the theory of crookshanks

just a girl who likes to write the impossible in her spare time.

[amarauder]

Welcome! My name is Madeline! Twenty Two! Percy Jackson! James Potter! Jaime Lannister!

My end goal is to ruin your sleep schedule :)

old masterlist. fic recs. new masterlist below.

PERCY JACKSON

- s e r i e s

001. percy's adventure to the top of the world;  in which percy jackson hasn’t seen Y/N L/N in over two years, but once they meet again, he’s already one ferris wheel ride away from falling in love with her all over again. COMPLETE! (personal favorite)

002. percy is a boiled egg; in which reader is forced to tag along on the quest to alaska.

003. peter johnson and the flying water bottles; in which percy jackson meets his new neighbor by accidentally almost killing himself and her multiple times in the process.

- o n e s h o t s

001. criminal girl likes garfield; in which reader is percy jackson’s soulmate, potentially a criminal and more than kind of cute. (personal favorite) 8k+

JAMES POTTER

- s e r i e s

001. the nineteen year itch; in which james potter gets divorced and his best friends “force” him to finally find out his soulmate, only to see his sirius’ twenty-two year old niece.

7/20 chapters

002. eyes wide shut: in which a girl and a boy's fate are more intertwined than they ever thought possible.

- o n e s h o t s

001. prongs, the temporary prefect; in which James occasionally takes over Remus’ patrols during the Full Moon and Y/N is always stuck as his partner. 19k+

002. how to do the monster mash;  in which the marauders decide to be monsters for Halloween and James “accidentally” forgets that Y/N is already dressed up as a vampire. 3k+

HARRY POTTER

-s e r i e s

001. comfort is not for us (the time we've been given); in which the war is finally over and now everyone has too much time on their hands.

-o n e s h o t s

001. a saint valentine's mystery; in which Y/N has a secret admirer and her annoying cousin is opening an investigation to figure out who it is. 5k+

REGULUS BLACK

-s e r i e s

001. the wake of the living; in which a girl dies and comes back to life only to discover she can see who is about to die.

LORENZO BERKSHIRE

-s e r i e s

001. small mercies; in which no matter a girl and a boy fight against it, they somehow always end up in close proximities.

JAIME LANNISTER

- s e r i e s

001. the most angelic sin; in which robb stark's bethrothed is assigned jaime lannister as her personal bodyguard, much to all their displeasure.

2/? chapters

[hmione]

Julia Stiles as Kat Stratford 10 Things I Hate About You (1999) | dir. Gil Junger

[nick-nellson]

DOCTOR WHO The Robot Revolution

[ghost-faces-deactivated20250916]

do you like my repetitive and outdated music taste

[isabellaofparma]

tessarion hating on ormund

[scyeschef]

I just love this one omg

[chuluoyi]

seeing the question the other anonnie asked NOW IM CURIOUS WHAT THE PRINCESS CONSORT THINKS ABT LADY LANNISTER AND NOW AERION

the princess consort tries to think the best of them 🥹 she certainly knows lady lannister is a proper noble lady, and pities her for being with aerion. she is still wary of aerion and doesn’t want to be near him, hence why they’re not on talking terms

but in social functions, seeing both aerion and lady lannister together, she wishes the best for them 🙂‍↕️

[aemondssapphire]

Ser, please pick up your son.

[andpierres]

you should have seen me a couple of years ago!

[childlikemperor]

the funnest part of reading books is telling people the plot like its hot gossip

[chuluoyi]

bundle of joy

- gwayne hightower x wife!reader

pious, devout and charming— your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...

genre/warnings: suggestive, pregnancy, lots of romance, arguments, hurt/comfort, brief description of childbirth, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! from house of the dragon season 1 and 3

notes: gif by @/baelcrtargaryen. just gwayne being a protective husband <3 sigh he's so delectable i want to eat him

Despite how your marital bed was rarely cold and the frequency of your nightly activities, it had actually taken you years to conceive a child.

It had come as a blessing because you adored children and Gwayne, who was so fond of his nephew Daeron and had watched him grow up, had hoped for the day you would bear a child of his own to love wholeheartedly—

“You are... truly? A child…?”

And now, that day is finally here.

The brilliant blue of his eyes shone the moment the words left your lips, unblinking, afraid if he had misheard.

But when sweet, ethereal you nodded with the brightest of smiles, he himself was come undone, a breathless, boyish smile breaking across his face then.

“This is— oh, most splendid news—!”

Gwayne couldn’t help himself— he pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. It was full of pure, unfiltered giddiness, the kind that had him laughing softly against your lips in boundless joy.

“Oh, Gwayne...” you sighed into him, relief washed over you at how elated he was. You felt so blessed to have such a kind man as a husband.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as his eyes bored into yours.

“I love you. I love you. I swear to you and the Seven above, I will do everything in my power to protect both you and our child.”

If he had loved you deeply before, he was enamored to the point of no return now. In the moons that followed, everything blurred into bliss.

To Gwayne, you were akin to a Valyrian goddess, and he was nothing less than your sworn sword— you could do no wrong, and your word was his absolute law.

And mayhaps those old midwives’ tales held truth, or you were just taking immaculate care of yourself. Then again, chances were higher that he was a simple fool blinded by love, but Gwayne could have sworn... ever since then, you were glowing.

Your smile seemed sweeter now, and the way you would place a hand on your growing belly out of instinct was adorable. The fact that you carried his child, and the radiant joy it brought to your eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees—

—because the Gods know he loves you so damned much too.

“The Princess… she is absolutely radiant, is she not?”

And as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

The rank-and-file soldiers were in the middle of their daily drills when you passed by the courtyard. A sudden breeze swept through, catching the silk of your gown and sending a few stray locks of your hair dancing across your face. It was a picture of effortless grace— and, to a yard full of sweat-drenched men, an absolute sight for sore eyes.

A pair of low-ranking footmen at the back of the line completely forgot their footwork, utterly spellbound.

“Aye,” the second one murmured, his eyes wide and completely glazed over as he watched you walk. “Like a maiden stepping right out of a tapestry...”

Gwayne’s head snapped toward them, the warm smile he had been wearing just a heartbeat prior when he stared at you vanishing in an instant.

“You there!” he barked, his voice ringing across the cobblestones.

The two footmen jumped and turned to him, faces instantly draining of color. Gwayne strode toward them, his chest puffed out, putting on the airs of a proud and arrogant knight.

“Unless you expect the Princess to wield a blade in your stead, I suggest you keep your eyes on your opponent.”

“Y-Yes, sire—”

Hmph. Now they were cowering before him. How did they forget whose wife they had been ogling just now?

“Ten more laps around the yard,” Gwayne commanded to their dismay, his eyes cold as he lifted his chin up. “And if I catch your eyes wandering from your duties again, I will personally pluck your eyes out and ensure you spend your next rotation cleaning Ormund’s chambers... Now move!”

As the panicked footmen scrambled to begin their laps, Gwayne threw them a dirty look, bridled with utter satisfaction.

He turned back toward where you stood, expecting to find you continuing on your way, blissfully unaware. Instead, he found you standing still, watching the entire exchange with an amused sparkle in your eyes— a delicate hand to your lips to hide your giggle.

Gwayne’s haughty expression crumbled. A flustered flush crept rapidly up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty pink. Suddenly acutely self-conscious of how loud he had been, he cleared his throat and blinked several times, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.

He offered you a sheepish frown, his eyes pleading for you not to tease him too much when you were finally behind closed doors.

. . .

“What has displeased you, hm, husband?”

That night, Gwayne had just stepped out of the bath, his dark hair still damp, and sleepiness softening his usually sharp features as he took his side of the bed. He wore only a loose, simple linen robe, tied haphazardly at his waist.

“Hm...?” he mumbled, mid-yawn, as he turned to you.

However, his sleep-addled mind was entirely unprepared for the sight of you.

Seven save me, he thought, his throat suddenly dry.

There you were, a gorgeous temptress intent to ruin him in your... what was that? An almost see-through loose night gown?

You didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, you slithered onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Gwayne’s hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his touch warm as you draped both of your hands over his broad shoulders.

“I only ask,” you murmured teasingly, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his lips, “because you looked ready to torment two perfectly well-behaved footmen today. Over a harmless glance.”

Gwayne let out a low, rumbling groan, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he looked up at you.

“They were staring,” he replied in defense. His gaze drifted down your form, lingering on the widening of your hips where his child now grew. “Rather boldly, I’d say. They should use their ungrateful eyes to look at their targets, not at my wife. Not when you are... like this.”

You tilted your head in a mock cluelessness. “Like what?”

“Ravishing,” he breathed, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as his grip tightening on your hips. “Breathtaking. Mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through you. Leaning up, he captured you mouth in a slow, deeply sensual kiss. You parted your lips instantly to welcome him— and he tasted of mint and warm water.

“Mmhm... ah...” The kiss deepened, growing heavier and more desperate by the second. Your hands slid from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair.

Unable to help yourself, you shifted your weight, slowly and deliberately grinding your hips against his lap.

Gwayne let out a ragged gasp against your mouth. The friction of your body against his through the thin linen of his robe sent a shiver through his spine, his hands clenching tightly onto your hips to guide the rhythm. His skin was a feverish contrast to the cool night air of the room, as he hardened rapidly against you, consumed by the weight of your warmth pressing so directly into his groin—

“Damn...”

He kissed you fiercely now, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to press against him, humping him with an intoxicating persistence that had him trembling beneath you.

But just as the heat in the room threatened to boil over, Gwayne suddenly stilled you, gently but firmly halting your movements.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaved, his breathing shallow and labored. His blue eyes watered, dark with desire, searching your face.

“No, darling, we must stop,” he panted. He swallowed, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the side of your abdomen. “I love you more than my own life— but I will not risk the babe. As much as this tortures me... this is as far as I am willing to indulge us tonight.”

You let out a soft whine, resting your chin on his shoulder. You knew he was only acting out of a protective love for you and the child you carried, but the warmth of him was far too addictive to let go of just yet.

“Very well,” you murmured against his neck, nipping softly at his pulse point. “But I have one request.”

Gwayne let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. “Anything. You know you have only to ask.”

“Take off your robe,” you petulantly poked his chest. “I want to feel your skin against mine while we sleep.”

“A wanton through and though,” he snorted.

“The babe demands it.”

A hopelessly devoted smile broke across Gwayne’s face. “A punishment and a reward all at once, then.”

Without another word, he obliged. Untying the sash, he shrugged the linen robe off his shoulders. He pulled you back down against him, tucking you securely under the velvet blankets. His toned body was solid, warm, and his skin was surprisingly soft to the touch— a comforting weight you could never tire of.

Pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both drifted off to sleep.

Days and weeks drifted by, and soon, the weight of your belly could no longer be hidden beneath your dresses.

By all accounts, your life was a blissful one. You had a husband who worshipped the ground you walked on, and you were counting the days until you could finally hold the child you had been waiting for. Even for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the kind of fairy tale most could only dream of.

Still, even the most beautiful tapestries have frayed edges, do they not?

Though Gwayne’s devotion was sweeter than words could say, his constant hovering these days had begun to feel like... a suffocation.

The tipping point had come on a morning when a sharp, fleeting cramp had made you wince. He had been the one who went pale, immediately ushering you back toward the bed.

“You must lie down,” he had insisted, his voice tight with worry. “I will have the maester brew something. No more walking today.”

“Gwayne, it was a momentary ache, nothing more,” you had sighed. “I cannot spend the next two moons staring at the canopy of this bed.”

But he would frown and your heart would lurch, seeing his pure concern for you.

“For my own peace of mind and for the babe, please?”

His fretfulness felt like a velvet cage, even when you knew it came from a place of pure love.

. . .

In a rare event in which you finally managed to slip away while he was distracted with other things, you retreated to the sanctuary of the gardens, the cool breeze a welcome relief against your skin.

But your quiet peace was short-lived.

As you rounded a stone archway, you caught sight of a figure cowering behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Daeron...?” you murmured in surprise, stepping closer.

The youngest of Alicent’s three sons and a ward of Oldtown, the young prince was unlike his misguided brothers, and you had known him to be a gentle and sensitive soul. Now five and ten, he was thrust into the grueling world of knighthood, all under the watchful eye of your husband’s cousin.

The boy gasped, hastily wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve as he stood.

“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice thick as he tried to put on a brave face. “Forgive me. I... I did not hear you approach.”

“What is it, sweet boy? Why are you crying?” you gently took his hands, feeling your heart twinge at the sight of his tears.

A skepticism settled in your chest. You had seen how Ormund Hightower conducted himself— and you highly doubted his patience with a sensitive young boy.

“Has he been too harsh with you during your lessons?” you asked gently.

Daeron vigorously shook his head, his eyes wide with fear of causing trouble. “No! No, my lord is... he is only doing what is right. It is my fault for I have failed to meet his expectations.”

That arrogant, demanding windbag, you thought bitterly. To place such crushing weight on a child’s shoulders was reprehensible, and you fully intended to have a very pointed, very unpleasant word with Ormund Hightower later.

But for now, your only concern was the boy before you. Taking Daeron’s hand in yours, you offered him a warm, reassuring smile.

“Very well, if you said so... Now, come with me. Let me show you your uncle’s new collection of swords. He truly can never have too many, or so he claims.”

Your attempt to cheer him up was working. Daeron’s frown was replaced with pure joy as you showed him around Gwayne’s hidden stash of blades, and by the end of the day, he was laughing along with you.

“When will the babe come, Auntie?” he asked, looking up at you with a genuine smile. It slipped out so naturally he didn’t even notice he had reverted to that fond title he used to call you years ago.

“Soon. Mayhaps in six weeks or so.” You patted your swollen belly, and the young prince’s eyes followed your hand, before cautiously placing his palm over the curve.

In that very moment, the child gave him a firm kick, and he gasped, his blue eyes widened in wonder.

“In awe, are you?” you laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair. “Truthfully, sometimes I still wonder how there is a whole living human inside me, too.”

But he didn’t laugh, nor did he pull his hand away. Instead, he looked up at you, his features settling into an earnestness.

“If it is a girl... I promise I will protect her,” he declared solemnly. “I will grow strong enough so that no one can ever hurt her. I will be her champion.”

Your heart swelled at his words, a lump forming in your throat at the purity of his devotion. In certain lights, he did look like Gwayne.

“I have no doubt you will be the finest champion a girl could ever ask for, Daeron.”

. . .

“Where were you?”

You had only just returned to your bedchambers after quietly escorting Daeron back to his quarters, and the very first thing that greeted you was your husband’s scathing tone.

Gwayne stood near the hearth, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid. His usually warm eyes were clouded with a coldness you rarely saw in him.

“I have been searching everywhere for you,” he stated, his voice thick with suppressed irritation. “You vanished without even telling any of your maids—”

“I was just in the gardens—” you said, your voice already tight with exhaustion, but he cared not of what you had to say in defense.

“Do you have any idea what went through my head? You are weeks away from labor, you’ve been having cramps, and—”

This had been going on for a while, and honestly, a headache was forming in the back of your head. The accusation, piled on top of days of feeling watched and managed, finally broke the last dam of your patience—

“Can you just... not?!”

You followed the impulse in your chest to yell, the volume of your voice echoing sharply.

“I am sick and tired of being treated as if I am an invalid!” you cried, your chest heaving as tears of frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. “I cannot take a single step, look out a window, or even have a quiet moment to myself— without you hovering over me like a warden!”

It felt satisfying to let this go, but then you looked at him, and—

Immediately you regretted raising your voice. Gwayne looked as though you had struck him across the face.

The worry in his eyes shattered into utter heartbreak, his shoulder slumping. His lips wobbled, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you.

“I...” his voice cracked. “I am… sorry. I did not— I never wished to make you feel like a prisoner. Or to make you feel sick.”

You parted your lips, immense guilt overwhelming you at the sight of him. “Gwayne, I—”

“You are right, I have been way overbearing as of late.

His expression was somber, his eyes repeatedly straying from your face as if looking at you pained him, while he struggled to voice the words.

“I selfishly thought that since it’s our first child, I have to do everything to ensure your comfort. But in my own misguided sense of... righteousness— I failed to consider how you might feel.”

How did you forget that at the core of his very being, he was just a kind man who would sooner offer himself as sacrifice than allow even the slightest harm to reach you?

He offered you a small, bittersweet smile then—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.

“Tonight, I will leave you to your peace and not disturb you, I promise.”

Your heart clenched when he backtracked towards the door. Just before he reached for the latch, he paused, his eyes softening at you with that same, hopeless devotion.

“But if you should ever need anything— a glass of water, a blanket, or... or if the pain returns... please, tell me. Let me do that much for you.”

Gwayne had stood by his word. Ever since then, there was a subtle distance between the two of you.

True to his promise, he no longer invaded your privacy, but his frequent absences made you incredibly antsy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you— for weeks, you had begged for space, but now that you had it, you found yourself restlessly searching the corridors for a glimpse of him.

You craved his warmth. You wanted his solid, comforting embrace, because an unsettling gut feeling had taken root in your chest—a dark intuition that something was amiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it.

Seeking a distraction to soothe yourself, you decided to spend the afternoon in the gardens, but the summer heat only made you uncomfortable. Deciding you had pushed yourself far too much, you turned to your handmaiden.

“Accompany me back to my chambers,” you instructed softly, feeling the beginning of a cramp building in your abdomen. “I think I need to lie down.”

As you made your way back, your path took you past the oak doors of Ormund Hightower’s private study.

You would have walked right past it, had a certain voice not drifted through the slightly ajar door, freezing the blood in your veins.

“So the King is truly poor in health?” Ormund’s voice echoed from within, entirely devoid of any grief. “I would wager he will soon perish from whatever ailment he is suffering. We must ensure our pieces are perfectly placed on the board the moment he does.”

Your breath hitched. You stood entirely paralyzed, the maid stopping beside you with wide, frightened eyes.

The King. Your father.

You knew Viserys had not been in best health since the last you saw him, but to hear Ormund speak of his imminent death with such casual certainty sent a jolt of panic straight to your heart.

If he died, this fragile peace would shatter. The greens and the blacks would tear the realm apart—

—and both you and Gwayne would be caught right in the center of the storm.

Panic clawing at your throat, you didn’t wait to hear another word. You gathered your skirts and hurried down the hall as fast as your body would allow. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as the sheer weight of what this meant crashing down on you—

But just as you were about to reach your bedchamber, a sudden spasm of pain ripped through your lower abdomen, so intense it stole the air straight from your lungs—

“Your Grace!” your handmaiden cried.

It wasn’t the fleeting, mild cramps from before— this was a white-hot, tearing contraction that buckled your knees. A cry of agony escaped your lips as you leaned sideways, your hands clutching the curve of your belly as you sank onto the cold floor.

You gasped for breath, but another wave of agonizing pressure rolled over you. The hallway began to tilt precariously, and trembling, you reached blindly down inside your dress when you felt warmth trickling down your thighs— and the sight made your heart stop.

Your fingers were stained a slick crimson. Blood.

A cold dread seized you as your head spun. No, you thought desperately, not the babe. Please, not the babe.

Your vision swam violently, but just as you were losing the last threads of your consciousness, you heard shouts of your name and a strong pair of arms hauled you into his embrace.

Gwayne Hightower. The man who had your heart since you were but a young girl. The man who was besotted enough to court you despite your rejections of him.

He always, always managed to be your knight in shining armor.

He was on his knees beside you, his face completely drained of color, his blue eyes wide with a frantic terror you had never seen in him before.

You could no longer hear the words tearing from his throat, but as the world faded entirely to black, a profound comfort washed over you—

If he is here, then I am safe.

“How did this happen...?”

Your consciousness faded in and out, but you heard bits and pieces.

Gwayne was questioning the maester with his voice cracking more times than not. You knew he was near you as you could feel the constant warmth of his hands gripping yours, trying to pull you back to the surface.

“Oh, my darling,” he whispered against your ear at one point, almost in tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry... I should have been there. I should have never left your side.”

When you finally managed to flutter your eyelids open hours later, the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of your bedchamber. The blinding pain in your abdomen had ebbed into a dull ache.

You tried to shift, a faint groan escaping your dry throat, and immediately felt a weight resting against the edge of the mattress.

Turning your head slowly, you found Gwayne.

He was collapsed in a miserable position on a small wooden stool right beside your bed. His legs were awkwardly bent, one of his arms slung over the mattress to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, while his forehead rested against the edge of the sheets. He was still wearing the same doublet from yesterday, now wrinkled, and his hair was a mess.

Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as though he was having a bad dream— the very sight of a man who had spent the night burning himself alive with worry.

Your heart squeezed with a aching tenderness at the sight of him. Ignoring the dull throb in your body, you weakly squeezed his hand, your thumb gently brushing over his knuckles to wake him.

At your touch, he was roused awake. Gwayne sat up instantly, his head snapping up as a ragged breath caught in his throat. His eyes—bloodshot—scanned the bed frantically until they locked onto your open eyes.

“Darling...?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and when you offered him a tired smile, the wall of defense crumbled completely.

He slid off the stool and onto his knees by the bedside as he pressed a kiss on your hand. His broad shoulders shook as a choked, breathless sob escaped him.

“You’re awake,” he breathed against your skin, peppering your hand with trembling kisses. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought... when I saw the blood, I thought I had lost you— I thought I lost both of you.”

“Is—” you croaked, “our babe—”

“You are both fine. For now,” he supplied, pressing one last kiss on the back of your hand before he straightened himself. He let go of you to sit on the edge of the mattress, slipping his strong arm behind your back to gently lift you so you could drink.

Once you swallowed the cool water and sat comfortably, he set the cup down and placed his large hand gently over your belly. A bitter smile broke through his exhaustion when he felt his child kick him.

“Can you just... let me stay near?” he asked then, his blue eyes shone with tears. “I can’t survive a repeat of what I have gone through yesterday. If something were to happen to you and I wasn’t there, it would tear the soul right out of me.”

Despite everything, he had all rights to be furious at you. And yet, here he was— humbly asking for your permission to stay by your side.

Your eyes welled with tears, and you reached out for him blindly. You buried your face into his chest, your hands desperately clutching at the fabric of his wrinkled doublet. He pulled you in instantly, wrapping his strong arms around you and rocking you gently, murmuring soothing sounds against your hair.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your entire frame trembling with the force of your sobs. “I... I was careless—”

“Shh, don’t be,” he shushed, tightening his embrace on you, and you cried harder.

You wept until you had no tears to spare, and when you finally pulled away, you looked up at him through swollen, heavy eyelids.

You love him so, so much. You adored this kind man and his blue eyes and his red hair— and you really wished, with all your heart, that your child would take after him.

“Why are you... not angry with me?” you questioned softly, weighed down by your own guilt.

But Gwayne, as always, only smiled at you, his features softening into that warmth he reserved only for you even at your lowest moments. He gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks.

“Have I not spoken these very words to you time and again? How come you always forget them?”

His smile grew incredibly tender as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

And with his familiar next words, once again, you were reminded once again of what kind of man you had married, and you know exactly how good a father he would be.

“Because to the end of my days... all that I am is yours.”

Your time had come barely five weeks later.

It was a grueling, agonizing ordeal that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Your cries of pain echoed and bled out of your birthing chambers— and anyone who passed by would have their heart broken at the sheer anguish in your voice.

Outside in the corridor, Gwayne was, needless to say, beside himself.

Thoroughly banned from the birthing chambers by the stern midwifes and the head maester, he was a man possessed by helpless terror. His hair a disheveled mess from where his frantic fingers had clawed through it, and his knuckles white and raw from being clenched so tightly in either prayers or an attempt to calm himself.

He had been pacing the length of the hallway since the crack of dawn two days ago, and every time one of your strangled screams echoed, Gwayne flinched, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.

He had faced deaths, had stared down charging knights without a tremor in his hand, but this—listening to the woman he loved scream in agony while he could do absolutely nothing—was a torture that was slowly tearing him apart.

Hours bled into one another. The silence that occasionally fell was almost worse than the screams, leaving him breathless with a suffocating dread.

“She has been in labor for almost two days,” Gwayne rasped, turning to Daeron as if he could soothe his worries. His nephew, though visibly unsettled by your screams, had stayed by his side to offer moral support.

“Two days, and I cannot even hold her hand.”

Ormund paid a brief visit later that afternoon. His cousin had one look at him and patronizingly suggested he go pray in the Starry Sept to calm his nerves. Gwayne’s temper had flared and was about to throw a punch at Ormund’s face if it weren’t for Daeron scrambling to beg him to stand down.

And then, just as he felt he might genuinely lose his mind, a new sound cut through the heavy quiet.

It was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Not yours, but the cry of a newborn babe.

. . .

You thought you would die from the pain alone.

Ever since the terrifying rush of your water breaking, it felt as though your body were being ripped apart from the inside out as you strained and fought to bring forth your child into the world.

And after that one final push that almost had you passed out, the agonizing pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, hollow lightness and the sweetest of wails.

“It is a girl!” the midwife announced. “Congratulations, Your Grace— you have delivered a healthy, beautiful girl!”

When the midwives placed the tiny, weeping newborn onto your chest, your hands instinctively wrapped around her, shielding her from the cold air of the room. You were entirely spent, your skin slick with sweat and your muscles aching and trembling from the afterbirth, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off her.

This miracle has just come out of you.

As you gently wiped away a stray smudge from her crown, your heart swelled to the point of bursting.

Her little nose and mouth were endearing and closely resembled yours, however there was no trace of silver hair to be seen.

Instead, catching the warm candlelight… were soft tufts of red.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thanking the Mother, deeply grateful that she would not look like a Targaryen.

She is, in every way, Gwayne’s daughter— a perfect piece of him and yours to keep.

“Bloody hell— just let me in already!”

You heard his voice then, and the smile on your face grew wider. He would be beyond pleased to see this child.

True to your prediction, Gwayne stormed into the room without ceremony a moment later, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. You were in no state to be seen—sweat-drenched, pale, and thoroughly disheveled—and you instinctively wanted to shrink back from his gaze.

Yet, in his eyes, you had never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.

Cradled securely in your trembling arms was a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft linen. And the sight was enough to almost make him drop to his knees right then and there.

He climbed onto the edge of the bed to pull you gently but firmly into his arms. Hovering over the child he had been eagerly waiting for, Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, trembling kiss that tasted of relief and absolute devotion.

“You did it,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitched. “Gods...”

Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the bundle in your arms. The breath left him and he was completely awestruck, the air he usually put on before the court evaporating into nothingness at the sight of this impossibly tiny babe he helped to create.

With a hand that usually swung a steel, Gwayne reached out with unimaginable gentleness. He extended his pinky finger, touching her tiny, flailing hand—

And almost instantly, as if recognizing her protector, the babe’s palm wrapped around his finger, gripping it with everything she had.

“She, oh—” Gwayne froze, shuddering. He stared at her tiny fingers, and then up at the soft crown of her head, his eyes widening as he registered the tufts of copper-red hair just like his.

Seeing how deeply touched he was, your own eyes welled with happy tears. You nudged him softly, whispering the name you had kept locked in your heart:

“Alyrie,” you told him. “Lady Alyrie of House Hightower.”

His mother’s name. The tears Gwayne had tried so hard to hold back during those agonizing hours waiting for you finally spilled over as he turned to you. He let out a wet, shaky laugh, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he held both you and Alyrie close to his chest.

“Thank you,” he choked out, kissing your temple before pressing his lips to his daughter’s tiny forehead. “Our sweet Alyrie... She is perfect. You are both so perfect.”

As you looked at the other halves of your soul, the fragile peace of your bedchamber felt like a beautiful dream. Outside these stone walls, the realm was already fracturing as shadow of the dance of the dragons loomed close— a tempest of fire, blood, and greed that threatened to consume everyone you held dear.

One thing is sure though... both you and him would lay down your very lives to ensure this precious little girl remained untouched by the ash.

[chuluoyi]

trouble in paradise

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

the time the bright prince feels terribly and woefully neglected by his wife… and you become convinced he’s having an affair

genre/warnings: mildly suggestive, crack, misunderstandings, insecurities, comfort, fluff, mentions of blood, lannister!reader, they have a newborn!

notes: another part of the dragon and the lioness but can be read as a standalone. based on this ask heheh <3

Maegor Targaryen.

Aerion had told you that was the only name worthy of his son.

Thankfully, he was nothing like the fearsome legacy attached to that name. With his round, full cheeks, soft silver curls, and wide violet eyes brimming with pure curiosity, the babe looked every bit the picture of innocence. Wherever he went, hearts seemed to melt at the sight of him.

Yet for all his sweetness, Maegor possessed one trait that vexed his father to a degree—

He demanded every ounce of his mother’s attention all day and night. Your attention.

“He’s three moons old,” you reminded him one evening with a frown as Aerion watched Maegor sleeping peacefully against your chest, after telling you how his son had to start learning to let go of you. “He needs his mother and I would have him.”

“Three moons old,” Aerion muttered darkly, “and already a usurper.”

Maegor chose that exact moment to sigh contentedly in his sleep and burrow deeper against you, as if mocking him altogether.

The Bright Prince had begun keeping count of your neglection of him. You would visit the nursery first thing in the morning, and should the babe merely blink his large violet eyes and make a particularly pitiful sound, he would refuse the wet nurses and only cease his whimpering when you held him.

And thus, if he cried, you were there.

If he fussed, you were also there.

Spoiled little thing, his son was. What was the purpose of wet nurses if the boy spent half his waking hours attached to you? He really ought to fire them one of these days.

“They said sons take after their fathers, do they not?”

Daeron let out a snicker after draining another goblet of wine, seemingly enjoying his brother’s predicament. “Your son simply makes it obvious to the rest of us how ravenous you are with your lady wife, brother.”

Aerion shot him glare, internally questioning himself why he had agreed to sit down for drinks with his wastrel of a brother.

“I have spent the past three moons exercising a degree of restraint bordering on sainthood, you mongrel.”

That was actually not an exaggeration. Since Maegor’s arrival, the intimacy he once enjoyed with you had become frustratingly few and far between, and he had to think at least thrice these days to take you to bed!

To his credit, he had adhered to the advice of maesters so far— that was to give you more time following the difficult birth.

Daeron stared at him, then barked out a laugh loud enough to startle the maids.

“Gods above, you are serious!”

Aerion threw him a dark glare, as his brother leaned back in his chair, grinning like a fox.

“Well, since you have nothing better to do, then come with me tonight.”

“For what?”

“For a good time, obviously. There is a feast in the city. Music, drink, performers, gambling, a lot of pretty wenches too—”

“Bwah!”

It astounded even you that your babe could be this adorable.

At times, it felt as though you were cradling a happier, guileless miniature of your husband in your arms. There really was no doubt that this child was his.

“He looks so much like his sire, does he not?” You poked Maegor’s plump cheek, and he immediately rewarded you with a toothless grin.

Your lady’s maid sighed with a smile, nearly melted on the spot. “The image of him, my lady. Those eyes and hair especially.”

You laughed softly and pressed a kiss to Maegor’s forehead, placing him back in his cradle.

Motherhood suited you far more than you had imagined. The long nights, the exhaustion... none of it seemed to matter whenever your little boy wrapped his tiny fingers around you or smiled at the sound of your voice. You loved every moment of it.

Yet if you were being truthful with yourself, you missed Aerion too. Before Maegor’s birth, your prince had scarcely gone a day without finding an excuse to pull you into his arms, but now your days and nights revolved around your son, and the moments you spent alone together had become increasingly rare.

And lately, something felt... different. Aerion had begun returning later than usual, and he smelled of wine. The first time, you dismissed it, but by the fourth, a knot had begun forming in your stomach. Since when had he taken to drinking?

Then one afternoon, while walking through the castle with Maegor in your arms, you happened upon two servants speaking in hushed voices—

“The princes have gone again!”

“Again?”

“Aye. To the town.”

“The new establishment?”

“The very same. They say the owner imported women from across the Narrow Sea and Essos. They cost a fortune...”

It didn’t take you long to figure out that they were talking about a pleasure house. Your stomach twisted. The princes?

They must mean Daeron, surely? But who was the other prince? Because, there was no way that Aerion was seeking comfort from common whores now—

Then again, the word of his brashness towards the princess consort, Valarr’s wife, was apparently quite well-known in King’s Landing. A princess from Pentos, she was an exotic beauty, meanwhile you...

People rarely described you as beautiful. Sweet and pleasant to look upon, they would say, but definitely not the kind that would ensnare princes at the first sight like she did. Moreover, after bearing a child, your body was no longer quite the same as it once had been.

The thought lodged itself in your mind, and despite every effort to dismiss it, a terrible possibility began gnawing at you. What if he has indeed sought comfort elsewhere?

You hated yourself for even thinking it. But when one night, several days later, you spotted him near the servants’ quarters with a woman adorned with golden ornaments unlike anything worn in Westeros—

Your breath caught when Aerion had both of her wrists pinned together in one hand and cornered her.

A great many things seemed determined to test Aerion’s patience these days.

The councils. His father’s demands. Daeron’s antics. By the time evening fell, a dull ache had settled behind the back of his head, and all he wanted was peace, a cup of wine, and his wife.

Especially his wife. The thought to have you wrap him in your arms was enough to ease some of the tension from his shoulders as he strode through the corridors toward your chambers.

However, when he entered it, the warmth he expected was entirely absent. The chamber was darker than usual, half of the candles unlit. You sat perfectly still before the vanity desk, didn’t even turn or rise to greet him.

“Wife?” he asked, stepping forward with a frown. Usually, you favored dark room when you were unwell. “Are you ill—”

“Who is she?”

Your voice was eerily quiet, yet cut through the air so sharply. It was so abrupt that for a moment he simply stared at you, and only after a solid minute did you turn to him, your expression cold enough to frost glass.

“If you tell me now, I may still find it in myself to be merciful and merely send her away. Is it Pentos? Myr? Or perhaps Lys?” The corner of your mouth curved into a sneer. “Lys is famous for its prostitutes, after all.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “What do you imply me doing, wife?”

A surge of anger rushed through his veins, severely taking offense. How could you think that lowly of him?

But whatever retort had been forming on his tongue died immediately, because to his astonishment, there were tears in your eyes.

“I gave you a son. I nearly died bringing him into this world.” Your voice trembled slightly as you rose from your seat. “I know we are not always of the same mind, but how could you humiliate me by bringing a common whore here? Do you intend to flaunt her to me?”

You looked devastated, and more than anything, he hated that look in your face. Who had planted this absurdity in your head?

“You are talking nonsense—”

“Nonsense?” Your voice rose sharply. “I saw you with her!”

This had to end. Suddenly Aerion crossed the distance between you in three strides, and you flinched as his hand caught your shoulder, attempting to pull away, but he would not allow it and forced you to face him.

“Look.”

He lifted his other hand before you. At first you did not understand, then your gaze fell upon the gold band encircling his finger. His wedding band.

Aerion stared at you hard, his violet eyes blazing.

“I have worn this since you put it on me on the day of our wedding, and never removed it since.”

On the day of your wedding, the two of you had scarcely been able to tolerate one another. You blinked as another tear fell, trying to hold yourself together.

“You think I would dishonor you? Shame the mother of my son?” he growled through clenched teeth. “I still could see the blood you shed in childbed even in my nightmares. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Three days after Maegor’s birth, your fever worsened and you fell unconscious. You remembered feeling cold, and the bleeding had the sheets beneath you soaked with red. When you awoke, the maesters were surrounding your bed, and your maids were crying.

But standing tall amidst them was Aerion, who never left your side for the remainder of the night. Later, you were told he had threatened every maester in the Red Keep with death should they fail to save you.

The fury in his violet eyes burned brighter. “Now do tell and enlighten me. What part of that ordeal would make me look at another wench and decide she is worth more than you?”

You were still not fully convinced. “But you... the servants saw you going to the whorehouse—”

Aerion let out a harsh exhale.

“I was retrieving Daeron,” he grounded out, each word bitter. “Father’s orders. The wench you saw me with is his whore. A fortune-seeking dullard, I just banished her from Summerhall.”

“You have been drinking lately too—”

“So now I’m forbidden from having a drink?” A muscle twitched beneath his right eye. “I face constant shit and my foolish brother every day. I can’t even bed my wife when she’s next to me and our son hogs her time all day and everyday, meanwhile she is thinking I’m hiding some whore in another chamber— and now I cannot drink? Tell me, do you actually want me to keep my sanity, or do you want to see me lose it and hang the first man I see?”

Somehow, the way he phrased it made you feel sorry for him. You pursed your lips, looking away. “Sure, have your drink, then...”

“Oh, I fucking will, woman, but first thing first—”

Before you could even gasp, he dived in, crushing his lips against yours.

The anger that had choked the room only moments ago dissolved into an instant, consuming heat. It was a punishing kiss at first, choking the breath out of you, but it quickly melted sensually as his hands roamed the curve of your body.

It sure had been a while since he had his hands on you. A moan escaped your lips when he fondled your breasts and pressed you against his torso, creating a delicious friction.

When he finally pulled away, it was with a heavy, ragged breath. His gaze burning down into your eyes as his thumb gently traced your lower lip, which was now swollen from his kisses.

“If it were up to me,” Aerion murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper, “I would fuck you senseless—”

His expression softened, a rare, vulnerable shadow crossing his features along with the rise and fall of his chest. “It’s taking everything in me not to. The fever after your last labor nearly took you from me, and I won’t gamble with your life.”

“I can take moon tea—”

“That blasted tea will make you sick. You are not taking that until it’s absolutely necessary.”

You blinked up at him, your expression softening into a sweet gaze that completely disarmed him. The sheer innocence in your eyes was his undoing.

With a low groan, Aerion leaned down and pulled you in for another deep, lingering kiss, sealing his lust against your lips, before trailing his mouth downward, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder to suck your skin hungrily.

“Who could have known…” His voice was a low, teasing rasp, the words vibrating directly against the skin of your neck, “that my wife is such a fiercely jealous woman that she actually made herself cry?”

He was relishing in this, you realized. When he broke away this time, a victorious smirk touched his lips. “Are you content now, my jealous wife?”

You shot him a look, feeling a heat rush to your face. You tried to muster a glare, but the blush staining your cheeks betrayed you entirely.

“Incorrigible man...” you muttered, turning your face away to hide your embarrassment.

Aerion only laughed, the sound rich and genuinely amused—a rare sound for him these days. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his thumb gently tugging your chin back so you were forced to look at him. “Now what else should I prove to you so you will be satisfied?”

“I want Maegor now.”

Your husband arched an eyebrow, exasperated.

“This is absolute treachery,” he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. “I finally get you to myself, and you immediately call for that little tyrant?”

. . .

A few moments later, the maids entered the chamber, gently putting baby Maegor into your waiting arms. The moment the infant settled against your chest, he let out a happy, bubbling giggle, his tiny hands reaching up towards your face.

Aerion stood unhappily over the two of you, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the display.

“He is fat.”

You scowled at him, tightening your hold over your son protectively. “I love him fat.”

That little boy could be the fattest babe in the Seven Kingdoms and he would still be the apple of your eye. Yet, as your husband looked down at his son, a sudden realization washed over him—

He had always thought the boy took entirely after him, but looking closely at Maegor’s beaming smile, Aerion saw you. The babe had his violet eyes and his silver hair, but the contour of his face, the gentle curve of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes—it was all yours.

Now he sort of understood why he also found him adorable.

“Let me hold him,” he said, already pulling the babe from your grasp.

He brought Maegor against his own broad chest. It was a surreal sight, seeing your brooding prince cradling a fragile, soft infant with the utmost care.

Your heart warmed at the sight though, a profound sense of peace settling over you as you looked at the two absolute loves of your life.

Epilogue

The tender silence lasted for only a minute. Maegor, apparently deciding he had tolerated his father’s hold, suddenly squirmed. With a whimper of protest, the babe pushed his small hands against his father’s chest, fighting the embrace.

Before Aerion could adjust his grip, Maegor’s chubby little hand shot upward, unceremoniously slapping right at his father’s face, as well as scratching his jawline.

Aerion blinked, his head tilting back in sheer disbelief at the audacity of his own flesh and blood. He looked completely stunned, before a look of deep betrayal crossed his features as he glared at his son and you utterly failed to contain yourself and burst into a fit of giggles.

“You ungrateful little usurper.”

[chuluoyi]

dear of his heart

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

the time has come for your prickly prince to prepare for fatherhood! what awaits you as the days tick down to the arrival of your first child?

genre/warnings: suggestive, fluff, pregnancy, protective!aerion who will burn the masses if they ever do you wrong, quarrels here and there, lots of kissing too bc he is ravenous, attempt at poisoning, hurt/comfort, childbirth, overall very self-indulgent, lannister!reader

notes: another part of the dragon and the lioness series. fluff, protective aerion and uhhh a sprinkle of drama? yeah that's the plot <3

“Every part of you… is mine to taste, wife...”

Once, the very idea of being the Bright Prince’s wife was unfathomable to you. But now...

You had grown to savor the way Aerion kissed you with shameless greed, and most of all, the rare moments when his sharp features softened for you alone while he held you against him. Even his temperament, dramatics, and the irritated arch of his violet eyes whenever something displeased him had somehow become… lovable in your eyes.

Gods, when had that happened?

When had Aerion Brightflame ceased to be your insufferable husband and become the man whose embrace you sought without thinking?

“Mmh…” You blamed the babe growing within you. Surely that had to be the reason, you thought, as you kissed him back with equal fervor, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt while his arms lowered you to your marital bed.

“Heh,” Aerion chuckled under his breath, watching your screwed-shut eyes as you chased his lips, incredibly wanton to him.

Strange, wasn’t it? The way life could twist bitter enemies into lovers before either of them even realized it themselves.

Your breath hitched as his hands slid beneath your knees, spreading your legs apart. He broke the kiss then, drinking in the sight of you— and you became self-conscious, only then realizing that he had made a quick work of your dress and you had been left in nothing but your lace undergarments.

“Y-You can’t...” You pressed your lips together, instinctively touching the swell of your belly. “That won’t… be good for the babe.”

Aerion’s lips curved with visible amusement.

“Oh?” he drawled, violet eyes glinting as they swept slowly over you. “Then why, pray tell, are you dressed like this, sweet wife?”

He was right, this was your own doing. Why would you have chosen such a racy, provokating thing to wear tonight?

Perhaps because—even if you wouldn’t admit it—a part of you had already suspected the evening would end with his hands on you and that dangerously pleased look in his eyes.

“A lesser man might say you want to tempt him,” Aerion mused, tracing a slow finger along your cheek, his smile still unbearably wicked.

“So you are not tempted?” you questioned boldly, meeting his gaze, despite the furious heat blooming across your face.

“No.” He shook his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed yours, his voice smug and smooth as velvet. “I am, after all, a man blessed with extraordinary restraint.”

He said that, yet the way his sharp violet eyes focusing on your lips and the way his fingers drifted between your legs said otherwise.

Really, what man could resist the sight of his wife beneath him— soft, flushed, thoroughly marked as his with a babe in her belly while pretending innocence with those wide, coy eyes?

Your husband decided you were playing with fire, so you would get burned. Aerion suddenly slipped two fingers inside your underwear, before pushing one into your folds that made you wide-eyed and suck in a sharp breath—

“You just boasted about restraint!”

“And I possess it. I’m just choosing not to neglect my good wife,” he countered, his cruel grin returning as he inserted another finger, making you gasp in process.

Perfect. You were unraveling by the second, and he had barely even begun.

“There are, after all, many ways to pleasure an expecting wife like you... without compromising the babe.”

Such was your marital life now— with your prince bringing you pleasure nights after nights with the same greedy devotion he seemed to reserve only for you.

And somehow, this was merely the beginning of your happily ever after.

Ever since the word got out that you were with child, Aerion had become more protective of you.

Suddenly, servants were reprimanded for allowing sharp objects near your chambers, guards trailed several paces behind you whenever you wandered the gardens alone and healthy meals appeared at exact hours, prepared according to whichever elderly midwife had most recently filled Aerion’s head with warnings.

And once again, you noticed it most that afternoon when you merely tried to descend the stairs.

Your husband had been halfway through a conversation with his steward when he abruptly stopped speaking altogether, violet eyes narrowing upon you as you placed a hand against the railing.

“…What are you doing?”

You turned to him, blinking innocently. “Walking.”

Not that he would admit it or realize it himself though.

The steward wisely lowered his head, pretending sudden fascination with the floor tiles as Aerion strode towards you with an irritated frown.

“You nearly slipped yesterday,” he hissed, sliding an arm around your waist as he carefully guided you down the stairs.

You rolled your eyes, remembering how you stepped on a parchment the night before. “It was a harmless accident— and for the last time, no, I wasn’t slipping!”

Truthfully, beneath your outward annoyance, deep inside, you were sort of delighted. Because truly, who would have imagined that the arrogant dragon prince would express concern in ways that were somehow endearing?

Or more like, inconveniently endearing.

“Huzzah,” you declared with the flattest tone the moment your feet reached the bottom step, folding your arms dramatically as you turned to him. “I have survived the dreadful staircase, lord husband. Thanks to you.”

Aerion leveled you with a scathing look.

. . .

Soon, it was evident before the rest of Summerhall too.

You lifted your chin, eyes flashing with righteous indignation. “You dismissed a maid yesterday because she served me tea that was slightly too hot. Aerion, this has become ridiculous!”

The Bright Prince, however, remained unmoved, believing his actions were perfectly sensible. “She had one job yet failed to perform it properly. It could have scalded you.”

“You also confiscated my riding boots!”

“You are not riding, wife—”

Behind the half-open door of the solar across the hall, two spectators to your marital quarrel were your husband’s brothers. Daeron raised an eyebrow while young Aegon looked moments away from bursting into hysterical laughter.

“You are enjoying this far too much, Egg,” Daeron muttered dryly.

“Can you blame me?” he whispered back. “This is Aerion we are talking about. Aerion!” He gestured dramatically towards the door with both hands. “The same brother who once claimed affection was ‘a weakness designed by the gods to humiliate men’!”

Well, neither Daeron nor Egg had ever imagined they would witness their notorious middle brother reduced to hovering over his wife. This was indeed a sight.

“I have ridden since childhood!”

“And now you are carrying my child, woman—”

Daeron gave up at last, a chuckle escaping him too. “I never thought I would live long enough to see Aerion become a mother hen.”

“A dragon hen,” Egg corrected conspiratorially, as he strained his ears, thoroughly enjoying your marital dispute.

Another moon passed by, and the maester advised you to get more rest from now on as later moons will prove far more taxing on your body.

However, a royal summons arrived from King’s Landing not long after. The King himself intended to host a grand celebration tourney in honor of the birth of your first child—and both you and your husband were commanded to remain at court for the remainder of your confinement.

You were leaving Summerhall behind, but that was the least of your concerns.

Aerion would be entering the lists.

You had known he would before he even said it aloud. Aerion Brightflame would sooner stop breathing than ignore an opportunity to prove himself before the realm. Under ordinary circumstances, you would proudly bestow your favor upon him and watch him ride with your head held high, but—

Your labor pains could begin while he was in the field. He would be absent from the birthing chambers. Worse, he could get injured—

The thought should not have affected you as much as it did. Men rode in tourneys, princes fought for glory, and discomfort in childbed is how women served the realm.

And there was also another matter that occupied your mind—

“The shape sits high,” the midwife in King’s Landing had declared while measuring your belly, now heavier and more pronounced than ever in your seventh moon. “And my lady craves salted meats more than sweets. It should be a boy.”

Everyone seemed most pleased by the possibility. Aerion himself made it clear he favored a son. You, however, found yourself uncertain what to feel.

. . .

“Where is my lady wife?”

Contrary to what most might have assumed, Aerion was not particularly pleased to be back in King’s Landing.

The long journey from Summerhall had exhausted you so thoroughly that you had scarcely risen from bed for several days. Sure, the grand tourney stirred his excitement— his grandsire honoring the birth of his firstborn with such spectacle was a distinction not even his cousin Valarr had received.

But King’s Landing was still where rumors of another Blackfyre uprising drifted through like smoke, and with your confinement only weeks away, Aerion found himself increasingly ill at ease. These days, peace only came when you were somewhere within his sight.

“The Lady Lannister is bathing in the royal spring, my prince.”

The spring behind Aegon’s High Hill had long since become property of the royal family, secluded from common visitors and hidden behind walls of stone and tangled greenery. It was meant to be a place of relaxation— but still not somewhere his heavily pregnant wife should be wandering unattended.

His irritation simmered all the way through the winding path. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees overhead as Aerion pushed past hanging branches with impatient steps. He had half a mind to rebuke you the moment he arrived—

But every thought dissolved into dust the instant he saw you.

You stood waist-deep within the pristine spring waters, your body half-submerged in the cool waters. A white shift covered your breasts, but the generous swell of your stomach was exposed under the sunlight. Layers of skirts floated around you like scattered clouds, preserving your modesty while doing very little to dull the breathtaking sight before him.

The sight of you beneath the open sky, drenched in sunlight and water was ethereal. He was rooted near the edge of the spring, spellbound.

At nights, he had worshipped that divine body of yours with greedy hands and wandering lips, had learned every sigh you tried to hide, had savored the softness of your thighs, and the sleepy way you clung to him.

But, in the light of day, the temptation of you felt almost cruel.

His gaze lowered shamelessly over the curve of your figure, lingering upon your barely concealed breasts first, before trailing lower. Pride unfurled hotly in his chest at the sight of your rounded belly, heavy and almost ripe. You carried his blood there.

Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose, though it did little to calm the sudden heat crawling beneath his skin.

You noticed him then.

Your eyes lifted towards to him, and the moment your face softened at the sight of him, whatever remained of his irritation died completely.

“Well?” you asked with a coy smile, tilting your head slightly. “Are you merely going to stare, husband… or are you going to join me?”

Like some bewitched mortal lured by a river nymph from old Valyrian tales, the Bright Prince descended the stone steps without hesitation. His boots scraped against damp stone as he shrugged off his doublet with careless impatience, dark eyes never once leaving you.

By the time he stepped into the spring, he was clad only in his dress shirt and breeches, the cool water curling around him as he crossed towards you and drew you effortlessly into his embrace from behind.

“Standing there as though the Maiden herself rose from the spring,” Aerion murmured against your ear, lips brushing the damp skin beneath it. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Did you intend to torment me in broad daylight?”

“I needed time to think,” you countered softly, though your breath caught when his wandering hands settled upon your chest beneath the wet fabric.

“To think? About what?”

You bit your lower lip as the waters lapped gently around the two of you. The way your face now marred with a frown made him click his tongue.

“Speak, wife. I dislike that look upon your face.”

“You are going to join the tourney,” you admitted at last, turning to face him. “While I may very well be laboring alone.”

“I shall return victorious,” he vowed, his violet irises blazing with conviction. “I shall place every honor I win before you and our child, just as it should be.”

Yet he could feel how you were unsatisfied with his answer. Aerion sighed quietly before lowering his mouth to your shoulder, brushing a kiss against your damp skin.

“You fret too much. The midwives will attend you day and night. You have nothing to fear— I will make certain of it.”

You pursed your lips, feeling foolish for being sullen knowing his presence would be demanded in the field regardless, but you just couldn’t help it.

Aerion fell silent for a moment, his hold around you tightening almost instinctively beneath the water.

“Look at me,” he commanded suddenly, and you did reluctantly, your lips still puckered in dissatisfaction.

Gods, how sweet could you be?

“Stop filling your little head with nonsense. I will return to you unscathed. Your task is to rest, eat whatever strange cravings seize you, and carry my child safely.”

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t stray from his gaze.

“Aerion—”

“I’m not finished.” His tone sharpened, though the hand cradling your face remained gentle. “I have ridden in tourneys since I was barely tall enough to hold a lance. I have been thrown from horses, split open, battered, and yet I remain standing before you now. And you think some hedge knight or a lordling’s second son could best me?”

A ghost of arrogance curved his lips. “I think not.”

His violet eyes swept over your face then. Gods, you looked painfully sweet like this— so soft with vulnerability.

“You carry blood of the dragon,” he murmured, his palm spreading over the curve of your belly beneath the water. “Do not insult either of us by imagining I would fail to return to you. And if your labor does begin while I am away...”

The thought seemed to sour his expression. “Then you will endure it exactly as I know you will. Know this, I will return to your side the moment I am able.”

You frowned faintly. “That is hardly comforting.”

Aerion snorted, his lips curling into a smirk. “You married the wrong man if you expected sweet comforts from me, wife.”

You let out a soft scoff despite yourself, some of your spirits finally lifting seeing his infuriating confidence.

“There,” he murmured smugly, poking your cheek when you broke into a little smile. “Are you done sulking now?”

“Perhaps not for long,” you countered lightly, throwing him a look. “If my husband fails to comfort me properly, perhaps I ought to find another man willing to do so.”

Aerion’s expression hardened at once, violet eyes narrowing as his grip around your waist tightened beneath the water.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

A dark look crossed his face, then—

He devoured your lips, one powerful arm locked securely around your waist while his other hand tangled in your hair, cradling the back of your head. The cool spring water rippled sharply around you as he deepened the kiss with blatant possessiveness, as though determined to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

When he broke the kiss, you breathlessly clutched his body for support. Breathing heavily against your lips, his voice dropped to a fiercely low growl—

“I wouldn’t let another man touch you while I still draw breath... oh sweet wife of mine.”

“My lady, I trust you are well?”

House Targaryen hosted a grand luncheon several days later within the halls of the Red Keep, gathering notable lords and ladies from across the realm.

You had been navigating the crowd with practiced grace when a warm, familiar voice cut through the ambient noise. Turning, you found yourself facing your cousin-by-law, the Prince Valarr Targaryen.

“Your Grace,” you greeted with a bright smile and slight curtsy. “Yes, I have been well.”

The Young Prince had arrived from Dragonstone with his wife. From where you were, you could see the princess consort mingling with other guests with radiant smile and perfect decorum.

She truly is beautiful, you often thought to yourself. Delicate features, graceful bearings, eyes that seemed almost luminous beneath the candlelight— it was easy to understand why bards wrote songs about her beauty.

Valarr’s gaze dipped towards the unmistakable swell of your stomach, far too prominent now to be concealed beneath your dress.

“Good to see you, really. How far along are you now?”

A wistful smile came to your lips. “Near enough that everyone has begun hovering over me as though I might break apart at any moment.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him. “Still, you are in your most delicate state now. I imagine my cousin can’t stay still as well.”

“Well, one can hardly blame the prince!”

You were still smiling when another voice suddenly joined the conversation. You turned to find Lord Manderly, stout and red-faced from the midday wine, waddled over with an easy grin, goblet in hand.

“With a wife as lovely as you, oh lady—” he slurred, “I imagine Prince Aerion guards you like a dragon atop treasure!”

“You flatter me, my lord,” you answered politely.

Lord Manderly waved a dismissive hand, laughing boisterously. “Not at all, not at all! Though I confess, recalling how the Prince Aerion making quite the spectacle of himself—” he turned to Valarr, “with you, my prince, years ago...”

Ah, that story you once heard in a passing too. The tourney in King’s Landing, in which Valarr and Aerion fought each other in a contest of arms, supposedly, over pride.

Valarr’s expression shifted almost immediately. “My lord—”

But Lord Manderly, either oblivious or too deep in wine to notice, continued on cheerfully enough—

“For a long time, everyone was talking about how the Bright Prince was quite captivated by Her Grace’s beauty! Enough to demand her favor and fight her husband!”

You blinked, realization settled over you with sudden, uncomfortable clarity.

“My lord, if I may.” Valarr cleared his throat, a restrained but cross look on his face. “Words are wind. A tourney floor is full of grand gestures and exaggerated flattery. I assure you, everyone would do well not to concern themselves with such baseless rumors.”

Lord Manderly’s red face drained of color all of a sudden as the weight of his social blunder finally registered.

“Oh Seven— forgive me, my lady!” he said quickly, turning towards you with genuine embarrassment. “A foolish old man’s rambling, is all! My deepest, most sincere apologies— I meant absolutely no disrespect to you, nor to Prince Aerion!”

“Think nothing of it, Lord Manderly,” you replied smoothly, your voice a perfectly crafted mask of composure. “The wine is indeed potent today.”

Relieved to be dismissed, Manderly excused himself with hasty bows, and Valarr quickly steered the conversation back to safer waters before he also excused himself from you.

You appeared to be smiling, but deep inside, you were perturbed.

Your eyes involuntarily scanned the crowded solarium, searching through the sea of silks and velvet until they landed on your husband standing amongst a cluster of knights and courtiers.

And right in that moment, you caught how his gaze followed not you, but the princess consort at the far corner of the hall.

Something inside your chest curled unpleasantly, but you decided not to dwell in it. Whatever might have existed between them once, they meant nothing now, you assured yourself.

So, to distract your wandering thoughts, you reached for the tea the server had offered to you, thinking to calm your nerves—

Until the citrus scent suddenly turned rancid in your senses, so putrid it made your stomach lurch violently that you spit it out and let go of the porcelain cup.

. . .

When a loud crash rang through the solarium, Aerion’s attention snapped instantly toward the disturbance.

And much to his surprise— in the middle of it stood you.

Standing amidst shattered porcelain, you had one hand covered your mouth while the other clutched at your abdomen, your face drained of all color as though you might collapse where you stood.

He immediately dashed towards where you were, nearly sending one poor lord stumbling aside in his haste. The crowd parted instinctively for him as he crossed the hall at frightening speed.

By the time he reached you, his hands were already on you.

“What happened?” he demanded immediately, gripping your arms as his eyes swept frantically over your form.

You swallowed hard against another wave of nausea. “T-The tea…”

“What?”

You shook your head weakly, leaning into him. “It tastes so foul—”

His gaze snapped toward the shattered mess beside your feet. Without hesitation, Aerion crouched and snatched up what remained of the broken cup from the floor. The pungent scent hit almost immediately, and his expression darkened in realization.

Moon tea. He recognized it instantly—it had once been his most reliable safeguard during his years frequenting whorehouse before he wed you. He had forced it into those unkempt women after he was finished with them.

However, even a single sip could have made you miscarry. Someone has intended exactly that.

Aerion surged back to his feet at once, turning towards you so quickly with wild eyes.

“Did you drink any of it?” he demanded harshly. “Did you?”

You shook your head immediately. “No—”

Relief struck him so violently it almost looked painful.

Aerion closed his eyes briefly before gripping the back of your head, pulling you to his embrace. You breathed in his scent, your nausea receded somewhat.

Around the two of you, the solarium had begun to descend into chaos. Voices overlapped in alarm while guards moved swiftly through the hall. Servants looked petrified, several nobles already retreating from the tables entirely as whispers of poison spread like wildfire.

Moon tea. At a royal luncheon. You. When Aerion lifted his head again, the relief in his expression had vanished entirely, and in its place was pure fury.

“Seal the hall,” Aerion ordered sharply, but at first, no one moved quickly enough for his liking. “I said seal the fucking hall!” he roared, his voice cracking through the hall.

Kingsguard immediately surged into motion. Doors slammed shut. Panic rippled through the gathered guests as guards began seizing servants and blocking every exit from the hall.

“No one leaves this place,” Aerion continued, drawing you protectively against his side while his vengeful gaze remained fixed upon the crowd.

“I want every servant, cook, and miserable soul here questioned. One step forward— and I will have your head severed and hung to rot in Flea Bottom for all to see.”

You could feel the hammering of his heart in your ears. His expression still murderous, it was only when he looked back down at you did some fragment of restraint finally return to his face.

“You are certain you swallowed none of it?” he asked again, quieter and softer this time.

You looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy. “I am certain.”

Aerion searched your face carefully, as though trying to convince himself you truly stood unharmed before him.

And in that moment, you found yourself clinging to him instinctively—your steadfast protector amidst the chaos.

The entire castle remained in uproar long after you had been escorted back to your chambers. The server who had handed you that accursed tea was apprehended with ease, and Aerion had gone personally to beat the fear of the gods into him in the dungeons.

Yet another Blackfyre loyalist hidden amongst the castle’s walls like a serpent. No one told you exactly what became of him, but when your prince returned not long after, there had been blood across the cuffs of his tunic that certainly had not belonged to him.

By then, relief and exhaustion had finally overtaken you, dragging you into a light and restless sleep. You awoke sometime later in his arms, to the soft crackling of the fire.

His deep violet eyes were fixed on you, dark shadows under them as if he hadn’t been resting at all.

“You’re not sleeping...?”

“Was about to.”

Though he tried to conceal it, exhaustion lingered plainly across his face. It was rare to see Aerion so bare and vulnerable like this.

The memory came rushing back all at once then. The putrid stench, the panic in the hall, the horrifying realization that someone had wanted you and your child dead before they had even drawn breath—

A tremor ran through you before you could suppress it and your husband engulfed you in his embrace, holding you tightly.

“Cease this at once, wife,” he whispered in your ear, sounding almost irritated despite his obvious and clumsy attempt at comfort. “So long as I draw breath, no one will harm you.”

Your eyes burned. “What did you do to him?”

“What? You expected mercy from me tonight?”

“No.” You shook your head against his chest, your voice small and bitter. “Make him suffer first, and only then do you give him a painful death.”

That actually managed to pull a dark smile from him. “No,” he murmured, his chest rumbling against you. “I will make him rot first. Death is a mercy he has to earn.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips when you pulled away from his hold, though worry still lingered beneath your ribs.

“There.” Aerion brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his violet eyes warmer than you had ever seen before. “Better already.”

How both of you reached this point astonished even you. The mad boy who had terrorized your childhood, your enemy who had become your destined husband— Aerion Brightflame was your greatest bane of existence too.

Yet here you were, trusting him more than anyone else alive in Westeros. You knew his cruelty, but you also knew his loyalty—and you knew, just as surely as he would make anyone who ever came close to harm you rue the day they ever did, he would guard you like a dragon atop treasure.

And because of that, the doubt in your voice was softer than it might have once been when you finally asked:

“…What if the babe is a girl?”

Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately, as though the question itself puzzled him.

“A princess,” you explained, fingers drifting protectively over your stomach. “You value a son and heir above all else. But who could have known the will of the gods?”

Aerion stared at you for a long, unreadable moment, as though carefully weighing your words before at last letting out a scoff.

“Mark my words now, wife, for I will not repeat them. I require that this child, boy or girl, survives.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. However, his expression hardened slightly afterwards.

“And the same goes for you. If you don’t, I will never, ever forgive you.”

In that moment, you thought you would willingly give everything of yourself to place this child safely into his arms. You would give him a son too, gods willing.

You reached for your husband then, pulling him down into the purest and sweetest of a kiss.

“Be welcome, noble knights and lords of the realm!”

Commoners and nobles alike buzzed with excitement for the grand tourney, their cheers echoing throughout the stands. High up on the royal dais, King Daeron stood, his voice amplified by the roaring acoustics of the arena as he opened the games with salutations.

“...and this glorious day has been made all the more blessed by joyful news,” the good king proclaimed proudly. “My beloved granddaughter has begun her labors! May the Seven grant fortune to every combatant this day!”

Down on the field, however, the King’s words brought no celebration to the man affected most.

Aerion sat atop his warhorse, motionless. Beneath his dark armor, his chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. While other knights waved jovially at the crowd, his gaze was locked entirely on the opposing end of the lists.

Your pains had started since last night. Through the early hours of midnight, you had endured them in silence, determined to hold yourself together a little longer, yet occasionally curling into him for comfort. By dawn, however, you were in tears, and every hour after that became a new torment for you.

But when it came time to see him off this morning, you had refused to look weak. Sweat clung to your face, and your eyes were glistening, but a fierce light burned right through them. Gripping his armor, you had hissed a command through gritted teeth:

“Win that fucking tourney, and only then are you allowed come back to me, husband.”

“Son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall—”

A violent, dark impatience overtook him.

“Grandson to King Daeron the Good—”

If he had to tear through every knight in the Seven Kingdoms to get back to your side, he would do it. And he would do it quickly.

“Prince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen—”

Lowering his visor with a sharp, echoing snap, Aerion gripped his lance. He would come back as a victor, exalted and feared, and you would give him his child.

Your child too. He knew already they would be sweet, just like you.

“—will choose his first opponent!”

. . .

The air inside your birthing chambers was thick by midday, smelling heavily of copper, sweat, and the sharp scent of crushed lavender oil the maids used to soothe the air.

But there was no soothing the agony ripping through you.

Another of your heartbreaking wails filled the air when another violent contraction hit, seizing your spine and twisting your abdomen with a malice that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

“Push, my lady! You must push!” the midwife urged, her hands busy prodding you beneath the heavy linens. “The child is close, but you cannot lose your strength now!”

Your body felt broken, torn apart from the inside out. Your eyes were rimmed with tears of pain and pure exhaustion, blurring the stone walls of your chambers into a hazy nightmare.

Your prince was out there tearing through the realm’s finest knights just to earn the right to return to your side. He was conquering the field for you. For this child.

And you would not fail him on your own battlefield.

“Again!” the midwife commanded when that familiar, iron grip curling and seizing your womb once more. “Now, my lady!”

But the next wave was the most terrible pain you had ever experienced, and your voice cracked into raw scream as you pushed with every last shred of strength left within your body.

You could feel the crushing pressure, the burning fire, the blinding and unforgiving sensation of your very body being split apart—

The midwife cried, her voice rising in triumph over the distant rumble of the arena:

“I see the head! One more, my lady! Give me everything you have!”

. . .

“The Prince Aerion wins!”

He had done it. The second he threw the other knight off his horse and he yielded, he had ridden his warhorse, torn his helmet off, and marched towards your chambers like a specter of death.

In his frantic rush to end his final foe, he had made one careless mistake though— leaving his guard down just enough for a lance to slice a deep gash down his forearm, and now crimson blood dripped steadily onto the pristine floors with every step towards your chambers.

He had been told that you had tethered between life and death—shivering before falling unconscious the moment the child was born.

“My prince! You cannot go in there!” a maid cried, stepping in front of the heavy oak doors, her hands raised in horror. “You are covered in filth! The lady must be kept clean, the babe—”

“Get a maester to dress my wound,” he spat viciously, making the poor girl recoil. “Now.”

The maester came soon, scrambling to pour a wine over the wound to cleanse it, hastily wrapping a fresh linen binding over the gash. It was a rushed job, done in mere seconds. The white linen instantly bloomed with a fresh patch of red. His attendant quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face and helped him out of his armor as fast he could.

Aerion shoved them away after they were done, turning back to the heavy doors, but the midwives still stood there, hesitant between duty and fear.

His arm burned, exhaustion and blood loss leaving him half-delirious, and they knew better than to deny him his right. Aerion stormed into the chambers, drawing gasps from the wet nurses and your maids. Instinctively, every gaze in the room flickered toward the small bundle wrapped in linen within the cradle beside the hearth.

They expected him to demand his heir. They expected him to look for the son he had so desperately coveted—

But to their surprise, he didn’t even spare a glance at the cradle. Instead, he crossed the room in a few long strides and went straight to where you lay still.

“Wife,” he breathed hoarsely, reaching for you at once. “I am here.”

You were deathly pale. Your eyes fluttered open weakly, as if you were pulling yourself back from a long, deep sleep.

Then, you looked up and smiled at him— so beautiful and tender it nearly broke him.

He gathered you into his arms, engulfing you in a fierce, crushing hug— pressing a hard kiss to the crown of your head. You let out a watery laugh, clutching at him too.

“It is a son,” you told him with pride. “He looks just like you.”

Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle at that. In truth, the idea of a daughter didn’t seem terrible to him at all right now.

In fact, now that the thought had crossed his mind, he found himself wanting a pretty little girl too... one who had your eyes and your smile.

. . .

History would fondly remember the romance between the bitterest enemies who found the truest of love, for the realm had borne witness to that auspicious day—

The dragon prince has won his triumph, and so has his princess.

tagging @marianntorres2611 @starkleila @huntmewithdogs @pinkfunland @dauntlesshereticleviathan @laylavynna @dabishou @ireneisbored @menacing-pfeffernusse @xxvelvetxxx @icebearcucumber as per request! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <3

[chuluoyi]

forget me not

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

life as you know it shatters when your husband loses his memories of you in a freak incident. how will you convince him of your marriage and the love that made it real?

genre/warnings: suggestive, amnesia, hurt/comfort, light angst, enemies to lovers, crack, quarrels and usage of "wench" (aerion is back to his default personality for plot development i swear), falling in love all over again trope, pregnancy, lannister!reader

notes: based on this. the amnesia fic is here muehehe :))

You knew Aerion could be a big menace. He was too proud, too vain— with arrogance that was practically boundless. He was not the religious sort too, so the Seven above must keep tally of all his sins.

You had always thought the Gods would humble him eventually. You know, damn it, but—

You never imagined it would come to this. Something as absurd and sudden as him being thrown from his own horse and lie unconscious for three long days.

Those three days had been unbearable. The maester assured you he would wake, that his body was strong, that there was no cause for despair—but his words did little to quiet the worry inside your chest. You had cried anyway and never left his bedside.

So when his fingers twitched in your grasp, it startled you from your half-asleep state, your head snapping up.

“Aerion?” Your voice came out small, fragile with hope as you leaned forward, eyes searching his face as you clutched his hand. “Aerion, can you hear me?”

His lashes fluttered, slow and heavy, before finally lifting to reveal the Targaryen violet eyes. For a heartbeat, you felt relief crash into you so fiercely it nearly hurt.

But the moment his gaze found you, something felt… wrong.

“You—” His voice came in a rasp, eyes narrowed in disgust, and his words struck harder than any blade. “Why are you here?”

“Of course I’m here, you blockhead—” The insult slipped out before you could stop it, but then your breath caught in your throat when he withdrew his hand from your grasp.

“Aren’t you supposed to be far and away in Casterly Rock?” he snapped, his gaze raking over you with open offense. “What are you doing in my chambers, wench?”

The color drained from your face so quickly it left you dizzy. Your erratic heartbeat slammed against your ribs until it was all you could hear. Panic clawed its way up your throat as your entire body shook and your breath came in choked gasps.

He... he doesn’t—

“Maester!” You stumbled back from the bedside, your vision swimming with tears as you threw open the doors and yelled at your handmaiden. “Call for the maester!”

“My princes, my lady, forgive me... It appears from the severity of his fall, His Grace has suffered memory loss.”

Prince Maekar Targaryen stood near the foot of the bed, rigid and expression sharp as iron. Beside him was Daeron, who looked like he couldn’t believe what had befallen his brother, and young Aegon, who tried—and failed—to mask his distaste with poorly hidden curiosity.

Meanwhile you stood next to Egg, still numb.

The center of it all was Aerion. He merely cocked his head to the side even as the maester declared his state. He looked fine, unsettlingly so. Rested against his pillows, still pale but very much alive, his violet eyes were clear, as though nothing had happened to him at all.

“Well,” he huffed, glancing between people in his chamber with visible impatience, “you all look as though I’ve risen from the dead. Do enlighten me—what terribly important events have I missed?” And then his gaze flicked to his sire.

“Father, why are we still in Summerhall? Are you not the crown prince?”

You could have sworn Prince Maekar was this close to curse at him by how his voice coming almost in a hiss. “What nonsense are you spouting, boy?”

“Was Baelor not slain in a Trial of Seven? With Aerys and Rhaegel dead that would make you heir to the throne, would it not?” he asked so easily, as though he hadn’t just spoken something that was blatant treason.

An unbearable silence passed in the room, before Maekar turned sharply towards the maester.

“Tell me, did that fall knock the wits clean out of his head— and left my son a complete cretin?”

Maester Melanquin stiffened at once, clearly caught between honesty and survival. “Y-Your Grace, head injuries of such severity can… disturb the memory in unpredictable ways. It is not uncommon for the afflicted to recall events incorrectly...”

“Fuck me,” Maekar finally cursed, running a hand on his face. “Fuck us all.”

On the bed, Aerion let out a scoff. “This seems more like a nightmare than whatever dream I’ve been pulled from.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling slightly at your side as a dull ache began to throb at your temple. Your husband hit his head, had altered memories, and worst of all—

His gaze then landed on you, and just as quickly his expression soured. “Why is she still here?”

He doesn’t recognize you.

Prince Maekar glanced at you, barely holding on the last strands of his patience.

“She is your wife, Aerion.”

“My what?”

Aerion’s attention snapped back to you. His eyes reassessed you from head to toe, as if he found you deeply questionable.

“You’re telling me that I chose her, out of all people?”

“Enough, boy.” Maekar’s voice dropped a degree.

“Father, you must have forced my hand,” Aerion spat, unconvinced. “Because I refuse to believe I married this dullard willingly.”

You knew this was not the Aerion you had given your heart to—the one who had learned your smiles, who reached for your hand in private, who once looked at you as though you alone could soothe the fire in him.

But knowing that did little to soften the blow. Gods, it still hurts.

Prince Maekar closed his eyes, looking every bit like a man asking for the mercy of the Gods. Your good-brothers Daeron and Egg could only exchange weary sighs before turning toward you with quiet sympathy in their eyes.

Your father-in-law was right, fuck us all indeed.

. . .

You left his chambers before anyone could see your expression crack and falter and hadn’t made it far before Maester Melanquin caught up to you in the corridor.

“My lady, you mustn’t take his words to heart,” he began gently. Out of everyone in that room, you had taken the blow worst of all, even if Aerion himself seemed blind to it. “Memory loss of this sort can alter temperament. It is not uncommon for the patient to—”

“I understand,” you cut in softly.

“I would advise rest,” he continued after a moment. “You have endured quite a strain these past days. It is not good for—”

“That will be all, Maester Melanquin.”

You couldn’t hear this now. His eyes widened in realization.

“My lady, you have not informed anyone...?”

“No,” you firmly stressed. “No one else needs to know, yet.”

Even you had only discovered it three days ago—on the very day Aerion had taken his fall. How could you possibly overwhelm everyone with the news that you were with child now?

The maester inclined his head, deeply mournful for you. “As you wish, my lady.”

Aerion was certain this marriage with you was a dreadful one.

He had come to that conclusion within days of waking without half his memories, because every interaction between the two of you felt strained at best.

Yet, as he made his thoughts known to his dimwitted squire, telling him how he must have been a big patron to the most famous brothel in Street of Silk now with a wife like you, the poor lad shook his head vigorously—

“I wouldn’t believe it so, my prince! In fact, you hadn’t visited the brothels ever since your marriage!”

Aerion stared at him as though he had just confessed to treason, and the squire shrunk.

“And everyone knows...” the squire hesitated now, as though fearing for his life, “That you and Lady Lannister shared chambers often too...”

Whenever Aerion looked at you, you didn’t resemble the sort of woman who warmed a husband’s bed willingly. You were composed to the point of irritation, sharp-eyed too, carrying yourself with the dignity of someone fully trained to withstand him.

He was proven right very soon when he sat together with you for the afternoon tea.

. . .

The maester had insisted familiarity could help restore memory. And so, every afternoon for the past five days, you were seated beside him.

“It is still beyond me,” Aerion griped, casting you a distaste frown. “How did I ever end up with you?”

For five miserable days now, the two of you had been enduring each other’s intolerable company. Worse still, neither of you seemed remotely willing to surrender first.

You set your teacup down abruptly, with no grace whatsoever, letting out a sigh.

“Poor, poor you,” you mocked in a saccharine voice. “Here you are— bound to me by gods, law, and unfortunately, the entire realm. What a tragedy for us both.”

Aerion had discovered quickly that you possessed a talent of needling him in the gentlest tone imaginable, while you, in turn, had learned that memory loss did absolutely nothing to diminish his arrogance.

“Why did you even agree to this match?” he asked bluntly one afternoon, studying you with open suspicion. “You hardly seem delighted to be my wife either.”

“Do I seem like I was granted much choice in the matter of my own marriage?” you replied coolly. “I was thrown into this game of thrones just as much as you were. Frankly, had fate been kinder, I might have married some stableboy of my own choosing instead.”

That offended him, rather greatly. Aerion leaned back in his chair with a sharp scoff.

“Ah, I see now,” he drawled coldly, “House Lannister simply could not miss the chance to be a part of the royal family.” His silver-haired head tilted slightly. “And if the dreams plaguing me are any indication, you would have become fortunate enough to sit beside me as queen consort someday.”

Your face scrunched immediately at his sheer audacity.

“If I were a smallfolk living in King’s Landing, in the most unfortunate event that you ever became heir to the Iron Throne, like you said— I would spend every waking day in terror until I finally fled to Essos.”

“You!”

Gods, you are exhausting. He felt as though he were speaking to someone perpetually prepared for battle. Only that your weapon of choice wasn’t swords but words sharpened into tiny little knives.

“You have spent five days insulting me—”

“And you have spent five days asking how you married me,” you spat defiantly. “Surely we both deserve rewards for perseverance.”

You were aggravating, forever meeting his every remark with one of your own—you were every bit the same enemy he remembered from childhood, only now draped in his colors.

Yet somehow... the moment you went strangely pale, his irritation vanished somewhat. A napkin came up to your mouth while your other hand pressed against your abdomen, fingers curling there tightly as though trying to hold yourself together.

“You look dreadful,” he said bluntly.

You shot him a glare over the napkin. “I assure you, husband, I am perfectly—” You cut yourself off suddenly, swallowing, “—fine.”

No, he thought. For the first time in five days, you looked genuinely unwell. “You are not, wench—”

“If you will excuse me,” you cut him, keeping your composure together through sheer force as you rose from your seat, “I believe I should retire.”

And with that, you gathered your skirts and left the solar with dignity, though your pace was far quicker than usual.

Aerion remained seated even as you disappeared through the doorway, his annoyance giving way to an unfamiliar feeling, because for the first time since waking without his memories—

He found himself wanting to follow after you.

. . .

You knew you had not exactly taken the gentle approach with Aerion. He reminded you too much of the insufferable brat who had made your childhood miserable, and you just—for the life of you—could not take all his offensive remarks in silence.

You rushed towards the nearest privies, before dropping beside the close stool, one hand bracing against its rim as you threw up.

Now, you are carrying his child. At the end of the day, the cold truth hit you whenever you wanted to give up on him. You could never, because you had stupidly yearned for his affections, and bore his child.

Despite yourself, another wave rolled through you unpleasantly enough that you emptied your stomach again to the stool.

You are exhausted.

Exhausted from Aerion looking at you like a stranger wearing your husband’s face. Exhausted from fencing with him endlessly just to stop yourself from feeling how deeply wrong all of this truly was.

And worst of all— exhausted from pretending his sharp words did not affect you, because they did and they cut your heart into pieces.

With every fiber of your being, you wanted the man you had fallen in love with back. Stray tears fell from your eyes as you held back a sob, and as dizziness took over you and you staggered on your feet—

“You are fucking ill, woman.”

A strong pair of arms swept you clean off your feet, and you gasped, clutching on the first thing to steady yourself, which happened to be the fabric of his doublet.

Aerion stood tall, already striding towards your chambers, his violet eyes hardened as his lips twisted into a scowl. “You have been ill this entire time and said nothing? Just how foolish could you get?”

You shut your eyes. “Aerion, put me down—”

“You could have told me, you dumb—”

“Stop insulting me, you rat!”

Aerion shot you an angry glare immediately, yet, to your surprise, he fell quiet afterwards.

You didn’t know why he listened this time, and that tender corner of your heart wept with relief, because despite his missing memories, some part of him still recognized you when you were hurt.

Will he come back? You wanted to tell him everything already. You had imagined the moment countless times in your head—how Aerion’s expression would go utterly still at first, before he would go red in the face, hiding his own excitement by putting on a prideful air how you did a good job for bearing his child—

You buried your face against his chest, fingers still clutching weakly at him, and you could feel how he tightened his hold over you.

As though fate itself had finally decided to loosen its grip on the two of you, your relationship began to improve after that day—even if only slightly.

You had managed, through several concealed threats, to force Maester Melanquin into keeping the truth from Aerion. He had looked ready to fire the poor maester on the spot when he told him you only suffered from common cold.

Who would have known he would spare you more concern since then? And on good days too, sometimes, he acted exactly like the man you remembered.

“You used to do this,” you remarked when Aerion’s arm settled at your waist, drawing you closer as the two of you crossed the crowded hall together—the perfect image of a harmonious royal couple before the court. “I suppose old habits die hard.”

“Nearly every lord and lady in this hall does the same thing,” he gruffly retorted, dismissive. “It is called common etiquette, wife.”

You glanced up at him, gaze pure and clear.

“Yes, but I could have simply taken your arm too. Half of ladies in this hall do that.” Your gaze flickered briefly toward the hand resting at your waist. “You hold me out of habit.”

Aerion went quiet at that. Then he cleared his throat abruptly, pointedly refusing to dignify you with any further response as he continued guiding you through the hall.

. . .

You were right— he had done it by instinct.

Aerion had not thought before touching you. It just felt right to do it, but if asked why, he also couldn’t produce a nonchalant answer.

By all accounts, you should have been the wife he never wanted. Half his memories were missing, every surviving recollection of you involved glares, mutual irritation, and arguments in the corridors of the Red Keep, yet—

Ever since the two of you parted ways some time ago, his eyes had kept searching for you before he even consciously realized what he was doing.

Aerion concluded he just detested not having control. You irritated him endlessly, yes, but regardless, you were still his wife— so he ought to have a tight leash around you.

No sooner had he reached the lower end of the hall than he spotted his little brother’s absurdly tall knight nearly stumbling over his own feet trying to greet you.

“M-M’lady,” Ser Duncan stammered, bowing abruptly. “M-my apologies... I didn’t see—”

The poor fool turned visibly red beneath your gaze. You, meanwhile, smiled at him brightly.

“Good evening, Ser Duncan. Are you well? You seem nervous.”

“I—well—no, not nervous, m’lady, just—”

You laughed softly at that, and gods, the sound alone seemed enough to make the knight redder still.

“You look… ah… v-very lovely tonight, m’lady.” Ser Duncan visibly swallowed, meeting your eyes reluctantly.

You held back a grin. “Why, thank you, Ser Duncan. That was almost coherent.”

That buffoon of a knight looked utterly stricken, and Aerion clenched his jaw. How dare he stand there blushing at his wife like some moonstruck idiot?

Then Duncan, in all his bumbling idiocy, reached for your hand. The knight bent respectfully, pressing a courteous kiss against your knuckles in proper greeting. It was the sort of harmless gallantry performed a thousand times in court.

Aerion suddenly feel the urge to break the man’s hand. Something hot and ugly surged through him at once, so sharp that his mood soured instantly— but it was when your giggle reached his ears that the feeling worsened tenfold.

Had men always looked at you this way?

Had he always been forced to endure it?

Before either of you realized it, he had took big strides and placed himself next to you.

“Kneel lower, you oaf.”

You turned towards him in visible surprise.

Duncan looked utterly bewildered. “Your Grace...?”

“If you insist on embarrassing yourself before my wife,” Aerion drawled coldly, “you may as well commit to it properly.”

“Aerion!” You scolded with a frown, before turning to the knight before you. “Don’t mind him, Ser Duncan. You may rise.”

Meanwhile, Aerion’s hand had already settled possessively against the small of your back as he observed how the commoner got back to his feet—only for the prince to realize, with visible irritation, that Duncan stood a full head taller than him—before he continued with complete seriousness:

“Stop breathing directly in her direction. You are enormous.”

“Uh, should I... not breathe?”

“Seven hells, Aerion!” you hissed beneath your breath, mortified.

Aerion clicked his tongue, though the moment you leveled a sharp glare at him, he merely huffed like an irritated twat denied a fight.

Meanwhile, Duncan stood there looking genuinely troubled, seriously considering how his breathing had somehow become offensive. The knight also could not help but wonder how someone as sweet as you had ended up married to someone like him.

“No worries, m’lady. I... I can stand farther away to breathe, then.”

“...”

“I can... right?”

Days slipped by and still, Aerion had yet to regain his memories.

Before you fully realized it, two moons had passed since the accident, and your condition was becoming harder to conceal.

No matter how often you layered silks and draped cloaks around yourself, the slight swell of your abdomen had begun to show, and it wouldn’t be long before you could no longer cover it.

His child in you, the thought alone made your chest ache sometimes. As of now, the ones who were aware of this were the maester and your personal maids. Until when you should keep this from him and the others?

Aerion still made insufferable remarks with alarming consistency, and you still answered half of them with cutting sweetness. But the small blessing was, increasingly, there were moments where he behaved so much like his former self, and that gave you hope.

. . .

The more time he spent with you, the more Aerion found himself settling into your company.

Now he knew the exact expression you made whenever you were cross. He knew when you were genuinely irritated versus when you were merely pretending to be offended for the sake of argument. He knew the way your eyes brightened whenever something delighted you, and how that same light dimmed whenever you were unwell.

And lately...

“You look constantly ill these days,” Aerion remarked as the two of you walked through the gardens of Summerhall. “What precisely ails you? Why do you refuse to improve?”

You shot him a flat look. “You know, most husbands would say their wives look unwell and would find ways to help them get better.”

“Most husbands are compulsive liars. I am pious and honest,” he sneered, his violet eyes crinkling.

You rolled your eyes towards the heavens. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Aerion knew that for a fact that you were rather fond of him. After all, he wasn’t an inexperienced man— what he did not know was what that made him.

Had the man he used to be also been fond of you too? Enough for him to notice if you were feigning good health?

“You are avoiding the question,” he noted with a frown. “What are you hiding? Do you have some illness I don’t know about?”

“No,” you balked, turning to him. “Why are you being annoyingly observant lately? Have you found life dreadfully boring since losing your memories that you find joy in fussing over me?”

“Hah. The prissy little lady I spent half my life quarreling with happens to be my wife. I am obligated to look after her if I intend to play the role of husband properly, am I not?”

You let out an unimpressed, mocking hum. “How noble of you. Thank you for your service.”

“Besides,” he added dismissively, “if I seek excitement, I can find it elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

“My whores, for instance.”

His words struck you so abruptly that your steps faltered. Aerion glanced down at you, seemingly satisfied to render you speechless. “Men whore, that’s a fact.”

He had meant it half as a jest, but something in your expression had changed.

“I suddenly feel rather tired,” you continued after a moment, fingers tightening around your cloak. “If you will excuse me, I believe I should retire early.”

Without waiting for permission, you stepped past him, but Aerion instinctively caught your wrist before you could move farther away.

“You haven’t answered me,” he hissed.

You met his eyes, unflinching, “You can’t make me do what I don’t want to, husband. Go and find one of your whores instead and make her do your bidding.”

With that, you wrenched yourself from his grasp and stalked towards your bedchambers, and for a moment, Aerion was still on his tracks.

He wanted to go after you, to demand more explanation because you couldn’t just brazenly leave him, but your words rang in his ears, as if he had heard if before—

Then go find one of your whores instead!

For days afterwards, you avoided him. Far from subtly.

You vanished from chambers moments before he entered them. Afternoon teas in the solar ceased entirely under excuses of exhaustion. Servants informed him you had already retired whenever he asked after you.

Aerion felt his irritation mounting with every passing day. It must be his comment about whores, but why did it offend you so? He hadn’t even planned to go through with it!

Not when whores look so dull compared than you. They don’t have your fiery charm, or the sweetness of your face. Something about you was as hard as an iron, but Aerion sometimes thought it was endearing.

Enough of this. He would have order. If you intended to avoid him like some offended little ghost haunting Summerhall, then he would simply drag answers out of you directly.

But before he reached the doors to your chambers, voices stopped him.

Three maids stood just beyond the corridor archway carrying folded linens, too occupied with their conversation to notice the prince approaching.

“…poor thing’s barely left bed these past days,” the older one whispered sympathetically.

“The lady looked so pale this morning,” another sighed. “I thought she might faint again.”

Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately.

“She only insisted on coming out today because she did not wish to raise suspicion,” the third maid murmured. “Though honestly, I pity her...”

The first maid nodded sadly. “The fourth moon already too… and His Grace still does not even know she is carrying his child.”

Suddenly, a shadow fell over them. The three women froze, and slowly, they turned—

Aerion stood behind them, towering and terrifyingly still, his expression drained of color.

“She is carrying... what?”

You cursed the fact that your body had always been of weak constitution. You never recovered from illness easily, and carrying a child only seemed to worsen every ache and every wave of exhaustion settling into your bones.

Which was why you had hidden yourself away in the library that afternoon, seeking silence and peace amongst dusty shelves and books. But somehow or another—

My whores, for instance.

You pressed a hand tiredly against your eyes. How did you manage to get your heart broken over your enemy-turned-husband again for the nth time?

The Aerion before the accident had once looked you dead in the eyes and promised he would never seek comfort in whores again, but this Aerion did not remember any of that. You should have understood he probably only said that to get a reaction out of you, but still, it wasn’t pleasant to hear at the slightest.

Before you could dwell on it further, the library doors suddenly burst open with enough force to slam loudly against the stone wall and you were startled.

Aerion strode inside at once, breathing raggedly as though he had searched half the castle for you.

“There you are—”

His violet eyes were wild, almost furious, and for one startled moment you could only stare at him in confusion as he crossed the room in long, determined strides.

“How could you?” he demanded, catching your arm in a tight hold. “Hells, you are a madwoman.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“How could you not tell me?” His voice cracked with something between anger and disbelief, though still low. “You are carrying my child and said nothing to me?”

Your stomach dropped instantly. “How did you—”

“Find out?” Aerion barked a sharp laugh. “Apparently the help in this castle knows and the child’s own father does not.”

You stared at him silently for a moment before your expression hardened.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When? After you birthed the damn babe?”

Despite yourself, irritation sparked hotly through your chest.

“Oh, forgive me for not rushing to share the news with the husband who so easily informed me he could return to his whores whenever he pleased,” you snapped, glaring at him. “Had you not been foolish enough to get yourself whacked in the head and lose half your memories, perhaps I would have told you sooner.”

Aerion looked almost stricken for half a heartbeat, and you took your chance to get away from him.

Unfortunately, your skirts caught beneath your heel.

Your breath caught sharply as your footing slid across the polished floor, the world tilting around you while your body lurched dangerously towards the stone fireplace nearby.

But Aerion moved before you could crash into it.

He lunged forward immediately, catching you firmly around the waist and hauling you hard against his chest. The force of it sent both of you stumbling sideways together. Your shoulder collided painfully against the edge of a bookshelf—

And Aerion’s head slammed hard against the heavy wooden corner.

For one terrible heartbeat, his grip around you tightened reflexively, as though making certain you were still safe against him, before his body sagged and the two of you tumbled to the floor.

“Aerion...?”

His eyes lost focus immediately— and before you could properly steady either of you, the prince collapsed against you, unconscious.

In the span of a single day, Summerhall descended into absolute chaos.

First came the panic of its most troublesome prince rendered unconscious after striking his head for the second time. Servants ran through corridors in terror, Maester Melanquin was nearly trampled in the confusion, and somewhere in the midst of it all, Prince Maekar had reportedly declared that if Aerion survived this only to lose his remaining memories, he would personally lock his son inside a tower.

Then came the second revelation— you were with child. The maids whispered excitedly through the halls, and Ser Duncan nearly choked on his beef stew after hearing the news.

Meanwhile, you remained seated beside Aerion’s bed, trying your best to keep it together. Guilt gnawed viciously at your chest, remembering how he shielded you from that fall.

Because even in anger—even confused and not fully himself—his first instinct had still been to save you.

The hours stretched unbearably. You must have prayed to every god known to man by the time the third hour passed, and you were almost asleep when a low groan broke the silence.

Aerion shifted faintly against the pillows, brows furrowing before his violet eyes slowly opened.

For one dreadful heartbeat, you could barely breathe when his gaze settled on you. “Aerion…?”

It took him several seconds, but you would never have expected... his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“Missed me, wife?”

You stared at him in utter shock. Is he...? Has his—

After two and half moons, the familiar cruel glint finally appeared in your husband’s violet eyes that made him look more like gods rather than human. This expression belonged only to your Aerion.

The boy who had once been your greatest torment in childhood, but also the man who had grown fiercely fond of you despite himself. The same man who would spill blood without hesitation for anyone foolish enough to dishonor you.

Aerion blinked at your stunned expression before the corners of his eyes crinkled faintly with amusement.

“What?” he drawled lazily. “Yes, I’ve returned.”

A broken sound escaped your throat before you threw yourself towards him without another thought, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as relief crashed over you so violently it made your entire body tremble.

Aerion let out a quiet grunt from the force of it, but his arms immediately came around you in return, holding you just as tightly against him. And then, in his typical velvety voice, he murmured against your hair:

“And I shall continue making your life a little hell, wife.”

A watery laugh escaped you despite the tears burning your eyes. Gods, he is so, so, so incredibly and fucking insufferable.

As a child of five, you would say marrying Aerion Targaryen would ruin your life entirely, but now... as he held you against his heart—

You found yourself overwhelmingly grateful that it had been him.

He was mystified himself, how could he ever go through days and nights without you near?

Several nights after he regained his memories and you were well enough, his lips finally found yours within the privacy of your marital chambers.

“There you are,” he murmured roughly, sucking off your lips as he balanced you on his lap—his sweet wife who was enticingly dressed in sensual nightgown. “Gods, you looked at me these past months as though I had died.”

“You did,” you retorted, clutching his bare shoulder. “You forgot me.”

Aerion kissed you again before you could say another word, slower this time, but no less intense. His thumb brushed beneath your eye gently when a tear slipped free.

“I did not forget you entirely.” He eyed you like a predator to prey, his tone deliciously low. “Some part of me kept finding my way back to you.”

Your fingers curled into his skin as you pulled him into your ravenous kiss, brushing yourself against his crotch.

Aerion made a low sound against your mouth before breaking the kiss and pulling you closer still, carefully this time—as his cool palm settled instinctively against your abdomen, feeling the gentle swell of the child growing within you.

“…You are carrying my son,” he said quietly, as though the reality had only just struck him fully, meeting your eyes.

You huffed softly. “It could very well be a daughter.”

“A son.” Your husband frowned at you and you pursed your lips. “Foolish woman, you should have told me.”

He tilted your face and devoured your lips again, his hands wandering your skin, caressing you, making you sigh and moan—

You wrapped your legs around his waist and melted helplessly into his touch, into the familiar heat of his kisses that you had missed so desperately these past moons.

Before long, he eased you carefully onto the bed beneath him, one hand braced beside your head while the other tilted your chin upward so you could do nothing but look at him.

For a while, he simply stared at you. The candlelight softened the harsh edges of his face, though nothing could truly dull the intensity in those violet eyes as they traced every feature of yours like he was memorizing them anew.

“If I should ever forget you again,” Aerion murmured, thumb brushing slowly across your cheek, “then make me remember. Don’t hide from me and drag me with you if you must. Make me remember you.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the words, though you still lifted your chin at him with stubborn defiance.

“How about you learn not to forget me in the first place?”

Aerion huffed out a soft laugh beneath his breath.

“My poor wife,” he murmured against the curve of your neck, the teasing rasp of his voice sent heat blooming beneath your skin. “I suppose I shall spend tonight properly atoning for that offense.”

And fortunately for you, Aerion Brightfire was a man who took his words very seriously.

He was prideful beyond reason, occasionally nonsensical, and possessed the temperament of a dragon—but there was no swaying him once he set his mind upon something, which meant that, for the foreseeable future, he would watch over you with a keener eye than most until the day you birthed his child.

Though that, perhaps, was a story meant for another time.

For now, you were simply content savoring these quiet nights— nights where, at long last, your prince was back in your arms.

tagging @marianntorres2611 @starkleila @huntmewithdogs @pinkfunland @dauntlesshereticleviathan @laylavynna @dabishou @ireneisbored as per request! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <3

[chuluoyi]

lay all your love on me

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

the three times the dragon prince has been denied your bed, and the one time he succeeds (and finds out why)

genre/warnings: very suggestive, crack, fluff, hardcore enemies to lovers, aerion being protective (and a simp), slight breeding kink(?), mentions of pregnancy, lannister!reader

notes: still in the universe of lannister!reader but can be read as a standalone. we all need a simp aerion :))

To take one’s wife to bed was, in Aerion’s mind, not merely a matter of desire— it was a husband’s right.

And yet, for three days now, he had been denied of that very right.

He had wanted you—badly, with a heat that coiled low in his stomach and only flared when ignored. The discomfort clung to him, followed him through halls and councils and restless nights. Three days of wanting, and three days of you slipping through his grasp like smoke.

On the first night, you had looked at him with that practiced poise and told him, almost apologetically, “I cannot tonight. I’m bleeding.”

A frown tugged at his brow as he did the calculations in his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Lies. It is not due for another week.”

Your brow arched at that. “Since when have you been keeping count of my cycles?”

Aerion could feel heat rising to his cheeks by your question. Hell would freeze over before he admitted that he was anticipating your days.

Thankfully you only shrugged, and didn’t question further. “Bodies change, my prince. Perhaps yours does not, but mine does.”

You had already begun guiding him toward the door, your hands firm against his chest despite your gentle tone.

“That is not how—”

“Out,” you said sweetly, already pushing the door open. “Surely a man of your endurance can survive one night of restraint.”

The door had shut in his face before he could argue further.

The second time had been worse.

You had been furious.

Aerion had barely stepped into your chambers before you turned on him, eyes blazing, lips tight with anger.

“What have I done now?” he questioned, already bracing himself.

“You threw Aegon’s cat into the well, you brute!”

He blinked. “It was an accident—”

“An accident?” you echoed sharply, both hands on your hips. “Do cats fling themselves into wells at your command?”

“It scratched me!” he retaliated in defense, holding up his arm to show you the claw mark as if he was the more injured party. “That beast leapt at me and—!”

“You are cruel,” you snapped, turning away from him entirely. “Leave before I decide you belong in that well next.”

“Do not play with me, wife,” Aerion warned, his voice low. “Men are known to start wars when denied what they want.”

You scoffed. “Yes, I have heard all men are fools, all men are knights, and that one famous High Valyrian proverb says all men must die. Now, I am no man. But you, Aerion—”

You stepped closer, your gaze dragged over him, taking in everything from his tousled silver-gold hair to the faint scatter of freckles across his cheeks, sharp enough to cut.

He should be mad that this outrageous wife of his dared to even rebuke him— but for reasons he could not quite name, he found his pulse quickening and his throat tightening by the minute as he swallowed it down instead.

Gods, why do you look pretty when you are angry?

“You are a man, a knight, a fool… so tell me, does that mean you ought to die?”

Aerion forced himself to stand his ground, yet failing miserably. He was questioning himself and his sanity because how could he find you attractive while insulting him?

He had to leave that night too—more stunned than angered, though the frustration simmered all the same.

By the third day, Aerion was no longer certain what to make of it.

You were avoiding him. But why in the seven hells did you do so?!

The question needled at him, and so did his curiosity. Which was why he found himself before your chambers again. The door to your chambers had been carelessly left not fully shut, and he made mental note to rebuke your maid later.

Perhaps you were indeed bleeding just as you claimed you were. Although he was fairly certain you were not because he could recall that the last time you had been intimate was a day before your moon blood had come and that was not even one moon ago—

However, all his thoughts halted the moment his gaze caught you.

You stood before the long mirror, only in your lacy undergarments, still unaware of him. Your corset pressed tightly at your bosom, accentuating your figure—and the very said bosom. Your hair fell loose, and you were bereft of any rouge, just the way he liked it.

Gods, you were a sight to behold. Aerion found himself rooted where he stood, unable and unwilling to look away. He felt hot and disturbed already— imagining how soft your curves were and how pleasurable it was for him to shove himself inside you—

Your fingers traced your own form as though you were studying yourself. From the swell of your chest, down along the line of your waist, to the gentle curve of your lower belly— you seemed lost in your own quiet contemplation. Your fingers lingered there, pressing it slightly and you frowned.

You looked restless. What had troubled you? Whatever it was, he was certain he could fix it.

Aerion shifted slightly, ready at last to make his presence known, only to have the floor creak under him.

Your head snapped up and silence fell like a blade.

“…Aerion.” Your eyes had already narrowed to slits, putting both hands over your body. “Were you peeping?”

“What.” He straightened, gathering his dignity and put a show as if he intended all of it. “Is it so wrong to ogle my own wife?”

“From behind a half-open door like some skulking court fool?”

“I was ensuring your well-being.”

“With your eyes?” you shot back. “What a great pair of eyes you have.”

His violet eyes twitched. “You have been neglecting your wifely duties for long enough—”

“Consent,” you hissed, “requires two people, husband. And at present, you only have one. You have also thoroughly displeased me, so off with you.”

He barely had time to react before your hands were on him, pushing him back toward the threshold.

Aerion caught the door before it could shut, catching your gaze. “You cannot avoid me forever—”

A mocking smile touched your lips. “Watch me.”

And then the door slammed shut in his face. Aerion stared at it for a long moment, utterly still.

Three days already that he had been bested by this door!

The following day, Aerion had had enough.

He would have answers today, one way or another. This absurdity had to end now.

With that resolve, he made his way towards your chambers. But when he arrived, he found your maids gathered outside, all collectively looking at unease.

Then he heard it— soft and muffled, but it was clear that you were crying.

“Why is she in tears?” he snapped, turning to the servants, who flinched and cowered instantly, hands trembling where they clutched their skirts.

His jaw tightened when he received no answer, and without another word, he pushed past them and stepped inside. He quickly found you, and the sight that met him stilled him where he stood.

You were on the bed, shoulders shaking, your face buried in your hands as quiet sobs slipped through your fingers.

This was the first time he had seen you this mournful. Something twisted at his chest as he crossed the room in quick strides.

You were surprised with his presence, but before you could turn away, Aerion was already beside you—pulling you into him, one arm firm around your shoulders as his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head.

“Enough,” he murmured, far gentler than anything he had said these past days as he pressed you against him to offer comfort. “No more tears, wife.”

However, you seemed to have some tears to spare as you leaned into his chest. Bit by bit, your sobs softened, your breathing evening out against him until only faint sniffles remained.

“Shh,” he hushed, almost awkwardly, his palm patting your back in slow, steady motions. “That is enough.”

Aerion exhaled, glancing down at you as soon as you were calmer.

“…Alright,” he said after a moment, voice returning sharper. “Give me a name.”

You blinked, still dazed. “What?”

“A name,” he repeated, already sounding irritated on your behalf. “Who dares to make you cry? I will have him flayed and hung from the gates before sunset.”

Somehow, something in your chest warmed at his question. You knew him well enough to know that he meant every word, that he truly would rain fire and blood upon anyone who dared to wrong you—and somehow, it made your heart flutter.

“Aerion…” you murmured weakly, pulling away from him.

“Well? Who is it?”

You hesitated, then looked away, your voice quieter now. “No one has… done anything.”

His frown deepened. “Then why are you crying?”

You drew in a breath, fingers curling lightly into his sleeve.

“I thought…” you began, faltering, feeling your face heating. “I thought I was with child.”

That surprised him, his violet eyes widened by a fraction.

“I have been unwell these past few days. I thought perhaps—” You swallowed, fiddling with the hem of your dress. “So I waited out. But my moon blood came this morning, so...”

So he was right with his calculations after all!

Aerion’s hold on you did not loosen as he cleared his throat. “…I see.”

You shook your head quickly, as if to dismiss it. “It is nothing. Truly. I am likely just… taking things too personally.”

“It is not nothing,” he retorted at once.

You huffed faintly, wiping at your eyes. “It is. Everyone expects it, do they not? A royal babe—”

“So someone has said something to you. Who?”

Sometimes you cursed how sharp Aerion was regarding these things. You hesitated again, then forced it out.

“Prince Aerys made a comment.”

Aerion’s expression darkened instantly.

“He said… for all the... boldness that comes out of your mouth, it seems we cannot even manage to— well, since we haven’t conceived a child yet...”

He caught the implication almost instantly.

“He questioned my virility?” he repeated slowly, incredulity laced with offense. “Him? The man who has not managed to put a child in his own wife?”

You winced faintly, knowing this would be his reaction.

“Don’t mind me,” you murmured, looking down. “It was foolish of me to let his words affect me so. It’s just most ladies in the court always go on and on about either womanly pursuits or childrearing—”

“No.” He squinted his eyebrow. “He wouldn’t dare to question me again after tonight.”

Before you could react, he guided you back against the bed, his hands firm but not unkind as he pressed you into the mattress.

“Aerion—?”

“If it is a child you want,” he declared, his violet eyes glinted, hovering above you, “then that is what you will have.”

His hand came up, brushing stray tears from your cheek—surprisingly gentle for a man speaking of fire and punishment only moments ago.

Truthfully, he hadn’t put much thought about having children. Sure, he knew both of you would eventually, but there had never been urgency in it for him. Not when he still found himself wanting more of you.

Still, the very idea of you bearing his child enticed him now. His hand lingered at your cheek for a moment longer before drifting downwards. From the softness of your face, to the curve of your neck, until it came to rest at your waist.

The thought came unbidden— of you round, full and ripe with his child. The image settled into his mind with surprising clarity, and with it, something carnal in himself was awakened.

He surged forward, capturing your lips in a kiss.

“Mmph—” It was hunger, three days of restraint snapping all at once.

His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he meant to erase whatever distance had dared exist between you. His other hand found your jaw, tilting your face just enough for him to deepen the kiss.

Your hands pressed lightly against his chest, breath uneven. “My moon blood—”

“It has been too long,” he cut in with a hiss, before devouring your lips again.

Aerion intended to make good of his word. He took his time with you, reverent in a way that was different with his usual intensity— and you were like sitting duck, a little coaxing and string of kisses and you were like a puddle for him.

A quiet, satisfied hum left him at that.

“You—” he breathed in your scent, nibbling on the skin of your neck that made you squirm, “really want this, don’t you? Worry not— will do it… until you are so full that you couldn’t walk.”

You should never fall so easily... but how could you, when your husband worshipped you and made you feel this good?

His lips and fingers trailed everywhere— sucking your breasts first, fondling them, flicking one as he took the other in his mouth. He had mastered the art of pleasures, and he was determined to lay it all on you.

And his whispers when he finally claimed you, gods—

“I—” he rasped in your ear as he thrusted into you from behind, with you squealing and trembling underneath him. “will fuck this babe into you— and everyone in the Seven Kingdoms... would know to whom you belong to.”

Your husband was maddening, insensible, sometimes treacherous too, but still, the thought of being known across the realm as his was not an unpleasant one in the slightest.

But he could be gentle too—protective in a way, however warped it might seem. And when his voice dropped low against your ear, laced with that dark, tempting sweetness, any lingering doubt within you simply faded.

“Rest assured... you will have my child within you when this night is over, sweet wife.”

[baratheonpilled]

Game of Thrones 1.06 / A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms 1.01

[chuluoyi]

like a dragonfire

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

to aerion brightflame, love is a frivolous thing made up by the storybooks he loathes. but try as he might, he can't keep his eyes off you either. what lies in the store for both of you after passionate nights and a taste of danger… if not realizing that love is not that unreal, after all?

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—possessive!aerion, explicit smut, childhood enemies to lovers, both aerion and reader yearn for each other but still in denial, fluff/comfort, kidnapping, description of violence and blood, mentions of pregnancy, lannister!reader

notes: a continuation of the dragon and the lioness and kissed by fire but can also be read as a standalone. i wrote this while hearing never be the same by camilla cabello and ughhh aerion brainrot has taken over me </3

From his enemy to his wife, and now his lover. Even Aerion, for all his arrogance, found it difficult to believe at times.

A match made for him by his father, he almost detested you for life. But in time, you proved to be more than just tolerable. Easy on the eyes, certainly—painfully so, when he allowed himself to stare at you too long.

And oh, the nights he spent bedding you... well, even he couldn’t fool himself by saying it was just for obligation. You were a temptation he had not anticipated, and one he found himself returning to each night.

Now that you were his in every sense that mattered, came another problem: Aerion had tendency towards obsession— over circumstances, over outcomes… and now, that included everything that concerned you.

As you stood there among a cluster of nobles, dressed in the colors of House Targaryen, you were as you always were—composed in posture, attentive in expression as you listened to whatever drivel was being spoken to you.

Aerion watched you from across the hall, unmoving. You looked every bit the image of a royal consort. His royal consort.

“Aren’t you glad I chose her for you?”

His father, Prince Maekar, had slid beside him and regarded him with that knowing look, one that had unsettled him since childhood. “You fought me on it, if I recall. Loudly.”

Aerion let out a snort, trying to stand his ground. “You made a habit of forcing my hand.”

Maekar gave an amused hum. “And yet, here you are. You look as though you would burn the hall down if another man kept her attention a moment longer.”

The Bright Prince begrudgingly stayed silent, pursing his lips in thin line. No, his father was wrong. He was definitely not concerned about how you let Leo Tyrell, whom he had beaten in tourneys at least thrice in a row now, gave you a kiss on the back of your hand.

Yet his violet eyes twitched at his audacity.

Maekar let his gaze rest on you a heartbeat longer before turning back to his son. “You two are much alike, even as children—forever at war over lemon tarts. You knew not how to treat a lady, Aerion.”

Aerion bit back a hiss. “I know perfectly well how, Father.”

“I have six children, and you are the most fucking troublesome out all of them, boy.”

The Prince of Summerhall tilted his head slightly, studying his son as though he were a puzzle long since solved. “Don’t flatter yourself. You were never the most sought-after in the marriage mart. What lady could possibly endure you, if not her? Even while you insisted she was unbearable.”

“She was,” Aerion muttered, sullen.

“And now?”

“…she still is.”

“Good. A wife who yields too easily becomes dull— and you, boy, have always needed someone fucking sturdy enough not to.”

Aerion merely clicked his tongue. He didn’t need to be reminded of how everything came to be. You were a convenient match, and that was that.

In that moment, he also decided you had indulged the court long enough.

You barely had time to excuse yourself from Leo Tyrell before your husband was at your side, his presence cutting through the crowd like flame through parchment.

“Wife,” he gritted out with sour face, extending his hand to you with a veneer of courtly grace. “How gracious you have been with everyone.”

You took his hand, a curve of smile tugging at your lips. “Have I?”

The music had already begun to swell as he guided you towards the dance floor. Your hand rest in his, the other against his shoulder, you met his gaze with a faint, knowing smile.

“What has ruffled you, husband?”

The way you addressed him somehow made his body warm but he ignored it, staring you down. “We have a dance to perform.”

Your lips twitched. “I beg to differ... but if you say so.”

And yet, whatever passed between you in words did little to hinder the dance. Your bodies fell into step with an ease and fluidity that had not existed before as he spun you and you fell into his arms. Everyone in the hall would say that the Brightfire and his lady made a fine royal couple.

“Ah,” you murmured when the final note faded and he dipped his head in a shallow bow. “You’re almost pleasant to dance with.”

“High praise,” he returned, a dangerous smile already playing on his lips. Something flickered to life behind his violet eyes, like lightning just before it struck.

He was most certainly after something and you would know it soon when he led you away through corridors with a possessive arm around your waist, entering the first chamber you saw.

The chamber door closed behind you with a soft but decisive click.

You barely had time to turn before he pressed you against him, his hands on you tracing the curve of your spine, firm and as though reacquainting himself with your body. His gaze was hot on you, dark and intent, like a predatory on his prey.

You huffed softly, placing a hand against his chest—not quite pushing him away though.

“Do not use your bedroom eyes here, Aerion.”

“Why?” he asked with a wicked sneer, voice lowering yet taunting. “You’ve seemed to prefer my eyes on most nights.”

“At least pretend to have some restraint.”

He let out the driest chuckle as he turned your chin to him.

“And who are you... to order me so?”

Damn, you felt your whole body buzzing with excitement despite the his cruel words. And before you could think more, he claimed your lips with his.

His kisses were dizzying, the kind that made your thoughts scatter before you could even grasp them. He pressed you up against the wall, and his hot mouth trailed from your jaw to your shoulder, and then to the space between your breasts—

But you were in for the most thrilling seduction when suddenly he wrenched away from your skin without warning. In one go, he got down, slipped inside the skirts of your dress, and—

“Oh—!” you gasped, your voice breaking into a moan as you staggered back and clutched the nearest desk, when you felt his tongue in your bud.

Madness. You could only think of this as pure madness as he pleasured you down there. You spread your legs wider by instinct, and fought to keep your noise, which was getting harder by the minute.

It didn’t take long to get you wet. Not when his tongue delved further into your depths, savoring your taste— while his thumb played with your clit in slow, deliberate circles. Your moans grew louder, your body tightening around his mouth as you approached your climax.

Finally, your climax crashed down on you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as you writhed, failing to keep your cries. He didn’t stop, though, his tongue lapping up your sweet release as you rode out the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Your husband emerged from your dress, a wicked grin on his face. Your eyes following the path of his tongue as he licked his lips, seemingly enjoying what he had just tasted.

“Divine,” he drawled in that velvety voice of his, which made your eyes wide at the sheer audacity.

“Aerion, you—”

“Shush, wife.” He immediately took advantage of the proximity, roughly pulling your dress up above your hips.

His hands came to your hips and flipped you over so that your back was turned to him. Then, he pushed on your lower back, silently instructing you to bend over for him, which you did.

“Hold on tight,” he grounded out in your ear, his voice low with lust. You looked for something to do so but only found a tall bookshelf in front of you. You still gripped the sides of it, knowing it wouldn’t help you that much.

Without a warning, he shoved himself inside you and you welcomed him just like you always had in your nightly ventures, your wetness allowing him to slide all the way in with his first thrust. You bite your lip to avoid letting out a moan, very aware of the noise and chatter coming from the hall.

“Come on, wife— let me hear the lovely sounds you can make—” Aerion demanded, mercilessly driving in and out of you.

“I can’t... they would hear us—!” you panted, a strangled moan catching in your throat when he hit deep, exactly where you needed him to.

His face darkened and twisted into the most sinister grin at the same time.

“Good, I want them to know I’m fucking my wife.”

You felt dizzy at his words. Or maybe it was from the intense pleasure building up at your core. Or maybe, because you wanted what he wanted too.

A few more of his rough thrusts and you came undone, loudly expressing your bliss as he released himself deep inside you.

. . .

Later, Aerion carried you to your marital chambers, decidedly retiring for the night and pulling the blankets around both of you. He was not much of a talker during or after sex, but he would keep you close in his arms as he pressed his eyes shut, and you found it comforting somehow. You fell asleep due to exhaustion soon after, and awoken sometime in the middle of the night.

You lay there in the quiet stillness, staring at nothing in particular as your thoughts began to wander.

You wondered, not for the first time, what you truly were to him now. You knew how easily the two of you became enemies when tempers flared. But there were more moments of you beginning to trust him.

Was it you he wanted... or were you merely a bedwarmer to return to when it suited him?

Your fingers curled slightly against the sheets. Beside you, the space had already begun to cool. You hadn’t even heard him leave.

And somehow, the silence weighed heavier than anything he had done before.

“Is that her…?”

“I must say… I pity her. They call him Aerion the Monstrous, do they not?”

Two weeks later, you and Aerion descended upon Casterly Rock—the seat of House Lannister and your homeland, where your brother’s wedding was to be held.

Tales had a way of growing with each telling, and your husband’s name was a frequent subject among ladies your age. While you were praised for marrying a prince of the dragon house, your husband’s cruelty was too infamous to be ignored.

And unsurprisingly, Aerion met every whisper with proud stride—as though he claimed each rumor as his own. He did not so much as spare the onlookers a glance, his hand only settled at the small of your back, as if to show them all that their lady was his.

Meanwhile, you fidgeted more, though still pulling on an air of indifference even as your former friends looked at you as if you were a monster of the same caliber as your husband.

But thankfully, your pretentiousness gave way to genuine smile when you spotted two familiar figures walking towards you.

“Brothers, I have missed you!”

Your eldest brother, the groom-to-be, Tybolt, approached first. Reserved and composed, his gaze softened as it settled on you. Gerold followed close behind, all easy confidence and uncontained energy, his grin already spreading wide.

“Sister,” Tybolt greeted with a smile. “I am glad to see you well.”

“Dearest sister!” Gerold cut in, far less restrained, as he engulfed you in a hug. “Gods, how long has it been? You’ve grown even lovelier—and here I thought that impossible.”

You huffed out a small laugh, the sound lighter than anything Aerion had heard from you all evening.

He simply watched the two men, recognizing both of them—he had seen your brothers before on the tourney grounds.

“Flattery so soon?” you teased.

“For you? Always,” Gerold replied without hesitation, before his gaze slid to your husband. There was a beat, then—

Tybolt inclined his head first, addressing him smoothly before his brother could say something far less diplomatic. “Prince Aerion.”

Gerold, however, only gave a low chuckle as he regarded him with open curiosity. “Well, so this is the dragon princeling.”

“Your Grace,” he corrected, almost in a hiss. He might be your brother, but even Aerion knew that he had meant to look down on him and get under his skin. “You would do well to remember it.”

Your other brother’s grin only widened. “Oh, of course. I remember etiquettes well enough, Your Grace. Just a slip of tongue. Hard not to, with all the tales that follow you.”

“Gerold,” Tybolt murmured, a quiet warning threaded through the single word.

“What? I only mean to greet our dear sister’s husband properly.”

Tybolt let out a sigh. “You will forgive my brother,” he said evenly to Aerion. “He speaks often without consideration.”

“On the contrary,” Gerold chimed, unabashed. “I consider things quite thoroughly. Especially when it concerns our sister.”

Tybolt, ignoring him, continued in a calmer tone, “We trust she has been treated well.”

Aerion’s violet eyes narrowed. “She has lacked for nothing.”

You winced at the exchange between your family and your husband. Gerold had always possessed a razor tongue when he chose to wield it, but thankfully Tybold was here to keep him at bay being every inch the heir of House Lannister he was.

Still, Aerion’s mood was already soiled for the evening.

. . .

“Your brother is tedious.”

That was the first thing your husband told you as soon as you were shown to your chambers. You had expected this unsavory remark sooner rather than later, and could only heave a sigh.

“Shall I apologize to you on his behalf, then?” You threw him a sardonic frown, your voice sharper than you intended. Perhaps it was the heat, or the long journey from King’s Landing—but truthfully, you did not feel well enough to entertain his temper. “Gerold can be like that sometimes... but you can’t murder him on that account.”

Aerion huffed. “Spoken like a devoted sister.”

“Yes, because unlike you, I still want to have a brother in the morning,” you retorted. “And a husband who don’t start a blood feud before supper.”

Aerion could not name the source of the sudden irritation that gripped him—only that it flared so sharply the moment your gaze lingered on the Lannister gold laid out upon the vanity.

You are wholly his. You should have taken his side, worn his colors, and not even entertain any thought otherwise.

“Don’t grow too comfortable, woman,” he said at last, voice low and eerily velvety. “And don’t forget your place.”

“My place?” you echoed, meeting his gaze through the mirror, visibly startled.

Aerion took a step closer, expression so cold that you were at a loss of words.

“You stand here because my father found you agreeable, is all.”

His words shattered something in your heart. You had thought you were past this with him. Foolish, certainly. Why were you expecting a storybook prince after you slept with him?

A flicker of hurt crossed your expression then—but it was gone just as quickly, smoothed over with your refined composure.

“How unfortunate for me, then,” you replied lightly, your eyes held his violet ones in the reflection, deciding to bury any hopes of him being decent. “That the Bright Prince required his father’s approval to secure a wife.”

You turned then, fully facing him, chin lifting defiantly.

“Or shall we speak plainly?” you continued, voice soft and taunting. “If you were not a Targaryen prince, my father would never have broken my betrothal to House Reyne either.”

You saw it how his face darkened, anger sparking behind those violet eyes. For a moment, it seemed he might say something but you found you no longer cared to hear it. You turned away first.

“See you at the dinner, husband,” you spat with venom, walking past him and swept out without so much as a backward glance.

From that moment on, you resolved not to hope for anything more.

If he were being honest, Aerion had not intended for it to end with you storming out.

And yet, there you were across the hall, flitting from one noble to another, clad not in the colors of the house you had married into— but in the burnished gold of House Lannister, a smile perfectly in place. Clearly you did it on purpose.

Aerion watched from afar, jaw set. Half of him simmered with irritation at you for daring to leave him mid-argument and for… recovering so quickly. The other half—

He exhaled sharply through his nose when you clutched at your bodice for the third time tonight. He didn’t know what this strain in his chest was, but watching the faint sway of your posture before you righted yourself, and your complexion… beneath candlelight, it was clear to him how you looked paler than before.

He could go to you. But just as quickly, the thought was dismissed. His pride still hadn’t allowed him to.

If you wished to make known of your indifference, then so be it. He would not be the one to follow after you like some—

“A word, Your Grace.”

Aerion turned, a sharp jab ready in his tongue, only to find himself face to face with the lord of the fortress.

Damon Lannister, the Grey Lion of Casterly Rock—your father—greeted him with a half smile and a courteous incline of his head.

Aerion restrained himself enough to return the gesture, though not deeply. In his mind, the man was no great knight—he had seen better with half the reputation. But as an overlord? Capable enough, he supposed.

Damon regarded him steadily for a moment, then spoke, voice measured. “I must offer my apologies for my daughter. Her attire this evening—it does not… properly honor the house she was wed to.”

Aerion remained silent, his gaze flicked, almost instinctively, back towards you. Now he was certain you were unwell as you took a seat near the refreshment.

“She has always been willful,” Damon continued, quieter now. “But she is my only daughter... All that remains of her mother. A father cannot bring himself to be as harsh with a daughter as he might with a son.”

That drew something in Aerion’s attention, as he turned back to him.

“As a child, she would cry after every visit to King’s Landing,” he added, almost absently. “She would come to me and ask if Your Grace hated her so much to make her feel so miserable… I believe children are harmless, of course, my prince.”

Unbidden, the memory resurfaced in his mind. A younger version of you, tearful, small hands clenched in the folds of your dress, eyes red as you demanded to know why he had shoved you. In the past, he had taken a certain satisfaction in that look.

But now? The mental image didn’t please him at the slightest.

The memory that brought him delight was, to his own surprise, the image of you asleep against his chest so unguardedly.

“Tybolt and Gerold have always been rather protective of her. If their words earlier caused offense, you have my apologies for that as well.”

“No offense taken,” Aerion affirmed in response.

Damon Lannister nodded with a smile, seemingly satisfied with his answer. Though a tactical man, there was something unmistakably paternal in the way he spoke. He understood alliances, yet still wished his daughter to fare well within them.

“Well then, I thank you, Your Grace.” Your father gave his shoulder a firm, almost companionable pat. “It is a comfort, knowing my daughter is in safe hands. Now, if you will excuse me—I find this wedding keeps me quite occupied, and my other son even more so.”

Aerion watched him go, his eyes lingering on him far longer than it ought to.

Safe hands. The words sat poorly with him somehow. His gaze drifted back across the hall, seeking you, yet found nothing.

The place where you had sat was empty.

The atmosphere in the hall had turned stifling. A faint wave of nausea curled in your stomach, and you figured you needed fresh air.

Slipping away from the crowd, you made your way through the corridors, your steps carrying you toward a place you had not realized you sought until you were already there— the balcony near your childhood chambers.

The doors creaked softly as you pushed them open, and at once, the cool night air greeted you. You exhaled, long and relieved, gripping the stone railing and idly looking at the vast Sunset Sea, as the time seemed to stand still.

Your lips pressed together, a dull sadness settled in your chest. You didn’t know what was worse— the notion that you had indeed fallen for Aerion Brightflame, or the fact that he didn’t see you more than a bedwarmer. You had thought he could be sweet despite being a menace, but it seemed like, ultimately, he regarded you as a woman he was forced to be with.

How pathetic. Foolish enough to feel something for him... Why did you let your heart fall for him this fast?

A sharp scream suddenly shattered the silence.

Your head snapped toward the sound, heart lurching. Without thinking, you gathered your skirts and hurried back inside, following the echo down the corridor.

“M–mmph—!”

You turned the corner and froze.

A maid lay sprawled upon the floor, eyes wide with terror as a man’s hand clamped around her throat, forcing the breath from her.

“What are you—!”

You did not finish.

Someone seized you from behind. A rough hand, a cloth pressed harshly over your mouth and nose— and the last thing you saw was the maid’s terrified gaze.

. . .

You woke up not long after.

Your head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind your eyes as awareness returned in fragments. Your wrists burned, bound tightly behind you. Your ankles too. And when you tried to speak, all that escaped was a muffled sound against the gag tied across your mouth.

“You damned fool! This woman is not her!”

“She matches the description well enough—”

“Does she?!” the other man snapped, suddenly tipping your chin and forcing you to look at your captors. “Look at her properly. Does she look like Lady Shiera to you?!”

Somehow the name rang a bell in your mind. You glared at the two men assessing you as if your pure hatred alone was enough to set you free.

The Blond, who was the one who caught you, looked at you as if realizing his mistake. “She looks like a Great Bastard to me though.”

Your mind raced and came to a dreadful conclusion. Shiera Seastar, one of the Great Bastard—

“In what world does this wench resemble a Targaryen!?” the Brunette snapped, far sharper in both tone and sense, gesturing at you with open disdain.

“Doesn’t matter who she is,” he added with a shrug. “Even if we don’t know her, our Lord Daemon will, no?”

Daemon the Pretender. They were the Blackfyre loyalists!

You trashed, even more determined to break free. The Blonde seemed to take a pity on you that he finally loosened the gag in your mouth.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your voice coming out strained but shrill. “You are the rebels... What is the meaning of this?”

“Bold, aren’t you?” the Brunette hissed.

“Release me at once—” you snapped, your voice gaining strength. “Or you will meet your deaths at the hands of the Lord of Casterly Rock.”

“Oh, so a paramour, perhaps?” the Blond laughed. “The Grey Lion or the second son are not known to deny themselves whores.”

Your rage flared, hot and immediate. When he reached for you again, your head snapping forward as your teeth sank hard into his hand.

“You little—!” he cursed, jerking back.

“Enough!” the Brunette snarled, his patience clearly worn thin, shooting his cohort a glare. “We have no need of whores. If she proves troublesome, then we toss her into the Sunset Sea and be done with it. No one will come looking for a nameless girl swallowed by the tide.”

For a fleeting moment, fear twisted in your chest. Bound, helpless, alone, dragged into darkness by men who could possibly drown you for good—

A flicker of defiance rose from somewhere deep within you. You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze despite the way your pulse thundered in your ears.

“Do that, and you will not live long enough to regret it.”

Both of them looked at you. You drew in a breath, forcing the tremor from your voice.

“If you do not release me... then it is Aerion Brightflame next who will be after your heads.”

You were certain someone would come. Your father. Your brothers. Even him. Hours had passed now, and someone was bound to realize you were missing.

Your two captors, Blackfyre loyalists who were supporting the son of the pretender, seemed to lack both senses and wit for not returning you. They even thought you were straight out lying:

“The Bright Prince? Bah! You truly expect us to believe that?”

“She spins tales now. Let her. No prince is coming for you, bitch.”

You swallowed, your strength waning, your body beginning to ache from the strain. The room felt smaller somehow, and while you were convinced you wouldn’t meet your end here, you had never gone through this before. You were a noble lady who only knew safety and a life of luxury— the more this dragged on, the more your certainly faltered.

You remembered how Aerion had chased you through the night in Storm’s End. He was desperate then, shouldn’t he be too now?

Or would he not bother? Somehow, you felt like he was not above it too.

Your head dipped, exhaustion beginning to pull at you, your breaths shallow—

Bang! —when the door suddenly burst open.

The noise thundered through the cramped space that you flinched. You drew your knees closer, making yourself smaller in the corner, as though that might shield you.

“Well... what wretches do we have here?”

Your head snapped up, and something bright surged in your chest at the sight of him. Your husband stood in the doorway, tall and imposing, silver hair catching what little light there was.

The dragon prince. You hated how he always referred himself as such, but he was really that in your eyes now. He didn’t look frantic or enraged. He looked eerily calm—

And you knew better than anyone... that Aerion was at his most dangerous when he was quiet.

He spared one look at you, before turning his fury on your captors.

“My wife,” he drawled, his voice quiet, almost conversational, “is a lady of House Targaryen… and a daughter of House Lannister. Do you imbeciles even know what that means?”

The Blonde and Brunette looked like they feared for their lives now. A pity, really. They had realized far too late that the woman they had taken was the Bright Prince’s wife.

“I shall show you how, then.”

It was too quick for your eyes to follow. One moment he stood still, his hand was at the hilt of his sword— and the next, it was across the man’s throat in clean, brutal slit.

The Brunette collapsed, choking on his own blood.

You stared, frozen, horror and relief tangling violently within you as the remaining man was hauled away— until even that faded into silence. Only then did Aerion turn to you fully.

. . .

The moment Aerion’s gaze found you again as you curled into yourself, bound, small in that corner, something in him burns.

Whenever he looked at you, it was always the same contradiction— he wanted to snap at you, but at the same time, he also wanted to drown you with his very being.

The bane of his very existence... and the object of all his desires. If he had to describe what you were to him, he realized, that would be it.

He crossed the distance to you in seconds.

His hands were on you, cutting the ropes that bound your hands and feet, pulling you up, gathering you against him with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs—

And then his lips crashed against yours.

“Mmm—” You melted into him almost at once. His violet eyes lingered on how you clung onto him—your face flushed, eyes shut.

Good. You should.

His hand came up to cradle your face, fingers firm against your jaw as he deepened the kiss, pressing you closer as if to prove that you were truly there.

When he finally broke the kiss, it was not by much. His breath still warm against your lips.

Your eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, lashes damp. There was a sheen to them, tears gathering at the corners. In the dim light, they caught just enough to glimmer—

Like pearls. He had always loved the pearls his mother used to wear.

For a fleeting moment, Aerion simply looked at you.

“Why is it,” he murmured, voice low, edged with something that almost resembled exasperation, “that I always have to find you in such distressing situations?”

Even you didn’t know seeing him would bring you this great of a relief. He was still sulky, still more like an evil prince rather than a charming one.

Yet, still your prince, regardless.

A soft, breathless sound left you as you broke into an almost disbelieving giggle. A tear slipped free despite yourself, trailing down your cheek, betraying the composure you tried to hold onto.

Instead of answering, you threw your arms around him.

Aerion’s arms tightened around you, pulling you close. As he breathed in your scent, he resolved he had no intention of letting you slip from his grasp again.

“When did you realize I was gone?”

The question came lightly, as you lay sprawled across Aerion’s bare chest. It was strange, you thought, how easily you strayed only to come back to each other in the end.

He glanced down at you lazily. His deft fingers moved slowly along your spine. His expression was still stern, but soft at the same time.

“The moment you were no longer within my sight.”

You huffed mockingly. “How poetic of you, ser.”

If you were honest, the best moments you shared with Aerion were often like this. When he was quieter, you could almost forget the sharpness of his tongue. And in the silence that followed, he spoke differently— with the weight of his touch, the press of his lips, the way he kept you close as though it were instinct.

“You have looked unwell since we arrived,” he said, cutting through the stillness.

You blinked. “I have not.”

Aerion’s brow arched. “You paled and swayed on your feet. I am not blind. You will see a maester.”

You frowned, visibly displeased by the command.

“For all I know, you might already be carrying my son.”

A loud snort escaped you. “Your confidence is astonishing.”

“Rarely misplaced.”

“If that were the case, then I fear for the child already.” You shot him a withering look. “I would have to teach him an abundance of precautions.”

“Oh?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice now.

“I would have to take great care in raising him. Teach him restraint, for one. And also a measure of kindness— so he does not grow into someone unbearably insufferable.”

There was a time when such words would have earned you nothing but a sharp glare, but now, Aerion only looked at you, something almost indulgent settling in his gaze.

Then you felt it—his fingers curling at your waist, pressing you to him.

“Ridiculous woman,” he murmured.

“Detestable man,” you shot back.

“Mine.”

That stilled you. Stupid, stupid him.

Your lips parted slightly, but no retort came this time. Instead, you let out a soft huff, turning your face away to hide the warmth rising to your cheeks.

His hold over you tightened slightly, a wicked grin on his face— clearly noticing and winning.

The dragon prince and the lion princess would learn... that love, in all its glory, is not what they once thought it to be.

That it is not always found in a prince charming— but also in a dragon prince with a foul mouth and fire in his blood.

And in his own heart of hearts— when he would see the world burn for his princess.

Love, they have found, feels not like a storybook… and more like standing too close to dragonfire.