🐉 His Claim - Dark Obsessive Arion Targaryen x Maid!Reader
Aerion Targaryen X Maid reader
TW: Dark Romance / Obsession / Possessive
Behavior / Psychological Control / Power
Imbalance / Maid Reader / Arion Targaryen x
Reader / Bastards / Children / Non-Consent Implied
From the moment Arion Targaryen first laid eyes on you, he decided: you belonged to him. Not in whispers, not in fleeting glances every step, every breath, every heartbeat of yours was claimed before you even knew it.
Weeks passed. The castle whispered of his obsession, though none dared speak it aloud. Every servant and noble who glimpsed the children proof of his claim shivered in silence. The eldest, four, had violet eyes like Arion himself, silver hair that gleamed like moonlight, and a sharp, perceptive look that unnervingly mirrored his father. The two-year-old, clinging to your hip, already had a shock of pale hair and the same piercing violet gaze, fists always seeking comfort yet constantly measuring the room.
And the youngest, still in your heavily swollen belly, kicked relentlessly, a tiny life already marked with Arion's unmistakable bloodline.
Even in the grandest halls of King's Landing, Arion's presence was a storm. Nobles bowed, voices trembling as they whispered, for a single misstep, a careless word against his bastards could vanish them from favour or worse. His eyes, violet and sharp as daggers, could freeze a man mid-sentence. Whispers died before they reached his ears. The bastards were untouchable; their existence a terrifying declaration of his control.
In the privacy of your chambers within the Red Keep, he allowed you a fragile breath of reprieve.
"You need not carry the weight of the castle while carrying mine," he said once, voice low, silk-dark, yet chilling. "The children require you, and I..." He paused, violet eyes scanning you as if measuring every movement. "
'...I require them. And you."
He arranged your duties, ensuring you had enough freedom to care for the eldest and the two-year-old, though every errand, every corner, every step you took still fell under his gaze. There was no true independence, only the illusion of it.
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The children thrived under his obsessive attention.
The eldest would sit quietly on a small cushioned stool in the corner of your chambers, learning the subtleties of the Red Keep under his watchful gaze.
Violet eyes flicking to his father whenever someone spoke too loudly or too boldly, instinctively reading the room, learning the dangerous weight of being noticed or not noticed by Arion.
The two-year-old clung to your hip but recognized Arion in fleeting moments, staring into those violet eyes with a mixture of curiosity and instinctual reverence. Even the eldest would sometimes whisper questions about him, cautious, knowing not to provoke.
Arion adored them not in softness, but in obsession and possession. Every milestone, every word, every glance was a mark of ownership. Yet he demanded loyalty, awareness of hierarchy, and the unspoken understanding: they were his, and through them, he controlled everything you loved.
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At court, in the Red Keep, he was a tempest. Any servant who dared glance at your children or you with disrespect felt the weight of Arion's presence like a blade across their throat. Even whispers of discontent fell silent under his violet glare. He did not need to strike; the mere promise of his wrath kept the Red Keep in line.
He watched you constantly, whether carrying the eldest to the small writing desk in your chambers, holding the squirming two-year-old on your hip, or resting one hand on the youngest in your belly. Every gesture, every stumble, every shiver was a reminder: you, and everything connected to you, belonged to him.
"You see them?" he murmured once, trailing a fingertip along your shoulder. "All of them... mine.
Every step they take, every word they speak... reflects on you. Reflects on me. Do you understand?"
You nodded, chest tight, breath shallow. There was no escape. Not in this castle, not in this life. He had woven every aspect of your existence into his claim: the children, your chambers, the court, even your very body.
And yet... there was a strange, suffocating tenderness in his obsession.
When the eldest climbed into his lap in your chambers, Arion's hands rested on the boy's shoulders like a king claiming his heir, teaching him the power of presence, the silent intimidation of a Targaryen in full command. The boy mirrored his father's gaze, violet eyes sharp, learning both fear and authority simultaneously.
The two-year-old, wriggling on your hip, would babble his first words in Arion's presence, and the prince would smile not warmth, but possessive pride watching how his obsession had multiplied into these children, these living extensions of his ownership.
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Even the youngest, still in your belly, seemed to respond to him. At night, when he would appear at your door, pressing a hand gently but dominantly against your side, you could feel the baby shift and kick, as if recognizing the master of its life before birth.
"You are mine," he whispered one night, voice silk and steel. "All of you. The eldest, the middle... even the one yet unborn. And no one - no one will take you from me."
You realized then, with a suffocating clarity, that his obsession was complete. The children, your chambers, the court they all bent to his will. And you... you were utterly, terrifyingly, irrevocably his.
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