift in them, the restraint in it. His breathing changed, barely, but enough to notice. His gaze stayed on yours, searching now in a way it had not before.
Then he straightened. His hands lifted from the chair with care, as if he had to think about the motion before making it. He held your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable passing through it. Then he turned and left.
The door closed with a loud thud behind him.
You looked back at your reflection in the glass. The room holding a trace of him still, something unsettled in the air. You reached for the brush and finished what you had started.
A man like Aerion did not adjust. He did not take pressure and reshape himself around it. His world ran on confirmation, on power answered with submission, on a rhythm that reassured him of his place in it. You had been interfering with that rhythm since the morning you arrived. Quietly, consistently, without giving him anything he knew how to answer.
A disruption like that never passed without consequence.
STEP 5. Survive the First Test of Teeth.
Before any bond forms, there is a test. A feint of violence, a warning, a measure of what you are made of. Not always meant to hurt, but whether to see of you will break or bite back. If you do, is over.
You held this thought in the quiet of your morning as you dressed carefully and went about your day.
The argument started in the corridor outside his study, late in the afternoon, when the light came through the western windows, catching dust in the air, turning it gold. You had passed him with the usual moderate acknowledgment, not ignoring him, not seeking him, the same distance you had maintained for weeks, and he had stopped walking.
“You were in my father's solar this morning,” he said.
“I was,” you said. “He asked my opinion on a correspondence from the Arbor.”
“He asked your opinion on that matter,” Something tightened in his face. “Instead of asking me?”
“He did.”
“You have been very busy these days,” he said, “Making yourself useful, to my father, to every corner of this household except the one that is actually your concern.”
“You are my concern,” you said. “Which is precisely why I do not sit waiting for you to need something."
“I do not need anything from you.”
“No,” you agreed. “You have made that very clear last time we discussed. And yet here we are, having this conversation, which you initiated.”
He turned and walked into his study. Not an invitation, but not a dismissal either, and you followed because the conversation was unfinished.
“You think you are very clever,” he said, moving behind his desk, putting wood and distance between you, like it might help him sort what he could not name.
“I think I am.” you said defiantly.
“You think,” he said, and the voice had dropped into its most dangerous register. “That you can arrange yourself into something that suits you, move pieces across a board you were not invited to play on, smile at my father in his solar, look at me like that, and that none of it will have a cost.”
“I have never believed anything is without cost.” you said.
“Then if you are so clever, you should have calculated more carefully.” He stepped past you, toward the door. “You will remain in this room until I say otherwise.” The words came out with anger and the door shut behind him.
You stood in the centre of the room for a moment. Then you moved to his chair, behind his desk, and sat in it, and looked at the documents arranged across the surface, and began, with the unhurried attention, to read them.
Three days later, in the great hall. You had not sought Ser Duncan out specifically. You had spoken with him before, briefly, like with most people in the Keep, and found him to be earnest, possessing more native intelligence than his manner suggested. He was easy to be around. You were in the middle of an unremarkable conversation about the road conditions north of King's Landing, he had travelled them recently, and you had asked a practical question. You felt the shift before you saw him.
A hand settled at your waist. Firm, claiming, meant to be seen, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress. Ser Duncan's expression went still, not quite discomfort and not quite confusion.
“My wife,” Aerion said. “I was looking for you.”
Duncan inclined his head and stepped back. You kept your expression exactly as it had been. Aerion’s gaze lingered on you, then flicked once toward the knight, measuring, assembling something he did not like. The hall had gone quiet.
“Is this a game to you,” he said under his breath. An accusation that had the shape of a question.
“No,” you said.
“Then what is it.” He moved in front of you. “What are you doing with the hedge knight-” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Are you provoking me, deliberately.”
“I was having a conversation about road conditions,”
“Do not.” His voice dropped further. “Do not use that voice with me.”
“Which voice would you prefer then? One where I lie?”
“You know,” he said quietly, to you, only to you. “What he did to me.”
“I know what happened at Ashford,” you said, equally quietly. “As does most of the kingdom-”
The struck came fast. Mid-sentence, mid-breath, in front of the hall and the fire and Ser Duncan's suddenly rigid stillness. The back of his hand across your cheek with a force that turned your head and produced a sound that silenced the nearest conversations.
You straightened. You did not touch your face. You did not look at Duncan, who you could feel in your peripheral vision. You looked at Aerion, directly, steadily, with the same expression you had worn in the study, and you said nothing at all.
His jaw was tight and the hall was watching it all. He gripped your wrist, hard, the mark already beginning, and turned toward the corridor, and you went with him because the scene that would result from not going would cost you more.
In your chambers, he released you without a word and left. The door shut and the lock clicked.
You sat by the window. The light had shifted, pale now, moving slowly across the stone. You looked at your wrist, at the faint marks forming. You were not afraid and you were not angry, so you waited with patience.
Maekar went to Aerion that same evening, of course he did. No one told you outright, but you knew before a word reached you. The servant who came to open your chamber door avoided your eyes, her hands slower than usual on the latch. Raised voices, you guessed. Maekar did not shout often, but when he did, it carried. Aerion would have been made to stand there and take it. For the insult. For making a spectacle of his own wife. For stepping, once again, where he had been warned not to. You could almost hear it. The sharp edge of Maekar’s restraint, the threat beneath it.
You let out a slow breath. This would not help. It would tighten something in Aerion, push him further into himself before it loosened anything at all.
He did not return that night, or the next.
On the third, you woke to the sound of your door.
The room was dark, the fire long since reduced to coals and a faint red glow. The kind of hour when even the castle seemed to pause, caught between one watch and the next. You lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds that followed the door, unsteady footsteps, the sounds of a man navigating a familiar space with less precision than usual.
You had smelled the wine, thick and sour on the air, and something else beneath it, cheap perfume and sweat. You had passed enough doorways in this city to know it came from a brothel.
He moved through the dark toward the bed with care that bordered on effort. Not quite stumbling, but close. You lay still with your eyes not quite closed and your breathing steady and you watched him through your lashes.
He stopped at the bedside. For a moment, he only looked at you.
He was less put together than you had ever seen him, his hair dishevelled, collar open, his clothes carrying the evidence of hours spent in places this castle was not and had not bothered to hide it well. His gaze moved over you, slower than usual, lingering in places he would have ignored in daylight. There was anger in it. That much you knew. But there was something else tangled into it, something the drink had loosened.
Then his hand shot out and closed around your throat.
The force of it drove the breath from you before you could think. His grip was sure, fingers settling with a familiarity that made it worse. The ceiling tilted as your body reacted, instinct rising fast and sharp. His face was above yours, close, and it was not the face of a man in full command of himself. His eyes were bright, unfocused in a way that had nothing to do with the dark. His grip tightened.
You felt the tightness clearly, the pressure at your windpipe, the pulse hammering under his hand. The animal instinct toward struggle that rose in you like a tide and that you identified and still you did not move.
And then, quietly, helplessly, from somewhere underneath the shock and the constriction and the absolute clarity of your own danger, you laughed. Not loudly. Not mockingly. Not shaped for him, not meant for anything at all. It simply came, as if your body had found something in the moment that did not fit the rest of it. Simply absurd and honest and almost intimate in its desperation.
The sound of it, barely audible, stopped him completely.
His hand did not leave your throat, but it stopped tightening. His expression shifted, confusion cutting through whatever had driven him here.
“What are you-” he said. It came out raw, his voice rough, stripped of its usual control. “What are you doing, what are you doing to me.”
You said nothing. You held his eyes in the dark and did not struggle, you did not look away.
“I hate you,” he said. The words came out flat, almost tired, like a confession.“I hate what you do. I hate that I cannot-.” His voice broke across the unfinished sentence. “I cannot find the edges of you. I cannot-.”
His grip loosened, fractionally, and then fractionally more.
Something in his face gave way. The control slipped, not all at once, but enough. His shoulders dipped, the tension draining in uneven pieces. Something beneath the surface rising without permission. His forehead dropped, his weight shifted, and then, with the slow, helpless gravity of exhaustion, he leaned against your chest, his hands still loosely at your throat, his body giving what his pride would not. Choked sobs forming on the back of his throat as his shoulders trembled.
You lay still beneath him. The room held its silence. No voices in the corridor, no movement beyond the walls. Only the weight of him, and the strange, unguarded vulnerability he had not allowed himself before.
Carefully, you lifted your hand. Slow and measured. The way one moves around something that might startle.
He felt the motion before you completed it.
He pulled back at once. Your hand knocked aside, not gently, but not the way he had struck you before either, with less force and more reflex. He was off the bed and standing before you had fully processed the movement, and the reassembly was happening in real time, you could watch it, the walls going up stone by stone, the expression reorganizing, the posture recovering its usual architecture.
He did not look at you as he wiped his tears with the back of his hand, and left.
You lay in the dark for a long time after the door closed. Your throat ached. When you touched it, you could feel where his fingers had pressed, the marks already forming under the skin. You let your hand fall back to the bed. You had survived the teeth.
There is a particular kind of silence that follows a storm.
It is not peace, peace settles. This waits, it hangs over what is left, thin and watchful, as if the ground itself is deciding whether anything will take root again. You lived in that silence for six days. You ate in it, walked the corridors in it, spoke when required and otherwise let it sit around you, like weather that refused to move on.
Aerion was never where you were. Not once, not even by accident.
You noticed the pattern the way you noticed everything else. He left rooms when you entered them, not with obvious avoidance, but with quiet efficiency, but avoiding something nonetheless, something that he had not yet decided how to face. The corridors he had habitually used became corridors he did not use. The hours he had kept became hours he abandoned.
Like he was afraid of you. Not in the way people feared harm. In the way they feared being seen too clearly.
STEP 6. Allow Contact on Its Terms.
The first touch is not taken, it is allowed. A still hand. No pressure. No attempt to hold or redirect or claim. The creature must choose the contact, or the contact means nothing. It is the most fragile moment in the entire sequence the one where everything that has been built can collapse in a single wrong movement. Patience here is not strategy. It is something closer to faith, the belief that what has been established is enough to bear weight, if the weight is placed gently enough.
You dressed with care that seventh night, with a specific kind of nightgown your hair loose again, and went to him.
His chambers were deeper in the keep than yours, further from the outer walls, further from the sounds of the city, the kind of rooms that held heat and shadow in equal measure. The door was heavy. The light beneath it was the particular amber of firelight rather than candle, which meant he was awake and the hour was not the reason.
You did not knock.
The room was larger than you had expected, and sparser. There were maps on one wall, detailed ones, and a writing table covered with papers that had the disordered quality of work abandoned mid-thought. A shelf of books, several displaced at a specific angle with care. On a low table near the window, a cup and a flagon, mostly empty. The fire was high, built up more than the room's warmth required, the kind of fire you build when you want something to look at.
He was standing before it.
He turned when you entered, and the firelight caught his face in a way that daylight had never been permitted to. His eyes carried the particular redness that came not from drink but from something that had happened before the drink. His shoulders, which were always exact, held themselves with an effortful maintenance, but it took effort to keep it that way.
You closed the door behind you. The latch caught with a sound that was very small in the quiet.
“You should not be here,” he said.
“Probably,” you agreed. You did not move further into the room yet. You stood near the door and looked at him across the firelit space between you and said “What is wrong.”
“Nothing that concerns you.” He turned back to the fire. The set of his shoulders said the conversation was over, but the fact that he had not told you to leave said something else.
You crossed the room.
Slowly, without purpose written into the movement. You stopped beside him. Not close enough to require acknowledgment, not far enough to be a withdrawal, and you looked at the fire.
Neither of you spoke.
The fire crackled, wood settled with a low crack, and you waited.
A minute passed, then another. The fire shifted, settling lower in the grate, and in the new configuration of light you saw it, brief, barely visible. A single track of tears, catching firelight, at the corner of his jaw.
You did not look at it directly.
“Aerion,” you said.
“My father-.” he began, and then stopped, like the words had caught on something.
You let the silence hold.
“He saw,” he said with flatness. “The marks on your neck. He saw them. Someone spoke of what happened at the hall too.” His jaw tightened. “He made himself very clear.”
“How clear,” you said.
“In all his wisdom, has threatened me, again, to send me into exile.” The word sat between you. Heavy enough on its own. “He called it a last chance. He has called it that before.” Something crossed his voice that was not quite bitterness. “The words had begun to lose their meaning, but it felt too serious now”
You turned to look at him then.
He was still facing the fire, but the profile of him had changed. The structure of his expression had begun to crack. Not enough for others to notice but enough for you. He looked, in the firelight, less like the man who had locked you in his study and struck you in the great hall and more like something earlier than that, rawer and less certain and considerably more alone.
You reached out. Slowly, with the deliberateness you had promised yourself, no force, no urgency, no claim. Your hand found his and held it with the lightness of something offered rather than taken.
He looked down at it.
“I should have covered the marks better,” you said. “I misjudged the consequence. That was my error, and I am sorry for it.”
“That is not-.” He stopped; his hand had not moved. “That is not what this is about.”
And he pulled away fast. Almost startled by it. With the sudden, electric motion of something that has allowed contact and immediately regretted the allowing. He stepped back, something sharp and unsteady in his eyes.
“Do not,” he said, and the word came out wrong, cracked across the middle of it. “Do not do that. Do not stand there and apologize and take my hand and look at me like-.” He stopped again, breath uneven. “Like there is something worth-.” He stopped again. His hands had closed into fists at his sides and he was breathing with effort. “You do not know what I am.”
“I know what you have done,” you said.
“Then you know enough.” He turned away. “You know I hurt people. You know I cannot-.” His voice fractured. He pressed on through it. “I cannot stop myself… there is something wrong with me. There has always been something wrong with me and everyone who has come close enough to see it leaves or breaks. And you are here, in this room, at this hour, and I do not-.” He stopped.
The fire was the only sound.
“I am a beast,” he said, very quietly. Tears running free down his cheeks. “That is what I am. That is all I am.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“You are a man,” you said, “who has been told a story about himself for so long that he has stopped questioning whether it is the only story available.”
“It is not a story. It is evidence of everything I have done.”
“Evidence can be read in more than one direction,” you said.
“Do not make me into something I am not.”
“I am not making you into anything.” You held his gaze. “I am telling you that what you are is not to be fixed. That the thing you have been, it is not the only version of you that exists. And that-.” You paused, because the next words required accuracy, and accuracy required care. “You matter to me. Not the prince, not the name. You. What is underneath all of this. That matters to me.”
The room was absolutely still.
He looked at you with an expression you had no entry for in the vocabulary you had built of him, something unguarded, almost frightened, like he has been handed something he does not know how to hold and is not certain he can afford to drop.
Then something gave way.
Not loudly. Not all at once. His breath shifted. His shoulders dropped. Whatever he had been holding together slipped. His breathing changed. You did not move toward him, but you did not need to.
He crossed the remaining distance himself without thinking about it, and then his forehead was against your shoulder and his hands were at your sides without grip, without force, simply present, and he was not making a sound but you could feel the shaking of him and the wetness against the fabric of your nightgown and the weight of him.
You stood very still.
You did not put your arms around him. You did not make any movement that could be felt as claiming. You simply held yourself and let him use it, and the fire burned lower as he came apart quietly against your shoulder without asking permission and without being asked to stop.
You did not know how long it lasted. Long enough.
You raised your hand slowly, slowly enough that he could have pulled away again, enough to be refused, and brought your fingers to his hair.
It was shorter than it looked. Silver-pale and fine, the kind of hair that carried light rather than colour, and beneath your fingertips it was softer than you had anticipated. You drew your hand through it once, carefully, from the crown of his head down to the nape of his neck, where the hair ended and the skin began, warm and taut over the column of his spine.
He did not move away.
He leans into your touch involuntarily, as if starved for contact. His eyes flutter shut, a shudder running through him at the simple gesture. It's a chink in his armour, a crack in the façade he has built around himself. He hates how good it feels, how desperately he craves your gentleness, like something that had been starved for so long it had forgotten the word for hunger until the smell of food arrived. He hates that it's you, a woman he has dismissed as a nuisance, a distraction.
You kept your hand still at the nape of his neck and waited until the tension in him eased, just a little, then you took his hand. He did not resist the guiding.
That told you more than anything else had. Aerion Brightflame, who resisted everything, who turned even small things into contests, let himself be guided across the room, no argument, no pause. Just the quiet, spent compliance of someone who had nothing left to push with.
You lay down and he lay beside you.
For a moment he remained on his back, staring upward, and you could feel the effort in him, his composure still running even now, still attempting to impose order on something that had moved past the reach of order.
Then, slowly, as if testing each inch of the movement, allowing himself permission one fraction at a time, he moved closer. His head found your chest. His arms came around your waist, and the grip that followed was not gentle exactly, it had too much need in it for gentleness, but it was not aggression either, it was anchoring.
“Don't mistake this for weakness,” he muttered, eyes fixed somewhere above you, studying something very far away. “Or tenderness.” A pause. “I merely refuse to let my father's words haunt me alone tonight.”
“All right,” you said.
You brought one hand up to his hair again. The same movement, slow, unhurried, from crown to nape and back, repeated with the consistency of something that asked nothing in return. Your other hand rested against his back, barely any pressure at all.
The fire had burned low and the room was mostly shadow.
“If you much as breathe a word of this to anyone,” he murmured into your chest, his voice rough but stripped of its usual edge, “I'll deny it until my last breath.” His arms tightened slightly, involuntarily. “Stay with me tonight… please.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” you said.
As the night went on, Aerion slowly succumbed to sleep. Something about being held, about your gentle touch, brought a peace he had rarely known. He did not dream of dragons or conquests, for once. His sleep was free of the constant restlessness that usually plagued him. He burrowed into your chest, unconsciously seeking more of your warmth, of your presence.
You lay awake longer than he did. Not from discomfort, too much to process, lying in the dark with their thoughts arranged in rows like objects after a flood.
His breathing had changed, his weight against you had changed. The man who had come apart was now simply sleeping. With his face against your chest and his silver hair tickling your collarbone and his arms loosely maintaining their hold even in sleep, the grip eased to something that felt closer to a choice rather than necessity.
You ran your hand through his hair one more time, very slowly. He made a small sound, low and entirely unconscious, and pressed closer.
You looked at the ceiling for a long time and eventually, sleep took you too.
The room was in the grey-dark of late night, not yet dawn, but the black had thinned to something softer. His breathing had changed again; he was watching you.
His breath caught as he took in the sight of you, soft, vulnerable, beautiful in the unguarded way of sleeping things. A strange warmth curled in his chest, foreign and unsettling. He hesitated. His fingers twitched toward your hair, as if to brush a stray lock from your face, then stopped. He scowled at himself, at this weakness. But the scowl faltered when his gaze lingered on the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the rise and fall of your breath.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted closer, draping an arm over your waist as if claiming you, not with arrogance, but with something dangerously close to possessiveness. His lips pressed against your temple in a fleeting, uncharacteristically tender kiss.
You opened your eyes. The ceiling was grey above you. Beside you, or rather, around you, Aerion had stilled, as if caught in the act of something he had not meant to do.
“Is something wrong?” you asked quietly.
He cleared his throat, his thumb idly tracing circles on your skin, trying for normalcy, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted at your proximity.
“Are you comfortable?”he asked.
“Yes,” you said. You turned your head slightly to look at him. “Are you?”
He gave a noncommittal hum, not meeting your gaze. The truth was he had slept better than he had in years, but he was not about to say so. That would imply weakness. He shifted slightly, the arm around your waist drawing you a fraction closer without him seeming to notice. His fingers continued their circles, almost absentmindedly, as though he were lost in thought and the touch was the only thing keeping him tethered.
The grey outside the window had begun its slow migration toward something lighter. The fire was entirely cold now, the room held only the warmth of the bed, of proximity, of the particular heat that accumulates between two bodies in the hours before dawn.
Then awareness settled in him fully. Of the closeness. Of the precise arrangement of you against him, the warmth of your body, the thin fabric of your sleeping gown, the way the hem had shifted in the night to lie differently against your skin. His hand tensed briefly.
He swallowed.
You felt it, the shift that moved through him, the awareness sharpening into something specific, something that did not belong entirely to the vulnerability of the preceding hours. His lips parted, but no words came. He looked at you with an expression caught precisely between irritation and something he could not arrange into anything controllable, frustrated by the evidence of his own body, by the want that had surfaced without authorization.
You could feel it, the warmth of him. The unmistakable pressure of his want against your hip, present and unambiguous, and the particular tension of a man who has noticed you noticing and does not know what to do with it.
Neither of you spoke.
His hand, which had stilled, began very slowly, as though testing whether the motion would be stopped, to move again. Not the idle circles of before. Something more deliberate, more aware of itself, tracing the line of fabric against skin, as if testing whether the moment would break.
You did not stop him.
Not passive, there was nothing passive in the attention you were giving to this moment, to his breathing, to the fractional shifts of his weight and the warmth of his mouth near your temple and the press of him against your hip that had not diminished. But still in the way you had always been still near him, present, available, making no demand and offering no resistance, letting the space between you be defined by what he chose to do with it.
He exhaled.
“You are-.” he began, and stopped, his jaw tightened. He tried again, and the words he found were not the ones he had started with, “This changes nothing.”
“I know,” you said.
“I mean it.”
“I know you do,” you said.
His hand moved again with less hesitation, no longer tentative, something with more intention behind it, and his body followed, shifting against you with the weight of a man who has been resisting something for weeks and has arrived, at last, at the particular exhaustion of wanting and the decision to stop pretending otherwise.
His mouth found your throat, the same throat he had gripped days ago in the dark. You brought your hand to his hair, fingers threading through silver.
Aerion exhales slowly, a controlled breath that does nothing to conceal the tension wound through his jaw, his shoulders, the deliberate stillness of his hands. He's beautiful in his conflict, you think. Unbearably so. That sharp face, that proud mouth, carved for cruelty or for this, and tonight the line between them seems very thin.
He opens his eyes again, his gaze locking with yours again. He looks almost pained, his pride warring with the desire that's quickly consuming him. He wants you. Gods, he wants you so much it hurts, and he hates that he can't bring himself to deny it any longer. He hates how powerless he feels at your touch, how he craves more despite his better judgment. His breathing is ragged as he leans over you, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Stop me. Say... say no.” The words come rough, almost like a plea.
You looked at him for one long moment, you take in the conflict laid bare for the first time, the stubborn pride, the hunger he can no longer hide, the exhaustion of holding both apart.
Then you kissed him first.
He kisses you back like a man drowning who has finally stopped fighting the current. His hands come up to grip your face, not gently, and the sound that escapes his throat is low, rough, barely human. The careful prince, the controlled and calculating Aerion Targaryen, dissolves in the space between one breath and the next. What replaces him is something rawer. Hungrier. Something he's kept caged behind violet eyes and cutting remarks for far too long.
The kiss deepens without hesitation, consuming. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of desperate precision, tasting, claiming, as if he's cataloguing every detail through touch alone. You feel the heat of him, radiating off his skin like fever, like fire, like something that has been burning in secret for too long and has finally found air.
His hands roam your body with a feverish desperation, as if trying to memorize every curve, every gasp, every shudder beneath his touch. His kisses trail from your lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin, marking you as his, branding you in the only way he knows how. His hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel just how badly he aches for you. He's lost in the sensation, in the fire between you both, consumed by it. He's not gentle about it. He leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing that sensitive point where your shoulder meets your throat. He wants to mark you, to make you scream his name, to make sure there's no doubt in your mind or anyone else's of who you belong to.
His free hand slides under your nightgown, his fingers trailing up your thigh, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His touch is possessive, demanding, as if he's making up for every minute he's denied himself this pleasure. Your breath hitches as his fingers trace higher, teasing, taunting, every brush of skin against skin sending sparks through you. His lips return to yours, swallowing your gasp as his touch grows bolder, more deliberate. He plays with your breasts, kneading them and pinching at your nipples until you arch into him, your back lifting from the mattress like a prayer. His hands clutch at you, clinging as if you're the only solid thing in the world. He's panting now, his control frayed to the breaking point.
“Gods,” he breathes against your collarbone, “I've been waiting-.” He cuts himself off and bites down instead of finishing the sentence, leaving a bruise.
He buries his face in that spot on your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his lips roaming feverishly as if he can't get enough. Then he kisses down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of hot, wet marks down your stomach, your hip, your inner thigh. His hands slide up your legs, his touch rough but reverent, the touch of a man who has never let himself experience something so wholly, so completely. He moves with the focus of someone who has thought about this, who has imagined and resented and wanted in equal measure.
He pauses for a moment, looking up at you, the desire in his eyes burning hotly as he takes in the sight of you, spread out before him like a feast.
“Gods, woman...” His voice comes out low, cracked at the edges. “You look exquisite.”
Your hand goes to his hair, gripping it, silver-pale between your fingers, and you guide him where the ache pulses hottest. He goes willingly, like a man possessed, his lips tracing a path to the very heart of you. He worships at your altar, exploring you with a fervour that borders on madness, his tongue drawing slow, deliberate strokes against your folds, lapping at the slick heat of you with a thoroughness that makes your thighs tremble. He kisses your core the way he kissed your mouth, thoroughly, hungrily, as if he intends to ruin you for anything else.
He slides one finger inside you, curling, exploring, while his tongue continues its work, finding the rhythm that makes your hips roll helplessly toward him. Then two fingers, stretching you slowly, his pace maddening, his silver head moving between your thighs while his free hand pins your hip to the mattress. He teases. He draws it out with the patience of a man who has denied himself too long and now intends to take his time about the undoing. Every time you feel yourself cresting toward the edge, he eases back, withdrawing just enough, slowing just enough, his eyes flicking up to watch your face with something that looks almost like satisfaction.
The third time he pulls back from the precipice, you take a fistful of his hair and drag him up.
“Now,” you tell him. “Take me now.”
A feral smirk curls his lips at your demand. He rises up over you, his chest heaving, his entire body taut with anticipation. He leans down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, you taste yourself on his tongue, one hand gripping your thigh, the other cupping your face as if to brand the moment into your memory.
“As my lady commands,” he growls against your mouth.
He shifts his hips, pressing himself against your entrance. Then, with one sharp thrust, he buries himself inside you, filling you completely, claiming you in every way possible. The moment he's sheathed inside you, a ragged groan tears from his throat, half pleasure, half disbelief. His forehead drops against yours, his breathing ragged, his fingers digging into your hips as if he fears you'll vanish.
“Gods,” he chokes out. “You feel so- warm. So tight.”
He's barely coherent. That, more than anything, undoes you.
His hips roll against yours in slow, deliberate strokes, each one deeper, more possessive than the last. He watches your face, memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, as if this is the only thing that's ever truly mattered. His eyes, those violet eyes that have looked at you with contempt and hunger and everything in between by now, are dark, pupils blown wide, and he doesn't look away. He watches you as if watching you is a compulsion he can no longer afford to deny.
“Look at me,” he rasps, when your eyes begin to close. “Don't you dare-.”
And you do, you hold his gaze.
His jaw tightens. Something moves across his expression that he doesn't have the composure left to conceal, something raw and frightened and ferocious all at once. His strokes deepen; his grip hardens.
Then he flips you, without warning, rolling you onto your stomach with the ease of a man accustomed to taking what he wants. The mattress shifts beneath you. His hands find your hips and drag you up to meet him. One palm presses flat between your shoulder blades for a half-second, then slides up, fingers winding into your hair, pressing your face into the pillow.
His lips find your ear, his voice low and rough as he whispers, “I won't be gentle, sweetling.”
It sounds like a warning. It sounds like a promise.
“I don't want you to,” you answer.
The sound he makes at that is almost feral, something ripped from somewhere deep in his chest that he would never willingly give you in daylight. His fingers dig into your hips as he takes you with a force that borders on brutality, each thrust deeper, harder, driven by pure unrestrained need. His lips drag across your shoulder, teeth sinking into your skin to stifle his groan as he loses himself in the heat of you. He releases your hair so both hands can grip your hips, holding you in place, as if he fears you might slip away if he doesn't, his fingers leaving half-moon marks you will feel for days.
His pace is relentless. Desperate. Driven by a hunger that has been building since the first moment he looked at you and hated that he wanted to keep looking.
“I can't-.” you gasp, the pleasure coiling impossibly tight.
“Come for me,” he growls, the words bitten off, rough and low. “Come on- I want to feel you. All of you.”
And you do, you shatter. Your whole body arches into it, trembling beneath him, clenching around him, and you hear his sharp, broken exhale, feel the way his rhythm stutters.
His release hits him like a storm, violent, consuming, unstoppable. His body tenses, his fingers digging into your flesh as he spills inside you with a ragged groan, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. For a moment, he just breathes against your skin, his chest heaving, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks.
Then, slowly, he collapses over your back. His weight settles, heavy, present, real. His lips move against one of the bruises he's left on your shoulder. Then another. Not in apology, Aerion Targaryen does not apologize. But in something. Acknowledgment, perhaps.
Neither of you speaks.
His arm slides around you, not tenderly, but with a kind of quiet insistence, as if placing himself between you and something invisible. You feel his heartbeat against your back. Fast, still. Then slower. Then slower still.
The silence stretches. It does not demand anything from either of you. His breathing deepens, but his grip does not loosen. You close your eyes.
Sleep comes for you both like a tide, not gentle, not kind, but inevitable. The way all true things are.
STEP 7. Never Cage What You Cannot Break.
A beast is not tamed by taking away its fangs. That only makes it weaker, and weakness is not the same thing as trust. It is tamed, if it ever is, by giving it a reason not to use them. It stays because it chooses to. It stays… because it chooses to.
The manse Maekar had given you sat at the edge of a quieter part of the city, near enough to court to satisfy obligation and far enough to breathe in peace. It was smaller than the Red Keep, less grand, but that suited the both of you. No one had said so out loud, yet it was clear enough. The walls were warm stone. The windows faced east and caught the morning light instead of shutting it out. Lavender grew along the outer walk, planted by someone before your time, and it had survived the winter with a stubbornness that felt almost personal.
Inside, signs of a shared life had gathered in slow, ordinary ways. His books beside yours on the shelf. Your embroidery frame positioned near the best window, which he had moved without comment one afternoon when he noticed the light falling wrong. A second cup on the table by the fire, already poured.
None of it was dramatic, all of it mattered to you.
You settled deeper into the chair, adjusting your weight carefully. The pregnancy sat heavy in your lap, in your lower back, in the way you rose slowly from chairs and descended stairs with one hand trailing the wall. Seven months had left their mark. Your belly was full and round beneath the loose linen of your gown, warm to the touch, occasionally shifting with the insistence of someone who had not yet been born but already had opinions on its own.
You pressed a hand briefly to your side where the movement was. A flutter, a press. I know, you thought at it. I know you're there.
The fire crackled. Across the room, Aerion sat at the writing table with his back half-turned to you, working through correspondence with the focused quiet of a man who had learned, slowly, imperfectly, to channel his energy into something productive rather than destructive. Candles burned at either side of the table. His silver hair, longer now, caught their light and held it.
He had not spoken in some time. Neither had you.
The silence was not tense. That distinction still struck you sometimes, even now, the difference between his silences then and his silences now. Before, quiet had been the space between provocations, the held breath before a storm. Now it was simply the room at rest, two people existing in the same warmth, without the need to perform that fact.
Your needle moved through the embroidery. A branch. Leaves in pale green thread, stitched slowly because you no longer rushed things that deserved to be unhurried. You had learned that too, somewhere along the way, though you weren't certain when. Perhaps it had been a lesson you taught yourself while teaching him.
“You've been rubbing your back for the better part of an hour.”
His voice came without him turning. Your hand had drifted there without you noticing. You lowered it. “I'm fine.”
“I didn't say you weren't.”
You went back to the embroidery and the scratch of his quill resumed.
You looked at the back of his head for a moment, at the set of his shoulders, the long line of his spine. He was still proud in his posture. That had not changed, nor would it. But there was something different in it now. Less like a man braced for attack. More like a man who had simply grown comfortable inside his own frame.
Maekar had expressed quiet satisfaction, the last time you had attended court. Not in words, the prince was not a man for words where a look would suffice. But satisfaction nonetheless. You had understood it without needing it explained. So had Aerion, which had caused a complicated expression to move across his face, something between pride and the ghost of old resentment, before easing into something closer to acceptance.
He was still Aerion. He could still cut with a word when he chose to. His patience was a thing learned rather than natural, and it occasionally showed its seams. Two weeks prior, at a supper that had run overlong, he had said something to Lord Peake's second son that had made the table go briefly silent. But he had stopped there, he had not pursued it. He had reached instead for his wine and redirected the conversation with a deliberateness you recognized, because you had practiced that deliberateness in front of him, repeatedly, until he understood what it looked like.
He was not fixed, he was better. There was a meaningful difference.
The fire shifted, throwing new shadows. You set down the embroidery and pressed your palm flat against the side of your stomach, feeling the weight of it, the warmth. The child moved again, long, slow, like something turning in a dream. You breathed around it.
The scratch of the quill stopped.
You did not look up immediately. You felt, rather than saw, the moment his attention shifted, the feeling of being observed by Aerion, which you had long since learned to recognize. It was different now too.
You looked up.
When you looked up, he had already turned in his chair. He was watching you with those violet eyes of his, pale in the candlelight, and there was something in his face he had learned to hide less well over time. Not because he had grown careless. Because keeping it hidden had begun to cost him too much, and he had finally decided, with the quiet certainty he brought to every important thing, that it was no longer worth the price.
Then he rose from the table.
He crossed the room at an unhurried pace, the way a man walks when he has already made up his mind. When he stopped in front of you, his gaze dropped from your face to your hands, then to the rounded curve beneath the linen. Then he knelt.
Not in surrender. Not in show. One knee to the floor, steady and deliberate, bringing himself level with what he meant to honour. He reached out, and his hand, the same hand that had once gripped and demanded and taken, settled with impossible gentleness against the side of your stomach.
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the fullest part of you.
He stayed there a moment, forehead resting lightly against you, his hand curved around the life you carried. His breathing evened out. His eyes were closed. He did not speak at once, and you did not ask him to.
Then, very quietly, without lifting his head, he said, “I love you.”
You looked down at the top of his silver head, at the broad line of his shoulders bent in a shape that was not quite defeat and not quite humility, but close enough to make your throat tighten. You thought of the man who had once watched you across a banquet table with cold, assessing eyes and found nothing in you worth his attention. You thought of all the months between then and now. The arguments. The patience. The slow, stubborn work of remaining.
You reached down and touched his face gently. He looked up at you. The candlelight made his eyes very bright.
You held his gaze and said, simply, “I love you as well.”
No strategy in it. Just the truth, spoken in the same quiet room where you had spent months learning each other's silences.
He turned his face and pressed one more kiss to your stomach, almost habitual, as if he had already developed the instinct, then rose slowly and settled himself on the arm of your chair. His hand remained at your side, warm and present. You returned to your embroidery. His shoulder rested against yours, and he did not move away.
The fire burned low. The night spread softly around the manse.
Later, when he had drifted into sleep beside you and his breathing had gone slow and even, you lay awake in the dark and thought about the whole path that had brought you here.
Seven steps, written out with the clean, measured certainty of someone who understood that hearts, even difficult ones, had their own structure. You had approached him with respect for what it was, patience for what it could become, and no illusions about the process between.
But somewhere in the long careful middle of it, something had shifted that no guide could have anticipated, or perhaps the guide had always known it and simply not named it. The method had worked. But the method had not been the point.
The point was that he had changed.
Not because you had fixed him. Not because you had caged him or diminished him or stripped away the things that made him difficult. He was still proud. Still sharp. Still capable of the particular cold cruelty that had earned him his reputation, though he used it less now, and never against you.
He had changed because he had chosen to. Because somewhere in the accumulated weight of all those quiet days and careful moments, something in him had found a reason.
And he, Aerion Targaryen, the Bright Prince, the man they called Brightflame for the way he burned, had stayed too.
His hand rested over yours in the dark, light and warm and present.
The beast doesn't need its fangs removed, you thought, closing your eyes. It just needs something worth protecting more than it needs to bite.
Sleep came, slow and complete, and took you both with it.
Summary: Princess Laena Targaryen, daughter of Baelor, becomes the fixation of Prince Aerion Targaryen. Aerion does not court, he corners. He tests her restraint, threatens her reputation, and manoeuvres the court itself to tighten his hold. How long can Laena resist a Prince who has decided she is his.
A week had passed since their blood smeared tryst. Not long enough to forget it, but far too long for his liking. Laena had relocated her rooms across the keep to be within arms reach of Kiera. Her presence lingered in his room in small, maddening ways. Her gloves, forgotten on his side table. Stray strands of her hair on his pillow. The faint trace of her perfume, the one he’d bought her, clinging stubbornly to the fabric of the chaise.
Laena may have retreated, hiding in her sister’s chambers bound by duty, but she wouldn’t remain there. Kiera and Valarr would return to Dragonstone, and she would return to him and Summerhall. There would be fewer walls to hide behind, fewer ladies to shield her, and no excuses dressed as obligations. There, he would have her again one way or another.
Preparations for their departure had begun in earnest, and he threw himself into them with a focus that bordered on obsessiveness. Orders were issued, supplies tallied, servants reassigned. Every detail passed through his hands ensuring a comfortable journey and arrival at her new home.
Summerhall was his father’s seat, his home. It had always felt different, not the rigid, watchful court of King’s Landing with its endless scrutiny and whispered judgements. They were free to do what they wished. If history was anything to go by, and Aerion begged the Gods it was, then Laena would be on her worst behaviour at their country estate.
~~~
Before dawn, the corridors stirred with quiet urgency, soft footed servants carrying basins, the low murmur of maids sent running for linens, the sharp scent of boiling water raising faintly through the stairwell. By the time the first pale light touched the horizon, the entire keep was awake.
Kiera’s labour had begun in the deepest hour of the night and it did not ease.
~~~
Below, in a smaller drawing room set apart from the main hall, the men waited. Valarr paced like a caged thing, his boots marking the same restless path across the carpet again and again until even the servants dared not to cross it. His hands dragged repeatedly through his hair as every muffled cry tightened something further in him.
Aerion stood near the hearth, arms folded tightly across his chest. He watched his cousin wear the room thin, saying nothing at first, though the tension in his own jaw betrayed him.
“Sit,” Maekar said eventually, his voice firm. Valarr did not, he could not.
~~~
Above the air was thick with heat and effort. Kiera’s chamber had become a place of strain and endurance, the sheets damp, the smell of sweat and iron creeping steadily into the air. Her cries rose and fell in waves, ragged and desperate sounds that seemed to tear through the room and leave silence trembling in their wake.
Laena stood near the bed at first, one hand clasped tightly around Kiera’s, her own composure drawn taut with anxiety. Her screams cut straight through her ribs. She had never seen such agony so close. Never understood, not truly, what it meant to bring life into the world.
Kiera’s strength astonished her.
“You are strong,” Jena murmured, brushing sweat-damp hair from Kiera’s face. “You are almost there, my love. One more, darling girl.”
The Grand Maester was far less comforting. “You must push again,” He commanded.
Laena moved when she was needed, and when she was not, she made herself useful all the same. She fetched clean cloth, poured water with trembling hands. She spoke when spoken to, soothed when she could, though her voice felt thin in her own ears.
Hours passed, or perhaps it was only minutes. Time lost all shape in that room. And then, the final cry. A long, straining push that seemed to pull the very air from Kiera’s lungs. Silence followed.
The midwife caught the child. There was a pause, too long. Laena saw it before anyone spoke. Not in the child, but the midwife’s face. The way her mouth tightened. The baby was wrapped quickly in blankets, small body bundled and lifted to the Maester. Cold, blue, still.
The Maester stepped forward, taking the bundle gently. He rubbed the child vigorously with the blankets, expression carefully composed. The room held its breath. He shook his head.
Kiera’s voice broke the silence, weak and breathless. “Where is he?” she asked, confusion threading through her exhaustion. “Let me see my baby.”
No one answered immediately. Jena closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering herself, then placed her hand on Kiera’s shoulder. “My darling girl,” she said softly, though her voice wavered despite her effort, “would you like to hold him?”
Laena stepped forward without thinking, taking the bundled baby from the Maester without question. He was small, and perfect. Dark hair lay soft against his tiny head. His cheeks were round, features angelic as though carved by the Gods. There was nothing wrong with him, nothing twisted or incompleted. Only stillness.
She reached for the fine dyed wool they had chosen together in the market, folded neatly over the bassinet. Her fingers lingered over the softness as she imagined this very moment, just not like this. Her hands trembled as she unwrapped the plain cloth and replaced it with the blanket, tucking it carefully around the babe’s small, unmoving form. The gesture was instinctive, protective… futile. As though warmth might still be coaxed back into him if she did it properly. Tears blurred her vision, falling freely now.
Laena carried him to the bed. Kiera looked at her, dazed at first, her expression soft with exhausted expectation. Then she saw his face. Her hands reached for him with desperate urgency, pulling him against her chest.
The sound she made did not belong to anything Laena had ever heard before. It was not a scream, not a sob, but something deeper torn from the very core of her. She rocked him gently, whispering his name over and over, as though repetition alone might wake him.
Laena stood beside her bed, her hands suddenly empty. She turned her face aside, one hand pressed briefly to her mouth as her shoulders trembled. Jena bent over Kiera, stroking her hair, murmuring soft reassurances.
The room felt smaller.
~~~
Below, the door to the drawing room opened. The Maester shared the dire news. Valarr pushed past him, out the door and into the hall. Aerion watched him go, something tightening sharply beneath his ribs. Men did not break in front of rooms full of witnesses but later, in the privacy of his rooms, Valarr pressed his hands to his face and wept.
~~~
The chamber did not empty all at once, grief lingered in it too heavily for that. It clung to the walls, to the bed linens, to the women who moved quietly about their duties with lowered eyes and softened steps. Even as Kiera’s cries quieted into something hoarse and broken, the air itself seemed reluctant to release the moment.
Kiera lay slumped against the pillows, her strength spent, her arms still wrapped tightly around the small, bundled form pressed to her chest. She rocked him still, though the movement had slowed, dulled by exhaustion. Her voice had worn thin, her son’s name only a faint whisper against his hair.
Laena stood near the bedside, unmoving. She didn’t know where to put her hands or what to do with the helplessness that had settled in her heart.
Jena stepped forward at last, she had held herself together longer than any of them. The matron’s composure was strong in the face of her daughter’s grief.
“My sweet girl,” she said gently, lowering herself to sit at the edge of the bed. Kiera did not look at her, only tightened her hold on the babe as though he might disappear. Jena reached out, her hand brushing against her arm. “You must rest,” she murmured, her voice quiet but firm. “You have been so very brave.”
Kiera shook her head weakly, her voice barely more than a breath. “No… no, I can’t-”
“You can,” Jena said softly, leaning closer. “I will take him. I will stay with him. I promise you, my love, I will look after him.”
Kiera’s fingers loosened slowly, her gaze drifting to his face one last time, drinking him in, memorising what she could. Then with a trembling breath, she let him go. Jena gathered the small bundle into her arms with reverence, cradling him close as she rose.
“I will be just outside,” She said softly.
Kiera nodded once, already slipping toward sleep. One by one, the others began to leave, quiet and subdued, carrying away the last of the basins and cloths. The door closed gently behind them, sealing the room into stillness.
Kiera’s grief burned itself down last, her body giving way where her heart could not. Her breathing deepened, steadying as half sleep finally claimed her. Laena turned, crossing the room. Her fingers moved to the fastening of her gown, untying them with haste. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet.
In her shift, she climbed carefully into the bed beside her sister. The mattress dripped beneath her weight, but Kiera only stirred faintly, seeking warmth even in sleep. Laena gently, so gently, slipped her arms around her. Kiera’s back pressed against her chest, Laena held her there, one hand resting lightly across her abdomen, the other curled near her shoulder.
“We should still go to Tyrosh... when you're feeling better,” she said quietly, dreaming of their small getaway without obligation. But Kiera's hand gripped her own, giving a single firm squeeze. They were going to be alright.
⋆˚࿔ summary: Upon moving to Summerhall, your brother in law is intent on bringing the ghosts of your past to the present.
⋆˚࿔ tags: dub-con, non targcest! reader is daeron’s wife, aerion being aerion, religious trauma, psychosexual themes, use of ‘sister’ as endearment, degradation, cheating, — heavily nosferatu (2024) inspired!
⋆˚࿔ w/c: 4k
⋆˚࿔ a/n: i love daeron but he’s a kinda a deadbeat in this. still learning all the lore so sorry if anything is inaccurate! no description of fem reader. divider by @honeyluvsw !
Fine strays of cobalt and turquoise glided along soft white fabric, weaving in and out of its delicate layers. There was to be no trace of cotton left. All lines were to be defined, careful not to tug too eagerly on the string so that it frayed and twisted itself into a messy ball and left a bump in the pattern. Your fingertips were numb, little indents from where you’d been holding the needle for far too long and intensely, but you were just so close to the edge of the fabric that it was worthless to stop. If you could just finish this thread —
Your fingers slipped, and the tiny tip of the needle dug itself into your skin. You’d pricked yourself again.
A small crimson bead blossomed just below your fingernail. Resting the embroidery on your lap, you stared at the liquid before sliding your thumb into your mouth, tongue dabbing away at the momentary pain before your attention was drawn to the door, light from the corridor spilling into your chambers.
You should’ve taken the creaking of the slowly rusting hinges as an omen. A familiar but largely unwanted figure slunk in like darkness itself. Sneaky yet bright; the piercing violet of Aerion’s eyes entered the room before the rest of his lithe body did, no doubt scanning the area to make sure you were alone. His hands were firm on your doorknob as he ran his tongue across the inside of his bottom lip, squinting.
“Perhaps you should knock next time.”
He merely scoffed at your bluntness, strolling in with meticulous ease as he shut the door behind him. He needn’t look behind him twice, as the closest guard was further down the hall.
“Don’t be ridiculous, sister. You are the intruder here, remember?”
Sister. You’d grown to despise the word, which, to Aerion was an endearment of sorts. By marriage you were his sister – your husband (if one could call it such) being his older brother Daeron, and therefore taking on the five Targaryens as your siblings. You lived in their home at Summerhall, where Aerion frequently encroached on your shared chambers and personal space.
Perhaps a more noble husband would’ve paid attention to what characters crossed their threshold, but when it came to your relationship Daeron happened to be quite the enigma. Ironic, given he was rather predictable.
You remained seated on your stool, brushing away the wetness of your thumb and focusing back to your embroidery. It seemed the illusion had broken; what you’d intended to be a sky looked more like an ocean, stitches ragged and unravelling like the way waves broke against rocks. You shook off the disappointment as you slowly unwound another string. Some things were never going to be perfect.
Aerion was watching you from across the room, his footsteps not quite formidable but quietly impinging all the same. He feigned interest in the dresser, your vanity, the shaped candle that had been a wedding gift from some random house, and finally, your bed, fingertips gliding amongst the sheets. Though he was painfully transparent, it was often best you didn’t wonder what he was thinking.
“You mustn’t make yourself comfortable,” you finally spoke, eyes glued to the work below you.
“My sisters wish to see you.”
You looked up, shoulders dropping in exasperation.
“I don’t see them with you?”
Aerion pushed himself up from the bed, now intent on walking towards where you were sat. You were just by a window, but the walls were far too high for anyone to see in and intervene - should they need.
“What kind of brother would I be if I hadn’t checked first? To walk in on your sister pleasuring herself with a candlestick would be a horrid memory for them, no?”
“I was doing no such thing.”
“Not this time, perhaps,” he shrugged, eyes briefly roaming down your body, “but we all know it is a matter of time before the veil is lifted. My brother concerns himself with whores, forgetting the one he has warming his bed every night – it drives you mad, does it not?”
He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Those compulsions of yours will flower once more, and who will you turn to, dear sister, when the Seven are not enough?”
Aerion Targaryen was spoiled, full of spite, words always carefully crafted in a way that told you he calculated the damage before speaking them. He had a softness to his voice, the sound dissipating almost immediately - the way a candle would trail with smoke once snubbed out – but, like ashes, the weight of his words lingered. They were dust on a mirror that never seemed to be clean. The shadowed figure that crept into a room, regardless of your physical presence.
The veil, in part, existed. Aerion’s words were not untrue. It began when you were young; games about wolves and maidens shifting into your dreams at night, vivid ones, feeling the wolfs teeth penetrate the supple skin of your neck, large and calloused claws splitting your thighs in preparation to consume you — a horrible, yet beautiful scene that spurred your body to burn so ardently that you’d woken up to blood pooling between your legs and a fever so intense the sheets stuck to your skin. That’d been the day of your first bleed, and you’d endured it ever since.
Your mother and the maesters said that bleeding was natural. It meant you were of age. What hadn’t been natural were the actions that came with it, restlessness, the continuous swings from an achy throat to salivating like a dying rabbit – and, possibly the most damning – the senseless urge to grind yourself against any surface with a grooved edge.
The madness spilled over into your learnings, hands still stinging from where a septa had struck you across the palm for writing what had been considered a shameful poem about creatures and appetites, for reasons you couldn’t understand why. In the courts eyes you were no longer normal, a disappointing daughter and a never-ending puzzle for the maesters to figure out.
Most of your years were spent locked away, any outings always chaperoned, under the watchful eyes of Septas and eventually the Seven. They taught you how to be good (or, from what you now knew, how to appear so), moulded you into a semi-decent woman who could be married to some poor, lower-ranking man. The gods willed it that Daeron Targaryen was this man, certainly not poor in expenses, but poor in spirit. A tormented woman with an improper condition deserved a tormented drunken prince who would likely never be king, and so the lands would never have to worry about the likes of you becoming a queen.
Your afflictions had given you the smallest commonality. ‘Fitting’, Dearon had remarked on night of your wedding, downing a chalice before nodding to the other on your dresser.
“Want a drink, wife?”
“I’m not allowed. The maesters say it will only make me worse.”
He’d tutted.
“An eve like this is as good a time as ever to go mad, don’t you think?”
That had been the most you’d bonded, finding your bed cold ever since. For as much as you believed you were cured, you found the empty nights only made your turmoil worse, that and the fact that your husband's brother had an innate ability in sniffing you out. Aerion would never let you forget who you were – and he’d developed a pleasure in forcing you back there himself. He was waiting, waiting for you to break and then would devour you.
“My condition has corrected itself,” you retorted, jaw tight as you tan a tongue over your lips, “either way it is not of your concern.”
Aerion had closed the gap between you, likely revelling in the way you were looking up at him from your seated position. His toned legs were pressed against your shins, skin seeming to burn even through the fabric, and his hand was steady on the end of his sword; ready.
“It’s in my family’s interests that you don’t publicly disgrace yourself.”
You smiled for the first time since he’d arrived.
“I suppose you didn’t consider that at Ashford then, did you, brother? As far as disgraces go, you were the first.”
“You insolent wench —“
As temperamental as Aerion was, it always amazed you that he never raised his voice, even when his eyes flickered with flames of fury, and his cheeks shaded into a paled pink that told you he cared more than he let on. He lurched towards you, his movements a blur as they halted abruptly by the sound of the door slamming open and the voice of an exasperated older woman, who’s words were otherwise gargled except for the names of your sisters, Rhae and Daella.
Aerion hadn’t been lying after all.
They burst in with their platinum locks flaming behind them like a knight in shining armour; giggling, shouting and utterly unaware of the scene that had played out seconds before. Aerion slowly retracted his hand, side eyeing the two girls before tucking his hands behind his back, snarl slipping into a feigned smile. Had he wanted to slap you? Choke you? You weren’t sure. Either way it was over now, at least momentarily.
Now bored of the situation, he retreated, but not before casting a few obvious glimpses around your room once more, his previous words echoing like a ghost. The girls may have saved you today, but their appearances were few and far between.
He pouted, knuckles red as he gripped the doorknob.
“I should hope to see our brother safe and back for dinner tonight, don’t you?”
You’d decided to become more sociable. Being so forthcoming felt foreign to you, but even the mere presence of other people made you feel slightly less like a hollow creature in your own body.
People didn’t speak to you, per se. The Kingsguards merely glanced over your figure when you walked past, their demeanour as stoic and cold as their armour — but you appreciated the illusion of safety. Servants only spoke to you if there were reason, your questions deflected to not give too much of themselves away — but there was a warmth in the banality of conversation.
And, through it all, even when you strolled across open hallways, sun at its highest point in the day, leaving no corner unlit, you felt it. It was the wispy voice that carried through the air and made the hairs stand up at the back of your neck. It was the fine white tufts (of dandelions) you found clinging to the inside of your skirts, without a real reason of how it got there. The mirage of red fabric passing you by, only to cruelly remember that it was the very colour of your house.
The fevers of your childhood ran during the day, but they always boiled over at night. Daeron had found his way home once, collapsing on top of your sheets, likely aware but unmoved at the fact his clothes reeked of damp grass and alcohol. He was mumbling, sweaty, and had made no attempt to move your hand that you’d placed on his arm.
If you were a more proper woman, the scent would’ve bothered you - it certainly did his father – but it didn’t. It was raw, with a virility to it, almost, a freedom that you’d longed for. You’d opened your mouth, drawing in a shaky breath, only to abruptly close it. He’d exhausted himself, likely unable to take you in all the ways you wanted.
Sometimes you wondered why you continued to be honest at all.
Yet you did, in the only way you knew how. Every night after supper, you’d take a vacant trek to a private room, sometimes whisking a septa along with you, and prayed. Prayers to The Mother, prayers to The Maiden. To keep your wits, to resist that rumbling urge in your stomach from bubbling over and shaming yourself even more than you were. It was supposed to make you strong, but you only grew more vulnerable by the day. Your knees had marks from where you’d dug them into the ground from kneeling too long. Your eyes stung every time you’d open them, finding it increasingly difficult to adjust to the light.
Could you get any lower? Above all of your transgressions, you’d been married to Daeron for all of six months, and there was still no babe in sight. Pity, you had such an inclination to the sins of the flesh yet couldn’t produce its very outcome.
What a fine pair you were indeed.
Tidy plates and muffled voices signalled another dusk at Summerhall. Hands folded at your front, you slipped away as you always did, chin up and focused on the route to your sanctuary. It had been a pleasant dinner; savoury jam still stuck to the roof of your mouth, and Aerion acting as if you were invisible, instead choosing to brag about his latest victory on the training field that morning. Even Maekar, believe it or not, had conversed with you.
Lost in your head, you didn’t realise anyone had been following you. Men like Maekar or the Kingsguards had a purposeful heaviness to their footsteps, Daella and Rhae’s were frantic, and Daeron’s were uncoordinated. These had been light. There was no intention for you to know of their presence, at least not until you both rounded the same corner.
Aerion was a pace behind you, enough for him to see you flash him a pointed side eye. Noticing the pull of your face, he rolled his eyes.
“Stop frowning, girl. I’m off to give my confession.”
You scoffed, still walking. You were only a few footsteps away.
“The morn would be more fitting, no? There is an awful lot for you to get through.”
“You act as if you’re unmoved by my presence. It’s sweet when you play smart with me.”
You froze in front of that oh-so familiar door, hoping that a septa would hear your altercation and come to answer. Raising your chin, your voice unwavered.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Fear isn’t the feeling that moves you, sister,” he smirked knowingly, hands slithering past your waist to grip the doorknob. Chidingly, with raised brows and pursed lips he nodded to the inside. “Now hush.”
It was you who made the next move, however bafflingly. You threw yourself in-front of him to slam the door shut, feeling your spine pressed against the stone whilst your heart flung itself to the front, almost jumping out of your chest entirely. You weren’t a woman of good faith however much you tried, but there was a morbid curiosity in what he had to say. Not to protect a septon from his depravity, but for your own excitement.
Blinking, you swallowed before you spoke.
“How great is this sin that you should feel remorse?”
Aerion’s grin grew wider. He ran a tongue across his lips and looked down like one would expect a coy maiden to, and inhaled, closing the gap between you.
“I took a whore last night,” he said simply.
You shrugged.
“Improper, perhaps, but they serve their purpose.”
“That is not the half of it,” he continued, glancing boredly down the corridor, “she served me fine, I suppose. I took her from behind. Filled my chambers with the saddest little moans one could ever hear. Br it was hardly worth the coin - she had my time, but my mind was elsewhere.”
Knowingly, he watched you begin to shudder. You’d fallen into his trap more easily than imagined. Aerion smiled, eyes glistening distantly as he replayed the scene in his mind, before his gaze locked onto yours. There was no breaking of sweat, no incoherent stumbling of words, just the raw truth, as raw as his wanton breath on your cheeks, mouth smelling enticingly of the mint leaves he’d chewed on after dinner. You were aware of how this looked; back arched against a hard surface as Aerion stood in front of you, tips of his shoes brushing the bottom of your skirts — only you weren’t quite sure which one of you were going to seize the other first.
“When I fucked her pathetic cunt, I thought of you. How you could sing for me so sweetly like you haven’t in years…”
Gone was the moaning, writhing maiden of your youth. You were to be quiet, to let a man enjoy you, to keep the sounds of the pleasuring of yourself a secret, secret shame. Your sex twitched and your insides churned at the thought of Aerion looking in through some peephole, watching you buck yourself against pillows with a tight fist over your mouth as you relieved yourself in the way you wished Daeron – or anyone – could. Squeezing your eyes shut, you attempted to quell your racing thoughts…but worried you couldn’t silence your pounding heart.
“Must you deliberately destroy my piece of mind?”
Aerion scoffed, lowering his chin and his voice, words dripping like honey off his mouth.
“If anything, I’m doing you a favour. I only wish to give you what you’ve been denied, what you crave. My cock inside you, the seed of the dragon…Give me your word and I won’t hold back.”
“My words mean nothing to you!” you sneered, brushing past Aerion as you pushed yourself off the door, feet tripping over themselves as you began to inch away, determined to get to your empty bedchambers, the only safety you really knew.
The walls seemed to constrict around you as you scurried back to your room; the concept of prayers now a distant memory as nightfall fell over the castle, swathing it in a hauntingly beautiful silver. Nothing good happened at this hour, never.
If the Seven couldn’t save you from yourself, they wouldn’t save you from Aerion.
You were close. Just a few more steps and you could barricade yourself in, perhaps arm yourself with a poker and pretend not to hear the shrill rattles of the doorknob—
You choked on your own breath at the sight of him. In front of your door before you. Knowingly. Expectedly.
You were the intruder here, remember?
With sunken eyes and weightless shoulders, you let him in.
Aerion’s kisses were fervent, yet woefully indecisive; fluctuating between attacking your lips and the length of your neck, eventually finding home in its crook. His teeth clamped down on you without warning, skin slimy from his licking that he used to remedy his love bites, like a predator toying with its food. Your first breath was a whimper, a prolonged sigh at the feeling of his length pressed against your thigh, as hot and ready for you as you were him, no doubt.
Once he grew desperate for more, the prince unsheathed his dagger from its holster, blade ripping the fabrics of your dress with ease, embroidery pulled from its seams. He stalked you to the bed; transfixed as you stopped by the edge and silently began to reveal yourself to him, sliding what was left of your clothes down your skin, goosebumps visible in the twilight.
Aerion’s actions were careful, deliberately drawn out as he crept towards you, silent as he snaked his lithe fingers around your waist, dipping you onto the bed in a way that would’ve been romantic and caring if not for the circumstances. Your breasts moved with the sudden contact, seemingly an invitation for him to latch onto your chest, kissing and nipping at the valley between your breasts with every intent of leaving marks for a shocked maid to discover. He wanted to feast on your heart; live under your skin for eternity.
It was hard not to elicit another moan, not when his teeth grazed your nipple or the coarseness of his chainmail dug against your lower stomach like a branding iron.
Your knees buckled as he roamed lower, stopping just at your groin, his touch surprisingly gentle as they brushed either side of your thighs. You were a fool to think he’d take what he wanted immediately – no, he wanted to give you the illusion of agency, at least so he could play innocent should he be questioned about your undoing.
Rearing his head, devilish eyes looked up at you from his position below, grinning.
“Open up, dear sister,” he cooed, one knee pressed against your core. “Your dragon is waiting.”
Trembling, you parted them with ease. On the rare times you’d made love, Daeron was partial to stuffing his tongue inside you. Aerion chose to finger you. Two digits curled up your insides, stretching, lubricating themselves with your arousal.
You squirmed under his ministrations, mindlessly grinding yourself against him with a desperate need for pressure.
“Needy whore,” he breathed. “I haven’t even filled you yet. How silly of you to try and deny me…”
His words were crude but that was what you’d come to expect of him, and, amid the moment, you rather enjoyed it.
“Aerion,” you faltered upon the addition of a third finger, eyes glossy. “Please…”
A dimple formed on his left cheek as he smirked, rising to straighten his back and puffing out his chest, eyes locked on your nude form as he peeled his chainmail off his body, revealing his pale, toned torso, the slightest wisps of hair across his pectorals. He straddled you; his body lean but not weightless as he adjusted himself between your legs, head thick and twitching against your walls. He needn’t tease or prepare you, simply sliding himself into you with selfish ease, stretching you so perfectly that for a brief moment you imagined he belonged there.
Aerion grunted upon the contact, room seemingly fresh in temperature that you could see the smoke bellowing out of his nose; frustrated, wanting, but with a glowing acknowledgment in his eye that told you he’d gotten what he wanted.
You thought he would take you like this, like the wolf had done in your dreams, flat on your back whilst he humped you, but instead Aerion pulled you up, up into the moonlight so he could watch you unravel before him. Hips conjoined, he pulled you to sink down on his thighs, chests pressed together while his hands crawled up your spine, to your shoulder blades, and back down towards your hips and cradling your buttocks.
What would’ve looked like a hug to the naked eye was in fact Aerion penetrating your soul; completely sheathed between your aching walls as you grinded your hips against him. His jaw was as tight and precise as his thrusts , focused on taking you further, determined to lick every bead of sweat that trickled down your skin until you were creaming around him entirely.
With a firm hand at the back of your neck, he snaked his fingertips into the roots of your hair, tugging on it so that your back arched and head was pointed to the ceiling. You looked a sight, mouth open and almost drooling in pleasure, eyes half lidded as you moaned for your prince, wishing the skies would open and the Seven would take you. He rutted into you with the same fierceness he did when on a saddle — how perfect was it that you whinnied for him?
“You yearn for me, I can feel it,” he whispered between growls. Your thighs were shaking uncontrollably. “Beg for me to breed you,”
Words evaded you, and so through cloudy eyes you nodded, so eagerly that your head lolled. Aerion wanted to hear you, however, and bit down on your earlobe, your jostled earring producing a gentle tinkling sound in stark contrast to the harsh slapping of skin on skin. “We will be like this every night, regardless of if it takes. The drunken fool will be none the wiser…”
With burning loins you felt yourself draw close, light finally visible after moons of dark.
Summary: Princess Laena Targaryen, daughter of Baelor, becomes the fixation of Prince Aerion Targaryen. Aerion does not court, he corners. He tests her restraint, threatens her reputation, and manoeuvres the court itself to tighten his hold. How long can Laena resist a Prince who has decided she is his.
The bath had long since lost its heat. What little steam had once curled through the chamber was gone now, leaving the water dull and cooling around her. Laena sank low in the bath, the water lapping just beneath her chin, leaving only her face visible above its surface. Her hair had been gathered loosely atop her head, though damp strands had slipped free, clinging to the back of her neck and the delicate line of her shoulder.
She had been watching Aerion for sometime. She’d hoped he would make his leave after he sent for Penny but he had settled in for the evening in his night clothes. He sat by the hearth, one leg stretched before him, the other bent slightly. His eyes were closed but he wasn’t sleeping.
“Are you going to stay in there all night?” he asked, breaking the silence. “You’re going to catch a chill at this rate.”
Laena didn’t answer immediately. She let the silence stretch, her chin resting just slightly lower as the water shifted around her. The day had not gone the way she had planned, and here she could pretend for a while longer that nothing had pressed her. She could pretend she wasn’t growing fond of his attention.
“I might,” she said eventually, her voice softer than usual. He lifted his head slowly, taking in her soggy state.
“You’ll turn to water,” he said, sitting up from his spot with a stretch. “And Penny will have to mop you off the floor.” He stood and made his way toward her, his hand out stretched. “That will do, come.”
She took his hand as she stepped from the bath, his grip firm and steady. Water trailed in rivulets down her skin, pooling at her feet before soaking into the woven rug. Her hand remained in his for a moment longer as she looked up at him softened in the firelight. It caught along the sharp edge of his jaw, dulling the usual severity of his expression. His hair was touselled, a pale strand had fallen forward, caught awkwardly near his eye. Out of place.
There had been a time when his hair had been longer, impossibly so. Falling in pale waves down his back, like spilled milk. The memory came back with startling clarity. Summer hall had been unbearable. Too many people, too much noise, and too much of him. Aerion had the sort of beauty that drew the eye whether one wished it or not. The court ladies fawned over him, whispering in lowered voices, enraptured and envious in equal measure. She had hated it.
“He knows exactly what he’s doing,” Matarys had muttered, sprawled inelegantly across a sun warmed stone bench, his voice thick with irritation. “Did you see him this morning? He shook it out, Laena. Like some maiden in a song.”
Laena sat beside him, chin propped in her hand, her expression dark with poorly concealed annoyance. “I saw,” she said flatly. Everyone had seen, how could you not. He was taller, broader, sharper than when she’d last seen him and he wore it all with easy arrogance.
“He thinks he’s perfect,” Matarys went on, scowling. “Walks about like he’s the king.”
“He isn’t perfect,” Laena snapped, harsher than she intended. Because he was, or near enough to it that it hardly mattered. Worse still, he knew it. Her gaze drifted back to him despite herself, drawn to his ridiculous, gleaming hair. Something sharp and petty twisted low in her chest. “I hate him,” she said.
Matarys turned to look at her, after a brief pause, something like delight crept across his face. “Why don’t we cut it off,” he asked.
Laena’s eyes flicked to him, her smile conspiratorial. “Cut off his hair,” she said more to herself, thinking it over.
The plan had come together with alarming ease. Laena led the charge, barefoot and silent, Matarys close behind her with poorly suppressed excitement and a pair of shears he had not been permitted to take. “Quiet,” she hissed over her shoulder.
“I am quiet” he whispered far too loudly.
His chamber was unguarded. They slipped inside without incident. Aerion, for all his posturing, slept deeply. He lay sprawled across the bed on his side, his breathing slow and even. His hair, that hair, sprawled across the bed behind him, absurd and offensive to his younger cousins.
Laena stood at the edge of the bed and stared down at him. For a moment she hesitated, not out of mercy but a reluctant admiration. She wanted to reach out and run her hands through his tresses, feeling the soft strands run between her fingers.
Instead she held out her hand for the shears. “Hold it,” she whispered, not wanting to touch it and lose her resolve.
Matarys gathered a thick chunk in his palm, trembling with nerves and excitement. The first cut was louder than she expected. A decisive snick that echoed in the quiet room. They froze but Aerion didn’t stir.
Laena exhaled slowly and cut again, and again. Pale strands fell in uneven clumps, hacked rather than shaped, the work of spite rather than skill. By the time they finished, the damage was unfixable. They fled before long.
The next morning Laena had only just risen when the door to her chamber burst open with a force that sent it slamming hard against the stone. Laena startled, half turning from her mirror as Matarys stumbled inside.
He looked ruinous. His hair, once neatly kept if rarely tamed, had been butchered beyond recognition. Jagged, uneven lengths stuck out at odd angles, hacked close in some places and left absurdly long in others. His face was flushed, eyes bright with tears and outrage as he clutched at the remains of it.
“Laena-” he gasped, voice trembling, “You have to-”
Footsteps thundered in the corridor behind him. Aerion filled the doorway a heartbeat later, the damage to his own hair was worse in daylight, uneven, jagged, shorn without care. It framed his face harshly now, stripping away the effortless beauty that had once softened him.
His gaze locked on her, his chest rising and falling with heavy breath. “You wretched little creature,” he said, voice seething.
Matarys scrambled behind her at once, clutching her arm so she might somehow shield him. “We didn’t think-” he started.
“No,” Aerion cut in sharply, stepping fully into the room, dagger already in hand. “You very clearly did not.”
Laena swallowed hard, her pulse quickening with fear. She held his gaze, but every instinct urged her to flee. “I like your hair short,” she said.
Matarys tugged at her sleeve. “Laena,” he whispered urgently, “run.”
She took a side step to try and escape but Aerion moved in quick strides. His hand fisted her hair, dragging her back toward him. The dagger flashed in the light as he lifted it. “Stand still,” he said.
She jerked against him, pushing on his chest. “Unhand me-”
He tightened his grip. “I said, stand still.” The blade was sharp and worked fast, sawing through her hair with ease. He stepped back, holding the severed pony tail in his hand so she could see it, before dropping it at her feet.
Laena lifted her hand to the ends of her hair. What had once fallen in long, carefully kept lengths now brushed only just beneath her chin, uneven. “I guess, now we’re even.”
Aerion glowered down at her, “Have fun in Blackhaven, Princess.” Then as quickly as he’d come he was gone.
~~~
His hair was touselled, a pale strand had fallen forward, caught awkwardly near his eye. Out of place.
Before she could think better of it, she lifted her hand and brushed it back. A small, thoughtless gesture. Intimate in a way she’d not intended. Her fingers lingered for the briefest moment against his temple before she withdrew, as though startled by the contact. Laena stepped back, drawing a towel tightly around herself.
“You’re just as beautiful with short hair,” she conceded as she bent forward to rub the water off her legs, avoiding his gaze. She missed the puzzled look on his face, unsure what he’d done to earn the sudden confession.
“I suppose I have you to thank for it,” He replied, thinking back to the summer he’d lost his hair and never bothered to grow it agian. His father had been furious at the treachery all three of them had displayed but he’d bore the brunt of it for mauling the young princess. Her mother had wept at the sight of her.
She drew the sleep dress over her head and made her way toward the bed, “You never wanted to grow it out again?” she asked with genuine curiosity.
“You said you liked it,” He said with a sly smirk, following her toward the bed. She didn’t protest when he climbed in after her but she still turned away from him, gaze fixed on the wall.
“I didn’t realise how much you valued my opinion.” She returned.
Aerion half laughed, his hand snaking over her waist to pull her back against him. “I guess you’re not as smart as you think then.”
She hmm’d in reply and closed her eyes, letting the soft lull of sleep wash over her. Aerion lay awake for sometime longer enjoying the closeness of her against his chest. He was counting down the days until they returned to Summerhall, and he could be her chief occupation.
Summary: The Dance of the Dragons is finally won and King Aegon returned victorious to King’s Landing, where his wife has been waiting for him. While you are still as beautiful as ever, he is a broken man. He is disgusted with himself and yet he cannot help but love you after all this time— but do you? After all that has happened?
Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Sister-Wife!Reader
Word count: 7139 words
Warnings: Incest, Dark themes, Reader is Aegon‘s sister-wife and Aemond‘s twin, description of burn scars and past injuries, the horrors of war, mention of death and suicide, death of a child (Jaehaerys and Maelor), nightmares, “Brothel Queens” mentioned, past sexual assault (not by Aegon!), Reader is very anti-team black, Angst, hurt/comfort, nightmares, healing from past trauma, feelings of shame, no mention of Y/N
Notes: I’m actually kinda proud of this one! Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Enjoy 💛
For two long years, you had been waiting for your husband's return from the war the bards and singers now called "The Dance of the Dragons."
Rhaenyra was now dead, devoured in six bites by Sunfyre, as revenge for the crimes against the crown and the realm. Six bites... It was almost poetic, for your young son, Maelor, had been torn into six pieces by the angry mob.
You had to mourn all your children. First, Jaehaerys, whose head was severed and stolen in his crib by two strangers. Then, a year later, you lost Maelor. A raven had brought you the news, and you never saw his remains with your own eyes. They were scattered and lost in the town where he was murdered. Jaehaera was your last child, and she was sunk in deep grief. She did not speak to you, to anyone.
It was almost as if she were a ghost.
Grief for your lost sons nearly drove you to take your own life, but your desire to see your husband again was greater. You did not throw yourself from the balcony. You had stood firm—for him.
For Aegon.
And now he was back. Back at last.
Your relationship had had its ups and downs, but in the end, your love for each other and your children always prevailed. You were his little sister, younger than Helaena, but the same age as Aemond, for he had been your twin.
Your mother had doted too much on her sweet Helaena to give her to Aegon, so you became his sister-wife instead.
Helaena was now gone, and so were Aemond and Daeron. You and Aegon are all that the once mighty House of the Dragon had left. The dragons are dead, the realm is war-weary and ravaged, and the people suffer more every day.
You just wanted to see him again, even though you most likely would not be able to recognize him. He probably would not recognize you either.
You were standing on one of the many balconies of the Red Keep when you saw the carriage drive into the courtyard. You knew who was sitting in there, you knew he needed you now more than ever.
You had been waiting for his return for two years, and now it was finally here. Your husband had come home.
A young knight opened the carriage door, and you instinctively leaned closer to the stone railing of the balcony because you had to see him. Your fingers clenched on the stone and you held your breath.
You heard him before you saw him.
"Let me go. I don't need your help!" he snapped at the knight, who immediately bowed in respect and let go of him.
A golden walking stick clattered onto the sandy ground of the courtyard, and King Aegon limped out of the carriage. Your knees went weak, and you could feel yourself immediately having to brace yourself more to avoid falling to the ground when you saw him again.
His silver hair had grown longer again, falling in tangled strands down to his chest. His clothes were black with gold elements and loose enough to give no indication of his physical condition. He braced himself firmly with his right hand on his walking stick, while he held his left hand trembling to his chest. He took a few steps away from the carriage, and you saw that every step caused him terrible pain, and his foot was at least as twisted as Larys Strong's. His once-beautiful face was covered in scars on one side, but they seemed to have healed well. From above, you could barely see them.
"Where is she? I want to see my wife," he asked the knight, his voice sharp and firm. He had often been angry then, but never malicious. Never bitter.
"She is in her chambers, Your Grace. She rarely leaves them anymore," the knight explained apologetically, his gaze fixed on the ground as if afraid of him.
Two years ago, no one feared him. They laughed at him, called him a coward and a drunkard, but now they knew better. Aegon Targaryen was a man who survived Dragonfire, secretly conquered Dragonstone, used treachery and finesse to win over Rhaenyra's once-loyal men, and finally slew the pretender.
Her son, Aegon III, and Baela Targaryen still remain on the island of Dragonstone, guarded in the prisoner dungeons. As far as you knew, however, the boy was better cared for.
"She shall come to the throne room. Send for her. I want to see her," he hissed, before limping heavily toward the great entrance door of the Red Keep, so that after all this time he could finally sit on his father's throne again—his throne.
You did not need an emissary to deliver his words to you. You heard him. On unsteady feet, you walked back inside your chambers and to your door, but your hand hesitated before finally resting on the handle.
You had been imprisoned for most of the past two years. Rhaenyra had taken over the city, seized the throne, put your mother in chains, and locked you and Helaena in your chambers.
Until... No, you did not want to think about that. You quickly shook your head to clear the images from your mind. The memories that kept you awake at night and caused you to wake up drenched in sweat and screaming on the nights you did manage to sleep.
You took a deep breath and opened the door, a gust of wind hitting your face and the familiar scent of incense greeting you. Taking your dark skirts in your hands, you descended the stairs and hurried toward the throne room.
You remembered well when Rhaneyra had you bound and summoned to these halls, and the guards brought you to your knees to swear your loyalty. She tried to be sympathetic, apologizing for the murder of your firstborn and arguing that you were her darling sister.
You spat at her feet.
But now the false queen no longer sat on this throne, but your husband. You remembered the day he first ascended the throne and immediately sat crookedly. At night, when you were both awake and the castle had gone to bed, you often sneaked into the throne room and enjoyed yourselves on the throne. You were young and so in love.
You had not seen him in so long, but your heart still beat faster at the thought of him.
Just the thought of how he always looked at you helped you through difficult times. Very difficult times.
A cold breeze greeted you, stirring your silver hair as your feet crossed the threshold into the throne room of the Red Keep. The black banners with the red dragon had been torn down again and replaced with the king's black and gold.
His banner had once been green with a golden dragon, but since Aegon learned that his mother had sold him to Rhaenyra like a pig to be slaughtered, he changed the Hightower green to black. He kept the golden dragon in honor of his beloved Sunfyre, who remained loyal to him until his last breath.
The first thing you noticed when your eyes met for the first time in two years was that he was still sitting crookedly on the Iron Throne. Some things never change.
"My wife," his voice echoed through the great hall, but it was neither as loud as you remembered, nor enthusiastic. No, he sounded tired. Exhausted.
"My husband," you replied gently, your footsteps automatically leading you to him. The bright sunlight of day filtered into the hall through the top window above the throne, leaving most of your brother-husband still shrouded in shadow. You saw his silhouette, nothing else.
Aegon, however, saw you clearly. Your skin had grown even paler, your hair so long it now fell to your hips, your shoulders seemed thinner, and your eyes had lost the sparkle he had so missed.
You, too, bore scars, even if yours were not visible. He had burned flesh and broken bones— you, on the other hand, had a broken mind.
And yet, you were still as beautiful as the day he had to leave you behind. Beautiful and strong.
"Don't come any closer," he said suddenly, and you immediately stopped. He sounded almost pleading as he asked.
"Why not?" you replied gently, with so much patience in your tone that it almost hurt him.
Not that he was not already in enough pain, every single second of every day and night.
"I want to savor this moment for a while longer before you flee."
You furrowed your eyebrows and tilted your head slightly to the side. Before you fled? That did not make sense. You would never flee from your husband, especially not after everything that had happened.
"Why would I do that?" you asked him, puzzled.
For a moment, the throne room was shrouded in an almost ghostly silence. For a second, you even imagined you could hear your mother wailing, but she resided locked away in one of the castle's tallest towers. Perhaps it was the memory of previous tears shed here that fought its way back into your mind.
"I changed," he finally answered you.
You shrugged. "Just like me and everyone else because of the war. No one is the same anymore."
"I am disgusting. A cripple, a kinslayer... and not a man worthy of you," his voice trailed off towards the end, and you could see him look away from you. It broke your heart in two.
Without waiting for his permission, you grabbed your skirts in your hands to move faster and hurried up the steps of the Iron Throne to him. Your courage obviously got the better of him, because you could hear him gasping, but he could not move away— he was, alas, a cripple.
"No, darling, please. I—"
Your shadow fell over him, and for the first time since all these years of war, you looked into the eyes of your brother-husband. His skin was even paler than it had been then, sickly, his eyes sunken, and the scars on the left side of his face, though healed, were still noticeable.
And yet he was still the man you loved.
For a moment, there was silence between the two of you. He looked up at you, one of his wild silver strands falling over his forehead, a pout on his soft lips.
You knew what he was thinking. He thought you would find him repulsive now, which he would not blame you for. Aegon found himself disgusting. He was burned like a pig you catch while hunting and then roast over a fire at night while you drink with a few friends and tell each other stories. He could barely walk, always needed a crutch, and he was not even a real man anymore.
He did not have a cock anymore, so what would you want with him?
"It would be fine if you no longer wished to be my queen, sister. If I were you, I would have left long ago," he finally said with a sigh so deep that he leaned back against the back of the throne.
The steel never pierced him. The gods seemed to have chosen him. Or maybe Rhaenyra was just unlucky when the blade bit into her skin.
"But I want to be your queen. I want to continue to love and honor you, as we swore to each other then. Remember?" you answered him, lightly nudging the toe of your boot against his to let him know you were really here.
After his second fall following the fight against Moondancer, he was exposed to the Milk of the Poppy again, at least for the first few days afterward. While it had a calming effect and made one forget ones pain, it also sent one into a state of delirium.
He saw you often. On the dark nights when he had lain weeping in his bed, cursing the gods and everyone, and longing for a gentle touch, he had often seen you standing at the door. You had never spoken or moved, but he had seen you nonetheless.
Sometimes he thought you were an angel. Sometimes he had been certain he had died and you were waiting for him.
During the war, he had never been able to know whether you were still alive or not. There were so many false rumors and hearsay that he no longer trusted anyone. When he was told about the "brothel queens," he had stopped listening completely.
"I am a monster," he said, shaking his head, messing up even more of his silver strands. That was how you knew him.
"You are not, Aegon. You are my husband, my brother, and I love you. I love you," you assured him, kneeling on the ground before him and placing your hands gently on his knees, as if your touch would heal his broken bones.
He had tried all the healers, but he would not be surprised if your touch actually healed him. You had always been the best thing about him.
Your words, your unwavering love for a monster like him, broke and warmed his heart at the same time, and yet he did not want to cry. Not now. Not ever again.
"Please help me up," he said, already rising from his seat, his knees giving way and him practically falling into your arms. He was heavy, but not as heavy as he used to be. You were sure he had lost quite a bit of weight, and his once-soft belly would now be quite flat.
You wrapped your arms around his middle and helped him upright as best you could until his good hand reached for his walking stick.
"Are you well?" you whispered to him before slowly letting go. Your faces were now only a hair's breadth apart, and you could even see the fine hairs growing above his upper lip, even though it was still barely recognizable.
Aegon turned his head away and stood as straight as possible, trying to look like the proud king he once— or perhaps never— had been.
The wedding ring, shaped like a small golden sun, on your finger caught his attention. Images of your wedding came to his mind, of your love for one another, of your children...
"How is Jaehaera?" he asked you quietly, for guilt plagued him. He had avoided her in the past because her face was the same as Jaehaerys'. His beloved boy, taken from you both too soon. Your first babe.
"She mourns her siblings. Her aunt, her uncle, her dragon, us," you answered him honestly, smoothing your skirts with your hands and descending the first few steps of the throne until you were standing on the solid ground of the castle again.
"I was so afraid for you. For her, for mother, for all we have left," your husband said, each pause after a word punctuated by the loud sound of his cane hitting the floor every time he took a step.
Together, you walked side by side down the hall toward the great doors that led out into the corridors. A king and his queen reunited at last.
"I was so afraid for you, Aegon."
A smile played at the corner of his lip, and a part of him wanted to feel the warmth of your palm in his, but he could not. Without his cane, he would fall to the ground, embarrassing himself even more in front of you than he already did.
You turned toward the royal chambers, and somewhere in the distance, a rat crawled into its hole. There were no more rat catchers left to hunt them down.
The long table in the center of your husband's chambers was lavishly laid with food of all kinds, so one would almost think a feast was being held. Perhaps it was. A quiet, solitary feast between two people who had to learn to deal with each other again. To live with each other.
Beside your plate, which was still more than half full with the food that had been served to you, sat a single goblet of wine. You had only taken a few sips. The taste of wine now always turned to ash in your mouth, because of your dislike for it.
Your husband's goblet had already been refilled four times.
Except for the flickering of the three candles lined up in a row on the silk tablecloth and the distant sound of the wind from the open window, it was silent.
You did not know what to say.
He knew it even less.
Neither you nor he knew what you had both been through separately. The story of Aegon's journey across the Narrow Sea with Larys Strong had also been lost in time and with the wind, and you did not want to dwell on your memories of the past few years. The pain had been too much for you, so you had repressed it, hoping it would never resurface.
You were not so sure anymore.
"So... how did she die? Our half-sister?" you asked him, your index finger gliding over the rim of your goblet. You had heard the rumors, but you needed to hear it from him.
"Sunfyre ate her. I think he rather enjoyed it," he answered, and you even caught the hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth. The memory obviously brought him some satisfaction. Good.
"I was told he did it in six bites," you added, raising your goblet in a small toast, which he immediately returned. "He must have been hungry then."
The king chuckled and took a deep sip from his cup, which he set back on the wooden dining table other a little more force than necessary. There were so many things the two of you could talk about, and you had chosen this of all topics. You must have truly hated the false queen. He was almost proud of you.
"I buried Maelor with one of his dolls," you said finally, a tired sigh in your voice. You had to talk about all of this at some point.
"They found him?" he asked immediately, a brief glimmer of relief in his amethyst-colored eyes, which had seemed so much brighter back then. A raven had brought Lord Larys the news of his last son's death, whereupon the Master of Whispers had immediately informed him. He had not screamed or cried. He had simply felt empty.
"No, I mean, I buried the doll in his place."
"Oh."
The silence between you suddenly became so oppressive that even the faintest whisper of a mouse could have been heard.
"On Sundays, I always place some flowers on his grave. Would you like to accompany me next time?" you asked him cautiously, your gaze avoiding his by looking down at your plate. You were aware that he was in pain, and therefore, of course, he would not necessarily have to accompany you.
Prayer and the belief in the Seven had never really been something that interested your husband, and neither had it interested you for many years. But during the war, you had developed a fascination with the faith. Not fanatically— you were not mad, after all— but it had simply given you enough strength to carry on and hope, even when you had been trapped in your darkest hole.
"I will need help climbing the stairs," Aegon said finally, and you could feel a weight lift from your shoulders. He would accompany you.
"I look forward to it," you replied with a grateful nod of your head in his direction, whereupon he emptied his goblet with another sip.
"So, what did she do to you? Our most beloved half-sister?" Aegon asked you, that sarcastic edge in his voice that reminded you of simpler times. Times when he held you in his arms at night, when your only worry was that the children would accidentally enter your chamber at an inopportune moment, or when you simply dreamed of running away together.
But those days were over. You would not be able to run away anymore. There was not even the possibility of your children appearing at an inopportune moment, because two of them are dead and the third lives in her own world, withdrawing from everyone and everything. He was the king, and you were his queen, which you had to show the realm and the people. You had to prove them that better times are coming their way, but how will you do that when your husband bears the scars of war on his skin and you were known among the people by a name other than your own?
"Rhaenyra? Well, among other things, she had me locked in my chamber until the Lady Mysaria came up with a better idea," you answered him truthfully, leaning back in your chair so you could feel the hardness of the chair pressing uncomfortably against your back.
Aegon's lips parted ever so slightly to ask what you meant when suddenly the heavy door to your chambers opened and one of the knights entrusted with guarding the king's chambers with his life entered.
The man bowed deeply before finally delivering his message: "Your Graces, forgive the interruption, but Lord Corlys Velaryon has arrived just now. He wishes to speak with you, my king."
"Old cunt," Aegon cursed, immediately reaching for his walking stick, his injured hand cautiously grasping the edge of the table for support. "Tell him to be patient. After all, he knows what it is like to have only one good leg left."
The knight nodded his head and disappeared as quickly as he had come to deliver his king's words. The old wood of the table creaked as Aegon shifted his weight onto it to help him stand. His expression twisted into a grimace, and for a moment he squeezed his eyes shut, his hands clenching into fists.
"Husband? Do you need assistance?" you asked him immediately, your face contorted in genuine concern for him. You still had to learn how best to help him in this state. On the one hand, he was drunk, which you were used to, but you did not know how to deal with his injuries. These were all uncharted waters for you, and you had to learn to sail through them with him.
But Aegon just raised his hand and shook his head firmly when he heard you take a few steps toward him, most likely to help him. He loved you. He always has, and he always would, but he could not bear that look on your beautiful face whenever you wanted to help him.
You made him feel weak and helpless. All the things your mother had always called him whenever she needed someone to vent her anger. Why had she always hated him so? Was he not her firstborn?
"I will be back later, my love. Finish your meal without me, go to bed. Do whatever you please," said the king, limping toward the entrance and exit of the rooms you had once shared and hoped to share again in the future.
"I will leave a candle lit for you," you called after him, but the door slammed shut and you were alone again.
A cold gust of wind blew through the still-open window into the room, blowing the curtains. One of the candles on the table flickered brightly, but it did not go out. It burned on.
Just like you. Just like him.
You dreamed of hands.
Hands greedily wandering down your body, without permission, without ever asking for it. Your skin was bare, but you could not move. Where were you? Your vision was black, you could barely breathe. Another hand pressed your face further into the pillow, while you could feel someone pressing against your backside.
You wanted to fight back. You wanted to kick, scream, cry, do anything to end this, but you could not breathe.
You could feel yourself falling down a deep, endless, black precipice. On, on, and on—
Gasping heavily and quickly for air, you jolted awake from your nightmare. Your hand found itself at your throat, and your gaze was so fast, like that of a wild animal being chased by a predator. It was so dark that you could barely see.
Why were you alone? Had you just dreamed all that? Had Aegon not come home after all? Was he even still alive?
The feeling of the mattress suddenly sinking sharply next to you jolted you out of your circling thoughts, and you looked into two pairs of violet eyes, looking at you with concern.
They were not Jaehaerys's lavender ones, Maelor's grape-colored ones, Helaena's almost pink ones, or Aemond's single dark violet eye, which so often haunted you. They were Aegon's eyes, your husband's.
He had returned.
"It is all right, I am here," he said, reaching out to place his hand on your cheek, but you flinched from his touch. A look of sadness and recognition spread across his face in the darkness of your bedroom, as you had never done this before. Back then, you would have leaned into his hand and sought his warmth.
Now he just wondered if it was your pain and trauma that made you act this way, or if you found him repulsive after all. If he thought logically, he would realize it was the former, but he could not think logically with his little sister and his wife staring at him like a frightened deer.
Slowly, you could feel the air returning to your lungs and your heart beginning to calm down again. You were here — in the bed you and he had shared countless times, the bed where your children had been conceived, where you bore them, and where you cried after he returned from Rook's Rest, half-burned to death.
You would probably never get used to these nightmares.
Avoiding his worried and hurt gaze, you sat up on the soft mattress and smoothed down the fabric of your thin nightgown, which had gotten a bit tangled in the sheets from all the tossing and turning.
You had not meant to fall asleep. Your plan had been to lie down in bed, read a book, and then wait for him to return. But then an hour passed, and then another, and your eyes had closed.
You had actually planned to fall asleep with him, like you always loved to do back then. But you could not help being so tired, even though you always got enough sleep. Sometimes it felt like you were wading through the days asleep.
"Please, forgive me, Aegon. I did not mean for you to see this," you murmured finally, wiping the back of your hand across your face to wipe away the tears that had fallen in your sleep, making the soft skin of your cheeks glisten in the faint candlelight.
Your gaze drifted for a second to where he was sitting on the edge of his side of the bed, and you noticed that he was no longer wearing the heavy, baggy robes he had been wearing before. Instead, Aegon wore simple, loose-fitting sleeping pants made of soft material and a tunic like the ones he often wore before the war.
Like the one he wore the night Jaehaerys was murdered.
His silver hair fell in wild waves over his forehead and half of his face, making you realize why he had grown it back out. Not because he wanted to honor and flaunt his Targaryen nature, but because with longer hair he could hide the burned side of his face.
His hair, his loose robes… it was all to hide his weaknesses and so no one would see what he disliked about himself. He probably already planned to always wear a leather glove on his left hand so that the burnt skin would not be visible there either. It broke your heart that he had developed such hatred and disgust for himself.
If only he could see how beautiful he still was in your eyes— with scars, with broken bones, and even as a cripple.
"Someone has hurt you. Tell me who it is so I can hang him," he demanded, but his voice was so gentle that you could feel your eyes moistening again.
"You would murder for me?" you asked him in return, your voice barely louder than a breath of wind.
"I have murdered for you in the past, darling, and I would do it again in a heartbeat, even if I cannot do it myself. Anyone who hurts my Queen deserves nothing less," he replied, leaning back against his pillow, which was thicker and larger than yours and dated back to the time when he had been confined to the bed due to his burns.
"Did I talk? In my sleep?" you asked him, a hint of curiosity in your otherwise still silent voice. You did not really want to know the answer.
"Talked? My darling, you begged. You cried, you called for me. What did they do to you?" Aegon asked, and you could see his good hand at his side twitch slightly toward you. He wanted to touch you, to hold you comfortingly against his side, but he did not know if you would welcome his touch now.
Just as you were not quite sure how to deal with his outward changes, he did not know what to do with yours inside. Back then, when you were sad because your mother had yelled at him or because her anger had struck you, you had always held each other and lost yourself in each other's embraces and kisses. But what about now?
A deep sigh escaped you, and you knew you had to tell him the truth. Your nightmares would haunt you for days to come, just as they had for so long, and he needed to know how and why you woke up night after night drenched in sweat, crying, and gasping for air, and how he could help you.
He needed to know your scars, just as you needed to know his.
You wrapped your arms around your knees and pressed them to your chest so you could rest your chin on them, and began to tell your story: "A few weeks after Rhaenyra claimed the city, Lady Mysaria had an idea. I don't know the reason or how it came about, but it was probably her own sick and twisted revenge fantasy. It was about how mother always called the Velaryons bastards, which they were, but Rhaenyra did not see it that way. She did not want to see it. So Mysaria suggested that since we always spoke so freely about bastards, we deserved our own."
Aegon's expression darkened, and he had to restrain himself from throwing the nearest object at the wall with full force, but he was listening to you. He had to know.
"So she sent our mother, Helaena, and me to a brothel in the city. I think the madam's name was Selvie or Sylvi — something like that. She demanded two gold pieces for mother, four for me, and six for Helaena. ‘The brothel queens’, they called us. It was horrible, Aegon..." Your voice trailed off for a moment and you shook your head.
"I think I handled it best because I like sex and you taught me so much about it, but our sister... She could not handle it. I can still hear some of her screams, Aegon, and I don't want to. Mother screamed too. I tried not to look and to just let it happen— to live through it, to get through it, but I don't think I did. Thank the gods, I got my moonblood after a few days and could not get pregnant because of it, but our sweet sister... I think you know what happened."
Aegon swallowed the lump in his throat as he vowed to burn that whole damned, filthy, disgusting Street of Silk to ash. King's Landing was probably better off without it. If he still had a dragon, he would personally set it all on fire, but now it was up to arsonists to do it. He was aware that many whores were not in the brothels voluntarily, and it was not exactly pleasant for these women, but that had never really mattered to him. But you were not a whore. You were his wife, and neither you nor Helaena nor Alicent deserved this. Never.
"I will kill them all. Sister, I promise you. I will burn it all down," he managed through gritted teeth. He was angry.
Suddenly, a gentle hand rested on his scarred cheek, and as he looked up he looked you straight in the eyes. Those beautiful eyes he had dreamed of almost every night during the years you had been apart. He had missed you more than anything, and now you were here with him again— just as scarred and broken as he was.
"Don't forget those who took my dragon from me. And Jaehaera’s. Those people must suffer. You must punish them for it. We are House Targaryen, but what are we without our dragons? Without them, we are no better than any other house of noble blood," you spoke softly, your thumb stroking his cheek back and forth. Such gestures had always calmed him, which you knew, of course.
For a moment, he just looked into your eyes to see if you actually meant it. You wanted it. You wanted him to shed blood and take revenge, no matter how brutal. It would be a final act of war and the first step toward a better future for the realm and for you.
"I will discuss it with the Council tomorrow, darling. I promise they will all burn by the end of this moon. I will do it in your name," he whispered gently, which was a stark contrast to the violence he spoke of, but you did not mind.
"In ours," you replied, leaning in to kiss him. It would be your first kiss after all this time and something you had dreamed of for so long. Your last kiss had been the day your twin brother burned an entire city on Vhagar. You had gone to get Aegon some food and pressed a quick kiss on his lips goodbye. Half an hour later, you had returned, and he and Larys Strong were both gone.
Aegon hesitated. Not because he did not want to kiss you, but because he was afraid of your reaction. Would you still enjoy it? With him? A half-burnt, disgusting cripple?
Your thumb stroked his lower lip, and you could see his eyes widen for a moment. You hated the fact that he always seemed to put himself down these days. In your eyes, he was neither disgusting nor ugly. He had scars, yes, but he was still beautiful. Maybe the wounds made him even more beautiful.
"May I kiss you?" you whispered, your voice so soft that his knees went weak, even when he was not standing right now.
"I don't know... do you want to?" he asked in return, because after everything you just told him about the brothel, he did not know what else you would accept.
"You just asked my permission, my love. That is all I need. And besides, we have time, do we not? The war is over. We have all the time in the world to learn and grow."
Your voice was honest, and he could not help but close his eyes and nod his head. A smile formed on your lips, and you leaned toward him, pressing your lips to his. The king sighed into the kiss, and he wrapped his good arm around your neck to hold you closer. Your hands moved to his chest, where they slowly stroked up and down, both to soothe him and to get to know him again.
"I have missed this," you murmured against his mouth, while one of your gentle hands slowly wandered beneath the fabric of his tunic, finally feeling the touch of his bare skin again after all this time. It was not as if you did not feel desire anymore. You loved your husband, and he loved you. So what was to stop you now?
"Darling," he said quickly, his voice a warning. "I want to remind you of something."
"What is it?" You murmured, your lips brushing his chin, leaving gentle kisses. You still knew what he liked and where he loved to be caressed. He taught you.
His burnt hand gently reached for yours, which was resting on his stomach. His skin felt rough and as if it were about to turn to sand because it was so dry. Back then, his palms had usually been sweaty, especially whenever your mother was around.
"I don't know what you are imagining, sweetling, but I can no longer give you what you need," he answered with a sigh, but his tone was so serious that you knew he meant it. He was not jesting.
"Why?" you replied, blinking in confusion.
"I don't have a cock anymore, remember? It's broken. Burned in the fire, scarred," he answered, and though he tried to sound strong, you could see he was embarrassed. Sex and pleasure in any form and manner had always been his favorite pastime, but he could not do that anymore since he fell at Rook's Rest.
"I know," you said with a nod, your hand still on the soft skin of his stomach beneath his tunic.
Now Aegon was the one who paused.
"You... You remember? And you don't find it disgusting?"
"Why should I? You are my brother, my husband. I love you, not your cock," you told him with a soft chuckle. "I mean, I always loved our nights, and I will miss the times you made me scream, but there are other ways, are there not?"
"Yeah, I mean—"
"There are still those wooden things you showed me once. Or your hands and tongue still work, right?" you interrupted him in a gentle voice. These were all just suggestions, but you wanted to show him that there were still ways he could satisfy you and show his love.
But unfortunately, you did not know how he could still feel satisfaction. How did his arousal work now that he could no longer get errect?
"But you... what about you?" you asked him calmly. You did not want to upset him or make him feel small.
Aegon leaned back and looked away from you. How could he tell you that all his attempts to be a man again had failed? How could he tell you that he felt like a disgrace whenever he so much as had to piss, and he soiled himself like a three-year-old child.
"I have tried touching myself. To satisfy myself like I did back then. But every time I have tried, nothing has happened. What is left remains soft," he confessed meekly. He was so embarrassed to admit it all.
But in your face, he saw neither disgust nor amusement. He saw only gentleness and love. The same soft look in your eyes as when he used to stumble drunkenly into your chambers and vomit all over the good carpet. You were always so gentle and patient with him. How did he deserve this? How did he deserve you?
"And you feel nothing?" you asked gently.
"Sometimes I feel like there might be something. That I can still get aroused, but then I look down and see... nothing."
Your hand left his stomach and you placed it instead on his chest, where you could feel his heart beating rhythmically. It was so familiar and so homely to you that you wanted to feel it forever. Just you and him against the rest of the world.
"I am so sorry, sister. I cannot give you any more children, we don't have an heir anymore. I am a disappointment, I am awful—"
"Aegon, no. Listen to me. You are not a disappointment, and I don't care that you cannot give me any more children. We have our Jaehaera. And if you marry her to the little Aegon III, then you would have an heir. He would be king someday, and she would be his queen. That would be something, would it not?" you suggested, pressing another kiss to his cheek.
"I... I don't want to name the boy my heir. He is Rhaenyra's son. Not ours," he replied with a deep sigh, as if he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"He reminds me of Jaehaerys," you whispered, laying your head on his chest to be as close to him as possible. Your delicate body pressed against his, and he merely put an arm around you.
"He is innocent. He did not do anything."
Your husband and king let your words sink in, and he realized that you were somehow right. The boy was indeed innocent, and he had lost his entire family. He was not your son, but perhaps you could help him grow in a world without war and without death.
"I will have him brought here," he whispered finally, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You smelled of roses and vanilla, a combination he could become addicted to. If he could stop time, he would do it now, so you could be together forever in this peaceful moment.
"I love you, Aegon," you murmured against his chest, feeling your eyes slowly grow heavy and tiredness welcoming you back with open arms.
"I love you too, my darling. More than anything. Please, keep that in mind. I love you," he replied, and the love in his voice spread warmth through you.
"Please tell me you will always stay with me," you whispered, already half asleep.
"I will. As long as I live, I will be here," Aegon promised, pressing another kiss to your temple and then to your forehead.
For the first time in two years, you fell asleep that night in your husband's arms, and for the first time in years, you did not have a nightmare. You dreamed of him, of your children, and of your deceased siblings. He dreamed of you and a better, more beautiful life in another time and far from the crown.
But you both held on tight to each other, and you both still had hope.
And no one could ever take that away from you.
The Dividers are from the wonderful @zaldritzosrose !
summary: you grew up between them and you knew, long before you admitted it, that neither of them would ever let you go. valarr loved you the way you always wanted to be loved. aerion wanted you in ways you were not supposed to want back. you were going to marry one of them. the other was not going to allow that to mean anything. (8k+)
pairings: valarr targaryen x f!reader / aerion targaryen x f!reader
content: canon divergent, obsessive!valarr, obsessive!aerion, two very different kinds of dangerous, reader who grew up knowing better and did it anyway, lannister!reader, angst. cw: dubcon, noncon elements, possessive and controlling behaviour, manipulation, aerion being exactly who he is, violence, reader in an impossible situation, smut 18+ (MDNI). don't like the tags don't read, any type of hate comments will be deleted and blocked! it also isn’t proofread so please message me any mistakes you see!
You had grown up in the halls of the Red Keep long enough to stop seeing them clearly, which was probably why it took you so long to see what was right in front of you.
Valarr had always been easy to love. That was simply the truth of him, warm and open in a way that made people feel chosen just for being near him, and you had grown up at his side close enough that the warmth of it had just become the air you breathed. You had never questioned it. Why would you? He was your favourite person and you were his and that had always been enough.
He was the kind of person who remembered things. The name of your favourite horse back home, the flower you had pointed at once in the gardens and said you liked, the way you took your wine– and he remembered them not because he was trying to impress you but because he simply paid attention, because you mattered to him in the easy uncomplicated way that came naturally to people who had never had to fight for anything they wanted.
You had loved him since you were children and you had never once had to decide to. It was just there.
Aerion was something else entirely. He had never been that simple.
He was cruel in the way that certain people were cruel, not out of anger or impulse but out of something colder than that, one that enjoyed itself. You had watched him your whole life and you understood him well enough to know that the cruelty was not the point. The point was always the control, the cruelty was just what happened when something resisted– a horse that wouldn't settle, a servant who answered too slowly, a situation that wasn't going the way he had decided it should go. You had seen it enough times to know the look that preceded it, the way his expression would go very still and very pleasant in the moment before something happened that you wished you hadn't witnessed.
He had never been cruel to you. That was the thing you turned over sometimes when you couldn't sleep. In all the years you had known him, with all the things you had watched him do, he had never once directed any of it at you, and you did not know whether that was a comfort or the most frightening thing about him.
You were always paying attention. You had learned that you needed to be, with him especially.
Your father had served the king since they were young men together, long before crowns and councils, and that friendship had bought your family something most houses spent generations trying to earn. Proximity. You had grown up inside these walls, known these corridors before you knew your own home, eaten at their table and walked these gardens and fallen asleep to the sounds of this city your whole life. The king's grandsons had simply always been part of that. Woven into everything. You could not have separated them from your childhood if you had tried, and for a long time you had not tried, because why would you.
Valarr had claimed you as his friend before you were old enough to understand what that would cost you.
Aerion had simply watched, waited, and decided something you were never consulted on.
You had understood for a long time that they were both obsessed with you in different ways and for entirely different reasons, and you had spent an equally long time pretending you hadn't, because understanding it meant having to do something with it, and there was nothing to be done. They were who they were and you were who you were and this was the world you lived in.
Valarr's obsession was the easier one to carry. It looked like love, felt like love, probably was love in the way that Valarr did everything– openly, without strategy, without a single layer of calculation underneath it. He wanted to be near you. He sought you out in every room. He remembered the small things and brought you the things you liked and looked at you across tables with an expression that he had never once bothered to hide, and the court had noticed and smiled and found it charming, because Valarr was charming, because everything about him invited warmth in return. His obsession had no teeth in it. That was what made it safe to love him back.
Aerion's was different. Aerion's had nothing but teeth.
Aerion's obsession was not something he announced. It lived in the details, the ones you had to be watching closely to catch, and you had been watching closely for years.
The way he always knew where you were in a room without looking for you, the way his gaze settled on you the moment you walked in like it had been waiting. The way he would find reasons to be wherever you were, not obviously, not in the way that announced itself, but consistently enough that you had stopped believing in coincidence a long time ago. You had once counted three days in a row where he appeared in whatever part of the keep you had chosen that morning, the gardens, the library, the corridor outside your father's solar, and each time he had looked at you like he had simply happened to be there, like it was nothing, like you were imagining it.
You had not been imagining it.
He did not like other men near you. That was something you had understood slowly and then all at once. He never said anything, never made a scene, but there was a quality to his stillness when it happened that you had learned to read, the slight tightening around his eyes, the way he went very quiet, the way whatever he said next to the man in question was always perfectly pleasant and always landed like a warning. Men tended to find reasons to be elsewhere after those conversations. You had never heard him threaten anyone. You had watched three men decide on their own that your company was not worth whatever they had seen in Aerion's face.
So you loved Valarr openly and you watched Aerion carefully and you told yourself that was enough, that knowing the shape of a thing meant you could manage it.
Though you were terribly wrong about that.
Dinner had always been pleasant with the Targaryen family. Conversation was easy, the food was good, and your father, as usual, sat beside the king with the comfortable ease of two men who had known each other long enough to run out of things to perform for one another. You had grown up at this table. It had never once felt dangerous.
Today was different.
Your seat was beside Valarr instead of across from him, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched when he leaned in, close enough to feel the warmth of him without meaning to. You didn't know who had arranged it and you hadn't asked. You had simply sat down and looked at your plate and made a decision not to look at Aerion, who today was seated across from you.
You heard his fork hit the plate harder than necessary. Once, then again. A small sound that no one else at the table seemed to notice, or if they did, said nothing about.
The table moved around you, everyone lost in their own small talk, your father's voice carrying down from the king's end of the table and the low hum of conversation filling the spaces between.
You kept your eyes on your plate mostly, pushing your food around more than eating it, acutely aware of the weight of a gaze from across the table that had not moved from you since you sat down. You did not look up. You had gotten very good at not looking up.
"You've barely touched anything," Valarr said quietly beside you.
"I'm not very hungry."
"You said that at breakfast too." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so it was just for you. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Just tired," you said, meeting his gaze with a small smile. "I stayed up last night longer than I meant to."
"Doing what?"
"Reading."
"What were you reading?"
"Something dull," you said. "Which is why I couldn't sleep."
He laughed at that, low and quiet, and you felt the warmth of it settle somewhere in your chest, and for a moment the table and the noise and everything else fell away and it was just this, just him, just easy.
And then from across the table came the sound of a goblet being lifted, and your eyes moved there before you could stop them.
Aerion's hand was around the stem of his cup, long fingers wrapped loosely around it, completely unhurried. He brought it to his lips slowly, tipping it back, and you watched the line of his throat move as he swallowed, watched him lower the cup just as slowly, and then his tongue touched his lower lip, just once, just briefly, catching the last trace of wine like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be.
You should have looked away then. You knew you should have looked away.
His fingers began tracing the rim of the cup instead, slow idle circles, round and round, and something about the patience of it, the complete unhurried certainty of those fingers moving like that, sent heat moving through you that had absolutely no business being at a dinner table and you pressed your thighs together under your dress and looked down at your plate and picked up your fork and stared at your food like it had personally offended you.
You were losing your mind. That was the only explanation.
You looked up.
Aerion was already looking at you. Of course he was. His fingers had stilled on the rim of the cup and his eyes were on yours and the expression on his face was the worst possible thing it could have been– not anger, not hunger, just the faint curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth, slow and knowing and unbearably smug, the expression of a man who had just been handed something he had not even had to reach for.
Your face was warm. You looked back at your plate.
Beside you Valarr said your name, something light in his voice, and you answered him, and smiled, and felt Aerion's gaze sitting on the side of your face like heat from a fire you had made the mistake of standing too close to.
Baelor cleared his throat from where he sat, and the conversations around the table died down one by one, the way they always did when he spoke, that particular quality of his presence that made rooms go quiet without him having to ask.
Valarr stopped mid-sentence beside you and turned to look at his father. You turned too, because there was nothing else to do, and felt your heart doing something it had no business doing at a dinner table.
Baelor's smile was warm, unhurried, the smile of a man who had already decided something and was simply bringing the room up to speed. "As we all know," he began, his gaze moving between you and your father, "Lord Stafford Lannister and his family have been dear friends to this house for many years. A friendship that goes back further than most at this table can remember." He glanced at the king briefly, and the king inclined his head, and Baelor looked back at you both with that same warm smile. "The small council, his grace, Lord Stafford and I have come to an agreement."
You did not look at Valarr. You did not look at Aerion.
You looked at your father, who was not looking at Baelor at all. He was looking at you, with an expression that was careful and fond and slightly apologetic all at once, the expression of a man who had made a decision he believed was right and was watching his daughter find out about it.
"To bond our houses further," Baelor continued, "through the betrothal of my eldest son Valarr, to Lord Stafford's daughter."
The table erupted warmly around you and you sat very still in the middle of it, you slowly turned your gaze away from everyone, and looked at the table.
The congratulations came from every direction and you heard none of them, your ears blurring the noise into something distant and shapeless while you sat very still and looked at nothing in particular.
You did not know what you felt. That was the honest answer and it sat uncomfortably in your chest. You loved Valarr, had always loved Valarr, but love and wanting to be someone's wife were not the same thing and you had never let yourself think too hard about the difference until this moment, with the whole table raising their cups to your future and your father watching you from down the table with that careful expression of his.
He had promised you. Years ago, when you were young enough that promises felt like solid things, he had told you that when the time came it would be your choice. That he would not do what other fathers did. You had believed him because he had never given you reason not to, and you had carried that promise around like something precious, and now you were sitting at this table with congratulations ringing in your ears and understanding, slowly and then all at once, what it was worth.
You reached for your goblet and took a long sip and set it back down and kept your face very still.
Your jaw was tight. You could feel it, the particular ache of holding your face in place when it wanted to do something else entirely.
Valarr leaned in close beside you, his voice low enough that only you could hear it. "Are you alright?"
"You've asked me that twice today," you said, and your voice came out even, which cost you something.
"You've given me reason to twice today." His eyes were on your face, warm and searching. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to say." You kept your gaze forward, fingers tight around the stem of your goblet. "It's wonderful news."
"You don't look like someone who's received wonderful news."
Your mouth pressed into something that was supposed to be a smile and wasn't quite. "I look perfectly fine."
"You look like you're about to bolt," he said, gently and completely certain, the voice of someone who knew your face better than you wanted anyone to. "I know when something is wrong with you."
You looked at him then, at those open honest eyes, and felt something move through your chest that you couldn't name cleanly, and you swallowed and looked back at your plate. "I just need a moment," you said quietly. "That's all."
He held your gaze for a beat, and then nodded, and sat back, and said nothing more, because that was Valarr– knowing when to push and when to let something be.
You sat with it for another few minutes, the noise of the table washing over you, your expression carefully blank in the way that took effort to maintain, the way that left a dull ache somewhere behind your eyes. You glanced at him sideways without meaning to, and found that he was not looking at you. He was looking at Aerion, and whatever was on his face you could not read it properly, only that his smile had shifted into something different, something with an edge to it you had never seen on him before. Almost smug. Like a man who had just won something.
You made the mistake of looking at Aerion.
Your face did something before you could stop it, something small and involuntary, your brows drawing together slightly, your lips parting, and you looked away immediately but it was already too late and you knew it.
"If you'll excuse me," you said, and pushed your chair back and stood, and your face was not pleasant, was not the face of a happy girl who had just received good news, was simply the face of someone who needed to be somewhere that was not here.
"Sit down," your father said, not unkindly, from down the table.
"I just need some air, father."
"You can have air after dinner."
"Stafford," the king said mildly, and your father looked at him, and something passed between them, and your father looked back at you with that expression, the one that carried the guilt of a man who had broken a promise and knew it, and you looked back at him with something that was not anger yet and not quite hurt yet but was moving in both directions at once.
You walked out anyway.
His voice followed you into the corridor, your name in it, softer now, and you kept walking and did not turn back, and the cool stone of the corridor was quiet around you and you stood in it and breathed and pressed your hand flat against the wall and felt your face finally do what it had been wanting to do for the past ten minutes– the jaw unclenching, the eyes going slightly wet, the particular exhausted expression of a woman who had been holding something together at the table and was now alone enough to stop.
You stood there for a long moment.
Somewhere behind you in that room, you were certain without having to look, Aerion Targaryen was watching the door you had just walked through.
When wasn't he looking anyways.
You heard him before you saw him, his footsteps quick and purposeful behind you on the garden path, and you walked faster.
"Would you just stop walking—"
You did not stop walking.
It had been nearly a moon since the betrothal was announced at dinner, and in the days that followed you had made it your business to be wherever Valarr was not. It had seemed, in those first few days, like the only thing you could do– if you could just create enough distance, enough cold space between the two of you, perhaps someone with enough sense would notice and reconsider. The small council, your father, anyone.
You had been wrong about that. Nobody had reconsidered anything. The betrothal stood and the days kept passing and Valarr kept looking for you the way he always looked for you, warm and patient and entirely unbothered by the fact that you were doing everything in your power to disappear.
"Your prince demands you stop walking."
His voice had gone serious, louder than before, with the particular edge of a man who had run out of patience and was done pretending otherwise.
You stopped.
You stood there for a moment with your back to him, and then you turned around slowly and looked at him with an expression that was not kind.
"Demands," you said flatly. "That's a new word from you."
"You've left me with very few options." He was breathing slightly harder from having half-chased you across the garden, his mismatched eyes on you with an intensity he usually kept better hidden. "You've been avoiding me for a month."
"I've been busy."
"You walked out of a room yesterday the moment I walked in."
"I had somewhere to be."
"You told my squire you weren't receiving visitors when I came to your chambers."
"I wasn't feeling well."
"You were seen in the gardens an hour later perfectly fine." His jaw tightened. "Do you want to keep going or are we done pretending?"
You looked at him and said nothing.
"Why are you acting like a child who didn't get her way–"
"I have every right." The words came out sharp and you let them, your finger pointing at him briefly before you dropped it. "I have every right and you know it."
"I know no such thing–"
"Days after that feast," you said, cutting him off, "I find out it was you. Not the council. Not our fathers sitting down together and coming to a reasonable agreement. You. You went to your father and put the idea in his head and then sat at that table and smiled at me like you hadn't just decided my future without bothering to ask me about it."
"I decided nothing that wasn't already–"
"Don't." Your voice went quiet in the way that meant you were more serious than when you were shouting, and he heard it, you saw him hear it. "Don't tell me it was inevitable. Don't tell me it would have happened anyway. Because maybe it would have and maybe it wouldn't have and I will never know now, will I, because you took that from me."
He looked at you, something moving across his face. "I didn't think of it that way."
"No," you said. "You thought of what you wanted and you went and got it. Which is very you, Valarr, it has always been very you, and I have always loved that about you and right now I find it very difficult to."
Something in his expression flinched at that. "That's not fair."
"My father made me a promise," you said. "Years ago. He told me that when it came to my marriage it would be my choice. Not the council's, not his, mine. And I believed him. I believed him for years and I carried that and it meant something to me, and he broke it, and he broke it because of you."
"I didn't know about any promise–"
"Would it have changed anything?" you asked, and your voice was very even, very direct, giving him nowhere to go.
He was quiet for a moment. "I don't know," he said finally.
"Right," you said.
"That's not– I'm not trying to–" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated in the way he got frustrated, openly and without pretense. "You think this was easy for me? Watching you every day for years and saying nothing, doing nothing, because the timing was never right or the situation was never right or you seemed happy enough without–" He stopped, then looked at you. "I was tired of waiting."
"So you stopped asking and started deciding."
"That's not what I did."
"Then what did you do, Valarr, because from where I'm standing–"
"I love you." He said it plainly, the way he did everything, without strategy or performance, just the words dropped into the space between you like he had been holding them for a long time and had simply run out of reasons to keep holding them. "I have loved you since we were children and I have watched you your whole life and I know you, I know you better than most people you would trust with that knowledge, I knew that if I asked you directly you would have found a reason to say not yet, or maybe, or I need more time, and I would have waited and you would have kept waiting and nothing would have happened and I could not–" He stopped. His jaw was tight. "I could not watch you end up with someone else."
The garden was very quiet.
You looked at him, at the openness of his face, at the frustration and the honesty and the love in it that he had never once tried to disguise, and felt something in your chest do something complicated that you were not ready to deal with.
"That still wasn't your choice to make," you said, but your voice had lost some of its edge.
"I know," he said. "I know that. And I'm sorry for how it happened. I'm sorry your father broke his promise and I'm sorry you found out the way you did, I'm sorry I didn't come to you first." He held your gaze. "But I am not sorry that you're going to be my wife. I will never be sorry for that."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"This isn't—"
You didn't finish the sentence.
Valarr closed the distance between you in one step and his hands were on your face before you understood what was happening, and then he kissed you, and all the words you had been building dissolved completely.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was the kiss of someone who had been waiting too long and had finally stopped caring about waiting, deep and certain. Your eyes were wide for one moment, your hands caught somewhere between pushing him away and not, and then he deepened it and something in you gave way and your eyes closed and your hands found his chest and you stopped thinking about being angry.
He kissed you like he had been wanting to for years, which he had, which you had known somewhere you had been refusing to look, and you felt it in your chest and lower and pressed your lips back against his before you had decided to, and he made a low sound against your mouth and pulled you closer, one hand sliding from your jaw into your hair, and you forgot entirely what you had been saying.
When he finally pulled back you were both breathing unevenly and his forehead came to rest against yours, his eyes closed, his hands still in your hair, and for a moment the garden was just that– quiet and warm and the two of you breathing the same air.
Then something caught your eye over his shoulder.
You stepped back, and Valarr let you go slowly, opening his eyes to look at you with that expression, soft and warm and entirely unguarded, and you were not looking at him. You were looking past him, at the far end of the garden path, at the retreating figure you would have known anywhere.
The pale platinum hair. The particular way he walked, unhurried and deliberate, like a man who had nowhere to be and had simply chosen to be elsewhere.
Aerion.
He did not look back. He just walked, steady and calm, and turned the corner and was gone, and you stood there with Valarr's warmth still on your mouth and your heart doing something entirely different now, something that had nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with the cold certainty settling in your stomach.
He had seen you. All of it. Valarr's hands in your hair and your eyes closed and you pressing back into the kiss like you had forgotten every reason you had to be angry.
"Hey." Valarr's voice was gentle, his hand coming to your jaw, turning your face back to his. "Where did you go?"
"Nowhere," you said, and made yourself look at him, at those warm mismatched eyes that had nothing in them but you. "I'm here."
He looked at you for a moment like he wasn't entirely sure he believed that, and then he pressed his lips to your forehead, slow and certain, and you closed your eyes and let him, and tried not to think about what Aerion's face had looked like in the moment before he turned away.
You hadn't seen it. You had been too far away, the light too low.
But you knew him. You had spent years learning the shape of him from a careful distance, and you knew, with the particular instinct you had developed for him specifically, that whatever had been on his face at that moment was not nothing.
You were going to pay for this. You didn't know how yet.
But you knew you would.
You hadn't expected anyone to be in your chambers, but the absence of your guards outside the door should have told you something. You noticed it only after you had already closed the door behind you, hand still on the handle, and found Aerion in the corner of your room with your wine.
He had helped himself to your best goblet. Of course he had.
"What are you doing in my chambers," you said.
He turned to face you, unhurried, and the expression on his face was the pleasant one, the one that meant nothing good. "Congratulating you," he said. "I couldn't very well do it at the feast, could I. Not after you made such a graceful exit." He tilted his head, studying you the way he studied things he found mildly interesting. "I'm not sure I've ever seen someone look quite so thrilled at their own betrothal announcement."
"Get out."
"In a moment." He took a slow sip of the wine and looked at the goblet appraisingly, like he was deciding whether your taste was worth commenting on.
"Valarr is lucky. He always has been, hasn't he. Things simply fall into his lap." His eyes came back to you. "Or in this case, are arranged to fall into his lap."
"I said get out, Aerion."
"You did," he agreed. "You also look like you mean it slightly less than you'd like to." He set the goblet down and crossed his arms, leaning back against the table with no intention of going anywhere. "Does it bother you, I wonder. That he went to his father rather than to you. That everyone in that room knew before you did." He paused. "That your own father broke a promise to make it happen."
The fact that he knew about the promise landed somewhere in your chest with a specific unpleasant weight.
"No one needed to tell me anything." His voice was pleasant. "I've known you your whole life. I know what your face does when something has been decided without you." He looked at you steadily. "I saw it at the table. And I saw it in the gardens earlier."
You said nothing.
"You kissed him back," he said simply, and his voice was completely without judgment, which was worse somehow than if it had been cruel.
"I know what I saw." He pushed off the table and took a few steps toward you, stopping at a distance that was closer than comfortable and carefully not close enough to object to.
"The interesting thing is that you kissed him back and you still don't look like a happy girl." He tilted his head slightly. "Why is that, do you think."
"You don't know anything about how I feel."
"I know more than you'd like me to," he said. "I've been watching you for years. Did you think I hadn't noticed? That I simply sit across from you at dinner and look at the food?" Something shifted in his expression, something underneath the pleasantness that was harder to read.
"Valarr is warm. Valarr is kind. Valarr will be a devoted husband and the court will find it charming and you will smile and say the right things and spend the rest of your life being precisely as restless as you are right now."
“Get out–”
“No. I’m quite happy here princess.”
He walks even closer to you, eyes on you as he reaches for a piece of your hair to tuck it behind your ear. You almost moved away from the action, though he kissed his teeth at that, as if that action itself annoyed him so.
“Valarr is many things,” he said lightly, studying your face as though you were a puzzle he had already solved. “Dutiful. Earnest. Admirable in the way old men like to use the word.”
His fingers lingered at the strand of hair he had tucked behind your ear.
“But he is dull,” Aerion continued, his voice lowering slightly. “Dull in conversation. Dull in temper. Dull in appetite.”
You stiffened and he noticed.
“Oh, don’t pretend you haven’t thought of it.” His mouth curved faintly. “He speaks to you like you’re porcelain. Like you might shatter if he breathes too hard.”
“That’s called respect,” you snapped.
“It’s called fear,” Aerion corrected calmly. “He worships you. And men who worship rarely dare to touch what they worship properly.”
Your jaw tightened.
Aerion leaned closer, not enough to trap you, but enough that you could feel the warmth of him.
“Tell me,” he murmured, eyes flicking down your face with deliberate slowness, “when he kissed you in the gardens… did it feel like something claimed you? Or did it feel like he was asking permission to exist?”
Your breath caught despite yourself.
He smiled faintly at that.
“Valarr will give you sons and soft words and a lifetime of predictable nights,” Aerion continued. “He will lie beside you as though he’s afraid of disturbing the air between you. He will thank you afterward.”
“That is enough,” you said sharply.
“For some women,” he agreed, as he continued on with his words. “For women who want to be admired from a polite distance. For women who enjoy being handled like glass.”
His gaze darkened, something sharper threading beneath the pleasant tone.
“You are not glass.”
You tried to step back. He followed half a step, closing the distance you had created.
“You burn,” he said quietly. “You’ve always burned. And he will spend his life trying to tame it into something courtly.”
His thumb brushed lightly against your jaw— not tender, not cruel, just assessing.
“You’ll lie there beside him,” he went on, voice dropping further, “and you’ll wonder why you still feel restless. Why something in you is still waiting… is still wanting.”
You swallowed.
“And when his love making does not quite reach you,” Aerion added, a crude edge sliding into his tone now, deliberate and unapologetic, “when he’s finished and satisfied and you are not, you will think of this conversation, you will think of me.”
You rolled your eyes, heat rising in your face. He laughed softly at that, genuinely amused.
“It offends you because it’s true,” he said. “You do not want warmth. You want to be consumed.”
“That’s enough, Aerion.”
“No,” he said calmly. “It isn’t.”
His gaze held yours
“Valarr will cherish you. He will be grateful for you. He will treat your body like a sacred relic bestowed upon him.”
His voice dipped, rougher now.
“I would not.”
Silence settled heavy between you.
“I would not ask,” he continued. “I would not thank you. And you would not mistake what you were to me.”
The arrogance in it was staggering.
“You’re vile,” you said quietly.
His smile returned– slow, satisfied.
“And yet,” he murmured, “you are still standing here.”
He stepped back then, finally, reclaiming his goblet as though the conversation had been nothing more than idle courtly gossip.
“Think on it,” he said softly, as though he were offering thoughtful advice rather than an insult. “Marry your dutiful prince. Smile for the court. Bear him heirs.”
The words should have felt like dismissal. A neat ending to a conversation he believed he had already won.
He turned slightly, confident enough to expose his back to you.
You did not move toward him.
You stood exactly where you were, anger and humiliation warring in your chest, the door solid at your spine.
“Aerion,” you said, your voice tight, “leave.”
He did not answer at once. Instead, he set the goblet down with exaggerated care, the faint click of metal against wood sounding far too loud in the room. When he turned back to you, something had shifted. The pleasant amusement had thinned into something colder, something edged.
“No,” he replied.
He crossed the distance between you without haste, though each step felt deliberate, predatory. You did not step forward. You did not invite him closer. Still, he advanced until there was scarcely any space left to claim.
“You speak as though you have a choice in how this will unfold,” he said quietly.
“I do,” you shot back, lifting your chin despite the tremor in your pulse.
His mouth curved faintly. “Do you?”
He reached for you without warning.
One moment there was air between you, and the next his hand was at your arm, fingers biting into fabric and flesh as he forced you back against the door. The impact jarred through you, sharp, your shoulder striking the wood hard enough to sting.
“Aerion, stop,” you demanded, shoving at his chest.
He did not.
His other hand came up to brace against the door beside your head, caging you in. You pushed harder, your palm striking his shoulder, then his jaw. The slap cracked in the quiet room, sharp and unmistakable.
For a fraction of a second, there was stillness.
Then his eyes darkened.
Not surprised. Not ashamed.
Angered.
“You dare,” he said, his voice dropping to something far more dangerous than before.
You tried to twist away, but his hand caught your wrist again, harder now, and he closed the distance without permission. The kiss was not persuasion. It was force. His mouth crushed against yours, claiming and unyielding, swallowing your protest as though it were nothing more than inconvenience.
You struggled, pushing against him, turning your face aside, but he followed, relentless. The more you resisted, the tighter his grip became, as though your defiance only sharpened his resolve.
When you struck him again, he broke the kiss long enough to seize both your wrists in one hand. The movement was swift and unforgiving.
“You think I will be dismissed like him,” he muttered, breathing unevenly now, his composure fraying. “You think I will stand at a distance and ask.”
Before you could react, he dragged you away from the door. The shift was sudden enough to disorient you, your balance faltering as he propelled you backward toward the bed.
You barely had time to brace yourself before the backs of your knees hit the edge of it and you fell onto the mattress. The force was not enough to injure, but it stole your breath all the same.
He followed immediately, looming over you, one knee sinking into the bedding to keep you from scrambling away.
“Aerion,” you warned, fury and fear mingling in your voice.
He looked down at you, chest rising and falling faster now, whatever restraint he had clung to finally stripped away.
“You will not treat me as though I am an afterthought,” he said, the words low and trembling with anger. “Not you.”
The composure he wore like armor at court was gone now. There was no pleasantness, no amusement in it. Only something stripped raw and furious.
“I was meant to stand beside you,” he continued, his voice unsteady not with weakness but with rage barely leashed. “Not him. It was always him for you, wasn’t it? Even when you pretended not to see it.”
His grip tightened at your shoulders.
“You think I did not see you in that garden.” His jaw flexed. “You think I did not watch you close your eyes for him.”
Your breath hitched despite yourself.
“You let him take your first kiss,” Aerion said, and there was something almost disbelieving in it, like the insult still had not settled properly in his mind. “You let him touch you as though he had earned it.”
“You have no right—”
“No right?” he snapped, the words cutting through you. “I have watched you since we were children. I have measured every man who stood too close. I have endured your father parading you through halls as though you were a prize to be admired.” His mouth twisted. “And he walks into a garden and takes what I have waited years for.”
“You waited for nothing,” you shot back, struggling against him. “I was never yours.”
Something in his expression fractured.
“I was the one they would have given you to,” he said, voice dropping again, but this time it was worse. Quieter. “If he had not interfered. If he had not rushed to his father like a boy afraid of losing a toy.”
“I am not a thing to be handed between you two,” you said, anger flaring hot enough to momentarily overpower fear.
He leaned closer, eyes dark and bright in equal measure.
“No,” he said. “You are not.”
His hand slid from your shoulder to your jaw, forcing your face toward his.
“You are something he does not understand how to hold.”
“I will not be replaced,” he said, breath uneven now. “Not by him. Not by anyone.”
“You are insane,” you hissed, struggling beneath him.
“And you are blind,” he shot back.
His face hovered inches from yours, his anger no longer refined into something subtle. It was raw. Almost desperate.
“You think this ends with a kiss in a garden,” he said. “You think you can walk into marriage and forget I exist.”
His grip tightened when you tried to pull free.
“I saw you,” he continued, voice thick now, not just angry but wounded in a way that made him more dangerous. “I saw the way you answered him. The way you melted into it.”
Your silence enraged him further.
“You want warmth,” he said bitterly. “You want gentleness. You want to be cherished.”
His eyes locked onto yours.
“And I would have given you something real.”
There was nothing romantic in the way he said it.
Only possession.
“You do not get to decide what I want,” you said, breath shaking but voice steady, tears kissing your eyes.
For a moment, something uncertain flickered in him, then it hardened again.
His hand fisted suddenly in your hair.
The force of it dragged you upward before you could brace yourself, your breath catching as his mouth crashed against yours. There was nothing careful in it, nothing resembling affection. His teeth caught your lower lip and bit down until you tasted copper, until the sting bloomed bright and immediate.
You made a sound despite yourself, half pain, half protest, and tried to twist away.
He did not let you.
He deepened the kiss instead, as though your resistance only fed the fury driving him. When he finally pulled back it was not far, his forehead nearly touching yours, his grip still unyielding.
“Must you always be so cold to me,” he said, but there was no pleading in it. Only accusation.
Before you could answer, his mouth moved again, not to your lips this time but down along the line of your jaw, to the sensitive curve beneath your ear. His teeth grazed there too, not enough to break skin, but enough to make you flinch.
“Every look,” he murmured against your throat, voice rougher now, less controlled. “Every word you give him so easily.”
His hand slid from your hair, only to settle at your waist, fingers pressing firmly into the structured fabric of your bodice. He worked at the laces with impatient precision, tugging until they loosened beneath his touch. The careful arrangement of your dress began to slacken under his hands.
You pushed at his shoulders again, anger rising through the haze of shock.
“Stop,” you demanded, your voice unsteady but not weak.
He paused only long enough to look at you.
There was heat in his expression, yes, but something else threaded through it now. Frustration. Obsession. The bruised pride of a man who could not endure being denied.
“You shut me out,” he said, his thumb pressing against the base of your throat as though he could feel your pulse racing there. “As if I am a stranger. As if I have not stood at your side for years.”
His grip tightened just enough to remind you how easily he could overpower you, though he did not close his hand fully.
“And yet you melt for him.”
The words were quiet, almost hoarse.
His mouth returned to your neck, slower this time, less frantic but no less intense, as if he were trying to prove something rather than simply take it. His hands continued their restless work at your dress, loosening what had been carefully secured, his movements deliberate and possessive.
“Look at you,” he muttered, not tenderly. “Still fighting me.”
With a final tug, the last barrier of your dress fell away, and he let it slip from your body entirely. He stepped back slightly, taking a long, appraising look at you, eyes gleaming with a strange mixture of admiration and something darker. “He does not deserve this,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “He would not know what to do with someone like you.”
Then, as if daring you to react, he lowered his mouth toward you, his movements slow and torturous, each kiss a deliberate claim. His lips traced a path down your body with painstaking precision, lingering at every sensitive curve, every line of your skin, as though memorizing it.
By the time he reached the hollow beneath your belly, the faint trace of your blood from his earlier bite still on his lips, you felt the shift inside you, impossible to resist. What had begun as violation and force had turned, unbearably, into something you craved.
You wanted him in ways that shocked you. Wanted the weight of his hands on your skin, the rough press of his fingers digging into you, the sharp tug of hair between his grasp. You wanted the heat of him against your throat, the low, commanding pressure that had left your pulse racing from the start.
Your own need rose up suddenly, urgent and undeniable. The breath caught in your chest, the trembling in your hands and thighs betraying the want that you could no longer deny. You wanted him, not as before, not as a threat– but as the fire that consumed you, as the storm you had spent years watching from a careful distance.
You instinctively arched your hips as his head dipped lower, pressed firmly between your thighs. Heat pooled sharply, spreading through you with a tension that had nothing to do with patience or reason. He had removed your small cloth with hurry and determination.
A shiver ran along your spine as his tongue suddenly brushed against you, deliberate, unhurried, dragging sensations that left you gasping and trembling. You threw your head back, hands latching into his hair instinctively, needing to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure.
Every movement, every press of his lips and the teasing of him against your sensitive bud, pulled something raw and urgent from deep inside you.
Your chest heaved, your knees quivering, your body betraying every attempt at composure.
His tongue moved with deliberate precision, teasing and drawing, tasting you in a way that left no room for hesitation or denial. Every flick, every press of his lips, sent shocks of need through your body that made your nails dig deeper into his hair. You gasped, hips bucking instinctively, trying to find a rhythm, any rhythm, against the insistence of him.
“You feel like this,” he murmured, voice low, rough with satisfaction, “like you’ve been waiting for me without knowing it. Every inch of you wants it, and yet you fight me still.” His hands braced against your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you to the bed with a deliberate weight that left no escape.
Your back arched, a soft cry escaping as his tongue pressed harder, teasing, coaxing, dragging you closer to a point you had only dared imagine. The sound of your own need, raw and uncontrolled, filled the room, mingling with the quiet, possessive hums from him. He didn’t rush, not yet, savoring the control as much as the taste, the power of holding you on the brink.
Your hands roamed, clutching at him, at his shoulders, anything you could grasp, desperate for some way to touch back. Every movement of his mouth drew more from you, more groans, more shivers, more of the burning heat that made your head spin. You were caught, entirely, and you didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“You want it,” he said, almost accusingly, lips brushing against your clit as he spoke, “you crave me, even when you try not to. Even when you pretend otherwise.” His words were punctuated by the deliberate drag of his tongue, the teasing press that made your thighs shake, your nails leaving crescent marks in his skin.
And then, as if sensing the breaking point, he pushed slightly harder, pressing you fully against him, and your body shuddered, a gasp ripped from you, your back arching further as the first wave of pure, overwhelming release coursed through you.
His lips didn’t relent, didn’t ease the pressure, and the next wave hit before the first could fade, leaving you trembling and raw beneath him, utterly undone.
Even in your surrender, in your cries and shudders, he looked at you with that same calm, assessing gaze, the one that always made you feel like you were exactly where he wanted you– and nowhere else could compare.
And so, in the days that followed, as you were wed to Valarr with all the ceremony and dutiful smiles the court demanded, Aerion lingered in the shadows, watching. Every polite bow, every whispered congratulations, every careful touch between you and your husband only stoked the dark fire in him.
It wasn’t jealousy, it was triumph.
Because Valarr may have claimed your kiss first, but Aerion had claimed far more.
He had taken what was his, in the quiet, unspoken ways that no courtly display could touch. Your body remembered him in ways your heart could not yet name, and in that knowledge, he exulted.
Triumph and possession twisted together in his chest, the satisfaction of a predator who had waited and watched and finally taken what had long been within his grasp, leaving nothing for anyone else to claim.
And he will continue claiming what was deemed his. One way or another.
Synopsis ── 𖤓 ˚｡⋆ You are to marry a prince of dragon blood. Fearing for your life as your wedding night approaches, what happens when a fierce dragon wraps his sharp claws around you, leaving you nowhere to escape?
Tags / warnings: 18+ content, arranged marriage, cruel aerion, enemies to enemies, hurt no comfort, smut, stabbing oops, blood play, biting, rough sex, reader is scared of marriage, loss of virginity, aerion gets off on antagonizing the reader, aerion likes to be in control, toxic romance, angst, female reader insert, readers appearance is not mentioned, the usual targaryen weirdness, choking, the reader is not as helpless as she seems, reader is from house dayne, notes available at the end of the chapter, extreme slowburn
Word Count: 10.1k
You do not like King’s Landing.
It is dark, cold, and nothing at all like Dorne. Your body does not feel the comforting warmth of Starfall hug around you in a soothing embrace, instead it is met with inky clouds that smother any ray of sunlight that dares try to cut through the ghastly sky. Your body is not yet used to it, and you suspect it never will be, your mind is too fixated on the memory of glassy waves and sunlit stone.
Standing on the balcony, you delicately angled your gaze enough that your eyes could slip down into the small cramped and crooked streets rather than lingering in the torchlit halls behind you. The firelight feels rather ghostly, like a whisper of stone and flame. Draped in the finest silks that are perhaps too soft and easygoing for a place that smells of leather steel and smoke pale purples spill from your shoulders in gentle folds. The gold folds over your body, catching the last of the weak daylight it gleams at your throat, a quiet proclamation of your Dayne blood.
Your fingers curl around the dainty rings at your hands, turning the cool metal against your warm skin, focusing on the familiar weight of them before you let your quiet thoughts circle back to the reason you are here— which is marriage. Since young, it has been imprinted into you that it is a woman’s duty to marry and bring honor to her house. You are no fool, you have known this since you were old enough to watch brides ride away from Starfall trembling in the wind.
Aerion Targaryen is a prince, and to wed a prince of Westeros is more than simply duty, it is the highest honour you could lay at your family’s feet. The blood of the dragon runs through his veins, and your kins would be fools not to seize that. Binding fire and blood to your bloodline, silver hair and sharp imperious features, along with violet eyes would never allow tongues to cease whispering. People fear him, and you do not need to question why, the fact that they once were dragon masters was enough for you to understand.
You know you ought to feel a swell of joy and pride, yet you cannot help but want to weep, fear sitting heavier in your chest than any sense of honour. The ‘Brightflame’ is a stigma dressed in chains, a dragon with his wings torn off but its claws left sharp, and the thought of standing at his side makes your stomach fold and tuck in horror. And you are so very far from home, all that is left with you are the rings that sit on your fingers and the knowledge that you are being given to something made of fire.
You hear your fathers soft voice call your name from behind, and you cannot bring it upon yourself to turn and face him.
“It is time,” he says.
It feels as though all the time in the world has slipped away, like sand through open fingers, yet you are only eight and ten. Time was the one thing you had thought endless when you ran through the sunlit halls of home, but now it has narrowed to this single corridor as you follow behind your father. Feet falling into perfect rhythm with his, each tread is swallowed by the echoing of stone, you feel insubstantial, nothing more than a pawn on a board built by men.
“I love you, my daughter,” your father says, pride swelling in his chest, you swear you can almost see it. “You are doing the realm a great service.” He glances down at you and offers you a gentle smile you have always been used to, the one that meant safety, stories and long arms opening to catch you. Now it means nothing such.
To you, the words feel like mockery. You want, with an aching desperation, to be a child again in his arms, to bury your face in his chest and ask him not to make you stray so far from home, not to give you to a dragon and to keep you in Starfall until you become grey and old. Instead, you swallow back the heavy weight in your chest, blink back the sting of tears that threaten to fall and continue to walk beside him in silence. The words you do not voice turn bitter on your tongue.
Standing small at your father’s side, your spine remains straight and hands are folded in mirror to etiquette that was drilled into you since childhood. Even though you hold yourself in place with perfect posture, you cannot ignore your heart beating too fast against your ribs. You assumed you would have been prepared for this moment, or so your ladies-in-waiting had told you, but the nerves rising in your throat made a liar of every lesson.
The dragon prince, Aerion “Brightflame” Targaryen stands opposite you, milky hands tickled neatly behind his back before his violet eyes sweep over you in idle disinterest. There is something about him that does not feel entirely human, you tell yourself it is only the Valyrian cast of him, the handsome lines of his face, the sharp bone, silver hair and inhuman calm. You find his presence to be heavy, as though it presses against your lungs with intentions to make them collapse, and you find yourself breathing a touch too quickly for a lady who is meant to be composed.
The embers in his eyes glow like the flickers of flame as he looks at you, and his calm expression shifts, disinterest becoming irritation. He has not yet said anything, but behind his glimmering daze you can see him thinking. Gaze lingering on you, unfocused, in a sudden flicker of candlelight he turns his head towards his father.
“I have no desire to take someone so plain-looking,” He says at last, and his voice is smooth and steady, and almost silky enough that for a second you do not register the words that slip out his lips.
Prince Maekar’s expression curdles and he lifts his chin up high in sharp irritation while his lips curl into something close to a snarl.
“Boy,” the Prince bites out, “do not try to be clever with me. You are to wed her.”
Aerion clicks his tongue to this, making a loud and disdainful sound. His purple eyes drag over you from head to toe in a slow and assessing manner. They are striking, you must admit, such eyes are not common in Westeros, and this is the first time you have seen them so closely. For all his cruel words, you cannot deny he is pretty in a cold, Valyrian way. Yet, his satisfying appearance does not help to ease the tightness in your throat. You decide to swallow hard, watching the two of them like some small thing caught between, absolutely insignificant.
“It is tradition,” he replies, his tone sounding bored, “for a prince of the dragon to take a wife of pure blood. It is tradition. She is no pureblood.”
“Pure blood or not, you’ll do as you’re told and take what is given. The matter is settled.” Maekar grunts out, beyond tired of his son's disobedience, then he gives your father an apologetic look. Aerion does not respond but you do see the jaw his skin tightens as he clenches his sharp jaw, the lids of his violet eyes growing heavy in what you suppose is anger at rejection.
The thought settles in your chest as you take slight offence to the young prince’s words. You are a Dayne of Starfall, not some nameless girl that was plucked from a crowd, but his words make it clear that you are not what he desires. In his eyes, you are not pure enough nor worthy enough, and certainly not what he believes he was promised.
Mind circling back to the same inevitable truth, you remember he is a dragon. It does make sense that a dragon would want fire and blood, and dragons do not bear disappointment well, they would prefer to scorch it from the world. Your shoulders stiffen as you wonder with a cold creeping dread if he will lose his tempter and spill his anger on you.
A light tap between your shoulder blades signals your father’s silent command and you know it is time to perform your duty. Lowering your head at once, silk whispering as your pretty purple skirts sway forward, your hair slips forward like a curtain which veils the side of your face. You school your features into something that’s gentle and obedient, the way you were taught, the way a prince would prefer a lady.
“I hope I will prove… acceptable to you, my prince,” you speak, voice soft, the royal title scraping your throat. My prince, the words feel wrong in your mouth, it is a vow that does not belong to you, like you are bending the knee to the edge of a blade, swearing undying loyalty to it. You are expected to play the dutiful pride, to smile and obey a man who can air his displeasures as openly as he breathes, while it is looked down upon if you so much as flinch.
His expression tightens further, as though the gods above are mocking him, as though you are mocking him. To him it must seem like your very presence is a cage to be fitted around him, link by link.
“I will judge that for myself,” he says at last, each word precise. “Soon enough.”
The words feel like a threat. He licks his lips in a quick, unconscious motion, and for the first time his piercing gaze truly settles on you. It drops from your face to the line of your collarbone, to the way the slightly sheer Dornish silk clings to your body. It is modest enough beneath the sun of Starfall, perhaps, but here it feels suddenly too light and too revealing under a dragon’s scrutiny.
With a sudden shiver, you realize that he hadn’t properly looked at you before you spoke. Now he is, and his gaze lingers a heartbeat too long before he catches himself, haunting eyes snapping back up to your face. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek and he clicks it again, creating a small, irritated sound that feels like a final verdict.
The anger painted on his face does not fade. You have a sinking feeling it will not leave for some time, if it ever does. You can only hope he chooses not to sink his sharp claws into you the way a dragon might into a lamb, that he will not prove more cruel in marriage than he has already shown himself to be in court.
──
Aerion is aware of exactly who he is, the second son of a fourth son. In his family's eyes, he is too far removed from the line of succession to be given the honour of a sister or a cousin, too valuable to waste entirely, a convenient piece to trade. His father speaks of great alliances and the strength of the old blood as though that should soothe the insult. His late-mother had been a Dayne, he already paid the price of that through the blood that ran through his veins. Then why must a prince of dragon blood take a wife whose blood does not burn, whose hair does not gleam silver in the light that will not promise him babes with the right look?
During these thoughts, his mind inevitably slips to you. You seemed timid and shy, eyes lowered and shoulders held perfectly tight. A dragon can smell blood, and Aerion had smelt your fear the moment your eyes gazed upon him and you opened your mouth. Perhaps you will provide him with some entertainment in this dreary visit to King’s Landing. The whores of the Street of Silk had begun to bore him, there is no sport in flesh that yields far too easily, and definitely no thrill in maids who tremble on command. He supposes you will be different, untouched, untried yet already flinching. Your face is not entirely displeasing either, fear will suit you he thinks. A scared look on your delicate features might even be pretty.
The pre-celebration of your marriage bleeds into the evening, the last light of the sun dying over King’s Landing as lords and ladies murmur and laugh around you. You notice the sun sets much earlier here than it does in Starfall. You are dressed to be seen, Dayne’s prettiest colours draped over your frame, your gown mirroring the soft purples of the setting sky just before the darkness wraps Westeros in a black cloak.
Ladies stop you with gentle hands and sweeter smiles, offering kind congratulations as if they are gifts, mentioning what an honour it is to be marrying a prince. What a blessing it is to find such a compelling husband, asserting what a lucky lady you are. You do as you’re taught, smiling and nodding as you let the words wash over you like cold water. The idea of drowning yourself and letting the night blur into nothing slips past you, yet you cannot afford to make a fool of yourself. You cannot risk forgetting the last scraps of freedom you have before you stand beside a dragon at the sept tomorrow.
Your gaze drifts away from the cluster of smiling girls in front of you, still giggling over some lord who had just entered the hall. Your face morphs into a pleasant neutrality before you spot your beloved, Aerion Targaryen sitting alone at one of the long tables, one pale hand wrapped around a golden goblet. His fingers are restless against it, tapping it irately. If the goblet were not forged of the finest gold by the finest hands, it would already be crushed to splinters under his grip, and there is intent in the way he holds it, as though he is imagining the breaking. The lords near him cast him sidelong glances, eyes widening warily before they turn away, choosing the safety of polite ignorance over the flames of a dragon's temper.
Then, intense violet eyes find yours, and for a second you forget how to breathe. You try to shake off the fragile, trembling feeling that crawls up your spine as his gaze rakes up your face, like a hand turning a blade to catch the light. Something flickers in his Valyrian eyes, an unknown flame that sets you further on edge, then the edges of his lips curl upwards, mouth forming a sly smile.
It somehow manages to unsettle you more than his scowl ever did.
Suddenly, he hurls the goblet in his hands to the floor beside him, the crack of the metal on stone splits the room, sharp enough to pierce through the upbeat music and laughter. The sweet, dark wine spills out in a syrupy pool, sliding across the floor, soft and cloying, everything he is not. The serving girl nearest to him flinches violently as she drops to her knees beside his boot to clean up after the fallen cup with trembling fingers. When you look back, his smile drops from his slips yet he continues to stare at you, not with idle curiosity, but with the fixed and hungry focus of a predator who has chosen its victim.
You tear your gaze from his, feeling your pulse jump and stomach twist, the hall feels too small, too loud, too full of eyes. Slipping away from the intimidating grey of the dining hall, skirts whisper as you weave between lords and ladies, pushing through a door onto the wide terrace that overlooks the dark smear of the sea.
A sob catches halfway up your throat as you drag in a breath, wheezing it out in a shudder. You had not realized how long you’d been holding your fear tight inside your ribs until it started spilling over. The glass clanking against the floor may have been something he had meant to show you, perhaps it was a promise of how easily his temper shatters or a suggestion of what he might do to you when nobody is watching.
You tip your head back, forcing your gaze up to the sky, dragging in a sharp breath and holding it in, willing the tears to stay where they are. It is a star-dusted night, a faint echo of the heavens above Starfall. You fixate on them, the quiet and the distance , letting their shine stand between you and the horrors waiting for you back in the hall.
Your fists clench at your sides, silk biting into your palms as you try to hold yourself together, because tomorrow you are meant to marry Aerion Targaryen, and you are not sure how much of you will be left once you do.
The sound of boots on stone drags you back from the stars, and you see the dragon prince step out onto the terrace like a storm crossing a threshold. His dark cloak snaps in the wind and anger clings to him as tangibly as the scent of wine and smoke. His jaw is tense and his pale hair catches onto the torchlight behind him, violet eyes already fixed on you with a furious disbelief, as though your very presence here is an insult carved into the night.
“You dare,” he says, voice low and threatening, “to run from your to-be husband?”
The prince looks angry, annoyed and most of all offended, so offended it is as if the emotion has sunk into his bones. You can see it in the tight line of his mouth and the way his hands flex at his sides, as though he's restraining the urge to break something just to hear it shatter.
“No— never, my prince,” you blurt out, the words almost tumbling over one another in your haste. “I only needed some air.” Your mouth parts as you let out a breath, eyes wide with concern as you meet his violet eyes with fear racking up within your body.
“Air?” he repeats, as though finding the words and finding them rather bitter. “Tell me, little bride, are you trying to insult me, or are you merely stupid?”
Heat crawls up his spine, settling hot and ugly between his shoulder blades. He can feel everything in him tense along with it, his jaw, hands, and the muscles in his neck pull tight as your excuse echoes in his mind. What utter insolence he thinks, to leave him sitting alone before half the court, like some unloved fool, while his bride wanders off to stare at the stars.
In his eyes, it is complete disrespect. Do you not understand the insult, to walk away from a dragon prince in a hall full of lords and ladies, to turn your back on him as though he is nothing.
Your mouth opens to answer, to apologise, to say something or anything, but the prince does not give you a chance.
“Are you always in the habit of abandoning your betters whenever you please?” He cuts in, voice silk over steel.
He steps forward, and in response your body takes a step back without thinking, the movement small but unmistakable. His eyes flick down, catching your action, the retreat and the fear behind it. You cannot tell whether the sight of his eyes glimmering means he likes it, or simply files it away as something to use in the future.
“I am so sorry,” you quickly apologize, shame crawling up your throat. You suppose it is better to apologize rather than face the wrath of the dragon, “I did not mean to—”
“First I am given a bride I do not want, but must endure, and now you make me look a fool.”
You have no answer for him, the words dry up on your tongue. You are suddenly certain if you dare to say anything more, you will pay for it. When you still say nothing, Aerion shifts under his weight, tilting his head to regard you from above, like something curious caught under glass.
“Is this some little game of yours?” he asks, voice low and intentional. “Standing there mute, waiting to see when your dragon will finally lose his temper?”
He moves to close the distance between you with another measured step, the hem of his cloak whispering over the stone. This time, you force yourself to stay rooted where you are, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.
“No, my prince. That was never my intention.”
“Then why do you run from me?” he asks, head tilting slowly, eyes narrowing. “Afraid, perhaps?”
He watches the way your throat works as you swallow, the small stiffening of your shoulders. He can smell the nerves on you, they are sharp and thin, like smoke before a fire, it is instinct. You look as though you are about to murmur another sad little apology, and he almost turns away, growing bored at the sight. Instead, you lift your chin a fraction,
“No, my price,” you say in trained softness. “It is the highest honour to wed a prince of the blood.”
You fight the horrible urge to tremble, and for a fleeting moment it almost feels as though you are standing up for yourself. Aerion says nothing at first, only studies you in silence, eyes raking over your face. Whatever interest your answer had sparked fades quickly before his gaze fools and he peers down at you with an unimpressed look.
“You lie poorly.” He says. “What a shame. If you were not so bound by duty and virtue, you might almost be interesting.”
“Interesting how, my prince?” you find yourself asking quietly and suddenly. “For smiling when you insult me?”
You think you hate him. He feels like everything made of ash and ember, all heat and hurt and sharp edges, while you are of calmer waves and glassy tides that he would only try to pierce. You know you are pushing too far that you are prodding at a dragon’s temper with bare hands but you cannot bring yourself to be more careful. Everything is too much, the hall, the stares, and the weight of tomorrow, and you are not the only one being dragged into a marriage you do not want.
“Is that not a wife’s duty?” he drawls, deciding to humour you. “To smile and bear what her husband gives her?”
Aerion thinks he hates you. You pretend to be obedient, frail and soft-spoken, but the words you dare to offer him are anything but meek. Your words bite and push, his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking as his lips curl into a smile that never reaches his eyes.
“Perhaps you would find me interesting if I worshipped you as devoutly as you worship yourself.”
You meet his gaze as you say it, violet eyes on yours, steady and unflinching. Neither of you move before his eyes widen a fraction, and you see something catch a fire beneath them, a flash of raw, burning fury that makes your stomach drop, regretting your words at once.
His breathing shifts, and rage seems to ripple through him like a shudder passing down a tethered beast. His shoulders tighten, fingers flex at his sides, even the line of his throat goes taut as if the anger is something barely held inside skin and bone. The prince looks as though he is vibrating with rage, every muscle in his body straining in order not to lash out.
You wish with sudden, sick clarity that you had kept your mouth shut, that you had not let your frayed emotions drive you to prod at a dragon’s pride.
The space between you closes as his pale hand is suddenly at your throat, fingers closing hard enough that the breath stumbles in your chest. His grip is iron and unforgiving, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of the side of your neck as his thumb presses against the hollow of your throat. Your back hits the cold white stone of the balustrade with a dull jult, the remaining air leaving you in a strangled gasp.
Your hand flies up on instinct, fingers donned with golden rings wrapping around his wrist, trying to pry him away, however he is far too strong. He peers down at you through dark narrowed eyes, watching the way you struggle, the way your mouth parts endlessly, the way your pulse flutters frantically beneath his palm.
His other hand almost lazily settles along your jaw, long fingers curling against your cheek, the heel of his hand pressing against the edge of your jaw as he forces your face up, angling you to meet his gaze. You try to protest, but you are pinned, held open beneath him, throat in his grasp and eyes locked onto his.
The world narrows to the burn in your lungs and the heat of his rage wraps around your neck like a collar.
“You will not shame me,” he grinds out, grip tightening. “You are mine to endure, whether you wish it or not, and you will learn your place.”
He leans in, closing the space between you until you can feel his breath hot across your face. He tilts his head, studying you, and his gaze drops to your lips— parted and struggling for air. There is a dark gleam in his eyes as he watches you struggle, something ugly that makes your skin crawl.
Your vision begins to blur at the edges and black creeps in, just before you think you may faint, you swear you see your to-be husband's lips twitch, almost forming a smile before his hand loosens.
You drag in a ragged breath as his fingers slip from your throat, but one hand remains on your sensitive skin, resting almost lightly now at the curve where the neck meets the shoulder. The contrast makes you shiver, a moment ago he was all violence and fire, but now he is close and still, leaned over you, refusing to move away— it feels almost possessive.
He looks at you as though he is taking in art work, gaze lingering on your exposed throat. You can feel the ache blooming there, the tender skin throbbing where his grip has marked you. His fingers trail over the bruising skin in a slow brush, as if he is tracing the outline of something he has carefully crafted before he finally lifts his hand away.
“Know who you belong to,” he says at last, voice low and unhurried, as though he is in no rush. “And do not forget it tomorrow.”
Your chest heaves as you fight to steady your breathing, each inhale sharp against your bruised throat. His gaze drops, following the rise and fall of your purple silks as they shift with every desperate breath, before sliding back up to your face.
It is a shame, really, you used to love the colour violet, the evening-kissed skies over Starfall, the wild flowers that clung to the cliffs. Now you find yourself growing to hate it, it is everywhere, in the dress that draped fluidly around you, in the shadowed bloom that has begun to form on your neck, in the sharp and piercing violet of Aerion’s eyes that refused to leave you.
You find yourself fearing tomorrow, after it, you will be alone in this world and only your husband’s, bound to a dragon’s temper for the rest of your life. And you cannot help but think that the colour you once adored is already beginning to dull for you.
──
The bells of the city had already begun tolling at dawn, their chime threading through the stone of the keep. The soft ringing serves as a reminder that by sunset, you will no longer be the only daughter of starfall, by sunset, you will be Aerion Targaryen’s wife.
The maid fusses with the clasp of your necklace, her cool fingers brushing the nape of your neck as you stand before a mirror, this is the last time you will see yourself as you are now, you think. Silk falls over your shoulders while the jewels catch the pale morning light, yet your gaze finds the faint purple shadow blooming at your neck. Your fingers trace the edge of the bruise, you know you are meant to be thinking of your vows, but all you can think of is the mark of his hand around your neck.
“You look beautiful, my lady.” The maid says as she finishes with the clasp and meets your eyes in the mirror, offering you a small smile.
“Thank you,” You say, yet you cannot bring yourself to fake excitement, all you can think about is the dragon prince and the work of his hands.
“Do you wish for me to cover it, my lady?” She asks quietly, almost hesitantly, her gaze following your eyes, hesitating before she shuffles a step closer.
Of course, her gaze lands on your throat. After all, what else could she possibly mean with the ugly mark sitting so brazenly on your neck, impossible to ignore despite the necklace that has been carefully placed. The thought of him, your prince, soon-to-be husband, causes tension to ripple through you, a slow tightening in your shoulders as you can almost feel his fingers there again.
“No,” you say after a moment of thinking. “It is well. Leave it as it is.”
Your eyes remained fixed on the bruise in the glass. If he can lay his hands on you before you are even officially his, then he can live with the evidence. You decide that you will let him see it, let his family see it. You want him punished in the only way left to you, you want the dragon to feel a sliver of the shame you have felt burning since arriving in King’s Landing. If you are meant to endure him for the rest of your life, you may as well make a spectacle of him before he convinces himself he is untouchable. Dragons may be fireproof, but he certainly isn’t, you think.
Your gaze drifts, heavy and unwilling, to the large bed that rests against the wall, and you can feel fear strike clean through you. Your breath grows thick in your chest, harder to pull in, harder to push out. You know exactly what you are feeling, and you would be a fool to call it anything but fear. If he is this cruel to you before the vows are even spoken, you cannot imagine how cruel he will be when the night is his by right.
The maid catches your expression and her face softens, giving you a sad, almost knowing smile. It is a look of a woman who has seen what men can do, who knows cruelty first hand. When you glance back at her, she meets your eyes and gives you a steady nod. It is an entirely fragile thing, but you almost feel comforted to know at least one other soul in this kingdom can feel sympathy for you.
“I would like to be alone for a moment.” You say as you suck in a steadying breath.
Without protest she dips into a curtsey and slips out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.
The reality of today settles on you like lead, in heavy and uneven breaths you cross the room and sink down at the edge of the bed, curling towards it. Tears string your eyes as you stare at it, you try to imagine some way to keep yourself from further harm, some way to defend yourself and remain in slight control when the doors close and there is no one but your husband at your side.
A tear slips down your left cheek and you find yourself reaching for the drawer beside the bed, pulling it open to the familiar sight of jewellery chests wrapped in velvet. Your fingers fumble past them until they find one particular box, and you draw it out, sitting on the bed as you settle it on your lap. Swiping the back of your hand across your eye you suck in a breath, reminding yourself you are strong, and must be strong.
Opening the box, inside, Valyrian steel catches the light. A slim, beautiful blade inlaid with the crest of your house remains within, the pale metal taking on a faint white sheen where the morning sun touches it. Your brother had given it to you when you were children, a secret hidden away like a treasure, half forgotten until now.
For a moment, you wonder what your prince would do if his throat ever met its edge, would he scramble in fear, whimper like a dragon who has lost its wings? You decide that this will be your last resort, if he tries anything with you, you will not be entirely defenceless.
You tuck the blade beneath your pillow, angling it so your fingers can find it easily. It is hidden but close, close enough that if you need it you can reach for it in an instant.
──
“I trust you won’t be as defiant tonight as you were yesterday, wife.”
His words roll easily off his familiar tongue, smooth and casual, and you do not like how binding it sounds. You try to bite back every answer that tries to rise, and he seems to savour it, the taste of your shackling. You cannot help but wish he would find enjoyment in anything other than tempting your anger by simply standing in front of you.
Aerion stands before you in the reds and blacks of his house, colours cutting sharp against his pale skin. His violet eyes linger on you with a kind of idle entertainment, as if he can hear the way the word ‘wife’ grates inside your skull. He rolls the title again in his mind, you’re sure he is savouring it like a mouthful of rich wine. Stepping a little closer, his gaze drifts lower, skimming over the fall of your gown before noticing the bruise on your throat. There is a slight pause and faint narrowing of his eyes as he takes in the mark you chose not to hide.
“Why do you choose to disgrace yourself like this?” His gaze continues to linger on your throat, voice smooth as silk.
You pull yourself together and offer him an obedient smile, your head tips, lolling slightly to the side, baring more of your throat to his gaze. “Something made by your own hand could never be a disgrace, my prince.”
“I do not know where this sudden nerve is coming from,” he says, voice dropping. “But do not toy with me, woman.” His eyes narrow at you, the faint glimmer in them sharpening.
The threatening edge in his voice cuts through whatever sudden spine you had found. You take a small step back, lashes lowering, smoothing your features into practiced obedience. “I do not toy, my prince.” You say, tone soft and careful. “It is not my place to trifle with you.”
He watches you as you finish speaking, gaze flickering down to your mouth, to the way your lips tighten around the words. A quiet huff escapes him, half irritation, half something else, and he lets the silence stretch a moment longer than comfortable. Then he clicks his tongue in a sharp, dismissive sound before finally deigning to speak again.
“You know what is expected of you, do you not?”
The thought of your wifely duties alone makes you shudder, a cold tremor running down your spine while fear coils in your gut. However, you smooth over your face and force your shoulders not to quake, you nod.
“Of course, my prince.” You say, voice barely above a murmur.
He tilts his head at that, considering your words before a low hum curls from his throat. The golden light of the hall catches on his Valyrian features, gliding against his cheekbones. For a moment, you can’t help but notice how beautiful he is, like a blade forged to be admired before it spills blood.
“Good. Since you are so eager to please me, then you will do your duty and give me heirs worthy of dragon blood.” he muses before continuing, “Real heirs, not some bland little half-bloods.”
His tone is light, edged with condescension and something disturbingly similar to amusement as his gaze lingers on you. It drifts slowly down the line of your bruised throat, falling over the creases of your silks, and settles at your stomach, as though he’s already picturing it swollen with his seed.
“If the gods bless us so, my prince,” you say, eyes lowered, “I will bear you the heirs you desire.”
Your fingers move before your mind can catch up to the words that have just spilled from your lips, crossing your hands over your stomach in a swift yet awkward fold. It is as if you are trying to hide that part of you from his gaze, the gesture feels small and foolish but you try and cling to it. Dislike coils hot inside you, bitter as you continue to gaze at the dragon prince.
He seems almost pleased by your answer, as though he hadn’t quite expected you to agree. He nods once, pouting his lips before he falls into thinking as you murmur again,
“If I may be excused, my prince.”
He regards your presence for a heartbeat longer, then inclines his head. “Very well.”
You leave the hall with your head lowered, the roar of conversation and music dimming behind you in every step. He torches throw wavering shadows over your face as you bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep another sob from clawing its way out, blinking fast to prevent your vision blurring.
Fear sits heavy in your gut as you make your way into the bedding chambers, a cold knot tightens and presses at your ribs as you are walking away from the girl you will not be again. Yet, beneath it all, you think of Aerion in an unwelcome thread of curiosity, you wonder what he will be like when the door shuts and there are no witnesses.
You slip inside and close the chamber door behind you, the room is quieter than you remembered, the candlelight pooling soft and golden over the bed. Turning towards the mirror, your fingers find the clasp of your cloak, sliding the fabric from your shoulders, leaving only silk, skin, and jewels staring back at you. It is duty, you think as your gaze stays to the bed behind you in the glass, searching over the pillow where a blade lies hidden beneath, a secret waiting for your hand.
Moving towards the bed in slow steps, your fingertips brush the carved post as the door opens, and Aerion steps inside, shrugging off his cape in a smooth motion before his gaze finds you at once. The space between you seems to narrow as his violet eyes lock with yours, and that strange feeling coils in your chest again. You refuse it as curiosity, deeming it as nerves as you know you hate him, or you should hate him. Yet, your breath comes quicker and your chest rises and falls as the two of you hold each other’s stare in quiet intensity.
“Waiting for me already, wife?” He speaks as he slowly crosses over to you, eyes unmoving from yours. Your gaze tracks over him, to the pale fall of his hair and the way the lamplight falls over his face, in this light, he looks attractive. Swallowing as he draws nearer, you feel your throat tighten with every inch he closes between you.
Retreating on instinct, the back of your knees collide with the mattress and it takes you off balance. You drop onto the edge of the bed with a thud, fingers catching in the blankets as you look up at him. Aerion steps into the space you’ve surrendered, boot brushing your leg as he presses his knee forward. He parts your legs with an easy, unhurried nudge, sliding his thigh between yours until you’re forced to open around him.
You feel heat seep through the thin layers of silk as his chest looms in front of you, and your breath stutters. His gaze drags down over you, your bare face, your bared throat, and the rise and fall of your purple silks where his knee is bracketed between your legs. Then slowly, his eyes climb back up, pinning you in place.
His hand rises as you feel every inch of its approach, and it rests along the edge of your jaw. His fingers are careful this time, the pad of his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw rather than digging into it, slender fingers warm against your skin. He exhales, breath ghosting over your lips as he leans down, lids lowering as his gaze roams your face.
“You’re not so bad up close,” he murmurs at last.
His fingers tighten, just enough to remind you who is in control. “On the bed,” he commands quietly, and you obey him.
Shuffling back, silk whispering as you crawl up against the pillows until they cradle your spine. The mattress dips as he sits at the edge to pull off his boots before he follows you, knees sinking into the mattress, the frame creaking softly under his weight as he looms over you. His hands go to fasten his top, one by one he works the buttons loose before the sharp line of his throat and collarbones appear, pale in the lamplight.
You watch, unable to look away while he shrugs the garment off his shoulders until he tugs the shirt away completely and reveals lean muscle painted with shadows of old bruises or training scars that rise and fall of his chest. Heat crawls over you, prickling beneath your skin and you are not sure if it is fear, shame or something else you cannot name. He tosses the shirt aside before looking back at you, hair spilled on pillows as silk draped over you, it is as if he’s cataloguing every inch of you laid out before him.
“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” He suddenly asks, eyes lingering where the silk hitches up your thighs.
You pause, chest heaving a little too fast, fingers knotting in the sheets. “Yes,” you breathe, “I am.”
“Good,” he says, running his tongue through his teeth. “They’re always easy to get wet.”
He moves in and a startled breath slips from you as his hand finds your face again, fingers curling more gently this time along your jaw as his finger rests beneath your cheekbone. Holding you there steadily his violet eyes lock with yours before he lowers his head. His mouth finds the crook of your neck, feeling your pulse beat against his warm lips that move slowly, as if he is tasting something that he now owns. A small whimper escapes your throat before you can stop yourself, and you feel his mouth curve against your throat, a small smile pressed into your skin. His eyes open and his gaze darkens as he lifts his head upward back towards your face.
Heat pools low in your belly, and it feels shameful the way your body betrays you. You can’t help but look at him, eyes wide and full of something that feels much like guilt, as if he’s caught you in a sin you never chose.
“Enjoying this now, are you?” he asks as something shifts in his gaze, tone going cool as he inhales slowly. His eyes track over your face then inevitably down to the bruise at your throat. Like flames flickering beneath skin, his hand slides from your jaw to that mark, fingers tightening suddenly as he grips your throat and presses your head deeper into the pillow. You feel panic slam through you as the mattress seems to swallow you whole.
Your lungs burn, his fingers brand your throat, and your vision narrows to the dark blur of Aerion’s face above you.
“M…my prince—” You try to reason, but he does not hear you, only leaning in further as his eyes remain fixed on yours, and you see his other hand rising, fingers tensing as it comes towards your neck.
In fear, your body decides for you as your arm snaps sideways, diving beneath the pillow. Your fingers close around the cool steel, the familiar shape of the hilt fitting into your palm as you rip it free and drag it up in a sharp and desperate slash. The blade flashes in the candlelight and meets the flesh of his hand in a wet resistance, parting his skin a fast gash. Heat splatters across your knuckles as Aerion jerks back both of his hands with a snarl,
“Fuck—!” He yells as blood spills from the gash, dark and bright all at once, running in quick rivulets down his palm and dripping onto the sheets between you.
The dagger slips from your fingers and falls onto the mattress, your hand recoiling as though burned. Scrambling backward, your spine presses hard into the headboard while your husband stares at his hand, blood splattering onto the sheets in soft drops. His palm curls, flexes, crimson welling fresh with every twitch as you watch it trail down the line of his wrist, staining his pale skin. Aerion lifts his head, fury in his eyes blinding, violet eyes gone dark, burning straight through you. Your stomach lurches at the sight, gaze trapped onto his bloody figure.
“You whore,” he spits, low and vicious. “You dare to shed blood of the dragon?”
“No— no, my prince, I—” The words die in your throat as he looks at you through half-lowered lids, rage simmering just beneath the surface. His injured hand reaches for the dagger and his blood smears over the hilt as his fingers wrap around it.
Bringing it up, you whimper a small and broken sound as the blade comes closer, glinting in the low light. His face follows, leaning in as a warm drop of blood falls from his wrist onto your bare skin, then another, sliding hot and sticky over your collarbone as he lifts the knife toward your throat. You suppose this is the end, you’ve laid steel against the prince of the realm, there is no taking that back.
“You spill a dragon’s blood, wife,” he says, studying you with the length of the blade, voice low and calm when it comes. “And you think there will be no price?”
His gaze drops from your eyes to your collarbone, to where his blood makes a trail over your skin. He stares at it with a terrible, intentional hunger, like a man eyeing a feast laid out before him, watching each red line crawl over the sharp jut of bone.
“You must be taught the cost of that.”
Slowly, he moves the dagger that shines in the candlelight toward your collarbone, pressing the cold edge against your warm skin. His violet eyes watch intensely as your skin splits apart, blood sweeping through the slash like sweet wine dripping from a goblet, your blood swelled and mixed with the crimson already staining his hands. His thumb smeared through both as though ready to taste the liquid, his and your own mingling over your skin in a glistening streak.
“H—haah…” You whimper out at the stinging pain, a broken sound caught in your throat. At once the sweet noise you make catches his attention as he lolls his head up to your pained expression with an unnamed satisfaction.
“I was right,” he murmurs, nails dragging slowly against your neck, voice low and almost thoughtful, “You do look pretty with fear on your face.”
He leaned down again, slower this time as the heat of his mouth brushed against the bloodied trail along your collarbone. The touch made you suck in a deep breath, your whole body going taut against him as he shifts closer, closing the space between you. It feels wrong. It feels disgusting. And yet, your body betrays you as your legs tense and a restless heat gatherers low inside you, it is dark and shameful and impossible to ignore.
The warmth of his mouth traces at the thin red line at your collarbone and you feel a sudden drag of his tongue against you. You try to catch your breath, but it is of no use as the heat of his mouth is lingering and unhurried, and he continues to lick away the blood as though he is savouring the taste of it. A dark warmth pools low in you, feeling humiliating throbs between your legs, the satisfaction is so dirty you feel it makes shame rise hot beneath your skin. You do not want it, you think you do not want it, but your body answers differently as you press your hips into his thigh, aching cunt trying to press against him in some hope of friction.
His nails drag slowly where they rest against you and your breathing turns uneven, leaving you in a trembling rush. You tip your head back to look at him breathlessly, lashes heavy and mouth parted as your eyes find his, and he looks up at you in terrible focus, listening to every little hitch in your breathing. You suddenly feel him pressed against the heat of your cunt, his lips parting faintly as he pushes himself closer, almost like he’s refusing to let you grind onto him.
“You enjoy it,” he says, breath caught in a sharp hiss when he feels you move against him once again.
“I do not,” you manage, breathless as your chest rises and falls, trying to pull in another breath under the heat of his gaze.
His mouth curves upwards without warmth, taking in your ruined figure. “No?” he continues, thumb pressing against your neck before it tightens, which forces you to arch subtly towards him. “Then why are you pressed against me like a bitch in heat?”
He pulls your head back slowly as his gaze drags over your tired face, forcing your gaze up at him. You try to pull in another breath, but it only seems to amuse him as he leans closer, inhaling sharply through his nose.
“No, you do not get to move against me like that and pretend innocence,” he begins, staring you down with his violet lidded eyes before he drags them over your throat, to your jaw and then to your lips. “You must taste the blood you’ve spilt.”
Aerion leans in slowly as you feel the heat of his breath as blood continues to stain his lips, smeared at the edge of them before his mouth presses to yours and stains your lips with red. His lips move against yours as though he wishes to claim all of you, below you his hand tightens just enough to keep you in place while his lips continue to drag against yours slowly. Your lips part slightly as you let out a shaky moan into his mouth and he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes of metal and rust, and the blood continues to drip into your mouth, smearing your lips with red.
He pulls back only a small fraction, just enough to free you and see the red that is now smeared across both your mouths, branding you of him. It all feels wrong, tastes wrong, like the memory of claws biting into flesh, but the realization steals through you all the same, you want him. You want to feel the heat, you want the fire, and you want to burn.
A single dark drop of red gathers at the curve of your lip, trembling before it begins to slip down your parted lips, trailing lower to the line of your chin. His gaze follows as it falls, then his hand rises and once slowly, his thumb catches it before it can fall any further, smearing the red across the pad of his skin. His violet eyes stay fixed on your face with terrible calm before he draws his hand back, gaze locked with yours as he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it with infuriating slowness. He sucks his thumb clean without looking away, as though your reaction is the truly satisfying thing.
His hand slides down your thigh, fingers settling there before they drag a little higher, slow enough to make your breath hitch. “Your legs tremble, wife,” he murmurs, his eyes remaining on your face as his mouth curves, “Are you growing restless for me?” His voice is mocking, but you cannot find it in yourself to deny him.
You drag in a shaky breath and tilt your chin up at him, trying to gather what little pride you have left. “You speak... as though it displeases you,” your breath shudders against him, lashes fluttering before you push your head back onto the pillow behind you.
Aerion tilts his head at you, and his hands move to grab your hips without bothering to reply. He forces your back further against the bed before he presses you down into the sheets before you can move. The mattress dips beneath you and the silk twists at your legs as his grip tightens, full of possessiveness before his mouth curves faintly,
“I will not be displeased so long as you remember to obey me.”
Then he shifts closer, slow enough to shake you until the space between you begins to vanish again. His slender fingers then reach for his pants, fastening his clothes, undoing them with slow hands as you can only watch as he shoves them aside, his face does not soften before he looks at you once again, and his lips are on yours again.
You taste him and feel the heat of his body as his hands pull on edges of your dress, pulling it over your stomach, revealing your trembling cunt dripping with pain before him. Aerion hisses, hips jerking toward your soaked cunt as you feel the tip of his cock brush against your slit. You latch onto his sweaty shoulder, nails digging into his pale skin before he lets out a heavy breath.
“You weep for me, wife.” he says as you let out a whimper and brush your hips further into his hard cock, silk beginning to flatten against your stomach as he moves closer, wrist flicking as he grabs the base of cock, giving it a light stroke.
“Aerion— please,” you find yourself speaking in desperation, head lolling to the side as he lets out an amused huff and his lips brush against yours again.
“There, there,” he says softly, almost mockingly. “That is better. You should remember how to speak with me.”
Aerion then curls his slender hand around your waist, jerking his hips forward before he begins to push himself into your warm cunt. Unable to handle your bodyweight, your head slips further into the pillow as you feel him penetrate you entirely, your gaze blurs before you feel a sting, trying to adjust to his sheer size.
You gasp, throwing your head back as you feel a mixture of discomfort and pleasure, his cock stretching your walls. Aerion slips his dick in you further and your nails dig into his shoulders as you whimper, trying to bury your head into his shoulder. He snaps his hips forward, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix as you gasp, “Hah—” it's so deep in you, you swear you feel yourself seeing stars.
Aerion lets a grin out at the sight and continues to rut into you while breathily grunting, “You belong to me,” be begins, drawing out the sentence with quick huffs while he continues to thrust into your wet cunt, “all of you belongs to me.” His hand begins to trace your thigh shakily as he grunts out a quiet “fuck!” when he feels you clench around him, pressing his face closer to yours.
Tears well up in your eyes as he hurries his pace, chasing a high both of you seem to be reaching before he begins to suck at the crook of your neck where the mix of your blood begins to dry, “Tell me you belong to me.” he commands, hips dipping further into you as he continues to lick the blood dry, you can only moan in response as he drags his tongue
When you don’t respond immediately his abdomen tenses and he removes himself from the crook of your neck, earning a needy whine from you. “Say it,” he bites the words out, eyes lingering on yours with the embers of flames glimmering behind them, and you can almost see the frustration build up within him as he grips your neck, forcing you to look at him as he continues to thrust into you with slowed movements.
“I’m yours,” you say, biting your lip as tears well up in your eyes as you feel his thrusts begin to fasten again, his cock once again buried deep inside you. Your thighs burn with pleasure as his cock continues to push into your gummy walls, and his chest flushes against yours in satisfaction before you feel breathless.
He settles against you fully, skin to skin and the heat of him wraps around you like flesh giving into flame. It feels like you are being burned, it is cruel and consuming but you find yourself wanting more of it, you think this must be how a dragon leaves its mark, where you cannot tell the difference between warmth and burning.
Your hand slides into the silver of his hair, gripping it tightly before he snarls at you and moves to give you an open-mouthed kiss, and you find yourself kissing him back with similar intensity. You lewdly moan into his mouth before he speeds up again at the sound of the soft melody leaving your throat, and he suddenly bites down on your lip and you let out a choked noise.
Suddenly you find yourself slipping your arms around his shoulders and bringing his body closer to you as you feel your belly grow warmer and pleasure coils through you, “Aerion,” you breathe out, hands sliding to cradle him as his slightly watery violet eyes meet yours.
His head falls forward toward you as he ruts into you fast, like a territorial animal, and you suppose it is because dragons are territorial creatures after all, but you do not mistake the way he lets out a huffed groan. You squirm under him, feeling that coil in your stomach intensify before you desperately cling to him, rolling your hips into him slowly.
Aerion’s pace grows sloppy as he feels your cunt spasm around him and he grinds his teeth together, “Fuck— Don’t move.” Instead, you do the opposite and jerk your hips upwards earning a lewd moan from him before he throws his head back with a clenched jaw and his veins bulging in sudden strain.
Locking your legs around him you mutter his name over and over and with one last roll of his hips he spills his seed deep inside your cunt, thrusting forward once more in order to make sure a drop of it doesn’t leak. Your lips brush the side of his shoulder before the coil within you snaps and you find yourself cumming around his cock, whining while your hips stutter.
Neither of you move and Aerion makes no attempt to slip out of you, remaining where he is with heavy breaths as your bodies press together in marital bliss. The room around you remains swallowed in candlelight as his hand does not leave you. Instead, his fingers drift slowly to the bruised skin at your neck, tracing the mark, as though admiring something he has made. The touch is light, but it makes your breath hitch nevertheless.
His eyes stay fixed on the darkened shape before they lift to yours, lips curling into a small smirk. A dragon has laid claim to you, and you feel it like the claws buried beneath your skin. There is nothing more you can do now except be held here and burn.
“You are mine to endure now.” he says at last, voice unhurried. “Do not forget it, wife.”
divider made by me (please credit if used)
woahhhh this one shot was long aff hahahah and it took so long to write. i love my aerion so much he deserves all the love but at the same time he is a complete evil man!!
all reblogs and comments are so so so appreciated and loved <3
note: i had so much fun writing this and i love house dayne so much i thought it would be rlly interesting to write about it and i lowk forgot that aerion is a dayne while beginning to write it but we continue MOVING FORWARD. this was originally supposed to be a daeron fanfic actually because of the Dayne's having correlation to the dragon dreams and being of old blood (idk if this is accurate but its something like that LOL) but i might write a daeron one about that MAYBEEE lmk if u guys want it. anyway i've had an aerion hyperfixation this week so he gets the spotlight today ! this was also supposed to be uploaded saturday night but i lowk got tired and couldn't bring myself to finish it rip but its here now so ENJOYYY
After finishing a rough session. Aerion would hold you for a few minutes, trying to catch his breath and regain his normal heartbeat before placing a kiss or two on your lips and temples, he'd later call the maids or servants to prepare a nice bath for you two, filled with scented oils and candles surrounding you.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
His most favourite part of his body is his hands, especially his fingers for the many ways he can simply make you orgasm with something as simple as his fingers. And lastly his hair, his silver Targaryen hair that you love to run your hands through or tug on when he eats you out like a man starved for blood.
His favourite parts about you are your hips and stomach, the way he holds your hips during a love making session or in public when he wants you to stand close to him, he also loves to envision you pregnant with a babe, an heir to claim the iron throne one day.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Oh definitely inside you, he can't waste his precious seed anywhere else, he wants his seed will take place inside of you to secure an heir and first great-grandchild to king Daeron II Targaryen.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Aerion may or may have not spied on you during baths, before you two got officially married he'd spy on you whenever you bathed since it was taboo to bed you before the wedding.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Very experienced, those trips to the brothels in red keep's taught him a lot how to pleasure a woman.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Mating press or missionary, honestly any position that will have you pregnant in a matter of no time and where he can clearly see your face.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
He's serious 99.99% of the time, the only time where he wasn't, was when he mocked the voice of the lord who dared to flirt with his wife, his beloved wife.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
The carpet matches the drape, he keeps himself tidy and trimmed with a happy trail.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
He'll take things slow and sensual, he doesn't want to have a quick fun time before going on his day. He wants both of you to feel pleasure and orgasm.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
A prince should never tire himself with such thing, he has you and if you don't want to be intimate then he'd give up and pleasure himself.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Breeding kink, dacryphilia and role-play... (he loves to role-play as a dragon protecting his mate iykyk.)
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
The bed where you two have privacy or in bath, but if a little birdie told him that a certain lord likes you, then he'll have no problem claiming you in front of said lord.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
When you call him "your dragon" or when you both start talking about kids.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
I feel like Aerion would never do anal, unless if you're a street-worker. Also hurting you physically is a big no no.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Receiving and giving, he knows how to pleasure you with something as simple as his tongue.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
He loves it rough and slow, he'd only go fast if he's desperate enough.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
N O
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Depends on the situation, like I said. If he hears a rumour about a lord fancying you, then he'd have no problem or shame doing such things in front of the lord that fancies you.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
2 or 4 rounds if he's not tired.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
No, I don't reckon such toys existed at the time, but if you're okay with it then he'll have no problem using the handle of his dagger as a toy.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Oh, how much he loves teasing you before bedding you. This guy is a huge bully when it comes to teasing his wife.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
LOUD, he wants everyone to know that you're officially his.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
I love to head-canon that Aerion was a pervert before you guys got married, stealing your undergarments or spying on you.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
I'd say normal size, between 5'2 or 5'9 inches. Not huge in girth either, but he knows how to pleasures you.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Through the roof when you start talking about having babes.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
After both of you have a nice bath, he holds you for a few minutes before slowly falling asleep with you in his arms.
⁎⁺˳✧༚ Notes: sub!!!Aerion, dom f! reader, 18+ sexual content, mentions of blood and wounds, they’re both freaked out :pp, Aerion, who’s feared by the whole kingdom, crawling on his knees for you like a dog. Not proofread.
Head dizzy, sight blurry, chest raising up and down as the weight of armor falls on his shoulders. His pretty face covered with crimson blood.
The chamber was quiet except for the faint crackle of the hearth. Dust and dried blood marked the silver of his armor, his pale hair loose around his face where the helm had been torn away. He looked nothing like the prince who had ridden out that morning beneath banners and cheers.
You sit on the edge of the bed in a pretty gown, looking so graceful that he could fall on his knees once more and pray to you like a goddess.
“Are you disappointed with me?” His hoarse voice breaks the silence.
Even as he’s beaten and bleeding out, nothing worries him more than failing to be the best for you. He felt like he could cry if you thought of him as weak.
“Mmm” you look down at him. “I’m certainly not happy.”
Eyes fixed on the stone floor, he could feel his bottom lip quiver.
“I-“ he’s cut off by the lump in his throat “I tried” his breath heaving “I tried really hard.”
“Did you?” You stare at the side of his head, where his white hair is painted red “and that’s the best you could do?”
His breath hitches. Eyes moving nervously from one tile to another, he doesn’t dare to look up at you.
“Please…” plea escapes his lips “please, princess, I ask for your forgiveness”
His body stiffness when he feels your hand gently touching his face.
“Look at me”
Slowly raising his head, his eyes catch yours.
Your thumb rests lightly beneath his chin, forcing his gaze to stay on yours.
The proud prince, on his knees, breathing unevenly like a scolded boy.
“How strange,” you murmur. “I’ve seen you face knights twice your size without flinching,” you say slowly. “And yet now you look as though I might strike you.”
Your thumb drifts along his jaw. “Should I?” You tilt your head.
His breath catches. “If it would please you.”
A faint smile curves your lips, not kind, not cruel, something in between.
“You think pain would earn my forgiveness?
His cheeks flush beneath the dirt and blood.
“I failed you.”
“Mm.” You hum. “You keep saying that.”
Silence stretches between you.
He swallows hard. “Did I not?”
Instead of answering, you lean closer, your voice lowering just enough to make him focus on every word.
“Tell me something, Aerion.” Your breath fanned over his cuts, sending shivers down his spine. “Were you thinking about me while you fought?”
The question catches him completely off guard.
His eyes widen. “I—”
“Careful,” you say softly, tightening your fingers slightly in his hair. “Think before you answer.”
He inhales shakily.
“Yes.”
Your brows lift slightly. “Yes?”
“Yes.” His voice is quieter now. “Every time I nearly fell… I thought of you watching.”
“And that helped?”
His lips part. “It terrified me.”
That drew a small laugh from you.
“Oh, poor prince.” Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth where it trembles. “Fighting seven men was easier than facing my disappointment?”
“Yes.” He answers so quickly it almost sounds like a confession.
You lean back slightly, considering him. Still kneeling, he watched you as though waiting for permission to breathe.
“You asked for forgiveness,” you say at last, letting the silence stretch again, enjoying the way tension gathers in his shoulders. Then you tilt his chin again with two fingers.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
His chest rises sharply “Princess…”
You smile faintly. “Convince me.” You say as two of your fingers travel right to his parted lips.
Like a man starved, he latches on your fingers, eyes fluttering shut. His tongue flickering around, pretty lips wrapping around you. You slowly start moving your fingers in and out. Looking up at you, Aerion hums around it, shoulders falling as if a heavy weight has been lifted off of it. His hand leaves his knee and gently touches yours.
“For someone who fancies himself a dragon” you say as you drag your other hand through his hair “you’re starting to look a lot more like a starved puppy”
Aerion froze, fingers tightening on the fabric of your dress, his bloody knuckles whitening. He removed his mouth from your fingers.
His jaw ticked nervously. “I am not—”
A sound cut through the air as a sharp strike landed across his face. He stayed there in shock, breath quickening. One could hardly read what he was feeling from his expression alone if not for his pretty eyes watering.
If it was anyone else than you, their head would have been gone in seconds. But you, the only soul in nine kingdoms who could see him like this, remained calm, as if you didn’t just slap the Aerion Dragonflame.
And he took it, like a good, obedient boy he is for you.
Your palm gently caressed the same skin you just struck. Aerion leaned into your touch cautiously, afraid he might provoke your anger once more.
“Strip yourself of your armor”.
He could feel his arousal right between his legs, almost overshadowing the pain caused by his wounds.
His fingers trembled slightly as the armor fell away piece by piece. Chest rising unevenly, he could feel your eyes on him, the weight of your attention heavier than any steel he’s worn.
He swallowed, heat rising to his cheeks, lips parting as he struggled to hold onto some shred of pride. “I—”
“Shh,” you interrupted softly, letting your thumb brush along his lips. “No words. Just show me how obedient my little dragon can be.”
It feels as if all the blood from his brain rushed straight to his dick. He needed you to touch him, tease him, strike him again, he didn’t care, all he wanted was your hands on him.
“Come here, my prince”.
He could feel the teasing in your voice, yet, he slowly rose himself up and to the bed, sitting down and waiting for your further orders.
You bring your face close to his neck, breath fanning gently on his hot skin. He has to stop himself from rolling his eyes to his skull once he feels your lips leaving wet kisses on him.
Unconsciously, he parts his legs, giving you easer access to him. Your hand travelled down, palming him over his breeches. His hips jerked forward at your touch, craving more fiction than you were sparing him.
Hand slipping in his silver hair, you yank his head back. “Tsk, tsk, I told you to be patient, my prince, did I not?”
“Ah, yes, princess”. He says breathlessly.
“Good.” You say as you pull down his breeches and release his painfully hard dick.
He hisses at the feel of cool air but it soon turns to a moan once your fingers slowly wrap around him.
“Mmph” his hands grabbed the bedsheets for distraction., back arching. He felt like he could come in seconds if he looked at you, staring down at him as if you wanted to devour. It felt torturous the speed you were stroking him with. He craved more, more speed, more friction, more of you.
“Faster, go faster” For a fleeting moment, Aerion forgot that he wasn’t one in charge.
“Oh?” You rase an eyebrow at him “is that a command I hear?”
“Please, princess. Please, I need more” he begged impatiently.
He felt so humiliated, begging to be touched like some kind of whore. His dominant, fierce nature seemed to fade when he was with you. For some fucked up reason, he craved your approval like air. He would crumble at your feet if you needed him to, and he did. Many times. The only place where he could be vulnerable, desperate and still loved was in your bedchambers.
You twist your wrist as you move your hand up and down on his flushed cock. Red tip leaking arousal, filling the room with lewd wet sounds. Aerion arched into your touch “Fuck, I’m gonna-“
“Are you close, my prince?” You press your lips against his damp temple.
“Ah, yes, yes, fuck, mmmh” his flushed chest was heaving rapidly.
In a flash, his body twisted, eyebrows pinching together, his forehead leaning against yours as you pressed your hand down on one of his wounds on his thigh. He tried raising himself up in agony, only to make the pain even worse for himself.
“No, ah, it hurts, please” he looked at you with plea and pain in his eyes.
“Such a perfect slut you are, my prince” you kept pressing on the wound as your other hand worked his dick. “You’re begging me to stop as if you’re not fucking up in my fist”.
Aerion let out a loud whimper. The pain and pleasure mixed together in a way that made his brain foggy. The humiliation drove him crazy, stripping him off all the rational thinking. His hand went to cover his mouth to keep him from filling the room with loud moans.
“No, no, my prince” You were quick to remove his hand from his mouth, pinning it behind him and making him lean on you “I want to hear all the sweet sounds you make”.
“You’re going to kill me” he managed to slip it between the moans and gritted teeth. “Burn me alive”.
“I’ll think about it if you keep misbehaving” you say, lips reaching his jaw, leaving red marks on it.
Aerion’s head dropped on your shoulder, his body burning hot, sweat glistening on his pretty skin.
“Ah, ah, I can’t- I can’t anymore” he cried “enough, please!”
You watched his hips stutter with overstimulation, each movement bringing him both pain and pleasure.
“Come for me, Aerion” you whisper in his ear, grabbing his hair and making him turn his face towards you.
That was enough to send him over the edge. With eyebrows furrowed together, his mouth came agape, silky ropes of cum shooting from his tip, painting his sculpted stomach and your hands.
He moaned in your mouth as you gently kissed his flushed lips, riding out his high, occasionally flinching in pain when you accidentally brushed against where his lip has split.
He leaned against you with his whole weight, tired, fucked out, eyes heavy, the stress from the fight almost completely vanished from his mind. You admired your work as he laid there. Prince completely at your mercy.
“Don’t fall asleep yet” you caress his face gently “you need to take a bath”.
“Mhmm, yes, I will” he didn’t sound convincing, especially with his eyes closed.
“And I shall help you to it tonight, no servants”.
His eyes opened and found you. He imagined you gently touching his skin, washing away the dried blood and treating his wounds.
“That I would love.” He said quietly, small smile curling his lips.
•
•
•
A/N I need him so baddd like let me tame that dragon
SUMMARY: a marriage with aerion to you seemed like never-ending cruelty. but very soon after your vows, you realized just how far aerion was willing to go for not only your marriage, but you.
WARNINGS: consummation, smut 18+, fluff, angst, language, dornish princess reader, poc reader, reader has curly/coily hair, talk of children, violence, blood, ooc aerion, arranged marriage, partially edited
WORD COUNT: 5.2k
you'd rather kill yourself than marry aerion targaryen. and of course, you thought about it the night before the ceremony, sitting within the red keep, wondering what exactly your life would like look with aerion targaryen by your side. you'd pressed a knife to your throat and stood against the window, feeling the cool air waft in from outside.
and you were close to it, even felt the breaking of your skin as you pressed it harder and harder, ready for the blood to spill.
for majority of your life spent in sunspear, you knew you'd be married off to the richest, ugliest lord in the nine realms, but you underestimated your parents' desire for your so-called preservation. they didn't care for your happiness; they only cared to further the martell line, and even though martells and targaryen's weren't always cordial, the blood of the dragon was tempting.
so when prince maekar announced his son's enterance into the marriage market, you were one of the first canidates. you were the oldest princess of sunspear, and pretty, and those qualities put you at the front of the lines.
though rumors sprouted that aerion only became a bachelor because he angered his father, which seemed very plausible. you'd never met your future husband before the ceremony, and he was just as expected.
aerion rarely spared you a glance throughout the ceremony, and even when the two of you were forced to kiss, he pulled away immediately afterward, muttering curses beneath his breath, then he left the altar entirely.
maekar rolled his eyes at his son as he did it, then he glanced at you and nodded at aerion, as if he wanted you to follow. of course, you didn't, and maekar sneered and took your place behind aerion, yelling for the guests to move to the great hall for feasting.
even as your family greeted you during the feast, all you could think about was aerion, sitting beside you, wearing immaculately tailored red-and-black velvet, his fingers spinning marbles, face placid as he watched the guests dance.
you were still in your heavy, dornish wedding dress, sweat accumulating on your brow, your chest rising and falling with every breath as you tried to draw oxygen into your lungs.
"must you breathe like a fucking cow?" aerion spat out, turning to you abruptly as he slammed the marbles down, ignoring the way they rolled and crashed to the ground.
you gave aerion a minuscule glance, hand against your torso, heart speeding into a panicked beat. the last thing you needed in the moment was his childish temper. all eyes were on you, even when it seemed like they were not.
the people expected you to burst, act out, lose your ladyship, and that outcome was approaching faster than you wanted it to. instead, you would've liked your outburst to be in the comfort of your marriage bedchamber, beside aerion—unfortunately.
"my dress is tight, i'm beside a fucking child who is now my husband, and people keep whispering about my fucking breasts, so no, i can't." aerion recoiled at your words, his eyebrows raising, then he shrugged, "that is unfortunate." he glanced down at your breasts in the process, noticing how they were spilling from your corset.
when he was done examining you, he turned forward once more, leaving you to your devices. so, reaching behind yourself, you began pulling at the ties of your dress. by that point, air was whistling in and out of your mouth, and maekar was looking down the table, noticing your frantic movements, though your attempts were poor in there subtly.
"what the fuck is the issue?" maekar spat, tossing a piece of beef at aerion. it hit the prince on the cheek, and he glared at his father, "she can't breathe, and there's no need for you to throw shit!"
"then help her!" aerion rolled his eyes and turned to you, grabbing your arm to twist you in your chair. he began ripping at the laces of your corset, fingers wiggling.
"what a way to be subtle." you ignored his words, inhaling a deep, calming breath, then snatching the bottle of dornish wine off the table and pouring it into your cup.
"everything they say about you is true." you only said it to strike a nerve, and it worked, because aerion turned to you, lips curled into a sneer. "and what do they say about me, wife?"
"don't tell me you don't know, husband?" you matched his stare, noticing the way his hand curled into a fist, muscles working in his arm. aerion cleared his throat to draw your attention, "i care little for what the small folk think of me."
you grinned and shrugged, "it is the highborn too." aerion hummed and shook his head, though you could see his jaw in an ironclad clench. "that woman is whispering about you." he said, pointing lazily at a woman sitting at a table with a few ladies, noticeably highborn.
"women always whisper. you're lucky men immediately throw fists. that is if you can fight?" you rested your chin against your hand, watching aerion lazily, and he chuckled, as if the very thought of him not being able to fight was foolish, "of course i can fight."
"how well can you fight, prince? or are you just trying to impress me?" aerion leaned against the table, licking his lips, "i could show you."
you rolled your eyes, "men that hit their wives are weak." aerion scoffed, "that's not what i meant. i thought they said you were smart."
humming, you turned towards him, "what do you propose to show me you can fight?" aerion pointed at a man resting against the wall. he was watching the people dance, a cup of ale in his hand.
"that one." aerion began standing, but your eyes widened and you grabbed his arm, "you're going to beat that man? he's done nothing!" aerion pulled out of your grip and smirked, "i'm only meaning to prove you wrong." he continued pushing out of his seat, but you grabbed his arm once more.
aerion was strong enough to pull you with him, and before you knew it, you were wrapped around his torso, feet dragging, though he was heavily lifting you.
"this is foolish! how do you mean to prove the people wrong if you constantly show how cruel you are?" you spat it heavily, foot clamping down on his, and aerion winced, arms wrapped around your waist.
"i don't care about that." your only other thought was to wrap your arms around his neck. aerion was tugged down, hand lingering on your hip, and you pushed him further into the crowd, "just dance. it is your wedding day after all."
your lips whispered against aerion's ear, and he let out an annoyed sigh, melting in your grip and grabbing your hand, intending to dance. it was awkward at first, pressed against him so firmly, your dress dragging around you, but then, like unclenching fists, you relaxed.
cheek against aerion's chest, you were squeezing the ever living hells out of his hand. a breath exitted your lips, and your eyes closed, reveling in the steady beat of aerion's heart.
"you mean to distract me, but he's staring." aerion whispered. you glanced up at him, and he was grimacing, eyebrows furrowed as he watched behind you. when you looked, the man was watching.
"most people are watching." aerion glanced around and hummed, realizing that that was entirely true. his face relaxed, and he bit his lip, "they will think we are in love." you chuckled, "then they can speak on that instead of my breasts."
it seemed the crowd was muttering a common word by the time you broke out of your bubble with aerion. consummation.
the entire thought of consummation was something you'd thought about for years leading up to your marriage, and although you weren't necessarily nervous, you could see the gleam of annoyance in aerion's gaze.
he glanced down at you, face blank, then he pulled away entirely. back rigid with evidence of stress. maekar was standing when the two of you returned to the table, and it seemed he'd been losing his irritation throughout your dance with aerion.
"it is time to prepare for consummation." he didn't say much else, and as the crowd opened with knowing gazes, that's when the anxiousness set into your bones. aerion was lingering behind you as you walked and you could feel the heat radiating off of him and the steady burn of his eyes on the back of your head.
the inside of the marriage bedchamber was prepped perfectly for consummation: lit candles, pillows fluffed, sheets folded back, and your chambermaid, mary, waiting for you.
aerion split off to prepare for the consummation while you entered. mary immediately began removing your dress, her fingers quick and nimble. then she bathed you, tied your hair up nicely, applied lotions and oils, and helped you step into a silky shift that was entirely too scandalous.
your fingers couldn't stop shaking as you waited for aerion, and not because of the sex, but because you weren't as inexperienced as they expected you to be. all ladies were meant to lose their virginities during consummation, which then made it easy to prove the binding of the husband and wife and make sure the possibility of children was in the near future.
as you were sitting on the edge of the bed, picking at your nails, the door opened and aerion walked in. he was wearing a simple robe, face pulled into a glower. your chambermaid curtsied, but he didn't pay her any attention, immediately leering off to the decanter on the tea table and pouring a heavy bout of wine into a cup.
once mary left, aerion turned to you, and raised his glass mockingly, "cheers to you, wife." you rolled your eyes, watching him guzzle down the entire cup of wine. "are you meaning to get drunk, aerion?"
he shrugged, pouring another, then coming to sit on the bed. "no one ever said you can't be drunk during the consummation."
you eyed him silently, leaning against the pillows, "are you...a virgin?" aerion glanced at you, lips pulled into a frown, "no, i am not."
"then what is the issue?" aerion placed his cup on the nightstand then sighed, "i just don't want to do it. just like i didn't want to marry you."
"you are stubborn." you said matter-of-factly, climbing beneath the sheets. aerion nodded, "and i don't like being ordered around." aerion glanced at you—at the slopes of your hips and the softness of your belly. "you are...pretty." the flatness in his tone made you laugh, "i am not the problem is what you're saying."
he shook his head absentmindedly, "what will happen if i refuse?" you inhaled deeply, thankful for the large bed because it made it easy to avoid his touch. "your father will be angry. word will spread, people may riot, the council will denounce our marriage, we'll become pariahs, more so than before. they will no longer speak of my breasts, but aerion refusing to fuck his wife."
"that is rediculous." he went beneath the covers too and stared ahead at the fireplace, watching the rise and fall of the flames. "let's get it over with then, yes?" you glanced at him and aerion watched you for a second before he nodded, beginning to undo the ties of his robe while you slipped down the bed, knees raised.
you stared at the canopy of the bed, hearing aerion shuffle around before he entered your vision, hands near your head. he was naked, pale chest covered in dark moles and a white brush of hair leading down to his groin. your eyes stopped there, and slid back up to his face.
aerion's lips were puckered, eyebrows furrowed, and he pointed at your chest, "i need something to—" you rolled your eyes, pulling up your shift to reveal your breasts. aerion was silent for a moment, admiring you, but then he nodded stiffly and leaned back, grabbing your thighs.
"i think—" you shook your head, "don't say anything, please." he scoffed, rubbing his dick against your entrance. you were wet enough for him to slip in, but pressure and pain built, and you let out a moan of pain, eyes closing.
"aren't you supposed to bleed?" aerion's voice was clouded with pleasure as he thrust into you. your pain had subsided into mild satisfaction, but it wasn't nearly what you needed to orgasm.
"aerion—" "women bleed when you take their virginity!" he paused, glaring at you, and you sighed, tugging your shift back down and shoving him off of you, "women don't always bleed!"
"oh fucking please! you aren't a virgin are you?" he watched you, awaiting an answer, and you crossed your arms tenaciously, "no, but does it really matter?"
aerion grabbed your arm, "they need confirmation, wife! without the fucking blood, we're as good as fucking dead." you rolled your eyes at his dramatics, "i can still have babes! the blood is the least of our worries."
aerion threw the covers off of himself and stood, ignoring his stark nakedness. "we can worry about the fucking babes later. now, we need blood. is there a blade here?" aerion rummaged through the drawers and you blushed, watching the clench and squeeze of his ass.
he was harder than a rock and leaking precum, and you felt slightly guilty that you'd given him a boner and he couldn't fulfill it properly.
the prince returned a second later with the stake from the fireplace, clenching it tightly as he raised it to his wrist. "you fucking owe me after this, yeah?" you ignored his words, snatching the stake and raising it to your own wrist, "no, you owe me."
aerion glared at you and took the stake, then shoved you aside, causing you to almost fall off of the bed. then he sliced his wrist, and spilt a few drops onto the sheets. when he thought it was enough, he raised his wrist to his mouth.
your heart spiked when the blood dribbled over his lip, staining his pale skin red. and aerion watched you the entire time. "stop staring." you glanced away and motioned to his dick, "what will you do about that?"
aerion climbed back onto the bed, lips red, "it'll fix itself." you raised your eyebrow, arm brushing his as the two of you lied down, "will it?"
ꫂ᭪݁
the next morning, mary came to collect the sheets. you were tired from a night in the same bed as aerion. he was terrible in his sleep; moved constantly, muttered words as he dreamt, and couldn't keep his hands off of you, as if you were his personal stuffed animal.
"do you think they'll suspect?" aerion questioned after getting dressed, and you shrugged, "blood is blood, aerion." you were quite surprised at his anxiety when it came to the consummation. maybe your words of wisdom placed fear into his heart, and rightfully so.
"what will you do today?" you questioned in the hall outside the marriage bedchamber. aerion hummed, hand placed on his head. "terrorize someone. you?"
"sit with my ladies in waiting in the drawing room." aerion stayed by your side as you walked, his hands stuffed within his pockets. "and what do ladies in waiting do?" you shrugged honestly, "we talk and gossip and sew." aerion smacked his lips, "that sounds dull."
"it is very dull."
"then i shall come along and see what ladies speak about." you were surprised at his interest, but you assumed it was his lack of things to do that compelled him to sit with you.
you had three ladies in waiting, vanessa, june, and daisy, who accompanied you from sunspear to kings landing, meant to be your companions. they weren't necessarily your friends, but it gave you women to speak to consistently, and because they were in your service, they were forbidden from spreading gossip.
aerion sat in the far corner, staring out of the window, while you sat at the tea table within the drawing room. you wanted to sneak wine into your tea and perhaps brighten up the day, but instead, you were sewing.
vanessa was to your right, june to your left and daisy across from you. you could see aerion directly behind daisy and he was examining his dagger and speaking to a kingsguard near the door.
"how is married life?" vanessa asked and you shrugged honestly, "it has only been one day. there is little i can say about a man i just met." june nodded in agreement, "i'm sure he's...polite." you chuckled at her attempt to be gentle, "he isn't polite, but he also isn't as cruel as i expected."
the ladies nodded, humming, while you took a sip of your tea, eyes finding aerion. he was stadning now and throwing false punches at the guard, who was looking increasingly panicked, though aerion only seemed to be playing, but then he sat and continued staring out the window.
"and what of the consummation? we only have daisy's story, and it was quite boring." said june, who ignored daisy's scoff. you didn't answer immediately, hand pressing to your belly absentmindedly, and vanessa gasped, "are you already pregnant?"
that drew aerion's eyes, and he glared at you.
"no, no, i'm not pregnant. i was—" june spoke next, "the consummation was well then?" you wanted to snap at them for assuming and interrupting, but all you could focus on was aerion mouthing things at you.
"all hells—say yes!"
"...yes, it was well." none of the women knew you'd had sex before then, and it wasn't something you planned on telling them anyway. "then how was it? sex with the prince i mean." vanessa watched you with excited eyes and you chuckled anxiously.
"it was...nice. hurt a little at first then..." you trailed off, noticing that aerion was watching expectantly, a tiny little smirk on his lips as if he'd actually done something.
"actually, aerion was a little impotent. barely performed." your ladies gasped, each glancing back at aerion as they giggled. the prince's face burst with anger, and he shot out of his seat and approached you, "she's lying. i was fucking perfect."
"then why is there no evidence?" daisy asked, eyebrows raised innocently, and aerion stuttered, mouth agape, "what evidence?"
"love bites? bruises?" aerion glanced at you, then your clean, clear neck and he spat out a curse, snatching daisy's embroidery and pulling the ends of the thread, ruining a couple of hours' worth of work.
you sighed as aerion smirked proudly at her and daisy frowned heavily, head sagging. "that was cruel, husband."
"you know very well what i am." he leaned down to your ear, "and i don't like your fucking lying." the whisper of his breath against your ear made you shiver, and you blushed then turned away entirely. "we will speak of it later."
ꫂ᭪݁
a month after the marriage, the targaryen's were hosting a joust in your honor, meant to welcome you to kings landing as the newest member of their family.
you were sitting beneath the royal pavilion, valarr and daeron were to your sides, while maekar and baelor were behind you. and although you and your in laws were cordial, you had no desire to have long conversations with them and neither did they.
aerion was the bridge between the gap, and because he was participating in the joust, there was no one to clue you in on family conversations that almost always referred to incidents that took place before your arrival in king's landing.
though you didn't mind it. besides, it gave you time to watch aerion. for the past month of your marriage, the two of you had slept with miles between you, and not for any particular reason—unless you count the words shared with your ladies-in-waiting.
he was polite to you—brought you meals when you didn't want to eat with the others, requested your baths be warm after the sun set, didn't order you or even touch you unless you asked, which you hadn't.
that was another source of stress for you: the lack of sex. you didn't think it'd be so hard to ask for sex, but you didn't know how to go about it, especially after the consummation. so you didn't say anything at all, though every morning that you saw aerion shirtless, with bed head, the desire grew larger and larger.
aerion was sitting atop his pitch-black horse, speaking to a kingsguard as he awaited the joust to start. you had your veil in your lap, meant to be given to aerion as your favor, to grant him luck within the joust.
it was wrapped around your arm, the main source of your anxiety, mainly because all eyes were on you. attention was something you were used to as a princess, but the smallfolk in king's landing were different. they spoke proudly and bravely, and because of the wedding, you were the source of gossip within the city.
"he will do something stupid." valarr said, leaning towards you. you gave him a nod, grinning, "i've only known him a month, and i'm sure of it." valarr ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "he is...complicated."
humming you turned to him entirely, eyes leaving aerion, "complicated how? i think our versions of complicated are vastly different." valarr shrugged honestly, "he's always been cruel."
"and he hasn't been cruel...to me." valarr watched you for a moment, "you just made my cousin much more complicated." you rolled your eyes politely and sighed, though as soon as you did, there was a man lingering in front of the pavilion.
you glanced down at him, wondering what his purpose was, but he bowed, ignoring the kingsguard as they kept him a safe distance away. "princess targaryen, is it fair if i ask for your favor?" your inlaws paused, and every seemed to take a deep breath.
"what a stupid man." maekar muttered, shaking his head.
you squeezed the armrests of your chair, mouth opening as you shook your head, "ser, that is improper—" aerion was approaching, eyebrows raised as he led his horse behind him.
your heart spiked as your body sagged, glancing away from the entire ordeal as you saw aerion grab the mans shoulder, "why are you speaking to my wife?" he said it oddly calm, face placid, though you could see his foot tapping against the ground anxiously.
the foolish knight turned to aerion and wiped his forehead free of sweat, "i only mean to—"
"ask for my wife's favor? what makes you think i'm not entitled to it?" aerion shoved his horse's lead into a guard's hands, then he placed his hands on his hips, head tilted curiously.
"aerion, the fool meant nothing by it." baelor spat out, annoyed, standing. maekar didn't bother, throwing hard candies into his mouth, eyebrows raised, though there was a sneer on his lips.
"no, no, uncle. how would you react if a fucking man asked for your wife's favor?" aerion glanced at baelor, turning his body towards the pavilion. the knight relaxed entirely and began stepping away, but suddenly, aerion spun around and clocked him directly in the jaw.
you could hear bone colliding with bone as the spectators gasped. baelor sat, hopeless, while maekar was yelling at the kingsguards to grab aerion before he beat the man to death.
blood sprouted from the knight's nose as aerion continued hitting him, and aerion jaw was clenched firmly as he shook off the guards, hands wrapping around the knight's throat.
"not so complicated during these moments." valarr mumbled, and you nodded your head in agreement, finally pushing to your feet and calling aerions name.
"aerion, you can't dirty my veil with blood, so you might as well stop now." the prince froze long enough for the guards to finally get a hold of him, and he glanced at you, palms raised, "too late."
the valyrian steel band around his finger shone in the sunlight and you called his name once more. aerion ordered the guards off of him, then he approached the pavilion, staring up at you, "you expect me to not be fucking pissed? who does that?" aerion ran a hand through his hair, and you nodded placantingly.
"yes, but—" aerion opened his mouth to interrupt you, but you gave him a look, and he sighed, allowing you to continue, "your violence will consume you one day, lest you stop now." aerion reached up and grabbed your hand, giving it a tiny squeeze, before he turned around and grabbed his horse.
you just hoped your words didn't go in one ear and out the other.
that night, you and aerion lied silently in bed. you'd been freshly bathed and oiled, your hair tied away, thumbs twiddling as you stared up at the bed's canopy.
"and what do the people say now? i hope there's no more talk of your breasts." aerion muttered suddenly, and you turned to him, "my ladies say the people think of you just the same as they usually do. enough to forget about my breasts at least."
aerion nodded, licking his lips and sighing, "that man will be fine." you scoffed, "no he won't. you broke his jaw." aerion's eyes squinted, "he will be fine."
you ignored his words and twisted onto your side, deciding you were ready to sleep, but the bed shifted, and aerion was hovering over you, elbow resting against the pillow.
"are you cross with me?"
"you have a ton of questions, and why do you suddenly care what i think?" you matched his gaze with a childish frown on your lips, and aerion chuckled, "i thought husbands cared for their wives thoughts."
you scoffed, "you've got it all wrong aerion. husbands beat their wives and tell them to never speak and use them as sex toys." aerion hummed, "is that what you want? for me to use you each night and bruise you so strategically that no one will know? because it is surely possible."
the thought made your skin buzz with subtle fear, and after a moment, you shook your head, "no."
you still had no clue why aerion had a sense of care over you, and why he wasn't the type to treat his wife like trash, but you were thoroughly grateful, but that wasn't the issue at hand.
"there's something else." he said matter-of-factly, collapsing back onto the bed, though his arm was brushing your spine. the cold sole of your feet pressed against his ankle, and you sighed, "there is something else."
when you didn't clue him in, aerion glared at you, "and what is it?"
you turned to your back, hands resting against your belly. your arm was over the top of aerion's, and each time he picked at his pants, the hair on his arm would rub against you, making you prickly with goosebumps.
"do you have a lover?" he was silent for a moment, then he glanced at you, sneering in confusion, "no i don't have a fucking lover. what are you on about?"
"you don't kiss me, you don't fuck me, you don't even spend time with me." aerion recoiled away from you and stood entirely, "don't tell me you're hurt."
you scoffed, tugging the covers above your head, "i'm not hurt, i'm confused."
"i can not read your mind, wife. if you want kisses and dates and sex, then you must tell me!" he was entirely irritated, and you could tell there was a sense of disappointment in himself because he didn't fulfill your needs to your liking.
you peeked at aerion, and found him leaning against the post of the bed, hand against his head. "do you even want those things?" the miniscule tone of your voice made aerion soften entirely, and he sighed, "yes."
there was a red blush covering his cheeks, and you refused a smile, peeling back the covers to welcome him. aerion took up your offer and stared at the canopy, pale lashes fluttering as he blinked.
"after the consummation, i thought this was just... an arrangement." he muttered, "and each time i tried to please you, you didn't say anything." timidity was never something you thought you'd see with aerion, but it warmed your heart.
"i didn't know how to react."
he shook his head, "that is a poor excuse." you rolled your eyes, twisting onto your side, back to him, "it is the truth, aerion." a few seconds passed, but then he curled around you, legs tangling with yours.
"do you want to have sex now?" he said, and you nodded, "a little, yes." aerion tugged your shift up slowly, then pressed his clothed dick against you, which was unsurprisingly already hard.
"i have thought about you, a lot." the rumble of his voice in your ear was enough to have you gushing, eyes closed as you relaxed.
"when?" aerion pushed through your folds, nails digging into the soft skin of your hip, "in the morning mostly. when you undress in the bathing room. i could see you—fuck—every inch of you." he began pushing into you, lips locked around the skin on your neck, leaving a purple bruise that multiplied as he focused on another inch of you.
you body was buzzing with pleasure, inhaling every scent of aerion—his hair, his sweat, his musk, everything. something about him made your body want to burst like a firework.
he knew exactly what to do too, fingers pinching at your nipples, tongue working at your skin, all the while he thrusted into you, slow at first until he was fully hilted.
the pressure built, but at his first thrust, the pleasure overtook your body entirely. you reached back and fisted aerion's hair, delighting in his rough moans. his front kissed your back each time he pushed into you, and when you grabbed his hand and placed it on your clit, aerion began to flick dutifully.
"your ladies won't know what happened to you." aerion muttered, forehead on the curve of your spine. you chuckled at his words, grabbing his arm and pulling it tighter around your body.
"i'll be pregnant in a fortnight if you continue on like this." you muttered when you felt him tighten and release inside of you, warm with his cum. your thighs were trembling as your orgasm grew, piquing each time he rutted into you.
"what if i want you pregnant?" aerion sucked on your earlobe, smirking when you came, every muscle in your body releasing with a spasm. you inhaled deeply and let out a moan, "you don't want me pregnant, aerion. you want to have fun as long as possible, without the children."
he hummed, nodding, "you know me better than expected." aerion suddenly flipped you onto your belly, hands pressing into your back as he slammed into you.
your ears were ringing, cheek pressed into the pillow, but all you could think to do was moan. "i'll need moon tea." you muttered, and aerion nodded, pushing into you one last time before he came.
his mouth was agape, eyelids squeezed tightly shut, and when he fell on top of you, neither of you bothered to move. "i'll make it myself, yes?"
"the people will just assume we're having trouble producing. or you, rather." aerion grumbled, "i perform perfectly."
⋆.˚ SUMMARY. at a banquet celebrating the marriage of your family members, aerion spots you dancing joyfully with your twin brother when he begins to seethe in jealousy, and a break of fresh air you so desired, takes a turn.
⋆.˚ A/N. i always told myself i was never going to write targcest and yet here we are, hopefully my last 🫶
After your cousin’s ethereal wedding, it was time for the banquet right after, where there was music and food enough to last a year. You sat hands gently over your lap with your twin brother and father beside you at the long table where the kin of the married sat.
You look at your cousin in awe as he prepares a speech about his wife, a Dornish woman he met while exploring the deserted location alongside his friend of years.
It seemed as if the Targaryen men closest to you were destined to be with Dorne-born women. Such as your uncle and your own father, and perhaps your brother is on the same path, for yourself, you were not sure, in reality, you did not wish for a partner or to be wed.
But as a woman, especially a Targaryen woman with a right to the throne, you must bear heirs, time passes by as your father seeks a worthy partner for you.
You think your father “favors” you because you resemble your mother, you have her hair, and you wear her bronze skin, and he fears losing you as he did with your mother, he will not fail you, he swears by it.
When your cousin concludes the beautiful speech the music continues now more lively than before. As the wedded couple goes to the middle to dance, your brother rises from his seat and extends his hand.
“My dear sister.” You turn your head to him, and you smile widely when you notice his gesture. “May I?” You chuckle and nod. The jewelry adorning your ears and bracelets wrapped comfortably around your wrists click delicately as the cold metal of your rings wrap around your brother’s hand.
You look back at your father and he smiles, proudly watching the mutual love his children share, only thinking of his late love and how he wishes she could be here, with him, with their children.
Valarr pulls you gently to where the rest of the invited danced joyfully, everyone tapping their feet against the cold wood that was the floor. You and your brother follow the pace of the rest, watching their moves and footwork. Valarr’s hand was resting gently on your back as you held your hands up. You laugh when you accidentally step on Valarr’s toes and he exclaims.
Your laugh, the common sound that always leaves your lips no matter the cause awakens the ears of the one Aerion. Who had already been watching ardently. His jaw muscles flexed as he clenched his teeth accompanied by a piercing gaze seething with the fire of jealousy, fists clenched, fingernails digging into his palm with what could only be envy.
“Dear brother, have you never danced before?” You mock your brother with a small laugh.
“I’ll have you know, this is training for me, training for my Lady Kiera.” Your eyes widen, jaw slack.
“My! That is amazing. I truly wish you well brother.” You smile widely.
The only smile that could brighten a room and relieve people belonged to you, your lips, your mouth. No one in what was and has been Westeros could ever have your smile, which is why Aerion has always thought, to this day, he still shares the same mentality.
You close your eyes, tilt your head down out of respect for your brother when he thanks you, you open your eyes again, and look into his eyes.
Aerion feels his heart skip a beat, wanting to drown himself in Wildfire as he sees how your pretty eyes looked at Valarr wishing that should be him, feeling your touch, smiling like this was the last time you would, and a gaze that he thought would never belong to you. Aerion’s face drops as his breathing becomes unsteady and his entire body cools down.
He begins to stammer in his thoughts. How would he think you could be his? Would you even look at him like this? Would you even think of him the way he thinks about you? Or the things he thinks about when you are in his mind. But it isn’t long after that when his mentality drifts.
Aerion never loses. What’s his is his. No matter what stands in his way, or who. He will have you. Aerion has had that mindset since before he can remember, the only girl in his family, it’s what was destined for you. He would not harm you, he never would, not because your father would immediately have him executed, but because he would be hurting the only true thing that makes him not want to spew rage and hate amongst everyone and everything. You’re too full of life, you are too happy and he would rather fall than have to dim your light.
His face loses all the softness he had seconds ago, now bitter, knitted eyes as he keeps burning into you, his burning gaze claiming you and you didn’t even know it.
You turn, now the back of your hand in contact with your brother’s as the dance concludes. As you break off, you look between the guests and find him.
Your eyes find each other amongst the crowded table like an instinct, a habit. Wired into your system as well as his.
You blink, face softening whilst the guests moving around become a blur once you’re lost in the haze with only Aerion in front of you.
You blink your mind back into consciousness and swallow the lump in your throat. You head to the table and kneel next to your father so you can speak into his ear.
“Father, the dance has tired me, I’m going for a breath of air.” He cups your cheek and nods. You smile and head off.
You head to the garden not far off from where the banquet was being held. The humidity and fog quickly hide you as you walk further down the garden, bending your knees as you grab a rare flower and hold it to your nose.
A few flowers away, you spot your favorite kind, the mixture of colors immediately catching your eye. You smile and move toward it.
Back at the feast, Aerion stands from his chair. “Where are you going?” Maekar questions, eyebrows knitted together as always.
Aerion looks at Baelor, who awaits his answer. “A stroll.” He puts simply, flashing a quick frown as he steps down, cape flowing majestically as his silver hair fades away with his steps.
The older siblings exchange a glance, and Maekar sighs in annoyance. Meanwhile, Baelor gets an unusual feeling, but nods it off as he continues to watch the guests dancing.
You caress the petals of the flower softly, smiling when you smell the familiar, sweet, and fresh aroma. Your head tilts up, admiring the wide variety of flowers and their scents around you.
You sigh and smell the flower one last time before you rise.
“Your favorite.” The familiar voice you had so wished wasn’t following your every move was ringing through your ears.
You take in a deep breath. “You shouldn’t be here.” You remark, annoyed.
“Why? Because it’s not modest?” He begins to say as you walk past him, but his grip around your arm stops you. “Why, cousin?” Your nose flares and you slowly look up at him. His eyes big, demanding an answer, eyebrows folded.
“Let go.” Your eyes move from his grip to his eyes. And he lets go slowly. “I wanted a breath of fresh air, that is all.”
“Are you insinuating that I am not a breath of fresh air?” You cringe when he says that, eyebrows quickly scrunch and you blink.
“You said it.” You smile, placing a hand over his collarbone, then making your way.
Aerion smirks, slowly, quietly following your steps. You go slowly as well, as if waiting for something to happen, you’re toying with him, and he loves it.
You walk in silence, the music and the steps from the banquet are muffled, even when you’re feet away.
You look down for a moment and wrap your hand around your wrist, but when you feel skin you hum, and you realize your bracelet is missing.
You look behind you and Aerion is smiling as he holds up the familiar golden bracelet. You sigh in annoyance and step toward him.
“Hand it over.” You spat. He tilts his head at your tone, annoyed and demanding.
“Ask again.”
“Aerion. Hand it over.” You say, eyes darkening. He blinks at you, softly squinting his eyes. You breathe in and extend your arm, but he quickly moves it.
“Baelor give you this?” He asks. Admiring it.
“Valarr.” The name makes his skin crawl and his eyes quickly find yours again.
Now that he holds it low, you grab onto the bracelet, but he doesn’t let go. You pull on the bracelet, gently, trying not to break it with Aerion’s stubborn grip.
He takes steps toward you as you take steps back, eyes never leaving yours, burning into yours with intense jealousy. You smirk at his stare, you can feel the boiling rage radiating off of him as he backs you into a cold, damp brick wall.
He holds your chin between his finger and thumb. He says no more as he closes the space between you, but you don’t press back. He pulls away, eyebrows knitted as he looks for an answer in your eyes.
He holds your face in his palm softly as you look down, breathing shakily. He pressed his forehead against yours, noses rubbing against each other, you open your mouth, to speak, to breathe, whatever it was, he took it as an answer to kiss you again.
This time, you begin to kiss back, your hand traveling to his face, while your other hand remains firm against the bracelet. When your teeth graze against each other when the kiss begins to lose control, you push him away.
“No!” You growl. “No…we shouldn’t.” You look him up and down, mouth agape as you hold your stomach and press your lips together, savoring the last bit of his kiss.
“Just because we shouldn’t does not mean we can’t.” He approaches you again, caressing your face as your lips find each other again, a quick and sloppy kiss this time but you deny, pushing him again.
But your hunger becomes too strong, starving for his taste, desiring for his touch, lustful for his lips.
You catch your breath and your back leaves contact with the wall as you push yourself into Aerion. Your lips catch each other once again. Your arms quickly wrap around him and he backs you against the wall once again, you hold onto his face and manage to take a grip on your bracelet once again, but so lost in the euphoria of the moment, it falls from your and Aerion’s hands, clattering against the floor.
You grip Aerion’s silver hair as his lips leave wet kisses against your neck and open cleavage. You move your head up, pressing against the humid bricks as Aerion begins sucking softly, earning soft noises from you that echo through the hall. He multi-tasked, his cold hands find their way under your dress, he grabs your leg forcefully and raises it, as he positions himself between your legs.
His hand wraps around your neck, his finger finding its way into your open mouth as he kisses your cleavage once again.
Behind the bars of the hall doors, a tight-jawed Baelor is watching, listening with a fistful of rage. He huffs and goes his way back to the table, Gods hoping they wipe that scene from his memory.
Your cold rings make Aerion shiver as your hands travel from his face to his neck and shoulders when his lips go from your chest up to your chin.
You turn your head, and now you’re eye-to-eye with him once again. You bat your eyelashes at him, pupils blown back with desperation and lust.
“Now, cousin. We should head back. It is not modest for us to be out here alone.” He looks from your lips to your eyes. He presses his thumb to your red lips and you caress his jaw, you chuckle and he sets your leg down.
You watch as he walks back to the banquet as if nothing happened, and you laugh at that. You lick your lips, softly biting down on them.
Minutes after Aerion had entered, you head back in, and it’s as if you’ve never left. You manage to send a look to Aerion from across the table and hide your smile by licking your lips, but he smirks, not helping you at all.
You sit and cross your legs, but place your hands over your lap. Your father turns his head over to you, and you can tell he has a different look to him, in his eyes, but you pretend not to notice so you don’t have to look at him.
You feel guilty already, a sinful woman, looking at your father will only make you even more guilty.
“Where’s your bracelet?” Valarr speaks to you, noticing your bracelet had been missing from your wrist before you sat down.
Your stomach drops and you look at him, beginning to panic. “I-I… it must’ve fallen while I was strolling around the garden.” You stammer and Valarr sighs.
“Not to worry, sister. I’ll look for it.” You smile and nod. He then leaves.
You straighten yourself and look around, your eyes falling on Aerion as per usual, and like always, he was already looking at you.
He has a smirk on his face that only makes you wish to smack him, you mouth to him something along the lines about how he got you into trouble and he grins, infecting you with his contagious smile.
Maekar looks between the two of you and cringes, teeth grazing against each other and cheek twitching. Like brothers, he and Baelor share a glance and Baelor shakes his head, closing his eyes in denial.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, pregnancy themes, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
a/n: Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded and playes Aerion like a fiddle. Possibly ooc because it's filthy smut.
You had been taught since girlhood that a Tyrell maiden did not survive by strength of arms, but by knowing when to bend, when to bloom, and when to let thorns show only in shadow. Still, no amount of lessons in smiles and silks had prepared you for being traded like a piece on a Cyvasse board to a prince whose name was spoken in half-whispers and sharp warnings.
Aerion Targaryen.
Brightflame.
Mad.
The words followed him like smoke.
In Highgarden, your protests were received with gentle hands and firm voices. Your father spoke of duty. Your mother spoke of alliance. Your grandmother spoke of survival and said that roses learned early how to grow around stone.
“He is Maekar’s problem no longer,” one of your uncles said with forced humor. “He will be yours.”
Yours.
You had wanted Valarr. Everyone knew it, though no one had said it aloud. Gentle, courteous Valarr, who bowed and smiled and spoke kindly to squires and smallfolk alike. But Valarr was too valuable. He'd probably be betrothed to a Baratheon. An Arryn. A better match. You were to be used to bind a wound no one else wished to touch.
So you went to King’s Landing with your head high and your stomach knotted, wearing green and gold, a rose thrown into dragon fire.
The Red Keep smelled of salt and old stone and power. You were brought before Prince Maekar first, a man carved from stern lines and disappointment. His eyes lingered on you only briefly before flicking away, as if already weary.
“You ought to be patient,” he told you, not unkindly, but without warmth. “My son is…difficult.”
You almost laughed at the understatement.
Aerion did not come to that first meeting. You were told he was training. Or breaking something. Or both.
When you were finally presented to him, it was in a long gallery lined with banners and the bleached skulls of dragons, vast and terrible and beautiful in their dead silence.
He did not bow.
He looked you over the way one might inspect a horse.
“So,” he said, voice sharp and bright as a drawn blade. “This is the rose they mean to bind me with.”
You curtsied, low and perfect, as if he were already your king.
“My prince,” you said softly. “I am honored to meet you.”
His mouth twisted. “Honored,” he repeated. “Do you know what I am?”
“A Targaryen,” you said, lifting your gaze just enough. “Of the blood of the dragon.”
That pleased him, you saw it instantly. The smallest shift in his eyes, the straightening of his shoulders.
“And you?” he pressed. “A pretty little Reach flower. Soft. Common.”
You smiled anyway. “Roses have thorns, my prince.”
He barked out a short, humorless laugh. “You will learn your place quickly. I will give you children. That is your purpose. I suppose you're pretty enough, I can imagine enjoying bedding you. But they will not be brown-haired little gardeners. I will not have it.”
You did not flinch.
“I would never wish to disappoint you,” you said. “Valyrian blood is…otherworldly. To think that my body might carry even a spark of it is more than I ever dreamed.”
That was a gamble.
It paid off.
His eyes sharpened with interest. “You’ve heard the stories.”
“Of dragons,” you said. “Of Old Valyria. Of fire made flesh.”
He turned then, abruptly, stalking down the gallery. “Come,” he ordered. “If you are to bear dragon blood, you should know what it comes from.”
He dragged you from skull to skull, gesturing with restless energy. Balerion’s massive jaws. Vhagar’s curved horns. He spoke of conquest and fear and how men had once trembled at the sound of wings.
“They forget now,” Aerion snarled. “They look at us and see only men. They should see gods.”
“They should,” you agreed quietly. “It must be…infuriating. To be born to such legacy, only to watch it fade.”
He stopped and turned to you, studying you anew. “You understand.”
You tilted your head. “I try.”
From that moment, he talked more. Too much. About dragons. About bloodlines. About how his father did not see him, how the realm did not respect him. You listened. You nodded. You validated every grievance, every simmering fury, as if they were reasonable and righteous.
When he spoke of how he had wanted a sister-wife, you did not recoil. You said, gently, “It is a tragedy, to be denied purity by fate. But perhaps the gods mean to test you. To see if your fire can burn even through lesser blood.”
He liked that.
When he spat about small lords growing bold, you said, “They forget who conquered them. It is your right to remind them.”
He liked that too.
He informed you, bluntly, that he would not be gentle on your wedding night.
You lowered your lashes and said, “Dragons are not gentle creatures.”
The courtship, if it could be called that, was a strange dance. Aerion did not bring you flowers. He did not write poetry. He prowled around you. But you made it into something else.
You let him drag you through the gardens, your skirts gathered in your hands as you laughed and ran, letting him chase you like a predator playing with prey. When he caught you, he would grip your arms, breath hot, eyes bright, and you would laugh into his shoulder and murmur, “The dragon has captured me.”
He liked that more than he should have.
He liked when you watched him train. You sat in the shade with your ladies, clapping softly when he struck true, praising his strength, his form, his speed. Other knights noticed. So did he.
He liked that smallfolk began to recognize you. You made certain of that.
You had bread and coins handed out. You stopped to listen to old women’s stories. You let children touch the embroidery on your sleeves. Soon, whispers followed you through Flea Bottom and the markets.
The Golden Rose. The Dragon’s Lady.
When people spotted you, they bowed and blessed you, and Aerion noticed.
“They love you,” he said one evening, watching a group of women murmur prayers as you passed.
“They love House Targaryen,” you corrected lightly. “Through me.”
That pleased him immensely.
You prayed in the Sept, if only briefly. You never tried to bring him. You knew better. Instead, you let word spread that you were devout enough to soothe the Faith, but not so devout as to shame a dragon prince.
You made friends with your ladies, learning what they heard, what they whispered. You learned which courtiers feared Aerion, which resented him, which flattered him. You stored it all away like weapons hidden in silk.
In private, he began to call you his little rose. At first it was mocking. Then it was possessive. Then it was almost fond.
“You will give me sons,” he told you one night, pacing as you sat at a small table with embroidery you did not truly need. “Strong ones. Silver-haired. Violet-eyed. The gods favor giving your line sons, don't they?.”
“So they say of Tyrell women,” you replied smoothly. “We give the realm sons. They grow strong and healthy.”
He stopped pacing. “Good.”
He stood too close then, invading your space, eyes scanning your face, your mouth, your throat, your waist, your hips.
“At least you are well-proportioned,” he added bluntly. “Your body has merits.”
You smiled sweetly, as if it were a compliment. “I am glad to be of use to you, my prince.”
He did not touch you then but his eyes lingered.
At night, alone in your chambers, fear crept in. You had heard enough. You knew enough. Aerion was cruel. He was unpredictable. You suspected he would not be gentle. You suspected he would not be kind.
So you prepared in the only way you could. You made yourself indispensable.
You became the one person who did not flinch from his talk of dragons and fire. The one who agreed that the world had wronged him. The one who looked at him not with fear, but with admiration carefully measured. You laughed at his jokes, even when they were sharp. You praised his lineage, even when it edged into madness. You let him feel powerful in your presence.
And slowly, dangerously, he began to seek it.
He would send for you. He would ask where you were. He would grow irritated if you were with your ladies too long.
“My rose,” he said one afternoon, fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword. “Come walk with me.”
You rose at once. “Of course.”
As you walked, he spoke of the wedding. Of the feast. Of the bedding.
“They will cheer,” he said. “They will watch. They will see that the dragon has taken his bride.”
Your heart leapt to your throat, but you kept your smile soft. “It will be a night to remember.”
He glanced at you sideways, eyes dark. “For you.”
You did not look away. “I hope to make you proud, my prince.”
Something in his expression shifted. Not softened but sharpened with intent. Ownership. You saw it. You felt it. You also knew you had no choice now but to keep playing.
Three moons later...
It is the hour of the owl. The fire has burned low. His chambers smell of burnt wood, iron and wine.
Cold is beginning to creep in. Or perhaps it is merely your nerves.
Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the low light. He's downing another goblet of wine. You had forgotten to keep count. Foolish of you, usually you were aware when to coax it out of his hand.
“Ten days,” he says, not looking at you.
You still.
“Ten days late,” Aerion continues, voice controlled in that way that means it isn’t. “You let me think.” His hand tightens slowly into a fist at his side. “You let me hope.”
You swallow. “My prince...”
“Don’t.” He turns then, violet eyes bright with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it. “For ten days, I counted. I imagined. I told myself it had finally taken.” His mouth twists. “I thought you were carrying my child.”
The words land heavy between you.
“And now,” he goes on, stepping closer, each stride eating away at your space, “your moon blood comes. As if to mock me.”
You keep your face soft. Careful. “These things...”
“Spare me septa nonsense,” Aerion snaps. “We have been wed for months. You promised me an heir, precious rose.” The endearment is sharp now, almost cruel. “You swore Tyrell women give sons easily.”
His gaze drags over you, taking in your face, your body beneath thin silk. Ownership. Disappointment. Hunger, all tangled together.
“I wanted to bury my head in your lap tonight,” he admits bitterly. “Let you stroke my hair and tell me it will come, like you always do.” His jaw tightens. “But I am tired of being soothed, wife.”
Wife.
The word is not gentle.
“I am tired of waiting.”
His hand comes up, catching your jaw, tilting your face up. His grip is warm, firm, inescapable.
“You will make it right,” he says quietly. “You will remind my body, and yours, what it is for.”
You don’t pull away.
You never do.
“My precious rose,” he murmurs, and then his voice hardens. “My wife. My only whore.”
The words hit different when he’s like this. When frustration twists them into something darker.
“You were late,” he says again, quieter now. “You let me believe. I was patient as a priest. I was faithful as a knight. I didn't let another get my cock wet, not wanting to waste a single drop of my seed.”
“I didn’t mean to...”
He cuts you off by unlacing your robe, fingers rough, impatient. Silk slides from your shoulders and pools at your feet.
“On the bed,” he orders. “On your back.”
You obey.
He strips quickly, efficiently. When he’s naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed, anger and need driving it.
He kneels between your legs, grips your thighs, spreads you wide. His gaze is unflinching.
“This is how you make it right,” Aerion says. “You take me. You take all of me. Until your body remembers its purpose.”
His fingers stroke through you without ceremony. One finger, then two, stretching you open. You gasp despite yourself, hips shifting, seeking friction.
He watches your face closely, smirking faintly when you can’t stop the sound that escapes you.
He withdraws his fingers, brings them to his mouth, tasting you while holding your gaze.
Then he positions himself, hooking your legs up, folding you open.
He pushes inside you in one long, brutal thrust.
You cry out, the stretch sharp, the depth overwhelming. He doesn’t pause. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm.
His hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. The wet, obscene sounds fill the chamber as he uses you, thrust after thrust, deep and deliberate.
“You’ll take it,” he grits. “You’ll take my seed until it takes root. I will not be denied.”
Your body betrays you, growing slick, opening for him. The pressure builds low in your belly, tight and relentless.
His hand slides between you, thumb finding your most sensitive place, circling rough and insistent.
“Come,” he commands. “If you’re going to fail me, you’ll at least come properly.”
Your body obeys. The release tears through you, clenching around him, and he hisses, thrusts turning harder, erratic.
He buries himself deep and stills, spilling inside you with a guttural sound.
He doesn’t pull out.
He keeps you there, shifting you onto your side, holding you tight.
“Don’t move,” he orders. “Every drop stays where it belongs.”
His hand splays over your lower belly.
“We will try again,” he says. “And again. Until it works.”
He hardens again sooner than you expect.
“Stay laying on your back, you spoiled, soft petal. You can't even lean on your arms and knees long enough for me,” he murmurs darkly.
He drags your hips up and enters you again, deeper, rougher. Your cry is muffled by his fingers in your mouth as he grips your hip with the other. You bite down. He never minds.
“You will carry my child,” he pants. “I don’t care what your blood did tonight. Your body will learn.”
Then he is filling you again, fingers shoving his spend back inside you when it spills.
“Can’t waste it,” he growls. “Not when you’ve already disappointed me once.”
He props your hips up afterward, keeps you still, keeps you full, watching you like you’re something fragile and infuriating all at once.
“Stay,” he orders. “Let it settle.”
Aerion lies on his side behind you, his chest pressed to your back. His arm is draped over your waist, hand warm and heavy against your belly. His breathing is slower now, deeper, the edge taken off by exhaustion.
His palm moves in slow, absent circles over your stomach, almost tender. Almost thoughtful. As if he’s trying to imagine something there by force of will alone.
“There,” he murmurs, half to you, half to himself. “That’s where they’ll be. That’s where my heirs will grow. Inside my precious rose.” His thumb presses gently. “You feel warm there. Like fire under skin.”
You say nothing.
His nose brushes your hair. He exhales against your temple, eyes already heavy.
“They’ll have my hair,” he goes on quietly. “My eyes. They’ll be unmistakable. No one will ever doubt them.” His fingers spread. “And you’ll be their mother. You. Not some courtly fool, not some empty pretty thing. You’re the only one worthy to raise my children.”
It almost sounds like love. Almost.
“I won’t abandon you,” Aerion says, sudden intensity sharpening his voice even through the sleepiness. “Even if your body fails me. Even if you never give me what you promised.” His hand tightens briefly on your waist. “I won’t take another wife. I won’t replace you. You’re mine.”
His lips brush your knuckles when you shift your hand near his.
“I would keep you,” he continues, words drifting, unguarded in a way they never are in daylight. “I would keep you with me, always. You’d raise my children. You’d teach them. They’d call you mother.”
Then, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, he adds:
“If you can’t give them to me yourself…I’ll take a whore with Valyrian blood. Some bastard girl from Flea Bottom. Silver hair, violet eyes. They’re there, if you know where to look.”
Your stomach turns, but you keep your face still in the dark.
“I’d take her somewhere quiet,” Aerion murmurs, almost thoughtfully. “Somewhere no one watches. I’d breed her. Just long enough to get what I need. I'd have to send you away somewhere as well, around that time.”
His thumb resumes its slow, idle stroke over your belly.
“And when she gives me a child,” he says, voice soft, almost fond, “I’ll kill her.”
The words settle into the room like ash.
“Then you and I will raise the child as our own,” he finishes. “No one will ever question it. No one will ever know.”
Your face twists in a way you’re grateful he can’t see in the darkness.
Aerion brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, gentle as a lover, tender as a husband.
“So,” he murmurs against your skin, “give me an heir, petal. Save us both the trouble.”
His grip loosens slightly, fatigue finally winning.
“Sleep now,” he says. “You’ll need your strength. I’ll start again in the morning.”
a/n: I won't be caught dead simping for a blond unless it's a Targaryen. This deranged man has me in a chokehold helpppp 😭🥵. Comment if you want to be added to Aerion or Targaryens taglist, I'm thinking of making one in case I write more fics about them.
warnings: spoilers for ep3 of akotsk!! targcest, aerion is obsessive but so is reader, they are crazy!! and evil!! duncan catches some strays but ill make it up with a duncan fic soon trust #lovethatman!! smut: (unprotected PiV (wrap it before you tap it!!) fingering!f receiving, blood play if you squint, breeding kink if you use a magnifying glass, aerion whimpers™ once) canon violence (aerion breaking tanselles finger, blood, a horse dying though not graphic, and reader gets slashed) changed tiny things around so the plot could happen. no descriptions of reader besides silver hair, photos are for aesthetic only.
synopsis: a tourney has you going to ashford, and after aerions jousting win—no matter how he got it—enjoys his victory. though with a play that ends with you ending up hurt and his mood dampened, aerion shows his fealty in more than one way.
thank you guys for 90 followers!! genuinely crazy love you all so much!! mwah mwah
the court often whispered that aerion was not devoted to anything other than power, but they were wrong. yes, perhaps he was cruel, monstrous even, and desperately sought power, but he did have a devotion for something other than power; you.
you came exactly two minutes after him, and when placed in the same cradle, his sobs stopped immediately, cries turning into almost soft coos when he had you near and this did not stop even as he became a toddler. you could not leave his line of sight or gods forbid you are in another room since the prince would bite and scream until you were placed next to him again.
as you both grew, he no longer restored to biting when he was not near you, but perhaps that was because he learnt to walk and in turn, he was often close by—even as the two of you developed different habits and behaviors, you didn’t do anything without his eyes on you—no courtesans of the castle could expect one twin to be without the other, and no matter how cruel aerion seemed to get, you did not leave his side and he did not leave yours.
your royal duties today brought you to a tourney in ashford. it was a few days ride from kings landing, but your father was hellbent on going. which seemed to backfire spectacularly on him as he lose two of your brothers in the process, daeron and aegon. though losing his children doesn’t even make make him turn the royal party around and try and find them. two of his children missing, and he would not forget about the stupid tourney—perhaps you are deflecting your hate for tournaments to your father—and find your brothers, but alas he thought they would simply show up somewhere; so onwards you went, eventually making it to the keep.
barely five minutes into the courtyard, and you haven’t even gotten a chance to dismount your horse before aerion manages to insult a hedge knight. you do not insult him with aerion, but do not apologize for your twins behavior either. instead finding the nearest stable boy to hand off your horse, and going to explore the castle (which in your humble opinion) was quite bland compared to the red keep.
the actual jousts finally begin the second day in the reach, but only highborns or knights of notable ranking are able to join the signup for today, and of course—because his pride wouldn’t let him not join—aerion did, very arrogantly. you were hoping to avoid as many parts of the tournament as possible, but you could not miss his jousting, he would be petulant if you did not come to witness his win he was so certain would happen. you regretted it as soon as you sat in the arena.
it was a total bloodbath, and only two rounds into the joust. aerion was haughty with his win against Ser Hardyng, not caring that he won by purposely aiming low instead of playing fair. he lifted his helm when he saw the commonfolk start to riot, and he smiled faintly to himself, proud. the horse that he stabbed with his lance was quickly put out of its misery, and the knight laid on the ground. ouch. he glanced over to where you were sat next to baelor in the royal stands, and unlike his uncles face of disapproval, you had the smallest of a perverse smile, which only made him happier in his brutality if you found enjoyment out of it.
with the jousting over for the day from the…spectacle he made, people gathered in the clearings and tents of the ashfords land, seeking entertainment. you forgoed your sworn sword, you did not need the attention it brings, and if your silver hair did not give your status away, a royal guard certainly would. you decided on a tent, and as you start pushing through the crowd—that separates for you once they realized it was a princess pushing them—and you catch the familiar crimson red of aerions clothes, quickly going to stand next to him, and he looks rather indignant that someone would dare take a spot so close until he realized it was just you.
“i did not take you for a puppet show enjoyer.” your face flat as to reveal no emotion, but he heard the teasing lit in your voice, giving you away, he tolerated it for the moment being.
“i don’t.” the tone of his words as simple as yours, violet eyes focused on the enactment, “but there is a dragon in this….play.” he spits out play out as if it disgusted him. “and i wish to see how they portray it.”
you hum in acknowledgment, clasping your hands in front of you, and look back at the play—as aerion so gracefully put it—intrigued despite yourself. the girl in makeshift armor, (the hero of the show, no doubt) is running around the dragon puppet, the crowd laughing and applauding, perhaps at something that she said before you came into the tent. the joy doesn’t last long, as in only in a few minutes, it goes deadly quiet while she ‘stabs’ it in the neck with her fake sword, red confetti gushing from the slit in the puppet, and suddenly the sea of people separated.
her eyes go wide in terror at the look on aerions face. you were not as upset as him. it was a stupid play, and a stupider commoner girl, her stabbing some dragon puppet was insolent and disrespectful, treasonous at best. yet you did not believe yourself a dragon like aerion, who would take such personal offense to such a thing. the crowd immediately went up in a uproar as aerion grabbed her. the guards that were there, both white cloaks and ashford knights tried to control the crowd, pushing them back as much as possible, but it doesn’t stop the outcry, it never did.
when aerion broke her finger moments later, bending it backwards and up as she cried out, people try to push through the guards more than they already have, though a man who moved passed you to fast for you to recognize him, managed to—horrified by the actions taken by the prince—breaking the seal of people rioting and knights guarding the tent, and that gave just enough leeway for a commoner to suddenly grabs you, him seeing an opportunity now that the guards eyes were not completely on you, and that gave him just enough time to cut you with a dagger before the guards tackle him, causing you to stumble back, hand instinctively pressed against your wound as blood seeped into your dress, your palm.
you could not focus on the burning of the gash for long as you heard fighting and a large thud, voices loud and urgent that followed. you pushed down the pain, walking to where you were originally before the crowds of people pushed you, ignoring a sword asking if you were alright. when you walk in, clutching your side, a royal guard whispers urgently to another to get a maester, considering both you and aerion were injured, and they knew if the prince saw you hurt, it would only cause more of a stir.
you see the hedge knight you met, the one aerion insulted not even three days before, being held back by the guards that rushed to aerions side when he lunged. the man’s fury written all over his face. ser duncan (or at least what you think his name is) must of been the one to get aerion bloodied, considering the look on his face. you scan the tent, and see aegon near by, his head shaved. that’s how he managed to sneak away from the royal party, he truly looked like a commoner to anyone who didn’t know the princes face very well. probably saved the lowly knight from being killed right there and then by revealing his status. aerion speaks in a low tone then, snapping you out of his thoughts. “why would you throw your life away for this whore?” he spares a glance over at you, and seems to become angrier, as if the hedge knight slashed you himself.
“she’s scarcely worth it.” words as simple as if he was explaining night and day. he does not scream or cry, his words were calm. which was almost scarier than a tantrum, “she is a traitor. the dragon ought never lose.” shaking his head as he made his way to where you were. your pretty dress ruined and stained with blood and dirt from being grabbed by that man. he was furious, more than you originally thought. he silently communicated with you, you shake your head lightly, the hedge knight has learns his lesson already with the punishment he will get later. no need for more, not with so many commonfolk watching, anyways, and your side was killing you, you wanted to leave as soon as possible. he does not look away from you, debating wether to listen or to no, but ends up snapping out:
“and someone get a fucking maester!”
your side ached with every stitch put in it, though the pain turned to a dull throb now. aerions face has been cleaned up, no longer bloodied, and though the maester cleared him from any serious damage, he stayed; just watching as the maester fixed your wound. you winced as the needle pierced your skin—a particularly painful prick it seemed—but thankfully it was the last one needed, and the maester bandaged it quickly, bowing and leaving right after finishing, not wanting to stay longer than what was needed. aerion still doesn’t speak, and watched you. as if you showed you were in more pain than you let on, the more that ser duncan would eventually have to pay.
you stand up, using the chair as support and grab the new and not torn dress a handmaiden left in the chambers earlier. you start to undo the laces of the one you were currently wearing so you could change, unable to get the last ones easily. before you could even ask, fingers replace yours. aerion pulls at the laces, the dress slipping off your shoulders when the final one is undone, the clothe pooling at your ankles, leaving you in just your underclothes. “thank you.” you murmur, not turning back around just yet.
he just hums, and grabs the new shift for you, sliding the thin straps off your shoulders, your breath hitches, as the cold hits your bare skin and at aerions touch, but before you can dwell on it, he finally speaks. “that hedge knight will pay for what he did.”
“he was not the one to cut me, aerion.” you whisper back.
“no.” he murmured back, anger still in his voice as his thumb traced down the line of your back, testing. “he did not. but if he had not stopped me from breaking that whores fingers, no commoner would have be able to grab you.”
you knew it was no use in arguing about the logistics, not with him anyways. you just simply grabbed the silk from him, making sure not to turn back and show him more than he’s already seen, but you were sure it made no difference. slipping over your body before smoothing it down and turning to face him. he almost looks disappointed at the lack of skin you showed.
“you wish for his head?” you ask, pulling your hair out of your dress.
“yes, and i will get it.” he says as if it had already been decided. “the man who cut you has too.” you expected that, the guards tackled the man and you were sure his head was already in a bag, ready to be put on a spike when you went back to kingslanding. you do not respond to his words, you had no answer as his hand went to your face, thumb roughly stroking your cheek. he leans in closer, whispering, “i will never let someone hurt you and end up unburnt.”
you take a breath in, and your words were barely a murmur, trusting. “i know.”
he looks almost like he was going to kiss you, or perhaps not. perhaps you had made up everything you thought you knew about him and he was just being—
his lips quickly claimed yours, biting and claiming, cutting off the racing thoughts you had. his other hand comes up and cups your face, making you unable to pull away even if you wanted to.
his hands did not know where to stay, because one of them almost instantly moved to push up your shift, almost moaning at the feel of your soft skin. “aerion, someone will find out…” you trail off as his hand goes higher, not trusting your words at the moment. his lips managed to swallow whatever noise of pleasure you made at his touch.
“we are dragons—you were made for me—and i take what is mine.” he whispered reverently. his tongue slipping into your mouth greedily, as if he was trying to take all of you he could, and guides you backwards towards the nearest wall, pressing you against it. the hand that was against your thigh quickly makes work of itself, and you whimper as his thumb rubbed against your clit.
he smiled. that same not-actually-happy smile, the possessive, cruel, one. your brows furrow in pleasure, “gods, you’re wet. did you want me that terribly?” he taunts, and presses a finger into your hole—so instead of you being able to respond to his jeer—you’d just gasp in pleasure at the intrusion, the worry of someone hearing thrown out the window as he started to curl his finger.
your eyes became heavy lidded as pleasure rose inside of you, and he roughly grabs your face, sticking another finger into you as he does it, which draws a whine to out of your lips. “look at me.” he whispers harshly, smugness rising in him as he feels you subconsciously grind against his palm, chasing a high that was so close you could taste it.
“look at me while you come.” he almost looked desperate to see you come undone, and it only takes a few more swipes of his thumb and curls of his fingers inside of you for the feeling to reach its peak, a loud moan leaving you at the pleasure that wracks your body, and instead of covering your mouth—in case a servant or lord passed by the chambers—he doesn’t. you were his, and who cares if someone hears him take what is his?
aerion continued his motions, letting you ride out your high until your panting and knees nearly buckle. he pulls his hand out from under your dress and quickly grabs and turns you, so you were facing the wall. you hear the sound of his breeches being untied, and even though you were still recovering from the orgasm he just gave you; you almost greedily awaited for another.
his hands push up your dress again, bunching it at your hips this time and using some of your slick to lube his dick. you squirm slightly as need wells through your body once more, and you can almost feel his arrogance rolling off of him from that, but before you could say anything—again—he pushes into you, achingly slow.
you moan, the stretch of his cock felt heavenly, and you had to fight not to cry out. he finally nestled fully inside you, and perhaps he was right. perhaps you were made for him with how good this felt. he felt. he started thrusting shallowly, bitting against your shoulder lightly as pleasure filled his body.
your nails scratch at the stonewall, looking for something, anything to grab onto. he groans ever so quietly as if he doesn’t wish for you to hear how much you effect him. you clench around his length and he groans, a bit louder this time, forgoing his previous attempt to keep his hungry for you a secret.
his fingers grip at your hips, digging in harder as his thrusts become rougher and deeper. “you were made for me.” he repeats, more desperate this time, so unlike him. “mine. you’re mine. always—hhhhave—been.” he hissed.
you whine, his thrusts touching that spongy part inside you, and you quickly became close again. he takes your jaw in his hand and pulls it back, craning his neck so he could sloppily kiss you, drawing blood as he bites your lip, and you bite back, your blood mixing. the copper taste heavy on your tongues, only makes him more determined in his fucking.
and if your bodies were in sync, you both reached your peaks at the same time soon after, his head falling to where your neck met your shoulder, marking you up, and if you weren’t so far into the bliss of your orgasm, you would’ve heard his whimper into your back as he came inside of you, filling you with his seed, and he wishes it takes, for a moment. so you would always be his.
you barely have time to adjust your clothes after you come down from your highs beforr a knock at the door makes you both jump (though aerion would never admit it) and quickly fix your appearances as best as possible, before aerion calls for whoever to come in. the servant bows his head, a blush on his face, and he had definitely heard what had happened between you and aerion based on his voice wavering slightly. “my prince, my princess.”
aerion waved his hand dismissively for him to get to the point. “your father has returned, and he is commanding for you both to come at once to decide the knights fate.”
the servant bows and leaves after he rushed out his words, practically scurrying away. when the door closed behind him, aerion turns to you and cups your face once more. “i will see him beheaded.” he whispers, and you can almost hear devotion in his voice, and presses a possessive kiss to your forehead, before walking out. you grab your robe and slip it on, tying it, before leaving to follow him.
a/n: aerion is like genuinely despicable!! he’s hot when he doesn’t open his mouth lowkey. anyways this was sitting in my drafts because i thought it was boring but i wanted to post something so here you go!!
Pairing: Aerion "Brightflame" Targaryen x fem!reader
This work contains: mostly fluff, no use of Y/N, reader is from an unspecified noble house, Aerion is his own warning, betrothal, Aerion and reader get married, implied verbal abuse, lowkey also soft!Aerion, happy relationship question mark, kissing, talk about having children, not proof read, english is not my first language
Speaking...: debut post. bleh.
Your betrothed — the Prince — was not an easy man. Your father had warned you not to expect much chivalry from a boy who thought himself a dragon, treating everyone else around him like as if they were mere cupbearers, but the betrothal had to be done. Politics. Alliances. Something you didn't know much nor cared about — In the end, you just did what was expected fron you and that's that.
You'd be lying if you said life in King's Landing wasn't at least a bit more entertaining than fron where you came from. The Red Keep is truly beautiful, with its flowery gardens you liked to spend most of your time in, the view from the balconies made you feel as royal as one could feel... the only thing not worth talking about was the relationship between you and your now-husband.
The wedding between Aerion and you seemed to just be a blur in your memories now. You were only wearing the most beautiful dress made out of fabrics you've never even touched before, but the Targaryen wouldn't even quite look at you. Perhaps glance at you a few times, but that was that. You remembered you didn't speak much and the feast that followed after was more for your father and the king to chat and laugh, for all relatives to get drunk and for you to contemplate your life. During your wedding night, Aerion wanted to make it very clear how..: »You are not of my blood, our children won't be pure« said in the most calm way possible.
Though, Aerion did come around to liking you. And when he started to, you finally understood the full force of his temperament; He didn't love lightly, of course. He was spoiled, vindictive, mostly cruel — But not to you. At least he'd try not to.
His mouth was faster than his thoughts, though, spewing out the most heinous of words in a spur of hate.. during a fight. Those could always be about something mundane and he'd treat them like you had challenged his existance. With his brows knitted together, pretty eyes seemingly turning red (like he was an actual dragon), Aerion would lash out at you and you just.. took it. What else was there for you to do?
Do not worry, he would always crawl back. He'd apologize, genuinely or not you couldn't tell but the words did leave his mouth, and urge you to hug him to know you have forgiven him.
Oh Targaryens, always so irresistible. Aerion was like the blue print of targaryen beauty: His short, disheveled white hair, sharp jawline, piercing purple-blueish eyes and his oh-so-kissable lips.. He'd look like a damsel in distress everytime he begged you for your forgiveness. And you always gave it to him, for that it was what he wished for. When he looked at you with those puppy eyes, chanting vows of love and loyalty, you couldn't help but cradle his head to your chest and kiss his forehead.
Sometimes — when off duty or simply refusing to attend "stupid" council meetings — your husband would visit you in the castle's garden, right where you always tucked yourself away to: Under a weeping willow. »I didn't know you could read..« Aerion said, sitting down next to you. And when you gave him a confused look, the two of you started to bicker for the next five minutes because he accused you of accusing him of... and whatever.
The young prince then proceeded to rest his head on your shoulder, soft white hair tickling the side of your face, asking you to read something from the book in your lap.
Aerion seems to kiss you with all the hate and disdain he has in his heart — It was all teeth and bite and spit and he seemed to enjoy it like that the most. »You'll look so good when carrying my children« he whispered against your lips while his strong hands dug themselves into the soft flesh of your waist. You pulled away from Aerion just for a second, watching as his lips continued to chase your in an effort to stay conntected: »Is that what this is about? I thought something had happened.«
»Did I scare you?« Your nose was bumping against his with every tiny breath you took and when he didn't get an answer, he smiled. He smiled at the thought of scaring you, because that meant he had kept you small — beneath him.
Aerion might have grown to love you, but the arrogant mindset the average Targaryen had was still stuck in his brain. Though, he made it not matter much — You'll gladly fall asleep in his arms, listening to his heartbeat, watching how peaceful and pretty your husband looked when he seemed to finally be at peace.
