SUMMARY - You receive a message from a random number and you two begin texting frequently. However, you accidentally figure out who it is.
CONTAINS - banter (crack to a point), aerion is aerion, modern AU, peep the small details!!
A/N - i keep getting vague modern aerion requests soo!
Your phone vibrated against your mattress late at night.
You rolled over, the glare of the screen hitting your eyes in your dark room. It was an unsaved number.
UNKNOWN: where the fuck is the link for davis’s class
You stared at the screen for a few seconds. You were wide awake, and you definitely didn’t have the energy to start on your own work.
You giggled at your own message before hitting send.
YOU: I sold it oops
The reply came before you could even exit the app.
UNKNOWN: stop fucking around man im not in the mood
YOU: I dont think this is the right number lol
A minute passed with the typing bubbles flickering on and off a couple times.
UNKNOWN: the fuck
YOU: If ur stuck on his class just check the 2022 archive
There was no response after that. You eventually drifted off to sleep, figuring that was the end of a weird interaction.
Four days passed, and you completely forgot about the random text until friday when you received a notification from the same number.
UNKNOWN: it worked
You blinked at the message, trying to remember who it even was.
YOU: Yeah
UNKNOWN: howd you know about that
YOU: I saw his desktop open with that site and took my chances
UNKNOWN: youre actually not michael?
YOU: No im pretty sure im not a guy
You thought the conversation would end there, but about ten minutes later, you got another text.
UNKNOWN: any other shortcuts u know about
YOU: Maybe
Over the next two weeks, the texts became a weird regular thing. It wasn’t a constant back and forth, but it turned into a daily routine.
You’d get a text in the middle of the afternoon about whatever, or you’d send a quick message about random things in your life.
You didn’t know each other. There was no pressure. You didn't have to put on a performance to try to impress whoever it was you were talking to.
UNKNOWN: what were u saying
UNKNOWN: just got to the gym
YOU: Tf didnt you just leave ur room
UNKNOWN: yeah
YOU: Is the gym right next to ur house or smth
UNKNOWN: the gyms downstairs
YOU: Oh you live in an apartment??
UNKNOWN: no
UNKNOWN: i have a gym in my house dumbass
YOU: Oh!!!!!
YOU: Different tax bracket
UNKNOWN: funny
You found yourself looking forward to those short, blunt messages. He was definitely arrogant, but he was always honest and that pulled you in.
By the third week, the conversations started stretching later into the night. You’d be lying in bed, messaging your friends, and a text would pop up at 1 AM.
👻: why the fuck are you awake
YOU: Im readingg
YOU: why are YOU awake
👻: driving
YOU: Ur gonna die
YOU: Get off ur phone
👻: You sound like my dad
👻: He’s the reason im driving
YOU: Shit is he at the hospital??
👻: no im clearing my head
YOU: Oh
YOU: You okay?
👻: family dinner was so fucking annoying
👻: just micromanaging my schedule like im some kid
YOU: I feel that, my parents keep controlling my life its so stupid
👻: exactly its pathetic
👻: honestly its weird talking to you
You: Ok whyd i catch a stray hello
👻: no i mean its off talking to someone who isnt trying to get something out of me
YOU: idek who u are so theres nothing to get
👻: keep it that way
Then during one morning, you walked into the lecture hall for Professor Davis’s class.
The room was already buzzing with students and you took your usual seat next to Tanselle who was busy drawing sketches on her paper.
“Did you finish the reading he gave last week?” Tanselle asked, not looking up from her page.
“Barely,” you muttered, pulling your laptop out of your bag. “I read like two pages.”
Down in the fourth row, right near the aisle, Aerion Targaryen was slouched back in his seat. He had his dark leather jacket slung over the back of his chair and was surrounded by his usual crowd.
One of them said something, and Aerion let out a short laugh. The guy looked around the group with triumph all over his face, proud that he managed to impress Aerion.
Just then, your professor began talking and it didn't take long for you to lose focus.
Bored out of your mind as Professor Davis started droning on about the text you guys were supposed to read, you pulled your phone out under the desk.
YOU: Im bored entertain me
You hit send.
You kept your eyes on your screen, but then out of habit, your gaze drifted back down toward the front of the room.
Down in row four, you watched Aerion reach into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, a small smirk tugging on the corner of his lip.
His jaw set as he read something, and his thumbs immediately typed out a fast response before he shoved the phone face down on his desk.
Your phone vibrated in your palm.
👻: go entertain yourself
Your breath hitched. You stared at the screen, your heart doing a weird thud against your ribs.
No way, you thought. The lecture hall is massive. At least forty people were on their phones. It’s a coincidence.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. You needed to be absolutely sure. You typed out a reply, keeping your eyes glued directly on the back of his silver head.
YOU: Ok unkind
YOU: So ur actually paying attention to class?
The exact moment your text delivered, you watched as Aerion’s head tilted down. He picked his phone back up, scoffing under his breath. His thumbs moved around the screen, typing quickly.
Buzz.
👻: no im looking at my phone because a dumbass is texting me
A cold wave of panic hit you.
Your eyes darted from the screen to the back of his leather jacket. Your mind was short-circuiting, trying to connect the dots.
Aerion Targaryen.
Aerion Targaryen who had a reputation for being, well, himself— was the exact same person who had been texting you until midnight.
You spent the remaining minutes of that lecture staring into the wall. Every time Aerion shifted, your eyes snapped straight to him.
When the bell finally rang, the sudden noise of chairs scraping against the floor made you jump.
“Thank god,” Tanselle muttered, slamming her notebook shut. “You coming to the library?”
“I don’t think so,” you replied after a beat, shoving your things into your bag.
At the front, Aerion was already walking. One of the guys threw an arm over his shoulder and Aerion swatted him off with a grin.
He didn’t look back once. He had absolutely no idea.
For the next three days, every time your phone buzzed, your stomach did a flip. You knew exactly who was on the other side of the screen now, while he remained clueless.
During a late saturday night, you were eating with your friends when your screen lit up.
👻: this movies terrible
👻: why would you recommend this
You stared at the text. Knowing it was Aerion, reading the texts felt completely surreal.
YOU: Ok my bad ill just die
YOU: Its good tho idk what ur on
👻: its not
You: Lol turn it off then
👻: im already an hour in
👻: wouldnt wanna hurt your feelings
YOU: Aww how sweet
YOU: Stubborn bitch…
You bit your lip as you sent the second message. No one would dare to call him that in person, it was thrilling.
👻: lmao
👻: what are you doing anyway
YOU: Eating cheesecake
YOU: Wait have u done the assignment due next week
👻: nah im dreading the partner assignment on monday
👻: if i get paired with one of the idiots im doing it alone
You swallowed hard, grabbing your glass to drink the strain away.
YOU: Maybe youll get someone decent
👻: doubt it
You closed your phone and pressed it onto your chest. He was so different in real life.
When monday came, the room was silenced as Professor Davis tapped his microphone, turning on the massive projector behind him.
“Alright, I’ve randomized the pairings for the research,” he announced. “Check the board, find your partner, and spend the rest of the period discussing with them.”
Your eyes scanned the list, stopping as you found your name near the center column.
Your lungs locked up.
Aerion Targaryen was written right next to it.
“Oh, jeez,” Tanselle said, looking at you with worry. “You got Aerion… Good luck babe.”
Down in row four, Aerion didn’t even bother looking back to find his partner. He simply opened his laptop, ignoring the rest of the room while his friends started moving around. He clearly expected whoever his partner was to come to him.
You took in a deep breath, grabbing your bag.
Walking down the steps felt like walking a plank. As you got closer to his seat, a couple of his friends looked up at you. One of them nudged the guy next to him to clear a seat for you, leaving an empty chair next to Aerion.
You gave them a light smile before sliding into the seat, setting your laptop on the desk. Up close, he smelled like expensive cologne and musk.
“You’re my partner?” he asked, his voice a careless drawl. He still didn’t look at you, opening a blank document.
“Yeah.” You kept your voice as even as possible.
“Type in your email,” he said, turning the laptop just an inch so you could see the screen. “I’ll do the body and everything else. You do the outline and introduction.”
You blinked at him, the contrast hitting you like a physical punch. No jokes, no banter, no casualty.
You were aware he had a reputation for being a ‘womanizer.’ So why was he so cold to you?
“Okay,” you mumbled as you awkwardly reached out to type in your email.
He didn’t say another word to you for the rest of the hour. You sat right next to him, occasionally looking at the side of his sharp profile, realizing this was the same guy who had texted you about the miserable movie you recommended to him just two nights ago.
By 10 PM that same day, you were sitting on your bed, staring at the shared Google Docs. He had already finished his sections before you did.
Your phone buzzed on your blanket.
👻: just wrapped up that history project early so i dont have to deal with it later
You read his message, a sour feeling building up in your chest. You picked it up, your expression hardening.
YOU: Lucky, im still doing mine
You lied.
👻: thats sad
Chewing on your inner cheek, your thumbs moved before you could stop.
YOU: Hows ur partner
The typing bubbles appeared immediately.
👻: its some girl in my section i didnt pay attention
👻: she didnt mess anything up, shes whatever
She’s whatever.
Your eyes fixed on his message until they blurred. You had spent weeks listening to him, laughing at his texts, sharing personal concerns to each other—and yet in real life, you were just a boring, insignificant whatever to him.
The irritation flared up. You tossed your laptop onto your bedside table and sat back against the headboard of your bed.
YOU: Cool
A minute passed without a response.
👻: just cool?
YOU: Yeah
👻: youre acting weird
You left the text on read. Not like it mattered, his read receipts were off. Throwing the phone somewhere in your bed, you didn’t reply.
For the next few days, you struggled returning to how you normally were.
He didn’t text you the next morning but eventually did at night, and you left it unreplied for two hours before sending a short answer.
👻: you alive?
YOU: Yes
👻: ok whats wrong then
YOU: Nothing
👻: ???
YOU: What
👻: fine
It felt petty, but each time you looked at your phone, you remembered him sitting right next to you and not even glancing your way. You felt stupid, but his words hurt too.
If you were just a blank space to him in person, you figured it would be better if you were that way on every platform.
By the end of the week, the silence between your texts was heavy. He didn’t text you back after the last chat, and you definitely weren’t going to break first.
You were sitting in class when Tanselle walked in, settling in the chair beside you.
Professor Davis cleared his throat before speaking. “Alright, before we start today’s lecture, I’ve set up a group thread for the upcoming peer reviews. Click on the link and make sure you’re in it by the end of the day.”
You opened your phone to join the chat, then automatically shoved the phone back into your bag. You had no intention of participating.
The period of the lecture ended with a few minutes remaining and your phone started vibrating nonstop.
You tried to ignore it, but the constant noise was getting frustrating. You reached into your bag and pulled it out, looking to mute the group.
A new message popped up at the bottom of the chat. A classmate tagged your number directly because you hadn’t put your name on the sheet yet.
Too annoyed with the whole class to care, you swiped the app and locked your screen.
Then, your eyes subconsciously drifted toward Aerion. You watched as he pulled his phone out.
He was scrolling through the mass text thread when suddenly, he froze.
His head tilted slightly. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at the only text tagging a number. The number he’d been texting every day.
Up front, the classmate who had sent the message lost his patience. He turned around, looking up at where you and Tanselle were sitting.
The guy called out your name, his voice turning multiple heads in the quiet room. “I just tagged your number in the group, you need to upload your topic.”
The sound of your name echoed through the lecture.
Aerion’s head snapped up.
He didn’t look at the guy talking to you. His eyes darted straight up until they locked dead onto you.
The usual expression on his face dropped away. His eyes searched your entire face, his brows drawing in closer.
He saw the phone in your hand before going back to your face.
It clicked.
You stilled under his gaze, the blood rushing loud in your ears.
Beside you, Tanselle nudged your shoulder. “Babe. Babe? He’s talking to you?”
“Yeah,” you managed to choke out. Your fingers felt like wood as you uploaded the topic into the sheet. “Done. It’s in there.”
The classmate muttered a quick thanks and turned back around.
But Aerion didn’t.
He stayed shifted in his seat, his body turned toward your row. One of his friends said something, laughing and clapping him on the shoulder, but Aerion blindly shrugged the guy’s hands off without looking at him. His dark gaze remained on you.
You looked down at your screen, pretending to type, but you could feel the weight of his stare.
A quick glance back down confirmed it. He was staring at you like he was seeing you for the first time, his mind putting the pieces together.
Some girl in my section, she’s whatever. He finally understood why you had iced him.
When the bell rang, you instantly stood up, already packing your bag.
“Why are you in such a rush?” Tanselle asked, shaking her head with confusion.
You gave her a tight smile. “I just need to get back.”
You wanted to wait out the crowd, hoping he’d leave first, but Aerion was already standing by the row exit.
He leaned his back against the desk, ignoring his friends as they stood confused as to why he was still there.
Panic flared in your chest. You didn’t think this through properly.
Without thinking, you threw yourself into the small crowd shuffling through the other exit at the top of the hall.
You basically sprinted across the stone of the parking lot, your keys already clutched in your hand. Unlocking the car, you threw your bag into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.
You slumped on the headrest, gripping the steering wheel as you finally let out a breath.
Then, your phone lit up with two notifications.
There were two missed calls and above them another notification popped up. It was a text.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Warnings: obsessive behavior, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, pregnancy themes, childbirth, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
a/n: This is a oneshot, not related to any series. The reader is still Tyrell though but no descriptions are given. My phone is still not fixed, y'all. I scrolled through drafts and found this old thing I'd written before Growing Strong series to give you something. Enjoy! <3
The first child changed everything.
Until then, your marriage had been a storm. Aerion wanted heirs the way some men wanted kingdoms, fiercely and without apology. When Maegor was born, silver-gold hair already visible even against the red of newborn skin, Aerion had looked stunned.
“My son,” he had whispered, voice reverential.
Maegor grew loud and fearless, running through the halls with the confidence of a boy who knew he was adored. Aerion followed him with a pride so intense it bordered on devotion, speaking of legacy and dragons and the greatness that awaited him.
Then came the twins.
Aerea and Naenya arrived together, two small cries overlapping like song. Their hair shone pale in the candlelight, but their faces softened with your features: your mouth, your eyes, the gentle shape of your cheeks.
Aerion declared them perfect anyway.
“They look like you,” he said once, watching them sleep, awe hiding beneath his usual arrogance. “That is not a flaw.”
He still wanted more sons.
And so came Daekar, loud and furious from the moment he entered the world, silver-haired like his siblings. Aerion laughed when he heard that cry.
“Another dragon,” he said proudly.
Your chambers grew louder every year: toys scattered everywhere, children fighting, laughing, clinging to your skirts. Aerion remained demanding, intense, but the sight of him with the children softened something in even the harshest observers.
There was still one thing he never compromised on. Names.
“No Reach names,” he had said firmly the first time.
You pursed your lips in displeasure. “You cannot forbid me entirely.”
“I can,” he said calmly. “They are Targaryens.”
It became a ritual. You argued, he refused, and eventually you both chose together, Valyrian names you both agreed suited each child.
He always allowed your voice in the final choice, after Maegor.
Because for all his stubbornness, he liked the way you considered them. Carefully. Thoughtfully.
And now, years later, you were here again. Another labor. Another child.
The birth was long, exhausting, but easier than the first. You knew your body now. The pain came and went in familiar waves. The maids moved quickly, practiced after so many births.
When the cry finally came, you barely had strength to lift your head.
“A boy,” someone announced.
Relief washed through the room.
A third son.
Aerion entered almost immediately, unable to wait. His face lit with fierce pride. Another boy. Another dragon.
Then the midwife placed the child in his arms.
And Aerion froze.
The babe’s hair was not silver. Not your coloring either.
Something else entirely.
You were too exhausted to notice his expression, drifting in and out as the maester fussed and the maids changed linens. Aerion said nothing.
Not a word.
He simply handed the babe back and turned toward the door.
When courtiers began arriving, eager, listening at the threshold, he announced: “My wife has given birth to a son. She rests now.”
He dismissed them all.
No celebrations. No boasts. Just silence.
You slept.
Aerion did not.
When you woke, the chamber was quiet. Sunlight spilled softly through the curtains. The child slept against your arm.
The maester finished examining you and left. The maids followed, leaving the room still.
Aerion stood nearby, watching. Not you. The baby.
Something in his posture made you uneasy.
“Aerion?” you asked softly.
He did not answer immediately.
Instead, he said quietly, “Who.”
You blinked. “What?”
He looked at you then: eyes sharp, sleepless, storm-dark.
“Who have you been bedding behind my back?”
The words hit you like a slap.
“What?”
His voice rose, controlled but shaking with fury.
“I spent the entire night thinking,” he said. “Trying to understand how you could disgrace yourself this way. How you could disgrace me.”
You stared at him, stunned.
He began pacing, anger spilling out now that the room was empty.
“I gave you everything,” he snapped. “Four children. A dragon’s name. And this is how you repay me? By crawling into someone else’s bed?”
“Aerion...”
“No,” he cut in. “If you were displeased with me, you could have said so. Instead you...” he choked on the words, furious and wounded, “...you go hopping on some bastard’s cock like a common whore?”
Your mouth fell open in horror.
He wasn’t finished.
“I ought to kill you for treason,” he said darkly. “Do you understand that? I should. But I cannot kill the mother of my children. They adore you.” His voice lowered dangerously. “So I will kill the man instead. And the bastard child.”
Your breath caught.
“And after,” he continued, “I will teach you a lesson. I have been too soft with you for years. You have forgotten your place. I will fuck you until you're swollen with my child again, so you won't so much as glance at another man.”
“Aerion!” you snapped, cutting through his tirade.
He stopped.
You tightened your hold on the infant, anger flooding through your exhaustion.
“This child is yours,” you said firmly. “I have always been faithful.”
“How,” he demanded, stepping closer, “does a faithful wife bear a child that looks nothing like her husband?”
You flinched at the shift.
His gaze sharpened, searching your face. “…Did someone force himself on you?”
The question came out harsher than it should have, rage turning direction.
“Tell me,” he pressed when you didn’t answer immediately. “Was there a man? Did he touch you without leave?”
Your breath caught. “No...”
“Did you think you could not come to me?” he cut in, voice rising again. “Were you afraid?”
He was closer now, looming.
“You should have told me,” he said, quieter but more terrifying for it. “I would have flayed him alive. Slowly. And no one would ever know why. Your name would remain untouched.”
“Aerion...”
His hand came up suddenly, gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze to his.
“Who,” he murmured again, as if he could pull the answer from your mouth.
Before you could protest, he kissed you. It was not tender. It was searching. Demanding. A test. As if he could taste another man on you. His thumb pressed into your cheek as his mouth moved against yours, breath hot, words spilling between contact.
“Tell me his name,” he muttered against your lips. “I will have his head. I will peel the skin from his body inch by inch...”
“There is no one,” you insisted, pulling back, breath unsteady more from outrage than anything else.
But he wasn’t finished.
“If it was a mistake,” he said, voice rough now, almost coaxing despite the brutality of it, “if you were drunk, careless...I can forgive that.”
Your eyes widened.
“I can,” he repeated, firmer. “But I will still kill him. For touching what is mine. For putting a bastard in you. And I will take the child away before it ever draws breath in this court.”
“Aerion, listen to yourself...”
His grip tightened briefly, then loosened.
“Do not,” he insisted, “say there was no man.”
“There was no man,” you hissed. “No force. No mistake. No betrayal. This child is yours.”
He laughed bitterly. “The hair says otherwise.”
“It could come from a grandsire,” you shot back. “Traits skip generations.”
He hesitated.
You pressed on.
“And around the time this child was conceived,” you said slowly, “you were with me every day and night. Unless you think I seduced a random kingsguard and managed everything in less than an hour? And didn't even send for moon tea afterwards?”
He blinked.
The logic landed.
His jaw clenched.
You added, sharper now, “Why in seven hells would I do that?”
Silence.
He looked at the child again, uncertainty flickering beneath his anger.
The baby stirred.
You both watched as tiny lids fluttered open for the first time.
The eyes blinked: unfocused, new.
Violet. Deep, unmistakable violet.
You inhaled sharply.
“Aerion,” you whispered. “Look.”
When he saw the eyes, something in him cracked. The tension drained from his shoulders. His breath left him quietly.
“My son,” he murmured.
Relief washed over his face.
You, however, were furious.
“You accused me of betrayal,” you said coldly. “You threatened my child.”
He glanced at you, guilt flickering awkwardly.
“I…” He paused. “…misjudged.”
“That is an understatement.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, uncharacteristically uncertain.
After a moment, he said carefully, “You may choose his name.”
You blinked. “What?”
“As consolation,” he said quickly. “If you wish…you may even choose a Tyrell name.”
You stared at him, incredulous. After everything, accusations, threats, sleepless rage, this was his apology. You laughed once, breathless and disbelieving.
“No,” you said finally, softer now. “He is your son. He deserves a name that belongs with his siblings.”
Aerion exhaled, relief and pride mingling in his expression.
He reached out cautiously, touching the baby’s tiny hand. The child wrapped his fingers around Aerion’s thumb. And just like that, the fury vanished completely. He smiled: small, awed.
“You frightened me,” he admitted quietly, almost to himself.
You snorted softly. “You frightened me too.”
He looked at you then, something vulnerable flickering behind his arrogance.
“I was wrong to doubt you. You've always been an exemplary wife. I let my fears shadow my senses,” he said quietly.
You sighed and leaned back against the pillows, exhausted but calmer.
Together you watched your son blink up at the world with unmistakably Targaryen eyes, the past hours already beginning to feel like a fever dream.
a/n: My inbox and messages are open for commissions. You can also donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
not trying to defend aerion ever but i just remembered the dance of dragons storyline to the end and like do yall think in his fucked up head he was mad cause the play in his mind is like similar to the storming of the dragon pit??
parents will trauma dump on you for hours and have a whole breakdown but you bring up something they did bad one time and suddenly it never happened and you’re being dramatic
PAIRING — Prince Aerion Targaryen x fem!Reader // Velaryon!OC
SUMMARY — As the young Mistress of Driftmark with no male heirs of the family left, you have to ensure your position by marrying someone powerful and noble but also willing to be an independent woman's husband. Prince Aerion seems like a perfect victim.
REQUEST — (1)
AUTHOR’S NOTE — I loved this request because the idea of Aerion with a Velaryon Reader is just so good! Her looks are not described but I made her hair silver. It was important for the plot because she bewitches him with the fact she is also of Old Valyria. 🤣 I know it might seem like she's older than him in some scenes but she really is not (at least I didn't imagine her to be). He's just a manchild lol
WARNINGS — not really an incest but they have common ancestors and he focuses on it a lot, mentions of many deaths (Reader's family members), misogyny
WORD COUNT — 5,020
ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.
THE LADY OF THE TIDES
You were pacing nervously in the corridor leading to the Small Council’s room, fidgeting with the rings on your fingers. One of them was visibly too big, made for a male hand – a signet with your House’s sigil; a seahorse.
The heavy doors creaked open and Prince Baelor Targaryen stepped out to greet you. He bowed his head as you bowed yours and his kind mismatched eyes granted you sympathy.
“Lady Velaryon,” he said, “come.”
You followed him but to your surprise the room was empty. The doors closed behind you and he walked around the table but you took only a few small steps ahead.
“In the letter I received, I was told that The King wished to speak to me,” you said.
“Yes, of course. But I am his Hand and he is rather busy with other important matters at the moment,” Prince Baelor smiled at you and offered you a seat with his hand.
You nodded and sat down on the chair he had pointed at. You felt so little suddenly. Of little importance. Not relevant enough for The King to settle this matter in person.
You knew what seat you were sitting on. It was the place the Master of Ships usually occupied during the Small Council meetings. A seat of your grandsire and his sire before him. But now someone completely different would take it. A stranger.
They wouldn’t let a woman take the place.
“Let me start with sharing my condolences,” Prince Baelor looked at you after sitting down on his usual seat. “Your grandsire served this Realm as the Master of Ships for half of his life.”
“Thank you, my Prince,” you mumbled out. “Serving this Realm was a distraction for him from all the pain he endured in life.”
Your grandfather had actually fathered three sons.
The first one had died as a teenager on the sea.
The second one – your father – had died when you were a child. On the sea, of course.
The third one had died alongside his older brother.
Your uncle had fathered two sons.
The first one had died in infancy.
The second one had been born dead.
You were the only one. The only one left. Even your mother had remarried eventually and moved to Braavos, leaving you with your grandsire.
“It seems you are now The Lady of the Tides and Mistress of Dirftmark,” Prince Baelor pointed out, bringing you back to reality as you laid your eyes on him and nodded.
“Yes, it seems so,” you agreed, “but do not worry, my Prince. I do know how to run a fleet, I have been taught by my grandsire,” you assured him.
He smiled but despite his kindness, you spotted a bit of uncertainty, a hint of doubt.
“There is a matter I wish to discuss about this inheritance,” he leaned in and you stiffened up.
Of course there had to be some sort of condition even though it was your birthright.
“It is about your grandsire’s… weakness,” Prince Baelor explained and you took a sharp breath in.
“They are bastards,” you reminded him.
It was true that your grandsire had desperately wanted to provide House Velaryon with a male heir. He had been making attempts even at an old age. Cruelly funny fate had given him a daughter after daughter.
But there was one illegitimate son. Your grandsire had never claimed him as his due to the fact the man lived across the sea with his mother. But he was somewhere out there. And he knew who he was.
“Their existence is weakening your position,” Prince Baelor pointed out.
“What are you suggesting? Slaying them?” You asked and he furrowed his brows, visibly surprised by your way of thinking.
“Of course not, my Lady,” he explained. “I meant that you should take a husband sooner rather than later. Give birth to your own male heir to Driftmark and no one will question your new position.”
“It will not be easy to find a husband in my position,” you protested. “Which man would marry a woman to prolong her bloodline instead of his?”
“Perhaps someone’s second or third son,” Baelor shrugged. “I would offer you mine but Prince Matarys is too young and you cannot wait,” he chuckled.
“You make it sound like it was extremely urgent, my Prince,” you whispered.
“Because it is. People whisper,” he made the point clear. “Men. Men whisper. In this very room. It does not happen often when a house so old and powerful is left with only a female heir and a bastard gods-know-where. They preferred the woman over him… for now.”
“And you care so much because…?” You asked, rather harshly.
“Because our houses are kin to one another,” he said, looking at you intensely. “You are of Old Valyria,” he reminded you. “And you have Targaryen great-grandsires. Dragon riders. Your blood is my blood.”
You were like a child scolded by an uncle, feeling stupid that you had snapped at him earlier.
“Blood of your blood, my Prince, yet King Daeron had more important matters to attend to,” you only mumbled.
“Lady Velaryon, do not be petty-minded. It does not suit you.”
Before going back to Driftmark, you decided to visit the Dragonpit in the morning. An empty place now, a reminder of something ancient, something great and something gone.
Your Targaryen ancestors had been riding dragons once and entering the very same pit with a grin on their faces. Or perhaps a battlecry on their lips, prepared for the battle.
Not with so much sadness for the glory in ruin. But they were to be blamed for the very same ruin.
As you walked down the halls, silently, you allowed your hand to brush the walls, feeling every bump and every curve of the stone. It was dark, so extremely dark, but there were no beasts to fear anymore. Still, in an abyss like that it was easy to imagine that there was a dragon lurking somewhere in the shadow, waiting for you.
Bump.
Your hand froze as it felt something. Not a stone wall but a warmth of skin. You moved the candlestick ahead of you and saw an irritated face of a young man whose hand was also pressed to the stone wall. And yours was now brushing his.
“Um… Forgive me,” you retreated your hand quickly. “I did not know someone would be here,” you admitted.
He looked you up and down with contempt and you scanned him from head to toes with your eyes. His hair was silver. He had to be a Targaryen. His eyes gleaming with madness only seen in them, too. His tunic was crimson red and elegant. He had to be an important one.
“And what the fuck are you doing here?” He squinted his eyes. “Who are you? Some Blackfyre bastard?” He gritted his teeth after realising your hair was as silver as his.
And then you realised who he was – Prince Aerion Targaryen. The mad one who thought he was the dragon himself. Fourth son’s second son. Of course he did not know you – you had been rarely leaving Driftmark and even if – it had usually been on a ship with your grandsire to explore the sea.
“I am no bastard,” you explained, calmly. “And I wanted to see the place where the dragons lived. The very same dragons my ancestors used to ride,” you explained and fluttered your eyelashes at him.
Seven Hells, you thought, it was worth a shot.
You knew stories about him – he was obsessed with dragons, Targaryen history, Old Valyria. And he was unimportant enough in the royal line to maybe be keen on fathering sons with a different surname than his. At least one son, you thought. You needed only one with a Velaryon surname. The rest could be Targaryens.
Prince Aerion was still unsure and his eyes were still full of contempt but at least he wasn’t angry anymore.
“You’re a Velaryon,” he finally said, a little surprised. “Funny, I thought they were extinct now after the old man died.”
“I am The Lady of The Tides after my grandsire’s passing,” you explained. “The Mistress of Driftmark.”
“You?” Aerion raised an eyebrow. “You’re a woman. Young woman on top of that.”
“You say it, my Prince, as if it was an accusation,” you chuckled, trying not to snap with anger at his reaction. “Can I stay here or would you rather see me leave?”
“You can stay,” Aerion nodded, although hesitantly.
You smiled at him and walked away with your candlestick, following the dark path deeper into the pit.
“What dragon would you want to ride?” He asked suddenly, which made you realise that he was following you. You smiled to yourself.
“Meleys,” you answered and looked at him. He had a smirk on his stupidly handsome face. “The Red Queen.”
“I knew it,” he said.
“Oh, really? And what about you, my Prince?” You raised your eyebrow.
“I can’t decide for sure but I think Caraxes,” he answered and you snorted at that, which he visibly did not like. “What is wrong with that?”
“Nothing, my Prince. Caraxes was a brave and powerful dragon… just like you… But I personally see you mounting a dragoness,” you whispered.
Aerion seemed to be a bit taken aback.
“You mean I would be riding a she-dragon?” He asked. “Hm. I have never given it a thought. Who then? Vhagar?” His eyes sparkled.
“Perhaps. But perhaps Meleys, too,” you smiled gently.
“Meleys? Why?”
“Oh, she was a real lady, was she not? She would suit you,” you teased.
“We would have to share,” he pointed out.
“I do not mind sharing,” you told him.
A short silence occurred between you two in the depths of a dark dragonpit with nothing but a small candlestick you were holding to brighten the darkness. You were facing each other like two curious cats.
“Would you actually ride her to battle?” You asked in a whisper. “Because I wouldn’t do that to a soulmate.”
“Only if I had to,” Aerion confessed.
“Good,” you nodded.
You continued your walk in silence and he followed, watching you closely.
“Have you ever visited Driftmark, my Prince?” You asked on the way out of the pit.
“No, I have not,” Aerion admitted. “There was never an occasion to.”
“There is a place there where dragons once resided, too. Not as grand as this one but you might want to see it,” you proposed. “Only let me know earlier so I can prepare the castle for your arrival.”
The maids and servants had been working hard for the past week to make everything look proper and grand. You wanted to impress Prince Aerion with tributes to your house’s old glory and to the Valyrian culture.
On the day of his arrival, your dress was sea green and your jewellery rather grand – a gift from your mother from Braavos. There was a beautiful headpiece with dangling gemstones on each side of your head. And the signet ring on your finger had been recently resized to fit your finger better.
Prince Aerion hadn’t made you wait for too long. You had received a letter about his wish to visit not even a month after your acquaintance in the dragonpit in King’s Landing. His excuse for the visit was research.
He arrived in the evening on horseback. Jumped off of the saddle nonchalantly before approaching you and nodding his head as you bowed yours, the gems from your headpiece clinking slightly.
“My Prince,” you greeted him. “Welcome to Driftmark.”
He was looking around and with each second the contempt was disappearing from his eyes. In fact, you were suspecting that he was a bit… impressed.
“Not bad,” he said.
“I’m glad my castle pleases you, my Prince,” you smiled slyly. “Let me show you to your chambers,” you invited him inside.
“My chambers?” Aerion snorted. “Please, you are the Lady of this castle with no sire to look after you. We both know where I am going to sleep tonight,” he rolled his eyes.
You froze in the middle of the corridor. He stopped so he wouldn't bump into you as you turned around to look at him with furrowed brows.
“Excuse me?” You asked.
“Do you find me stupid?” Aerion huffed. “I know you did not invite me to look at dead dragons’ lair.”
You blinked a few times, shaking your head slightly, which caused the gems to sway softly.
“Do you find me of ill repute?” You asked. “My Prince?” You added.
“It is not a matter of reputation. Dragons do whatever they want,” he teased with a smirk.
Dragons?
“You see a dragon in me, my Prince?” You asked carefully.
“A dragoness,” he looked you up and down and licked his lips. “With the blood of Old Valyria and beautiful silver hair. It is a shame our future King and his heir do not have hair like ours, don’t you think? Soon, the Targaryen family will be as common as any other House. But you Velaryons stay true as I can see.”
“Salt courses through Velaryon blood. Ours runs thick and true and it must never thin,” you whispered, squinting your eyes.
“Famous words,” Aerion smirked.
“You truly have studied everything,” you pointed out.
“Of course.”
You only nodded and kept on walking. Aerion followed you but when you showed him his chambers, which were far away from yours, he did not make any further comments.
The evening feast dragged on because you were listening to his rants about dragons, Valyria and your common ancestors. It was only you and him by a long table with goblets of wine in your hands and a pile of shells from the nuts he was munching on.
Your head was tilted, leaned on your hand as you stared at him dreamily while he talked. The gems of your headpiece rested lazily on one of your cheeks while the ones on the other side were hanging in the air. Your lips pouted slightly and your eyes glistened from the wine and dim candlelight.
In his eyes you looked like the goddess of Old Valyria.
At least a priestess from the temple.
“I would like to go there sometime,” he finished one of the stories and took a sip of his wine.
“To the ruins of Old Valyria?” You furrowed your brows. “My Prince, are they not cursed? Not many came back.”
“I would,” he seemed to be sure.
“And if not? What a waste it would be…” You smiled lazily and straightened your back. “Gods, it is late. I shall retire to my chambers.”
“Am I still uninvited?” He grinned.
“Prince Baelor told me that I should be wed soon. I decided to wait for my future husband to please him on the wedding night. After that… I am free to do whatever,” you smirked.
“I do not know yet. The Prince offered me his son, Prince Matarys… But the boy is too young, of course,” you said and laughed, watching his reaction. He was not pleased.
In fact, his jaw clenched.
“A silver-haired Velaryon woman cannot marry a random Lord,” Aerion pointed out. “That would be yet another waste of our precious blood. You would thin it out.”
“I might have to,” you sighed. “There is my grandsire’s bastard in Essos who might be named this castle’s heir if I do not hurry.”
Aerion did not say anything to that but his mood visibly changed. He was frustrated and disappointed now. You excused him and went to your chambers.
As the doors closed behind you, you dismissed your maids and took off the headpiece yourself while staring at yourself in the mirror. You sighed, feeling a bit disgusted with yourself. This game of seduction was new to you. Your grandsire had taught you many things but he never taught you that.
“Fuck,” you cursed quietly.
Aerion had been a bad choice, you thought, as you laid down in your bed. Too proud and unpredictable. He would not give up his surname and you doubted he would feel good at Driftmark. He was too vain.
He had only come to you to lay with you but you denied. Perhaps he would be willing to give you a silver-hair bastard but you could not afford such a scandal. You needed legitimate offspring.
And a proper husband. Preferably someone shy, quiet and obedient.
“You seem to be in a better mood this morning, my Lady,” Aerion pointed out when you took him out for a walk to show him the ships in the bay.
“I was thinking of what you said. About thinning out our Valyrian blood. You were right,” you smiled and he picked up interest. “I have a new plan.”
“And what is it?”
“I will write to Prince Baelor. Ask him if he can ensure my title until his son is of age. I will wait for Prince Matarys. It should not be long either way,” you smiled. “He is what? Ten and six? In four years he should be ready for marriage. Maybe even two. And I am not much older than that myself, so I should still be able to have children,” you explained.
But Prince Aerion was not happy at all.
“You wish to marry that… weakling?” He asked as he winced.
“A weakling? Is he not your cousin, my Prince?” You asked, shaking your head.
“By name,” Aerion explained. “I suppose he’s a better choice than a random nobleman but he will bore you to painful death.”
“I cannot afford to look for a match who would be noble enough, exciting enough and handsome enough all in one. I need to secure my position,” you explained.
“What did my Uncle say? Exactly?” Aerion stopped by one of the ships as sailors ran their errands around you two.
“He said that I should take a husband sooner rather than later. Give birth to my own male heir to Driftmark and no one will question my new position,” you explained, looking down. “Being a woman… is a curse sometimes, my Prince.”
“You are no woman,” Aerion pointed out and you looked up at him, confused. “You are a dragoness.”
You smirked at that. If only life was as easy as he made it seem sometimes.
And why the hell was he so ridiculously handsome with that smile of his after he said that, with those mad eyes staring into yours and in that certain morning light by the bay? You chased those thoughts away. You couldn’t let any feelings or emotions overtake you. You needed to keep your head clear. It was strictly business.
“Are you suggesting I should ignore their demands? And if they come for me, fight them?” You raised an eyebrow.
“It would disappoint me if you did otherwise,” Aerion’s lips curled into a smirk.
And so you did. You remained unmarried and resided in Driftmark solely, focusing on gaining trust and influence amongst the Houses sworn to the Velaryons. Soon enough, you were sure of a small army to answer your call. Perhaps you had never been a sailor but your grandsire had taught you enough about the logistics of running the fleet, so you kept on providing King’s Landing with your ships and well-trained captains. But it did not stop their whispers.
Because now it was not about the fact your grandsire left no legitimate heir.
You had no heir of your own.
Prince Aerion remained your friend. You were exchanging letters every week and they were mostly about history but also rather sharp comments on the current political or social events. He was writing to you about the tournaments he was participating in and you were boring him with the details of running Driftmark and the fleet. Mostly about your annoying advisors – most of them were boring old men, who were sure they knew everything better than you only because you were a woman.
But to Aerion you remained a dragoness. He addressed each of his letters to his fearless Dragoness of Driftmark.
It was sweet… in a way.
One day you received a letter from Summerhall as usual but this time it was from a different sender. Intrigued, you opened it.
Lady of the Tides, Mistress of Driftmark,
Word has reached me that you have made a companion of my son, Prince Aerion. I would congratulate you on the distinction, though I fear it has brought my household little peace. At the table, from dawn meal to supper, he speaks of little else but you: your wit, your courage, your beauty, and a dozen other virtues he assures us you possess. You will forgive me if I confess that the rest of us have grown somewhat weary of hearing them recited.
This leaves me to wonder at the cause. If you have laid some bewitchment upon the boy, I would ask, most courteously, that you see fit to lift it. If not, then I must conclude that he has arrived at this affliction of his own accord, which is in some ways the more troubling prospect.
In either case, it occurs to me that there may be a simpler remedy. Should you find the notion tolerable, you might consider accepting his hand in marriage. Matrimony, I am told, has been known to cure young men of certain excesses. My son in particular is in sore need of such correction, being as reckless as he is persistent. You know his temper and habits better than most by now, I suspect, and so are well aware of the burdens such a proposal would place upon you. I will not pretend otherwise.
Should you decide you are equal to the task, you would have my thanks… And, I imagine, a quieter supper table besides. Send me your answer when you have come to a decision.
Prince Maekar Targaryen of Summerhall
You were staring at the page for half an hour, blinking slowly and swallowing only when your throat would get too dry.
You thought Prince Aerion was a chapter closed. A game lost. He remained your friend but your little seduction had failed once. You didn’t know that apparently the moment you had given up, had been when his interest picked up the most.
In his mind you were that mysterious Valyrian goddess living in solitude, alone in her ancient castle, strong and independent. You were similar age, yet in his mind you were nearly a mother figure but not in a cosy way but rather a harsh one. An unavailable mistress.
And he wanted to possess you. To be the only one to worship you.
You, on the other hand, needed a noble husband. And an heir. Preferably with silver hair.
Dear Prince Maekar,
I confess your letter brought me some amusement. I had not imagined that my friendship with Prince Aerion had become such a frequent topic at your table. If his praises have wearied your household, I fear the fault may lie more with the prince’s enthusiasm than with any doing of mine. I must also assure you that no sorcery is at work. I possess neither spells nor charms, and whatever regard your son bears me is entirely his own.
Your proposal is one I would consider. Your son is not a man easily forgotten, and I have come to value his company more than I might have expected. Yet I must speak plainly on one matter, for the future of my house depends upon it.
As the last Lady of my line, the survival of my name and blood must remain my foremost concern. Any son born of my marriage must therefore carry the name of my House, that its legacy does not perish with me. Such arrangements are not without precedent when a great house faces extinction, and I trust you will see the sense in preserving a loyal line that has long stood beside the crown. Should this condition not trouble you, I would gladly consider your proposal further. If it does, then I shall hold no offense, and remain nonetheless grateful for the regard shown to my house.
Lady (Y/N) Velaryon,
Lady of the Tides,
Mistress of Driftmark
People whispered that you were mad for marrying him out of all possible matches. Yet they all wanted to know what you were wearing for the wedding day. And they were placing bets on how long this marriage was going to last. How long until he would flee Driftmark to indulge in his own amusements.
And you thought it did not matter. That it was not hurting you because your marriage was not out of love. That all you needed from him was a son and the protection of his position to uphold yours.
Prince Baelor even mentioned the possibility of making such a precedent that you could be named the Mistress of Ships. You had to decline for now, though. Your main focus was your bloodline. You needed an heir. And Aerion loved the process of trying for one.
However, the same cruelly funny fate that had been tormenting your grandsire now granted you with a daughter first.
“Laena, come back here this instant!” You called for her as she giggled, knees deep in the water but she wanted to go even further and the sea was uneasy today. “Laena!” You called one more time and she sighed before running back to you.
“I was looking for pretty shells, mummy,” she pouted as she handed you a few. “Look,” her eyes glistened. “I want a headpiece made with them,” she grinned.
You cracked a smile and fixed her silver hair before caressing her cheek.
“You gathered enough for at least three headpieces.”
“Well, I want one made for you, too,” she said and you chuckled. She was spoiled and a troublemaker but she was also sweet.
You sometimes wondered where all that sweetness had come from. Certainly not her father and certainly not you.
“We should be going back. The storm is coming,” you pointed out as you looked up at the sky and extended your hand. Laena took it immediately.
“Yes. And I can’t wait to learn High Valyrian with daddy,” she nodded. You smiled at her and you two slowly started to walk towards the castle.
You nearly reached the stairs leading to Driftmark from the beach when you saw your husband standing on top of them. Laena let go of your hand to run up to him. She was in a rush, tripping on the last step but Aerion caught her and they both chuckled, waiting for you to join them with your slow and graceful pace.
“I was beginning to worry about you two. The sky is getting dark,” he pointed out.
But you knew he didn’t actually worry about you. He knew his strong wife would face any storm. He was worried about his little Valyrian Princess, though.
You had feared what kind of father he would be but he was actually a good one although in a twisted way. He loved Laena more than anything because she was half-him. And he was a walking perfection in his own eyes.
She was also half-you – half of his Dragoness, his Valyrian goddess. She was a treasure for him and he would often say that your dynasty would bring back the old Valyrian glory.
But at the end of the day, it did not matter. Your daughter had a happy childhood and she was cherished and that was enough.
“And what if we never have a son? What if it is a curse my family now bears?” You asked in the evening when he came back to your chambers after teaching Laena High Valyrian and then putting her to bed. “What if I don’t bear more children or I only bear daughters?” You asked.
Aerion chuckled as he sat on the edge of the bed next to you.
“You know, my Lady, in some cultures it is women who inherit and rule,” he pointed out.
“But not in ours,” you rolled your eyes. “I want Laena to be safe. I do not wish for her to always be strong and independent for the sake of proving herself.”
“She will be completely alright,” Aerion chuckled, kissing your temple. He seemed to be so sure that it was nearly irritating. And surely it was frustrating.
“How can you be so confident?” You raised your eyebrow at him.
“Because she is our daughter,” he answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He stood up again to remove his clothes and prepare for sleep and as you watched him, you smiled to yourself. Because if someone had told you that idiot from the dragonpit who had taken you for a Blackfyre bastard would actually make a husband you were rather fond of… You would have laughed at them.
And here you were. The Lady of The Tides.
With the most delusional and arrogant husband in the whole Seven Kingdoms.
But he adored you even if it was for the wrong reasons. And now, when his daughter was a Velaryon as well, you knew he would burn the whole Realm to keep Driftmark safe.
And that was all that mattered. That was all you asked of this marriage.
He was staring at himself in the mirror now, admiring his own image as he was running his hand through his hair with a smile. You sighed. Gods, he really was a vain idiot.
But he was your vain idiot.
“You know, I sometimes truly think that you love yourself more than you love me, husband,” you teased him, biting on your lower lip.
“Nonsense!” He huffed and turned around to look at you. “Do not make this distinction. We are one dragon in two bodies.”
He meant that with all seriousness. And that was why you hated him sometimes.
summary: A glimpse into the marriage between Aerion and you, except he’s sick and cruel.
p.1, p.2
cw: 18+ (mdni), dark!Aerion, strong language, manipulation, power imbalance, mentions of cheating, abusive relationship, emotional and physical abuse, public humiliation, intoxication, fluff and angst,
wc: 1.1k
Husband!Aerion, who provides the kitchen staff with your fabrics and commands them to use them right in front of you during dinner, to clean dirty spots on the table and on the floor. Your noble material, which you bought yourself, being used for filth.
It takes you a moment to look Aerion in the eyes— it is clear that he is behind this action, your eyes already tearing up and your lips sorrowfully pressed together.
"Well, I thought your fabrics could be used for something better, no?" he says as he puts food into his mouth, his eyes smiling along with his grin. Everyone at the table is looking at you—Maekar, who already has a headache just looking at his son; the two girls, who don't know what is going on and the brothers, who are too deep in conversation to pay you any attention.
You only nod and look back down at your plate, your only task now to hold back the tears as you feel how warm your face is becoming and how dry your throat is getting.
·༻𐫱༺·
Wife!Reader, who sometimes sneaks into the kitchen and sends the servants away when she thinks Aerion is out hunting. Hoping to bake in peace and alone, making a pastry her mother taught her—wearing an apron to keep her dress clean from stains.
Your hair is pinned up high, and your hands are covered with flour and bits of egg as you slide the pastry into the brick oven.
Husband!Aerion, who has been standing there for ten minutes, watching you peacefully decorate your cake with strawberries and cream.
Husband!Aerion, who cannot help but stand there as if hypnotized, his heart growing warmer and beating faster at the sight of his wife looking like this. This feeling confuses him inside and stirs up a strange anger.
Wife!Reader, who turns around to the other counter to reach for the honey, only to see Aerion standing by the door. Jumping back in fear, Aerion giving you small heart attack. Freezing on the spot, you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
"So this is what my wife does when I turn my back for a few hours? Playing the kitchen maid?" Aerion says in a dangerous voice as he walks down the short steps, coming closer and closer to you.
In fear and panic, you try to fix the situation by offering him a piece of your pastry. Aerion takes it from your hand, brings it to his mouth, and takes a bite. You wait anxiously for his reaction, wondering how he will like it—after all, you have received many compliments for this recipe. But the piece does not stay in his mouth for long, he spits it onto the floor and says, "It tastes of ash and desperation." The rest he throws to the ground.
Husband!Aerion, who forces you to clean up everything all by yourself while he watches you. He makes you scrub the floor of the entire kitchen on your hands and knees. The cake, of course, he threw into the trash. Yet Aerion cannot help but still feel the delicious taste of the pastry on his tongue.
·༻𐫱༺·
Wife!Reader, who sometimes catches herself watching Aerion as he trains down in the courtyard. Aerion, sensing her presence, puts extra effort into fighting impressively—delivering extra hard strikes with his sword and bringing every single knight to the ground.
You see him sweaty and out of breath after the training session, and you simply cannot help yourself from staring. At the very end, he unexpectedly lifts his sword in your direction and points the blood-stained tip right at you—meaning to say, I know you were watching me, without ever speaking a single word.
·༻𐫱༺·
Husband!Aerion, who wakes you up in the dead of night to make you search for the lost ring of his late mother. Wife!Reader, who has never seen him in such a panic before, Aerion being on the verge of tears and hyperventilating.
Everything in your room is turned upside down, all the furniture, blankets, and papers left in complete chaos. "Did you perhaps leave it in the courtyard?" you suddenly ask, but Aerion, trapped in his panic, looks at you with angry, red eyes. "No!" he screams out. After a while, he sits down on the bed, burying his face in his hands. "I had it on right here last," he whispers softly now.
Slowly, you step toward him with caution. When you stand before him, you place your hand on his shoulder. Aerion takes his face out of his hands and looks up at you, his eyes filled with tears. You press his face against your chest—Aerion's arms find your waist and pull you tightly against him, holding you like he never has before as he sobs his heart out in your arms.
·༻𐫱༺·
Husband!Aerion, who secretly tries to ply you with drinks one day, giving you an extreme amount of wine to get you drunk. By the time you walk back to your bedroom, he practically has to carry you, holding you up so you do not crash to the floor. Aerion deeply enjoys your loose manner and the things you blabber out while intoxicated. "One would think Lord Ronnel had a stick up his arse," you say between gibberish and groans as Aerion lays you onto the bed.
Husband!Aerion, who cannot help but grin at your state and the things coming out of your mouth. He sits on the edge of the bed and starts pulling off his boots when your arms suddenly find his neck, wrapping around him from behind. "You smell sooooo good," you say happily, burying your nose into his neck and peppering it with soft kisses. Aerion’s grin widens even more at the feel of your gentle lips.
"You must tell me your secret, I want to smell like that too," you keep rambling, while one of your hands slips into his hair, gently scratching his head.
Husband!Aerion, who turns his whole body around to face you and pins you down onto the mattress with full force, making you let out a loud laugh. He begins to place a flurry of soft kisses all over your skin, moving from your face down to your chest. Wife!Reader, who feels far too tired because of the heavy drinking and closes her eyes under his gentle touch. When Aerion sees you closing your eyes, he lets out a sigh but shows understanding, moving over to his side of the bed.
Wife!Reader, who cuddles up close to him and pulls her head down to his chest. "I love you," she lets out as a final whisper before falling into a deep, comatose sleep. Aerion, looking at her in genuine surprise, presses a tender kiss against her head, wrapping his arm securely around her body.
The next morning, you wake up with a terrible headache and cannot remember a single thing— but Aerion remembers everything.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.
Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.
The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.
Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.
“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”
Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.
But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.
You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.
Now he was here.
You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.
You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.
“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”
You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.
A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”
The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.
His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.
“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”
Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”
“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”
“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”
You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”
“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”
Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.
“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.
“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”
He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”
You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.
You lowered yourself onto his lap.
His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”
“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”
You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”
Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”
His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.
“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”
You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.
“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”
“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.
“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”
His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.
“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”
He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”
His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.
“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”
You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.
“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”
You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”
His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.
He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.
You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.
When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”
You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.
You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.
But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.
His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.
"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."
You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.
"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"
Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.
But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.
"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."
You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.
"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."
Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.
"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."
There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.
"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.
"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."
"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."
"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."
You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.
"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."
His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."
But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.
"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."
"No one would think that," you said.
"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."
He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.
"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."
"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."
He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.
"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."
"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."
"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."
"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."
"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."
You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.
"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."
His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.
"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.
For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."
"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."
"But I am..."
"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."
You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.
"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."
"I did not know you worried."
"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."
He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.
You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.
"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."
You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.
You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.
He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.
When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.
"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."
Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.
"Aerion..."
"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."
He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.
The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.
You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.
"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."
The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.
One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.
You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."
"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.
"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."
Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."
"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."
Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.
Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.
"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."
He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.
You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.
Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.
He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.
His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.
"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."
Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.
"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.
Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.
"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."
You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."
"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."
He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.
"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."
He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.
"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."
"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."
"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."
You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."
But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.
You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.
The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.
When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.
You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.
The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.
Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.
He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.
He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."
He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.
"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."
"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."
"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."
His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.
"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"
You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."
"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."
But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."
"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.
He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.
It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.
"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."
He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."
"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"
He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.
"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."
He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."
Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.
"What is this?"
Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.
"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."
Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."
Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.
"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."
Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."
"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."
Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."
"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."
"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."
"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."
Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.
Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."
He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.
"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."
"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."
"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."
"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."
"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."
"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."
Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."
"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."
"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."
You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.
"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."
"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."
"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."
"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."
His eyes darkened. "Choose?"
"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."
"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
You smiled and said nothing.
He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."
"I would expect nothing less."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.
HEAR ME OUT!!!!! modern aerion except the targ’s are mafia and reader is his baby mama
Thanks for the request! unfortunately super busy rn so couldn't commit to a full fic but here's some thoughts:
CW- 18+, implied violence. implied sex
Everyone had warned you not to get involved with Aerion. His reputation was horrible and he was an arrogant man, but he seemed to have a soft spot for you.
He had become a regular at the 24 hour diner that you worked at, showing up every night at exactly 2AM to order a black coffee and a turkey sandwich. Seeing as you worked the graveyard shift, Aerion became a consistent part of your life. He would ask you questions about your life, compliment the way your legs looked in your yellow uniform, and leave a $100 tip every single time.
When he finally asked you on a date, you immediately accepted his offer. What could possibly go wrong? His white-blonde hair, chiseled jawline, and violet eyes were quite appealing. It had been a long time since a guy had shown so much interest in you, and you were willing to ignore some of his less than ideal traits.
You were strangely drawn to his chaos, especially when it included flashy cars and expensive gifts. The random late night “work meetings” that had him returning home smelling like blood and the occasional attack in the street from a “former associate” was certainly scary, but Aerion distracted you well enough from all of it.
You knew of his family, spoken about in hushed whispers. He was of course involved in shady business, but spoke to you at first only ever of “garbage management.”
The relationship had been a whirlwind, less than one year of dating and Aerion had changed the trajectory of your life. Lavish vacations, shopping sprees, date nights at Michelin star restaurants. Aerion loved showing you off and making sure everyone knew that you were his.
The sex was crazy good, unlike anything you had ever experienced with previous boyfriends. He had unbelievable stamina and a very high sex drive, constantly making excuses to leave somewhere public and return to his house so that he could have you.
Aerion would fuck you in the kitchen, bending you over the counter and pulling down your skirt in quick succession. He would fuck you on the balcony, on his desk, and in the backseat of his car. He covered you with hickies, fingertip shaped bruises, and he always finished inside of you.
When you had gotten pregnant, Aerion proposed immediately. It was the right thing to do of course, but you couldn’t justify marrying a man you had only known for less than a year. You promised that he could remain a part of the baby’s life, and that you wouldn’t say anything to the press. You were more suited to a quiet life out of the public eye, regardless of how much the thrill of Aerion’s world enticed you.
You remained his girlfriend throughout the pregnancy, delivering a healthy baby boy that you agreed to name Maegor, a Targaryen family name. But you broke up shortly after, blaming Aerion’s reckless behavior and constant cruelty to those around him. His illegal activities grew harder to ignore, and you knew that they would one day catch up to him.
Making good on your promise, Aerion and you avoided any sort of formal custody arrangement and you allowed him as much time with your son as he wanted. Aerion adored the boy, showering him with lavish gifts and parading him around at family events.
Although you had broken up with him, Aerion remained obsessed with you. Flowers delivered to your doorstep one a week, dirty words whispered in your ear during drop-off, and subtle touches on your waist that lingered a moment too long.
One night when you were picking up your son, Aerion convinced you to stay for a glass of wine. Maegor was more than content in his playpen, and your ex had declared that you looked too stressed. A bit of wine would raise your spirits, he promised as he lured you into his den.
One glass turned into one bottle, and tears were streaming down your cheeks as you rambled to your ex about your shitty new job and creepy boss. His fingers grazed your face gently, assuring you that things would be taken care of as he texted one of his cousins rather frantically. You were too drunk to realize what he was implying.
Of course you were too drunk to drive home, so Aerion insisted that you stayed in his guest bedroom. He also insisted that he stayed in said bedroom with you, to make sure that you were alright. You gave no protest when he crawled into bed beside you and pressed kisses to your neck. This was Aerion Targaryen after all, and what could go wrong with opening your heart once more to the father of your child?
life as you know it shatters when your husband loses his memories of you in a freak incident. how will you convince him of your marriage and the love that made it real?
genre/warnings:
suggestive, amnesia, hurt/comfort, light angst, enemies to lovers, crack, quarrels and usage of "wench" (aerion is back to his default personality for plot development i swear), falling in love all over again trope, pregnancy, lannister!reader
notes:
based on this. the amnesia fic is here muehehe :))
You knew Aerion could be a big menace. He was too proud, too vain— with arrogance that was practically boundless. He was not the religious sort too, so the Seven above must keep tally of all his sins.
You had always thought the Gods would humble him eventually. You know, damn it, but—
You never imagined it would come to this. Something as absurd and sudden as him being thrown from his own horse and lie unconscious for three long days.
Those three days had been unbearable. The maester assured you he would wake, that his body was strong, that there was no cause for despair—but his words did little to quiet the worry inside your chest. You had cried anyway and never left his bedside.
So when his fingers twitched in your grasp, it startled you from your half-asleep state, your head snapping up.
“Aerion?” Your voice came out small, fragile with hope as you leaned forward, eyes searching his face as you clutched his hand. “Aerion, can you hear me?”
His lashes fluttered, slow and heavy, before finally lifting to reveal the Targaryen violet eyes. For a heartbeat, you felt relief crash into you so fiercely it nearly hurt.
But the moment his gaze found you, something felt… wrong.
“You—” His voice came in a rasp, eyes narrowed in disgust, and his words struck harder than any blade. “Why are you here?”
“Of course I’m here, you blockhead—” The insult slipped out before you could stop it, but then your breath caught in your throat when he withdrew his hand from your grasp.
“Aren’t you supposed to be far and away in Casterly Rock?” he snapped, his gaze raking over you with open offense. “What are you doing in my chambers, wench?”
The color drained from your face so quickly it left you dizzy. Your erratic heartbeat slammed against your ribs until it was all you could hear. Panic clawed its way up your throat as your entire body shook and your breath came in choked gasps.
He... he doesn’t—
“Maester!” You stumbled back from the bedside, your vision swimming with tears as you threw open the doors and yelled at your handmaiden. “Call for the maester!”
“My princes, my lady, forgive me... It appears from the severity of his fall, His Grace has suffered memory loss.”
Prince Maekar Targaryen stood near the foot of the bed, rigid and expression sharp as iron. Beside him was Daeron, who looked like he couldn’t believe what had befallen his brother, and young Aegon, who tried—and failed—to mask his distaste with poorly hidden curiosity.
Meanwhile you stood next to Egg, still numb.
The center of it all was Aerion. He merely cocked his head to the side even as the maester declared his state. He looked fine, unsettlingly so. Rested against his pillows, still pale but very much alive, his violet eyes were clear, as though nothing had happened to him at all.
“Well,” he huffed, glancing between people in his chamber with visible impatience, “you all look as though I’ve risen from the dead. Do enlighten me—what terribly important events have I missed?” And then his gaze flicked to his sire.
“Father, why are we still in Summerhall? Are you not the crown prince?”
You could have sworn Prince Maekar was this close to curse at him by how his voice coming almost in a hiss. “What nonsense are you spouting, boy?”
“Was Baelor not slain in a Trial of Seven? With Aerys and Rhaegel dead that would make you heir to the throne, would it not?” he asked so easily, as though he hadn’t just spoken something that was blatant treason.
An unbearable silence passed in the room, before Maekar turned sharply towards the maester.
“Tell me, did that fall knock the wits clean out of his head— and left my son a complete cretin?”
Maester Melanquin stiffened at once, clearly caught between honesty and survival. “Y-Your Grace, head injuries of such severity can… disturb the memory in unpredictable ways. It is not uncommon for the afflicted to recall events incorrectly...”
“Fuck me,” Maekar finally cursed, running a hand on his face. “Fuck us all.”
On the bed, Aerion let out a scoff. “This seems more like a nightmare than whatever dream I’ve been pulled from.”
You swallowed, your fingers curling slightly at your side as a dull ache began to throb at your temple. Your husband hit his head, had altered memories, and worst of all—
His gaze then landed on you, and just as quickly his expression soured. “Why is she still here?”
He doesn’t recognize you.
Prince Maekar glanced at you, barely holding on the last strands of his patience.
“She is your wife, Aerion.”
“My what?”
Aerion’s attention snapped back to you. His eyes reassessed you from head to toe, as if he found you deeply questionable.
“You’re telling me that I chose her, out of all people?”
“Enough, boy.” Maekar’s voice dropped a degree.
“Father, you must have forced my hand,” Aerion spat, unconvinced. “Because I refuse to believe I married this dullard willingly.”
You knew this was not the Aerion you had given your heart to—the one who had learned your smiles, who reached for your hand in private, who once looked at you as though you alone could soothe the fire in him.
But knowing that did little to soften the blow. Gods, it still hurts.
Prince Maekar closed his eyes, looking every bit like a man asking for the mercy of the Gods. Your good-brothers Daeron and Egg could only exchange weary sighs before turning toward you with quiet sympathy in their eyes.
Your father-in-law was right, fuck us all indeed.
. . .
You left his chambers before anyone could see your expression crack and falter.
You hadn’t made it far before Maester Melanquin caught up to you in the corridor.
“My lady, you mustn’t take his words to heart,” he began gently. Out of everyone in that room, you had taken the blow worst of all, even if Aerion himself seemed blind to it. “Memory loss of this sort can alter temperament. It is not uncommon for the patient to—”
“I understand,” you cut in softly.
“I would advise rest,” he continued after a moment. “You have endured quite a strain these past days. It is not good for—”
“That will be all, Maester Melanquin.”
You couldn’t hear this now. His eyes widened in realization.
“My lady, you have not informed anyone...?”
“No,” you firmly stressed. “No one else needs to know, yet.”
Even you had only discovered it three days ago—on the very day Aerion had taken his fall. How could you possibly overwhelm everyone with the news that you were with child now?
The maester inclined his head, deeply mournful for you. “As you wish, my lady.”
Aerion was certain this marriage with you was a dreadful one.
He had come to that conclusion within days of waking without half his memories, because every interaction between the two of you felt strained at best.
Yet, as he made his thoughts known to his dimwitted squire, telling him how he must have been a big patron to the most famous brothel in Street of Silk now with a wife like you, the poor lad shook his head vigorously—
“I wouldn’t believe it so, my prince! In fact, you hadn’t visited the brothels ever since your marriage!”
Aerion stared at him as though he had just confessed to treason, and the squire shrunk.
“And everyone knows...” the squire hesitated now, as though fearing for his life, “That you and Lady Lannister shared chambers often too...”
Whenever Aerion looked at you, you didn’t resemble the sort of woman who warmed a husband’s bed willingly. You were composed to the point of irritation, sharp-eyed too, carrying yourself with the dignity of someone fully trained to withstand him.
He was proven right very soon when he sat together with you for the afternoon tea.
. . .
The maester had insisted familiarity could help restore memory. And so, every afternoon for the past five days, you were seated beside him.
“It is still beyond me,” Aerion griped, casting you a distaste frown. “How did I ever end up with you?”
For five miserable days now, the two of you had been enduring each other’s intolerable company. Worse still, neither of you seemed remotely willing to surrender first.
You set your teacup down abruptly, with no grace whatsoever, letting out a sigh.
“Poor, poor you,” you mocked in a saccharine voice. “Here you are— bound to me by gods, law, and unfortunately, the entire realm. What a tragedy for us both.”
Aerion had discovered quickly that you possessed a talent of needling him in the gentlest tone imaginable, while you, in turn, had learned that memory loss did absolutely nothing to diminish his arrogance.
“Why did you even agree to this match?” he asked bluntly one afternoon, studying you with open suspicion. “You hardly seem delighted to be my wife either.”
“Do I seem like I was granted much choice in the matter of my own marriage?” you replied coolly. “I was thrown into this game of thrones just as much as you were. Frankly, had fate been kinder, I might have married some stableboy of my own choosing instead.”
That offended him, rather greatly. Aerion leaned back in his chair with a sharp scoff.
“Ah, I see now,” he drawled coldly, “House Lannister simply could not miss the chance to be a part of the royal family.” His silver-haired head tilted slightly. “And if the dreams plaguing me are any indication, you would have become fortunate enough to sit beside me as queen consort someday.”
Your face scrunched immediately at his sheer audacity.
“If I were a smallfolk living in King’s Landing, in the most unfortunate event that you ever became heir to the Iron Throne, like you said— I would spend every waking day in terror until I finally fled to Essos.”
“You!”
Gods, you are exhausting. He felt as though he were speaking to someone perpetually prepared for battle. Only that your weapon of choice wasn’t swords but words sharpened into tiny little knives.
“You have spent five days insulting me—”
“And you have spent five days asking how you married me,” you spat defiantly. “Surely we both deserve rewards for perseverance.”
You were aggravating, forever meeting his every remark with one of your own—you were every bit the same enemy he remembered from childhood, only now draped in his colors.
Yet somehow... the moment you went strangely pale, his irritation vanished somewhat. A napkin came up to your mouth while your other hand pressed against your abdomen, fingers curling there tightly as though trying to hold yourself together.
“You look dreadful,” he said bluntly.
You shot him a glare over the napkin. “I assure you, husband, I am perfectly—” You cut yourself off suddenly, swallowing, “—fine.”
No, he thought. For the first time in five days, you looked genuinely unwell. “You are not, wench—”
“If you will excuse me,” you cut him, keeping your composure together through sheer force as you rose from your seat, “I believe I should retire.”
And with that, you gathered your skirts and left the solar with dignity, though your pace was far quicker than usual.
Aerion remained seated even as you disappeared through the doorway, his annoyance giving way to an unfamiliar feeling, because for the first time since waking without his memories—
He found himself wanting to follow after you.
. . .
You knew you had not exactly taken the gentle approach with Aerion. He reminded you too much of the insufferable brat who had made your childhood miserable, and you just—for the life of you—could not take all his offensive remarks in silence.
You rushed towards the nearest privies, before dropping beside the close stool, one hand bracing against its rim as you threw up.
Now, you are carrying his child. At the end of the day, the cold truth hit you whenever you wanted to give up on him. You could never, because you had stupidly yearned for his affections, and bore his child.
Despite yourself, another wave rolled through you unpleasantly enough that you emptied your stomach again to the stool.
You are exhausted.
Exhausted from Aerion looking at you like a stranger wearing your husband’s face. Exhausted from fencing with him endlessly just to stop yourself from feeling how deeply wrong all of this truly was.
And worst of all— exhausted from pretending his sharp words did not affect you, because they did and they cut your heart into pieces.
With every fiber of your being, you wanted the man you had fallen in love with back. Stray tears fell from your eyes as you held back a sob, and as dizziness took over you and you staggered on your feet—
“You are fucking ill, woman.”
A strong pair of arms swept you clean off your feet, and you gasped, clutching on the first thing to steady yourself, which happened to be the fabric of his doublet.
Aerion stood tall, already striding towards your chambers, his violet eyes hardened as his lips twisted into a scowl. “You have been ill this entire time and said nothing? Just how foolish could you get?”
You shut your eyes. “Aerion, put me down—”
“You could have told me, you dumb—”
“Stop insulting me, you rat!”
Aerion shot you an angry glare immediately, yet, to your surprise, he fell quiet afterwards.
You didn’t know why he listened this time, and that tender corner of your heart wept with relief, because despite his missing memories, some part of him still recognized you when you were hurt.
Will he come back? You wanted to tell him everything already. You had imagined the moment countless times in your head—how Aerion’s expression would go utterly still at first, before he would go red in the face, hiding his own excitement by putting on a prideful air how you did a good job for bearing his child—
You buried your face against his chest, fingers still clutching weakly at him, and you could feel how he tightened his hold over you.
As though fate itself had finally decided to loosen its grip on the two of you, your relationship began to improve after that day—even if only slightly.
You had managed, through several concealed threats, to force Maester Melanquin into keeping the truth from Aerion. He had looked ready to fire the poor maester on the spot when he told him you only suffered from common cold.
Who would have known he would spare you more concern since then? And on good days too, sometimes, he acted exactly like the man you remembered.
“You used to do this,” you remarked when Aerion’s arm settled at your waist, drawing you closer as the two of you crossed the crowded hall together—the perfect image of a harmonious royal couple before the court. “I suppose old habits die hard.”
“Nearly every lord and lady in this hall does the same thing,” he gruffly retorted, dismissive. “It is called common etiquette, wife.”
You glanced up at him, gaze pure and clear.
“Yes, but I could have simply taken your arm too. Half of ladies in this hall do that.” Your gaze flickered briefly toward the hand resting at your waist. “You hold me out of habit.”
Aerion went quiet at that. Then he cleared his throat abruptly, pointedly refusing to dignify you with any further response as he continued guiding you through the hall.“Tragic.” Without hesitation, he reached across the table and stole the tart from your untouched plate. “You adore these things, but if you insist on wasting it, I shall graciously spare it from abandonment.”
. . .
You were right— he had done it by instinct.
Aerion had not thought before touching you. It just felt right to do it, but if asked why, he also couldn’t produce a nonchalant answer.
By all accounts, you should have been the wife he never wanted. Half his memories were missing, every surviving recollection of you involved glares, mutual irritation, and arguments in the corridors of the Red Keep, yet—
Ever since the two of you parted ways some time ago, his eyes had kept searching for you before he even consciously realized what he was doing.
Aerion concluded he just detested not having control. You irritated him endlessly, yes, but regardless, you were still his wife— so he ought to have a tight leash around you.
No sooner had he reached the lower end of the hall than he spotted his little brother’s absurdly tall knight nearly stumbling over his own feet trying to greet you.
“M-M’lady,” Ser Duncan stammered, bowing abruptly. “M-my apologies... I didn’t see—”
The poor fool turned visibly red beneath your gaze. You, meanwhile, smiled at him brightly.
“Good evening, Ser Duncan. Are you well? You seem nervous.”
“I—well—no, not nervous, m’lady, just—”
You laughed softly at that, and gods, the sound alone seemed enough to make the knight redder still.
“You look… ah… v-very lovely tonight, m’lady.” Ser Duncan visibly swallowed, meeting your eyes reluctantly.
You held back a grin. “Why, thank you, Ser Duncan. That was almost coherent.”
That buffoon of a knight looked utterly stricken, and Aerion clenched his jaw. How dare he stand there blushing at his wife like some moonstruck idiot?
Then Duncan, in all his bumbling idiocy, reached for your hand. The knight bent respectfully, pressing a courteous kiss against your knuckles in proper greeting. It was the sort of harmless gallantry performed a thousand times in court.
Aerion suddenly feel the urge to break the man’s hand. Something hot and ugly surged through him at once, so sharp that his mood soured instantly— but it was when your giggle reached his ears that the feeling worsened tenfold.
Had men always looked at you this way?
Had he always been forced to endure it?
Before either of you realized it, he had took big strides and placed himself next to you.
“If you insist on embarrassing yourself before my wife,” Aerion drawled coldly, “you may as well commit to it properly.”
“Aerion!” You scolded with a frown, before turning to the knight before you. “Don’t mind him, Ser Duncan. You may rise.”
Meanwhile, Aerion’s hand had already settled possessively against the small of your back as he observed how the commoner got back to his feet—only for the prince to realize, with visible irritation, that Duncan stood a full head taller than him—before he continued with complete seriousness:
“Stop breathing directly in her direction. You are enormous.”
“Uh, should I... not breathe?”
“Seven hells, Aerion!” you hissed beneath your breath, mortified.
Aerion clicked his tongue, though the moment you leveled a sharp glare at him, he merely huffed like an irritated twat denied a fight.
Meanwhile, Duncan stood there looking genuinely troubled, seriously considering how his breathing had somehow become offensive. The knight also could not help but wonder how someone as sweet as you had ended up married to someone like him.
“No worries, m’lady. I... I can stand farther away to breathe, then.”
“...”
“I can... right?”
Days slipped by and still, Aerion had yet to regain his memories.
Before you fully realized it, two moons had passed since the accident, and your condition was becoming harder to conceal.
No matter how often you layered silks and draped cloaks around yourself, the slight swell of your abdomen had begun to show, and it wouldn’t be long before you could no longer cover it.
His child in you, the thought alone made your chest ache sometimes. As of now, the ones who were aware of this were the maester and your personal maids. Until when you should keep this from him and the others?
Aerion still made insufferable remarks with alarming consistency, and you still answered half of them with cutting sweetness. But the small blessing was, increasingly, there were moments where he behaved so much like his former self, and that gave you hope.
. . .
The more time he spent with you, the more Aerion found himself settling into your company.
Now he knew the exact expression you made whenever you were cross. He knew when you were genuinely irritated versus when you were merely pretending to be offended for the sake of argument. He knew the way your eyes brightened whenever something delighted you, and how that same light dimmed whenever you were unwell.
And lately...
“You look constantly ill these days,” Aerion remarked as the two of you walked through the gardens of Summerhall. “What precisely ails you? Why do you refuse to improve?”
You shot him a flat look. “You know, most husbands would say their wives look unwell and would find ways to help them get better.”
“Most husbands are compulsive liars. I am pious and honest,” he sneered, his violet eyes crinkling.
You rolled your eyes towards the heavens. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Aerion knew that for a fact that you were rather fond of him. After all, he wasn’t an inexperienced man— what he did not know was what that made him.
Had the man he used to be also been fond of you too? Enough for him to notice if you were feigning good health?
“You are avoiding the question,” he noted with a frown. “What are you hiding? Do you have some illness I don’t know about?”
“No,” you balked, turning to him. “Why are you being annoyingly observant lately? Have you found life dreadfully boring since losing your memories that you find joy in fussing over me?”
“Hah. The prissy little lady I spent half my life quarreling with happens to be my wife. I am obligated to look after her if I intend to play the role of husband properly, am I not?”
You let out an unimpressed, mocking hum. “How noble of you. Thank you for your service.”
“Besides,” he added dismissively, “if I seek excitement, I can find it elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?”
“My whores, for instance.”
His words struck you so abruptly that your steps faltered. Aerion glanced down at you, seemingly satisfied to render you speechless. “Men whore, that’s a fact.”
He had meant it half as a jest, but something in your expression had changed.
“I suddenly feel rather tired,” you continued after a moment, fingers tightening around your cloak. “If you will excuse me, I believe I should retire early.”
Without waiting for permission, you stepped past him, but Aerion instinctively caught your wrist before you could move farther away.
“You haven’t answered me,” he hissed.
You met his eyes, unflinching, “You can’t make me do what I don’t want to, husband. Go and find one of your whores instead and make her do your bidding.”
With that, you wrenched yourself from his grasp and stalked towards your bedchambers, and for a moment, Aerion was still on his tracks.
He wanted to go after you, to demand more explanation because you couldn’t just brazenly leave him, but your words rang in his ears, as if he had heard if before—
Then go find one of your whores instead!
For days afterwards, you avoided him. Far from subtly.
You vanished from chambers moments before he entered them. Afternoon teas in the solar ceased entirely under excuses of exhaustion. Servants informed him you had already retired whenever he asked after you.
Aerion felt his irritation mounting with every passing day. It must be his comment about whores, but why did it offend you so? He hadn’t even planned to go through with it!
Not when whores look so dull compared than you. They don’t have your fiery charm, or the sweetness of your face. Something about you was as hard as an iron, but Aerion sometimes thought it was endearing.
Enough of this. He would have order. If you intended to avoid him like some offended little ghost haunting Summerhall, then he would simply drag answers out of you directly.
But before he reached the doors to your chambers, voices stopped him.
Three maids stood just beyond the corridor archway carrying folded linens, too occupied with their conversation to notice the prince approaching.
“…poor thing’s barely left bed these past days,” the older one whispered sympathetically.
“The lady looked so pale this morning,” another sighed. “I thought she might faint again.”
Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately.
“She only insisted on coming out today because she did not wish to raise suspicion,” the third maid murmured. “Though honestly, I pity her...”
The first maid nodded sadly. “The fourth moon already too… and His Grace still does not even know she is carrying his child.”
Suddenly, a shadow fell over them. The three women froze, and slowly, they turned—
Aerion stood behind them, towering and terrifyingly still, his expression drained of color.
“She is carrying... what?”
You cursed the fact that your body had always been of weak constitution. You never recovered from illness easily, and carrying a child only seemed to worsen every ache and every wave of exhaustion settling into your bones.
Which was why you had hidden yourself away in the library that afternoon, seeking silence and peace amongst dusty shelves and books. But somehow or another—
My whores, for instance.
You pressed a hand tiredly against your eyes. How did you manage to get your heart broken over your enemy-turned-husband again for the nth time?
The Aerion before the accident had once looked you dead in the eyes and promised he would never seek comfort in whores again, but this Aerion did not remember any of that. You should have understood he probably only said that to get a reaction out of you, but still, it wasn’t pleasant to hear at the slightest.
Before you could dwell on it further, the library doors suddenly burst open with enough force to slam loudly against the stone wall and you were startled.
Aerion strode inside at once, breathing raggedly as though he had searched half the castle for you.
“There you are—”
His violet eyes were wild, almost furious, and for one startled moment you could only stare at him in confusion as he crossed the room in long, determined strides.
“How could you?” he demanded, catching your arm in a tight hold. “Hells, you are a madwoman.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“How could you not tell me?” His voice cracked with something between anger and disbelief, though still low. “You are carrying my child and said nothing to me?”
Your stomach dropped instantly. “How did you—”
“Find out?” Aerion barked a sharp laugh. “Apparently the help in this castle knows and the child’s own father does not.”
You stared at him silently for a moment before your expression hardened.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When? After you birthed the damn babe?”
Despite yourself, irritation sparked hotly through your chest.
“Oh, forgive me for not rushing to share the news with the husband who so easily informed me he could return to his whores whenever he pleased,” you snapped, glaring at him. “Had you not been foolish enough to get yourself whacked in the head and lose half your memories, perhaps I would have told you sooner.”
Aerion looked almost stricken for half a heartbeat, and you took your chance to get away from him.
Unfortunately, your skirts caught beneath your heel.
Your breath caught sharply as your footing slid across the polished floor, the world tilting around you while your body lurched dangerously towards the stone fireplace nearby.
But Aerion moved before you could crash into it.
He lunged forward immediately, catching you firmly around the waist and hauling you hard against his chest. The force of it sent both of you stumbling sideways together. Your shoulder collided painfully against the edge of a bookshelf—
And Aerion’s head slammed hard against the heavy wooden corner.
For one terrible heartbeat, his grip around you tightened reflexively, as though making certain you were still safe against him, before his body sagged and the two of you tumbled to the floor.
“Aerion...?”
His eyes lost focus immediately— and before you could properly steady either of you, the prince collapsed against you, unconscious.
In the span of a single day, Summerhall descended into absolute chaos.
First came the panic of its most troublesome prince rendered unconscious after striking his head for the second time. Servants ran through corridors in terror, Maester Melanquin was nearly trampled in the confusion, and somewhere in the midst of it all, Prince Maekar had reportedly declared that if Aerion survived this only to lose his remaining memories, he would personally lock his son inside a tower.
Then came the second revelation— you were with child. The maids whispered excitedly through the halls, and Ser Duncan nearly choked on his beef stew after hearing the news.
Meanwhile, you remained seated beside Aerion’s bed, trying your best to keep it together. Guilt gnawed viciously at your chest, remembering how he shielded you from that fall.
Because even in anger—even confused and not fully himself—his first instinct had still been to save you.
The hours stretched unbearably. You must have prayed to every god known to man by the time the third hour passed, and you were almost asleep when a low groan broke the silence.
Aerion shifted faintly against the pillows, brows furrowing before his violet eyes slowly opened.
For one dreadful heartbeat, you could barely breathe when his gaze settled on you. “Aerion…?”
It took him several seconds, but you would never have expected... his lips curling into a wicked smile.
“Missed me, wife?”
You stared at him in utter shock. Is he...? Has his—
After two and half moons, the familiar cruel glint finally appeared in your husband’s violet eyes that made him look more like gods rather than human. This expression belonged only to your Aerion.
The boy who had once been your greatest torment in childhood, but also the man who had grown fiercely fond of you despite himself. The same man who would spill blood without hesitation for anyone foolish enough to dishonor you.
Aerion blinked at your stunned expression before the corners of his eyes crinkled faintly with amusement.
“What?” he drawled lazily. “Yes, I’ve returned.”
A broken sound escaped your throat before you threw yourself towards him without another thought, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as relief crashed over you so violently it made your entire body tremble.
Aerion let out a quiet grunt from the force of it, but his arms immediately came around you in return, holding you just as tightly against him. And then, in his typical velvety voice, he murmured against your hair:
“And I shall continue making your life a little hell, wife.”
A watery laugh escaped you despite the tears burning your eyes. Gods, he is so, so, so incredibly and fucking insufferable.
As a child of five, you would say marrying Aerion Targaryen would ruin your life entirely, but now... as he held you against his heart—
You found yourself overwhelmingly grateful that it had been him.
He was mystified himself, how could he ever go through days and nights without you near?
Several nights after he regained his memories and you were well enough, his lips finally found yours within the privacy of your marital chambers.
“There you are,” he murmured roughly, sucking off your lips as he balanced you on his lap, enticingly dressed in your sensual nightgown. “Gods, you looked at me these past months as though I had died.”
“You did,” you retorted, clutching his bare shoulder. “You forgot me.”
Aerion kissed you again before you could say another word, slower this time, but no less intense. His thumb brushed beneath your eye gently when a tear slipped free.
“I did not forget you entirely.” He eyed you like a predator to prey, his tone deliciously low. “Some part of me kept finding my way back to you.”
Your fingers curled into his skin as you pulled him into your ravenous kiss, brushing yourself against his crotch.
Aerion made a low sound against your mouth before breaking the kiss and pulling you closer still, carefully this time—as his cool palm settled instinctively against your abdomen, feeling the gentle swell of the child growing within you.
“…You are carrying my son,” he said quietly, as though the reality had only just struck him fully, meeting your eyes.
You huffed softly. “It could very well be a daughter.”
“A son.” Your husband frowned at you and you pursed your lips. “Foolish woman, you should have told me.”
He tilted your face and devoured your lips again, his hands wandering your skin, caressing you, making you sigh and moan—
You wrapped your legs around his waist and melted helplessly into his touch, into the familiar heat of his kisses that you had missed so desperately these past moons.
Before long, he eased you carefully onto the bed beneath him, one hand braced beside your head while the other tilted your chin upward so you could do nothing but look at him.
For a while, he simply stared at you. The candlelight softened the harsh edges of his face, though nothing could truly dull the intensity in those violet eyes as they traced every feature of yours like he was memorizing them anew.
“If I should ever forget you again,” Aerion murmured, thumb brushing slowly across your cheek, “then make me remember. Don’t hide from me and drag me with you if you must. Make me remember you.”
Your chest tightened painfully at the words, though you still lifted your chin at him with stubborn defiance.
“How about you learn not to forget me in the first place?”
Aerion huffed out a soft laugh beneath his breath, forehead lowering briefly against yours.
“My poor wife,” he murmured against the curve of your neck, the teasing rasp of his voice sent heat blooming beneath your skin. “I suppose I shall spend tonight properly atoning for that offense.”
And fortunately for you, Aerion Brightfire was a man who took his words very seriously.
He was prideful beyond reason, occasionally nonsensical, and possessed the temperament of a dragon—but there was no swaying him once he set his mind upon something, which meant that, for the foreseeable future, he would watch over you with a keener eye than most until the day you had his child.
Though that, perhaps, was a story meant for another time.
For now, you were simply content savoring these quiet nights— nights where, at long last, your prince was back in your arms.
tagging @marianntorres2611 @starkleila @huntmewithdogs @pinkfunland @dauntlesshereticleviathan @laylavynna @dabishou @ireneisbored as per request! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <3
Summary: What’s worse than being trapped in the Hunger Games? Falling for someone you’re destined to lose. Because no matter how much you love Sirius Black, the Capitol only crowns one victor, and he knows that too. So when desperation peaks and survival demands a sacrifice, what will Sirius do?
Tags: Angst, Hurt/comfort, Forced proximity, Canon-typical Hunger Games violence, Emotional dependency / “only us against the world” dynamics, Implied PTSD
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It was just your luck you had to be reaped during the 2nd quarter quell. Not only were you stuck with limited food and weapons, but you were stuck in an areana with double the contestants.
Your hands were unusually steady considering your rapidly moving brain. You gently moved through twig after twig as you plucked berries off a bush, fingers already stained a deep red.
Your only silverlining in this hopeless situation was a district one, man-sized gift named Sirius Black.
The familiar sound of Sirius' footsteps passing through the small clearing you had found pulled you out of your thoughts.
"You done yet?" He sighed, crouching down to meet your height.
You turned to look at him, squinting through the harsh sunlight.
He looked ethereal. The sun behind him cast a brilliant gold light onto his sharp features, dousing him in a warm pleasant glow.
He smiled softly, cocking his head to the side. Grown-out black ringlets of hair fell onto his face at the motion.
"Still with me?"
You smiled, shaking your head yes as you turned back to your makeshift basket woven from bannana leaves.
"Still with you." You afirmed lightly, fingers sifting delicately through the berries you just collected.
You were still selfishly with him, whether that was a smart idea or not. You weren't stupid. You knew how the games worked. At the end of all the surviving and all the killing only one prevailed.
Your fingers closed around a plump red berry, squeezing lightly to test the firmness.
If you stayed with Sirius until the end, what then? There was no doubt that you would lose in a fight against him-- assuming that you would ever be able to bring yourself to fight him.
you felt a hand rest lightly on the small of your back, rubbing in a small soothing circle.
You don't think you could ever raise a hand against Sirius.
"You sure those are safe?" Sirius questioned quietly, always awear of the threat of an overhearing ear.
You knew he was only asking to fill the unusual silence you were currently leaving. He knew they were safe. You were district 11 after all. Agriculture was your speciality. Anything you found was bound to be safe.
You raise a teasing brow at him, face adopting a look of mischief.
"Why don't you try and find out?"
you understood the question though. It was the second quarter quell. Obviously, doubling the competitors wasn't enough so the Capitol just had to make nearly everything poisonous.
You hold the berry inbetween two fingers, inches from his face.
He held your gaze for a bit before glancing down at the outstretched berry.
With little thought, he bowed his head, lips closing around your fingers to grab the berry from your grip.
Your grin faltered as heat rose rapidly to your cheeks.
Your eyes darted around as if trying to find the cameras you knew were sure to be watching.
Sirius, eyes fluttered shut as he savored the fruit. A small bead of red juice dribbled down his chin, as he hummed in satisfaction.
"What would I do without you, lovely?"
Your brows knit together. Sirius would do just fine without you. He could fight, he could hunt, he could run fast, he knew how to find water. If Sirius hadn't chosen to stick by your side during the bloodbath so many things could've gone wrong for you.
You brought your thumb up to wipe away the rouge drip of red on his chin.
It wasn't like you couldn't fight. You were 18. That sort of age gave you a certain strength that the younger tributes didnt have. Not to mention, climbing great big trees and hauling bags of wheat and barley for nearly half a mile every day was your entire job description since you were 14. And before that, you grew up wrestling the boys and girls back home for fun.
You could fight. You were strong. But it takes more than that to kill.
Still, there was no harm in indulging him.
"Probably starve."
He puffed out an amused laugh, hand moving to rub at you hip before standing up and leaving you entirely.
You found yourself quickly missing the warm weight of his hand.
A piercing scream tore through the air.
The flock of birds perched high on the trees of the clearing jumped and scattered away.
You got up, hands clutching tight at the fraying basket. Your eyes darted to the path out of the clearing back towards your makeshift camp with Sirius.
"What was that?" You asked more to yourself.
You felt a hand grip your shoulder, turning you to face Sirius.
"Hey, Listen."
Your wide eyes found his as he stared at you urgently.
"Go back to the camp and pack our things. Ill come meet you in five minutes, okay?"
You had began shaking your head before Sirius had even finished.
"No, we should stay together."
Sirius shook his head, eyes darting back as the screaming intensified.
"I gotta make sure they don't follow us. Go!"
He pushed your shoulder back, urging you back before the screaming suddenly ceased.
You both held your breath, wating for the cannon you were sure was about to sound.
The silence seemed to stretch on infinitly.
Sirius' hand inched slowly to yours, engulfing your hand in his grip. He turned back to face you, his other hand white knuckled against the hilt of his axe.
"Listen, we are running out of time." His eyes softened as his hand left yours to caress your face.
"Go. I'll find you I promise."
You bit at your lower lip, eyes welling uncontrollably.
"I can't- you can't leave me." You stuttered, voice barley audible.
Sirius cooed softly, tutting as he pulled you in, squeezing his arms tight around you.
"I swear on my life, I will always come back to you."
You jumped as Sirius stiffened at the now familiar sound of the firing cannon.
He pushed you away, gaze and body already facing the sound of where the screaming was coming from.
"Go, now." He yelled over his shoulder before bounding out of the clearing.
You spun on you heel, coming into a sprint as you ran into further into the woods where the pair of you had hid away your supplies.
The unmistakable sound of Sirius' swinging axe cut through the thick foliage, only urging you on faster.
vines and tree limbs, whipped at your frame leaving stinging marks against your body. Your hands tightened against your basket, surely squishing the tender berries against your front.
A second cannon sounded.
Your heart sank. What would you do if that was Sirius.
You shook your head as soon as the thought entered your mind.
It wasn't him. It couldn't be him. You don't every thing you could begin to imagine a world without him.
Without a warning, a strong meaty arm, tightened around your waist before a hand tangled intself in your hair, slamming you down into the hard ground.
You felt the find knock out of you as you landed hard on your back, gasping and heaving for air.
You spluttered around nothing as the assailent fisted the collar of your arena gear, lifting you up off the ground before slamming you back down, hard.
You gasped, eyes watering as your nails dug into the mans forearms, clawing deep red gashes into his skin.
He pushed down roughly at your flailing legs before sitting down on your hips, pinning you under him.
You brought your hand up to his face, clawing wildly, before he grunted, grabbing both of your hands and pinning them down over your head.
You squirmed, desperatly under him as he paused, seemingly assesing you.
You glowered up at him through narrowed eyes, still gasping for air.
He drew in heavy breaths as he hovered over you. Dark black streaks of hair fell past his brows, sticking to his sweaty skin. His eyes were dark and focused, as the edge of his mouth tilted up into a sick smile.
He was big, with giant sculpted arms that one only got through heavy arduous labor. He was the district 7 tribute.
How many times had you and Sirius poked fun at him and the careers during your late night musings?
You felt his right hand press aginst your trapped hands as his left tightened a smidge around your neck, not quite strangling, yet.
"Your pretty."
You writhed under him, grunting in effort to pull your hands from his grip.
He grinned crookedly as his hand lowered to rest as your waist, rubbing rough circles into the skin of where your shirt had ridden up.
you felt bile climb up your throat.
Sirius promised he would be back at the camp, and you believed him. But you hadn't even made it back to camp. Truthfully, you hadn't made it anywhere near the camp.
He wasn't going to be able to find you in time.
You snarled as you bucked your hips up sharply, throwing him off balance, hands leaving you to catch himself right before his face colided hard against the ground.
You wind your arm back before punching him viciously in his throat, right bellow the swell of his adam's apple.
He growled as he lunged back off of you, clutching at his neck, spluttering on a cough.
You turned onto your knees in an attempt to scramble away, before you felt a calloused hand grip your ankle in an iron-clad grip, yanking you back. You thrashed as the man dragged you back towards him.
A hand buried itself in your hair as he pushed your face hard into the dirt.
Your hands pushed against the earth, hissing air between your teeth as you willed all your strength to push him off you.
"You bitch." He snarled, grabing your arms and pinning them to your back before digging his knee into the base of your spine.
"Now what, huh?" He taunted, venomously.
"You gonna punch me again?"
You whimpered at the pressure of the weight digging into you spine, squirming as the strain became unbearable.
Perhaps this was the best case scenario. You would never be able to kill Sirius, and truthfully, you don't think he could kill you either.
Black spots quickly began to blot your vision.
Sirius Black was strong. He persevered through anything the world threw at him. He would win the games, undoubtedly.
Your eyes clenched shut, tears streaming.
Just as quick as the pressure had come it had left, slumping next to you.
You trembled, face still pressed against the ground, eyes shut.
Hands pressed softly into your arms in attempts to lift you before you flinched, spinning and hitting wildly at the man.
The thud of a heavy axe hitting the ground sounded as Sirius attempted to catch your flailing hands.
"It's me! It's me. You're okay it's just me."
You shook your head, hands pounding against his chest harshly.
Sirius was at camp. Sirius didn't know where you were.
Tears streamed down your face as your hands began to quickly sore at the weight of your blows.
Sirius grunted softly, letting you beat at his chest before moving a tender hand up to cup the base of your neck, forcing your gaze away from the ground and towards his face.
Your hands slowed, quivering against his chest.
"It's me." He afirmed, shakely.
His eyes were shining, brows knit together as his lower lip trembled just barely.
You felt yourself melt into his hand subconsiously, mumbling incoherent thoughts before falling limply into his form.
His hands closed around you tightly as if afraid of ever letting go again.
"Im sorry. Im so sorry, I never should have left you." He whispered quiet appologies into your temple as he begun to rock slightly back and forth.
Your eyes fell shut, as you fisted at his shirt, heading falling to rest againt his shoulder.
The unmistakable sound of a cannon firing pierced through the air.
Your eyes strayed to look past Sirius, at the dead body of the man who was just over you a few seconds ago.
He layed flat on his back, head pointed towards you, but where his neck was meant to be was instead a mangled mess of blood and flesh.
Your eyes clenched shut as a shiver ran through you. Your head moved to bury itslef into the crook of Sirius' neck.
You'd never loved the idea of killing. Who had, other then the careers? But desperation pushed people to do such awful things. It was him or you, and Sirius made the choice.
You used to yell at the kids back home that would torment the worms or insects in the soil. You would yell and shove them back when they would laugh at crushing an ant. Yet, there was not an inch in your body that was mad at Sirius.
Oh how you've changed.
That was the point though wasn't it? The Hunger Games turns good people into killers. Thats what your mentor Madam Pomfrey had said.
You don't know how long you stayed like that before Sirius moved, gingerly pushing you from out of the solace of his embrace.
"The hovercraft is about to come pick him up."
He stared into your eyes as if searching for something.
You were almost scared to know what he's find.
Would he see the kind district 11 girl he met at the opening ceremony or the capitol pupet that you've become?
"We should move then?" You responded, thickly.
His face twisted in something far too similar to pity.
Your stomach twisted.
"I'm fine."
You cleared your throat, brushing your hands together to knock the dirt off. You looked down at your stomach.
Deep red.
Your brows knit together before relaxing in realization.
"This is just from the berries. Its not mine."
Sirius' hand came up to cup your cheek.
"I know." He murmured. "Still, that was close-- too close."
His hand rubbed at your cheekbone, soothingly.
Truthfully, you couldn't imagine a world that only one of you made it out. How could you live on without the other?
"I-" He started before his voice caught.
His hand fell from your face as his gaze cast downward. He pinched at the bridge of his nose before breathing in shakely.
"I should have listened to you. I should never have left you." His voice broke off as his body shook with silent tears.
You brought two hands to his face, pulling him up gently to face you.
He looked so beautiful. The sun was lower now, casting small shadows onto his face, under the tip of his nose and under the slant of his jaw. His eyes were rimmed red as rouge tears pushed past the wells in his eyes.
You suposed not all good was gone, though. Some people like Sirius were still good.
So, so good.
"I don't blame you. None of this was your fault. You made the right call."
You shifted cloer until your faces were mere inches apart. He brought his hands to rest heavy against your thighs.
"If you had come with me, he would've caught the both of us off guard. He was massive we would have been killed."
You brought your hands to the base of his neck, head tilting and offering him a small sad smile.
"You saved my life."
Sirius' lips parted as he huffed out a resigned breath.
Your eyes flitted down at the motion, staring at his wetted lips. Your eyes flew back up, suddenly flushed at the realization of your proximity.
A tinge of pink creaped up Sirius' neck and into his ears at the heat of your labored breath fanning against his skin.
The distant beating of wings broke through the silence of the quickly darkening sky, pulling you out of your daze.
Your hands fell down to your side as Sirius backed away, resting against his heels.
You looked to your side, skin still searing from the moment as your gaze settled on Sirius' axe.
"What happened to your knife?" Sirius questioned, clearing his throat.
Your eyes fell shut in embarrassment, "I left it in the berry clearing in my rush, I think."
Your hands closed around the hilt of the axe hauling it into your grip as you stood up. You swung it across your frame in order to rest it on your shoulder, freeing your right arm.
There was nothing predictable or fair about the hunger games. You knew that. It sucked everything good out of your shit life until you were left nothing more than a killing machine. Thats what the people wanted. Thats what the capitol wanted. Thats what Snow wanted.
You held out an outstretched hand to sirius' still crouched form.
The whirring of the hovercraft sounded louder as it neared the pair of you.
"Lets go."
Sirius looked up at you, face still knit in stress.
You stepped closer, bringing your hand to his face to smooth the line between his brows.
He sighed contently before bringing his hands to brace against your hips, pushing himself into a standing position.
He ruffled your hair lightly before plucking the axe from your grip with one arm, muscles flexing under his skin.
You felt a smile curl onto your face as he shot a wink at your flushed expression and turned away from you, hacking through the folliage infront of you.
Yeah, you had no idea how this partnership would end, but for now, you were perfectly content with just this.
Authors Note: Okay first fic! Sorry if he's mischaracterized or if the pacing of emotions near the end is a bit off 𐔌՞.‸.՞𐦯... I've just been thinking about this idea for a while and started rambling. But hope you enjoy! Dont hesitate to ask away or give feedback!
I could POTENTIALLY be pursuaded to make a part two... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
hiiii if you’re still looking for remus centered requests, i rly liked your best friend steve giving reader a hickey and couldn’t help but think of Remus too! like him helping a shy reader not feel insecure about being the ‘inexperienced’ one of their friend group… by giving her some experience 👀💞? love ya lots!
love u thank u for requesting<3
—Remus gives you your first kiss, and then a little more than that. You know, between friends. fem, 1.2k
“Will anyone kiss me tonight, or shall I go unkissed, like some leper?”
You laugh at Sirius’ drama. “It’s not so terrible,” you say, coming up the hallway behind him and James, your face bitten by the cold.
“I know, my lovely little blueberry muffin,” Sirius croons, leaning back and prodding at your cheeks, the smell of cider stuck to him like a cloud, “how you remain unkissed is a mystery to me. Shall we fix that now?”
Sirius is your friend, he doesn’t poke fun, but you flush nervously at his question. James grabs Sirius by the shoulders and yanks him away from you toward the kitchen, “Stop teasing!”
“I’m not teasing! I would love to kiss you, sweetheart, just as soon as I can figure out which one of you is the real one,” Sirius says.
Remus laughs and closes the front door, the last one in. He wraps his hand around your shoulders. “He’d be so lucky,” he says loudly, sending a sulking, pouting Sirius in the opposite direction, James on his tail in giggles promising to feed him some unbuttered toast if he doesn’t chill out.
Remus’ arm falls behind your back. “Why does he act like that? Four drinks and he’s in love with everyone. He gets so urgent.”
You confess slowly, “I can’t say I blame him. Sometimes… I wish someone would kiss me quite urgently, and I don’t even need to get drunk.”
“You do?”
“Just because I’ve never had one doesn’t mean I don’t want one,” you say, “it’s really weird being the only one who doesn’t– who isn’t dating anyone.” You fluster at your confession, worried it’s too much to share, even while his thumb rubs affectionately into your shoulder.
“I’m not dating anyone,” Remus says.
“No, but, going for hookups and stuff–”
You falter as he laughs. “You want one night stands?”
“No,” you say honestly, “but still. You’ve all done that stuff and I’m like, a twenty something loser.”
“You listen to Sirius too much. You have an entire life to find someone to kiss you.”
“I sort of want it now, though,” you say meekly.
Remus laughs again, his arm wrapping tightly behind your back. You’ve both had a drink too, not tipsy like Sirius but the buzz of it perhaps the cause of your loosened tongue, and his easy touching, his teasing. He smiles down at you kindly, “You want a kiss, is that it?” he asks, “Sirius has upset you and a kiss will make it better?”
You find you love the feeling of his chest pressed to yours, “I don’t know. It would be nice to have one just so he can stop talking about it.”
He pulls you right into him and angles his face against yours like he’s going to kiss you, his laughing a soft warmth on the tip of your nose. “You want it right now?” he asks, his hand rubbing sweetly into your back. Layers of fabric feel useless; it’s like he’s caressing naked skin.
“You can’t kiss me,” you say.
“Why not?”
“We’re friends.”
“What’s a good kiss between friends?” He’s following your eyes, he knows all your tones, Remus wouldn’t play with you like this if he thought it wasn’t what you wanted.
“I won’t know how to do it,” you warn in a whisper, you’re reluctance clearly fading.
“Well, you’re very pretty, so any bad kissing cancels out.”
You bend into him as his arm pulls you up, your noses nearly touching, closing your eyes as he leans in.
“You sure?” he asks.
“Mm,” you hum, though he doesn’t kiss you until you nod.
Your noses press together most of all, the strongest sensation, but then there’s heat as his lips part so slightly and press into yours. He kisses upward and you have the sense to keep pressing down, letting his soft kisses move you with him, like an ebbing wave. You take an instinctive step back and he pauses, until you attempt to kiss him again and prompt him into movement —he takes the lead. His hands grasp at your back like you’re water slipping through his fingers, letting a sound of pleasure filter from his lips into yours.
It’s so peculiar. It’s like fireworks, like all the books and movies say, but it’s more. It’s so warm, and his lips are soft even as his kissing turns rougher, as he tilts his head to the side and his lips come apart against yours. Your hand climbs hesitantly against his side, then up, then stuck at the place just above his ribs.
“Touch me,” he says gently, breaking the kiss as your breath comes fast, “wrap your arm around me, it’s alright.”
“Am I hopeless?” you ask, placing your arm behind his shoulder and tipping back to see his face.
He shakes his head, frowning, why is he frowning? “Hopeless?” he repeats. His hand comes up to your face, and that’s almost as bad as the kiss, the heat of his palm on your face and his thumb stroking over the slope of your cheek. He uses that movement to turn your head, and when he ducks in for another kiss, he murmurs, “No, I wouldn’t say hopeless,” the end of it lost on your lips.
This kiss is rougher again. Your heart beats so loudly you can hear the thump of it in your ears as your eyes close and you attempt to fit a hundred wanted kisses into one. He just squeezes you close and returns your enthusiasm, until you can’t breathe, forced to hang your head over his shoulder as you pant for air.
Remus kisses your neck. It’s a shock: you squirm at the sensation but let your head fall to the side as he does it again, not nearly as insistent as his lips had been on yours but something unsaid in the trail of his nose as it runs back up your neck and he kisses the skin below your ear. He slows, and slows, until he’s pulling away to stare at you.
You lift yourself up, nonplussed. “I didn’t know it felt like that.”
Remus shifts his hand from the side of your neck to the front, wiping at the marks of his kissing with his thumb where it wets your skin. “It doesn’t always.” He smiles at you with just a hint of smugness in his eyes. “I don’t suppose you want to know what a love bite feels like?”
“Oi!” James calls from the kitchen. “What are you two doing?”
You pull apart slowly from one another. You think he might’ve forgotten where you were, as did you.
James catches the fall of Remus’ hand where it had been on your cheek and squints suspiciously. “What are you guys doing? I made toast.”
You can’t look at him. Remus saves the day. “We’re looking for her earring.”
“You won’t find it with the lights off.” He glares again with suspicion before turning back to the kitchen. “I didn’t even know she wore earrings,” he mutters.
Remus gives you a sideways look. “Maybe I can show you what it feels like after?” he suggests, voice measured.
“Between friends?” you ask.
“No.” He puts his hand to the small of your back and gives you a gentle nudge down the hallway. “Not between friends.”
This is important to reblog for yourself too, not just for others to see it. You never know when something could come up and if you need help it’s right there on your blog
*ੈ✩‧₊˚pairing*ੈ✩‧₊˚ moder au oxford!aerion x fem!reader
*ੈ✩‧₊˚summary*ੈ✩‧₊˚ After years of unspoken feelings for Aerion Targaryen, you finally decide to confess your feelings.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚author's note*ੈ✩‧₊˚ based on this post by @ynnlvrs (but I kinda took my own turn to it...)
*ੈ✩‧₊˚playlist*ੈ✩‧₊˚ drop dead - Olivia Rodrigo
Warnings - unrequited love trope, a bit of angst, mentions of public/media scrutiny
Word Count - 1997
You had been staring up at the ceiling of your dorm room for the past hour. The high arch above you, all aged stone and soft shadows, was untouched by the chaos of campus life. Tonight, they kept you in a trance, the moonlight peaking through your window. You kept replaying the interactions between you and Aerion Targaryen today.
Your hands lay intertwined on your stomach, and you had your retro-style on-ear headphones on with soft pink cushions. The lyrics to “Just Like Heaven” by The Cure filtered through. Shifting to your side, the soft fabric of your silk pyjama set caught against your skin.
Your gaze flickered toward the window, then back at the ceiling. The melody drifts through you, hazy and distant.
“Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you”
Your hand drifts lazily out towards the nightstand, grabbing your phone. You clicked on his Instagram profile, which was already at the top of your recently searched.
You had met Aerion Targaryen during your first year at Oxford. You were both in the same Introduction to Microeconomics class. As a Psychology major, you had no business being there, but you wanted to prove you could handle something unfamiliar. The professor had assigned partners early on for the final project. When he had called out Aerion’s name, you had no immediate reaction. When your eyes met, he had simply nodded, but you became fascinated by his lilac-blue eyes and silver hair, wondering if it was dyed that colour.
You had worked together for four months– late nights in the library, sharing lecture notes, and he had a practiced cool to him even when you asked him to explain a certain concept for the third time. He had been patient and attentive to you.
Back then, he had only been Aerion.
You hadn’t a clue what the Targaryen name entailed. You came from Edinburgh and knew little of the big tycoons in London, the kind of people whose influence stretched quietly through industries you’d never had to think about. Your family was comfortably middle class and you got into Oxford through your own ambition and discipline. Nothing had ever been handed to you and no doors opened by your surname.
Your thumb slows as you scroll, your gaze catching on a photo of him in a sharp, perfectly tailored suit, his expression cool and distant. He’s standing next to his father, Maekar Targaryen, at some formal business event. The Targaryen Corporation deals in private equity, infrastructure, energy… the list could go on.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your hand tightening slightly around your phone as a wave of embarrassment washes over you. It settles heavy in your chest, something tangled between humiliation and heartbreak.
Before closing the app, you catch one of his earlier posts. It was a picture of the two of you from the summer after second year, when he took you to one of his family's many estates on the outskirts of Paris.
You often thought back to that summer. Just you and him, running through the endless halls of that estate, your footsteps echoing against the polished floors while the moonlight spills through the tall windows, stretching across marble and gold. You used to try and get lost on purpose, turning down corridors at random just to see where it would lead, laughing when the two of you realized you had no idea how to get back.
You remember the gardens in the morning, the air crisp and clean, hedges trimmed to perfect lines and flowers arranged so deliberately. You would sit across from each other with coffee and pastries. He took his coffee black, and yours was always way too sweet. He would feign reading the daily news as he glances at you, your head lying back, soaking in the sun.
It had been three long years of friendship and unrequited love. You’d learn how to exist beside him without asking for more. You tried to ignore the way your eyes would search for him in every crowded room. The way your attention always seemed to find its way back to him no matter where you stood.
Tonight, you had ruined everything.
The thought sits heavy in your chest as you stare at the screen, the memory of it replaying with a clarity you can’t escape. The two of you joined your mutual friends at a pub in the heart of Oxford. It was filled with loud cheers and laughter.
Earlier that day, you had convinced yourself of something dangerous. That maybe he had felt the same. It didn’t feel unrealistic. You were the closest of friends, closer than you had ever been with anyone. The way he treated you felt different; you couldn’t quite explain it. He was always harsh and straightforward with others, even if he didn’t hold any true malicious feelings, but with you, he was always patient. And Aerion never showed interest in another woman the way you saw many other young men do so carelessly.
You had even met his parents, which had to count for something.
This past winter break, the trains back to Edinburgh had been cancelled overnight, the sudden snowstorm shutting everything down. You were going to spend the holiday season alone in Oxford, as all your friends living in England were able to get out earlier.
“Come with me,” he’d said so casually, as though offering to pay for coffee. His family’s cabin was a few hours outside of London. The drive up, he hadn’t spoken much, just the occasional comment, the low hum of music filling the space between you.
The cabin itself had been nothing like you expected. Much larger than anything you could have imagined, stretching across three stories of dark wood and stone, with high beamed ceilings and wide glass windows. A grand staircase curved through the center, and every room seemed to open into another. The soft lighting cast a golden glow, and the faint scent of smoke from the fireplace curled through the air.
His parents were incredibly welcoming, warmer than the pictures online had seemed. His mother had taken to you instantly; her attention was warm and almost overwhelming as she asked you questions. His younger siblings had gravitated towards you just as easily, pulling you into board games and conversation, like you had been a part of the family.
When it came time to head back to campus, his parents urged you to visit them more often, even inviting you to spend the summer with them.
Your group had just finished their last round of drinks, laughter still lingering in the air as chairs scraped softly against the floor. The clock was creeping towards 2am, the pub was slowly emptying, and it became much quieter. You watched him finish his beer and pay for your tab before standing and walking out with you.
Earlier, you had decided to tell him at the end of the night when he would walk you back to your dorm room. And you had truly believed that, when the moment came, everything would finally fall into place.
“Aerion,” you say softly, your voice barely cutting through the quiet streets of Oxford ahead of you.
“Mmh,” he hums in response, not looking back at you.
“I need to tell you something.” Your steps slow, then stop completely.
Ahead of you, he stops, tilts his head and gives an inquisitive look.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly, fingers fidgeting behind your back, “but I just wanted to discuss something.”
“Out with it.”
His words aren’t harsh, but they’re direct.
“I-” you start, “I just… I’ve been thinking about us.”
His expression doesn’t change, so you continue.
“We’ve known each other for so long, and I just– I don’t think I can pretend it’s nothing–”
“Don’t.” The words cut through you before you can finish.
Your breath falters, the rest of the sentence dying in your throat as your eyes snap up to his.
“Don’t finish that,” he says, his voice low, even.
Your chest tightens. “Aerion–”
“We can pretend this didn’t happen.”
A pause stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, as the weight of his words settles in. His gaze doesn’t leave yours.
“Go back,” he adds quietly. “Say something else.”
“I think I should walk back alone.”
“No,” he always walked you back at the end of the night because of your safety, although he lived in a private apartment close to campus.
“I can manage,” you reply, trying to keep your voice even. “It’s not far.”
“I know exactly how far it is.”
You convince him not to follow you, expressing that you need some time alone and that you’d see him tomorrow. With some luck, he listens.
That brings you to now, lying on your bed, the music too loud. Your eyes burn as tears well up despite the way you press them shut, your chest tight with that feeling you can’t quite push down.
A sharp knock against your door jolts you out of your current state. Your heart jumps, your body goes still for a moment as you glance toward the door. The clock on your phone reads just past three in the morning.
Another knock follows, firmer.
Crossing the room, you reach for the handle and pull the door open.
“What–” your brows knit in confusion.
Aerion stands in front of you, breath uneven and hair dishevelled. You don’t get to finish as his hands come up suddenly, firm against your face. He closes the distance in a single movement, and his lips are on yours.
The kiss is warm and overwhelming. Your mind short-circuits under the sheer shock of it. He smells of mahogany and familiarity.
His grip doesn’t falter as he walks you backwards into the room and shuts the door behind him. Your pulse is loud in your ears, and the music still plays faintly behind you. His tongue brushes against yours, and a moan escapes you.
You try to push back, to question him. But his grip was firm and unrelenting. You bit his lip hard, the iron taste of blood seeping over your tongue.
“Fuck, why’d you do that?” His words are low and strained, pulling back just enough to look at you. His expression is wild, and his pupils are unnaturally dilated.
“What are you doing here?” Your voice is unsteady, your chest rising fast.
“I’m sorry,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like an apology.
“In the street,” he continues. “I wasn’t going to let you say it out there.”
Something in your chest twists.
“Things like that don’t stay private for me,” he adds, quieter now.
Your stomach drops, the weight of it settling in.
“And, I wasn’t going to let you put yourself in that position without knowing what it means.”
There’s a pause, his gaze fixed on you like he’s trying to read how much of that you actually understand.
“What are you talking about?”
“The Targaryen name comes with attention, and if we had that conversation out there, it wouldn’t be between us.”
He pauses, like he doesn’t like the direction this is going.
“There’s press and cameras everywhere I go”
“They would know who you are,” he adds, his voice quieter now, but more serious. “Where you're from. Who your family is. You wouldn’t get to just be a student anymore.”
“That’s the price that comes with being with me, and I wanted you to know what it would cost you before pursuing anything.”
You take a breath.
“I know,” you say quietly.
“I didn’t know all of that,” you admit. “But I knew… it wouldn’t be normal.”
“If that’s the cost…” you add, slower this time, “then I’ll deal with it.”
Something in his expression finally cracks, a small grin pulling at his lips before he leans down again. This time, the kiss isn’t urgent. His mouth is warm, steady, and in that moment, you think you might just drop dead.
