𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

꒰ 20s ꒱

[cotton-eee]

cotton ! — 20s , she / they , serial reblogger , suna rintaro enthusiast , jason todd fanatic , subby men connoisseur

anti ai and not conservative (obviously)

my blog is NOT spoiler free and reblogs nsfw content please proceed with caution

i am incredibly awkward which is why i don’t interact with people/mutuals much sorry lol

[honeybubblebeeeeee]

A Dragon’s Love

Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader

SUMMARY: A small dribble about your life with Aerion from when you were younger to post trial of seven.

WARNING: Honestly not much, typical kind of a dick Aerion, average GOT gore descriptions, hurt/comfort, mild sexual mentions, ?

A/N: I think Aerion’s wife would have that boy trained like a dog honestly and would be just as loud as him

Aerion is dangerous on a good day but he is even worse when his pride is hurt or when he thinks he had been wronged.

You had seen him lash out many times. As his wife you were always somehow given a front row seat to his tantrums. You had learned over the years to treat him like the child he was. When children throw tantrums you do not give in their whining. You wait them out and let them realize they are wrong.

Dealing with Aerion was simply no different. You loved him, sure. But that didn’t require you to bend to his every whim. You knew he chose you because your fire was as hot as his own. Only you wielded it differently. While his fire would spike in his rage, yours was a consistent flame.

You can recall an instance in which he had been expelled from a small council meeting for his outbursts when Baelor had disagreed with his tactics. Aerion stomped into your shared chamber. Angrily muttering about how he was more dragon than anyone there and to deny him was idiotic. He was no stranger to yelling and violence.

He roared at you to leave, throwing items to the floor. You only stood with your arms crossed as you watched him. Giving him no reaction only pissed him off more. In a moment of misjudgment, he launched a wooden bowl in your direction. Likely expecting you to move but you let it crash into your hip. Was it painful? Of course. But you wouldn’t give Aerion an inch until he could figure himself out.

The sound of the bowl hitting you echoed in the room. Aerion stopped as he watched it crash to the ground. He sunk to his knees, letting his head hang with shame. You let him sulk for a moment before you’d move to seat yourself in the edge of the bed just out of his reach.

Aerion would drag himself to kneel before you, burying his face in your lap, running his hand along which spot he injured you with a feather light touch, whispering as he begged your forgiveness. “Forgive me, my jewel.” Dragons always protect their jewels. Aerion had grown to learn what regret was since marrying you.

You’d only let him suffer a few moments before you’d run your fingers through his hair. An act of your forgiveness, you had practically conditioned him like a dog. Events like this always started out with his hot temper, then would fall into solemn silence, only to turn into a heat of something else.

Aerion would start to run his hands up and down your legs. Going higher and higher with every stroke until he reached your heated center. He would show you just how sorry he was with his mouth.

Most if not all of his tantrums ended this way. His tantrum that led to the trial of seven however ended much differently.

You didn’t agree with his decree to change it to a trial of seven. The two of you argued about it, loudly enough for all of Ashford to hear you.

“You are being a fool, Aerion!” You slammed down your cup as he languidly stirred the wine in his. The white haired Targaryen would refused to make eye contact with you. “The puppeteer’s actions was one of treason and then for a hedge knight to lay hands upon a prince should be deserving of death.” His voice was annoyingly monotonous.

“Your over confidence, your PRIDE, will get you killed.” You shoved back your chair but Aerion caught your wrist as he stood to his full height. “I am a DRAGON! I am practically immortal, I am a GOD amongst men. My own lady wife would doubt me? Is it treason then?” His face was only inches from yours as he yelled. His grip tightening to something just below crushing.

You bared your teeth at him. “I will not sit by and watch you act less behaved than a feral child! You are a fool, Aerion. It will be your undoing.” You ripped your arm from his grip. “I won’t share my bed with a soon to be corpse.” He never moved to stop you as the doors to the dinning area slammed shut.

The trial would come at dawn. You had gone to bed and woken up alone. Well mostly alone. On Aerion’s side of the bed sat a black box with a red ribbon tied around it. He commonly gave gifts after arguments or just because, after all he was a dragon and you were his jewel and dragons loved shiny things.

Aerion had quietly crept into the room late into the night. He considered waking you up with his mouth, tasting you before the trial. It might have given him some sort of confidence, the sounds you’d make would boost his ego. But Aerion knew he pushed too far earlier, he had a hard time being the bigger person in an argument and stopping before it got pushed too far.

So instead he had spent the evening searching for a gift for you, the next best thing to sex with him as far as he thought. It was an apology, as he often did. He had carefully kissed the top of your head, taking in your scent before leaving you be.

Slowly you pulled apart the ribbon and opened the box to reveal a note in his masculine scrawl that you had come to adore. Not that Aerion knew but you had a small box in your wardrobe full of all his letters. This one wrote, “It could never be treason. Your dragon will always protect you. Your love, your dragon, Aerion.”

You hated him sometimes but the note did make you smile softly. In the box laid a small silver chain with a dragon pendant on it. The dragon itself was seeming to fly upwards, its wings out stretched. Of course it had three heads, a symbol of just what dragon protected you.

Horns sounded in the distance and you knew the trial started. Aerion had looked for you as Ser Duncan did his speech, urging others to join him. Truthfully, he couldn’t decide if having you here would make him falter or fight harder.

You dressed as quickly as you could running through the castle to the royal stands outside. It was already brutal by the time you got there.

Aerion out a scream just as he came into your view, the knight digging his sword into Aerion’s thigh. You covered your mouth in a gasp. Another flew by on his horse, knocking the offending knight to the ground allowing Aerion to get away.

The fight was barely visible through the fog, mud and gore. At all areas men fought. Maekar and Baelor battled each other just off to the side. Those you knew as the Fossoways fought each other. You hated how willing those of the same blood were so eager to hurt each other just because.

Aerion’s voice rang out, screaming for the knight to yield but Egg’s voice rang louder urging the knight to rise. To fight. You knew Egg hated his brother. You couldn’t blame him after all the torment Aerion put him through but you still hated to see it.

To everyone shock the knight rose. Aerion flipped down his helmet, swaying with what little strength he had left. Your hands gripped the railing until your knuckles turned white. While you never really prayed, this moment felt heavy with death as you watched the other half of your heart risk his life because he was raised with idiotic notions of godhood.

You begged to the old gods and knew to save your childish husband. To return him to your arms. To allow him to live if only so that you don’t have to live without half of your heart. Aerion and the knight swung for each other but Aerion simply couldn’t keep himself steady. The other knight grabbed him, flipping him to the ground.

Aerion tried to use his shield to knock him away but it was only pulled from his grasp. A tear fell as the knight raised the shield above his head and brought it crashing down into Aerion’s helmet.

It was a sickening sound, the crunching of Aerion’s helmet as he tried to claw himself free but the knight had clearly hit a haze of rage. You had seen Aerion in that haze before and there really was no stopping it until someone was dead.

The knight threw the shield to the side, flipping Aerion’s helmet open as they went for blows. You wouldn’t, you couldn’t watch. You turned around waiting to hear the horn blow, to announce the fight was over and your husband was most likely dead.

Relief washed over you as Aerion’s voice echoed in the space, weakly withdrawing his accusation. The horn bellowed and the fighting stopped. Knights, including Aerion were dragged off the field and into the infirmary.

Egg stopped short in front of you, as he watched tears fall from your eyes. He always wondered how you could love a monster such as Aerion but he took off before you could speak a word to him.

Men screamed as you rushed through the halls, trying to find Aerion. You caught a glimpse of black armour in one of the empty chambers. Maesters and maids yelling commands to one another as they worked quickly to strip an unconscious Aerion. His face was swollen and bleeding, his lips vibrant with blood.

His thigh spurted blood when the armour came free. You let out a gasp, one of the maids finally noticed your presence before shooing you of the room.

“His grace will be just fine, my lady. Why don’t we get you some tea?” The woman dragged you away as the large wooden door closed behind you. It felt like they had just sealed his tomb. Closing him off out of your reach. The maid refused to leave your side for the following hours.

Bringing you tea after tea, treats and desserts. They even brought you dinner but you refused to eat. No one would say what happened to Aerion. You had already gotten word that two of the knights on the opposing side had been killed on the field. Baelor had succumbed to an injury put upon him by Maekar.

The news only crushed your heart further. Baelor had been a father to you when you had married Aerion. He was the only one who knew Aerion was more than a spoiled brat and over time Aerion had started to act his station. You felt it all would fall apart the second Aerion learned he was gone. You would fall apart the second Aerion was gone.

When you and Aerion had met, he had been enamoured with you. Mostly because you detested his existence and wouldn’t give him the time of day. He followed you endlessly around the Red Keep when you visited. Trying to woo you with tales of dragons, even promising to show you anything dragon related that you wanted to see but you turned him down.

However over time he won you over. When following you around and talking your ear off didn’t work he had asked your hand maidens what you liked. Books, fresh air and sweet desserts were your favourite. They had relinquished to him the secret spot in one of the gardens in which you went to hide from him and the pomp of royalty.

On one particular day, Aerion had annoyed you to no end. He had been outside your door when you awoke, he followed you to breakfast, he talked his way through the minstrel’s songs. You were about to burst with his annoyance. Thankfully you had trained your hand maidens to watch for a signal if you needed escape from annoying Lords who just wanted to bed you or uncomfortable social settings. Carefully without seeming suspicious you let one of your rings fall from your finger.

Aerion quickly scooped up the ring but your hand maiden was just as fast, claiming that your father was requesting your audience. You apologized quickly to Aerion before taking off through the Keep. There were so many secrets doors and passages that once you were out of sight you could swiftly make your way to your secret spot without interruption.

On your way down you realized you never got your ring back from Aerion and sighed realizing you’d have to speak to him eventually.

Coming upon your secret hide away under a very large rose bush, you noticed a blanket sticking out. Warily you peaked inside. The blanket was covered in an array of different books from history to romance to dragons. A metal platter with a lid sat in between the stacks.

Upon lifting the lid, many small desserts had been arranged of different colours and shapes. A black envelope sat in between two small cakes. You opened it carefully, a masculine scrawl across the parchment. “Dragons do not only hoard jewels. Aerion.”

You had spent the rest of the day hiding, nibbling on the treats making note of which ones to ask more of as you dove into the books. One had hilariously been a romance between a woman and an actual dragon who eventually turned into a man.

Days had gone by and Aerion was no where to be found even though you searched for him. Eventually he came to your door one afternoon, returning your ring, you had asked if he wanted to accompany you on a walk through the garden and the rest is history.

The maids had eventually corralled you to your chambers. You slept fitfully before giving up and making your way to the infirmary. The maester retrieved the clean cloths, bandages, salve and herbs that you requested. Two maids brought you a bucket each. One empty and one with hot water.

They helped you carry the items to the outside of the room in which Aerion was in. You dismissed them at the door, leaving the buckets as you carefully cracked open the door and brought in the tray of items. Soft light glowed in the space illuminating the many cuts and bruises across Aerion’s skin. A blanket covered him from the waist down, his chest was bare and almost glowed from the pallor of his skin.

His eyes were closed as you approached. You moved around the room as quietly as you could. Setting the tray of items down on the table just next to him and dragging over a stool to sit next to him woke him. You could see him trying to focus his eyes as he swallowed over and over in order to speak.

Without a word you left to room to carry in the buckets. The steam of the water warming your cold hands. Aerion had finally found his voice just as you sat down. “Go away.” His voice was weak and raspy. The words not all coming out with the same force.

It seemed to pain him greatly to turn his head to face away from you but you rarely listened to him when he demanded such and now was not a time in which you would. No words were spoken as you dipped a cloth into the hot water, the sound of water falling was the loudest sound in the whole castle.

At a closer glance, his skin was littered with dry blood. His own blood or another’s, it would never be known. You ran the cloth down Aerion’s arm. Gooseflesh crawled along his body at the touch. In between every run of the cloth you squeezed out the water into the empty bucket and dipped it again into the hot water. Softly you picked at the blood that was caked into his nails.

Aerion pulled back when you pushed a little too hard. Mumbling your apologies, waiting until he settled to continue. His shoulder and down was looking relatively clean now. A distinct line at his chest showed where blood and dirt still caked his body and where the warm water had touched.

Continuing the motions you reached to wipe at his cheek but his hand snapped up to weakly grip your wrist. His breath was laboured, even this small movement taxed him. “Be gone.” Softly you pulled his hand towards you, kissing the now clean flesh on the back of his hand. Aerion let out a sad sigh. He finally opened his eyes as best he could to look at you.

His hand moved to touch the pendant that hung at your neck. His strength was waning, his arm shook with the effort and you lowered it back to the bed. “Thank you for the gift, your grace.” The moniker elicited a soft smirk from the hurt boy in front of you.

Often you call him your grace, or my dragon to tease him. Everyone knew his ego was huge and hearing you say that only made it grow larger. Your incessant teasing often ended with both of you naked and panting as it never annoyed him it only turned him on.

He swallowed sharply, his hand finding yours once again as they rested in your lap. “I’m sorry.” You didn’t hear the words often. Apologies usually went unspoken as physical acts became a more meaningful one. “It’s okay, my love. You should get some more sleep.”

Aerion nodded weakly. You moved quicker now, cleaning him up as best you could. Setting aside the items you brought on the outside of the door.

It was still dark out. Sleep was creeping towards you but you didn’t want to leave Aerion by himself. If he woke and needed something you wanted to be there for him. You stared out the corner window, the arena visible from here was filled with blood that seemed to almost glisten in the moonlight.

The door to the room slowly creaked open. You stood silently in fear of who would be coming in at this hour. Egg quietly stepped into view. His small fist shook around the knife in his hand.

Your heel clicked against the floor as you took a careful step towards him. Egg quickly turned to look at you, his eyes were watery and his lip shook. He made no movement as you continued towards him. Kneeling before him, you did the only thing you could think of.

You hugged him. He could put that knife into your back of course but you felt sorry for him. To see his brother and his friend almost kill each other. To watch his father and his uncle end in bloodshed. It was everything a little boy should never have to see.

The knife clattered to the floor as Egg hugged you back. His sobs were quiet but you felt the way his body shook. You slowly rocked him back and forth in an effort to soothe him. The two of you had always gotten along. While Egg didn’t agree with your choice in husband, he couldn’t ignore that Aerion was less horrible with you around.

Slowly he pulled away wiping at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Egg. I wish I could have stopped him.” You reached up wiping a stray tear that lingered on his cheek. His words came out staggered in between sobs. “W-why would the gods let him live and not my uncle?” You carefully took his hands in yours.

“I don’t know. But I do know that living will not be a gift for Aerion. It is a punishment to live with what he’s caused.” Egg looked past you to Aerion who stirred. This seemed to soothe the boy. He nodded softly, looking back at the open door. “I won’t tell anyone.” You whispered to him.

The Targaryen madness was something you heard about so often. Many said Aerion was already inflicted with it as many were before him. Truthfully, you didn’t believe it to be an affliction. It was likely the pressures of being raised in a House with such influence and expectations put on a child on the very day of their birth.

“You should continue to travel with Ser Duncan, Egg. I think it would be good for you to be free from the madness of this house.” You stood taking Egg’s hand and walking to your own chambers. He stood quietly while you dug around in your wardrobe and presented him with a small pouch.

Coins clinked together as he took it. “Be safe, Aegon.” A sad smile came upon his face before he took off through the castle. You walked back to the chamber in which Aerion still laid. His eyes barely opened, his hand that rested on the bed beckoned you over.

You sat carefully on the bed next to him. His rough hands found yours. “I don’t deserve you.” Aerion forced his eyes open to look at you and you could only smile at him. “No, you don’t.” Aerion let out a soft chuckle, wincing at the pain it caused.

Maybe this would turn him around for the better.

Once daylight came, Maekar had come in to tell Aerion he was sending him to one of the free cities in hopes of changing his behaviour. Lys in particular was where the two of you were being sent as wherever Aerion went you would follow.

Aerion seemed to be in better spirits when the sun shone through the windows. Cold cloths throughout the night and forcing water down this throat put him in a bit better shape.

He groaned miserably, when you pulled him into a seated position on the edge of the bed. Aerion held tightly onto your waist as you stood between his legs to keep him from tipping forward onto the floor. It was kind of adorable that he was so helpless and required your assistance.

You had washed his back down now that he was sitting up and tried to clean his hair a little better. It was now closer to his usual white colour, rather than the pink it had been. You could tell he was in better spirits in the way his hands started to roam and he kissed at your exposed skin whenever you bent down.

“You have to be dressed, we don’t have time for your shenanigans.” You giggled as he tried to get under your skirts but you stepped just out of reach. He licked at his lip in a way that was oddly seductive.

“If you don’t come here I am going to fall to the floor and drag you down with me.” His playfulness was a breath of fresh air. Maybe having a near death experience does that to someone.

Aerion rested his elbows on his knees to keep himself from toppling, doing a childish grabby motion with his hands. You could only shake your head at him and kneel between his legs. You were careful of how tight you hugged him but you couldn’t help but melt into him as he pulled you closer.

He kissed the top of your head with tenderness. “My sweet jewel.” Aerion whispered into your hair. You looked up to him and placed a soft kiss on his still swollen lips. He tensed for a moment before trying to deepen the kiss, even though he winced at the pressure.

“I think it’s time to get dressed.” You stood, moving out of his grip, he only pouted at you. Grabbing a soft red shift you brought it towards him. It was a challenge to dress him. Aerion was dead weight with every movement. Some you attributed to the pain while the rest of it you knew he just liked being difficult.

You held up a soft black tunic next with a ribbed design similar to that of dragon scales. “Where’s my chain mail?” He tried his best to stand, but he couldn’t quite hoist himself up. You tsked at him, pushing him down by the top of his head. “I think the last thing you need right now is more weight than you can bare.”

Aerion side eyed you but he knew you were right. You guided his arms carefully through the sleeves and bent over to connect the clasps. He was blissfully silent eyeing your chest until you brought trousers for him to dawn. “You know usually you’re trying to take my clothes off not put them on.” He licked his lip once more, eyeing you.

“Put them on yourself then.” You tossed the clothing onto his lap and started to make your way out of the room. Aerion only laughed. “No my love please I cannot put them on myself. I take it back!”

You hid outside the door for just a moment to try to school your face into seriousness to tease him. Strutting back in and standing just out of his reach, cupping your ear with your hand. “I’m sorry, what was that I didn’t hear you?” Pure sarcasm.

Aerion rolled his eyes but he couldn’t hide the smirk on his face. “Please help me. I need you.” You smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

[boyloveisnteasy]

you are an amazing writer! will you pls write 5 times aerion tries and fails to court reader and 1 time he succeeds? <3

💌 five times aerion tried (and failed) to court you ⸺ and one time he succeeded.

⋆ a/n : i see all your requests, i'll get to them one by one if i like it & have a time. thank you anon !! ࿔ gif is for the aesthetic purposes only, there is no physical description of reader

The first time ⸺ when he saw you.

It was neither in the hall nor among the nobles, but in the garden.

Your house had arrived on their lands only a few hours before, and the feast had yet to begin. The castle already hummed with life: servants carried chests, lords exchanged polite smiles, and the air was heavy with the smell of wine and roasting meat.

He found you by chance.

Or almost by chance.

You stood among rare blooms — spider lilies — watching the delicate flowers sway. A gentle breeze stirred, and your hair, still loose and not yet tied by the maids, fell across your shoulders, glinting softly in the sunlight.

Aerion saw you from the shadow of a stone arch. He lingered there for a moment, just watching, then stepped forward.

“Have you lost your way?” he asked, his voice calm and even.

You turned, a surprised smile on your lips. “No, my prince. I am rather trying to escape the insistence of certain visitors.”

Then you looked back at the garden, a soft smile playing on your face. “It seems not to help.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I am no visitor of yours.”

“But yet you are here.”

He looked around the garden slowly. “Do not flatter yourself. I just passed by.”

“Then why did you hide in the arch’s shadow for a good while, my prince?” you asked, amused by his weak excuse.

Aerion opened his mouth, but no words came. He looked at you for a moment, then shook his head and turned away. “Careful.”

The second time — when he had asked for your blessing.

The tournament field was full of life: horses neighed, armor clanged, and the stands were bright with colorful gowns. The air was thick with dust and the smell of roasting meat.

You sat a row below, wearing a deep blue silk dress, embroidered with silver. Your hair was tied back, the front strands falling softly over your shoulders. You looked calm and untouchable — so different from the other ladies, waving their handkerchiefs in nervous excitement.

Aerion saw you at once. Clad in armor that shone brighter than the sun, he rode his horse straight toward you. Beside him was your cousin — a young knight on his first big outing. The boy looked pale and nervous next to the prince.

The prince said nothing. He gave only a slight nod — a brief gesture that said more than words ever could. He held out his hand, waiting for you to tie your ribbon to his lance, as if it were understood without question.

The whole court watched, holding their breath.

You looked at his hand, then at your cousin. And, without hurry, you tied the silk to your cousin’s lance. “May the gods aid you,” you said softly.

Aerion froze. His hand hung in empty air.

On the field, he was terrifying. He unseated your cousin with such force that the lance splintered, and the young man fell hard — dead or near enough.

After the victory, Aerion rode to you and threw a piece of your dirty, torn ribbon at your feet. He lifted his helmet and raised an eyebrow, hoping you would see the determination in his eyes.

You did not even glance at the shard. You rose, shook the dust from your blue silk, and walked away, leaving him with a taste of defeat.

The third time — when he wanted to apologize.

Your cousin’s name still echoed through the halls. Not loudly, but enough that each time you passed by, someone lowered their voice for a moment.

The door to your chambers swung open without a knock.

Aerion entered, carrying the same pride as always, but his movements were oddly awkward. He clearly wanted to speak, yet the words stuck in his throat, turning into a low, jumbled murmur.

“The ribbon. It was too slippery and fell… not very gracefully. I did not mean to throw it at you in front of all the common folk.”

He fell silent, looking as if he had just swallowed poison.

You watched him, barely holding back a smile at the ridiculous sight.

“Are you trying to apologize, my prince?” you asked softly.

Aerion straightened at once. “No,” he snorted, trying to regain his proud air. “I am trying to clear a misunderstanding. Dragons do not ask for forgiveness.”

“And dragons do not kill innocent young men.”

“He had no business on the field if he could not stay in the saddle,” he shrugged, showing no pity. “He… the one you chose?”

You blinked. “He is my cousin, my prince.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No,” you said firmly.

He froze. All his anger suddenly faded, replaced by a strange relief. He nodded shortly, almost unusually pleased. “Very well.”

He started back toward the door, then stopped and swallowed loudly. “You should come to my training in the small yard today.”

You smiled and stepped closer. “Is that an invitation?”

“It is an order.”

You only shook your head, bitterly, and closed the door in his face, hearing him curse on the other side.

The fourth time — when you were returning home.

Your house left at dawn, which made your fathers decide that the farewell feast should be a grand display of respect.

You sat at the high table, feeling the silk of your dress cling to your skin in the stifling heat and the light of hundreds of candles burning in heavy chandeliers.

From the start of the feast, Aerion had not taken his eyes off you. His chair was pulled so close that his elbow brushed yours constantly, and the smell of metal and leather overpowered everything else. Every time you reached for your cup, he was faster, filling it himself with golden Arbor wine.

“Drink,” he said, and there was no question in his voice. “Who knows when you’ll taste wine like this again.”

You only raised an eyebrow slightly, looking at the ruby liquid.

“Price does not make it sweeter, my prince. Sometimes plain water pleases the heart more than the finest gold.”

Aerion squinted, his fingers whitening on the stem of the cup. But what made him truly fearsome was when some young lord tried to approach you. The moment a boy from a neighboring house stepped too close, Aerion turned his head. His violet eyes blazed with a cold, punishing fire that made the poor lad pale, bow awkwardly, and vanish into the crowd.

Unable to bear the suffocating crowd, you excused yourself and slipped out of the tent. You needed the night air, far from lutes and drunken shouts.

You walked to the edge of the arch, where cicadas drowned out the music, and lifted your face to the wind, staring at the distant campfires. The silence lasted only a moment. Heavy steps on the grass and the familiar scent of fine musk told you the prince was near before he spoke.

Aerion came up behind you, his chest almost touching your shoulders. You froze, not turning, feeling heat radiate from him. His hands — hot and dry — rested on your shoulders, making you flinch. He moved your hair aside, exposing your neck, and you felt the brief, light touch of his fingers on your skin.

Then cold, heavy metal pressed against your chest. Aerion fastened a clasp, and a massive Valyrian gold necklace rested on your collarbones, a great ruby at its center, like a drop of frozen blood.

“Now you belong to the dragon,” he whispered in your ear, pride in his voice.

Slowly, with calm dignity that always annoyed him more than open defiance, you lifted your hand to touch the edges of the ruby. You did not flinch or look away as you turned to face him, trapped between the stone arch and his broad chest.

Your eyes met his — violet, burning with a wild flame of possession. You tilted your head slightly, a soft smile on your lips.

“You confuse gold with the soul, my prince,” your voice was calm in the night. “To belong is to give yourself willingly, and you take me by force. Is that what you desire?”

Aerion narrowed his eyes, fingers still pressing your shoulders. His face twisted with displeasure, and he leaned so close that your lips nearly touched. “Dragonfire asks no permission. It takes whom it wills.”

“Then you will have only ashes, my prince.”

You freed yourself from his hands, careful but firm. The heavy necklace tugged at your neck, reminding you of every word he said.

He watched you go, clenching his fists, unable to understand why his fire could not bend you to his will.

The fifth time — when he had written to you.

Aerion had been nowhere to be seen. Not at the gates, not in the courtyard, not in the last moments before departure. You did not search for him among the servants, nor did you slow your pace.

You rode down to the yard, lifted the reins, and swung into the saddle. Your cloak settled on your shoulders, the wind tangled your hair, and the dust of the road barely touched your cheeks. You took the first step with the horse, then the second, and the gates opened to meet the road. You did not look back. Not once.

The ride home took two weeks. It met you with quiet stillness. Familiar walls, the smell of earth and old wood, the faces of the servants — everything was in its place.

The heavy ruby necklace was still on you.

A week passed. Seven days exactly.

You had almost forgotten the heat of the dragon prince’s presence when the letter arrived.

You recognized the seal at once: red wax with a dragon stamp — familiar and sharp, like him. You held the letter longer than usual, feeling the weight of each word, as if it might jump out at you.

You broke the seal and opened the letter slowly, almost as a ritual, afraid the words might escape with it.

My lady, You left our home without a word, and I did not stop you. It was not forgetfulness or carelessness, but because I thought it right. You are free in your rooms and under your father’s roof. I do not intend to limit you, nor to demand a reply before the time is right. But do not think my silence is refusal. The dragon does not turn from decisions once made. It chooses — and it holds to the end. So do I. I do not let go of what I have chosen. You will have time — enough to get used to what is inevitable. Do not waste it. Wear the necklace. ⸺ Aerion of House Targaryen.

You read the letter slowly at first, then again, pausing on every line. The words, sharp and precise, left no doubt. No request, no apology.

In each line, his strong confidence and need for control shone, but between the lines, you felt something else — a desperate need to own what would not yield.

You folded the letter carefully, held it to the flame for a moment, and then let it go. The paper caught fire, the edges curled, and the writing melted away into ash.

You did not reply.

Because, for the first time in all this, the choice was yours alone.

The sixth time — when he succeeded.

Aerion sat in his chambers. The stone walls were cold and hard, but the soft candlelight glimmered on the armor in the corners. The room was quiet — broken only by the fire crackling and the faint scrape as he moved in his chair.

His fingers held the parchment, the letter he had sent to you a week ago.

The letter that hadn't been answered.

The room smelled of wax, iron, and the faint bitterness of the candle oil.

Had he been too eager? Aerion had poured all his will into not riding to your lands, into not locking you in his rooms.

A soft knock broke the silence. Aerion stood, the chains on his sword clinking lightly.

“My prince,” said a servant, looking down, “Prince Maekar asks for you.”

Aerion nodded and stepped to the door. The stone floor groaned under his weight. He waited as Maekar entered, calm and careful, not wanting to disturb the quiet tension of the room.

“The lord of the lands nearby, your lady’s father, asks for a marriage of respect,” Maekar said, his voice steady, respectful. “He invites our house to discuss the match.”

Aerion straightened, shoulders back, chin high. His eyes, sharp and cold, looked at his father with clear determination. Around his neck glimmered the same necklace he had once given you, the gems shining in the candlelight.

The next time you met, you sat at the great feast table. Your father, proud and pleased, kept signaling servants to refill the wine.

Aerion sat almost next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. He kept his back straight, his gaze calm, like a dragon watching its prey.

When the conversation turned to the affairs of common folk, you leaned slightly toward him and smiled. “So, you really are my visitor.”

He smirked. “And you said you hid from them. Yet, look where we are.”

You give a quiet smile, sensing his attempt at casual ease, though the small curve of his lips and the fire in his eyes betray him. You glance at the necklace he once gave you — the cold sparkle of Valyrian gems in the candlelight. He speaks no words of feeling, no pleading, no asking. Yet every line of his face, every look, makes it clear — he is more determined than ever.

“And now?” you asked.

He looked straight at you, calm and warm. “Now, you will be the wife of a dragon.”

Slowly, he touched your hand under the table, weaving his fingers with yours.

The voices at the table rose again. Prince Baelor laughed at some joke of your father’s, but Aerion’s eyes remain fixed only on you.

MASTERLISTS

AKOTSK 𖾕𖾝꙼ᩚ𛲕𖾟 AERION

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[boyloveisnteasy]

pairing. aerion x spoiled wife!reader

⭑ when he first saw you, you were everything he did not look for in a wife. you turned out to be stubborn, from the very beginning you made it clear that he would not get obedience from you, and you were too confident. of course, he knew you were a lady from high society, so your way of life was not that different. but the main thing aerion caught was how spoiled you were. he expected to see a traditional bride: one who would flinch from every wrong look and obey every word — like septas who worshipped the god. instead, he got you.

he never intended to tolerate anyone’s whims — whether from his own family, and especially not from his wife. and if someone had asked him directly, he would have confidently said that he had no idea how it happened. but there were signs.

⭑ they told him to show you around the gardens of your future castle — so you saw everything and got used to the place. and he, naturally, refused. why would he waste his time and entertain you like a fucking servant? but under maekar’s supervision, he agreed after all.

he walked too fast. you clearly fell behind and did not intend to hurry or run after him. noticing that, he suddenly turned around. “do you have the legs of a five year old? can you walk faster?”

you did not even speed up. “i can,” you answered calmly. “but i will not. you walk like a horse and my legs are tired.”

he only looked at you for a few moments. “you are acting like a child.”

you shrugged and kept walking at your own pace. but you noticed how he slowly, almost unnoticeably, slowed down to walk next to you.

⭑ at the wedding, when the hour of the common cup came, you took the heavy silver cup from the steward's hands. you hesitated. you brought it to your face, smelled the sharp sour wine, and the corners of your lips dropped.

"i will not drink this," your voice sounded quiet but petulant. you pushed the cup away, almost spilling the wine on the white cloth.

"it is part of the rite," he answered, enough for you to understand how important it was.

you frowned. tiredness hid in the creases of your forehead, your lips were pressed tight. the candles danced in your eyes. "it is too sour," you said, like a child who did not want to take bitter medicine. "i do not like it."

aerion slowly turned his head to you. his eyes, usually feverishly bright, now looked at you with close attention. he was silent for a few heartbeats, then slowly turned his head and nodded to a servant.

"change all the wine to sweet."

and later, at the feast.

the feast was only growing stronger: the music became deafening, the laughter of neighbors too sharp, and the gazes of the drunken lords too intrusive. you felt your head start to hum from the chaos.

you touched aerion’s shoulder, interrupting his conversation with daeron. “it is too noisy here.”

aerion raised an eyebrow and looked at you as if you'd said something foolish. “this is a feast. did you expect silence like at a funeral?”

you did not answer — you just pressed your lips together and turned away, staring into emptiness. he immediately felt the change: you no longer tugged at his sleeve, no longer criticized the serving of dishes, and no longer rolled your eyes at the stupid jokes of the retinue.

aerion exhaled loudly, cutting daeron off mid-sentence. he suddenly stood up, firmly grabbed your hand, and pulled you with him, forcing you to rise.

“we are leaving.”

⭑ "i want candied flowers."

aerion raised his eyes from the scroll slowly, as if he did not hear you correctly.

"flowers," you explained, brushing your hair in front of the mirror. "the ones they make in highgarden. white, pink, in sugar glaze. they say they melt on the tongue like the first snow."

he rolled his eyes, the gesture came out almost too dramatic. "it is pointless," he dropped. "highgarden is weeks away."

you pressed your lips and turned away to the window, not saying another word. the evening passed in a heavy silence, you went to bed with your back to him.

he did not apologize. aerion targaryen never apologized, you learned that long ago.

on the fourth morning, you entered your chambers and stopped at the threshold. on the dressing table was a casket. black wood with silver inlay, too elegant to be just a box. you opened the lid.

flowers lay in rows. roses, violets, petals of plants unknown to you — each covered in the thinnest crust of hardened sugar, sparkling like frost. you breathed in the delicate scent and smiled brightly, looking at him as he stood by the fireplace.

"do not ask for more."

you took a white flower and brought it to your lips. the sugar crunched on your teeth, the petal melted — and he was right. like the first snow. "they are cold," you remarked.

your husband only raised one eyebrow. "the road is long."

"should have been faster."

he slowly walked closer, thinking about how he no longer even felt angry at such remarks of yours, only fully accepting them. "next time," he said, "go yourself. and we shall see how fast you return with flowers in your hands."

you took another one. a pink one. "you would not allow it," you answered him back, "for your wife to freeze somewhere on a distant road."

aerion closed his eyes. he was silent for a long time. and then the corner of his lips twitched. "no," he said so quietly that you barely heard. "i would not."

⭑ night fell on the castle, heavy as a blanket of lead. you did not speak for several hours — since he said: "no. i only got you the valyrian steel last moon" when you asked for a necklace of that rare blue stone.

you did not argue and did not fight, but simply went silent and lay on the very edge of the bed, turned away to the wall and did not even fix the blanket — let it be cold, let him get out to his own chambers.

aerion sat in a chair by the fireplace for a long time, drank wine, looked at the fire. he was right, and he knew it: you were unbearable, capricious, demanding the impossible with such an air as if the air around you should turn into gold. any other husband would have sent you to a family estate long ago to learn humility. but you were not just anyone. and he was not any other husband.

aerion set aside the glass, stood up, walked to the bed and looked at your back — offended, beautiful and sometimes (always) unbearable. he did not lie down at once: first he just sat on the edge, then slowly stretched out beside you.

you felt how he moved closer — the mattress sank under his weight, the warmth from his body reached your back. his hand lay on your waist.

"do not touch me," you whispered to the wall.

he did not remove his hand. on the contrary — he pulled you closer, insistently and pressed his chest to your back, buried his face in your hair and was silent for so long that you thought — he fell asleep.

"in a week," he said suddenly into the top of your head, muffled and tired. "your necklace will arrive."

⭑ well, he remembered everything about you.

he might seem busy talking to the lords, but his gaze was always on you. if you kept your hand on the fabric of someone's dress for even a second or looked with interest at an unusual brooch on a guest's shoulder, aerion noted it to himself. a week later, exactly the same thing, only more expensive and of better quality, waited for you in your chambers.

if you tried to express delight or ask how he knew, he only jerked his shoulder irritably. last moon, you kept your eyes on a silver tiara in a merchant's shop — for exactly one second, no longer. a week later, it lay in a casket on your table. you did not even remember it.

"it will suit you," he said, seeing your questioning look.

⭑ you were often capricious — sometimes because of trifles, the wrong fabric, the wrong taste, a word said at the wrong time. it would irritate anyone else to the limit. it irritated aerion too. for a second.

today was the fitting of a new dress. you turned in front of the polished steel mirror for an eternity, frowned, and pulled the lace on the sleeves. "it is terrible," you announced, pulling a ribbon off your shoulder. "the color makes me pale, and the style is baggy, as if i am a servant."

aerion raised his gaze and looked at the dress, then at you. "the dress is just a dress."

you froze, slowly turning your back to him — so proud, offended, with pressed lips and tense shoulders, as if he just insulted your entire existence.

"fine," he said more quietly, almost tiredly, and rose from his chair. he walked closer, stopped by your shoulder. "tell me how it should be."

you turned fully — still sulking, still with a stone face, but in your eyes was already that same spark which he learned to recognize since your first wedding night.

"silk, not brocade, the color lavender, not blue, lace only on the collar and take the waist in by three fingers." aerion listened, did not interrupt, and then nodded to the tailor, ordering him to begin.

he looked at you — there was no irritation in his gaze, only endless patience of a man who surrendered long ago and was even glad of it. "is that all?" he asked. you thought for a second. "and pearls along the hem." aerion closed his eyes, then opened them. "fine. pearls along the hem."

⭑ he loves when you sulk. when you cross your arms on your chest and turn away with pouting lips.

at first, of course, he ignored it — he pretended that he was busy, that it did not concern him, he even spoke to some knight louder as if on purpose, but he still looked at you out of the corner of his eye. the pause stretched, you did not move, did not even look in his direction — and he could not stand this. "again?" he said with light irritation, but he already walked closer, leaned down, and caught your gaze. "what now?"

"nothing," you stubbornly shook your head and turned away again. he exhaled, his hand laying on your chin. he turned your face to him, squinting slightly. "you do not know how to do 'nothing'," he said quietly.

you were silent and pouted your lips again, making him lean down and kiss you shortly and softly. he pulled away first and looked closely. "now?" you still frowned, but already weaker. "still nothing."

he laughed quietly — almost unnoticeably, only the corner of his lips twitched — and kissed you again, longer this time, warmer, as if he tried to fix your mood just like that. "is that better?" he asked in a low voice. you paused as if you thought about it, then nodded slightly. "perhaps."

⭑ aerion targaryen wasn't stupid. he distinguished a real tantrum from a theatrical one, a sincere offense from a fake one. he knew when you were truly tired, and when you simply wanted his attention. and still — every damn time — he gave it to you.

because the point was not whether you outplayed him or not.

the point was that he wanted to spoil you.

masterlists ˚.⋆

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@littlewritergreatgirl-blog @besonderselyy @thoughtfully-burning @rubyannebeaufoy @catmikaelson20 @unramdommas2004 @dragon-moonstar @sahvlren @quixoticrai111 @comzetogether @ladychaos1525 @hanakotateyama @bookishdelights @besonderselyy @jinmjy @naty-sunshine @jaemimpulsive

@icebearcucumber @pharmacistfairytale @ae-gax @jjk174 @kravitzwhore @bibibug4444 @justvibbinghere @dear-fifi @aerangi @chesecakecat @kumisbaby @darylandbethfanforever9 @sockz360 @silverlovv @umadirectioner

[boyloveisnteasy]

HE SAYS HE DOESN'T LOVE YOU, BUT...

ᝰ pairing. aerion x wife!reader

warnings. dark themes, arranged marriage, fluff, aerion is a warning himself, gentle!reader, aerion's only soft with her, obsessive behaviour, ooc aerion.

gifs cr : @ lady-arryn; @ s_attayee

˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he never leaves your side at the wedding.

You still remember your mother’s one wish before the mysterious fever had claimed her life – the same words she had been telling you since you were a child.

"Let love always be your choice, darling. Do not repeat my fate."

She never spoke in long speeches, yet you knew. Your mother was too wise a woman – she never put things plainly. There was no need for it; you've always been a clever girl.

Never marry a lord out of duty. It will eat you alive, until nothing of you remains.

And here you were, from head to toe in your wedding attire, dressed entirely in red – the colour of his house.

At least you didn't break the promise you had given to your mother, did you? He is everything but a lord.

Your husband. The one you were meant for.

A cruel prince who has gone mad – that's what people say about him. A monster who takes pleasure in hurting others.

Aerion Targaryen.

A dragon in human form – his heart is too cold to be tamed, too hot to be approached.

Yet your father didn't care enough to do something about it.

After all, you were truly your mother's daughter.

Turning your head slightly, you studied his profile: pale silver hair that he had run his fingers through countless times, a tense jawline and eyes filled with nothing but irritation.

You couldn't blame him, honestly. The air was thick with the smell of wine, meat, and sweat. Men, treating your wedding feast as just another excuse to get drunk, glance at you with an interest that bordered on the obscene.

"Dragons don't need love," he had said when you first came here. "Don't bother trying. It will make you look pathetic."

But he was there, sitting beside you, even though most of the wedding has already passed, leaving only the drunkards behind. You had expected him to leave as soon as his father had returned to his chambers, but he hadn't.

Instead, Aerion's eyes stayed fixed on someone else.

"I'm going to rip that scum's eyes out right here."

Frowning at his sudden threat, you followed his gaze and noticed an older man with a shaggy beard staring at your cleavage.

Oh.

You let out a soft laugh. "He's not the first."

"He will be the last."

˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he was mindful of your pleasure on your wedding night.

Aerion's footsteps were loud in your quiet chambers as he slowly entered, still wearing his finery. It seemed you were the only one who needed such preparation.

The wedding night. To consummate the marriage, to fulfill the very reason you had been sent here: into the dragon’s grasp.

You recalled all your aunt’s stories about such nights of pain and impassive husbands. Your heart skipped a beat at the realization that your fate was no different from your mother's – perhaps even worse.

Your father was an honest man. He never loved your mother, nor did he seek to pretend – not for you, and certainly not for his wife.

He wasn't cruel. He never laid a hand on you, never spoke harshly, never punished you for the kind of whims children are prone to. Not once did he force your mother to bear one child after another to secure an heir.

And maybe that was the problem: he felt nothing at all.

Aerion noticed your mood shift – of course he did. He notices everything, you thought. He had taken you to the garden when you could no longer endure your family’s expectations, and after a silent walk, you parted ways to prepare for what was to come that night.

The longer the servants prepared you, the more you felt their sticky, pity-laden gazes. Words never left their lips, but there was no need: you knew exactly what they meant.

“A cruel fate for one so young.”

“You’ve done nothing to deserve this, my princess.”

"May the Gods have mercy upon you."

You smiled softly in response. There were fates far worse than yours.

Lost in thought, you didn't even notice when Aerion came close enough for you to feel his presence. He ran his hand through your hair, slowly combing it with his fingers.

Gently, almost tenderly.

"They're softer than I imagined," he murmured, as if mesmerised.

You froze, his touch somehow soothing you, then slightly leaned towards him, unsure of what to expect.

You slowly turned around to look at him and felt your breath hitch in your throat. His gaze was already roaming over your face, as if he wanted to remember every detail.

He wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you closer until you shared one breath. "You are the dragon's wife now," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm not interested in hurting what's mine."

Then his lips crashed onto yours with such force you’d have fallen if he weren’t holding you so tightly.

There was nothing gentle about it, nothing subtle. He made no attempt to play the part of a good husband. Aerion kissed you like a man certain of what was his. Hungrily, he pulled you in, while you responded at your own pace. You kissed him slowly, as though you had all the time in the world.

He broke the kiss and let his lips wander along the line of your jaw to your neck, lightly grazing your skin with his teeth.

"Aerion," you whispered his name, and he let out a sound that was almost a growl. His teeth sank above your collarbone, his tongue leaving a mark that would remain as proof of your night.

A part of you wondered if he’d allow you to do the same.

You kept your thoughts to yourself. One day, maybe.

A little moan slipped from your lips, making him lift you so effortlessly – as if you had always belonged in his arms – as he guided you towards the bed. You gasped, wrapping your legs around him as he claimed your mouth once more.

"Perhaps this time," you thought, "your aunt was wrong."

˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he won't let you sleep apart from him.

"Egg isn't feeling well, and I need to be there for him." You were supposed to return to Aegon’s chambers to read him a bedtime story about knights. Yet here you were – Gods knew for how long – in your chambers, arguing with your husband about... about what, actually?

"If he is not feeling well, he can call a fucking maid who'll read him those stupid stories. And you certainly don't need to waste your night on him."

"I can’t bear the thought of him waking up in the middle of the night, Aerion," you stepped closer to him. "Terrified that no one is there."

You stopped in front of him and tried to meet his eyes, but he stared somewhere far off, his jaw tight. You did what you’d learned over the last month, what you knew would soothe him. You leaned against him, laying your head on his chest; his heartbeat is quick under your ear. His hands almost automatically – instinctively – wrapped around your waist and squeezed you lightly.

"He's our brother, our little treasure," your voice is soft – as always – you never raised your voice.

That made him snort. "And I'm your husband."

You blinked.

Then pulled back enough to face him and finally understood what the problem was.

How could you have missed that?

Since that night of the wedding, you’d always slept together. He never let you go to your own chambers.

Your hips burn with a sweet pain; you feel every mark he left on your body, every grip that will surely turn into bruises. You are exhausted; your husband is lying on top of you, his nose tracing your neck. The skin-to-skin contact feels so intimate, it’s almost laughable considering what just happened.

You know, however, that comfort like this is only temporary and you can’t let yourself get used to it. You try to get up, the pain in your hips makes it impossible to think clearly, but that’s a worry for another day.

"Where are you going?" his voice is hoarse, heavy with pleasure and something else you can’t quite recognize yet.

You tilt your head slightly. "To my own bed."

He fixes you with a look that leaves no room for argument. The decision has already been made, and all you can do is accept it.

“You will sleep here.” He pulls you back against him, his arm wrapping around your waist in a possessive hold, your back resting against his chest.

You can't help but smile. He wants you to sleep beside him. Together.

He buries his nose in your hair, deeply breathing in the scent of lavender – the soap used by the servants to wash the princess's hair. His hand rests on your stomach in possessive grip, as if protecting what has yet to exist.

"I thought dragons knew nothing of love," you lean towards him, speaking tenderly, causing him to murmur something under his breath. A sense of calm and something you can't name yet blooms in your chest.

"They don't." His voice is rough, but his grip hasn’t loosened at all. "You are my wife, it’s my duty to sleep with you. Do not be fooled."

But when you wake up, sunlight pours over the bed, and he is still holding you as if you could vanish at any moment – you knew better.

And now, waking beside him – even though you clearly remembered falling asleep by Egg’s bedside – you saw that he was not the monster everyone else believed him to be.

˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he spoils you.

Taking off another bracelet engraved with his initials, you found your gaze was drawn to the jewelry box, filled with pieces he has given you - dragon pendants, countless bracelets in black and scarlet. Your eyes then move to the armoire, filled with dresses of the purest silk, tailored just for you by the best.

The books you've only ever mentioned once in your morning talks rested on the shelves, which seemed to appear by some unseen hand whenever you spoke of a new one.

"It is likely the servants," he said, avoiding your gaze. "Or one of my stupid brothers who wants to impress you."

A gentle laugh escaped you as you move towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands clung to you immediately, almost without him realizing.

You swayed lightly. "Maybe."

˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he comes to you when things get difficult.

It was late at night when you had decided to walk through the garden, enjoying the quiet and breathtaking view that had become so familiar.

You had spent the day guiding Aegon through the history of his ancestors – he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to outdo Aerion – before finally deciding to rest because you had started feeling dizzy.

There had been no time to see your husband; you had simply assumed he was busy with his training.

How wrong you were.

When you entered the chambers, he was already there, standing with his back to you, staring off into the distance.

He didn't acknowledge you when you entered, yet you noticed the signs of recognition. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, as though he was finally letting himself be at ease beside you.

"Husband."

He kept silent.

Instead, he turned and walked toward you slowly. There was none of that teasing sparkle or even a hint of mockery in his eyes—only fatigue and acceptance, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Then, to your surprise, he leaned in and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent that reminded him of home.

"My mother would've loved you," he whispered, a quiet, wry smile in his tone.

No pretense, no show. Sincere.

It was only then that you realized: Egg's sudden urge to learn something new, why it had been so quiet – no servants bustling about, no Daeron pestering you with his philosophical debates.

Their mother. They all needed something to distract them.

You lifted your hands to the back of his head, caressing his hair gently, making him pull you closer. A quiet hum escaped him, followed by a small kiss on your neck. It felt as if you’d melted into him - he held you so tightly as though the slightest distance could carry you away forever.

“I’m sure she was a wonderful woman,” you said, kissing him beneath his ear. “She gave me you, and a few more sisters and brothers besides.”

He smirked but didn't let go for a moment. "Could’ve just stopped at me, my precious wife."

You smiled, not falling for his little act. He tried to play it off as a joke, to hide his weakness - but you wouldn't let him. Not here. Not with you.

“I’m here,” you whispered, leaving small kisses to soothe the tremble he desperately tried to suppress.

His hands roamed across your back, fingers spread wide, his breathing deep and rapid. He clung to you like his life depended on it, and you didn't complain.

You could feel it. He didn't say much, but you knew. He needed you just as much as you needed him.

“You’ll always be here,” he said in a voice so low you’d hardly have heard it unless you were right there. “You’ll never leave me.”

˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he cannot stand your tears.

In all the time you’ve spent here, you had never shed a tear. There was no reason to - everything you needed was already yours. People starved, gave their lives for the land; a princess's tears would have seemed ridiculous.

But this time you couldn't keep it in.

It was supposed to be an ordinary day like any other - jousts, a feast honouring the noble guests. Yet everything went wrong when word reached you that Aerion had lost his mind and broken the fingers of an innocent girl.

Your heart ached for the girl who had only been playing and having fun, unaware of how it would all turn out.

He would never hurt you, but that didn’t make it any easier seeing him harm another so calmly.

The door opened and you sensed his heavy steps before you heard them. You didn't give him your usual gentle smile - the one he's used to seeing from you.

"She mocked our family, our very blood," he said. There was a note of irritation in his voice at having to justify his actions so openly to you.

Dragons owed nothing to anyone. They acted, and they took pleasure in the results. Yet here he stood behind you, covered in blood and still proud, unable to bear even the thought that you might be hurting.

You didn't respond.

"This is treason," he continued, unused to your silence.

You were barely holding back your tears - you didn't want him to see them. Not from shame, never. But because crying wouldn't change anything. But what he said next shattered you completely and your gentle heart couldn't take it anymore.

"She's lucky it was just her fingers. I’d have taken her head if I’d told the King."

A quiet sob escaped you, one you couldn't hold back.

It was foolish. You knew the man he was. Even softened by you, dragon blood still ran through him. And you knew why he was frustrated, why that play had offended him so deeply - after all, his bloodline had been insulted, ridiculed.

And yet the image of a young girl of your age appeared before your eyes; her gaze swimming with tears, her hands powerless.

At first, Aerion froze at the sound. You’ve never cried, he thought. You’ve never looked away from him.

Then, as if the realization struck him, he strode across the room and turned you to face him, gently taking you by the elbow.

His eyes wandered across your face, as if he physically needed to ensure you were unharmed. You knew he would behead anyone who even dared think of hurting you.

And for the first time that didn't bring you any comfort.

It didn't scare you either - he had never scared you. He was your husband, the other part of your soul and you would always choose him. You would always stand by his side.

Still, a tiny piece of sorrow remained inside you – a quiet awareness that no one else would ever know just how loving and caring he could be.

He would always be a monster to them.

His eyes didn't leave yours, which were now red and swollen from tears that wouldn't stop falling. You noticed the frown that crossed his face as he realized why you were like this.

He leaned in and kissed your damp, flushed cheeks, letting his lips linger a moment longer than expected.

“Dragons do not pardon traitors, my love,” he said softly, confused as to why you were so concerned about a mere commoner, unworthy of any of your attention. Your normally bright face was covered with such a deep sorrow that his heart ached.

I’ll let her go,” Aerion murmured. “Would that make you feel better?”

You nodded slowly, still unsure whether he would keep his promise, unsure whether your wish alone could tame his temper. “Yes, my love.”

His eyes remained on you, studying your face for the smallest sign of doubt that might hurt you further. When he found none, he nodded and pulled you into his arms.

"Fine. Just this once."

MASTERLISTS

AERION 𖾕𖾝꙼ᩚ𛲕𖾟 AKOTSK

[maidragoste]

Papa

Aerion Targaryen x Fossoway!Reader

I recommend reading this fic first

We're back with our favorite Westeros couple!

I feel like I could talk for hours about Aerion and Fossoway!Reader 🫣

Now you can read one sequel here.

If you liked it, please don't hesitate to like, comment, and reblog. Comments really motivate me and make me happy 🥰🥰💖

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I wish you all a good read!

“It’s your fault,” Aerion grumbled, glaring at you, as he held Baela in his arms. The contrast between his scowl and Baela’s continued happy calls, her tiny hands cupping his cheeks, was amusing.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, biting your lip to keep from smiling, while Daeron continued laughing along with Daella and Rhae. You could even see a flicker of amusement in your father-in-law’s eyes.

“She calls me by my name!” the prince complained indignantly, as if he had just suffered the greatest insult of his life. “You should call me Papa. I am your Papa,” he said, now looking at his daughter.

You must be dreaming because Aerion Targaryen shouldn’t be pouting right now.

Baela had only recently begun to speak. Of course, her vocabulary wasn't extensive; she only said a few words like "Mama," which was to be expected since you spent so much time with her, "Idiot"—much to your dismay, you knew you were responsible for her learning that insult, but it was also Aerion's fault; if he weren't such an idiot, you wouldn't have to tell him off so often—, "Fuck," which you had no doubt was the fault of your father-in-law and brother-in-law, "Dae," the nickname she gave her uncle, and "Mae Mae," as she called her grandfather because she had trouble saying his full name. But today, your daughter finally called Aerion for the first time. Only not in the way he had hoped.

"Aerion!" your daughter shouted happily, and the prince's devastated expression made you smile.

It seemed unreal to see Aerion Targaryen, a capricious and cruel man, losing his composure because his daughter called him by his name.

Honestly, you never thought your husband would be such a present, loving father. You thought that after the first few days after Baela's birth, his excitement about having a child would fade, but Aerion surprised you. The two of you spent a lot of time at the nursery with your daughter. Aerion would proudly walk around the castle with Baela in his arms, making her a part of his routine without any fuss.

You notice how wary he seems every time he hands Baela to someone else, whether it's family or the nannies, and how he watches like a hawk whenever one of his siblings holds his daughter or plays with her.

"It's your fault," Aerion accuses you again when he sees you smile.

"Why?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"You always call me by my name in front of her. You never refer to me as Papa," he says, clearly annoyed.

And it's true. Unlike Aerion, who, when he talks about you with Baela, refers to you as "Mama" or "mother", you called him by his name. Honestly, you didn't do it on purpose; it just felt strange to call him Papa.

“And you’ll have to live with it because I’m never going to do it,” you said, unaware that you’d soon eat your words. “You know, other parents would be proud if their baby learned a new word,” you said, trying to distract him from his annoyance.

Of course, it worked, because instantly Aerion’s irritated expression transformed into one of offense.

“Of course I’m proud, my daughter is smart,” he said, turning all his attention back to the baby.

In the days that followed, you spent your time watching your husband trying to teach Baela to call him Papa, Father, or Kepus. It didn’t work, and although at first you found it amusing to see the frustration on the capricious prince’s face, you soon began to see Aerion’s sad expression when his daughter continued to call him by his name.

You may not like Aerion, but you're not a cold or cruel woman. You can't help but think that you'd feel bad too if your daughter didn't call you Mama, so you decide to help him. You start referring to him as Papa when you talk to Baela; you know that sooner or later she'll say it herself, simply out of repetition.

The first time you say it is when Aerion enters the dining room; the whole family is ready to eat.

“Look, Baela, it’s Papa. He’s going to eat with us.” You’re dying of embarrassment while trying to avoid Aerion’s gaze. He smiles broadly, so much so that some of the servants are startled.

Daeron bursts out laughing because, even though you try to sound cheerful, you sound like you're about to throw up every time you say it for the rest of the night.

Despite your discomfort, you persist to the point that weeks later, you start calling him that more naturally. Of course, your efforts pay off because Baela starts calling him Papa.

The first time she does it, Aerion is so happy that in a quick sequence, he laughs, kisses his daughter's cheek, kisses you on the lips, and then makes the baby repeat it over and over, asking, "Who am I?" and Baela answers, laughing, "Papa," because she sees how excited you both are.

That same night, when you and Aerion are in bed, you're complaining that you want to sleep while Aerion hugs you from behind and kisses your neck—even though you both know you really enjoy his attention, you're just too proud to admit you enjoy his company in bed, because when you're really not in the mood, you kick him out—and he surprises you by saying,

"I want another one."

You kick him out instantly. You remind yourself that you're married to an idiot. You should have let Baela keep calling him Aerion.

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[maidragoste]

a new addition in the family

Aerion Targaryen x Fossoway!Reader

I recommend reading this fic first <3

Omg, I didn't expect to write more than 2000 words.

I really hope you enjoy it, guys, because I had a great time writing this

If you liked it, please don't hesitate to like, comment, and reblog. Comments really motivate me and make me happy 🥰🥰💖

My inbox is always open if you want to share your thoughts or ideas <3

My commissions is also open, or if you'd like to support me with a Ko-fi, that would be a huge help too 🥰🤗 (It would really help because I'm still unemployed lol)

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Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

I wish you all a good read!

“Pregnant?” You could hear the surprise and disgust in both your voice and Aerion’s.

Almost two moons after your wedding, you and Aerion were supposed to depart for Lys—though neither of you wanted to, but King Daeron and Prince Maekar seemed to think it best for Aerion to be away for a while. You don't know this, but Aerion had only agreed to leave if he married you first—but days before you and Aerion were due to go to the port, you started feeling unwell.

You felt nauseous for much of the day, your head and chest ached, and you tired very easily. At first, you weren’t worried; in fact, you used your discomfort to stay in your chambers and avoid the royal family, thinking they were simply the symptoms of your moon blood coming soon.

But then you began to vomit, and you summoned the maester. A servant informed Aerion of this, and he, being the busybody he is, came to see what the maester would say.

The maester looks at you and Aerion as if you were foolish children.

“Yes, your Grace. You are expecting a child,” he says patiently. “It would be best if your wife did not travel in her condition. And you, my lady, if you are very nauseous, should drink this tea,” the maester says, pouring the hot water, which a servant had brought him, into the cup with the tea leaves. “If you will excuse me, I will inform the king.”

On another occasion, you might have been annoyed that the maester dared to announce your pregnancy for you. You should have done it yourself; it was your damn body. But you didn't complain when Aerion nodded, granting the maester permission to leave, because you weren't in any condition to have a conversation with the royal family, let alone pretend you were delighted with the news.

"Oh, and congratulations," the maester said, giving you one last look before leaving.

The moment you heard the door close, you slapped Aerion's arm, without even trying to contain your force. He had been standing beside you while you sat on the bed.

"You fucking idiot! I told you to come outside!" you said, glaring at him.

It didn't matter that you'd enjoyed yourself at that moment—because, yes, much to your dismay, you liked sharing the bed with Aerion; in fact, it seemed to be the only time you could tolerate him. In your opinion, it was better that he kept his mouth busy on your cunt instead of talking nonsense—it was his fault. If he had listened to you, you wouldn't be pregnant now.

Aerion frowned. "You're my wife. Where else am I supposed to come if not inside you?" he said indignantly at the idea.

"Anywhere else on my body!" you said exasperatedly, crossing your arms.

Gods, you could already imagine your cousins' reactions when you wrote to them about your pregnancy. Steffon would scold you for bringing another mad Targaryen into the kingdom.

Aerion rolled his eyes and sat down next to you.

"Well, at least now we won't have to go to Lys."

You thought the royal family would be happy about the news of a new addition, but they didn't seem to be. You could see the fake smiles on the queen and king's faces, and you heard Prince Valarr mutter his congratulations through gritted teeth. And as if the tension at the table wasn't enough, Aerion had to open his big mouth.

"Who would have thought, Grandfather? That I'd be the first to give you a great-grandchild?" he said proudly. Which was ironic, considering that just a few hours earlier, he'd been just as disgusted as you were about the news of becoming a father.

You watched in surprise as Kiera of Tyrosh rose swiftly from the table and left the dining room. You were certain you saw tears in her eyes. Prince Valarr abruptly dropped his silverware and followed his wife.

"Fucking idiot," Maekar said, glaring at his son. It was strange to see him with that expression. Since Prince Baelor's funeral, you only ever saw him looking sad or expressionless, lost in his thoughts.

"What happened?" you asked, feeling like you were missing something.

"Kiera lost two babies," Aegon said when he saw that none of the adults seemed willing to answer you.

The whole table saw how you transformed in an instant. You turned furiously to face Aerion, who was sitting next to you, and stood up.

"Apologize," you said angrily, tugging at his ear, waiting for him to get up. But when you saw he was only trying to get you to let go, you pulled harder, even digging your nails in. Everyone could see the prince's ear turning red.

"Damn it!" he said, reluctantly getting to his feet, and you finally let go.

You didn't notice Aegon watching in admiration as you pushed Aerion toward the exit, him still cursing, until you were finally out of there.

The dining hall fell silent, still surprised that you, along with Maekar, seemed to be the only ones in charge of Aerion.

“I like my new sister,” Daeron said, laughing drunkenly, breaking the silence.

In the end, you and Aerion didn't go to Lys, but you didn't stay in King's Landing either. After that dinner and Aerion's insensitive comment, you didn't want to stay there, feeling guilty for having something you didn't want but that Kiera of Tyrosh desired.

So you and Aerion went to Summerhall with his father and Daeron. Meanwhile, Egg went to become a squire to Duncan the Tall.

Aerion may not have been happy about your pregnancy at first. He knew it was going to happen eventually, but he never thought it would be so soon. He had wished to have you all to himself for a while longer, just the two of you, before adding a child.

But now, a few months later, he was starting to like it. He'd heard plenty of men complain about their wives' mood swings, but Aerion loved them.

Of course, he didn't like it when you yelled at him, but he loved it when you cried over silly things and let him comfort you. You no longer ran away or hit him when he hugged you like you did in the early days of your marriage.

Did your dresses no longer fit? He personally sent the seamstresses to make you new ones with the prettiest fabrics. Did you crave cake? No matter the time, he'd make the cooks bake one for you.

You, too, began to accept the idea of ​​pregnancy, not because everyone seemed to want to pamper you in your condition, but because everything changed for you the moment you felt the baby kick for the first time. It happened while you were humming a song as you tried to make a blanket for them. The first few times you didn't tell anyone, you kept it to yourself; feeling the baby move lifted your spirits, and you felt less alone surrounded by these Targaryens. You stopped thinking of the baby as just another freak Targaryen, but as something of your own.

One day, you were listening to Aerion talking nonsense when you felt the baby start to move.

“I can feel them moving,” you interrupted, just to shut him up. You took Aerion's hand and placed it on your belly, then you let go.

You looked at him expectantly; you’d never admit it out loud, but you were curious about his reaction. Aerion stared at your belly in silence for a minute.

“I don’t feel anything,” he said, surprising you. “Why are you lying?” he said, making you take a few steps back, no longer letting him touch you.

“Why the hell would I be lying to you?” you asked, frowning, feeling offended.

“Because you want my attention,” the prince replied, smiling smugly, and you had to restrain yourself from hitting him.

You ended up calling the maester, and in the end, you were the one smiling smugly when the maester said it was normal for only you to feel the baby's movements for a while. Aerion didn't apologize, but after that, you noticed how he seemed to be constantly touching your belly, hoping to feel the baby kick.

And he didn't have to tell you when he felt it because you saw it on his face, in that warm smile you'd never seen before.

One day, you and Aerion were walking through the halls of Summerhall when you overheard some idiot talking about your appearance, about how you seemed to have gained too much weight. You saw it instantly: Aerion drew his dagger and looked ready to strike the man. The last thing you wanted was for Aerion to commit murder in the middle of the corridor. The man was an idiot, but he didn't have to die, and you didn't want Aerion to cause trouble for his family again. Perhaps you wouldn't have cared before if people thought ill of the Targaryens—you do it yourself—but now your child would be a Targaryen, and you didn't want people to resent your baby just for having Aerion as a father. So you grabbed Aerion by the back of his doublet.

"No," you said, trying to pull him back. You must have looked like one of those owners trying to control their hunting dogs.

The idiot who'd made the comment took advantage of that moment to step back, moving away from the razor's edge.

Aerion was still moving forward, trying to reach the man.

"Aerion," you called firmly. Aerion glanced at you and noticed how you seemed to be wobbly a little—since your belly had grown quite a bit, he noticed that you were now a little clumsy—and he stopped moving. The only reason he did that was because he didn't want you to lose your balance because of him, to end up hurting yourself.

“Apologize,” the prince ordered, pointing the tip of his dagger at him.

The man didn't resist; he instantly fell to his knees and began to beg your forgiveness.

“Pathetic,” you said, barely glancing at the man, and turned to continue on your way. Aerion followed you, more charmed by you than ever.

The next day, you learned that the man had been expelled from Summerhall.

Aerion never thought you were a very religious person, so he was surprised that during your last weeks of pregnancy, you went every day to the sept in Summerhall. He, of course, always accompanied you. Perhaps if it were another man, you would have found it sweet that he followed you everywhere just to make sure you and the baby were alright. But since it was Aerion, you found it unbearable at times. When you complained to your mother, she replied to your letter, telling you that you should be grateful to have such a devout husband. Your cousin Raymun recommended that you put a pinch of sweetsleep in the prince's cup so that he would at least leave you alone for one day. You laughed when you read his letter, but then you burned it for fear that Aerion would find it and accuse your cousin of treason.

“What are you praying about so much?” Aerion asks as he helps you to your feet again, just like he does every day after you finish praying.

“I pray that they don’t turn out like you,” you say sincerely, without taking your eyes off him.

Aerion laughs, thinking you’re joking. It’s not the first time he’s thought one of your comments is a joke or a strange way of flirting. You don’t bother correcting him; you’re used to it, and the truth is, you’ve felt uncomfortable and sore since morning. You hoped that after a nap, it would pass. Maybe you’d start listening to the master and stop kneeling to pray, maybe you’d stay in bed like he so desperately wanted.

You and Aerion hadn't even reached the halfway point to their chambers when your water broke. You probably would have panicked if you hadn't seen Aerion's face. You'd never seen him so pale and frightened. To his disbelief, you started laughing.

When he finally reacts, he takes you in his arms and shouts to the servants to find the maester immediately. All this while you keep laughing.

A daughter.

You have a beautiful little girl with five fingers on each hand and foot, with your hair, her father's eyes, and his nose.

And having a girl instead of a boy somehow brings you relief. You weren't worried about which side the coin landed on; you just knew. Your daughter wouldn't end up on the mad side.

“How should we name her?” Aerion asked, sitting on the other side of your bed, looking at you both intently. He had never seen you with such a gentle expression as the one you wore when looking at his daughter. He, too, longed to hold her in his arms again, but he would leave you for a few more minutes. “I want it to be something Valyrian,” he said, making you huff, and in retaliation, he gently tapped your forehead with his finger.

Maekar, who had come to meet his first granddaughter, looked at the three of you. Aerion was still the same spoiled boy, but with you, he showed a softer side he hadn't seen before. Perhaps it hadn't been such a terrible idea to grant Aerion's request to marry you. Perhaps you and your daughter could help make his son even a little better.

"Then it will be Helaena," you said simply. For once, you didn't want to argue, so you would accept a Valyrian name. And the only one you might think of right now that sounded like something common was Helaena.

Aerion frowned instantly. “I’m not going to name my daughter after a woman who killed herself,” he said firmly. Names mattered. What if that name sealed his daughter’s fate?

“What about Rhaenys?” he suggested, much to your disgust. You didn’t want to name her after one of the conquerors who came to usurp the kingdoms.

“Are you stupid? They both ended up dead, murdered,” you said, glaring at your husband.

After moons, Maekar knew the dynamic between the two of you quite well and knew that if he didn't intervene, the argument would never end.

"What do you think of Baela?" he said, drawing both of your attention. He didn't say it aloud, but all three of you knew why he chose that name, which was a kind of tribute to his brother.

Your eyes met Aerion's. And this was one of the rare occasions when you weren't looking at him with annoyance or exasperation, but rather your gaze seemed to speak volumes.

"So, Baela Targaryen is," you said a minute later, looking at your daughter. Although the name didn't sound common, it felt right. "Come, meet your granddaughter, ser," you said, looking at your father-in-law.

Aerion was about to complain, to say that he wanted to hold his baby again. But the words died in his mouth the moment he saw that his father's eyes weren't filled with sadness for the first time in moons. He saw the warmth and pride in Maekar's eyes as he held Baela in his arms.

It's okay, Aerion could let his father hold her for a few minutes. He had the rest of his life to hold Baela.

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[maidragoste]

Unwanted attention

Aerion Targaryen x Fossoway!Reader

It all started with this idea. Honestly, this was one of my favorite fanfics to write, and I plan to continue writing more about this reader and Aerion.

I really hope you like it!

If you do, please don't hesitate to like, comment, and reblog. As I always say, those things motivate me to keep writing🥰🥰💖

My inbox is always open if you want to share your thoughts or ideas <3

My commissions is also open, or if you'd like to support me with a Ko-fi, that would be a huge help too 🥰🤗 (It would really help because I'm still unemployed lol)

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Edit: Now you can read part 2

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

I wish you all a good read!

You would spend the rest of your life regretting playing that stupid match of cyvasse with Prince Aerion Targaryen.

At Ashford Meadow, many people were preparing for the jousts, while others were watching the puppet show or other entertainments, and still others were getting drunk and eating. But you and Prince Aerion were among the group of nobles playing cyvasse.

You watched with boredom as several men lost to the prince. You were sure that some games had genuinely been won by him, but you also knew that many others had been deliberately lost, simply out of fear of hurting the prince's ego and angering him. That's why you offered to be his next opponent.

You saw him smile, thinking he would easily beat you. You made him eat his words, and you instantly noticed a competitive and amused glint in his eyes as the game continued for so long. So long, in fact, that some spectators left.

But in the end, you got the result you wanted; you beat him.

The crowd watched expectantly, awaiting Aerion's reaction.

“A well deserved victory,” said the prince, listening with surprising sincerity…and pleasure?

"Thank you, Your Grace," you said, rising from your seat to make room for your next opponent.

"Wait," Aerion said, taking your wrist. You felt the crowd instantly tense up, some even whispering. Perhaps someone was thinking of coming to your defense, but you didn't need it. "Wouldn't you like to play another match?"

“Perhaps another time, Your Grace,” you said, pulling away from his grip and taking a few steps back. “After all, there are others who want to play with you, and it would be selfish of me to steal your attention.” You couldn't help but feel disgusted with yourself at how much of a bootlicker you sounded. You were grateful your cousin Steffon wasn't there because you knew he would have mocked you. “There are still days until the tournament ends; I'm sure we'll meet again,” you added when you saw he didn't seem happy with your answer. Although, honestly, you were thinking of avoiding him. You had already accomplished your goal of beating him; you didn't want to know anything more about him. You weren't interested in joining the royal family.

“I hope it’s soon, my lady Fossoway,” Aerion said, smiling without showing his teeth, and you simply bowed before hurrying away. Gods, you hoped you could avoid him in the coming days.

Unfortunately for you, it wasn't long before you ran into Aerion again. Just a few hours later, you were dancing in Lyonel Baratheon's tent. One moment, you turned around, and the next, it wasn't Humphrey Hardyng beside you, but Prince Aerion. You were so surprised you almost fell backward, but the prince caught you by the waist before your clumsiness caused an accident on the dance floor.

“Careful,” said Aerion, who seemed amused by your reaction. It annoyed you so much that when he asked you to dance, you stepped on his toes every chance you got until the song ended. You apologized, saying you'd drunk too much wine, and left satisfied, thinking that now Aerion Targaryen would never want to hear from you again.

But you were wrong.

The next time you saw him was the following morning, on the first day of the tournament, when he asked for your favor. You were so surprised that your cousin had to nudge you to snap you out of it. Hesitantly, you gave him your favor. It was one thing to beat him in a game of cyvasse and step on his foot while pretending to be drunk in front of a couple of nobles, and another to reject him in front of everyone.

You weren't proud of giving Aerion your favor; you regretted it instantly after seeing how he played dirty, killing the poor horse and winning the joust only because Humfrey Hardyng broke his leg.

You didn't want to know anything more about Aerion Targaryen, so the next time you met him and he invited you to play another match of cyvasse, you rejected him without hesitation.

"I don't feel like playing cyvasse today. I'd rather watch the puppeteers," you said, and without waiting for a reply, you left him.

What you never imagined was that the prince would come looking for you minutes later and that at that very moment, he would see the dragon puppet being murdered during the play.

For the first time in years, you froze in fear as you watched Aerion harm all the puppeteers and actors. You couldn't do anything to help them.

Just as you couldn't do anything but rant endlessly to your cousin Raymun when, only days later, your father told you that you wouldn't be returning home with them but would instead go to King's Landing because you would become Aerion Targaryen's wife.

You couldn't understand what on earth was going through the Targaryens' heads. Baelor Targaryen had just died, and now they were planning a wedding when they should be in mourning. You didn't know how you were going to survive living with all those freaks.

[marchoiir]

the catastrophe of tomorrow morning 𖹭 aerion targaryen

aerion offers improved behavior and basic human decency in exchange for you canceling your family visit. there are many things he can endure. spending four days away from you is apparently not one of them.

the hour is far too late for this sort of catastrophe.

the castle has long since quieted into the stillness of night, servants retired to their quarters, torches dimmed low along the corridors beyond your chambers. a fire crackles softly nearby, warm enough that the heavy curtains have been drawn back to let the cooler night air drift through the windows.

you sit comfortably atop the bed surrounded by neatly folded garments, carefully arranging what you intend to bring for the short visit ahead while aerion lingers nearby removing rings from his fingers with the weary slowness of a man finally settling after a long day.

he is only half paying attention to you, stretched carelessly across the cushioned chair near the hearth, until you speak in that calm, absentminded tone that changes everything.

"i shall leave after breakfast," you say simply, smoothing a crease from one of your dresses before setting it aside. "i should arrive by nightfall if the roads remain clear."

your voice is so casual, so entirely unconcerned, that for a moment the words do not even seem to register properly with him. then the sound of metal abruptly striking wood echoes through the room as one of his rings slips from suddenly still fingers.

the silence that follows is immediate and unnatural, so heavy that you finally glance up from your packing. aerion is staring at you in complete disbelief.

"you shall what?" he asks carefully, every word measured with the quiet horror of a man being informed of an approaching execution rather than a routine family visit.

his expression remains perfectly still, though only in the dangerous way storms pause before breaking apart the sky. even seated, there is something sharp about the way his shoulders straighten, violet eyes fixed entirely upon you.

you blink once at him, mildly startled by the intensity of the reaction already forming. "to visit my family," you repeat carefully, beginning to suspect you may have made a terrible mistake in timing. "only for a few days."

the words worsen everything.

"a few days," aerion echoes faintly, rising from the chair as though sitting has suddenly become impossible. he repeats it again under his breath like someone attempting to comprehend profound suffering.

"and you neglected to inform me of this before tonight?" there is genuine betrayal in his voice, affront written plainly across every sharp line of his face. one would think you had secretly arranged your own disappearance from the realm itself rather than planned a short visit.

he looks at you as though trust itself has been shattered within these chambers. you stare at him for a long moment, entirely unimpressed by the dramatics already unfolding before you.

"aerion—"

"no," he interrupts immediately, lifting one hand with startling urgency as he begins pacing before the bed. "do not attempt to soften the matter now."

the silver of his hair catches the firelight as he moves, every bit the distressed prince from some overly dramatic tale sung by traveling musicians.

"tomorrow?" he repeats incredulously, turning toward you again with fresh disbelief. "tomorrow?" his hand drags down his face slowly, physically burdened by this revelation.

"you intended to vanish from this castle and only informed me mere hours beforehand. had i not wandered into these chambers tonight, would i have discovered your disappearance through rumor?"

your mouth falls open slightly at the sheer absurdity of it. you remain seated exactly where you are, one dress still half folded in your lap while your husband behaves as though civilization itself is collapsing around him.

the fire continues crackling peacefully nearby in direct contrast to the emotional devastation aerion has apparently chosen to endure.

"i was going to tell you after supper," you reply flatly, watching him pace the room who's searching desperately for reason within chaos.

he stops immediately upon hearing this, offended in entirely new ways. the look he gives you suggests this explanation has somehow deepened the betrayal rather than softened it.

"you should have told me weeks ago."

"it is four days."

"four endless, miserable days."

the sincerity with which he says it nearly destroys your composure entirely. you press your lips together hard in a desperate attempt to maintain seriousness while aerion resumes pacing the room with mounting distress.

there is something deeply entertaining about watching a man feared by the realm unravel over temporary separation.

"and what exactly am i expected to do while you are gone?" he demands suddenly, stopping at the foot of the bed to stare at you accusingly. "speak to people? attend meetings alone? endure the mornings without you there to torment me?" he says it as though these are unimaginable cruelties inflicted upon him personally by the gods themselves. "this castle will become unbearable."

you slowly set aside the garment in your hands. the mattress dips softly beneath your shifting weight as you turn fully toward him, equal parts exasperated and amused.

"you are acting exactly why i did not tell you sooner," you inform him carefully, laughter threatening beneath the words. aerion immediately looks scandalized by the accusation.

"that is nonsense," he says at once, deeply offended by the suggestion.

you gesture vaguely toward the sight of him pacing your shared chambers in emotional ruin. "you are currently behaving as though i announced my permanent exile."

aerion points at you immediately. "because you blindsided me."

the sheer conviction in his voice nearly makes you laugh outright. then, without warning, something changes in his expression. you watch realization strike him in real time. he almost looks like a commander suddenly forming strategy during a battle. the distress remains, certainly, but now determination settles beneath it as well. aerion straightens slightly before narrowing his eyes at you with terrifying seriousness.

"my love—"

"what if i buy you everything? or everyone? anyone?"

the abruptness of it catches you so entirely off guard that you simply stare at him for several seconds in silence. somewhere beyond the windows, the wind stirs softly against stone.

"no, listen carefully," he crosses back toward the bed before lowering himself onto one knee beside it. "jewels. dresses. that necklace you stared at three moons ago and claimed you did not want despite clearly wanting it."

he speaks quickly, fearing you may reject negotiations before hearing the full offer. "i can also become significantly kinder to everyone within this castle." his voice lowers slightly with grave sincerity. "i shall stop threatening the maesters."

"that should not be considered a generous offer."

"i can do more," he insists immediately, leaning closer with the urgency of a desperate negotiator. "i shall tolerate musicians during supper. i shall smile at lords i dislike. i will even permit that dreadful cousin of yours to speak uninterrupted."

he pauses briefly, visibly pained by the enormity of his own sacrifice. "for at least several minutes."

your shoulders begin shaking with restrained laughter. the image alone is enough to undo you completely. your husband nobly suffering through conversation for your sake.

"aerion," you manage through growing amusement, "i am not canceling my visit because you offered basic decency."

his expression falls immediately afterward, so genuinely wounded that it only worsens your laughter. "then my efforts mean nothing to you," he says quietly, sounding devastated beyond reason.

you cover your mouth briefly, trying and failing to compose yourself.

"i can be... sweeter," he presses on desperately, climbing onto the bed beside you hoping proximity itself may strengthen his argument. "or more agreeable. i shall compliment people voluntarily."

he visibly grimaces at the mere thought.

"i shall personally ensure fresh lemon cakes await you every morning for an entire moon."

you finally break fully into laughter then, filling the chambers entirely while aerion watches you with resignation.

"name your price," he says solemnly, taking your hand into both of his with absurd seriousness. "i am prepared to negotiate."

you shake your head slowly, still laughing.

the sight of him sprawled across the bed beside your neatly folded travel things is ridiculous enough already, yet somehow he continues committing himself to the performance.

"i am leaving for four days, not abandoning you forever," you remind him gently once your laughter softens enough to speak clearly again.

aerion exhales heavily before collapsing backward against the pillows with theatrical despair. "to me," he mutters darkly toward the ceiling above, "there is little difference."

you shift closer against the pillows until your shoulder brushes his, your amusement slowly melting into fondness as he immediately reaches for your hand again without thought. his fingers lace through yours, ensuring you cannot disappear before morning arrives.

"why did you not tell me sooner?" he asks again eventually. you glance toward him, already knowing exactly how this answer will be received.

"i told you," you say patiently, squeezing his hand gently, "you would react exactly like this."

aerion immediately opens his mouth to argue. then frowns deeply because he realizes, with great personal offense, that you are entirely correct.

the firelight flickers warmly against the sharp lines of his face while he continues holding your hand with unnecessary firmness, clearly displeased by this entire conversation. then, quite suddenly, his expression changes again.

you recognize the look immediately and dislike it at once. it is the exact face he wears moments before making deeply unreasonable decisions with absolute confidence.

"then i shall come with you," he announces. the statement is delivered with such certainty one would think the matter already settled.

you stare at him for a long moment again, genuinely unsure whether to laugh or throw something at him instead. aerion, meanwhile, appears entirely pleased with himself now that he has clearly solved the problem through sheer brilliance.

"i will leave with you after breakfast," he continues calmly, already planning the arrangement in his head. "the journey will be safer with additional guards. we shall remain there together until you are prepared to return."

"like hell you are."

aerion looks startled by the immediate rejection.

"you are staying here," you continue firmly before he can interrupt, shifting to sit properly upright against the pillows. "you have duties, councils, meetings, and an entire castle depending upon you not abandoning your responsibilities because your wife is visiting her family for four days."

aerion opens his mouth, clearly prepared to argue every single point like always, but you lift one hand sharply before he can begin.

"and while i am away, you will remain here waiting for my letters. that is what you will do."

you have rarely seen a man appear so personally devastated while technically being told to stay inside his own castle.

aerion stares at you as though you have condemned him to isolation atop some freezing mountain rather than instructed him to behave normally for less than a week.

"letters," he repeats faintly, almost hollow with despair. "you expect me to survive entirely on letters. letters?" his voice drops lower with every word until he sounds haunted by the concept. "ink upon parchment. scraps of affection sent across distance."

"oh, stop it."

"no."

the refusal comes immediately. he releases your hand only to collapse again sideways across the bed, one forearm thrown over his eyes. the mattress shifts beneath his weight while you simply sit there watching him in exhaustion.

"this is misery," he mutters toward absolutely no one. "cruelty within my own chambers." he reaches blindly for one of the pillows beside him and drags it over his face. "abandoned by my own wife."

from beneath the pillow comes another muffled complaint. "i shall wither here."

"four days, not four decades."

"no one understands. four days! perhaps longer if the roads turn poor. i may never recover."

you shake your head slowly and reach over to pat the lump of pillow covering his head. aerion immediately grabs your wrist from beneath it, clinging to your hand like a deeply wronged prince facing exile.

"three?"

"no."

"fuck."

"i will be back home before you know i—"

"letters? for four days? truly? letters?"

[louloucake]

gone swimming ༄.°

trailer trash!aerion

-FLUFF, aerion would rather die than step foot in a country club pool, so he drags you to a motel pool on the edge of downtown. an entire afternoon of lazy floating and kisses!, established relationship, class difference themes, soft aerion!! very domestic and in love!! ᥫ᭡

its hot, too hot for a spring day. way too hot. but despite that the country club idea dies immediately.

“absolutely not,” aerion says the second the words leave your mouth.

you blink at him from across the truck seat. “why not?”

“because i’m not goin’ to some rich people pool.”

you laugh. “aerion, they literally would not care.”

“i’m serious,” he says, pointing at you as he drives.

“so where do you suggest we swim then?”

a slow grin spreads across his face.

twenty minutes later you’re staring at a slightly run-down motel pool off the side of downtown.

you look at the flickering vacancy sign, then at him, then back at the pool.

“a motel?”

“there is a perfectly good free swimming pool right here,” he says proudly.

“aerion…”

“what?” he kills the engine. “look at it. nobody’s even here.”

and he’s right. it’s late spring, still warm enough for swimming but not busy season yet. the whole place feels sleepy and quiet. the pool water glitters blue beneath the afternoon sun, completely empty except for a few leaves drifting near the deep end.

“c’mon, duchess.” he nudges your knee. “live a little.”

before you can argue anymore, he’s already climbing out of the truck.

the concrete around the pool is warm beneath your sandals. somewhere nearby, an old ice machine hums lazily.

aerion drops a cooler onto one of the plastic lounge chairs before pulling his shirt over his head in one quick motion.

your breath catches a little despite yourself.

his hair is longer now, dirty blond and sun-lightened at the ends, and the humid air already has pieces of it sticking against his forehead and a silver chain resting against his chest.

he catches you staring immediately.

“what?” he asks with a smirk.

“nothing.”

“mhm.” then he jumps straight into the pool. the splash echoes through the empty courtyard. he resurfaces laughing, slicking his wet hair back. “water’s perfect!”

you walk closer to the edge cautiously while he floats backward, watching you with obvious amusement. “is it cold?” you ask.

“nah,” he lies instantly.

you narrow your eyes. “you hesitated.”

“i did not.”

“you literally did.”

he grins. “baby, just get in.”

you dip your toes in experimentally and gasp. “aerion! it’s freezing!”

“oh my god,” he laughs loudly. “it is not that bad.”

you glare at him while he swims closer, resting his arms on the edge near you. “c’mon,” he says softer now, holding his hands out toward you. “i got you.”

something about the way he says it makes your stomach flip stupidly.

you reach for the straps of your sundress and his expression changes instantly. you peel the dress slowly over your head, revealing the cute little bikini underneath.

for a second he just stares. then he gives you a low whistle.

heat rushes into your face immediately. “don’t make it weird.”

“i’m not makin’ it weird,” he says, still very obviously staring. “you just look really fuckin’ pretty. now come here.”

you try to roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth ruins it. then you jump. the cold hits all at once, stealing the breath from your lungs, but before you can fully panic aerion’s hands are already around your waist, catching you against him as you surface.

“see?” he says, laughing while you cling to him automatically. “you survived.”

the water ripples softly around both of you while sunlight dances across the surface in bright flashes. aerion keeps one arm around your waist while you float there catching your breath.

“you’re holdin’ onto me like i just rescued you from a shipwreck,” he says, grin lazy and pleased.

“i almost died.”

“you jumped into four feet of water.” he laughs softly, head tipping back for a second. wet strands of dirty blond hair cling to his forehead and temples, the sunlight catching against the water rolling down his neck.

you finally loosen your grip on him, pushing lightly against his chest so you can drift backward through the water.

you begin swimming lazily toward the deeper end. the motel pool isn’t very big, but it feels private with nobody else around, the air warm and heavy with late spring heat.

aerion follows after you slowly.

you turn onto your back, floating for a second before asking suddenly, “do you wanna play mermaids?”

he stares at you blankly. “…how the hell do you play mermaids?”

you laugh, pushing wet hair out of your face. “you just pretend.”

he keeps looking at you like you’ve completely lost your mind. you grin and float backward a little through the water. “you’d be a pirate.”

his eyebrows lift immediately. “a pirate?”

“mhm.” you point at him seriously. “and you’re in love with a beautiful mermaid.”

he starts smiling already. “that part sounds accurate.”

“she saves your life during a storm,” you continue dramatically, “and now you’re obsessed with her.”

“obsessed, huh?”

“completely.”

“and what does the mermaid do?”

“she avoids you because pirates are dangerous.”

aerion begins slowly swimming toward you through the water, eyes narrowed with amusement. “dangerous?”

“yes.”

“i think this mermaid sounds judgmental.”

“she’s cautious.”

“right.” he nods thoughtfully. “so if i’m the pirate, what am i supposed to do?”

you shrug innocently. “probably chase the mermaid around.”

his smile widens slowly. “oh, that’s convenient.”

before you can react, he lunges forward through the water toward you. you squeal immediately and shove away from him, swimming toward the other side of the pool while laughing.

you glance back just in time to see him gaining on you easily.

“you’re supposed to be enchanting, remember? right now you’re just splashing me.”

you laugh harder as he catches your ankle underwater for half a second before you kick free again.

“c’mere, mermaid.”

“no!”

“yes!”

you try to swim away again, but he catches up quickly, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you back against his chest while you both nearly go under from laughing.

“captured,” he says proudly.

“this is kidnapping!”

“it is not.” he grins. “it is a very romantic rescue, and the pirate is asking very politely for a kiss.”

you try to look unimpressed despite laughing breathlessly. the sun catches against the water between you, gold reflections dancing across his face while he waits.

you pretend to think about it for a second then kiss him anyway.

he makes a soft satisfied sound against your mouth immediately like he knew you would, one hand sliding up your back while the other keeps you steady in the water. when you finally pull away, he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

after some time, the two of you get lazy with the swimming.

the sun is warmer now, drying little droplets of water across your shoulders every time you drift above the surface. aerion stretches out in the deeper part of the pool, moving slowly through the water while you hang onto him shamelessly.

your arms loop loosely around his shoulders while your legs drift behind you, letting him do all the work.

he glances at you over his shoulder. “so now i’m a floatie?”

“yes,” you say immediately, completely unashamed. you grin and rest your chin against his shoulder while he keeps kicking lazily through the water.

“you’re doing great,” you tell him sweetly.

“thanks baby. means a lot.”

“you’re very strong and brave.”

“mhm?” aerion shakes his head a little, smiling to himself while sunlight flashes across the water around you both.

“you know,” he says after a second, “when i pictured my life this mornin’, i didn’t think i’d end up bein’ used as pool equipment.”

“dreams really do come true.”

every once in a while he dips suddenly just enough to make you squeal and cling tighter to him. “aerion!”

“what?” he laughs. “thought mermaids liked water.”

you tighten your arms around his neck on purpose and laugh softly, hiding your face against his shoulder while he keeps floating through the warm blue water with you wrapped around him like he plans on carrying you forever.

the heat from the sun settles warmly across your shoulders while cool water laps softly around both of you. somewhere beyond the motel fence you can hear distant traffic and the buzz of cicadas starting up in the trees.

aerion lets his head drift back against the water for a second. “work sucked today.”

“what happened?”

“guy came in yellin’ because his truck wasn’t done yet.” he sighs dramatically. “like sorry man, your transmission exploded. that’s not really my fault.”

you smile. “did you yell back?”

“no.” a pause. “not immediately.”

“aerion.”

“what? i was professional.”

“you got into a fistfight at work last month.”

“that was different.”

“how?”

“he started it.”

you laugh softly while he reaches for your wrist, just wanting to touch you somehow.

“what about you?” he asks quieter now. “your week okay?”

you shrug slightly. “my mom keeps asking weird questions.”

“about?”

“life.” you sigh. “school. you. everything.”

his expression shifts a little at that.

“she thinks you’re a bad influence.”

“i am a bad influence.”

“you are not.” you assure him,

he gives you a look. you laugh despite yourself, and he smiles a little at the sound before his expression softens again. “what’d you tell her?”

“that you’re not all bad.”

he actually looks surprised by that. “not all bad?” he repeats like the words feels unfamiliar in his mouth.

“yes, nice.”

his eyes stay on you for a second too long after that. the water moves lazily around your bodies while he absentmindedly rubs his thumb over the inside of your wrist.

you glance at him. “what?”

“nothin’.” he shakes his head slightly. “just… sometimes i forget you got all that pressure on you all the time.”

“you have pressure too. you literally work all the time.”

“yeah, but nobody expects me to become something impressive.” his mouth twists slightly and the sunlight catches in his wet hair.

you don’t know what to say to that. you swim around to face him, still holding onto him, not letting go.

“you know,” he says quieter now, “i don’t really care what your mom says about me.”

“no?”

“nah.” his eyes stay on yours. “long as you still wanna be around me, everybody else can kinda deal with it.”

your chest tightens stupidly at how simple he makes it sound. you look down at the water between you. “you make things sound easy.”

“they should be easy.”

“they aren’t.”

aerion watches you carefully for a second before moving closer, until your bodies brush lightly again beneath the water. “maybe not,” he says softly. “but bein’ with you is the easiest thing i do.”

you kiss him before he can keep going.

his hands tighten instinctively at your waist as he kisses you back, slower this time than before. the water rocks gently around both of you while his mouth stays warm against yours, sunlight flickering behind your closed eyes.

you end up half clinging to each other after that, not really swimming anymore.

just floating together lazily near the center of the pool.

and every once in a while he kisses you again like he can’t help himself.

[louloucake]

Do you think in the early stages of childhood/teenage years tt!Aerion would physically fight Valarr after hearing conversations between the parents about putting reader and Valarr together? 

tt!aerion basically beating up valarr ⋆.˚

yes, absolutely. early tt!aerion would 100% be the type to hear grown-ups talking about “a good match” and immediately decide valarr had to be dealt with. he would not handle it maturely at all. if he caught even a little bit of those conversations about putting you and valarr together, he would get mean about it fast, because in his head that is not some harmless family plan, that is somebody trying to take you from him before you even get a say.

aerion is thirteen, he overhears the adults talking first, not even all of it, just enough. enough to catch words like “good match” and “valarr” and your name said in the same breath and that is all it takes. he gets hot immediately, chest tight, ears ringing, and instead of walking away like a normal kid, he follows valarr out and starts something stupid on purpose.

aerion throwing the first insult, valarr trying to act like he is above it, and aerion hating that even more. valarr says something calm and condescending, probably trying to end it without making a scene, and that is what really sets aerion off. because from aerion’s point of view, valarr does not even have to raise his voice to be unbearable. he just stands there looking composed and smug and like he already knows he is going to win.

so aerion shoves him first.

that is usually how it starts. a hard shove to the chest, a shoulder check, valarr stumbles, looks shocked for half a second, and then says something stupidly polite like “you ought to calm down,” which is basically gasoline on aerion’s temper.

after that it turns into fists. a few good hits and the boys faces are bloody.

the adults pull them apart before it gets truly bad, but by then aerion’s knuckles are split and his face is red and he is still trying to get back at valarr through everybody holding him back.

the second fight is worse because it is older aerion. more muscle, more rage, more resentment built up over years. by then it is not just about one conversation overheard in the hallway. it is about all of it. the promise to valarr, the pressure from your parents, the fact that you and aerion have gone back to each other again and again like neither of you can fully let go. and when valarr starts acting like he has the right to stand between you and aerion, that is it. aerion loses whatever restraint he has left.

valarr says something about “being realistic,” and aerion goes still for a second before stepping in too close. valarr thinks he can handle it, like he expects aerion to yell and storm off the way other people do.

he is wrong.

aerion cracks him with one hard punch and valarr goes down. this time he knows exactly what he is doing. he grabs him, drives him back, gets in his face, says whatever he has been holding in for years about how valarr has no right to you. valarr gets a few good hits in too, because he is not helpless.

and then of course valarr presses charges against aerion.

and that gets him arrested.

he is only truly remorseful once he realizes he made you have to come drag him out of jail, not because he feels like he was wrong for beating valarr up in the first place.

the second he sees you on the other side of that yellow stained little station window, pissed and disappointed, his whole face drops. he goes soft in that stupid puppy-eyed way he gets when he knows he has fucked up with you.

he is immediately apologizing, over and over, pressing his fingers to the glass like that will somehow fix it. “i’m sorry, baby, i’m sorry, i know, i know.” and you are mad at him, because now you have to sign papers and bail him out and deal with the embarrassment of the whole thing, but he is looking at you like a kicked dog.

you stay mad for a little while. maybe long enough to make him squirm. but he follows you around like a shadow, apologizing in that low, miserable voice, and eventually you cave because, well…you love him.

[w1tch-hazel]

The Dragon's Fall

cw: domestic crackfic, sickfic, sick!aerion, fed-up!reader, fluff fluff fluff, whiny!aerion, maybe a little ooc!aerion, wife!reader, husband!aerion, ft. his bullshit armour design ideas

tags: fem!reader x Aerion Brightflame Targaryen, oneshot

a/n: first time writing our lizard boy :P lowkey went a little cuckoo with the word count and once again, sorry about the anachronisms :/

Please leave a comment, like, follow or reblog, it would help me grow my blog :3

other works

Enjoy ۶ৎ

Aerion is sick. Yes. Aerion Brightflame, the dragon amongst men, the monstrous prince, your lord husband—that Aerion. He is sick, and he is a bitch about it.

"For the love of the seven, Aerion, I need to go get your soup." You huff, looking down at the dramatic mess of a man attached adamantly to your waist. He has merely caught a cold, and now, he will not let you get out of bed, away from him, for any reason whatsoever.

"Call a servant to get it, woman." He sniffles quite pathetically, voice nasal and drowsy, muffled into the fabric of your velvet gown.

You deadpan, "It is ten footfalls away."

This only serves for him to hold on to you tighter "Ten too far." He tries to sound menacing, but it comes out as a huffy whine.

"Aerion-"

"I forbid you from abandoning your prince. That is an order."

"I am not abandoning you, you're being ridiculous. You need to eat. Let go of me before the soup freezes over, will you?"

"No."

May The Mother bless Maekar for all his patience because how the fuck does one deal with this?

You manage to free yourself from his grasp with some force, as his strength has greatly decreased since he became afflicted with the common ailment. He lets out an indignant grunt, looking positively betrayed as you take the tray of food from the nearby table and come back to him. You sit down at the edge of the bed, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

Sighing, you let the back of your hand graze his forehead, feeling for the tell-tale sign of fever. Aerion's eyes flutter shut as he leans into your cool touch, and you breathe in relief – his skin is not nearly as warm as you expected.

"Come on, up," You murmur, helping him sit up to eat. He grumbles in protest and glares at you with venom only a true dragon could spew (though it is subdued by the warm flush on his cheeks and the feverish sweat in his hair), but he doesn't disobey.

You take the bowl from the tray and hold up a spoonful in front of his face expectantly. You raise an eyebrow when he doesn't react and instead only looks from the spoon to your eyes – back and forth, as if debating whether his pride is salvageable or if he has none left and therefore might as well give in.

"Open." You urge again, moving the spoon closer, your own lips parting as a reflex to get him to do the same.

Aerion looks away from you and opens his mouth begrudgingly, letting you feed him the warm soup. His expression subtly changes to surprise when he tastes it, then to content, as the soup is delicious—which he did not expect.

"Is it too hot?" You ask in soft concern. He might be an irritating pain in the arse, but he's an irritating pain in your arse.

He shakes his head no and opens his mouth for more, which you provide. He swallows and points out, sounding as vehement as he could in his sickly state. "I would have had the cook's head if it was. The dragon ought never burn."

Your eyes roll on their own, as is the effect your husband has on you. 'Here we go again,' you grumble to yourself mentally. Nevertheless, you spoon-fed him the soup until the silver bowl was empty.

Now that he's much more energetic, having finally got some real food in him, his usual stupidity returns in full force.

He ponders out loud – "Do you think I should get a new helm made? Maybe one with mechanics that would allow me to blow fire onto my oppone—"

"Absolutely not, you will be causing the whole keep to burn to the ground."

He rolls his eyes and mumbles something that sounds almost like 'curse you, woman' under his breath.

You glare at him. "Pardon?"

He glares back. "Nothing."

You wipe his mouth with the corner of your sleeve, perhaps with a little more force than necessary.

He grunts, frowning. "Ow." You only smile sweetly and press a kiss to his cheek, getting up again to put the tray away. This time he doesn't protest, a little dazed and too busy clearing his throat to try and rid himself of phlegm.

You return to his bedside, holding out the small bottle of tonic the Maestars provided for his treatment. Aerion immediately grimaces.

"Oh fuck no."

"Fuck yes, I fear."

You shove the bottle closer to him and shake it in his face with an insistent glare and the kind of look in your eyes that silently conveys that there will be consequences if he does not listen.

He snatches the bottle from you and downs the medicine swiftly, as if taking a shot of firewine. He chokes slightly and makes a retching motion once he swallows and rasps, hand reaching out. "Water, quick." You withhold the goblet out of his reach with a slight smile gracing your lips. "Magic word?"

"Fucking hell, Please, love of my life, if you could be so kind, I'd like a drink or water." He sasses through his petulant disgust.

You smack the back of his head in retaliation but hand him the goblet anyway.

He eagerly gulps it down, cool liquid washing away the putrid bitterness of the medicine. Groaning in satisfaction, he keeps the cup down on the bedside table and looks up at you, as if expecting something.

"What?" You squint, suspicious.

Aerion looks at you as if you've grown two heads. "Uh – my kiss?" He scoffs, as if it's obvious.

"What kiss?"

"You always kiss me after supper." He says it casually, but the words make your heart clench. He's softer than he looks, sometimes.

People whisper nasty things about him. That he's unfeeling, only gaining pleasure from the suffering of others. That he's an entitled brat whose only pastime is cruelty. That he's a monster, sure to burn Westeros to the ground if he ever reaches the throne.

But you know that's not true. You know him, and he's not a monster; he's just a man. Like any real man, he gets sick. Like any real man, he wants a kiss from his lady wife. He's just a man, and he's your man. Even if the entitled brat part is true, and even if he does need a better hobby, he's still yours. You love him dearly, and you know he loves you too, although he has strange ways of showing it.

A loud, wet sneeze startles you, breaking your chain of thought. He blinks, looking surprised himself. You grimace at the sight of his running nose and hand him his handkerchief from the table, taking your own to wipe off his snot on your clothes.

"Eugh," He grumbles, congested, into the silk while rubbing his nose raw. You sigh and leave his side, walking away from the bed towards your vanity and wardrobe, partially to undress for bed and partially to change into something that isn't covered in sweat and snot.

He notices, perking up and frowning as you're halfway across the room. "Where are you going?" Something that seems suspiciously like panic creeps into his tone.

"Just to change, my love." you hum, sorting through your clothes.

He opens his mouth to reply when another sneeze racks through his body. He groans in annoyance as he feels more on the way, and you cringe in secondhand pain. Disappearing into the wardrobe as you search for your favourite nightgown, you try your best to ignore his sneezing in the background. It hurts your heart to see him suffer and not be able to help, but there's little you could do about it at the moment. You find the piece you were looking for and start to unlace the front of your robes. If Aerion were not too busy trying not to tear his nose off in frustration, he would have had his hungry gaze trained on you, but now he almost didn't notice you in the corner of the room,.

You reach behind you, trying to undo the intricate lacing on the back of your clothes, but huff when you are inevitably unable to do so. Usually, your lord husband helps you with this task. His gaze befalls you at that sound, and he frowns, keeping his handkerchief aside to extend his arms towards you. He sniffs. "Let me help."

You tilt your head in concern. "You are not well, Aerion, it is alri—"

"I am merely ill, not dead, you fool." His scowl deepens, and you give in, trudging over to him with a sigh and turning for him to untie the knots. He plants his feet onto the carpet, sitting up on the edge of the bed.

His tongue sticks out in concentration as he works, an adorable detail which you catch in the big mirror by the dresser. The sight makes you smile in adoration. His hands rest on your waist once he finishes, gently turning you to face him. You do, and raise a hand to brush through his spiky, sweat-soaked hair. He hums in satisfaction.

Your smile grows, and you slip out of his arms, back to your closet to change out of the heavy velvet, leaving you in just your underthings.

This time, Aerion was feeling much better, and he leaned back against the headboard with his gaze locked onto you. His eyes held not hunger, but admiration. He seldom let himself think like this. He was... grateful for you, he decided. Seven knows where he'd be if he never met you. You catch his gaze in the mirror and smile. "What?"

"Hm?"

"You're staring."

He scoffs. "Am I not permitted to look at my own lady wife?"

You roll your eyes and shake your head. Ever the dramatic, he is. You slip on the silk nightgown. Yawning, you trudge back to bed, climbing in beside him. Taking care of a sick 20-something toddler is no easy job, as one would find.

You pause, turning your head to ask, "Do you need anything else?" He doesn't speak in response but instead pulls you the rest of the way towards him to lie in his arms.

A contented sigh leaves his lips as you settle against him.

"Wife?" whispers his hoarse voice after a few moments of silence.

"Husband." You hum in response, raising your head from his chest to meet his gaze, your lips twitching to fight a smile.

"You did not give me my kiss." He mumbles, his expression much softer than before, but the grumpy pout remains. You chuckle and lean in, pressing a sweet, lingering peck to his slightly chapped lips. You were probably going to get sick after this, too, but you couldn't care less. Aerion's lips chase yours after you pull away. He kisses you again, a hand coming up to hold the back of your head.

You smile into the kiss, and he finally breaks it, moving his hand to your cheek. "...Good." He murmurs quietly, reverence bleeding through his indifferent tone. Well, reverence by Aerion's standards, anyway.

“Now sleep. Seven knows you need the rest, lest you start talking about commissioning yet another piece of scaled armour,” you grumble teasingly.

Aerion acts like he didn’t hear that and rests his chin on top of your head instead.

“Good Night, wife.” he murmurs into your hair.

"Night." you hum back, eyes already closing.

a/n: thank you for reading <3

updated a/n: Daeron girlies pls check out my news arranged marriage series linked below :3

Masterlist

dividers- @allegedlylonely @honeyluvsw

[maidragoste]

A Worried Husband

Aerion Targaryen x Fossoway!Reader

Summary: Aerion notices how different your second pregnancy is from your first.

Part of the Fossoway!Reader universe. It can be read independently, but I recommend reading the other parts <3

I think this fic explains well the reason why there's an age difference between the twins and Dyanna lol

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Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes.

I hope you all enjoy it!

Aerion is worried. He notices the differences between your first pregnancy and this one. He notices how you seem to be struggling to keep food down, how the maester gave you tea every day to ease the nausea. Not only that, but he sees how you seem more tired this time. You don't fight when the maester or your aunt tells you to rest, when before you would have been indignant and stayed awake just out of stubbornness.

Aerion doesn't tell you he's worried. But he mentions it to the maester and is frustrated when the response is that he shouldn't worry about you, that not all pregnancies are the same. Besides, he shouldn't worry when you're not complaining of any pain. But how could he not be? His once-lively wife was now a woman who spent most of her time in bed or sitting up. Gods, he'd seen how agitated you got the few times you played in the garden with Baela, running after her.

Not satisfied with the maester's opinion, Aerion went to find his father. To reassure him, Maekar brought more maesters to Summerhall for their opinions. Nothing changed; they all seemed to agree that it was normal, that perhaps you were lucky your first pregnancy had been easy, but that now you were experiencing what many women go through. They told the prince he shouldn't worry; one maester even told him he should be happy, that the change was probably because you were now carrying a boy.

The only reason Aerion didn't attack the man was because of the look his father gave him. Aerion may not have physically harmed anyone, but he was quick to dismiss all these maesters for being unhelpful.

Perhaps in another situation, Aerion would have been happy to listen to that man's words and have an heir, but right now, he's only worried about you. He wants to see you well.

“What’s wrong?” you ask one afternoon, lying in bed. Even with your eyes closed, you can feel your husband’s gaze.

“Nothing,” Aerion replies, but he doesn’t sound like his usual self, so you open your eyes.

You meet his eyes, filled with sorrow and worry.

“I’m fine,” you assure him, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “Stop worrying,” you say gently.

“I didn’t say anything,” Aerion immediately defends himself, but he rests his face in your hand and places his own on top of yours, stroking the back of it.

“I’m not stupid,” you say, raising an eyebrow, and Aerion feels a little better hearing the condescending, bossy tone you usually use. “Do you think I wouldn’t find it strange that different maesters suddenly wanted to examine me?” you ask, continuing to stroke his cheek.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” the prince murmurs, and brings your hand to his lips to give it a kiss.

You can't help but soften a little. Not even in your wildest dreams did you ever think of Aerion as anything more than a capricious prince. But your husband is sweet when he wants to be… He's only sweet with you and your daughter.

Not all men care for their wives or love their daughters as much as he does. Gods, you're sure almost no father boasts about his daughter as much as he boasted about Baela.

"I'll be fine," you reassure him gently.

But you eat your words.

You might not be nauseous all the time anymore, and you might be able to eat better. But once the baby starts moving, your nightmare begins.

If you seemed to sleep all the time before, now you couldn't. The baby seemed to be kicking you constantly. You went from being excited to feel the baby move to crying, frustrated by not being able to sleep well. And Aerion started getting frustrated too, not with you, but with the situation. He hated seeing you like this; he'd never seen you cry like this before. The worst part was that he knew he was the one to blame for your state. That's why he was even more short-tempered than usual.

Everyone in Summerhall walked on eggshells around Aerion; no one wanted to be the target of his anger. He seemed to get annoyed by the slightest thing. If his wife was miserable, then the whole castle should be too. He considered it disrespectful that everyone was happy while you suffered.

At first the maester didn't believe you when you said the baby was kicking you all the time, which infuriated you and you concentrated on squeezing Aerion's hand as hard as you could to avoid attacking the maester, but then your husband confirmed it to him, literally both of you had spent the night without sleeping because the child wouldn't leave you alone, and then he came to the conclusion that you must be expecting twins.

“Twins?” you repeat in a high-pitched voice. The maester must be mistaken.

“My lady, it’s impossible for the child to be awake all the time. The only thing I can think of is that there are two.”

“I’ll kill you,” you say, turning to face Aerion as you dig your nails into him. You thought he’d be smiling as proudly as when you told him you were pregnant for the second time, but he looks just as horrified as you do. You don’t feel sorry for him, though.

Sleep should really be affecting you and Aerion, otherwise he wouldn't be talking to your belly as if the children could hear him. But Aerion was desperate after you woke him up again after only twenty minutes of sleep.

"Stop bothering your mother, or you'll be grounded until your twentieth day of life as soon as you're born," Aerion said, stroking your belly. His voice was a little hoarse from sleep, and you could see dark circles starting to form under his eyes. You were sure you'd never seen him so disheveled. If he was like this, you didn't want to imagine how you looked. "Forget about me spoiling you like I do Baela. I'll never make you forget what you made your poor mother suffer."

You must be exhausted because you find yourself laughing at Aerion's nonsense. Your husband relaxes a little when he hears you laugh. It's not your usual laugh, but it's better than seeing you miserable.

But you stop laughing the moment you realize the babies have stopped kicking since Aerion started talking to them. “Aerion, they stopped,” you say, your voice filled with emotion and relief.

And Aerion realizes you're right. “Good, let's take advantage of this and get some sleep,” he says, settling in and pulling you close. But the moment he falls silent and moves his hand away from your belly, you feel movement again.

“Oh no, I'll sleep, and you can keep entertaining these little demons,” you reply, taking his hand and putting it back where it was before. “Talk,” you demand.

“Do you want me to stay awake talking to them?” Aerion asks indignantly, but he still begins to stroke your belly.

“It's not my fault they like your voice,” you reply, already closing your eyes.

“Oh, so you’re saying they prefer me,” Aerion says, and even though you’re turning your back on him, you know the fool is smiling.

“It doesn’t bother me as long as I can sleep,” you scoff.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Aerion says, kissing your shoulder. But he stops trying to argue with you and focuses on talking to the babies.

You end up falling asleep while listening to Aerion talk about Valyrian history. And from that night on, it becomes part of your routine to fall asleep while listening to your husband's voice telling stories of his lineage or talking about his day, complaining about some lord, or boasting about how well he fought in the parade ground.

Aerion's sleep schedule isn't perfect, but it doesn't bother him much because now you're always by his side. He can hug you and touch your belly in public without you complaining. Aerion has never felt so needed by you as he does now. It seems he's the only person who can calm such restless babies.

All Aerion hoped for was that the twins wouldn't be so terrible once they were born.

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[citrusdarling7]

Imagine meeting modern au aerion on love island LMAOAOAOAOO

Oh my god this is the best request everrrr! Wasn’t planning on watching the new season because I can never watch on time and coworkers always spoil it for me, but now I might have to! Here’s my thoughts:

First of all, the chances of Aerion even getting on the show are low. As soon as his casting gets announced, his brothers, ex-girlfriends, and probably even his father would be contacting TMZ with problematic videos of him in hopes that he gets removed

Aerion ONLY wears red or black swim trunks with the Targaryen house crest on them. Some older members of his family are upset that he would disgrace their house with an appearance on such a scandalous dating show, but he gives zero fucks.

In the first coupling up ceremony, Aerion would absolutely be first pick if the ladies had the choice during that season. His family name, perfect body, and nonchalant attitude would make him seem so mysterious

He would absolutely be the main villain of the season. In fact, that would be his game plan from the get-go. If there was a female villain, I could see him not liking being paired with her because she takes the attention away from him. 

You enter as a Bombshell in week 4, and Aerion is immediately so down bad. He’s sick of all the other Islander’s bullshit. You chose to pair up with someone else initially, but he ensures he is paired with you by constantly talking about you, allowing the camera to catch him staring in your direction, and talking shit about the man you’ve paired up with.

During a kissing challenge, Aerion causes drama by refusing to complete it with his partner and insisting on you. The kiss goes on much longer than needed, his tongue prodding at your mouth and teeth biting down on your bottom lip as he pulls your head closer to his and pushes his knee in between your legs.

The viewers are so enticed by this, that they vote to pair the two of you up, whilst eliminating your previous partner.

The two of you get sent to the Hideaway, and things get steamy quick. So much so that the majority of the footage cannot be shown, but viewers take note of the hickeys scattered across your neck and collarbones when you leave the next morning.

During Casa Amor week, the producers keep trying to pair Aerion with a new girl, but he makes it clear that he isn’t interested. In the ladies Villa, you are paired up with a charming new suitor who the viewers begin to ship you with, but this doesn’t last long

Aerion bribes an assistant producer to use his phone, then sends out inflammatory tweets about your new bae, which go insanely viral. Surely enough, he is voted out and Aerion has you all to himself again.

The two of you are once again solidified as fan-favorites, and the envelopes handed to you during the final episode. Aerion gets the grand prize, you the blank card. He passes his envelope to you, loudly stating that he doesn’t need money from this “stupid TV show”. 

He got what he was really after, a pretty girl on his arm and public attention. The press goes insane once they realize that the two of you do in fact stay together after the show, and a large diamond ring appears on your finger less than three months after filming ends

(Daeron watched every single episode, originally with the intention to vote Aerion out every single week. But he slowly starts to root for the two of you after the Hideaway.)

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Clandestine Meetings

Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Aerion's lady wife keeps sneaking out of their bedchamber at night. Aerion is determined to find out why. Can be read as a oneshot. Can be read as a chapter in Growing Strong series. Set after Growing Familiar but before Deep in the Meadow.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, breeding kink, power imbalance, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas. Dual pov?

The first months of your marriage to Aerion Targaryen, he bedded you every night without fail. It did not matter if you were tired from a day of riding or bored from hours of needlework or still irritated from some sharp word he had thrown at you over dinner. It did not matter if you drifted off before he even finished unlacing his breeches. Aerion Targaryen took what he wanted, and what he wanted, night after night, was you.

The first time you fell asleep before he came to bed, exhausted from a long day of travel, your body aching from the saddle, you woke to the feeling of his hands on your thighs, pushing your nightdress up to your waist. The room was dark, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth, and his silver hair gleamed like moonlight as he knelt between your legs.

"Aerion," you mumbled, still half-asleep. "What are you..."

"Hush." His fingers found your center, stroking with practiced patience. "Go back to sleep if you like. I will be quick."

You did not go back to sleep. You could not. His touch was too skilled, too knowing, drawing moisture from your body despite your exhaustion. When he finally pushed inside you, your back arched off bed and a broken moan escaped your lips.

"Shh," he breathed, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm. "There you are. My sweet wife. My soft, warm, perfect wife. Just let me take what I need. You do not have to do anything."

And you did not. You lay there, drowsy and pliant, while he chased his pleasure in your body. His hands gripped your hips, tilting you to the angle he preferred, and his violet eyes were fixed on your face, watching every flicker of expression that crossed your features. When he finished, spilling inside you with a low groan, he pulled out slowly and pressed a kiss to your belly.

"A son," he murmured against your skin. "Give me a son, my sweet rose."

Then he gathered you against his chest, pulled the furs over you both, and fell asleep with his face buried in your hair.

This became your routine. Every night, without fail, Aerion took his pleasure from your body. And every night, you fell asleep immediately afterward, your body spent and satisfied, sleeping through until morning like a babe in a cradle.

He had to wake you each day by smacking your arse. A sharp, stinging slap that jolted you from sleep with a yelp and a flurry of tangled limbs.

"Aerion!" you protested, rubbing the smarting flesh. "That is not a proper way to wake one's wife."

"You do not wake to gentle words," he pointed out, already dressed and immaculate, his silver hair pulled back from his face. "I have tried. I have whispered endearments. I have kissed your brow. I have called your name a dozen times. You sleep like the dead, wife. Only pain rouses you."

"It is not pain. It is...surprise. And indecency."

"Call it what you like." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, brief and almost tender. "You are awake now. The day awaits. I have duties, and you have whatever it is you do when I am not bedding you."

You restrained yourself from glaring at him. He could only tolerate so many complaints until he turned insufferable in return. You had learnt to pick your battles. You had also learnt that if you slipped out of the role of the charming wife, the lovely lady Tyrell, instead of figuring out you had never wanted to play the part of his wife in the first place, he'd think you were deeply upset about this one particular thing and he'd fixate on it. So you rose, and you dressed, and you went about your day, and at night he came to you again.

Nothing deterred him. Not your moon blood, you had been mortified the first time, stammering apologies and trying to push him away, but he had only laughed.

"The wetness is different," he had said, his voice dark with fascination. "Hotter. Slicker. I like it." And he had taken you anyway, slower than usual, watching the evidence of your body paint his length with each withdrawal. Afterward, he had kissed your belly and wished for a son, same as always, utterly unbothered by the blood that stained the sheets.

Not even your fights deterred him. If anything, they made him more ravenous. The night you quarreled over some petty thing, you could not even remember what, some slight or sharp word that had spiraled into shouted accusations, you had retreated to your chambers expecting a night of cold silence. Instead, he had come to you with fire in his violet eyes, spun you around, bent you over the bed, and taken you from behind with a ferocity that left you gasping.

"You are all the more delicious when I am angry," he had panted against your ear, his hips slamming into you with bruising force. "My sweet rose. My infuriating, stubborn, impossible wife. I should hate you. I should cast you aside. Instead, I cannot stop wanting you. Cannot stop needing you. What have you done to me?"

You had no answer. You could barely form words, too consumed by the pleasure and pain of his possession. When he finished, he had pulled you upright against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck.

"I do not wish to fight," he had whispered, so quiet you almost did not hear. "I do not know how to stop. But I do not wish to fight with you."

And then, because he was Aerion and could not let tenderness stand unadorned, he had smacked your arse and sent you stumbling toward the bed. "Sleep. I will wake you in the morning."

You had fallen asleep within moments, as always, and slept through until his hand connected with your rear at dawn.

That was simply how things were for some time.

You began to build stamina. Your body, accustomed to his nightly attentions, no longer collapsed into exhausted slumber the moment he spent himself inside you. You still fell asleep before him, Aerion had always been a restless sleeper, prone to lying awake and staring at the canopy while his mind churned, but you no longer passed out like a candle snuffed.

One night, however, Aerion woke in the small hours of the morn and found the space beside him empty.

He assumed you had returned to your own chambers. It was not unusual, you kept your own rooms, as was proper for a lady of your station, though you spent nights in his bed. Perhaps you had needed something. A different gown. A book. A ribbon for your hair. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

But it happened again. And again. And again.

The third time, he mentioned it over breakfast. "You left last night."

You looked up from your plate, your brow furrowed. "Did I?"

"You did. I woke and you were gone. Did you need something from your chambers?"

You blinked, clearly confused. "I...do not recall. I must have been half-asleep. I am sorry if I disturbed you, husband."

He let it go. But the fourth time, and the fifth, and the sixth, he began to wonder.

"You left again," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Three nights this week. Where do you go?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about." Your eyes were guileless, your expression genuinely bewildered. "I sleep through the night, my love. You know this. You are the one who complains about having to smack me awake each morning."

He studied your face for any sign of deception. He found none. But Aerion Targaryen had been raised in the Red Keep before Summerhall, had survived the viper's pit of court politics, had learned to see lies even when they wore the most innocent of faces. His wife was a Tyrell. She had been trained in deception since birth. If anyone could lie to him convincingly, it was her.

The suspicions only began to grow, curling through his mind like poison ivy. She was leaving his bed in the night. She claimed not to remember. Where was she going? What was she doing?

His mind, ever prone to darkness, supplied answers that made his stomach clench.

A lover. She was sneaking off to meet a lover. Some handsome knight, perhaps, or a lord's son with a pretty face and gentle manners. Someone who was not cruel and sharp and difficult. Someone who could give her soft words and tender touches instead of games and barbs and rough handling. He could not think about it without murderous rage. He could only imagine all the painful ways he would kill the man.

Not a lover, mayhaps, but conspirators. She was a Tyrell. The Tyrells had been loyal to the Targaryens during the Blackfyre Rebellion. Leo Tyrell won notable victories in the Reach against Daemon Blackfyre's supporters, though his forces were unable to gather quickly enough to arrive in time for the battle of the Redgrass field. But loyalties shifted with every harvest in the Reach. Perhaps she was meeting with agents of her house, passing along secrets, plotting against him. Perhaps their entire marriage had been a scheme from the beginning, a way to place a Tyrell close to the throne, close to Summerhall, close to his father Maekar.

Perhaps, and this thought hurt most of all, she simply did not truly love him. Perhaps she left his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. Perhaps she waited until she thought he was asleep and then fled to her own chambers, where she could breathe freely without his suffocating presence.

Aerion did not sleep that night. He lay beside her, listening to her soft breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She looked peaceful in sleep. Innocent. Beautiful. When he finally drifted off, his dreams were troubled.

The next morning, he smacked her arse to wake her, same as always. She yelped and swatted at him, same as always. But when she smiled at him over breakfast, he found himself searching her face for signs of guilt, for evidence of betrayal. He found nothing. She was either innocent or a very, very good liar.

That night, he decided he would catch her.

He feigned normalcy. He unlaced her gown with practiced ease, as he always did. He kissed her throat and her breasts and the soft curve of her belly, as he always did. He took her slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, until she was gasping and clutching at his shoulders and crying out his name. Afterwards, he pressed his lips to her belly, just below her navel.

"A son," he murmured against her skin. A tradition by now, a ritual, his way of sayinga prayer. "Give me a son, my sweet rose. A strong son. A dragon."

He paused. Something caught in his throat, words he had rarely spoke aloud, words that terrified him more than any battle or tourney ever could.

"I love you," he whispered, so quiet that he was not sure she heard. "Even if it causes me pain to say it. Even if I cannot admit it when you are awake to hear. I love you, and I cannot...I cannot lose you. I cannot bear the thought of you slipping away in the night, going somewhere I cannot follow, seeking something I cannot give."

He fell silent. She did not stir. Her breathing was slow and even, her face peaceful in sleep.

He pretended to sleep. Hours passed. The candle burned down to a stub. The fire in the hearth faded to embers. Aerion lay still, his breathing deliberately slow, his eyes cracked open just enough to see the room in shades of grey and shadow.

In the deepest part of the night, she moved.

He watched through squinted eyes as she sat up slowly, her movements strangely fluid, almost mechanical. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a long moment, utterly still. Then she rose, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. She found her slippers, felted wool, soft and quiet, and slid them on. She found her robe, a heavy thing of green velvet, and wrapped it around her shoulders.

She did not look at him. She left the bedchamber.

Aerion counted to ten, his heart pounding. Then he threw back the furs and followed.

He kept to the shadows. He had learned to move silently through corridors patrolled by guards and servants and spies. Trailing his wife through Summerhall was child's play.

She went first to her own chambers. Aerion's heart seized, this was it. She was meeting someone. A lover hidden in her rooms. A conspirator waiting in the dark.

But she did not stop. She passed through her chambers without pausing, movements unhurried, and continued through a side door that led to the gardens.

The gardens. Of course. A secret meeting among the roses. How fitting for a Tyrell.

Aerion followed, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. The night air was cool and sweet, heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers. Moonlight silvered the paths and the fountains and the carefully tended beds of roses, red and gold, the colors of his house and hers intertwined.

She walked. And walked. And walked.

No one met her. No shadow detached itself from the hedges. No whisper greeted her from the darkness. She simply walked. Around the fountain. Down the rose path. Past the marble bench where they sometimes sat together in the afternoons. Her steps were slow and aimless, her arms loose at her sides.

Aerion watched her for what felt like an eternity, his confusion mounting. What was she doing? Where was she going? Why was she... She turned a corner and nearly walked directly into a rose bush, its thorns gleaming in the moonlight. Aerion moved before he could think. He strode forward, caught her arm, and pulled her back from the thorns. She did not resist. She did not react at all.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice too loud in the quiet garden. "Where are you going? Who are you meeting? Tell me now, wife, and I may yet show mercy..."

She did not answer. She did not even look at him. Her eyes were closed.

Aerion's words died in his throat. He stared at her face: peaceful, serene, utterly unaware of his presence. Her lips were moving, forming words too soft to hear. He leaned closer, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.

"...roses need pruning," she was mumbling, her voice distant and dreamy. "The red ones first. Grandmother always said red roses first. Then gold. Then the path to the fountain..."

She was not meeting a lover. She was not conspiring against him. She was not fleeing his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. His poor, sweet wife was sleepwalking.

Relief crashed over him like a wave, so intense it left him dizzy. He stood there in the moonlit garden, holding his sleeping wife's arm, and laughed: a shaky, breathless sound that was half-sob.

But the relief faded quickly, replaced by a new and different fear.

She could have walked into that rose bush. She could have torn her skin on the thorns, could have bled into the garden soil while he lay sleeping in their bed, oblivious. She could have fallen into the fountain and drowned. She could have wandered out of the gardens entirely, into the darkness beyond, where anything might have happened to her.

She could have been hurt. She could have died. And he would have woken in the morning to an empty bed and no explanation.

His grip on her arm gentled. He stepped closer, sliding his hand down to clasp hers.

"Come," he said softly, though she could not hear him. "Come back to bed, my sweet rose. You are safe. I have you."

She did not respond, but she did not resist when he turned her gently and began to lead her back toward the castle. Her feet moved automatically, following his guidance, her face still peaceful and blank.

As they walked, Aerion's mind raced with plans.

He would have to lock the bedchamber doors at night to keep her safe. He would put the key somewhere she could not find while asleep. Under his pillow, perhaps. Or around his neck on a cord.

He would have to put away all sharp things. The letter opener on his desk. The small knife he used for cutting fruit. Her sewing scissors. Anything she might stumble upon in her dreaming wanderings.

He had heard, somewhere, that a wet cloth placed on the floor beside the bed could help wake sleepwalkers. The shock of cold on bare feet, jarring them from their dreams before they could wander far. He would have the servants place one on her side of the bed each night. He would check it himself before they slept.

He would protect her. He would keep her safe. He would not lose her to something as absurd as a sleepwalking accident.

They reached his bedchamber. He guided her inside, closed the door behind them, and made a mental note to have a new lock installed in the morning. A sturdy one. One she could not open without a key.

He led her to the bed and eased her down onto the bed. She went willingly, her body limp and pliant, already sinking back into deeper sleep. He lifted her legs onto the bed, arranged the furs over her, and stood looking down at her for a long moment.

Her face was peaceful. Beautiful. Utterly unaware of the terror she had put him through. He climbed into bed beside her and pulled her against his chest. She mumbled something unintelligible and burrowed closer, her hand fisting loosely in his nightshirt.

"I will keep you safe," he whispered into her hair. "I will do whatever I must. You will not wander where I cannot follow. You will not come to harm."

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

a/n: This was a random fic but I missed Growing Strong!Aerion hehe. I had the last chapter of the series, named Valyrian Legacy, typed up. Then I realised it sucked so now I'm going to do it in a completely different format. I now understand how George R. R. Martin feels about finishing his book.

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[catbayunthestoryteller]

Road Trip

Aerion Targaryen x f!reader - modern AU

Warnings: smut, feeling carsick.

The invitation for the road trip had arrived in the group chat with all the subtlety of a royal decree. Valarr had simply stated, Road trip. King’s Landing to Summerhall and back again. Three days. My car. Don't let me know last minute. You had stared at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen, calculating the potential for disaster. The cast of characters was, to put it mildly, concerning.

Valarr, the eldest of the Targaryen cousins, was the designated Responsible One, a title he wore like a slightly-too-tight crown. He was bringing his girlfriend, Kiera, from Tyrosh, a girl whose social media presence was a perfectly curated gallery of sunsets, lattes, and designer handbags, and whose personality in person was just as organised. Then there was Daeron, Aerion’s older brother, a gentle soul who possessed the supernatural ability to fall asleep anywhere, anytime, as if life itself was a lullaby. And finally, there was Aerion.

Aerion Targaryen. Even his name was an ostentatious provocation. He was the designated Problem Cousin, the one who always seemed to be smirking at a private joke that involved the universe and its deep, personal failure to impress him. He was all sharp, beautiful angles and a languid grace that made your stomach do irritating, traitorous flips. You’d crossed paths with him at family gatherings Valarr had dragged you to, you were an honorary cousin by virtue of a decade of loyal friendship, and each interaction had been a minor skirmish. He’d bait you, you’d snap back, and he’d smile that slow, infuriating smile as if you’d just performed a particularly amusing trick.

Three days in a confined space with him felt like a gauntlet thrown down by a cruel and indifferent universe. Still, King’s Landing at the end of it, and a chance to see the famed music festival at Summerhall, was too good to pass up.

The morning of departure dawned bright and unforgiving over the old, grey-stone edifice of Summerhall, the Targaryen summer estate that was now more of a glorified historical monument with dodgy plumbing. Valarr’s car, a sleek, obsidian-black SUV that smelled of leather and Kiera’s expensive perfume, was idling in the gravel driveway. Valarr was naturally at the wheel, a captain surveying his ship. Kiera slid into the passenger seat with practiced ease, immediately connecting her phone to the sound system.

You and Daeron were consigned to the back, with Aerion taking the spot behind the driver. The first hour was a symphony of Kiera’s aggressively upbeat pop playlist, a synthetic barrage of bubblegum choruses and auto-tuned declarations of love. Daeron’s head was already lolling against the window, his breathing evening out into the soft, steady rhythm of the deeply unconscious. You, however, were starting to feel the familiar, queasy roll in your stomach. Reading was out of the question. Looking at your phone made it worse. You were left to stare fixedly at the horizon, a sheen of cold sweat beading on your forehead.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Aerion observing you, his purple eyes, a genuine, startling Targaryen violet, not the cheap contacts people wore on social media and debated whether it was cultural appropriation, narrowed with something that looked suspiciously like concern. He said nothing, but you felt his gaze on you.

By the time Valarr pulled into a service station for fuel and overpriced coffee, you practically fell out of the car, gulping the fresh, petrol-tinged air like a drowning woman. You were leaning against the cool metal of a petrol pump, eyes closed, when a shadow fell over you.

“You look like death warmed over,” Aerion’s voice drawled. You didn’t even open your eyes.

“Go away, Aerion.”

“Motion sickness,” he stated, as if diagnosing a fascinating disease. “Pathetic. All your bile rising because your eyes and your vestibular system can’t agree on what’s happening. I’ll drive next.”

Your eyes snapped open. “Valarr won’t let you. It’s his car.”

“Valarr is so pathologically responsible he’s been driving for longer than is strictly safe. He needs a break, he just won’t admit it. And I’m a phenomenal driver.” He smiled, a slash of white in his sharp, handsome face. “Besides, when I drive, you’re sitting in the front. The horizon is the best fix for your pathetic problem. That, and Kiera’s musical abominations will be firmly relegated to the backseat where they belong.”

The sheer, unexpected logic of it stunned you into silence. Before you could formulate a retort, he was sauntering over to Valarr, his posture a study in nonchalant authority.

You saw Valarr’s initial frown, his instinctive shake of the head, and then Aerion’s low, persistent murmuring. Finally, Valarr sighed, a long-suffering exhalation of breath, and tossed the keys to his cousin.

Kiera was less easily persuaded. “Absolutely not,” you heard her say, her voice high and sharp. “I’m his girlfriend. I sit in the front.”

“Kiera, my sweet,” Aerion purred, his voice dripping with a venomous charm. “Your dedication to aural torture is an act of war against humanity. Our dear friend here is turning the shade of a Dornish olive. She gets the front, she doesn’t get a choice, and you can deafen Daeron all you like. He’s practically comatose. It’s a victimless crime.”

Before Kiera could launch a full-scale offensive, Valarr placed a placating hand on her arm. “It’s just for a bit, love. Let’s not have anyone vomit on the leather.” Defeated, Kiera huffed and threw herself into the backseat, her perfectly glossed lips set in a mutinous pout.

You climbed into the passenger seat, still slightly bewildered. The cabin felt different from this vantage point. Aerion adjusted the seat, the mirrors. He pulled out of the service station with a smooth, controlled confidence that was, you had to admit, a stark contrast to Valarr’s more cautious, rule-abiding style. He wasn’t speeding, but he drove with a fluid grace, weaving through the slower traffic on the Kingsroad with effortless ease.

And he was right. From the front seat, the nausea receded. You could breathe.

“Better?” he asked, his voice low, not looking at you. His eyes were fixed on the road, the late-morning sun catching the silver-gold of his hair.

“Much,” you admitted, the word tasting like a surrender.

“Good,” was all he said, but the corner of his mouth twitched. From the backseat, Kiera’s pop playlist was now a muffled, tinny warble, and Daeron had, miraculously, remained asleep, his head now resting against Kiera’s rigid shoulder. She looked like a cat that had been forced into a bath.

When Valarr took over driving duties again after lunch, a sense of normalcy resumed. Kiera was reinstated in her rightful throne, her mood visibly improving as she queued up a new, even more aggressively cheerful album. You were back in the familiar, queasy territory of the backseat, with Aerion sliding in next to you.

This was when the real torment began. Not from the nausea, which was a dull, persistent throb, but from Aerion. He had an uncanny ability to fill the space he occupied. He didn’t just sit next to you; he loomed, a constant, crackling presence. He’d lean in, his breath a warm ghost on the shell of your ear, just to make a disparaging comment about a song Kiera was playing, so quiet only you could hear.

“If I hear one more synthetic drum beat, I’m grabbing Valarr to make him swerve into oncoming traffic,” he whispered, his lips almost brushing your skin. A shiver, entirely unrelated to nausea, skittered down your spine.

“Don’t do that,” you hissed.

“What? Whisper? Would you rather I broadcast my suicidal ideation to the whole car? Kiera would just play something by an artist with a name made of punctuation marks in response. It would make it worse.”

He was an incessant, maddening pest. He’d comment on the passing scenery in a running, low murmur: scathing critiques of a cow’s posture, a conspiracy theory about a lone farmhouse, a sudden, recitative poem about a particularly ugly roadside billboard. He plucked at a loose thread on your sleeve, his fingers brushing your arm with a deliberate, fleeting touch. He’d find a barely-there smudge on the window and lean across you to point it out, his scent filling your senses.

“Do you ever stop?” you finally ground out, turning your head to glare at him. Your faces were inches apart. His violet eyes were alight with mischief, a dancing, silver fire.

“No,” he said simply. “Not when something is this entertaining. Your jaw gets so tight when you’re annoyed. It’s like watching a very stubborn clam.”

“I am not a clam.”

“Prove it. Unclench.”

“I swear to the gods, Aerion…”

And yet, underneath the annoyance, a bewildering puzzle was taking shape. He wasn’t just needling Valarr, or showing off. His entire, irritating focus was trained on you.

It was in the way his eyes would find yours in the rearview mirror when you leaned forward to talk to Valarr. It was in the way he’d offer you his unopened bottle of water without a word, a silent replacement for your own warm one.

A few weeks ago, at a disastrous garden party at the Red Keep, you’d had one too many Dornish reds and lamented to anyone who would listen, which had turned out to be Daeron’s sympathetic ear, that boys were a confusing, alien species and that you were clearly broadcasting some sort of universal ‘Do Not Date’ signal. You’d been mortified to see Aerion leaning against a pillar nearby, a glass of his own wine held loosely in his hand, a strange, inscrutable look on his face. You’d assumed he was just silently judging your pathetic romantic history.

Now, in the close, quiet hum of the SUV, with the afternoon sun streaming in and Daeron’s soft snores as a soundtrack, Aerion leaned in again. But this time, his whisper wasn’t a joke.

“You know,” he murmured, his gaze intense, holding yours. “For a girl who keeps lamenting her inability to be noticed, you are phenomenally, spectacularly blind.”

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks. Before you could ask, before you could even breathe, he leaned back into his own seat, turned his head to stare out the window, and didn’t say another word for the next fifty miles. His silence was even louder than his whispers.

The inn Valarr had booked was a place that promised old-world charm and delivered it in the form of creaking floorboards and the faint, persistent smell of woodsmoke. The dinner was a loud, chaotic affair, with Valarr and Kiera bickering lovingly over the itinerary for the next day, Daeron valiantly trying to stay awake through his soup, and Aerion picking at his food, contributing only the occasional sardonic, devastatingly accurate observation. You were quiet, the echo of his words in the car still thrumming in your chest. Spectacularly blind. It felt like an accusation, a challenge, and a confession all at once.

Room keys were distributed. Valarr and Kiera, one room. Aerion and Daeron, another. And you, blissfully, mercifully, a single. Your room was small and cozy, tucked under the eaves, with a sloping ceiling and a window that looked out over the dark, silent expanse of woods. You went through the motions of getting ready for bed, washing your face, pulling on your softest, oldest pajama shorts and a tank top. But sleep was a distant, unreachable shore. You lay in the lumpy bed, staring at the moon cast shadows on the ceiling, replaying every touch, every whisper, every loaded glance from the day. Your back ached, a dull, persistent knot between your shoulder blades from the hours of being tensed up in the car.

It was close to midnight when the knock came. A soft, insistent rap of knuckles on the old wood of your door. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew who it was before you even got out of bed. You padded across the cold floor and opened the door a crack.

Aerion stood in the dim hallway, a picture of disgruntled misery. He was wearing a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants and a faded band t-shirt, his silver-gold hair an unruly mess. He looked nothing like the perfectly coiffed, arrogant heir. He just looked annoyed. And unfairly beautiful.

“Daeron,” he said, as if the name were a curse, “is a violent sleeper. He kicks. He’s currently executing a spinning back-kick in his dreams and has taken possession of the entire duvet. It’s a crime scene. Scoot over.”

It wasn’t a question. You were too tired, too sore, and too full of nervous, electric energy to argue. You opened the door wider, and he slipped inside, filling the small, quiet space with his restlessness. You climbed back into the narrow bed, clinging to the far edge, and pulled the covers up to your chin. He walked to the other side, and with a heavy, world-weary sigh, he lay down on his back on top of the duvet, his hands folded over his stomach, staring at the ceiling.

“My back is killing me,” you mumbled into the dark, a pathetic offering to break the tense silence. “I must have slept on it wrong in the car.”

He turned his head on the pillow to look at you, his profile etched in the silver moonlight. “Where?”

“Between my shoulder blades. It’s just a knot.”

“Roll over,” he commanded.

Your breath hitched. “What? No.”

“Don’t be a child. Roll over. I’m an expert. I have a horse,” he said, as if that explained everything.

With a defeated sigh, partly born of genuine pain and partly of a morbid, dizzying curiosity, you shifted onto your stomach, hugging the pillow. The bed dipped as he moved, and then you felt the heat of him as he sat beside you. His hands, when they landed on the bare skin of your shoulders, were warm and surprisingly gentle. His thumbs found the epicenter of the pain, a knot of pure, knotted steel right next toyour spine, and pressed.

A gasp, half-pain, half-relief, escaped you. He worked in silence for a moment, his touch firm and knowledgeable, kneading the tension away with deep, circular strokes. His fingers were long and deft, and they seemed to know exactly where to apply pressure. The pain began to dissolve, replaced by a spreading, liquid warmth that was far more dangerous.

Then, his touch changed. It was no longer therapeutic. His hands stopped their firm, purposeful kneading and began to wander. A slow, exploratory slide of his palms down the sides of your ribcage, just over the thin cotton of your tank top. The pads of his fingers traced the knobs of your spine, one by one, in a slow, reverent descent. The air in the room thickened, charged with an unspoken question.

“Aerion…” you breathed into the pillow, your voice a shaky, muffled thing. It was meant to be a protest, but it sounded like a plea.

His hand stilled on the small of your back. Then, he shifted his weight. You felt him move, leaning over you, his body a wall of heat along your side. One hand came up to gently brush the hair away from your neck. His lips, when they pressed against the sensitive skin just below your ear, were searing.

“You are,” he murmured against your skin, punctuating each word with a soft, deliberate kiss along your jawline, “the most. Infuriatingly. Blind. Woman. I have. Ever met.”

And then he was kissing you. Properly. He turned your head with a finger under your chin, and his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t a gentle, tentative first kiss. It was demanding, a kiss that had been waiting to happen all day, maybe for years. It tasted of frustration and sharp, silver fire.

You melted into it, a gasp swallowed as your lips parted, your body betraying every sensible thought you’d ever had. You twisted around to face him, your arms snaking up around his neck, your fingers tangling in the fine, soft hair at his nape.

The kiss deepened, a frantic, desperate tangle of tongues and breath. He made a low sound in his throat, a sound of pure triumph, and his body pressed you down into the mattress.

His hand, which had been resting on the curve of your hip, began a slow, torturous migration downwards. It slid over the flimsy material of your pajama shorts, his fingers tracing the crease where your thigh met your hip, and then, with a devastating pressure, he ground the hard, unmistakable length of his erection against your thigh.

A choked moan was lost in his mouth. He swallowed it greedily, his body a delicious, heavy weight against yours. He was all heat and hard muscle, and the friction of the thin layers of clothing between you was a sweet, agonizing torment. He rocked against you, a slow, sinuous rhythm, his mouth never leaving yours, his tongue emulating the motion of his hips.

His hand slipped from your hip to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers teasing the bare skin of your stomach just above it. A question, a final, silent request for permission. You arched your back in answer, a silent, desperate yes. His hand slipped inside, his long fingers delving through the thatch of curls to find your slick, aching core. You were soaked, embarrassingly, gloriously wet, and the knowledge of it only seemed to inflame him further. A ragged groan tore from his chest.

He swallowed the sound of your sharp cry as one deft finger, then two, slipped inside you, curling upwards to stroke a spot that made stars detonate behind your eyes. All the while, the heel of his hand ground against your clit, a steady, brilliant pressure.

He drank down every whimper, every frantic, half-formed moan, as if they were fine wine. He played you like an instrument he’d mastered a lifetime ago. The world shrank to the feel of his hand, his mouth, his heavy, wanting weight. You were climbing, hurtling towards a shattering peak, when he suddenly tore his mouth from yours and his hand stilled.

His forehead was pressed against yours, his chest heaving, his violet eyes black with dilated pupils in the dim light. His expression was a mask of agonized frustration.

“Fuck,” he swore, the word a ragged, desperate whisper. “I don’t have…they’re in my backpack. In the other room.”

A half-hysterical laugh bubbled up in your throat at the sheer, ridiculous, Aerion-like nature of the problem. “Go,” you commanded, your voice thick and unfamiliar to your own ears. “Quickly.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He was off the bed and out the door in a second, leaving a cold, aching void in his wake. You lay there, breathless, trembling, your body a riot of unfulfilled sensation. The seconds stretched into an eternity.

And then he was back, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. He didn't speak. He just shed his clothes, the moonlight painting the long, lean lines of his body in shades of silver and shadow.

He was a masterpiece of pale skin and taut muscle, and his arousal stood proud and demanding from a nest of pale curls.

He was on you in a heartbeat, the foil packet discarded on the nightstand, his naked body a searing, perfect weight.

He nudged your thighs apart with his knee and settled between them. He guided himself to your entrance, and then he was pushing inside you, a single, deep, merciless thrust that filled you completely. A gasp, torn from the very core of you, was smothered by his mouth. The feeling was overwhelming, thick, hot, and impossibly deep. He gave you only a moment to adjust, a single, shuddering pause as he looked down at you, his eyes burning with a fierce light. And then he began to move.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a thorough, devastating fucking, a frantic, driving rhythm that was a direct physical manifestation of all the day’s frustrations and teasing. The headboard knocked against the old wall with a rhythmic thud. He fucked you on your back, your legs hitched high over his hips, his mouth a frantic, hot brand on your throat, your collarbone. He swallowed your cries, your litany of broken syllables that might have been his name.

You shattered with a broken scream, the climax tearing through you with the force of a storm, inner muscles clenching around him in a furious, fluttering rhythm.

The sensation pushed him over the edge. He followed you with a guttural, shameless groan of your name, buried deep inside you, his body going rigid, every muscle a corded line of tension, before he collapsed, a delicious, trembling weight.

But he wasn’t finished with you. Not nearly.

He pulled out, and the loss was a sharp bereavement. But before you could even catch your breath, his hands were on your hips, guiding you, flipping you onto your stomach.

“Up,” he murmured, his voice still husky with sex, his palm smoothing over your spine. “On your knees.” You complied, limbs pliant and

obedient, sinking onto your forearms, presenting yourself to him.

He ran a proprietary hand over the curve of your arse, squeezing, kneading the soft flesh as if he owned it. He pressed a kiss to the small of your back, a surprisingly tender gesture amidst the carnality.

Then you heard the rip of another foil packet, and a moment later, he was blanketing your back with his chest, his body pressing you into the mattress. One arm snaked around your waist, pulling your hips up to meet his. He notched himself at your entrance from behind and thrust home again, a single, slick, deep stroke.

This angle was deeper, more primal. He wasn’t just fucking you, he was surrounding you, his chest a warm, solid wall against your back, his breath a hot, ragged pant in your ear.

His hips found a slower, more devastating rhythm, a deep, circular grind that had you whimpering into the pillow.

His hands were everywhere, one still a tight band around your waist, holding you steady, the other kneading the flesh of your arse, his fingers digging in with a perfectly balanced edge of pain and pleasure.

He was speaking in your ear, a low, continuous stream of filth and praise that you could barely process, the meaning lost to the overwhelming sensation of him.

“So fucking perfect…been wanting this…have no idea, do you?…the things I want to do to you…”

The second climax hit you like a wave, gentler but deeper than the first, a slow, full-body shudder that drew a long, keening moan from the depths of your soul.

He felt it, a deep, guttural groan escaping him as your body milked his. His pace stuttered, his fingers digging into your hip, and with a final, desperate, beautiful shudder, he spent himself again, his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath a hot, humid storm against your skin.

For a long time, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. He was still buried inside you, his weight a comforting, monumental presence. Finally, he stirred, pressing a slow, soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder before carefully withdrawing and dealing with the condom. He cleaned you up with a warm, damp washcloth from the tiny ensuite, his touch now gentle.

He tossed it aside and crawled back into the narrow bed, pulling the duvet over both of you and wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.

The silence was different now, a warm, drowsy cocoon. Your mind was a blissful, static blank. Then, a thought, mundane and hilarious in its inappropriateness, bubbled up.

“If Daeron kicks in his sleep,” you murmured into the dark, your voice hoarse, “won’t he notice you’re gone?”

Aerion’s chest vibrated with a silent laugh against your back. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I could go back and give him a few more kicks, just to cover my tracks. But he wouldn’t notice a dragon landing on the bed. The boy sleeps like the dead. Besides,” he said, his arm tightening around you, his voice dropping to a low, serious murmur, “I’m exactly where I’ve been trying to be all day. I’m not moving. Now, for the love of all the gods, stop overthinking and go to sleep. We have another whole day of Kiera’s playlist to endure tomorrow, and I intend to spend the entire night thoroughly wearing you out.”

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

[celestialwyvern]

BALERION THE KITTEN - Aerion Targaryen

SUMMARY - Aerion brings back a kitten who he claims is Balerion reincarnated.

CONTAINS - fluff, aerion is delusional, crack (again i find everything funny)

A/N - No i totally did not skip uni today haha what do you mean... I just can't resist writing oops!

Aerion strode into the room, his dark cloak flowing behind him. His chin was held at a lofty angle, and his arms were securely wrapped around a bundle pressed tightly against his chest.

You didn’t even look up from the broken tapestry you were supposed to be mending. “Whatever that may be, we don’t have room for it.”

“Hush, woman, and bear witness,” Aerion commanded, stopping in the center of the room.

“I have returned from the lower levels of the city with a prize. A creature of pure terror. Look upon the abyssal depths of its coat. The fierce, unyielding shadow. It is Balerion reborn, wife.”

With a grand flourish, he peeled back the folds of his cloak.

The supposed ‘Black Dread’ did not wait to be formally introduced. The moment the fabric parted, the tiny, incredibly fluffy black kitten wriggled frantically out of Aerion’s grip, lost its footing on his silk tunic, and fell face first.

It hit the floor with a soft thud and rolled twice across the rug before immediately coming to a stop at Aerion’s boot.

You leaned forward, squinting.

Finding itself on the ground, the kitten began chewing on the strings of Aerion’s left boot. It let out a high pitched mew, its yellow eyes wide, slightly cross-eyed, and completely vacant of a single thought.

“Aerion,” you said slowly, setting the tapestry aside. “That is a kitten. And it has a lazy eye. You named a creature smaller than your fist after the dragon that melted Harrenhal?”

“It is a tactical gaze!” Aerion snapped, instantly defensive. He yanked his boot away from the tiny teeth, and the kitten merely hissed. “It allows him to scan the battlefield for weakness from multiple angles. Do not insult the Dread. He is a fierce predator.”

You folded your arms, a massive smirk pulling at your lips as you got up from the ottoman. “Right. And I suppose the Black Dread is also going to find its way down a well? Have you forgotten what happened years ago when you were this close to a feline? Poor Egg wept for a week.”

His jaw clenched, and his eyes flashed with theatrical outrage.

“Seven hells, I did not throw that creature down the well! It simply fell. I was merely conducting a highly intellectual test whether or not the species truly lands on its feet. It is not my fault gravity was entirely uncooperative that day.”

“You nudged it with your boot, my love. That contradicts your story.”

“I gave it an encouraging push toward scientific discovery!” He insisted, crossing his arms and looking down his nose at you. “And besides, Balerion here has the blood of Old Valyria in his spirit. He would simply fly out of a well.”

As if to prove his point, the kitten scrambled back onto its paws, locked its eyes onto a low stool, and tried to leap from the rug.

Just as you expected, it completely misjudged the distance and fell directly into the side of the stool. Balerion rolled over into a pathetic tangled heap with a tiny squeak.

Aerion stared at the crumpled ball of black fluff for a long, agonizingly silent moment.

“...He is still a kitten learning to adjust his wings,” your husband muttered, clearing his throat and looking away.

Determined to prove his Targaryen supremacy, Aerion spent the next few hours attempting to train his new war beast.

He was sat on the edge of the bed, snapping his fingers aggressively while the kitten played around, fascinated by a piece of cotton floating around in the light of the sun.

Aerion commanded Balerion in High Valyria using the same exact tone one might use to an actual dragon.

You laughed as Balerion flatly ignored him, turning around to lick its left leg without thought.

When Aerion leaned down lower, the kitten let out a sharp sneeze before trotting directly past him. It scrambled up your skirts and curled up into a circle right onto your lap, closing its eyes.

Aerion looked as though he had just been betrayed. Which was not far off.

“The beast has no loyalty. I am the one who rescued it from the ditch, and it defects to you? Unbelievable."

“Maybe he just prefers someone who doesn’t have a history with felines,” you teased, gently scratching behind Balerion’s ears. “And clearly, he isn’t listening to you. He’s just unimpressed by your commands.”

Aerion let out a dramatic huff, marching off to the desk on the other side of the chamber.

Hours later, the castle had fallen quiet.

You blinked your eyes open, realizing you were no longer between Aerion’s warm arms.

The bed was uncharacteristically empty and cold.

Frowning, you slipped out from under the heavy blanket and stepped onto the cold floor.

A faint, hushed whispering caught your attention from the right side of the sofa.

You crept toward the noise, holding your breath to suppress a laugh at the sight before you.

Your husband was lying flat on his stomach on the rug.

His silver hair was completely disheveled, and his silk nightshirt was pushed up to his elbows.

In front of him sat a polished silver platter containing several finely shredded pieces of duck, which he had clearly taken directly from the kitchens.

“Come now, fierce one,” Aerion whispered, his voice smooth and devoid of its usual arrogance.

You realized he was speaking to the kitten the same way he would speak to you.

He nudged a piece of poultry toward Balerion with the tip of his finger. “Ipradagon, Balerion. Eat. Prove to my wife that you are a monster of the sky.”

The kitten sniffed the duck, licked Aerion’s finger with its sandpaper tongue, and let out a loud purr before digging into the food.

Aerion’s lips curled into a victorious smile. He gently reached out with two fingers, carefully stroking the kitten’s head as if it were made of glass.

Your heart fluttered at the sight. “My love.”

Aerion practically leaped to his feet, throwing his shoulder back and trying desperately to look regal while covered in Balerion’s black fur.

“The beast was making an intolerable scene. I was silencing it before it could wake you up.” He nodded unconvincingly.

“By feeding it duck on a silver platter?” You walked over, a knowing smile on your face. You wrapped your chilly arms around his waist, leaning your head on his chest.

Aerion's pride warred off with the comfort of your touch. His arms wound tightly around you, pulling you flush against him as he buried his face in your hair, letting out a defeated sigh.

“He licked my finger,” Aerion muttered, his voice full of reluctant affection. “I suppose that constitutes a formal binding of our souls. I cannot leave him now. It would be a breach of Valyrian custom.”

“A terrible shame,” you giggled softly, tilting your head up to kiss his jaw. “You love him, admit it.”

“No. I love you,” he murmured, lips finding yours in a warm, lingering kiss. “The beast is merely a beneficiary of my good mood.”

When he finally pulled back, a familiar smirk tugged at his lips. His thumbs caressed your cheekbones as he kissed your temple.

Balerion finished his food, letting out a content yawn that got both your attention.

He waddled over to the two of you, and you bent down to pick the kitten up with your hands.

Aerion couldn’t help but melt at the sight of you handling the tiny creature, his eyes softening in ways others would not believe to be possible.

“Now come, my love,” he chuckled, lifting you effortlessly into his arms, while you carefully cradled Balerion against your chest. “Let us go back to bed before you freeze to death.”