just realized i had never announced it, but i am on a hiatus! thank you all for the love and support. just feeling burnt out and not where i want to be mentally.
warnings: age gaps, AERION, innocent reader, alludes to smut
a/n: a drabble because iâm busy
Your new husband, Aerion, was old enough to be your Father. Twenty years your senior.
The age difference would have been the source of scandal anywhere else in the world, but in Westeros, it sadly more common than not.
Aerion found a wicked pleasure in your young innocence. How youâd begged him to forbid a bedding ceremony. How his jests about your still-growing breasts flew over your head. He loved every moment of it, and relished in the fact knowing he would be the one to ruin such a beautiful, youthful, virtuous, girl like you.
You, on the other hand, had skipped many lessons with your Septa leading up to the wedding, knew very little about what was supposed to happen the night of your wedding.
Luckily, he was glad to teach you.
âWhat are we to do, now?â you asked, with your back to him as he shut the door to his chamber.
He had taken his time closing the door after letting out the maids and the servants, leaving you both completely alone.
His gaze remained fixated on you like a predator, eyeing its prey. With slow, long-legged strides, he approached until he was standing right behind you. He loomed behind you, his chest practically brushing against your back.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and low, âWe consummate.â
He brought a hand to your hip, his palm pressing against your thigh. He took a moment to enjoy the feel of your body against his, his hand running slowly along your side.
As he stood behind you, he leaned forward, pressing his lips against the nape of your neck. His hot breath left a trail of fire on your skin as he nuzzled into the soft, sensitive area.
âTurn around,â he murmured against your skin.
You did as he told you to. Looking up to him doe-eyed, and innocent and a little shy. Your breath hitched as his gaze met your own, intense and deep. Gulping, you tried to speak, but Aerion shushed you before you could. He already knew.
âNo need for words,â he said as his hands cradled your face.
âB-But, my Septa neverââ
âHush,â he demanded, his thumb now pressing into your lips. âA million lessons with your Septa could never prepare you for me,â he chuckled, âNo one could.â
âYouâre mine now,â Aerion continued, âAnd I intend to thoroughly educate you.â
âIs it going to hurt?â you asked, breaking his gaze and looking at the patterns of the cold stone floor instead.
âIf you do as youâre told, no,â he smirked, âResist me, and Iâll make sure it does.â
He backed you against the bed, the back of your knees touching the mattress. You werenât used to such a close proximity. Especially with a man. Something poked you in the thigh, but you were smart enough to know what it was. Still, you couldnât help but ask for reassurance.
âYouâll guide me, husband?â
âEvery step,â he affirmed, âNow sit and spread your legs. Iâll show you what a real man is like.â
ËâÛ¶à§Ëâ Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x sister!reader
ËâÛ¶à§Ëâ Warnings: +18, NSFW , horny and pent up aerion, injured aerion, aerion lowkey deceives his sister, innocent reader, handjob
ËâÛ¶à§Ëâ AN: I'm still working on that Daeron one-shot, please accept this as my humble offering-
Summary:Â Big brother needs your help.
Following the events of his shameful battle of the Seven against Ser Duncan, Aerion had remained abed to recover from the ordeal.
He groaned as the thick wooden door to his chamber opened. Yet his eyes lit up when his sweet sister entered.
âMm sister- come here-â He managed to stammer out.Â
He had been in bad shape for a couple of days now, his leg cut up, arm broken, hand broken and not to mention all the other cuts and bruises.
A whimper left him, mattress dipping under your weight when you sat down. Aerion sat up in bed a little further.
You looked at him with big curious eyes. Something that made his skin even hotter.
âHow are you feeling?â You asked, placing a hand on his sheet covered thigh.
âAh.â Aerion groaned, âNot there, it hurts there!âÂ
You raised your brows at his reaction, yet removed your hand anyway.Â
Even though you had no idea, that single touch alone had gotten him uncomfortably stiff. He hadnât laid with a wench in days and due to his broken left arm and broken right handâŠ
Well he hadnât exactly fucked anything at all.
His eyes darkened as they raked over your body, perhaps his sweet sister would be willing to help her older brother out?
âWhy are you here?â He asked suddenly, a bit too sharp for how he had meant it.
âOh- I just wanted to see you. How you wereâŠâ You replied sheepishly.
âWell, I am in pain. Unable to moveâŠâ He started, looking at you to gauge your reaction.
âYes?â You waited.
He placed his wrapped broken hand atop your soft one.
âI do⊠really⊠need your help.â He smiled, if he fucked up, his father would finish what Ser Duncan couldnât.
âWith what?â You asked innocently.
âNow see, sister, I have a slight problem. One I canât fix due to my incapacity at the moment.â He murmured.
You looked at him expectantly, curiously.
âSometimes, men endure something they cannot control, yet when not taken care of can hurt. And your injured brother cannot take care of it right now, so it hurts.â Aerion explained- or rather crafted, cautiously.
âWhat hurts? Should I get a Maester?â You asked concerned, already leaping from his bed.Â
âNo, no Mandia (sister). They can not help me, but you can. Normally Iâd do it myselfâŠâ Aerion explained, making it sound like some mundane task.
âBut you cannot.â You finished for him.
âExactly, will you be a good girl and help me?â He asked oh so sweetly, drawing you into his web.
âOf course I will, you know this. Now tell me what I must do.â You sat back down next to him.
âIt is better if you join me, by my side.â Aerion suggested, drawing back the sheets.
Blinded by innocence you did as you were told, climbing in his webâŠor bed. Still too far away from him for his liking, he urged you closer.
When your shoulder touched his bare one, you were close enough to see something strange in his breeches.Â
âIs thatâŠthe problem?â You asked him, almost pointing at it.
âGood job sister, it is. Now donât be afraid, Iâll show you what to do.â He pressed his side against you.
âWill father be angry about me helping you? He actually told me to leave you alone-â You started.
âNo, you're just helping your brother in need. But he mustn't know.â Aerion urged.
You nodded obediently.
âSo how do I help you?â You shifted next to him, a bit unsure about his intentions.
âIâll guide you, first pull down my breeches.â Aerion ordered, still with a kind voice as he did not want you to run off to father.
Surprisingly, you did as he told without hesitation. Carefully peeling down his breeches and exposing his hard cock to the cold Ashford air.
Aerion hissed at the contact.
âIt really does hurtâŠâ You quietly exclaimed, holding his breeches down awkwardly.Â
âMhm, now pull them down a bit more.â Aerion sighed, ready for this welcome release.
You did as he said, before sitting up straight again, looking at his cock curiously.
âNow just put your hand around it, like you would take a sausage.â He grimaced at his own reference but you seemed to understand well enough.
A moan left Aerionâs lips when your warm hand enveloped his length, the bare skin on skin shooting hot pleasure up his spine.
âN-now just hold on to it while you- carefully- move your hand up and down.â He looked at your hand around him and cried out as you started to stroke his cock.Â
âLike that, yes!â He groaned, eyes rolling in the back of his head. Being this pent up did him no good, luckily you were here.Â
âPump your wrist quicker, a bit higher- yes! Yes like that!â He moaned loudly, way too loudly, yet he couldnât seem to care.
âMmmh! So good- Fuck!â
âTighter- a bit- faster- Aahh-âÂ
âGood girl- good girl- fuck-â
A broken moan left his lips when you squeezed his tip harder, sending him right over the edge.
You flinched as weird, sticky white fluid came out of him, yet fascinated by the sight and Aerionâs moans.Â
âOoohhâŠâ Aerion whined, all his pent up cum finally leaving his stones.Â
When he had somewhat calmed down, you still held his length awkwardly, your hand covered in his seed.Â
just wanted everyone to know it has been brought to my attention someone on this app is pretending to be me! they are asking for money and sending fake gift card links.
if you are tagged in one of these posts, please report them for impersonation!
maybe, i'll love you (in) one day (Aerion Targayen x Reader)
maybe, we'll someday grow. till then...
warnings: none! fluff for the soul
a/n: sucker for shady lately
Aerion hunched over on the carriage, holding his ribs while covered in bruises and scars. He could barely walk, eat, or breathe.
Unsurprisingly, Aerion was grumpy.
Your hand lightly touched his thigh, "Sit back, my love. You'll only hurt yourself more, hunched over like that."
He only groaned in response. But he leaned back and rested his head on your shoulder. Closing his eyes, he gruffed, "Where...are we...going?"
"Your Father wanted to send you to Lys," you told him, "But, I couldn't let that happen. He agreed for you to stay with me, under surveillance."
He opened his eyes to look at you. They were full of pain and hurt and betrayal. Tears pricked them but he did not let them fall. Not in front of you. Never. He sighed, and was quiet for a long time.
Each bump of the carriage made him groan and hunch again. You always pulled him back.
The Aerion you knew wasn't the same man everyone else did. He wasn't kind, but he was...different. His gaze was softer and his face was morphed into content more than disgust when you entered a room. To Aerion, the Trial of Seven was him defending your honor. Not that it needed to be defended, neither the puppet girl nor the hedge knight did any wrong.
Still, the thought was nice. At least he thought of you. Same as when he yielded. Aerion whispered your name, something he would never admit, and you would never bring up, but the hedge knight had told you so when you spoke to him after.
It wasn't until almost nightfall when Aerion spoke again.
"I don't...I don't know why I treated you so poorly, Y/N," he breathed, still in pain. "You've been by my side the whole time. I know that, now."
"Treated me poorly when?"
"When you came to King's Landing," he coughed, "I acted like you didn't exist. I thought ignoring you would make you go away."
You thought back to those days, not long past. Aerion would go out of his way to avoid you, when the betroval was in it's early stages. Not a single moment wasted on courting you or getting to know you. You found comfort in Kiera, instead.
"Oh. I'm sorry your plan didn't work, my Prince."
"No," he shook his head, "No. I was so angry, then. I was angry at you, for being a witch."
"What?"
"You must be a witch," he said now, with more strength than he had before, "For it is the only explanation. You've bewitched me. Even my brothers, too."
"How do you know that?"
"Because they helped me spy on you."
He told you of the many times he, Daeron, Egg, and Aemon watched you. From behind bushes in the gardens. Behind the curtain as you bathed and read. Aemon taking notes all the while.
"No citrus in the bath," Aerion told him to write.
Egg had heard you were helping the maids in the kitchens, making brownies for tonight's dessert. The four of them had snuck into there, hours before dinner. Twenty brownies distributed evenly among the four of them. Only the crumbs left on the floor and the chocolate stains around Egg's mouth left as evidence.
Their shadows stood meters behind you as you fed the rabbits carrots and lettuce in the yard. They came to you so easily, like the understood you wouldn't hurt them. Bunnies always hopped away from Aerion.
"You're a witch," he repeated after recounting the stories to you, "And whatever potion you slipped into our cups has plagued me the hardest."
"I'm not a witch," you giggled, "But, I do love you, Aerion. It is why I've stayed by your side all this time, and will until our time together is over. I cannot speak for your brothers, but I can speak for you. I think you may love me back."
"Each day I find myself getting closer to that feeling," he said, "But today is not that day, and it will take many more for it to come."
I WANT EVERYONE TO KNOW THAT I ASKED FOR THIS, LET THEM PUBLICALLY SHAME ME FOR ALL I CARE IS DRAGON HYBRID AERION MATING WITH READER (i'm a freaky monster fucker)
You were awoken by a loud crash coming from across the room. Sitting up abruptly, you squinted at the dark corner the sound had originated from. In the darkness, you could very faintly see the outline of a man.
The man was groaning and whimpering. Obviously in pain, and obviously something was very, very wrong.
You were too frightened to get up. Had this man been hired to kill you? Was he going to rob you? Force you into doing something?
Limping, the figure stepped forward. Moonlight from the window lit him up.
It was Prince Aerion. Or, it looked like him.
His chest was heaving. Limping on one leg. Blood and a green-substance stained his lips. Drooling. A drop of it landed on his exposed chest, covered in scratch marks and the ripped tunic he still barely wore.
His hands, now more like claws. Aerionâs fingers were scarily long and sharp, small black spikes coming out of his skin.
The skin around his eyes had turned red, and at first glanceâit looked to be a bruise, but when he limped closer again, you saw how his skin had scaled. From his left eye, it cascaded down all the way to the side of his body, and continued until his arms stopped and the claws started.
Aerionâs eyes, once a gorgeous bright violet, had turned a dark plum. The whites of his eyes were gone. Gray, now. Two red horns grew out of the side of his head. Not big, for now. But the blood that pooled around the base had given you more than enough indication.
Aerion wasnât just looking at you, you had realized. Aerion was looking. At. You.
You didn't know whether to run and scream or coward and cry. He was so scary looking. And, why was he in here of all places?
Your mind raced with thoughts, and something possessed you. Tilting your chin up, you rose to your feet. Unafraid of the deformed Prince infront of you. Not confronting like a challenge, nor a creature, but rather how you've always treated any Prince.
Courtly. Respectful. Lady-like.
The last thing you wanted to do was scare Aerion off, and have a guard strike him down. Or worse---make him angry.
Stepping forward gently, you could see the way his eyebrows, what was left of them, had scrunched up in pain. How his eyes held tears and his mouth turned in a frown. Whatever happened to him, whatever that green substance was, had done irreparable harm.
He still heaved only an arm away. Drool mixing with the blood smeared across his chest. Aerion watched you with fear, perhaps worried you would hurt him further.
"My Prince...?" you said, voice barely above a whisper, "What has happened to you?"
Aerion opened his mouth to speak, but only a grunt could come out. His tongue dropped out of his mouth almost uncontrollably, and it was long and slit. Akin to a snake's.
Being this close to him, you ought to be scared. But somehow, whether it be the moonlight or your grogginess he didnât look scary at all.
He lookedâŠintriguing.
For the first time, you understood why some people collect bugs or snake skins. To others it may seem disgusting or revolting, but under the right light, with the right heart, they werenât disgusting at all.
You lifted your hand slowly, caressing his cheek. Where his skin had turned to scales. He hissed at the sensation, first burning. But as you gentle dragged your hand down, he leaned into your touchâas if were healing him.
He still said nothing. Physically, he could not. Only a small groan escaped him. This time, not one of hurt.
Aerionâs eyes closed, and he breathed in your scent. Now more pungent than ever.
A small whimper left him as you grazed his exposed, burnt, reddened, and scaled neck. He arched his neckâallowing you to see how the scales softened slightly under your touch.
You grabbed his wrist softly with your other hand. âYou are hurt,â you said plainly.
He shook his head at your words, but another whimper betrayed him when you grazed the scratches on his chest. Ones he had given himself, you realized.
Moving your hand from his chest to his lips, you tried to smear the green liquid away. He caught your hand fast. Gripping it.
Something that sounded like âNo,â left his mouth.
A drop of the liquid ran down his chin, sizzling the skin.
âDid someoneâŠpoison you, my Prince?â
He only shook his head, and let go of your wrist to wipe the liquid from his lips.
Aerion hobbled from his limping leg, now standing up straight and holding you in place from your hips. His claws dug in slightly, needing anchored.
The forced proximity made your cheeks heat up, despite any survival skills or his state.
His eyes remained fixed on your face, but dropped down to your lipsâwith drool leaving his mouth soon to follow.
His neck seemed unstable. You reached up, and grabbed the back of it. Fingers burying themselves into the tips of his short silver hair. Aerionâs hands on your hips hauled you forward, pressing you flush against him.
Aerion groaned into your mouth as he kissed you. Pressing himself desperately and viscously. His tongue swept your mouth, owning and discovering. His long tongue reaching nearly all the way to the back of your throat.
His teeth were sharp and bit into your lips. Leaving a small bloody trail when he finally pulled away. The pain only fueled whatever it was that had built inside you.
It was something foreign. It was possessive. Feral.
Your fingers gripped his hair tighter, and you pulled his head back. The expanse of his throatâwhat remains of itâexposed. Aerionâs breath hitched as you bit down, and he throbbed underneath his breeches.
âMmmfffpph,â he moaned, the sound loud in your quiet chamber. ââŠyou..,â
Aerion licked his lips, and kissed you once more. Gasping as he did, his sharp teeth and tongue collided with your own. With all his strength, what little there was, he pushed you back onto the bed. Trembling as he tried to hold himself above you.
His chest was still heaving, and hisâŠhorns⊠had almost pierced your head when his head dipped down. Aerionâs eyes held a deep, vulnerable need. One that matched your own, but more primal within his. More hungry and raw.
The sound of fabric tearing joined the heavy breaths echoing the chamber. Heâd just ripped your nightgown off your body, like it was paper. For each bit of skin that was exposed, his razor teeth found it. Claiming each inch and marking your skin with need, sting, and lust.
Aerion was vicious.
You donât even know how he got his pants off. His claws were all over you, everywhere, sinking in and marking, it was all you could focus on until he entered you.
He filled you, hard and deep. Air left your lungs as he did.
Aerion groaned, low and against your sensitive neck. His body trembled, whether from pleasure or pain. Probably a terrifying mix of both.
âYouâ,â he croaked, âFuck.â
Of course fuck was the only word he could still say.
Then, he started moving.
Each thrust was followed by his claws digging deeper into your hips, or his teeth biting into your neck. You had no choice but to cling to him. Not that you really minded.
The bed creaked beneath you, the sound drowned out by the ragged rhythm of his breathingâhot against your ear, uneven, desperate. His hips pistoned against yours with an almost frantic urgency, every snap of his hips punctuated by the bite of his claws into your flesh, the sting of his teeth along your shoulder.
Aerionâs mouth found yours again in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, swallowing your gasp as he drove into you deeper, harder. His grip on you tightenedâlike he was afraid you'd vanish if he loosened it for even a second.
And then his rhythm faltered. Hot seed spilling inside you.
He collapsed against you afterward, his forehead pressed to the sheets, his breathing ragged.
You lay there, tangled in himâhis sweat-slick skin, the scent of scorched iron and something uniquely Aerion clinging to the air. His weight pressed you into the furs.
His breathing against your neck was uneven. His sharp, blackened, fingers traced idle patterns on your ribs.
After a long silence, he finally spoke, voice rough. âMine,â he murmured, as if it were both a decree and a plea.
You didnât argue.
Right now, tangled in the wreckage of his madness and your shared needâthere was no one else youâd rather belong to.
A/N: The reader will be implied to be a high-born lady, but you can choose the house.
Requested: YES / NO
Daeron is a simple man, really! He asks for no more, all he needs in life is alcohol and peace... also his wife.
He's clinging to you like a lifeline, he becomes much more obsessed the second he's drunk from wine, seeking for your touch after he is woken up after having a horrid dream, dreams that involves you.
Knowing his brother's own madness, he keeps you strayed away from Aerion at all times in fear he'll get to you one day like he always does with him and his brothers. He'll never forgive himself if Aerion did something bad to you, thinking of himself no more than a failure for not being able to protect his own beloved.
He does not remember that night, the night he drunkenly confessed his undying love to you, but you remember. And he takes your word for it even if he's embarrassed.
It was no more than 4 years ago, your family was visiting dragonstone to form an alliance with house Targaryen and that's when he saw you, a young and shy girl dressed in your house colours. He couldn't keep his eyes off of you the entire stay, much less he was heartbroken when your family left dragonstone.
Daeron pleaded for his father and grandfather to ask your father for your hand in marriage, luckily your father accepted his request in the name of politics.
You believed that the marriage will be strictly political until that night arrives. Leaning on the balcony rails while admiring the moon, hoping your future husband-to-be won't be as cruel as people say about Targaryens.
He managed to find himself standing beside you on the balcony after drunkenly looking for you.
"The moon looks pretty" you breathed in the air of dragonstone, longing for your original home.
The moon climbed higher, painting the castle grounds in silver. The chill deepened, but the air between us felt warmer, charged. Daeron turned towards you, his expression still unreadable in the dim light, yet the tension that had been coiled tight within him seemed to have eased, just a fraction.
"It does, but it doesn't look nearly as pretty as you are" he blurted out, his voice clearly drunk but still coloured with love.
"What?" Turning your head towards the drunk prince, confused and curious if what he said is true.
He didn't respond, just turned and went back inside the castle. You watched him go, his silhouette disappearing into the shadows.
As you turned to follow, you noticed something on the stone floor where he had stood before. A single, withered flower, hidden beneath a loose stone. It was a fragile thing, long past its prime, yet it had been deliberately placed there, protected from the elements.
A sudden understanding washed over you. The flower was him, a hidden piece of beauty, carefully guarded, almost forgotten. And that's when it dawned on you, your marriage isn't political at all, Daeron does actually love you.
That was 4 years ago, that interaction between you both was 4 years ago.
He honestly couldn't ask for more, you loved him despite his alcohol addiction and his dreams, you also got to bond with his siblings. Aerion not included of course.
By the seven, you don't know how much does he need you. He needs to be in your arms the moment he wakes up after having another one of those dreams. He yearns for comfort from you and specially you, only you and alcohol can bring him comfort that he needs so badly.
He loves when you take care of him in the morning after the alcohol effects wears off. Giving him a quick peck on his temples before handing over a water goblet to him to make his dry mouth wet again. By the old and new Gods, his headache is killing him, luckily you're there to make it better.
Mumbling soothing and loving words to him makes his day better, no matter what you say, your voice brings him comfort. He's highly vulnerable around you in his hungover and drunken state.
By the seven, please never leave his side when he's drunk or when Aerion is around. He makes sure you're always far away from Aerion, the one time he wasn't there with you was a while ago but he still begged for your forgiveness for not being there. Aerion almost struck you when you stood up for Aegon, luckily prince Maekar appeared in time before he struck you and he quickly put on a good image for his father.
That night Daeron weeped in your lap, asking for forgiveness for not being there to protect you from his cruel younger brother.
He seeks out kisses from you all day and at every hour, little pecks or full on make out session. He does not care as long as your lips are on any surface of his body. Morning kisses are his absolute favourite when he's in his most vulnerable state, waking up with a hangover with a dry mouth and a headache. Your kiss makes everything better.
SUMMARY: you meet a dragon prince on the shores of lys, and after five years of colorless boredom, your world is suddenly filled with light again. Or, two exiles find entertainment with one another, and the world suffers for it.
WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader is implied to come from valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described, reader is a bored shit stirrer who lives for the thrill and aerion is aerion (he's a warning on his own), reader has quite an uh colorful personality of her own, liberal use of whore, aerion is rude and reader lowkey gets off on antagonizing him (she wants him BAD, in her defense, she's been terribly bored for 5 years), public sex/exhibitionism/voyuerism, rough sex, blood play, switch!reader (dom!leaning), switch!aerion (sub!leaning), but both of them fight for control LOL. WC: 9.6k-ish
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Carina's great return to writing for asoiaf ....... nobody understands just how crazy this is to me, I had a 6 year fixation on asoiaf from 15 to 21, and now sitting here writing it again after so long ........... madness ....... BUT IT FEELS SO NICE EUHUHUUH, IT'S LIKE COMING HOME </33 anyway I had so much fun with this fic, and I probably will make it a series of connected one shots because I have a lot of ideas I want to write for this concept. I have a whole background already built for our girl reader that I really would like to explore, and would also like to delve into Aerion POV because I think it would be fun LOL. I think I made it pretty obvious where reader is from in her narration, but trust there is a STORY behind her exile. I feel like I had more to say but I canât remember. Comments and reblogs always appreciated!! Mwah mwah
âYouâgirl. Are you a whore?â
You raise your eyebrows from where youâre splayed out on a rock on the shores of Lys, basking in the warm sun. Youâre the only one who comes to this edge of the island, so you can only presume the bored voice is addressing you. You let your head loll backward over the side of the rock, the tips of your hair brushing the crystalline water sloshing against the shore.
A man stands at the edge of the water, frowning down at it when it comes too close to his expensive leather boots. He is pretty, you decideâyou can tell that much even peering at him upside down the way you areâbut most who live on Lys are, so heâs nothing special. Pale hair, pale skin, violet eyesâyou could find dozens of him at any pillow house in the city.Â
âDo I look like a whore?â you hum, voice lilting with amusement when you see the way his expression twists in irritation.Â
âI did not ask for wit,â he says sharply. âI asked for an answer.â
You roll onto your side instead of replying at once, propping yourself up on one elbow. The setting sun glints off the water, catching in his silver hair. Heâs younger than you first thoughtâlikely around your ageâbut his clothes are what catch your eye. They are not the sheer chiffon and smooth silks youâre accustomed to seeing boys draped in, but dark, expensive leathers. A Westerosi, maybe? Thereâs a sigil on the pommel of his sword, but you canât make it out from a distance.Â
His gaze drifts over you, curiosity plain in his expression before he masks it with indifference.
âYou may come closer,â you say lazily, calling out his lapse. âIf you wish to inspect me properly, that is.â
His eyes narrow, jaw tightening. âI have no wish to inspect you.â
âNo?â you ask, kicking your feet idly as you tilt your head to the side. Your fingers drop to skim the warm waters of the Narrow Sea, flicking the water uselessly in his direction, even though you know it wonât reach him. He still looks incensed by the mere attempt. âThen why ask?â
His mouth curlsânot prettily. âBecause Iâve been taught in Lys one does not stumble upon a woman alone without discovering she belongs to someone else.â
âOh?â you echo, entertained, realizing heâs trying to insult you. âTo someone else?â
He tilts his head the same way you did, mocking. âOr to everyone,â he drawls, smile sharp. âI prefer to know the nature of what stands before me.â
âAnd who do you suppose I belong to? One or everyone?â you ask lightly instead of letting the insult land, which only seems to irritate him more from the way he sneers. âDo you wish to be the one? Is that why you ask?â
He falters, and your lips quirk up in amusement. He doesnât look like a boy accustomed to being mocked; he looks like one accustomed to being obeyed. You wonder how far you can press before he snaps. You haven't had much for entertainment since you were cast out to this idyllic paradise, so you have to make your own.
You rise to your feet at last, purple chiffon tumbling around you. It drapes from shoulder to ankle, sheer but layered, the violet deep enough to obscure what men desire mostâmodest for Lys, considering it covers more than what most girls in the pillow houses bother with. The fabric clings where the sea has kissed it, outlining the curve of your hips and the length of your thighs.
His gaze drops before he can help himselfâto the low V-cut of your neck, and lower still. Then, as though he catches himself, his gaze snaps back up to your face, furious. You smile lightly as you drop off the rock into the shallow water, gentle waves brushing your ankles. You lock your hands behind your back as you make your way over to him; as you draw near, you finally make out the sigil on the pommel of his sword.Â
A dragon prince, you realize, amused. So, the rumors you heard of a ship flying the banner of the three-headed dragon are true. You never thought you'd get the chance to play with a dragonâthe prospect of being burned thrills you in a way that the soft, perfumed sons of Lys never have.
âYou did not answer my question,â you note, leaning in just enough to let your breath ghost against his mouth. To his credit, he doesnât react beyond his eyes narrowing and tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. âDo you wish for me to belong to you? Is that why you ask?â
âYou,â he says tightly, âare very bold for someone who could be bought.â
âEverything in Lys can be bought,â you agree easily, âbut not everything wishes to be. Unfortunately for you, you canât afford my price.â
His eyes flash with indignation, but you continue before he can say anything.
âTell me, Dragon Prince,â you begin, reaching out without asking permission. His hand snaps up to grab your wrist hard, but you only raise your eyebrows at him, fingers brushing the silver strand of hair that has fallen across his brow. It is softer than you expected, and he is much more beautiful up close. If only there wasnât something dangerous lurking behind those pretty violets. âDid you come to Lys for pleasure?â
He says through his teeth, âYou dare try to touch me.â
No.
âFor business, then?â
âAre you slow, whore?â
No.
âThen, for exile.â
The rage that crosses his face is answer enough.Â
You had a feeling that was the case. You recognize the look in his eyes very intimatelyâalone, uncertain, cornered, all veiled behind a wall of arrogance and steel so as to not allow the snakes that wander the Lysene gardens a chance to sink their fangs in. He's a Targaryen princeâif he were back home, he probably would've struck you or imprisoned you for taking such tone and proximity to him, but he's not home, and he's still gaining his footing here in Lys, so he can't afford to react how he normally would.
Well, at least you're not alone in this regard anymore, you suppose, but only time will tell whether he'll make for good company.
You smile lightly and step away, brushing his grip from your wrist.
âNext time,â you call, glancing over your shoulder at him with an easy smile, âtry asking my name before you ask my price.â
ââââââ
His name is Aerion Brightflame of the Royal House of Targaryen in Westerosâa second son of a fourth son, tenth in line to the Iron Throne of Westeros. Lys is a city of silk and secretsânothing truly disappears here, so itâs not hard for you to get the information you want on him. Stories drift through the pillow houses and lavish gardens as easily as perfume. He is cruel and capricious, prone to bouts of anger and violence, according to the whispers youâve heard, but careful to keep up a charismatic front when before the magisters; exiled after his fickle whims led to the death of his uncle, the crown prince.Â
The dragon prince arrived under polite pretenseâa guest of Magister Vyrano Naeranarâbut word spreads swiftly that his vacation to Lys is not one of his own choosing. He spends his days in Vyranoâs manse, reclining on cushioned couches beneath painted ceilings, letting serving girls drape themselves across the arms of his chair like ornamentsâgrapes pressed to his lips, wine poured without asking, musicians summoned to entertain his boredom.Â
Today, he has the central market on edge, prowling about disdainfully with a white-cloaked shadow that came with him from the west. You watch from the tiled roof of a nearby building. He hasnât noticed you yet, but you think he can feel you looking, because his gaze periodically sweeps around the square, as though searching for something he knows is there but canât spot.Â
Itâs entertainingâalmost. Spice merchants from Yi Ti bow low, and the fishwives temper their usual shouting. Lys has returned to the tense state it was in when you arrived five years ago, and the whole city holds its breath as it waits for its draconic guest to return back to his cave.
You tilt your head to the side with an amused smile, watching as Aerion pauses at a stall heavy with Myrish glass and lacquered casks. The merchant fumbles his greeting once his gaze settles on the prince's silver hair and violet eyesâno easy flattery of someone who has sold to nobles before, no honeyed cadence of a seasoned trader. His tongue catches. His eyes flick to Aerion's hair, his sword, the crowd, then settle on the white cloak behind him.
You squint.
He rushes too quickly to the back of the stall, foregoing all of the best goods he has on display.
You donât recognize him, you note absently, sliding down off the roof and onto a stack of boxes before you realize what youâre doing. You hop down to the ground, easing through the crowds in the direction of the stall. Most merchants who come to Lys are repeat presencesâregular ships, regular routes, regular loyalties. You recognize them by name and face now, laugh at jokes theyâve told you too many times, and tease them with sleight of hand before tossing coin in their direction.
This one is not, and unfamiliar never bodes well, especially when word has begun to spread about Lysâs new royal guest.Â
âFirewine from the finest vineyard in Myr,â you hear the man say with a too eager smile as you draw close. âFirewine for the Brightflame. Worthy of a prince of the blood.â
Aerionâs mouth curves faintly, and you almost roll your eyesâall men are fools, you think disdainfully, weak to shallow flattery. He reaches for the decanter, and the merchant's fingers tighten slightly around it before releasing it to the prince. He holds the glass up to the sun's light and tilting it slightly, admiring how the bright liquid clings to the crystal.
You pluck the wine from his hand before he can make a decision on whether or not heâd like to taste it, skipping out of reach as his gaze snaps toward you, outraged. This will be today's entertainment, you decide, pleased. Not a single day since the prince has gotten here has been dull, and you're finding yourself increasingly pleased with him. The white cloak behind him makes a move to apprehend you, but Aerion waves him off when he recognizes you, expression twisting with irritation.
âYou again,â he says. âPlucking a gift straight from my handsâdo you have a death wish?âÂ
You give him an easy smile, tilting your head to the side. âNot me,â you reply, âbut you, perhaps? Shouldnât your royal training have taught you not to accept wine from strangers, prince? Many are fond of sweet death, you know?âÂ
Aerionâs eyes flash, and his gaze slides from you to the merchant, who looks aghast as he stares at you. He fumbles out, âMy lady jestsââ
You swing around, one arm sliding around the manâs slim waist, the other lifting the decanter up to his lips. âThen, the good merchant wouldnât mind tasting his own wine, would he?â you coo, smiling.
The merchant freezes. His mouth opens, then closes again, throat bobbing as you press the rim of the crystal against his lips, tilting it ever so slightly toward him. Aerion and his white cloak watch with sharp eyes. Your chest bubbles with excitementâgod, the last five years have been dreadfully boring, and one week of this dragon prince has brought color and sharpness to this gray, pillowed world.
âYou called it worthy of a prince of the blood,â you remind him sweetly. âSurely itâs worthy of your own.â
The market has gone stillâall eyes on you, the dragon prince, the merchant who had the nerve to try to assassinate him. Your gaze flicks up to meet the burning violet of Aerion, who stares at the decanter in your hand with rising fury.
âMy lady,â he wheezes, voice cracking, âit is strong, that is allâtoo strong for an empty stomachââ
âDrink,â Aerion finally says, voice cold and clipped. âDrink, or Iâll have you skinned and hung from the harbor walls for the gulls.â
The merchantâs legs give out entirely. He sags against you, sweat soaking through his tunic, the rim of the crystal trembling against his mouth.
âMy prince, mercyââ
âDrink,â Aerion repeats.
The white cloak has already drawn steel. The blade rests so lightly against the merchantâs throat that it barely dents the skinâbut everyone in the square can see how little pressure it would take.
You tilt the decanter again.
A dark ribbon of wine spills past the manâs lips. He chokes, sputtering, trying to twist away, but your grip at his waist tightens just enough to steady him.
âCareful,â you tease. âYouâll waste it.â
He yanks away from you and spits up the wine, making his answer clear. The white cloak immediately sheathes his sword and grabs the man by the neck, scruffing him like an unruly pup. You let the decanter drop carelessly to the ground, shattering against the stone, and you turn to leave, bored now that the excitement is over.
âWhere do you think youâre going?â Aerion calls after you, put off by your unspoken dismissal.
âHere, there,â you say dismissively, tossing raised eyebrows over your shoulder. âEverywhere? Nowhere?â
Aerion looks seriously irritated by your disrespectful attitude. You only smile.
âReturn with me to Vyranoâs manse,â he says firmlyâan order, not a request. Unfortunately for him, you do not take orders from anyone, much less foreign princes. âYou will explain to me how exactly you knew that was poison, or I will presume that you were in league with the assassin.âÂ
âI would rather die,â you say, voice a sing-song, enjoying the way indignation crosses his face. âTil next time, prince.â
ââââââ
âI thought you said you werenât a whore,â a familiar voice drolls from the now undrawn curtains leading into the room youâre relaxing in a few days later.Â
You bite back a sighâyou had a feeling he was going to come looking for you sooner or later, but you didnât anticipate it would be so soon. You suppose heâs just as bored as you are, stuck on this island with nowhere to go and no one to call your own. There's only so much wine you can consume and music to listen to before you drive yourself insane. Your gaze lifts to where heâs standing.
Aerion is dressed prettily today in red silks, but you have yet to see him go anywhere unarmed. The girls around you stiffen when they recognize the three-headed dragon on the pommel of his swordâtheyâve become used to your presence and whims over the years, but the dragon prince is a new unknown that they donât know how to deal with yet, so you wave them off, silently telling them to leave. They all scatter, but not before giving you concerned looks.
âIâm not,â you say easily, tilting your head to the side as Aerion steps into the lavish, perfumed room, âbut it doesnât mean I donât enjoy their company. Men have loose lips when their cocks are wet. Sometimes friends in low places are much more useful than friends in high ones.â
âIs that so?â Aerion's gaze sweeps the room once, as though assessing for any threats. Once he determines that there are none, he makes his way over to you, boots silent on the rugs. He doesnât sit immediately; instead, he stands over you. Red silk catches the lamplight, the violet of his eyes brimming with something you canât name as he looks down at you. He looks every inch the Targaryen princeâornamental and dangerous and terribly beautiful, fire and blood and all things in between. Your lips curl up slightly, which only serves to make him incensed. âYou are impudent. Disrespectful. I should have your tongue removed.â
You give him a lazy smile, head half-lolled back against the cushions to look up at him with lidded eyes. âAh, but my tongue can be so useful,â you murmur. âYou wouldnât deprive Lys of its many talents, would you?â
âYou grow tiresome,â Aerion says through his teeth, though his irritation is edged with something hotter. âDo you even know who you speak to?â
âPrince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen,â you drawl. âEveryone on our little island knows who you are.â
âAnd yet, you toy with me as though Iâm some Lyseni fool come to squander coin,â he replies, leaning down, one hand braced at the cushion beside your shoulder, coming so close that his nose nearly brushes yours. You tilt the lower half of your face up to brush your lips against his, just to see how he reacts, but his free hand comes to your throat, holding you in place. âWho are you?âÂ
âNo one,â you reply with a mysterious smile, and his fingers tighten slightly around your neck. You try again, amused, âAnyone you want me to be.â
âYour name, woman,â Aerion insists, voice low and dangerous, temper fraying. âGive me your name, or Iâll do much worse than take your tongue.â
You let out a huff of laughter, gaze flicking down to his lips for a long moment, watching the way they tighten in annoyance. You give him your name after a few seconds passâonly your first. He waits a moment for your family name, but when you donât give it, he clicks his tongue in irritation, hand dropping from your throat to take a step back, falsely assuming you donât have one.
âHow did you know that the wine was poisoned?â he asks you coldly. âWere you in league with the assassin? Turned against him to try to gain the favor of a prince?â
You rest back against the cushions when he lets you go, and Aerionâs gaze slides down again to the silk draped loosely around your shoulders, the way it slips down your skin. He catches himself, glaring at you furiously as he waits for an answer.
âHe was an unfamiliar face,â you say dismissively. âMerchants in Lys are all familiar. I was suspicious, considering word has surely begun to spread about our resident dragon prince, and he looked far too anxious. Luckily so, seeing as you wouldâve drunk the Weeping Ladyâs tears without a spare thought.â
Aerionâs lips curl up into a snarl. âI would not have been so foolish as to drink wine from some unknown merchant.â
âIf you say so, prince,â you agree blithely, waving your hand. âIs this all you came for? If so, I was in the middle of an entertaining conversation. Unless youâd like to join us girls in our gossip, that is?â
âYou do not dismiss me, whore,â Aerion spits. âWhy intervene then? If not for gold or to curry favor?â
âWell, I would never say no to gold,â you answer easily, âbut in truth, the island has become boring these past few years. Youâve entertained me in the week youâve been here. I would hate to lose you so untimely.â
Aerion stares at you as though he didnât hear you properly. âYou would speak of me as though Iâm a court jester?â he asks, voice low. Dangerous. Ah, things are getting funâthe spark of interest you felt before returns in a blaze, youâve always enjoyed dancing on the razorâs edge. âAs entertainment?â
Heat crawls up your spine. Your lips curl up. You correct, âAn island jester, but to the same accord, I suppose.â
His hand darts out to wrap around your throat again. This time, he drags you to your feet, into his chest. His thin fingers dig into your skin, sharp nails biting crescents. You still only smile lightly, gaze not leaving his, watching as chips of amethyst burn into swirling pools of dragonfireâthe same color as you imagine the flames Meraxes breathed over Dorne in the war of conquest your tutors forced you to read about.Â
You find yourself breathless just for a second, regretting your initial assessment of him. There are no dozens of him in the pillow houses of LysâLys houses boys of silk and perfume, with soft skin and syrupy voices, not boys whose blood is fire and breath is ash, not dragons.
You are not one to deny yourself what you desireâyour wants are fickle and fleeting, and boredom is the most terrible punishment of all in the years youâve spent trapped on Lys. You are quick to indulge and quicker to discard, because itâs all you have to do while youâre here.Â
You want him, you decide. You want the dragon prince, and you will have him, one way or another. Dragons have always existed to be tamed by the old blood, and you do not care if you burn in your attempts to make him heel.Â
âYou mock me,â he breathes out, eyes wild as though a part of him still doesnât believe you have the nerve. âThe last person who dared mock me to my face, I put to the sword.â
You lean into his grip, lifting your own hand to cradle his cheek. He startles at your touch, grip tightening on your throat instinctively. You murmur, lips almost brushing his as you speak, âWe are in Lys, prince. Even a prince of the blood has to obey the law of the magistersâand you will be hard pressed to find the conclave willing to indulge your violence over banter.â
His lip curls up into a snarl, a noise ripping from his lips, more dragon than man, and he lets go of you harshly, sending you sprawling back down on the cushions. You smile easily, tilting your head to the side as you look up at him, and he looks even more incensed by your lack of fear, that youâre treating his righteous fury like a joke.
âWho are you really?â he demands. âA spy for my father? Another assassin?â
âSo paranoid, dragon prince,â you murmur, fingers sliding up against your throat, skin still warm where he touched you. âIâm just a girl who enjoys playing with fire, thatâs all.â
Aerion bares his teeth. âGirls who play with fire get burned, whore,â he says, voice low and furious.Â
âThatâs part of the fun, isnât it?â you say flippantly with a pointed raise of your eyebrows, eyes glittering as you watch how he seethes.
âYou think this is fun,â he asks slowly, pupils blown wide, violet slivers around black marbles. âYou prattle about magisters and laws as though Iâm some merchant who can be summoned and fined. I am not a merchant, Iâm a dragon, and dragons are not bound by laws of cities built on pleasure and perfume. They answer only to blood and fire.â
Your pulse jumps, and you raise your chin, giddy.
âWell, dragons have always answered to the right hand, havenât they?â you drawl, grinning when you see the rage and indignation that cross his face once the implication of your words hits him.Â
For a moment, you think heâll draw his sword and cut you down where you lounge, consequences be damnedâor maybe he wonât even bother sullying his sword with your blood. Heâll wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze, watching the life leave your eyes up close and personal, your pulse fluttering and dying beneath his fingers.Â
What an intimate way to die, you think with a wistful breath.
But he catches himself before he can do something that would end with him being thrown in the damp cells beneath the city, letting out an irritated hiss before he turns on his heel and storms out of the pillow house.
ââTil next time, prince!â you call after him, barely catching the way he glares furiously over his shoulder at you as he turns the corner.
As soon as heâs gone, the girls you were chatting with creep back into the room, one of them curling at your side, hand coming up to brush the bruises already blooming where his fingers once were. Her touch is soft and warm, and you find that you prefer the harsh, scalding imprint he left behind. You brush her hand away gently before she can wash away the feeling of his touch.
âYou must be more careful, my lady,â she says softly. âYou provoke him too openly. Heâs not like the others.â
âI know,â you answer easily, gaze still trained on where he left, replaying the moment in your head over and over again. His hand at your throat, his breath hot against your cheek, the restraint trembling beneath his skin like a tethered beast. âThatâs exactly what entices me.â
ââââââ
Aerion Brightflame asks about you incessantly after that.Â
He returns to your favorite pillow house and tries to threaten the girls into telling him more about you, but they prove loyal, misleading him with vague answers and directing him to the wrong people. It infuriates him, and he rages and threatens for hours, but the girls of the Perfumed Garden remain out of reach. The Maryls, in spite of their misgivings over the last century, remain one of the more powerful banking families in Lys, and Aerion, for all of his fury, at least knows better than to go making an enemy of them during his time in exile.
He tries the magisters next, but the magisters are even less inclined to indulge him. Smiling men with poisonous tonguesâthey bow to kings when itâs profitable and to coin when itâs safer. They will not choose between you and the dragon prince, because to take a side would be to make an enemy, and an exiled prince, tenth in line, with no army and no dragon, holds little weight on the scale when youâre sat on the opposite side. Your father might be cruel enough to keep you on a forced vacation at this little idyllic paradise for years on end, but he will not stand for disrespect.
Aerionâs wrath is apocalyptic when he realizes that the magisters are being as evasive as the whores, meeting his questions with riddles and half-answers. He leaves their manses with his temper fraying, red silk snapping like a banner behind him. He is not accustomed to doors closing in his face, and you find yourself too entertained when the magisters send a serving girl to find you and warn you that the dragon prince is poking around about you.
He has his white cloak follow you around some daysâyou see him trailing from the corner of your eye, and instead of making moves to lose him, you let him follow several paces behind, amused by the lengths Aerion is going to for answers. His white cloak only returns with reports of laughter and music, of you moving freely between pillow houses and manses alike as though you belong to none and all at once.Â
At last, he does what pride has resisted: he tries seeking you out again.
Unfortunately for him, you make a game of cat-and-mouse. The harbor children run to you the moment they see a flash of red silk and the dutiful white cloak following behind, warning you that the prince is out hunting again, and youâre quick to make yourself scarce from all of the places he would ordinarily be able to find you, lounging in the hidden coves of the island where the sun is brightest and the water is warmest.Â
You spend a week toying with him like this, watching from a distance as he becomes more and more incensed by his inability to find you, but all fun must come to an end, and youâre expected at the First Magisterâs manse for a mid-summer festival, so you don your prettiest silks and make way to the manse youâve been residing in the past five years.
The manse is ablaze with torches and lanterns before the sun has even fully set, hundreds of them, hung from archways and balconies, glass tilted in rose and amber so that the entire property glows like a living jewel. Musicians line the outer courtyards, flutes and lutes carrying through the warm night air, drums pulsing in time with the tide below.Â
You make your way to a partially secluded balcony of the manse, lounging back against velvet cushions, the scent of orange blossom and wine thick in the air. From here, you can see everything happening down below, and people canât easily make their way to you for conversation. Making your appearance for all intents and purposes, in sight of all of the attendees below, as the First Magister asked of you, but distant enough not to be bothered. The perfect compromise, in your fair opinion.
The gardens are the picture of decadenceâmarble statues wound with garlands of fresh roses, silk canopies rippling overhead in the gentle breeze, servants refilling goblets before theyâre empty and cooling flushed faces with fans of dyed peacock feathers.Â
It is obscene and gloriousâit is Lys, and you are terribly bored.Â
You exhale, gaze flicking up to the night sky, stretching languidly against the cushions as a pretty boy from the Perfumed Garden settles at your side. Heâs all silk skin and silver lashes, bracelets chiming softly at his wrists. He smells faintly of sweet wine and summer berriesâlooks like the dragon prince, you think blandly as your eyes trace amethyst eyes and lithe limbs, but without the fire that comes with. Without asking, he leans in, mouth brushing the hollow of your throat tentatively, waiting for you to send him away or accept him at your side.Â
You tilt your head obligingly in response, granting him better access, and he lets out a hum against your skin, to the irritation of the golden-haired girl already curled on your opposite side, pouting against your skin from where sheâs nuzzling your wrist. They donât like sharingâmore likely one will be sent away in favor of the other, and itâs nicest up here with the view of the gardens, not having to deal with merchant lords and magisters pawing and groping.Â
The girl presses a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist, sucking gently at your pulse, and the boy at your throat grows bolder when you do not dismiss him, mouth traveling from your collarbone to the curve beneath your ear, teeth grazing lightly before he soothes the spot with his tongue.
You sigh, head lolling back against the cushions, gaze drifting upward to the lanterns swaying above the terrace before you allow your eyes to slide shut. You are boredâthey are beautiful, and attentive, and they know exactly how to please you, but youâve long grown weary of soft skin and pillowed touches. But youâre expected to be here until dawn, and there are still hours left until then, so you may as well use them as a way to pass the time.Â
Just as the boyâs hand starts to drift cautiously along your waist, testing the line between invitation and overstep, your hair stands on end, eyes reopening as your instincts warn you that youâre being watched. You're used to being watched in Lysâby curious nobles and idle voyeurs whose stares follow pleasure like sportâbut this is not that. Your head falls to the side when both courtesans at your sides stiffen, gaze drifting over to the curtained entrance to the balcony you lounge on.
You hum when you recognize the figure standing there, half in shadow, lanternlight catching along the sharp line of his jaw and his silver hair. He doesnât say anything, violet gaze flicking to the two at your side. You let out a long exhale through your nose, eyes flicking up in irritation.Â
âGo,â you tell the two courtesans, who immediately take the opportunity to scurry away from Aerion Brightflameâs imminent ire. Your gaze meets his again, and you say dryly, âAo zĆ«gagon qrÄ«drughagon ñuha lÄ«vi. Gaomagon ao kÈłvanon naejot ropakagon zirÈł, zaldrÄ«zes dÄrilaros?â
You scared away my whores. Do you intend to be their replacement, dragon prince?
Aerion tilts his head to the side slightly, gaze lidded, eyes sharp shards of amethyst. âFirst, you liken me to a jester, now a whore. Itâs almost as though you are determined to see how far you may push before I remind you what I really am.â
âI am simply offering ways for you to recompense,â you reply lightly. âYou frightened away my night's entertainment, after all.â
âI did not tell them to leave.â
âYou did not have to.â
His mouth curls up faintly at that. âI am not here to replace anyone,â he says coolly.
âPity,â you sigh. âYou would be far more interesting.â
âYou have been avoiding me,â Aerion says after a moment, changing the subject as he steps fully onto the balcony, staring down at you coldly.Â
âAnd you have been asking about me,â you drawl. âSit with me, prince. My neck aches craning upward to look at you.â
Aerionâs lip curls up in distaste, gaze flicking to the cushions where the courtesans had just been sitting. He asks, âYou expect me to sit where your whores were just pawing at you?â
âYou expect me to continue craning my neck?â you counter lazily. âItâs terribly inconvenient.â
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think heâll refuse you on principle, but then, with visible reluctance, he steps closer and lowers himself onto the far edge of the velvet cushions, lounging back against them and giving you a disdainful look. You curl onto your side to look at him through your lashes, smiling lightly.Â
âYou mock me, you antagonize me, and you disappear for days,â he says, voice low. âWho are you? A real answer this time.â
âMy name was not satisfactory?â you ask, teasing, purposely shifting a little closer, knee almost brushing his thigh. His eyes flick over you once, wary. âWell, what have you learned then, prince? From your many inquiries?â
His lips curl into a smile that doesnât reach his eyes. With a voice as thin as his smile, he says, âNothing of import.â
You lean in a little closer, fingers dragging up the red silk of his sleeve, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath it, warmer than the summer night, than the wine still sweet on your tongue, fire burning under man. Your fingers itch to slip beneath the silk, to slide against his bare skin, feel the thrum of his pulse. His gaze snaps down to where youâre touching him, lip curling up in distaste, but not brushing you off. Your heart races in your chest, delighted, a smile touching the corner of your lips.Â
âBut that tells you something of import in itself, does it not?â you hum, fingers sliding higher, grazing the seam at his shoulder, then down again in a slow, idle path, memorizing the shape of him through silk.
His breathing shiftsâbarely, but it doesâand his eyes follow the trail you trace down his arm sharply. His attention pulls back up to your face, calculating your words. âYou move between manses as though you belong to all of them,â he says, more to himself than to you. âThe Perfumed Garden protects you. The magisters evade my questions. Even the harbor brats run interference on your behalf. That is not coincidence.â
You tilt your head, studying him.
âPerhaps they simply like me.â
âNo one is liked that thoroughly without reason.â
âIndeed,â you agree, inching closer. Your knee presses against his thigh firmly now, head resting against the same velvet cushion that supports his shoulders. You can feel the tension in him through the thin barrier of silk. His face tilts toward yours, within a breath of one anotherâyou can almost taste the wine on his mouth. You have to stop yourself from leaning in to drag your tongue against his bottom lip. âWhy ever would the Lyseni insult a prince of the blood for a common whore?â
His gaze doesnât leave yours, even as your fingers slip from the silk of his sleeve to his collar, tracing the edge where fabric parts to reveal pale skin beneath. You donât quite touch him there, but you long to.Â
âYou do not speak in the Lysene dialectâno common whore of Lys would speak fluent High Valyrian,â Aerion continues, voice low, picking up on the hint you dropped him earlier. Your gaze slips down to his lips as he speaks, and you have to force it back up to his eyes. âNor would she openly antagonize andââ His hand darts up, lithe fingers wrapping around your wrist, tight enough to bruise when you start to trace down the embroidered patterns along his chest. ââfreely touch a prince of the blood.â
You hum, pulse fluttering beneath his thumb. He feels itâyou know he does. âAnd where does that leave your answer?âÂ
Your breath catches in the back of your throat as he drags his nail down your inner wrist, sharp enough to draw blood if he chooses to press a little deeper. His gaze drifts from your face to your wrist, the edge of his nail pressing just enough to sting, and then deeper, a small bead of blood welling against your skin before he eases the pressure. He watches it rise and then shifts his thumb beneath it and rubs upward, smearing the blood against your pulse.Â
âYou were quick to recognize what I was,â he says at last, voice quieter now. His thumb lingers at your pulse. âQuicker than most.â
âYou did deny pleasure and business,â you remind him easily, lips curled up slightly.
âAnd yet, not many would immediately jump to exile,â Aerion murmurs, gaze sharper now. âNot unless they are well acquainted with it themselves.â
âUdrimmi dÄrilaros,â you purrâentertaining and intelligent, you think youâll have fun with the dragon prince. Clever prince. âBirds of a feather, you and I.â
Aerion makes a noise in the back of his throat as though he doesnât quite agree, but his eyes slide back up to your face, calculating. His tongue darts out to wet his lip, and your gaze fixes on it. He muses, âYouâre no ordinary exile, if the Lyseni will insult a prince of the blood to retain your favor.âÂ
You watch his eyes slip over your features, trying to put together all of the pieces, irritation swimming in violet when he canât immediately do so. You canât blame himâyou suppose they donât fit together too neatly. For the Lyseni to favor you over him, he would assume you would have to be royal yourself, probably initially leaning toward an imperial princess of Yi Ti or the daughter of a Qartheen merchant prince. But you speak fluent High Valyrian, and the YiTish and Qartheen people hold the Valyrian Freehold in high disdainâthey do not teach its tongue in their court, much less prize it with the reverence you speak it in. That makes him lean toward the Free Cities, and yetâyou do not speak in bastardized Valyrian. Your Valyrian is clean, as old and measured as it was when the Freehold ruled the world before the Doom.
Frustration flashes across his face, and he runs his tongue between his teeth, trying to put together the jagged pieces youâve handed him. You watch the movement with open interest. He is thinkingâcalculating lineages and alliances, which houses of which cities might keep the old tongue unspoiled, who the Lyseni might favor more than the dragon. You can see the names forming and falling away behind his eyes, each failure leaving him more incensed.
His grip on your wrist loosens as he thinks, and you slide your hand down the length of his forearm, shifting closer. He does not stop you, too occupied with his thoughts. Thatâs when you lean in, mouth brushing against the hollow of his throat, the same way the pretty silk boy did to you when he curled up at your side before.
He stills, inhaling sharply the moment your lips touch his skin. You feel the warmth of his body, flames burning beneath skin, the faint thrum of his pulse. You let your lips linger before drawing back slightly, breath ghosting across the same place, waiting to see if heâll push you away.
âI did not give you leave to touch me, whore,â he finally says, but he doesnât move away, nor does he push you back.Â
âI thought we had established that Iâm not a whore,â you murmur, and then press your luck by pressing your lips to his skin again, firmer this time. A third time along the ridge of his throat as it bobs beneath your mouth, a visible swallow that betrays him.
You feel the tension ripple through himâanger and desire warring with one another, braided too tightly to separate. His hand comes up fast, fingers tangling in your hair roughly. He doesnât pull you away like you expect, and you canât help the way the corners of your mouth curl upward slightly.Â
âYou behave like one,â he hisses.
âA whore would not be so bold as to touch a prince of the blood without leave,â you echo his own words back at him. When he doesnât shove you away and rise to his feet, you shift closer still, half into his lap, hands sliding against the smooth silk covering his abdomen, not slipping beneath yet. His fingers twist in your hair againâa warningâyou do not heed it. âIÄ lÄ«ve daor ikson kostagon naejot kostilus ao isse aĆha muña Ängos.â
A whore would not be able to please you in your mother tongue.
His breath hitches, grip on your hair tightening at the sound of High Valyrian spoken so cleanly against his throat. His pulse jumps beneath your mouth, and you flick your tongue out to circle it, sucking gently at his skin. He pulls your head back slightly, fingers tight in your hair. His pupils are blown wide again, violet slivers around black, except that last time he was fueled by rage, this time itâs something far more dangerousâhis free hand slides up your thigh to your hip, thumb pressing hard into your skin. Your hips twitch, aching to grind against the thigh between your legs, but you catch yourself, waiting for him to speak.
âYou presume much,â he says, voice low. âYou enjoy seeing how far I will allow you to go.â
You smile lightly, gaze lidded. âI enjoy discovering where the line truly is.â
He twists your hair just enough to make it sting, nails carving crescents into the skin at your hip. âDo you really think the laws of this city will protect you from me?â he breathes out. âYou think coin and courtesy mean anything if I decide otherwise?â
Your gaze drops to his lips as he speaks, and his fingers tighten in your hair, forcing your gaze up to his. âI am dragon-blood. Exile does not strip that from me. It does not make me tame. You play at this because you believe I will abide by Lyseni customâthat I will bow to their law. If I wished to make an example out of you, Lys would not stop me.â His lips curl faintly, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. You feel his breath against your lips. âYou provoke me in my own tongue. You touch me without leave. You grind against me like a bitch in heat and call it entertainment. And you think Iâll simply indulge you.â
His hand at your hip shifts, sliding slightly higher to yank you fully into his lap. You suck in a breath as your bodies align. You feel him pressed against your inner thigh, hard, aching as much as your cunt is, but his grip is iron at your waist, refusing to allow you grind down.
âI allow this,â he continues, nails dragging slowly against your scalp as he tilts your head another fraction, âbecause I choose to, and if I withdraw that choice, no law or magister in this pillowed city will save you from me.â His thumb presses deep into the small of your back, forcing your spine to arch subtly toward him. âIf you want to please me, then please me like a good whore, but my patience wanes with your games, and you will not like the result if itâs exhausted.â
You lean in to latch your lips to his jaw, lashes fluttering as you press an open-mouthed kiss there, mapping the sharp lines, teeth teasing pale skin. He inhales sharply through his nose, hand tightening reflexively at your waist, but then he loosens his grip just enough for you to lower your hips so that his clothed cock is pressed against the damp silk covering your cunt.Â
He settles back against the cushions, violet eyes lidded as he stares down at you, and you drag your tongue up his throat, along the underside of his chin, to his lips. You bite back a noise that builds in the back of your throat when he parts his lips, tongue sliding against yours as you swipe along his bottom lip before he leans in to press his mouth firmly to yours, deepening the kiss on his own terms.
You let out a quiet moan into his mouth, fingers curling in the silk at his shoulders, heart racing as his tongue maps the inside of your mouth the way youâd mapped the line of his jaw. He tastes exactly how you expectedâfire and ash, blood and steel, you want him. You havenât wanted anyone or anything so badly in your entire life. Before you were cast from black walls and marble palaces, you were given everything you wanted on a silver platter, before you even knew you wanted it yourself; and after, your life became so dull and colorless that even your fleeting desires were shallow, monotonous things, passing and predictable, boring, never lasting for more than a few moments' time.Â
But thisâthe sting of his nails dragging against your skin, the taste of his tongue, the heat of his body, itâs different, it burns, consumes, and you want him. The exiled prince, the dragonâyouâre sick of perfume and silk, you want blood and fire, claws that cut through skin and touches that burn, incandescence. Your hands slide from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers threading through silver strands, and his mouth falls half ajar against yours when you roll your hips and tug lightly at his hair. His hand slips from your waist to between your legs, and you gasp into his mouth, eyes sliding shut, forehead pressed to his, noses nudging when he slides his fingers against your clothed cunt.
âYou say youâre not a whore, yet your cunt weeps like one,â Aerion breathes against your lips disdainfully before leaning in to drag his tongue up the length of your neck. Your lashes flutter, eyes rolling back slightly as his fingers dip beneath the silk, sliding between your wet folds.Â
âAnd you speak as though disgusted,â you reply, breath shuddering against his temple as his teeth bite deep into your pulse point, âyet your body disagrees.â
Aerion doesnât even bother with a reply, pushing two fingers into your cunt and watching the way you arch against him as he drags them in and out of you. He tilts his head back against the cushions, lips wet and kiss-swollen, eyes lidded as he looks up at you. He says scornfully, âI thought you were to be the one to please me. It seems as though Iâm the one doing the pleasing.â
âShijetra nyke, dÄrilaros,â you murmur, relishing in the way his breath hitches and body visibly shudders when you speak High Valyrian to him. âKesan mazverdagon ziry bÄ naejot ao.â
Forgive me, prince. Iâll make it up to you.
You lean in to press your lips against his again, gasping lightly into his mouth when he presses his thumb to your clit, before he slips his fingers out of you, looking up at you expectantly. You roll his bottom lip between your teeth, feeling his chest vibrate as he fights a groan, and you slide your hand from the nape of his neck down his chest, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his silk pants.Â
âI see Vyrano has you dressed like a proper silk boy,â you murmur into his mouth.
Aerionâs lips immediately curl into a snarl, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, as though to prove heâs a dragon and not one of the pretty boys you can find in the pillow houses. Iron floods your mouth, lip stinging painfully, and his lips part to snap out an insult, surely, but your hand dips into his pants before he can, fingers wrapping around his cock. Whatever words were on his tongue immediately die, jaw falling half-slack as your hand glides up and down his length.Â
You kiss him again, deeper this time, pushing the blood he drew into his mouth and swallowing the moan he lets out into you when you squeeze gently at the base of his cock, thumb sliding over his tip, smearing the precum leaking from his slit.Â
Anyone could see the two of you, you think distantly, a thrill running through your body as your gaze flicks over the balcony, where lanternlight spills gold across flowery decadence, and the drifting servants and laughing nobles below. Some are watching, you realize, noticing that several gazes are already flicking upward to where the two of you are entwined, sharing breath, kisses, touches.Â
This is Lysâit is not ordinarily scandalous. Lovers are displayed as often as jewels and tapestries. Half-hidden trysts on balconies are as common as wine spills on marble. Men and women press each other against pillars and cushions every festival night, and the city merely hums in approval, but thisâ
This is different.
You and the dragon prince are not some merchantâs bored heir and his purchased distraction, or a magisterâs son and a painted courtesan. He is fire and blood, and you come from black walls and marble palaces. This is not scandalous, not if it were anyone else, but it is not anyone else.
You let out a breathless laugh, kissing him again, deeper this timeâcanât get enough of the taste of him, the warmth of his lips against yours, the heat of his body. One hand still works his cock, quick snaps of your wrist that make his head loll, while the other slips beneath silk to flatten against his abdomen, nails raking gently against his skin. His eyes roll half-back, muscles tensing beneath your hand, hips stuttering, but before he can finish, you pull your hand from his pants.
Aerion hisses, eyes snapping open and violet flaring furiously as his hips jerk up against air, ruining his high just when he was on the precipice. He spits, âYou dareââ but you press your lips against his before he can finish the sentence, pushing the silk down to his thighs, just enough so that you can sink down on his cock.
âHahââ you gasp, head falling back slightly at the feeling of his cock stretching your walls. Your gaze blurs as you look up at the stars above, trying to give yourself a second to adjust, but Aerionâs hands drop down to your waist, nails digging into your skin as he snaps his hips up. Just for a second, you see starsâthe tip of his cock forces itself so deep inside of you that you swear, just for a second, that you can feel him in your stomach. âOhââ
Aerion pushes himself up from where heâs lying back against the cushions, sucking at the crook of your neck before he drags his tongue up to the spot behind your ear. He presses his lips against it as he breathes, âAo Èłdragon hae iÄ lÄ«ve se gaomagon hae iÄ lÄ«ve, yn aĆha orvorta iksis tolÄ« Èłrda naejot sytilÄ«bagon naejot iÄ lÄ«ve.â
You talk like a whore and act like a whore, but your cunt is too tight to belong to a whore.Â
His abdomen tenses as you answer him by scratching lines through his skin, and you guide him back against the cushions, leaning down to kiss bruises up his pale throat. You press your lips to his again as you finally start to rock your hips, the drag of his cock against your walls making you hot and dizzy. You force down a whimper when he sucks the blood from your bottom lip, where he sank his teeth in before. One of his hands comes up to hold the back of your head, tilting your head so that he can drag his tongue against the roof of your mouth.
He tastes like fire, you think again, licking the inside of his lip, fire and smoke and blood, everything youâve ever wanted. The more you kiss him, the more heat spreads through youâlike a dragon, breathing flames through his mouth into yours, spreading through your chest, your stomach, your whole body, you almost make yourself laugh, but a pointed thrust makes your eyes knock back.Â
Aerion lets out a low moan into your mouth, lashes fluttering, the violet of his eyes rolling back slightly when you pick up the pace of your hips. âFuck,â he gasps. âAo qogralbar hae iÄ lÄ«ve.â
You fuck like a whore.
You laugh into his mouth, rolling his lip between your teeth and biting down hard, drawing blood as he did to you before. He hisses into your mouth, hips jerking, cock twitching inside of you; his pupils are blown wide as he stares up at you, caught between disbelief and desireâcanât believe you have the audacity to spill blood of the dragon, canât believe the fact that you did almost made him cum.
Your hand slides behind his head to pull him up so that heâs sitting upright again, chest flush to yours, lips sliding together sloppily, a mess of blood and saliva. His nails dig into your thighs, body tensing briefly as though he plans to flip you onto your back, but before he can, your hands dart down to push his hands off of you, not letting him take control from you.Â
He snarls into your mouth immediately, furious, snapping down on your lip again like aâlike a dragon, you think again, breathless. A dragon, yesâyour dragon, or he will be. Dragons have always existed to be claimed by the old blood, you echo, and he will be yours, one way or another. Your thighs burn on either side of his narrow hips with each bounce on his cock. For the first time since you were cast out, you feel alive again. Your world has returned to fire and steel and incandescent light, and youâll be damned before you let it go back to the colorless, pillowed world it's been for the last five years.
You kiss him deeper, fuck him faster, and he lets out a ragged, choked noise, breaking his lips from yours to tilt his face to the sky. Your blood and his is smeared across his lower face, lips pink and wet and swollen, a flush high on his cheeks.Â
âGevie,â you breathe out, hands sliding back up his body to cradle his face, forcing him to look at you again. His violet eyes are partially glazed over when they meet yours.Â
Beautiful.
Aerionâs head falls forward, and his whole body seizes as he cums inside of you, and you tangle your fingers in his silver hair to crane his head back so that you can press your lips to his again, swallowing his moans. Your free hand slides between your bodies to rub circles over your clit, rolling your hips still, slower now, so you can feel every inch of his cock drag against your walls. His nails claw your thighs when you donât ease up, teeth grinding together, pulling his lips from yours to toss his head back.
âQogralbar aspoâqrughâĆregon vaââ
 Fucking bitchâshitâhold onâ
Your hips jerk, a gasp muffled into his mouthâthe sting of his nails in your thighs, his softening cock twitching inside of you, the way his jaw is clenched and how the vein running down the side of his neck bulges as he strains to not let out a pitched whine, overstimulated. Itâs all too much, one last roll of your hips as he spasms beneath you, cock head dragging up against that sweet spot inside of you, and your jaw falls slack against his mouth, a hitch and a whine as your hips stutter, finishing on his sensitive cock.Â
The two of you remain like that for a long while, the sound of music and chatter below, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same dizzying sliver of air. When that pleasant, boneless feeling in your limbs starts to subside, you finally roll off of him, onto the velvet cushions next to him, head lolling back so you can look up at the sky, trying to catch your breath, chest heaving, and eyes sliding shut briefly.Â
After a few moments pass, you stretch languidly and rise to your feet.
âWhere do you think youâre going?â Aerion asks, voice low and gaze lidded as he watches you carefully.Â
âDown to the garden,â you say easily, fixing your dress. Aerion looks distinctly offended, pushing himself up onto his elbows. You explain, âI promised the First Magister I wouldnât hide away up here all night, and now I feel, ah, properly energized to go socialize with these peacocks.â
His eye twitches, and he looks as though he wants to argue, but you turn to leave before he can, ignoring the aggravated puff of air he lets out.
âTell me,â Aerion calls after you. âWhere are you from? Why were you exiled here? Who are you really?â
You give him an easy smile over your shoulder. âI revealed enough secrets tonight, havenât I?â you drawl as you push the curtain open to leave the balcony and head back down to make your official appearance at the festival. âIt would ruin the fun if I revealed the mystery all at once.â
Aerion doesnât respond, gaze dragging over you as he leans forward to pluck one of the grapes you left on the table between his fingers, rolling it once before popping it in his mouth. After a long moment, his lips curl up into a slow smirk, as though finally deciding to go along with this little game of yours. His eyes slide away, effectively dismissing you as though you werenât already leaving.
 Your smile widens. ââÄva hembar jÄda, dÄrilaros.â
aerion targaryen x daeron's wife!reader, daeron targaryen x wife!reader
aerion overhears you and daeron having sex and becomes obsessed with his brother's wife.
1.2k+ words.
cw: fem!reader, no y/n, dom!reader, sub!daeron, aerion doesn't think he's a sub but realizes he is for you, aerion's creepy pervert behaviour, aerion's misogyny, edging, mentions of bondage, one 'good boy', mildly incestuous connotations
the targaryen retinue is travelling and the walls in this castle are less thick than those of the red keep. aerion's lying in bed when he starts to hear a noticeable thud thud thud coming from his brother's room. soon he can hearing groaning and whimpering and little 'uh uh uh'. it's muffled, but obvious enough what's going on. aerion smirks and starts stroking his cock without even a hint of shame.
***
the next morning at breakfast, aerion sees daeron and is ready to start shit. slyly asks his brother how his evening ride was. makes all sorts of crude remarks, asks if the mare was an easy enough ride. if she struggled to bear his weight. if his mount was all worn out now. but daeron is just confused and it's no fun if his food doesn't realize it's being played with. so aerion outright says "could hear you and your ride last night. didn't think you had it in you, but it sounded like your wife thoroughly enjoyed herself."
and daeron is so annoyed with his little shit of a brother, mostly for the disrespect towards you. and he probably should keep his mouth shut but he doesn't. "you're the one obsessed with our family's history. you should know dragons don't ride. they're ridden."
and daeron leaves to return to his wife's side. aerion watches the two of you and notices for the first time that it's daeron who nuzzles into and is utterly devoted to you.
***
aerion's never deemed you worthy of much attention, but now he can't stop thinking about you and wondering what exactly you do to his brother.
aerion doesn't have many opportunities to speak with you without another's presence. but when he does he probes with devious questions, testing you. compliments your horsemanship. asks how you manage to tame a stallion. plays at being the good brother by commenting on how happy daeron seemed with you. how much he had improved under your...influence. is so bold as to acknowledge that his brother had given up whoring for you, a sure sign of his...happiness in the marriage.
if you understand his meanings, you don't let on, and aerion may be bold but he is also intentional. he can't be too direct lest he ruin the game.
***
because the family is travelling, he has the opportunity to sneak into your things. aerion goes into your room and takes one of your dresses, the lowest cut one, and uses it to fist his cock until he cums thinking about you riding him. he leaves it in a bunch on the floor. he assumes the servants must have found it and if they recognized what the residue was, they didn't raise the alarm. he also stole your perfume before he left.
he listens every night but he doesn't hear you fucking his brother again. he groans in frustration.
he finds a whore that looks a little like you, if he squints. he makes her wear your perfume. aerion gets her to ride him, but it's not right, she's too careful about it. she's not making him feel whatever you made daeron feel. he flips the whore over and fucks her, but ultimately finds the experience disappointing.
he tries to linger outside the bathing house the party stops at so he can sneak a glimpse at you, but the ladies are too well guarded and he spots his father and has to make himself scarce.
***
the weeks that drag on are torturous. finally, the retinue returns to king's landing and aerion has his chance. that night he uses the secret passages in the red keep, one of which fortuitously leads to daeron's room. he peers in through a crack in the wall and, just as he hoped, finds you taking advantage of having your husband all to yourself.
daeron's laid out on the floor while you ride him, both naked. his mouth's hanging open and he's whimpering. his hands grasp at the rug and it's obvious to aerion that you've told daeron he's not allowed to touch you.
"please please please" daeron moans.
"what do you want, dear husband?" you smirk down at him.
"w-want to suck on your tits."
you grip his hair and pull daeron to sit up. daeron's practically drooling, dipping his head down towards your pretty breasts, when you shove him back down on the rug again. daeron whines.
you lean down, tits bouncing near his face but not close enough.
"do i need to tie you down?"
"n-no," he stammers.
"is my husband going to be good for me?" you purr.
"s-so good!"
aerion's cock is out and he's touching himself, matching your rhythm so he can pretend it's his cock you're riding. he speeds up as you do. you're both going faster and aerion can feel himself getting closer and see that daeron's the same.
then, you stop.
daeron cries and grasps at the rug. and, though aerion had no intention of stopping, no desire to stop, he found his hand no longer moving. aerion's face presses against the wall and he pants, hard.
you pull daeron up into a sitting position and your legs wrap around his back. both you and daeron moan, the position evidently pushing him even deeper inside you. you begin moving again and aerion can see you're riding for your pleasure, not your husband's, though the sounds daeron is making make it obvious he's still very much enjoying it. aerion began stroking his cock again.
you stick your fingers in daeron's open mouth and he obediently begins sucking on them. you ride your husband again faster and faster until you suddenly stop short again. daeron is distraught and aerion only manages to remain quiet by biting his fist as he also stops touching himself, though he keeps a tight grip on the base of his cock.
daeron's actually crying and aerion wonders if his brother is this pathetic (hypocrite, he's hardly any better) or if you'd edged him before this. maybe even denied him for days.
"you're going to cum if i keep going, aren't you, sweetheart?" you cooed.
daeron nodded and whimpered.
"well, i can't have that. you look too perfect like this. my good boy." you cooed.
aerion's hips jerked forward.
"but it's not fair i don't get to keep having fun just because you can't control yourself, is it?"
daeron shook his head.
aerion never understood the stories of men who brought kingdoms to war and ruin over desire for a woman. seemed too much trouble for some cunt. aerion had assumed it was romantic nonsense, the work of storytellers, but it's now obvious to aerion his brother would agree to anything you said in that moment. give you anything you asked for. anything at all. daeron was completely pathetic and miserable and utterly weak for you, it was embarassing.
gods, aerion envies him.
you untangle yourself from daeron, your bodies separating with a wet sound that has aerion's hips thrusting again. he can't help it. he can't deny himself. he keeps pumping as you drape yourself across yours' and your husband's bed.
you spread your legs wide. aerion can see every inch of you. his hips buck uncontrollably as daeron crawls towards your exposed pussy.
daeron presses his face between your legs and licks a stripe up your cunt. you moan, and that does it for aerion.
aerion cums, hard, biting his fist until he tastes blood.
he's shaking all over as his body comes down. aerion feels he could topple over, but he braces himself against the wall. he can't rest now.
not when he's about to enjoy watching his brother eat your pretty cunt.
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