-ANGST!! character death (you die), aerion loves loves you very much!! emotional breakdown, unhealthy coping mechanisms....(wine/wildfire), hallucinations/delusions, possessive attachment and major obsessive love!! mentions of children, implied suicide?? grief-driven insanity. basically a tragic romance!! ᥫ᭡
from the moment aerion targaryen met you, he was ruined for everyone else.
he had known it immediately, which offended him greatly.
you had stood in the great hall beneath streaming banners and candlelight, speaking softly to some elderly lord whose name aerion could not remember now, and he had stared at you with the unnerving certainty that his life had just divided itself into before and after.
he had wanted you at once.
not simply for your beauty, though the gods knew you possessed enough of it to make men foolish.
no, it was worse than that. it was the way you smiled when spoken to you. the way your voice softened around frightened animals. the way you listened carefully to him, as though every word mattered.
you were gentle and yet you were smart. unbreakable.
and aerion, for all his arrogance, for all the monstrous streak that lived comfortably beneath his skin, found himself following that gentleness like a frightened man following candlelight.
once he married you, he became unbearable about it.
he could not go anywhere without you.
court meetings became impossible unless you sat beside him. feasts irritated him if you were seated too far away. he would find excuses to leave conversations midway simply because he had caught sight of you across the hall and suddenly needed to hear your voice more than whatever tedious noble was speaking to him.
people noticed, of course they noticed. it was impossible not to.
aerion targaryen, proud and cruel and impossible, followed his wife around like a man enchanted.
and he did not care.
when your gown fittings were scheduled, he attended them as though invited personally by the gods. he would lounge dramatically across velvet chairs in the corner while seamstresses fluttered around you adjusting hems and sleeves. a goblet of wine would rest lazily in his hand while he watched you with shameless devotion.
“you are staring at me again,” you would murmur, smoothing your hands down the front of some pale silk gown.
“you mustn't blame me wife, for you are simply beautiful,” he would answer easily. “we both suffer from consistency.”
the seamstresses would blush furiously. you smiled every time.
sometimes he would rise simply to touch the fabric himself, rubbing it between long fingers before looking at you critically. “no,” he would decide. “this color does not suit you.”
“it is blue.”
“it is horrid blue.”
“you said yesterday that blue was my color.”
“that was a better blue.” then he would press a kiss to your inner wrist as though that settled the matter entirely.
often the two of you escaped to the gardens whenever court became too suffocating. hidden away beneath twisting vines and dragon roses, you would spend hours tangled together beneath the shade.
you liked adventure stories, romance too. aerion preferred gruesome histories filled with betrayals and executions and bloodshed. he would read them aloud with disturbing enthusiasm while you laughed softly beside him, your head resting against his shoulder.
“it is educational, wife, it is not a laughing matter.”
“it is horrifying!”
“that as well.”
you smiled and stole the book from his hands. “then i shall save your soul with something gentler.”
“my soul is beyond saving.”
“mm. i have hope.”
he watched you read the same way he watched flames, utterly entranced. your voice drifting through the gardens became one of his favorite sounds in the world. sometimes he stopped listening to the actual story entirely, too distracted by the shape of your mouth around certain words.
he would kiss you slow and lazy beneath flowering vines while the world continued without you.
everywhere in the red keep there were glimpses of you together. your arms linked through endless corridors. his hand possessively at your waist during feasts and parties.
his favor wrapped around your wrist during tournaments because he insisted his colors belonged on his wife and only his wife.
and you understood him.
you understood the sharpness in him. the cruelty. the terrible anger he carried like another heartbeat. you never excused it, but neither did you recoil from it. you saw all the ugliness inside him and loved him still.
it made him worship you for it.
so when you fell ill, it destroyed him slowly.
you would smile and insist you were well enough, brushing it aside with gentle reassurance whenever his expression darkened with concern. a cough lingering too long after the autumn rain, a fever that came and went in waves, exhaustion settling into your bones until even simple things began to tire you.
but aerion noticed everything about you.
he noticed when you stopped finishing your meals. when your hands felt warmer than usual curled inside his. when you leaned more heavily against him during long walks through the gardens. he noticed the shadows beginning to gather beneath your eyes no matter how carefully you tried to hide them.
and selfishly, desperately, he had hoped it was something else.
he had hoped you were with child.
the thought had rooted itself in him almost immediately, growing quietly into hope before he could stop it. he imagined your sickness explained away by life instead of illness. a babe. your babe. his hands resting against your stomach while you laughed softly at his unbearable protectiveness.
he clung to the possibility with frightening intensity.
“you have been tired for weeks,” he murmured one evening, sitting beside you near the fire while you leaned sleepily against the cushions. “and sick in the mornings.”
you looked up at him over the rim of your cup. “are you attempting to diagnose me yourself now?”
“i am saying there may be another explanation.”
the faintest smile touched your mouth then, soft and knowing. “you think i am carrying your child.”
“i think it would explain things.”
“and if it does not?”
his expression shifted immediately, the fragile hope there dimming just slightly. “it will.”
you reached over to touch his face gently. “aerion.”
“you would tell me if you thought it possible.”
“i would.”
his hand slid over yours quickly, holding it there against his cheek. “i want it to be true.”
you softened instantly, your thumb brushing lightly against his skin. “i know you do.”
for a little while, the possibility sustained him.
he became almost absurdly attentive after that. hovering constantly. insisting you rest. arguing with servants if meals were not prepared exactly right. pulling blankets over your lap himself with quiet irritation whenever he thought you looked cold.
“you need not be so concerned aerion,” you teased weakly one afternoon as he adjusted the pillows behind your back for the third time.
“you are coughing again.”
“it is one tiny cough.”
“it was a terrible cough.”
you laughed softly despite yourself. “you would make a dreadful maester.”
“i would make an excellent husband.”
“that much is true.”
he kissed your forehead immediately at the praise, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. “then obey your excellent husband and sleep.”
you smiled but closed your eyes obediently anyway, too tired to argue much anymore and that frightened him because you were never this tired.
weeks passed.
the sickness did not improve.
the fevers worsened instead.
and slowly, horribly, the hope inside him began to rot into fear.
the maesters stopped speaking optimistically when he entered the room. their careful expressions told him everything long before their mouths did. he hated them for it. hated their silence. hated the medicines that did nothing. hated the smell of herbs and boiling tinctures that now permanently lingered in your chambers.
most of all, he hated the growing weakness in you.
one evening he found you asleep by the window, a book fallen forgotten in your lap. the sight should not have broken him the way it did. fear struck him so violently, he crossed the room immediately, sitting beside you with his hands wrapping tightly around yours.
“you should rest,” he told you quietly when you stirred awake.
a tired smile touched your lips at once. “i am resting.”
“properly.”
that woke you more fully. your expression softened immediately as you looked at him there beneath you, still dressed in dark court clothes he had evidently never bothered changing out of. his silver hair was disheveled from repeatedly dragging frustrated hands through it. shadows lingered beneath his eyes now too. had he slept at all recently?
“aerion,” you whispered gently.
his grip tightened unconsciously around your hands as he stared down at them, his throat working once. when he finally looked back up at you, there was something raw in his eyes that made your chest ache.
“i do not know what to do,” he admitted quietly.
aerion hated helplessness. hated uncertainty. yet here he was before you like a man praying at an altar, unable to fight the thing slowly stealing you from him.
you lifted one hand carefully from his grasp just to touch his face. “you are already doing it,” you whispered.
“that is not enough.”
“it is for me.”
his eyes closed briefly at that, leaning instinctively into your touch. for a moment he simply stayed there, holding your hand against his cheek like something precious.
then, very softly, almost angrily, he murmured, “i am going to grow old with you. hear me. i will."
he rarely left your side.
meetings were abandoned midway. letters unanswered. duties forgotten entirely. he remained beside you obsessively, sleeping in chairs when he refused to leave your bedside, holding cool cloths to your skin with hands more accustomed to swords than gentleness.
his patience disappeared entirely. goblets shattered against walls when maesters offered uncertain answers. servants flinched when entering the room because even the scrape of shoes against stone seemed enough to provoke him now.
then came the anger. not at you, never at you. at the maesters who could not heal you. at the gods who would dare touch what belonged to him. at himself for being unable to stop it.
“you said the fever would break,” he hissed at one trembling maester after another miserable night left you barely conscious. “you assured me she was improving.”
“she did appear stronger yesterday, your grace-”
“do not lie to me.”
the old man visibly faltered beneath the fury in aerion’s voice.
“she needs rest,” the maester managed carefully.
“she needs curing.”
silence.
aerion’s expression darkened into something terrifying. “get out.”
no one argued with him anymore after that.
the servants cried quietly outside the doors sometimes. you could hear them if the hall fell silent enough. the sound seemed to haunt aerion more than anything else because people only cried like that when hope was beginning to die.
then came the night everything changed.
the room was dim besides the fire and a handful of dying candles. rain struck softly against the windows while thunder rolled somewhere far over the bay.
aerion sat beside you holding your hand tightly between both of his as though warmth alone might anchor you here.
“you will get better,” he told you hoarsely. “you must.”
your breathing caught unevenly before settling again.
“aerion- husband-”
“no.” his voice cracked violently. “do not speak like that.”
you looked at him with unbearable softness. “my love,” you whispered.
“you are not leaving me.” tears filled his eyes instantly, furious and helpless all at once. “you hear me?” he said desperately, leaning closer. “you cannot leave me here. i do not know how to-” his voice broke entirely.
your trembling fingers brushed weakly against his cheek, even now, you were comforting him.
“aerion,” you whispered softly, “look at me.”
and he did immediately, like he always would. your eyes searched his face slowly, lovingly, memorizing him the same way he had memorized you a thousand times before.
“i loved you very much,” you breathed.
“no.” he shook his head instantly, panic rising sharp and ugly in his chest. “no, do not say it like goodbye.”
“you made me very happy.”
“stop.” his grip tightened painfully around your hand. “please.” aerion targaryen did not beg. not kings, not gods, not men. but he begged you.
your eyes softened immediately at the sound of it, filling slowly with tears that slipped silently down into your hair. even now, with death hovering so terribly close, you looked at him with nothing but love.
“do you understand? i cannot- i cannot sit here and listen to you speak as though this is ending.”
your breath trembled faintly. “aerion…”
“no.” his voice cracked violently again. “no, you listen to me now.”
his free hand cupped your face desperately, trembling hard enough that you could feel it against your skin.
“you will stay,” he said, the words frantic now, like if he spoke them firmly enough the world would obey him. “you will survive this. the maesters are wrong. they have been wrong before.”
you gave the faintest shake of your head.
he looked suddenly furious at it. “at least pretend to believe me.”
a weak little smile touched your mouth then, heartbreakingly gentle. “you sound angry.”
“i am angry.”
“at me?”
“no- no my love, never at you. at everything.” his voice splintered on the last word.
the fire crackled softly somewhere behind him, rain tapping against the windows in uneven rhythms. the room smelled of wax and herbs and sickness. aerion thought suddenly, wildly, that he hated every part of it. hated the candles. hated the storm. hated the bed beneath you because it had become a place of dying instead of sleeping beside him warm and laughing.
most of all he hated how cold your hands had become.
he brought them closer between his own instinctively, rubbing warmth into your fingers as though he could force life back into them through sheer desperation.
“you promised me forever,” he whispered brokenly.
your lashes fluttered weakly. “i meant it.”
“then do not leave me.”
you looked at him for a very long moment after that and something in your expression changed with acceptance.
“no,” he said again, harsher this time. “do not look at me like that.”
you had never seen him like this, not truly, not stripped this bare. aerion had always loved fiercely, possessively, almost violently in the depth of it, but he rarely let anyone witness the rawness underneath. he hid softness behind arrogance. devotion behind sharp words.
but there was nowhere left to hide now not while you were dying in front of him.
“you cannot leave me alone here,” he whispered suddenly. the confession sounded childlike. small.
“my husband,” you breathed gently.
his face twisted instantly at the title, grief ripping visibly across it. “you said we would grow old together,” he murmured. “you said we would have children.”
tears slipped harder down his face now. he did not even seem aware of them.
“i bought that little carved dragon you liked in the market because you wanted to have it for our child.” his voice shook violently. “it is still sitting in gift velvet because i thought-”
his breath broke. “i thought there would be time.”
you began crying then too, silent tears slipping into your hair as you watched him unravel before you.
aerion pressed your hand desperately against his lips.
“there is still time,” he insisted suddenly, like he could force the truth backward if he spoke quickly enough. “tomorrow you will wake and i will carry you into the gardens again. to roses near the fountain, you always say they smelled sweeter after rain.”
“aerion…”
“we will read together.” his words tumbled over each other now, frantic and disjointed. “and i will complain through your ridiculous romance stories and you will laugh at me and-”
his voice snapped apart completely.
you gathered what little strength remained in you and brushed your thumb weakly against his cheek. “i need you to be brave for me. my brave dragon.”
“no.”
the answer came instantly like a child refusing.
you tried to smile through your tears. “you are a dragon prince.”
“i am also your husband.” the words came out fierce and broken all at once. “i love you,” he whispered desperately. “do you hear me? i love you so much i cannot breathe when i think about losing you.”
your eyes closed briefly at the pain in his voice. “aerion…”
“i should have loved you less.” but even as he said it, both of you knew it was impossible. he had loved you from the very first moment. too much. too fiercely. with every ruined part of himself. and now the gods were tearing you away from him piece by piece.
“i do not regret loving you,” you whispered. you were breathing differently now. slower. weaker.
panic flooded his face so fast. your fingers tightened faintly around his once. “i am- tired now. aerion.”
“no.”
“i love you- so- aerion-”
“no, stay awake my love. stay with me. look at me.” his voice broke into something desperate and terrified.
you tried. gods, you tried. your eyes found his one last time, full of love so deep it nearly killed him on the spot.
then your breathing faltered.
every part of him seemed to stop existing except for the hand clutching yours.
another breath, still shallow. then another, smaller still.
“no,” he whispered again, tears falling freely now. “please. i love you.”
and then-
nothing.
silence. complete and horrible.
aerion stared at you waiting. waiting for your chest to rise again. waiting for your fingers to twitch in his hand. waiting for the impossible. but you stayed still. and slowly, horrifyingly, your warmth began to fade beneath his hands.
the sound that left him afterward was raw enough to tear through stone.
he folded over you instantly, clutching your hand against his mouth as violent sobs ripped through him hard enough to leave him breathless. his entire body shook with it, years of pride and cruelty and arrogance collapsing into grief so enormous it hollowed him out completely.
“no, no, no-”
he kissed your cold knuckles desperately between broken gasps of air. “you cannot do this to me,” he choked out.
the gods, cruel as they were, had finally taken the only thing aerion targaryen had ever truly loved.
the silence afterward nearly drove him mad.
he had not cried like that since childhood. since lonely nights hidden away in dark chambers where no one came looking for him. he felt small again suddenly. helpless. frightened.
they had given him an hour to calm down, and when his tears subsided and all that was left was anger, grief, and longing, the maester quietly began to approach the bed before aerion turned with such horrifying fury that the old man stopped instantly.
“get out.”
“your grace-”
“get out.”
the room emptied immediately and no one dared argue.
aerion was alone with you. alone in the suffocating silence of your shared chambers while candlelight flickered softly against your still face. he loved you more than he knew what to do with, and now there was nowhere for that love to go.
hours passed before anyone dared enter again. even then, aerion refused to let go of you. it nearly killed him when they tried to take your body from the bed.
“no,” he snarled hoarsely, gripping you tighter. “do not touch her.”
“prince aerion-”
“do not touch her.” his voice barely raised, yet stern. frightening.
they had to pry his hands away, hold him back. he looked- no, he was- half-mad, watching them place you inside the coffin, his face white with horror like he could not comprehend how the world expected him to survive such a thing.
afterward, he refused to clear your rooms.
your gowns remained hanging exactly where you left them. your oils and perfumes stayed lined carefully along the vanity. books remained half-open where you had abandoned them.
your side of the bed stayed untouched.
every now and then, late at night, standing in front of your grand dresser, he would hold one of your dresses against his face, breathing in the fading trace of your perfume with devastated desperation.
the gardens became unbearable to him. the reading alcoves remained empty. and aerion wandered through the red keep like a ghost haunting a life that no longer existed.
people feared him more after your death. he grew colder. crueler. quieter.
but worst of all were the nights.
because sometimes, very late, servants passing your chambers would hear him speaking softly into the silence as though you were lying beside him still.
“i told you to listen to me,” he would murmur. then, quieter, “yes, i know. you are cold tonight.”
there would be the faint sound of movement. a chair dragged closer. a goblet set down. and then, gently, almost tenderly, “you should sleep now.”
no one ever dared open the door. because sometimes they also heard him laugh softly, as though you had answered.
he began to drink heavily.
wine at first. then stronger things brought in quietly by servants too afraid to refuse him. the maesters warned against it, cautiously at first, then more urgently as the pattern worsened.
“your grace,” one of them said carefully one evening, “this will not ease your suffering. it will only deepen it.”
“i am not suffering,” he said. “you are mistaken.” aerion continued calmly. “my wife is simply away. that is all.”
the maester exchanged a look with another before bowing stiffly and retreating.
he began speaking of you in the present tense.
“my wife prefers the roses after rain,” he told a bewildered servant once. “do not cut them yet.” another time, he stopped a maid in the corridor and snapped at her, “have you seen my son?”
she froze. “my prince…you do not have-”
aerion’s expression sharpened instantly.
“see to it that he is with his mother,” he said firmly.
no one corrected him. it was easier not to.
he began to see you again. at first it was fleeting. a reflection in the mirror that was not his own. a flicker at the edge of his vision when he turned too quickly. a warmth in empty chairs.
then it became clearer. you were in your chambers again. sitting at the vanity. adjusting your hair. looking at him as though nothing had ever gone wrong at all.
“aerion,” you would say softly. “must you stare at me, my love? it is quite jarring.”
and he would believe it. he would believe it completely. there was no longer any separation between memory and reality. only you.
until even that began to fracture.
the night he drank wildfire.
he believed it would truly take the pain away, turn him into something different. into a dragon.
maesters agreed, because no one truly denied a targaryen anything for long, suggesting it might “calm the mind” if handled carefully, and with all of aerion’s temperaments they agreed to add in a little something extra, something that might ease the sleeplessness, the agitation, the grief that had begun to consume him.
that night, after drinking, he stood alone in your chambers, holding one of your gowns again. when suddenly his grip tightened violently around the fabric.
“i cannot do this,” he whispered. “i told you,” he murmured hoarsely into the empty room, “i told you i cannot be anywhere without you.”
his vision blurred and he felt a sharp burning sensation from inside himself. the wildfire had burned him, saved him from the madness and grief that had been burned into him long ago.
aerion targaryen could not bring himself to let go of the one thing he had ever truly belonged to. because aerion targaryen, in the end, was exactly what he had always been.
a man who could not exist anywhere without his wife.
Tf141 who plays strip poker but they all gang up on you until you’re fully naked and the worst anyone else has gotten is a lost sock or shoe.
“No fair!”
“Ain’t our fault youre shit at poker. Now you know the rules.”
Gaz takes you first, biting his lip to hold back the sly grin he has as he sinks you down on his cock. “So pretty perched on a cock.”
His hands gently guide you back and forth, musing nothing but praises. “I’m almost there, baby. I know you want it. Can you feel you wanting it.”
Eventually he holds you still, rutting up into you while his thumb draws soothing circles on your hip. The others watch intensely before he slams you down, keeping your hips pressed firmly against him as he pours his release inside.
Gaz combs your hair out of your face, placing a delicate kiss on your forehead before he peels you off. But not before he gives your cunt a gentle grope with the palm of his hand. “Thanks love.”
He passes you off to soap who’s been bouncing in his seat since you were in your undergarments. He’s quick to get you bent over the table before sinking his dick in with a deep groan.
He’s meaner than Gaz, insisting that you squirt for him before he lets you go despite you cumming multiple times. “I can’t, Johnny! Icanticanticant,” you sob, pussy puffy and swollen.
Soaps arm slinks down between your legs before his fingers repeatedly swipe across your poor clit. He has no aim, but it gets the job done and your vision nearly goes black as you’re leaking onto the edge of the table.
Soap grins victoriously. “So ye can do it. Fuckin’ liar you are.”
Then there’s ghost. He’s not trying to be an ass about it. It’s just that he’s so damn big that it’s bound to hurt no matter how many times Gaz and Soap have cum inside you.
He lifts you up from the underside of your knees, spreading you wide open before nudging inch by inch inside. “Nice view, LT.”
“Wish it were you, aye Johnny?”
Soap smirks. “Who? You or her?”
The conversation ends there, ghost too enthralled by the way his dick pumps out cum with every thrust. The position makes it perfect to see the tip of his dick bulging as he brings you down to the hilt.
“Fuck,” you pant, barely audible over those heavenly wails you let out.
“I know, doll. That’s what I’m doin’.” You don’t even have it in you to tell him to piss off and that’s exactly how he likes you.
Last is price, who lays you gently down on the table with a hand resting on each thigh. There’s no resistance as he slips his dick inside your warm and sloppy hole.
Immediately you shudder from oversensitivity, hands pawing at his abdomen to push him back but there’s no strength behind it.
He’s gentle, but the experience is there when he’s grinding up his dick to all the right places.
Two of his fingers scoop up the leaking cum (probably a mix of all three) before drawing delicate figure 8’s across your abused clit.
You squeak, legs tensing as sparks fill your vision. “There she is, nice and fuckin’ tight.”
And once he knows he has you teetering on that edge, he’s pounding into you like there’s no tomorrow.
The table shakes under the intensity and it proves to be worth it when you’re mumbling gibberish in hysterics.
Price finally pulls out, patting your pussy twice as a reward. “Good girl.” And you don’t know if he’s talking to you or your cunt.
You feel a hand cup your cheek but your vision is blurry and every voice sounds as if you’re underwater. “Ya look like you’re seeing stars, lassie.”
“I’m never playing poker again.”
Your comment earns a few chuckles from the group. “Oh don’t be like that. You almost almost had us!”
“Kyle’s right. You’re improving fast. You’re bound to win the next one, soldier.”
It’s a lie. Price knows it. The group knows it. You know it. But it doesn’t stop you from playing the next week.
evening light came streaming in through the windows of your chambers, lighting the space in a soft yellow glow as the sun begins its journey behind the distant hills. dappled sunlight catches in your eyelashes as you blink from where you hunch over on the bed, writhing on your hands and knees.
your husband’s hands are tight on your hips, gripping the flesh as he splits you apart on the thick of his cock, grunting little obscenities as he ruts you deeper and deeper into the feathered mattress, your hands and knees pressing indents into the silk.
but you’re wriggling too much. you can’t help it. pleasure sits hot in the pit of your womb, a sticky sort of pressure in the base of your spine too, and you just can’t help the way you wriggle your hips to chase it away, or tremble on your hands and knees when it starts to be too much.
you can’t help it, but maekar can.
you pitch a whine from the back of your throat as his cock spreads the wet clutch of your pussy apart, dragging deep towards the plug of your cervix as he ruts into you, hips smacking against the flesh of your arse. but that’s when you feel it—the solid mass of his chest and abdomen as he leans over you, crowds you, then the thick, scarred column of his arm as it wraps around your throat.
you yelp when he hauls you up until you’re kneeling with him, your sweat-slick back flush with his chest. the corded muscles in his arm contract as he pins your neck into the crook of his elbow, his head coming to rest directly beside your ear.
you suck in a gasp at the new angle and the way the head of his cock pushes up deep inside you. the pressure makes you keen, moaning his name as he traps you against his chest. your hands find his arm, nails dimpling the sun-kissed skin, as he noses at the shell of your ear, his hips rucking upwards.
“you’re restless today,” maekar mutters, tip of his cock nailing that perfect spot inside you. you mewl, clutching his arm as your pussy flutters around him. he pants against the pulse point below your ear. “you just couldn’t kneel there and take it, could you? were you waiting for this, sweet girl?”
his cock hits deep, the velvet ridges along the length rubbing against the slick walls of your cunt. you take him so well, squeezing tight each time he thrusts in and out, slick dribbling from you as he takes what he needs.
you whine in response. “no, maekar, i’m—”
“s’alright, s’alright…” maekar coos, his other hand curling around your waist to press flat to the mound of your lower belly. “i’ve got you, sweet girl. can’t go anywhere now, can you?”
the strong mass of his arm presses tighter to your throat, and you suck in a sharp breath. you hold his arm too, anchoring yourself as he fucks you, your entire body shifting with each of his movements. he’s grunting in your ear, and a couple of damp, white strands of hair fall across his forehead and rub near your temple.
“that’s a good girl, that’s it,” he whispers, feeling your pussy flutter around him. he’s holding you firm against him, the space between you nonexistent and boiling hot. the hand on your belly presses in, the added pressure making you cry out his name. he kisses your cheek softly. “s’alright, don’t fuss, sweet girl. just take it—just fucking take it.”
you can’t do much but take it, really. you’re pinned to his body, heat radiating from him. the bed creaks softly as his hips slam up against you, and he groans right in your ear. you moan his name in response, the vowels stretched around a whine, and he kisses the heated skin of your cheek again.
“my sweet girl, my best girl,” your husband rambles, breathing harshly as his cock ruts in and out of you, the wet heat of your cunt sucking him in. he groans, “i think you’ll take my seed just as well as you take my cock, won’t you?”
you whimper, gasping through the sound as the head of his cock grinds up against that spot inside you that has stars exploding behind your eyelids. the heat in your belly and the pressure in your spine threatens to shatter within you, and you clutch maekar’s arm in support as he fucks you. he groans, revelling in the tight squeeze of your pussy and the way slick dribbles from you, wet across the seam of his balls as he moves.
“she’s begging me for it,” maekar utters, holding you tightly as you flutter around him. “she wants me to fill her, doesn’t she? she wants me to fill her, sweet girl, i can feel it.”
you moan. “maekar, please, please, please—”
“i know, i know, i’ve got you,” your husband mutters, kissing your cheek as the heat and pressure inside finally overwhelm you. he feels your body seize up, your cunt clenching vice-like around the thick of his cock, and he knows you’re on the edge. his hand on your lower belly presses down even firmer. “let me feel you.”
you splinter from the inside out, orgasm racking through you as heat bursts like stars in your veins, and the pressure in your belly dissolves into the marrow of your bones. you come with his name on your lips, moans filling your chambers as your body trembles against his, nails digging into the scarred skin of his forearm. he fucks you through it, trapping you against him as you tremble and whine, pleasure flushing through your veins.
“good girl, there we go,” he mutters, practically bouncing your spent body back onto his. your head rolls back onto his shoulder and he plants a wet kiss to the junction of your jaw. his hips snap, then snap up again, and he growls where he kisses you, his balls drawing tight. “gods above, you’re so fucking tight. she’s begging for a babe, isn’t she? cunt’s pitching a right fit—doesn’t want to let me go.”
you mewl softly, eyes closing as maekar barrels towards his own release. there’s a sharp pressure in the base of his spine, and you can feel the desperation of his movements as he chases that pressure towards its breaking point.
maekar groans, thick and rumbling. “i’ll spill inside you, alright, sweet girl? fill you with my babe—fuck, you always look so fucking good when you’re with child, when you’re round with my babe. yeah, fuck—fuck, my sweet girl, my perfect girl—”
he’s rambling now, and that’s when you know. maekar groans your name right against the shell of your ear as his hips stutter, the arm around your throat pinning you back as he spills inside you. the pressure in his spine snaps and spreads, and he moans deep from his chest as the heat of his orgasm crashes over him. his cock nudges deep inside, right at the base of your cervix, and paints you in thick, hot ropes.
being filled has you leaning back into his hold, whimpering across a sigh as he ruts a few more times, emptying himself completely as your pussy pulls tight, milking him. he kisses along your jaw, cradling you as his cock jerks, then softens where he’s buried, slick and seed drooling slowly from where you connect.
“there we go…” maekar whispers, large hand rubbing across your belly as if that’ll help the taking process. he kneads the soft fat there with calloused fingers. “nice and full, sweet girl.”
you whine, pliant in his arms, blinking the setting sunlight from your eyes.
he kisses your cheek. “always do so well for me—” another kiss, then another. “—i love you, sweet girl.”
summary: Soft Aerion is listening to your stories the night before the trial of seven.
words: 268
warnings: none
a/n: Just a little snippet of what could be a soft Aerion x reader story.
Masterlist
Aerion had a thing for pretty girls in every city they traveled to; everyone knew that. So it wasn't unusual for Maekar that there were constantly noises in his son's room during the night. He didn't think much of it until that very night before the trial of seven.
Maekar walked around their temporary home, like he did every night since Aegon had returned to them, so he could check on him whether he was in his room or not.
When he walked past Aerion's room, there was still light in the chambers, but no noises of exhausted, sweating people during or after sex; he could hear nothing but the quiet mumbling of a young-sounding woman and sometimes the agreeing of Aerion. Maekar didn't dare to eavesdrop on his son any further, although he would have loved to notice more of this side of him.
Aerion lay on his back with his head in your lap, smiling up at you and watching your lips while you talked. He had barely interrupted you while you were talking about what your life was like growing up or would be when the trial was over, which was unusual for him. He normally would talk about himself or his miserable brothers when he was with you, but not tonight; tonight he let you talk and just smiled.
„And then we were...“ You stopped mid-sentence and brushed your fingers over his hair.
Aerion had closed his eyes, and his breathing was soft and even, as if he were sleeping.
„Keep talking, my princess,“ he mumbled with still-closed eyes.
the catastrophe of tomorrow morning 𖹭 aerion targaryen
aerion offers improved behavior and basic human decency in exchange for you canceling your family visit. there are many things he can endure. spending four days away from you is apparently not one of them.
the hour is far too late for this sort of catastrophe.
the castle has long since quieted into the stillness of night, servants retired to their quarters, torches dimmed low along the corridors beyond your chambers. a fire crackles softly nearby, warm enough that the heavy curtains have been drawn back to let the cooler night air drift through the windows.
you sit comfortably atop the bed surrounded by neatly folded garments, carefully arranging what you intend to bring for the short visit ahead while aerion lingers nearby removing rings from his fingers with the weary slowness of a man finally settling after a long day.
he is only half paying attention to you, stretched carelessly across the cushioned chair near the hearth, until you speak in that calm, absentminded tone that changes everything.
"i shall leave after breakfast," you say simply, smoothing a crease from one of your dresses before setting it aside. "i should arrive by nightfall if the roads remain clear."
your voice is so casual, so entirely unconcerned, that for a moment the words do not even seem to register properly with him. then the sound of metal abruptly striking wood echoes through the room as one of his rings slips from suddenly still fingers.
the silence that follows is immediate and unnatural, so heavy that you finally glance up from your packing. aerion is staring at you in complete disbelief.
"you shall what?" he asks carefully, every word measured with the quiet horror of a man being informed of an approaching execution rather than a routine family visit.
his expression remains perfectly still, though only in the dangerous way storms pause before breaking apart the sky. even seated, there is something sharp about the way his shoulders straighten, violet eyes fixed entirely upon you.
you blink once at him, mildly startled by the intensity of the reaction already forming. "to visit my family," you repeat carefully, beginning to suspect you may have made a terrible mistake in timing. "only for a few days."
the words worsen everything.
"a few days," aerion echoes faintly, rising from the chair as though sitting has suddenly become impossible. he repeats it again under his breath like someone attempting to comprehend profound suffering.
"and you neglected to inform me of this before tonight?" there is genuine betrayal in his voice, affront written plainly across every sharp line of his face. one would think you had secretly arranged your own disappearance from the realm itself rather than planned a short visit.
he looks at you as though trust itself has been shattered within these chambers. you stare at him for a long moment, entirely unimpressed by the dramatics already unfolding before you.
"aerion—"
"no," he interrupts immediately, lifting one hand with startling urgency as he begins pacing before the bed. "do not attempt to soften the matter now."
the silver of his hair catches the firelight as he moves, every bit the distressed prince from some overly dramatic tale sung by traveling musicians.
"tomorrow?" he repeats incredulously, turning toward you again with fresh disbelief. "tomorrow?" his hand drags down his face slowly, physically burdened by this revelation.
"you intended to vanish from this castle and only informed me mere hours beforehand. had i not wandered into these chambers tonight, would i have discovered your disappearance through rumor?"
your mouth falls open slightly at the sheer absurdity of it. you remain seated exactly where you are, one dress still half folded in your lap while your husband behaves as though civilization itself is collapsing around him.
the fire continues crackling peacefully nearby in direct contrast to the emotional devastation aerion has apparently chosen to endure.
"i was going to tell you after supper," you reply flatly, watching him pace the room who's searching desperately for reason within chaos.
he stops immediately upon hearing this, offended in entirely new ways. the look he gives you suggests this explanation has somehow deepened the betrayal rather than softened it.
"you should have told me weeks ago."
"it is four days."
"four endless, miserable days."
the sincerity with which he says it nearly destroys your composure entirely. you press your lips together hard in a desperate attempt to maintain seriousness while aerion resumes pacing the room with mounting distress.
there is something deeply entertaining about watching a man feared by the realm unravel over temporary separation.
"and what exactly am i expected to do while you are gone?" he demands suddenly, stopping at the foot of the bed to stare at you accusingly. "speak to people? attend meetings alone? endure the mornings without you there to torment me?" he says it as though these are unimaginable cruelties inflicted upon him personally by the gods themselves. "this castle will become unbearable."
you slowly set aside the garment in your hands. the mattress dips softly beneath your shifting weight as you turn fully toward him, equal parts exasperated and amused.
"you are acting exactly why i did not tell you sooner," you inform him carefully, laughter threatening beneath the words. aerion immediately looks scandalized by the accusation.
"that is nonsense," he says at once, deeply offended by the suggestion.
you gesture vaguely toward the sight of him pacing your shared chambers in emotional ruin. "you are currently behaving as though i announced my permanent exile."
aerion points at you immediately. "because you blindsided me."
the sheer conviction in his voice nearly makes you laugh outright. then, without warning, something changes in his expression. you watch realization strike him in real time. he almost looks like a commander suddenly forming strategy during a battle. the distress remains, certainly, but now determination settles beneath it as well. aerion straightens slightly before narrowing his eyes at you with terrifying seriousness.
"my love—"
"what if i buy you everything? or everyone? anyone?"
the abruptness of it catches you so entirely off guard that you simply stare at him for several seconds in silence. somewhere beyond the windows, the wind stirs softly against stone.
"no, listen carefully," he crosses back toward the bed before lowering himself onto one knee beside it. "jewels. dresses. that necklace you stared at three moons ago and claimed you did not want despite clearly wanting it."
he speaks quickly, fearing you may reject negotiations before hearing the full offer. "i can also become significantly kinder to everyone within this castle." his voice lowers slightly with grave sincerity. "i shall stop threatening the maesters."
"that should not be considered a generous offer."
"i can do more," he insists immediately, leaning closer with the urgency of a desperate negotiator. "i shall tolerate musicians during supper. i shall smile at lords i dislike. i will even permit that dreadful cousin of yours to speak uninterrupted."
he pauses briefly, visibly pained by the enormity of his own sacrifice. "for at least several minutes."
your shoulders begin shaking with restrained laughter. the image alone is enough to undo you completely. your husband nobly suffering through conversation for your sake.
"aerion," you manage through growing amusement, "i am not canceling my visit because you offered basic decency."
his expression falls immediately afterward, so genuinely wounded that it only worsens your laughter. "then my efforts mean nothing to you," he says quietly, sounding devastated beyond reason.
you cover your mouth briefly, trying and failing to compose yourself.
"i can be... sweeter," he presses on desperately, climbing onto the bed beside you hoping proximity itself may strengthen his argument. "or more agreeable. i shall compliment people voluntarily."
he visibly grimaces at the mere thought.
"i shall personally ensure fresh lemon cakes await you every morning for an entire moon."
you finally break fully into laughter then, filling the chambers entirely while aerion watches you with resignation.
"name your price," he says solemnly, taking your hand into both of his with absurd seriousness. "i am prepared to negotiate."
you shake your head slowly, still laughing.
the sight of him sprawled across the bed beside your neatly folded travel things is ridiculous enough already, yet somehow he continues committing himself to the performance.
"i am leaving for four days, not abandoning you forever," you remind him gently once your laughter softens enough to speak clearly again.
aerion exhales heavily before collapsing backward against the pillows with theatrical despair. "to me," he mutters darkly toward the ceiling above, "there is little difference."
you shift closer against the pillows until your shoulder brushes his, your amusement slowly melting into fondness as he immediately reaches for your hand again without thought. his fingers lace through yours, ensuring you cannot disappear before morning arrives.
"why did you not tell me sooner?" he asks again eventually. you glance toward him, already knowing exactly how this answer will be received.
"i told you," you say patiently, squeezing his hand gently, "you would react exactly like this."
aerion immediately opens his mouth to argue. then frowns deeply because he realizes, with great personal offense, that you are entirely correct.
the firelight flickers warmly against the sharp lines of his face while he continues holding your hand with unnecessary firmness, clearly displeased by this entire conversation. then, quite suddenly, his expression changes again.
you recognize the look immediately and dislike it at once. it is the exact face he wears moments before making deeply unreasonable decisions with absolute confidence.
"then i shall come with you," he announces. the statement is delivered with such certainty one would think the matter already settled.
you stare at him for a long moment again, genuinely unsure whether to laugh or throw something at him instead. aerion, meanwhile, appears entirely pleased with himself now that he has clearly solved the problem through sheer brilliance.
"i will leave with you after breakfast," he continues calmly, already planning the arrangement in his head. "the journey will be safer with additional guards. we shall remain there together until you are prepared to return."
"like hell you are."
aerion looks startled by the immediate rejection.
"you are staying here," you continue firmly before he can interrupt, shifting to sit properly upright against the pillows. "you have duties, councils, meetings, and an entire castle depending upon you not abandoning your responsibilities because your wife is visiting her family for four days."
aerion opens his mouth, clearly prepared to argue every single point like always, but you lift one hand sharply before he can begin.
"and while i am away, you will remain here waiting for my letters. that is what you will do."
you have rarely seen a man appear so personally devastated while technically being told to stay inside his own castle.
aerion stares at you as though you have condemned him to isolation atop some freezing mountain rather than instructed him to behave normally for less than a week.
"letters," he repeats faintly, almost hollow with despair. "you expect me to survive entirely on letters. letters?" his voice drops lower with every word until he sounds haunted by the concept. "ink upon parchment. scraps of affection sent across distance."
"oh, stop it."
"no."
the refusal comes immediately. he releases your hand only to collapse again sideways across the bed, one forearm thrown over his eyes. the mattress shifts beneath his weight while you simply sit there watching him in exhaustion.
"this is misery," he mutters toward absolutely no one. "cruelty within my own chambers." he reaches blindly for one of the pillows beside him and drags it over his face. "abandoned by my own wife."
from beneath the pillow comes another muffled complaint. "i shall wither here."
"four days, not four decades."
"no one understands. four days! perhaps longer if the roads turn poor. i may never recover."
you shake your head slowly and reach over to pat the lump of pillow covering his head. aerion immediately grabs your wrist from beneath it, clinging to your hand like a deeply wronged prince facing exile.
summary: As Princess Rhae’s nameday tourney draws closer, Valarr grows bolder in his affections. However you find Aerion difficult to ignore.
pairing: aerion targryen x tyrell reader x valarr targaryen
cw: Queen Myriah being the biggest reader x valarr shipper, aerion being an asshole, mainly wholesome valarr and plot driven
word count: 6k
“Have you seen it?”
“Seen what, my lady?”
You turned to your handmaiden, Clara, and frowned. You gestured towards the empty nightstand. “My flower.” You said. “ It was here, I left it here. I know I did.”
Clara hesitated for a moment. “I have not seen it, my lady.”
You looked again anyway, as though it might have appeared while you were looking away. It did not. You have already searched the chamber twice over–table, floor, beneath the bed. You decided to look there once more, so you dropped to your knees and pushed the coverlet aside. You peered into the dim space to reveal nothing more than dust.
You sat back on your heels and frowned again. It was a foolish thing to trouble over. You think. Though the small sting of it would not be soothed.
A knock came at the door, and Clara crossed the room to answer it. You heard low murmurs before she turned back to you. “The queen is calling on you, my lady.”
You glanced up from where you sat on the floor, resting one arm on the mattress. You pushed yourself up to brush your hands lightly against your skirt and blew away the loose strand of hair that had fallen into your face. “Could you fix my hair?” You asked.
“Of course, my lady.”
The servant escorted you to the queen's solar. Queen Myriah sat with her ladies gathered about her in easy company. Lady Laerra lounged along one side of the settee with Lady Edeline at her side. They all turned the moment you stepped inside.
You dipped into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Ah, come, come. Sit here.” The queen said, her hand lifted, and beckoned you closer.
You took the place indicated beside her, and a servant stepped forward before you had even settled and placed a hoop of embroidery in your hands with the needle and thread already set.
You looked down at it and then back up again with a questioning look, but the queen only waved her hand. “Hush, busy yourself, dear.” She said,
You blinked and opened your mouth to speak. “Hush,” she repeated as though you were being unreasonable.
You did not know what was required of you, but you set the needle where the thread had been left and began.
Across from you, Lady Laerra made a small sound that might have been laughter. Lady Edeline pressed her lips together, though her eyes betrayed her. You frowned, but did not look at them long. Your gaze fell again to the hoop, and your hand settled into the motion of it.
You had only set a few stitches before the door opened. When you glanced up, Prince Valarr had stepped inside, the tailor at his back burdened with folded lengths of heavy cloth.
Valarr bowed his head, “Your grace.” His gaze found you for the briefest moment, and there was the faintest turn at the corner of his mouth before he looked on. “Ladies,” he added.
“Valarr, dear,” the queen said, rising to meet him. She set her hands upon his shoulders as though to keep him in place. “We have been waiting on you.”
That was news to you.
“So it would seem,” he said. “I had thought to be left to my own devices.
The queen gave a small huff. “Thank the gods I have thought better of it.” She took a square of cloth from the tailor’s burden and held it to the light, turning it this way and that. “The crown has an image to maintain. I will not have you boys undoing it with poor choices.”
You lowered your gaze at once, though a faint smile tugged at your lips.
“A pity,” Valarr said. “I had grown fond of my poor choices.”
A few of the ladies laughed behind their hands, and the queen only shook her head. The tailor came forward then and laid out lengths of cloth upon the table—deep reds and darker shades. He stepped back to look at Valarr to measure him with his eye, then began to drape the fabrics over his shoulders one by one. You looked up only once or twice.
The queen had set herself to fussing over him. She turned him slightly, then smoothed the cloth, discarding one piece for another with little patience. You bent your head again to your work, though your attention did not wholly remain there.
“Stand still.” The queen instructed.
“I am standing still,” Valarr muttered, though he shifted even as he spoke.
“You are fidgeting, Valarr.” She said and shook her head at the tailor who held up a color she did not like.
“Grandmother, I can hardly help it,” he said, a touch lower now. “You do make a spectacle of me before your ladies.”
A ripple of soft laughter stirred through the room. You did not join it.
“Nonsense,” the queen said. Valarr shifted again, then seemed to catch himself and went rigid. “There,” he said. “I am not moving.”
The queen sighed, long-suffering. “Now you are too stiff.”
He let out a quiet breath, something between defeat and amusement, but did not move again.
The exchange went on a moment longer, small corrections and small refusals, the sort of thing that might have been familiar if not for the room full of watching eyes. You kept your own lowered, though you felt the faint absurdity of it.
“Lady Tyrell.”
You looked up at once, the needle stilled between your fingers. “Your Grace?”
“What do you make of this?” the queen asked, gesturing lightly to the cloth laid across Valarr’s shoulders. “The color, I mean.”
You swallowed, though there had been no need for it, and raised your gaze.
He stood where they had set him. His hands hung at his sides, not quite still, as though he had forgotten what to do with them. There was a faint awkwardness in him that made you believe he was enduring the worst humiliation.
You meant to look at the cloth, and you did at first. The color was rich and dark where the light did not touch it, brighter where it did. It suited him—more than suited him. You think. It did something to him, or else to how you saw him.
Your gaze lifted, and his eyes met yours, and for a moment it was as though you had both been caught in the same small foolishness and would not speak of it.
You dropped your gaze at last, and the heat rose quick to your cheeks. “It suits the prince well,” you said, too fast.
Lady Laerra gave a soft laugh. “It does more than suit him. The young ladies will be clawing at one another for a place beside the prince.”
Valarr let out a quiet breath. “They need not trouble themselves.”
“No?” the queen said, her brows lifting. “Not even one fortunate lady has caught your interest?”
Valarr shifted again, “I did not say that,” he said.
Lady Edeline’s smile widened at once. “Oh,” she said, turning to Lady Laerra, “he did not say that.”
A murmur of amusement stirred through the room. The queen laughed and shook her head. “Enough. I have tormented my grandson quite enough for one morning.”
She began to return the lengths of cloth to the tailor’s waiting arms. “You may all go.”
There was a soft rustle of skirts as the ladies rose, and you set your needle and stood with them.
“Not you, dear.”
You stilled. The queen’s hand lifted, indicating the hoop still in your grasp. “You have not yet finished.”
“It is near enough, Your Grace—”
“Sit.” She said once, and that was enough for you.
The room grew quieter once the others had gone. Only the queen’s low voice remained, as she spoke with the tailor in measured tones.
You bent your head to your work, and after a moment, you became aware of him. He stood beside you, not speaking at first. “That is very fine work,” Valarr said at last.
You looked up at him. “It is only stitching,” you said. “But thank you.”
Before you could say more, he had taken the seat at your side. Close enough that you felt the warmth of him and the faint brush of his sleeve against your own.
“Do you enjoy it?” he asked.
You hesitated, your gaze flickered once toward the queen, who had not yet turned back to you. You shook your head slightly. “Not much.” A small, knowing smile touched your mouth.
A laugh escaped him.“It seems difficult enough,” he said.
“It is not,” you answered. “Quite simple once you know the way of it.”
He leaned a little closer then, and his attention settled upon the hoop in your hands. “I do not know the way of it,” he said plainly.
You glanced at him. “Would you like to try?” you asked, and then felt immediately foolish for it.
He shook his head at once, a faint laugh following. “I think not.”
“It is no great undertaking,” you said.
“Very well,” he said and cleared his throat. When you placed it in his hands, he held it as though it might break.
“The needle goes here,” you said, and reached to guide him before you had thought better of it. Your fingers closed lightly over his and adjusted the angle.
He tried, though not with much confidence. “No,” you said, shaking your head, “You will only tangle it.”
He tried again, and the thread caught immediately. You watched him struggle with it a moment; his brow drew faintly as he attempted to set it right without help. When it worsened instead, you leaned in to free it. Your fingers brushed his as you drew the needle loose.
He frowned at that. “You said it was simple.”
“It is,” you said. “You are making it otherwise, my prince.” There was no hiding the note of amusement in your voice.
He huffed softly, and when you leaned in a little more to see the thread properly, he turned his head toward you. You had not realized how close the two of you had drifted until that moment.
His face was inches from your own. Near enough that you felt the warmth of his breath against your cheek and near enough to see the pale flecks of gold in the dark of his eye where the sunlight touched it.
His gaze caught yours first. Then, slowly, it fell lower to your lips.
The room seemed to narrow around you. The queen’s voice faded to a dull murmur somewhere beyond the two of you. You became suddenly aware of everything at once—the warmth of his thigh against yours and the way your hand still rested lightly over his. Then—
“Ow.” He flinched suddenly, which caused you to draw back at once, your breath caught as the moment broke apart, and you looked down to find a bead of red welling at the tip of his finger where the needle had caught him.
For a heartbeat, he only stared at it, faintly perplexed. Then, without thought, he brought the finger to his mouth. You could not help but watch the slow press of his lips against it and the way his thumb rested there as he drew the blood away.
Your gaze lingered far too long. You felt a coil of heat, low and sudden in your stomach. You swallow hard and hope he did not notice.
You did not even realize the queen had made her way over. “You are bleeding.’ She said as though he had not noticed, her brows pulled together in worry.
“It is nothing, grandmother,” Valarr said.
“I will fetch the maester–”
Valarr shook his head. “It is nothing.” He repeated.
“I will not have you losing fingers because you wished to play at embroidery.” The queen said.
“Grandmother—”
But she was already crossing the room, skirts sweeping after her. “Do not bleed on anything,” she called over her shoulder. The door shut behind her.
“Are you hurt?” you asked, taking the embroidery hoop gently from his hands.
Valarr let out a breath that broke into a quiet laugh. “My grandmother worries too much.” He held up his finger between you. “It is only a prick.”
“It could fester,” you said.
He shook his head. “I begin to see why my grandmother is fond of you. You are alike in your taste for dramatics.”
That drew a laugh from you. “Soon your finger will blacken and fall clean off.” You said solemnly.
Valarr grinned at that, “I had not taken you for the morbid sort, Lady Tyrell.”
You lowered your gaze and feigned interest in the embroidery once more. A small crimson stain had bloomed against the pale cloth where his blood had touched it. “The queen only cares for you,” you said.
“She cares too much for everything,” Valarr replied.
You glanced up at him and lifted one brow slightly. “How so?”
“The tournament,” he said. “The flowers and the fabrics we are made to wear.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the door through which the queen had gone. “If she were able, she would arrange the whole realm to her liking.”
You considered that as you turned the hoop lightly in your hands. “She arranges things well enough,” you said at last.
“The queen is bored,” he said plainly.
The laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You looked away, but not before you saw the way his gaze lingered on you in a manner that made warmth creep once more beneath your skin.
You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware again of how close he sat beside you. And so, to break the feeling, you spoke quickly. “Will you ride in the tournament?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“No?” You looked at him in surprise. “I had thought you would.”
Valarr leaned back into the cushions slightly, “For a nameday tourney?” he said. “I would spare myself the trouble.”
“The princess will require champions,” you pointed out.
“She shall have them,” Valarr said. “Her brothers, and others. Though Daeron may fall from the saddle before the melee is half done.” A note of quiet amusement entered his voice.
You smiled despite yourself. “And Aerion?” you asked before you had thought better of it. The name seemed to linger strangely in the air between you.
Valarr did not seem to notice. “Aerion will ride fiercely enough,” he said. “My cousin has never cared much for losing.”
No, you thought. He did not. Your gaze dropped to the embroidery in your lap, though you no longer saw it.
For a moment, you could picture him plain as day— Aerion on his horse riding beneath the banners with that crooked smile upon his mouth that so often bordered arrogance and infuriated most men but stirred something else entirely in you.
The doors opened then, and the queen returned with Maester Rylon close behind her. “Here,” she said at once, drawing him forward with an impatient wave. “He has cut himself.”
Valarr let out a soft sigh but held up his hand obediently all the same. Maester Rylon took it in both hands as one might examine a mortal wound. The old maester peered closely at the tiny mark upon Valarr’s finger whilst the queen watched on with deep displeasure.
You lowered your head and hoped neither of them would see the smile threatening at your mouth.
Maester Rylon gave a small nod. “A prick only, Your Grace. Nothing more.”
Valarr huffed a laugh at that.
“It will heal cleanly,” Maester Rylon assured and released the prince’s hand at last. The queen seemed only partly satisfied, though she inclined her head all the same.
Valarr rose from the settee then. “Good,” he said. “I had hoped to survive the ordeal.”
He bent to press a kiss against his grandmother’s cheek, and some of the irritation left her face for it.
“You will be more careful,” she told him.
Valarr nodded, then turned toward you. “I hope to see you again soon, Lady Tyrell.” He smiled, and his gaze held yours a moment longer before he bowed his head lightly and made for the door.
Only once the doors had closed behind him did you become aware of the queen’s gaze upon you, and you looked back to find her smiling.
Your brows drew together. “What is it?”
“Nothing at all,” Queen Myriah said.
-
The corridors had filled since morning. Voices echoed off the stone, and servants hurried past with lowered heads. You had been in no great hurry. Not until you turned the corner and found him there, and you both stopped with only a handful of paces between you.
Aerion stood as he always did. As though you had invaded his space. One hand rested near the hilt at his hip, and the other was loose at his side. The light from the narrow windows caught in his pale hair, and his eyes found yours at once.
His brows drew together, faintly, and you saw the way his mouth had shifted as though he would speak but then thought better of it.
Your lips parted, and his name pressed itself against the back of your teeth before you could stop it. You stood there too long, staring at him as though you had forgotten how to move. You look like a fool. You think.
You swallowed hard, and the words died in your throat.
Then you moved. You gathered your skirts in one hand and stepped past him. Close enough that the silk of your sleeve whispered near his hand. Close enough that he could reach out and grab you, and for a heartbeat, you hoped thought he might.
You could feel the sudden catch of his hand around your wrist, rough enough to bruise. He would pull you hard into the shadow of the wall and press your back against the cold stone. His mouth against yours with no sense to stop.
But he did not reach for you, nor did he move aside.
You did not turn back.
-
You had not thought much about the encounter after—or you had tried not to. When night came, and you reached for the candle beside your bed, the door opened without warning.
Aerion stepped inside. Why should he knock? You think bitterly. He shut it behind him with a soft thud.
You frowned faintly. “Aerion—”
“Are you ignoring me?” He asked sharply.
You blinked at him. “What?”
“You heard me.” He crossed the room as he spoke, slow and certain, not waiting for leave nor invitation.
“Why would I—”
“Never mind it,” he said, cutting the words from you.
He dropped onto the edge of your bed with careless ease. One of his boots knocked against the floor as he kicked it off. A moment later, the other followed, kicked free, and set aside.
You stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” He leaned back upon his hands as he said it, and stretched his legs out before him,
You let out a soft sigh and climbed onto the opposite side of the bed, drawing your legs beneath you. The mattress dipped faintly beneath his weight.
“It does not appear like nothing,” you said.
“It is.” His gaze wandered the chamber rather than settling on you. “I was passing by.”
“And thought to sit upon my bed?”
“I thought to sit.” His mouth twitched faintly. “The bed happened to be here.” At last, he glanced back toward you, “Do you object?” he asked.
You pressed your lips together and shook your head. “No.”
Aerion nodded and looked back. “Good.”
Silence settled between you two for a moment before you slid closer and settled beside him. “I heard you will ride in your sister’s nameday tourney.” You said a touch quieter.
Aerion's gaze flickered to you, narrowed slightly. “Who told you that?”
“I heard it mentioned.” You lied.
He studied you for a moment and then hummed softly. “Of course I will.”
He straightened a little where he sat. “I will give those piss-poor knights a proper show of it.” His mouth curved then. “Remind them what it means to ride against a dragon.”
For a moment, you could see the bravado falter slightly when his eyes met yours. “You will be there.” He said.
You could not tell whether it was meant as a question or a command.
“I will.” You answered regardless.
His jaw tightened once before easing again. He nodded faintly, though his eyes never left your face. He moved closer then, as if he had grown tired of the distance between you.
His knee knocked against yours, and his hand caught your sleeve. He smoothed out a crease that did not seem to exist. You glanced down at his hand and at the silver ring he wore, then back to his face.
“I will win, you will see.” He said softly, lowering his voice slightly. For all of the arrogance in it, you could hear something else, almost boyish. You think.
-
You woke without knowing when you had fallen asleep. For a moment, you lay still beneath the warmth of the blankets until the weight beside you made itself known. Aerion lay half-turned toward you, one arm cast careless across the coverlet. He had not yet woken.
A knock came at the door. Aerion stirred at that, though he did wake fully. He only shifted with a quiet sound of annoyance.
Before the second knock could come, you snatched at the blankets and threw them over him in a hurried disarray. Aerion made a displeased noise at that, something like a scoff, but he did not rise.
Clara stood in the doorway with a small folded letter in hand. “My lady.” She said and paused only a moment once her gaze flicked toward the bed and the shifting shape beneath the blankets. If she thought anything of it, she had the good sense not to show it.
You took the letter, recognizing the familiar red wax seal with three heads. You dismissed her quickly.
Once the door closed, the blankets shifted violently. Aerion threw them aside with a sharp breath and pushed himself upright with irritation. “Seven hells was that for?”
One hand dragged over his face before his gaze caught on the letter in your hands. The annoyance in him dulled slightly then, replaced by something sharper. “What is that?”
“Nothing,” you said too fast and already began folding the parchment closed when Aerion rose from the bed and crossed the room in three strides.
“Aerion—”
He plucked the letter from your hands before you could stop him. You reached for it, but he shifted away from your grasp with ease, not even looking at you.
“He sends for you now, does he?”
You reached for the letter again, but Aerion held it just beyond your grasp between two careless fingers.
“Aerion—”
“A morning ride.” His mouth twisted faintly. “How tender.”
“Give it back,” you said.
The parchment crumpled slightly in his hand. “You mean to go?” he asked.
When you did not answer quickly enough, something changed in his face. His gaze moved over you slowly and lingered in a manner that made your skin prickle. You had seen that look before and never liked what followed after it.
“Do you warm my cousin’s bed now, too?” he asked softly.
You recoiled as though he had laid hands upon you. “I am not yours to question.” You spat.
“Mm.” The sound was low in his throat. “You have told me otherwise often enough.” He reminded you with that arrogant smirk you could kiss.
You snatched the letter from his hand then. “Perhaps we both say things we do not mean.”
For a moment, he did not move. This hand fell away slowly to his side, and he stepped closer until you had to tilt your head back to keep his gaze.
His mouth curved again, though there was little mirth in it now. A short laugh escaped him, and his tongue pressed briefly against his teeth before he spoke.
“Strange,” he said. “You sounded quite certain before.”
He brushed past you then, and his shoulder struck yours hard enough to stagger you half a step. The door slammed shut behind him with enough force to rattle the candles.
-
The stables smelled of hay and leather with another scent beneath it all that no lady should name aloud.
Your riding boots sank lightly into the packed dirt as you stepped inside and watched stableboys hurry past with saddles and feed.
You tried to not think of Aerion or the look in his eyes, nor the cruel shape of his mouth around his words. You do not care what he thinks, you told yourself. But you knew it was a lie.
You found Valarr beside an open stall, with a stable hand nearby. He had bent his head whilst the man spoke, one gloved hand resting easily against the horse’s neck. He looked less arranged with his sleeves pushed back untidily past his forearms and riding leathers darkened with wear.
His attention had been wholly upon the animal until he noticed you. Then he smiled.
“My lady,” he said as he came toward you. “I am glad you could make it.”
“I thank you for the invitation.” Your fingers busied themselves with the leather of your gloves.
Valarr noticed, and his eyes lingered on your hands a moment before lifting once more to your face. “Come, I would have you meet him.”
Valarr led you to the stall, his hand came to rest against the wood as the horse turned its head toward him. It was a fine animal—dark as soot.
“He’s a good mount,” Valarr said, quieter now.
You stepped nearer, careful in your movements, your gaze moving over the horse slowly. “What is his name?”
Valarr did not answer at once.
His mouth tightened faintly. “You will laugh,” he warned.
“I will not.”
After a moment he relented. “Balerion.
One brow lifted before you could stop it. “Like the Black Dread?”
Valarr gave you a look at once. “You said you would not laugh.”
“I have not laughed.” You rebutted.
There was a faint color in his cheeks now. “I was one and ten when I named him,” he said quickly, as if eager to defend himself. “At the time, I had wanted a dragon. A great one.”
You smiled at that. “It is a good name.”
Valarr gave a quiet motion to one of the stable boys, who hurried forward at once to ready Balerion for the ride.
“You should ride with me,” Valarr said as he took the reins into his hands. “It will be simpler that way.”
You looked at the horse, then back to him. “Are you certain?”
He nodded, and in one smooth motion, he mounted and settled into the saddle with the ease of long practice. He turned then, looking down at you and held out his hand.
Your fingers slipped into his. His grip closed firm around your hand as he drew you upward. For one brief and mortifying instant, your footing slipped against the stirrup, and your breath caught—Then you were there. Seated in front of him.
The reins fell to either side of you. Valarr's arms came forward to take them, caging you in, closer than you had expected. His chest was at your back, the warmth of him sudden and unavoidable, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing
The horse shifted beneath you, and on instinct, you drew back slightly, only to meet him instead.
“It is alright,” he said, his voice low, just behind your ear. You swallowed, and your hands settled at the front of the saddle.
The noise of the stables fell behind you, and soon stone gave way to earth. The walls of the keep dropped behind you, and cool morning air moved through the trees. The scent of fresh grass and less crowded air hit you at once. You welcomed it.
Valarr said little. His hands remained light upon the reins as Balerion moved at an easy pace beneath you, the horse knowing the path well enough without much urging. The wood thickened gradually as you rode farther from the keep, tall elms and dark pines gathered close on either side of the narrow trail, and sunlight broke through the branches.
You found yourself enjoying this more than you had thought. It was like that for a while until Valarr slowed by a stream. He dismounted first, then turned to you. His hands found your waist as he helped you down. You felt them linger there a moment longer than needed once your boots touched the ground.
Then he stepped back. The horse dipped its head to drink, the water ran soft over stone, the sound of it against the morning quiet.
You turned toward the horse quickly, grateful for somewhere else to place your attention. Your gloved hand settled along the dark line of Balerion’s neck, smoothing gently over the sleek coat as he drank.
“There is… something,” Valarr said behind you.
You glanced back over your shoulder. He had not moved far from where he stood near the stream. One hand had gone to his belt only to fall away again a moment later. There was an uncertainty to him now.
“I had wished to ask you something.” You watched him draw a slow breath. “I thought it might be easier in private.”
Then, as if just now hearing himself, he froze. “Though that sounds…” A flush rose visibly on his cheeks. “Not as I intended.”
You lifted one brow. “Are you here to murder me, my prince?”
His head snapped toward you, his eyes widening. “What? No.”
The answer came so quickly that you nearly laughed. “I jest.”
For a heartbeat, he only stared at you. Then a breath escaped him, and he appeared to ease a bit. He looked down briefly, shaking his head once as though embarrassed by himself. “I do not speak well around you,” he admitted.
“Around me?” you asked.
His eyes lifted again. “I find myself… faltering.” A faint huff of breath followed. “And perhaps nervous.”
That more than anything softened you. The prince and heir after the Hand, nervous before you like some green boy.
“If anything,” you said lightly, “I should be the one nervous.”
Valarr’s brows drew together slightly.
You toyed idly with a strand of Balerion’s dark mane, the corner of your mouth curved. “You may yet murder me.”
This time, the laugh came freely from him, and he stepped closer. Your hand stilled against Balerion’s neck. You turned your head slightly toward Valarr, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The sound of the stream filled the silence between you. Then your gaze drifted past him and towards the sky.
What little sky could be seen through the trees had darkened whilst you were not looking. The wind stirred faintly through the branches overhead.
“I think it may rain,” you said.
Valarr glanced upward. “It will not—”
Thunder cracked across the sky as if on cue. The first drops struck the leaves above, then the rain came. Light at first, then heavy.
Valarr moved. He caught Balerion by the reins and pulled the horse from the stream; his other hand found your waist. Before you could properly gather your skirts, he had lifted you back into the saddle, and you scarcely had time to settle before he mounted behind you.
The rain came harder then, and drops hit your face. The rain had soaked through your sleeves and hair within moments. You felt a heavy weight settle on your shoulders before you realized it was his cloak. You pulled the dark wool over your head against the rain.
Trees blurred past on either side as the horse thundered through the wood. Water ran from your brow to your neck in streams, and your skirts clung, damp and heavy, to your legs.
You should have been miserable in this moment, but instead, you heard your own laughter escape you. You clapped a hand over your mouth far too late to stop it. And for the first time in longer than you cared to admit, your world did not feel so terribly small.
Behind you, Valarr laughed too, quieter than you had, but you could feel the vibration in his chest against your back.
The gates of the keep rose ahead through the rain, and by the time you rode through them, the storm had worsened. Rain came down in sheets across the yard and turned packed earth to mud.
Balerion slowed at last, and a stable boy came running through the downpour. Valarr was off the horse before it had fully stopped moving. He turned immediately toward you, reaching upward as rain streamed from his hair and brow.
His hands closed firmly at your waist as he lifted you down, and your boots sank slightly into the mud. The cloak clung damp and heavy about your shoulders, dragged low enough over your head that you had to blink rainwater from your eyes to see him clearly.
“We should get inside,” Valarr said.
Rain hammered against the yard around you, though you did not move. “Wait.”
He turned back. His hair fell loosely, and it clung to his temple. He had to squint against the rain. “What is it?”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the soaked folds of his cloak. “What did you mean to ask me?”
For a moment, he only looked at you through the rain.
Then he shook his head once. “Another time,” he said. “I had thought…” His mouth tightened faintly. “I had thought it might be better said than this.”
You stepped toward him before you had fully decided to do so and grabbed his hand. Cold and wet, your fingers closed around his.
“Say it now,” you said.
His gaze dropped, not to your hand, but to you. Perhaps to the way the rain had undone you. You released his hand at once, sudden heat bloomed in your chest.
Then he stepped closer. One hand rose carefully to your brow, his palm turned just so to shield your eyes from the rain. The other gathered the cloak more tightly about your shoulders, drawing it close and in doing so drawing you close as well.
The rain ran down his arm and gathered at his wrist. It fell in drops from his fingers where they hovered at your brow.
“I would have your leave,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the storm. “To court you.”
Your breath caught somewhere between one heartbeat and the next. “Court me?” you repeated as though you did not hear him the first time.
“I have the king’s blessing,” he went on. “I could write to your father. Ask it done as it ought to be.” As it ought to be. You think.
You had suspected he favored you. Gods, any woman with eyes might have seen it plain enough in the way he sought your company and in the way he looked at you. But this was no longer a passing fancy. It was earnest.
The world seemed suddenly unsteady beneath your feet, though you had not moved at all. Perhaps he saw some trace of it on your face because his mouth tightened.
“Seven hells,” he muttered beneath his breath. Rain dripped from his lashes as he gave a short, nervous laugh. “I have made a poor showing of this.”
“No—”
“I had thought…” He shook his head once. “No matter what I had thought.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully then. Your silence had wounded him somehow, though you had not meant it. It was only that your throat had gone tight, and no words would come.
His hand remained against your brow all the while. “You are beautiful,” he said quietly. “Any man can see that.”
You felt heat bloom across your cheeks and hated yourself a little for it, like some foolish maid hearing sweet words for the first time.
“I have found I enjoy your company,” he went on, his voice softer now.
“Valarr—”
“I must finish now,” he said quickly, “Before I lose what little courage I’ve managed to find.” A breath of nervous laughter escaped him.
“You are kind,” he said. “And clever, and you make me laugh.”
His eyes held yours so steadily then that you forgot the rain entirely.
a/n: heavily procrastinated on this one for some reason. special thank you to @moonbeamoclock and @riverphoenixgirlfriend for inspo and support!! kissing yall
first part hcs
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♥︎ at this point, it is impossible to ignore how 'interested' the prince is in one of the servants, how focused he is on one special figure who is pouring wine for his dear father, how ridiculously bratty he gets when he hasn't touched or tasted her long enough
♥︎ it seems your secret rendezvous makes him even greedier if that's even possible. aerion is insatiable, moved by the instincts and wishes of his spoiled heart, completely discarding logic or any common sense
♥︎ during the feast, he spills his drink on purpose when you are nearby with an ‘oops’ that is far from innocent, making you not only clean up the mess, kneeling at his feet, but also help him change from his, now stained in wine, clothes
♥︎ aerion is delighted by your fury, knowing how riled up you get when you are mad at him. it’s literally his personal fetish to see you being angry with him, while still obeying his every humiliating order in public, playing the role of the hardworking servant
♥︎ if you dare ignore him for more than five minutes, he will make sure to loudly curse you out in front of the people in the hall, because of something you did wrong. aerion will complain the dish is too cold, the wine tastes weird, the berries are not sweet enough, the meat is too dry, and mouth you off thoroughly, barely containing his jealos venom, daring you to defy him back
♥︎ he will never apologise afterwards, blaming you in forcing him to act this way because of your drifting gaze. aerion will sound so authoritative and convincing that you end up apologising yourself for not giving the prince enough attention in the first place
♥︎ as an unspoken rule, you sleep in his chambers, in his bed every night and other servants are forbidden to comment if they enter on you both tangled in bedsheets, him nuzzling your neck. aerion will never admit it’s because he sleeps better when you are in his arms, claiming it’s just “convenient” to have easy access to you
♥︎ you are tired and sleepy all day long because he is simply devouring you every night, expressing all the 'longing' he feels throughout the previous day when he can't see you. the prince demands 3 rounds minimum
♥︎ it seems his jealousy has gotten worse, if it's even possible, you may think he relaxes slightly after having you in his bed every night, but no, the greedy bastard glares at every suspicious figure who dares to distract your attention from him. throws tantrums at the smallest, stupidest of things and still refuses to acknowledge his ‘attachment’ to you explaining his jealousy as a “matter of royal pride, nothing more”
♥︎ aerion absolutely hates hates hates when you show affection, kindness or simply a smile to someone else. in his eyes, it is only natural and fair for you to keep all your charming features exclusively for him. aerion must be your everything. his blood boils because of the most innocent things, like you petting stray dogs, being kind to a child, complimenting some wench. he gets so ridiculously jealous and looks clinically insane. he is just so angry he feels powerless. and aerion truly hates being powerless
♥︎ aerion will grab you by the forearm in front of the whole courtyard, inventing a silly excuse for his anger, grabbing you by the chin, and mouthing you off for being "too fucking clumsy and almost bumping into him." no need to say such events always end up in angry, desperate, animalistic sex with you bent over the nearest surface and him mercilessly pounding you from behind, fucking all his fears and insecurities away
♥︎ occasionally, late at night, aerion stops being a dick and becomes the most charming creature you have ever seen, purring praises and compliments in your ear, while he plants kisses to your cheeks. in such moments he is the most vulnerable and precious thing in the world, you barely recognise your ruthless prince. all evil that is in him seems to be gone for now and suddenly he is just a man, laying his head on your thighs, nuzzling into your stomach and murmuring how much he loves having you beside him
♥︎ but most of the time he is literally the worst. aerion’s idea of showing affection is making you react and he doesn’t really care in which way it is expressing. it could be him making inappropriate comments out loud, or him humiliating you in front of other servants, or him harshly reminding you your place is beneath him, or him making you jealous by openly pointing out how extremely good looking are other women
♥︎ in aerion’s world, as long as your head and your heart is filled with stirring and swarming thoughts about him, no matter if it’s in hatred, or disgust, or sadness, or lust. he is secure, he is a winner, he will not be abandoned. as long as you scream at him back and cuss him the way no prince should be ever treated, as long as you slap his hand away from your body in irritation, as long as you grip the collar of his shirt and leave hickeys on his neck, as long as you silently cry at his cruel words, aerion is calm
Aerion Targaryen X Reader
Summary: In which you come back
TW: OOC AERION, Loser! Aerion, he's so incredibly down bad he needs a warning
The carriage had barely rolled to a stop in the courtyard of Summerhall before Aerion was at the window.
He had not meant to be at the window. He had made a solemn vow to himself, sworn on the blood of Old Valyria and the bones of Balerion the Black Dread and every other suitably dramatic thing he could think of, that he would not be waiting for you. He would be in the great hall. He would be seated. He would be reading something—a history, perhaps, or dragonlore—and when you entered, he would look up with calm, measured surprise and say something devastatingly casual. Ah. You've returned. I hadn't noticed you were gone.
He had practiced the line. He had practiced it in the mirror. He had practiced it on Aemon, who had stared at him with the blank, unimpressed expression of a child who had seen too much and said, "You're going to cry the moment you see her."
Aerion had been deeply offended. He did not cry. He was a dragon. Dragons did not cry. They smoldered. They burned with quiet, dignified intensity. They did not weep.
And yet, when the outrider had appeared on the hill that morning, when the word had spread through the castle like wildfire—the princess returns, the princess is coming home—Aerion had felt something crack open in his chest, something hot and desperate and utterly undignified. He had abandoned his carefully planned position in the great hall. He had abandoned the book he was pretending to read. He had abandoned all pretense of nonchalance and had pressed himself against the window of your shared chambers, palms flat against the glass, breath fogging the pane as he watched the distant speck of your carriage grow larger and larger against the green of the Reach.
Three weeks. You had been gone three weeks. Three weeks and two days, if one was being precise, and Aerion was always precise when it came to you. Three weeks and two days of emptiness. Of cold sheets and cold meals and cold everything. Three weeks and two days of his family looking at him with varying degrees of pity and exasperation. Three weeks and two days of writing you letters—gods, so many letters—each one more desperate than the last, each one sent with trembling hands and a prayer to whatever gods might be listening that you would read them and understand. That you would read them and come home.
And you had written back. Twice. Do not starve. I will be back when I am back. And then, three days later, after his seventh letter had gone out, a second note: Stop sending ravens. You're going to exhaust the poor birds. I'm coming home. Do not starve before I get there.
He had kept both notes under his pillow. He had read them so many times the parchment was starting to wear thin at the creases.
Now you were here. The carriage was in the courtyard. The door was opening. A footman was extending a hand—
Aerion was moving before he consciously decided to move. Down the corridor. Down the stairs. Through the great hall, past servants who pressed themselves against walls to avoid being trampled, past Aemon who called something after him that he did not hear, past his father who was also in the courtyard, apparently, because Maekar Targaryen had abandoned his dignity approximately two letters ago and was now standing by the main doors with an expression of profound relief that he was trying very hard to conceal.
Aerion burst through the doors.
The sunlight hit him like a physical force. He squinted, blinked, and there you were.
You were climbing out of the carriage with the particular carelessness of someone who had been traveling for days and no longer cared about grace. Your traveling gown was rumpled. Your hair was escaping its pins in a dozen directions. There was a smudge of dust on your cheek and a distinctly unimpressed set to your jaw as you surveyed the courtyard, and you were the most beautiful thing Aerion had ever seen. You were more beautiful than the sunrise over starfall. You were more beautiful than the flames of wildfire. You were more beautiful than every poem he had written in your absence, which was saying something, because he had written some truly excellent poems. And sent them. All of them.
He opened his mouth. His carefully prepared line—Ah. You've returned. I hadn't noticed you were gone—rose to his lips.
What came out instead was a sound that might generously be described as a strangled wheeze.
Your head turned. Your eyes found him. For a moment, just a moment, something flickered in your expression and Aerion felt his knees go weak.
Then you raised an eyebrow. "You look terrible," you said.
Aerion's mouth opened and closed. He was aware, suddenly, of his appearance. He had not shaved in four days. His hair, usually immaculate, was a silver disaster that he had been running his hands through obsessively. He was wearing a doublet that did not quite match his breeches because he had dressed himself without servants, unable to bear anyone in his chambers while he was in such a state. The shawl—your shawl, the one you had left draped over the chair, the one that still smelled like you—was still wrapped around his shoulders. He had forgotten he was wearing it. He had forgotten it was not actually his. He had been wearing it for three weeks.
He was a mess. He was a complete and utter mess, and you were standing there looking at him with that eyebrow raised and that smirk playing at your lips, and he loved you so much he thought he might die.
"I—" He swallowed. Straightened his shoulders. Attempted to gather the shreds of his dignity. "You are mistaken. I am perfectly well. I have been perfectly well in your absence. I barely noticed you were gone."
Your smirk widened. "Is that my shawl?"
Aerion looked down. The shawl—soft wool, dyed a deep Targaryen crimson, embroidered with tiny black dragons along the hem—was indeed wrapped around his shoulders like a sad, silver-haired grandmother.
"No," he said.
"It is."
"It is not."
"Aerion."
"It is—" He grasped for an explanation, any explanation. "It is a new fashion. All the princes in the Seven Kingdoms are wearing their wives' garments. It is a statement. It signifies—" He waved a hand vaguely. "—devotion. Fealty. The eternal bond of—"
"You've been sleeping with it, haven't you."
"I have not—" He stopped. Your eyes were sparkling. You were enjoying this. You were standing in the courtyard of your home, rumpled and dusty and perfect, watching him flounder, and you were enjoying every second of it.
Something in his chest loosened.
"Yes," he admitted, and his voice came out smaller than he intended. "I have."
Your expression shifted. The smirk softened into something fonder, something that made his heart stutter in his chest. You crossed the courtyard toward him, your boots clicking against the stone, and stopped just in front of him. Close enough to touch. Close enough that he could smell you, that floral, sharp, you scent that he had been chasing in empty pillows for three weeks.
You reached up and touched his jaw. Your fingers were cool against his stubble rough skin.
"You didn't shave," you observed.
"I was—" He swallowed. "I was occupied."
"Occupied with what?"
With missing you. With writing you letters. With sending you letters. With waiting for ravens to return. With reading your two-sentence replies a hundred times each. With standing in the rain because the sky was crying and I did not know how to stop. With talking to your rose bush. With forgetting how to breathe.
"Reading," he said. "I was reading. Histories. Important—important texts. I have been very productive in your absence. I have barely thought of you at all."
Your thumb traced the line of his jaw. "Barely at all."
"Perhaps—" His voice cracked. "Perhaps once or twice. In passing. When I had a moment to spare. Which was rare. I am very busy. I am a prince. I have—I have responsibilities."
"Mm." You were smiling now, properly smiling, that sharp, wicked smile that meant you knew exactly what you were doing to him. "And the shawl?"
"I was cold."
"It's summer."
"Summerhall is drafty."
"Summerhall is not drafty."
"It is when you are not here," he said, and the words came out before he could stop them, raw and honest and utterly without pretense. "It is cold. All the time. The fires do not help. Nothing helps. I have been—" He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "I have been cold for three weeks."
Your hand stilled against his jaw. For a long moment, you simply looked at him—looked at him properly, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the way his hands were trembling slightly at his sides. Your expression flickered through something complicated. Fondness. Exasperation. Something that might have been guilt, though you would never admit to guilt.
Then you sighed. It was the sigh of someone who had long since accepted that they had married a madman and were, against all reason, perfectly content with that decision.
"You are ridiculous," you said.
"I am devoted."
"You are a fool."
"Your fool."
"My fool," you agreed, and then you grabbed the front of his doublet and kissed him.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not soft or sweet or any of the things that poets wrote about. It was sharp and demanding and it tasted faintly of dust and travel and the honeyed figs you had been eating in the carriage, and it was the best thing Aerion had ever experienced. Better than flying. Better than fire. Better than every poem he had ever written and sent and agonized over.
He made a sound against your mouth, something embarrassingly close to a whimper, and his hands came up to grip your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against him as though he could fuse you together and never be separated again. The shawl slipped from his shoulders. He did not notice. He did not care. You were here. You were warm and solid and real, and you were kissing him, and nothing else in the entire world mattered.
When you finally pulled back, your lips were red and your eyes were bright and you were looking at him with that expression, the one that said I see you, I have you, you are mine.
"Three weeks," you said, and your voice was rough. "You couldn't survive three weeks without me."
"I could not survive three days." He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in. "I could not survive three hours. I am nothing without you. I am less than nothing. I am—"
"I know." You kissed him again, quick and soft. "I know. I got your letters."
Aerion went very still. "You—my letters. You got them. All of them."
"All seven." Your smirk was back, sharper than ever. "Including the one with the forty-line poem about my eyes. And the one with the drawing. And the one where you described my laugh as 'a silver bell that shatters the darkness.'"
The world tilted slightly. He had sent those. He had sent those. In the grip of his madness, in the depths of his longing, he had actually sealed them with wax and handed them to the maester and watched ravens carry them away toward King's Landing. Toward you.
"The drawing was—" His voice came out strangled. "The dragon was meant to be breathing a heart-shaped flame. It was symbolic. It represented—"
"It looked like a deformed lizard."
"It was a dragon."
"It had three legs, Aerion. I counted."
He opened his mouth to defend his artistic vision, but you were laughing now, that sharp, bright, shatter-the-darkness laugh that he had written forty lines about, and the sound of it made everything else fall away. You were laughing. You were here.
"You wrote to me every three days," you said, and your voice was softer now. "Even when I only sent two lines back. Even when I told you to stop exhausting the ravens. You kept writing."
"I could not stop." His hands were still on your waist. He could not let go. He would never let go again. "I tried. I sat at your desk and I told myself I would not write. I would be strong. I would give you space. And then I would find something—a ribbon, a book you had left open, the dent in your pillow—and I would be at the desk again, writing, because it was the only way I could—" His voice cracked. "It was the only way I could feel close to you."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you reached into the folds of your traveling gown and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, worn and creased from being opened and closed many times.
"I kept them," you said quietly. "All of them. Under my pillow. Even the one with the terrible drawing."
Aerion's heart stopped. "You—"
"My mother asked why I was smiling at breakfast. I told her it was the figs." Your lips curved. "It was not the figs."
He kissed you then. He could not help it. He kissed you with three weeks of loneliness, with seven letters worth of longing, with every poem and every unsent word and every moment he had spent staring at the horizon waiting for you to come back. And you kissed him back, just as fierce, just as desperate, your fingers curling into his disastrous silver hair and holding on.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, Aerion became aware of several things at once.
First: his father was still standing by the main doors, and he was not alone. Daeron had emerged from whatever corner he had been hiding in. Aemon was there too, small and serious, watching with the particular resignation of a child who had seen far too much. Even Aegon had wandered out, blinking in the sunlight like a man who had just woken up, which he probably had.
Second: the entire courtyard had gone silent. Servants, guards, stable hands, all of them were staring at their prince and princess with varying expressions of embarrassment, amusement, and in the case of Maekar Targaryen, profound, bone-deep relief.
Third: Aerion did not care. Not even a little.
"My prince," one of the guards ventured, his voice carefully neutral. "Shall we see to the princess's luggage?"
Aerion did not look away from you. "Yes. Fine. Do that. Take everything to our chambers. Actually—" He paused, considering. "Leave the luggage. Take everything else. Take the furniture. Take the tapestries. I do not care. I need nothing but my wife."
"Aerion," you said.
"The bed," he continued, warming to his theme. "Take the bed. We do not need it. I will hold her in my arms for the rest of eternity. I will become her bed. I will—"
"Aerion."
"Yes, my love?"
"We are keeping the bed."
He considered this. "The bed stays. Everything else—discretionary. I am feeling generous. I am feeling magnanimous. My wife has returned to me and I am willing to share her with the furniture, but only barely."
You sighed, but you were smiling. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Being dramatic."
"I am expressing my joy." He pulled you closer, tucking you against his side as though you might vanish if he let go. "This is restrained joy. You should see me when I am truly happy. There is usually fire involved."
"There will be no fire," came Maekar's voice from across the courtyard, flat and tired and deeply parental. "There has been enough fire in this family. No more fire."
Aerion ignored him. He was too busy looking at you. The way the sunlight caught your hair. The way your eyes were still bright with laughter. The way you fit against his side like you had been made to be there, like the Seven themselves had shaped you specifically to fill the empty space beside him.
"I wrote you another poem," he said quietly, as the courtyard slowly returned to life around you. Servants began unloading the carriage. Daeron retreated back toward the library. Aemon lingered for a moment longer, watching his brother with something that might have been affection, before Aegon tugged him away. "On the road, I mean. While you were traveling. I did not send it. There was no point. You would be here before the raven arrived. But I wrote it anyway."
"What is it about?"
"Your return." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "It is very good. I think you will like it."
"Does it compare me to the sun?"
"Among other celestial bodies."
"The moon?"
"Of course."
"The stars?"
"All of them. Every single one. You outshine them all."
You laughed again, and Aerion felt it in his chest, in his bones, in the very core of him. The world had color again. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. Everything was exactly as it should be.
"I love you," he said, and it came out simple and true, without drama or flourish or any of the things he usually wrapped his feelings in. Just the words. Just the truth.
You stopped walking. You turned to face him fully, and for a moment, you simply looked at him, this ridiculous, dramatic, utterly devoted man who had married you and somehow made you believe that love could be like this. Fierce and consuming and absolutely, completely mad. Who had sent you seven letters in three weeks. Who had worn your shawl and talked to your rose bush and stood in the rain because the sky was crying with him. Who loved you so loudly that everyone in a hundred-mile radius knew it.
"I love you too," you said. "Even when you smell like a stable."
"I smell like—"
"Longing. I know." You took his hand and tugged him toward the doors. "Come on, my dragon. Let's get you cleaned up. And then you can read me that poem."
Hope flickered in his chest. "Truly? You want to hear it?"
"I want to hear all of them. Every poem you wrote while I was gone. Every letter you didn't send." You glanced back at him, and your smile was soft and real and his. "I was only gone three weeks, Aerion. You have a lot of poetry to catch me up on."
He had never loved you more than in that moment.
"I wrote fourteen poems," he admitted, as you pulled him through the great hall. "Fifteen, if you count the one about your hands. And there are fragments. Many fragments. Some of them are just your name repeated with different adjectives."
"Of course they are."
"'Beautiful' features heavily. 'Radiant' as well. I am particularly proud of a stanza that compares your eyes to—"
"Tell me upstairs."
"—dragonglass lit from within by an inner fire that—"
"Aerion."
"Yes, my love?"
"Upstairs."
He went. Of course he went. He would follow you anywhere.
Later that evening, after Aerion had bathed and shaved and eaten an actual meal and split your insides in two, he lay in your shared bed with you curled against his side. Your head was on his chest. Your hand was over his heart. You were warm and solid and there, and he was never, ever letting you leave again.
He had read you all fifteen poems. You had laughed at the right parts and gone quiet at the right parts and kissed him at the end of the last one, soft and sweet, and told him he was a madman. He had agreed. Happily.
"I'm not going to King's Landing for at least a year," you murmured against his skin. "My mother asked if I would come back for a tourney in three moons. I told her no."
Aerion's heart, which had been beating steadily for the first time in weeks, stuttered. "You did?"
"I did." You tilted your head up to look at him, your eyes soft in the candlelight. "Apparently my husband cannot survive three weeks without me. I would hate to see what three more would do."
"I would die," Aerion said seriously. "I would simply perish. They would find me in the courtyard, turned to ash, with only your shawl to mark my—"
You kissed him. It was quick and soft and it silenced him completely.
"I know," you said against his lips. "That's why I'm staying."
Aerion pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. Outside, the moon rose over Summerhall. The birds had started singing again. The flowers in the garden were blooming.
And somewhere in the castle, Maekar Targaryen was writing a letter that he would never send, addressed to no one, consisting of exactly two words:
Thank the gods.
---
It started the morning after your return.
You woke, extracted yourself from Aerion's octopus-like grip, and padded toward the privy. You had made it approximately four steps when you heard the rustle of sheets behind you.
You turned.
Aerion was sitting up in bed, silver hair a catastrophic mess, eyes still half-lidded with sleep but fixed on you with the intensity of a man watching his only lifeline drift out to sea.
"Where are you going?"
"The privy."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
"Aerion. No."
"I will accompany you."
"You will not."
"What if you fall?"
"Into the privy? I'm not a toddler."
"What if you realize you've missed me terribly and need me there?"
"I am going to pee."
"And I will be there. For emotional support." He was already standing, already reaching for your shawl—which he had apparently decided was now his shawl—to wrap around his shoulders. "You held my hand through three weeks of despair. The least I can do is hold yours through this."
You stared at him. He stared back, tragic and earnest and utterly insane.
"Fine," you said, because you were still too tired to argue. "But you are not coming in."
Which is how you found yourself, five minutes later, seated on the privy with your husband's hand clutched in yours through the crack in the door. True to his word—and your demand—he had tied a cloth over his eyes. He was sitting on the floor just outside, his back against the doorframe, his fingers interlaced with yours like you were both on the verge of something profound and sacred rather than you simply emptying your bladder.
"I can hear you," he said softly.
"Stop listening."
"I am not listening. I am being present. There is a difference. I am offering my unwavering support during this—"
"Aerion."
"—this intimate moment. This private ritual. This—"
"If you call my pissing a 'private ritual' one more time, I am locking you out of our chambers tonight."
He fell silent.
For approximately three heartbeats.
"I wrote a poem about this," he whispered.
"About what."
"About this. About how even in the smallest moments, I want to be near you. About how absence has made me cherish every breath you take, every step you make, every—"
"You wrote a poem about me pissing?"
"I wrote a poem about us. About how love is not just the grand gestures but the quiet intimacies. The hand held through a door. The presence offered without question. The—"
"Aerion."
"Yes, my love?"
"I am finished."
You cleaned yourself. You stood, adjusted your nightgown, and opened the door fully. Aerion was still on the floor, blindfold still in place, hand still extended toward you like a knight awaiting his lady's favor.
You pulled the cloth from his eyes.
He blinked up at you, violet eyes soft and devoted and completely, utterly mad.
"Welcome back," he said.
You stared at him for a long moment. Then you sighed, pulled him to his feet, and kissed his forehead.
"I love you," you said. "But if you follow me to the privy again, I am divorcing you and moving to Lys."
a/n: thank u, anon, for this lovely request!! might make pt 2 cause the list is lowkey endless
btw guys, lmk if you want to be added to the taglist
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♥︎ aerion is immensely turned on by the idea of him being the one and only important person in your life. he prides himself on being the only one who can fuck you like this, comfort you like this, laugh like this, jealous like this, cry like this, scream like this. he is really into exclusivity
♥︎ if you verbally or physically remind him and everyone that he is special in any way, even of it’s just kissing his cheek in the hall or praising your husband during an innocent conversation, it immediately gets him going, his greed and pride make him all hot and bothered
♥︎ he is possessive to absurdity, so seeing the marks he left on your skin during the day, how hickeys and bite marks he gave you turned purplish, is definitely the type of thing that can distract him from anything he was doing at the moment
♥︎ aerion also loves protecting you, he loves when you rely on him, loves when you trust him. would lowkey order servants or royal guards to insult you in some way, so he could comfort you later. and physically punish the offenders for you
♥︎ loves your tears, your absolutely sobbing wrecked and tired body shuddering, wetting his shoulder as he pets your hair and licks your tears away. you whimper into his neck, blabbering about the rude stable boy, while aerion is gripping your body tightly, murmuring comforting promises in your ear, angling your body in a way that his erection wouldn’t be so obvious
♥︎ there is something about you being completely vulnerable in his arms, clinging to him and seeking his protection that makes him want to fuck you stupid, forcing you to repeat all the good things you are saying about him and groaning into your lips that he will kill anyone who dares to make you cry again
♥︎ one of his favourite things is watching you eat. every dinner ends up with him all worked up, mesmerised by the way your jaw moves and your tongue occasionally licks your lips. the picture of you eating with your hands, juice trailing down your fingers and to your wrist, you humming in approval, enjoying the taste of food, hungrily chewing on a piece, licking up the excess from your hand can make him nut right into his pants
♥︎ aerion also loves feeding you himself, though it’s the type of thing that gets him hard very very fast, so he usually leaves such treat for the end of the dinner. when you are already full, he will feed you additional few berries by hand, eyes sparkling with pure desire at the sight of you taking them into your pretty mouth from his fingers. suck the sweet juice from his fingers and he will audibly moan
♥︎ he gets off on your annoyance and irritation. the man is literally ragebaiting then slutting his way out of the argument final boss. you will be cursing him out and offending him in every possible way and he will just look at you with a sick glint in his eyes because thats just soooo sexy he never wants it to stop
♥︎ you sassing him, mouthing him off in any way just gets him hot and bothered in all the right ways. angry sex is something he practices very often and sometimes even creates conflict on purpose just to fuck apologies into you. he loves fire in his woman, so the louder you are in a fight, the louder he will make you scream his name in the sheets
♥︎ aerion is turned on by the sight of blood, especially your blood, like minor cuts or split lip but especially,he loves your period. he is obsessed with it. he is so in awe of the idea of your body being able to create and continue his dragon bloodline. he also simply enjoys blood. he would track your cycle personally and anticipate the bleeding with unholy hunger. he is definitely the type to eat you out with extra enthusiasm during your moon time
♥︎ you will lay on the bed curled up, murmuring something about your cramps, asking him to sooth your pain and aerion is already palming himself through the breeches because your muffled please and sensitive body just really do it for him
♥︎ he lives off of praise. of approval. of being cherished and admired properly as a dragon should be, so any soft moment turns into fucking eventually. aerion just can’t help it, hearing you talk so sweetly to him, hearing how good he is for you, feeling your hands on his chest, in his hir, your perfect lips on his cheeks. all these just turn his brain to jelly
♥︎ aerion generally loves your body. it is something more than just aesthetic attraction, more of a primal pull. so basically any sight of open skin, tightness in clothes, specific angles, see through materials ignite in him an animalistic urge to breed you
♥︎ despite being a big fun of your tears and your fury, he also loves your laugh. your playful side and shameless giggles, especially when you are tipsy on wine, make him hard embarrassingly fast. you plopping down on his lap, whispering blasphemies in his ear while your hands are playing with the collar of his shirt is the type of thing that makes him absolutely lose his mind
♥︎ generally, will pull you in a secluded corner and hike up your skirts, shoving his tongue down your throat while moaning like a bitch in heat just because you looked at him a certain way
♥︎ he literally has fucked you everywhere, at the stables, garden, grand hall, dungeons, forest, tourney tent, his brother’s chambers just because he is so horny all the time it feels like he will literally die if he doesn’t enter you right fucking now. and you are more than happy to oblige
