Summary: He was supposed to be just your friend. The funny one. The one who never took anything seriously.
Until you started sitting too close to Cedric Diggory.
Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Jealousy Spiral / Friends to Lovers / Cedric Diggory as an Unintentional Rival / FSibling Chaos & Teasing
It started the way most bad decisions usually do.
With laughter.
With noise.
With Fred and George Weasley in the middle of it. And with you, right there beside them like you had always belonged there.
You weren’t the quiet type.
Never had been.
If anything, you were worse.
Loud when you shouldn’t be. Smiling when you were supposed to be serious. Saying things that made professors sigh and classmates laugh in the same breath.
Somehow, you had ended up orbiting the Weasley twins like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Fred liked to call it “a shared lack of survival instincts.”
George called it “friendship.”
And you just called it home.
You sat with them at meals when you could, snuck out with them when you shouldn’t, and got dragged into half of their ideas whether you agreed or not.
Which, most of the time, you did.
Right now, the three of you were sprawled somewhere just outside the corridor near the courtyard, half-hidden from professors and fully hidden from responsibility.
Fred was mid-story, hands moving as he spoke. George was laughing already, like he knew how it ended. And you were leaning back against the stone wall, trying not to choke on your own laughter.
“You did what to Ron’s wand?” you asked, breathless.
Fred looked far too pleased with himself. “I didn’t do anything,” he said innocently.
George snorted. “That’s the problem. He didn’t do anything. That’s when it’s worst.”
You shook your head, wiping your eyes. “You’re both going to be the reason Hogwarts burns down one day.”
Fred tilted his head at you. “And you’ll be right next to us cheering it on.”
You opened your mouth but didn’t get to answer, because footsteps cut through the moment.
Sharp.
Familiar enough to make all three of you pause at the same time.
You didn’t even have to turn around to know.
Professor McGonagall.
“Miss L/N,” McGonagall said crisply.
Not angry.
Worse.
Controlled.
You stood up slowly. “Professor.”
Her eyes moved between you and the twins. Then she spoke: “I’ve been informed that your academic performance this term is… concerning.”
Fred let out a quiet, almost invisible sound beside you—something between amusement and “oh this is going to be good.”
You shot him a warning look.
McGonagall continued. “If your grades do not improve, you will not pass this year.”
Silence.
Even Fred stopped smirking.
You swallowed.
“I’ll… fix it,” you said quickly.
“I hope so,” McGonagall replied. “Because repeating a year would be… embarrassing, for someone of your capability.”
That hit a little harder than you expected.
Then she added: “I will be arranging mandatory tutoring sessions for you. Mr Diggory has agreed to assist you.”
Fred blinked.
George’s eyebrows lifted.
You, on the other hand “…Cedric Diggory?” you repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
There was a pause where your brain tried to compute it.
Cedric Diggory.
Perfect grades.
Perfect posture.
Perfect smile.
Perfect everything you were not.
You exhaled.
“…Right.”
McGonagall gave you a look. “You will begin tomorrow.”
And just like that, she turned and walked away.
Leaving silence behind her.
Fred was the first to break it. “Well,” he said lightly, but his tone had shifted. “That’s your downfall sorted.”
“Shut up,” you groaned.
George didn’t laugh immediately, which was unusual. When you looked at him, he was watching you. Not teasing, not joking.
Just watching.
Then he smiled.
“Maybe he’s not that bad,” George said.
Fred looked at him like he’d grown a second head.
You blinked. “You’re joking.”
George shrugged. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”
Fred scoffed. “She won’t survive ten minutes of Diggory’s voice.”
You threw a pebble at him.
It missed.
Unfortunately.
Fred caught it anyway, grinning again like nothing had changed.
But something had.
Even if none of you said it out loud yet.
The first study session was a disaster. You were late on purpose. Not very late—just enough to make a point.
Cedric Diggory was already sitting at one of the long library tables when you arrived, books neatly stacked beside him, parchment organized in perfectly straight lines.
You stopped at the end of the table and stared.
“I just want it officially written down somewhere that McGonagall is ruining my life.” You dropped into the chair across from him dramatically.
Cedric slid a book toward you. “Open to page seventy-two.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “No greeting?”
“I said hello when you walked in.”
“That barely counted.”
Cedric leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you for a second. “You talk a lot when you don’t want to do something.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And you sound exactly like someone who color-codes his notes.”
“I do color-code my notes.”
“Of course you do.”
Somehow, impossibly, that made him laugh quietly and annoyingly it suited him.
You decided immediately that this was unacceptable.
The next hour was painful. Not because Cedric was mean.
That would’ve been easier.
No, Cedric was patient.
Calm.
Infuriatingly calm.
Every time you tried to derail the lesson, he just looked at you steadily until you eventually answered the question anyway.
By the time the session ended, your brain hurt.
“You survived,” Cedric observed as you packed your bag dramatically.
“Barely.”
“You answered everything correctly by the end.”
You froze slightly. “…I did?”
Cedric nodded once. “You’re not bad at this.”
The words hit strangely, because most professors sounded frustrated when they spoke to you.
Cedric just sounded certain like he hadn’t doubted it.
You looked away first. “That’s suspiciously encouraging.”
“I’m trying a new strategy.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Manipulation?”
A small smile appeared again. “Positive reinforcement.”
“Disgusting.”
Cedric laughed quietly under his breath as he stood.
And for some reason—
you smiled back.
The common room was loud when you returned later that evening.
Fred and George were exactly where you expected them to be: occupying far too much space on one sofa while Lee Jordan sat nearby looking like he was seconds away from regretting knowing either of them.
Fred noticed you first. “Well?” he asked immediately. “Did Diggory bore you to death?”
George looked up from where he’d been absentmindedly spinning a quill between his fingers.
You dropped onto the armchair across from them with a dramatic sigh.
“He organizes his notes by color.”
Fred made a horrified face.
George snorted softly.
“And he says things like ‘focus’ with a straight face.”
“That poor man,” Fred muttered. “He has no idea what he’s dealing with.”
You grinned slightly, but George noticed something before Fred did. The way your mouth twitched when you talked about Cedric.
The fact that you were still talking about him.
“You’re smiling,” George said suddenly.
You blinked. “No I’m not.”
“You are,” he replied calmly.
Fred pointed immediately. “Oh, she is.”
“I am not.”
“You fancy the prefect,” Fred gasped dramatically.
You threw a cushion at him.
He caught it easily.
“Shut up.”
George was still watching you though.
Quieter than Fred now.
More observant.
“What’s he actually like?” George asked.
You opened your mouth automatically with another insult ready but paused.
Cedric’s quiet laugh flashed unexpectedly through your head.
The way he’d looked at you across the table and said: You’re not bad at this.
Your stomach did something strange.
“…Annoying,” you answered finally.
Fred grinned. “There she is.”
But George noticed the hesitation.
And for the first time something small and unfamiliar twisted unpleasantly in his chest.
Over the next two weeks, something deeply irritating started happening. You stopped trying to skip the study sessions.
At first, Fred thought it was a joke. Then he thought maybe McGonagall had threatened you with public humiliation.
George just watched.
And noticed things.
Small things.
The way you fixed your hair before going to the library now. The fact that you actually brought the right books. The way you came back complaining about Cedric while smiling at absolutely nothing.
It was suspicious.
Very suspicious.
“You’re spending an unnatural amount of time with Diggory,” Fred announced one evening from upside down on the common room sofa.
You looked up from your parchment. “You spend an unnatural amount of time upside down.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s really not.”
George sat nearby pretending to read while listening to every word.
Fred pointed at you accusingly. “You laughed at something he said earlier.”
“It wasn’t that funny.”
“But you laughed.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Merlin, are you jealous?”
Fred looked scandalized. “Of Cedric Diggory? Absolutely not. He irons his shirts.”
“He probably irons his socks too,” Lee added.
George stayed quiet.
Because unlike Fred, George wasn’t joking anymore, and that was becoming a problem.
The next study session was somehow worse.
“You’re distracted again,” Cedric said calmly from across the table.
“I’m literally reading.”
“You’ve been staring at the same sentence for three minutes.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds made up.”
Cedric leaned forward slightly, resting one arm on the table. “You know, you’re very different when your friends aren’t around.”
You blinked. “…Excuse me?”
“You act louder around the twins.”
“That’s because they’re loud.”
Cedric’s mouth twitched. His attention entirely on you in a way that made your stomach feel strange lately.
You looked down quickly.
“I still think you’re annoying.”
“I think,” Cedric said calmly, “you just like arguing with me.”
You opened your mouth immediately then stopped.
Cedric noticed the silence instantly.
And smiled.
George was already in the common room when you came in.
Alone.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
Fred was usually there too. Half causing trouble, half laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t funny. But tonight it was just George, sitting on the sofa near the fire with a book open on his knee.
He looked up the moment you stepped in.
“You’re late,” he said.
It sounded like a joke.
It wasn’t.
“I had study sessions.”
“I noticed.”
That made you pause.
“Diggory again?” he said lightly, closing the book with one hand.
You sighed and dropped into the sofa across from him.
“I’ve got something for you.”
You squinted. “That sounds suspiciously like trouble.”
“It’s not. It’s Transfiguration.”
You stared at it.
“What is this?”
“Notes.”
That made you laugh once. “You don’t have notes.”
George raised an eyebrow. “I do now.”
You opened the first page and stopped laughing immediately, because it wasn’t just notes.
It was structured. Diagrams. Color-coded arrows. Tiny corrections in the margins. Underlined key spells. Even little sarcastic comments scribbled next to difficult sections like:
‘this part is evil, good luck’
and
‘McGonagall will absolutely ask this just to ruin your day’
You looked up slowly.
“…You did this?”
George shrugged. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“This is—” You flipped another page. “This is actually good.”
“I know.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Since when are you secretly good at Transfiguration?”
“Since you started spending all your time in the library,” he said lightly.
The room shifted.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… quieter.
You looked at him properly now.
“George…”
He cut you off immediately, too fast. “It’s nothing. Just figured you needed help if you’re trying to avoid repeating a year.”
You frowned. “That’s not why I’m—”
“You’re always with him lately.”
Cedric.
The name wasn’t said out loud, but it didn’t need to be.
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
George leaned slightly closer, tapping one of the pages. “I went through your syllabus. Twice. Some of this stuff is actually useful if you don’t want to die in McGonagall’s exam.”
“You read it twice?” you asked quietly.
He shrugged again, but this time it wasn’t convincing.
There were faint ink stains on his fingers.
Like he’d been writing for hours.
Like he’d actually sat there and worked.
For you.
Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then softer, almost careless again:
“But I did it anyway.”
You looked down at the notes again.
Then at him.
Really looked.
The jokes were still there. The grin was still there. But underneath it—something quieter. Focused. Slightly tense, like he was waiting for your reaction more than he wanted to admit.
“You highlighted half of it,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“With different colours.”
“Helps with memory.”
“That is the most responsible thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
George snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”
You smiled.
And that was the problem.
Because George noticed that too.
His eyes softened just slightly.
“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re actually listening to me for once.”
“I always listen to you.”
“No,” he said quietly. “Not like this.”
Something shifted again.
He reached out—slowly this time—and turned one of your pages so it faced you properly. His fingers brushed the edge of yours.
Didn’t move away.
Didn’t pretend it was accidental.
Just stayed there.
Close.
“Start here,” he said. “If you can master that section, McGonagall won’t have anything to complain about.”
You nodded faintly, but you weren’t reading anymore.
Not properly.
Because George was too close.
His shoulder leaned in slightly as he pointed something out.
“Here,” he added, tapping a line. “This is where everyone messes up.”
“I don’t think I mess up everything,” you muttered.
A small smile.
“You do when you panic.”
“I don’t panic.”
“You absolutely panic.”
You turned your head to argue—and found him already looking at you.
Not joking now.
Not teasing.
Just watching.
The air between you changed again.
Slower.
He stopped talking.
You stopped pretending you were reading.
“George…” you said, quieter this time.
He didn’t answer immediately.
His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your mouth.
Then back up.
And something in his expression tightened like he’d made a decision he wasn’t fully ready for.
“You’ve been gone a lot lately,” he said.
“You know I’ve been studying.”
“With him.”
The words weren’t sharp.
But they landed like something heavier than anger.
You opened your mouth—
Nothing came out.
George exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep himself steady.
Then he leaned back slightly, forcing space between you again, but not enough to erase what just happened.
“I don’t like it,” he admitted.
That made you freeze.
Because George didn’t say things like that.
Not seriously.
Not like this.
“…You don’t like Cedric or?” you asked carefully.
George huffed a short laugh. “No. I don’t like that you’ve started looking at everything like it’s somewhere else you need to be.”
Your throat went tight.
Then, almost like he regretted how honest that sounded, he reached for the notes again.
“Anyway,” he added quickly, “I could do this better than him.”
And this time there was no joke at all.
“For you.”
Your breath caught slightly.
That was the moment the distance between you stopped being safe.
He was close now.
Close enough that if you moved even slightly—
Your knees brushed his.
He leaned in just a fraction more.
His gaze flicked to your lips again—this time slower.
Intentional.
And for a second, it felt like everything had narrowed down to this one moment.
His hand slid to your cheek.
Warm.
Real.
And then he kissed you.
It was George in every possible way—soft at first, unsure for half a second like he still couldn’t believe you were there… and then something in him finally let go.
The kiss deepened.
Slow.
Careful.
Like he was afraid of ruining it if he moved too fast.
Your hand lifted without thinking, grabbing lightly at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer like you finally made a decision you’d been avoiding for too long.
George made a quiet sound against your mouth—something between relief and disbelief—and leaned in.
Like he’d been waiting for this without admitting it even to himself.
The world narrowed.
Fire crackling somewhere behind you.
Paper forgotten.
Everything else gone.
Just him.
Just warmth.
Just—
The door slammed open.
“—YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT LEE JUST—”
You both moved apart too fast.
Too obvious.
Fred froze in the doorway.
Looked at both of you.
Slow smile forming.
“…Oh,” he said.
Long pause.
Then brighter:
“Oh, this is bad.”
George leaned back in his chair immediately. “We were studying.”
Fred nodded slowly. “Sure.”
You grabbed the first random book on the table. “Transfiguration.”
Fred raised an eyebrow.
Then grinned wider.
“I leave you alone for ONE evening,” he said, delighted, “and you start… bonding academically.”
George sighed.
You stared at the ceiling.
Fred walked further in, shaking his head.
“This is going to be so entertaining.”
And George, under his breath, only for you to hear:
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.
You 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.“Tragic.” Without hesitation, he reached across the table and stole the tart from your untouched plate. “You adore these things, but if you insist on wasting it, I shall graciously spare it from abandonment.”
. . .
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.
“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, enticingly dressed in your 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, forehead lowering briefly against yours.
“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 had 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
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