dumblond

"No time to think of consequences" - mgmt writer ... maybe?

[dumblond4l]

Serving

Aerion Targaryen x servant!reader

warnings: weird Aerion (when is he not) / magic stuff? / nth else tbh

Part 2!!!

a/n: so yeah, wrote another one cuz why not. I don't think I'm moving forward with this cuz, ultimately, I don't want to... OH WELL!!! Enjoy!

Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen.

The moment stretches a fraction too long. You feel your stomach sink. His eyes have been following your figure for who knows how long.

You lower your gaze immediately, as if the stone floor suddenly demands your utmost attention. Looking at a prince, even by accident, is not something a servant should risk for longer than a heartbeat. Let alone the prince being the second son of Prince Maekar. If it were Prince Valaar, you wouldn't have a sense of impending doom upon you. Valaar is a kind soul, strong, good-hearted, and kind to servants. His cousin, however, is the opposite: cruel with a cold heart, ironic considering he claims to be a dragon with a heart of fire. 

Head down.

Balance.

Pour.

Repeat. 

You move again, stepping away from the royal table and back into the current of servants weaving through the hall. Another goblet empties. Another noble waves you over impatiently. Your hands move automatically, filling cups, collecting plates, slipping past chairs without a sound.

But you can still feel it—the heat against your back, remaining and relentless. And somewhere above the hall, Prince Aerion Targaryen lifts his goblet slowly, his eyes never quit leaving the servant who dared to meet them.  

You continue through the hall again, slipping between chairs and cloaks as the feast grows rowdier. Wine flows faster now.

Another goblet. Another table. Another lord snapping his fingers for more drink. And once again, the rhythm returns comfortably. 

You convince yourself that the moment has passed. Princes do not concern themselves with looking at servants. Whatever overwhelming feeling that crawled along your spine must have been your imagination. Nothing more than the nerves you had from the staggering crowd. 

Yet when you pass the royal table again, that same chill crawls across the back of your neck. You do not look up, but you don’t have to. You feel it. 

From his place among the royal family, Aerion watches the hall with a quiet, bored expression. He lounges back in an informal posture. He fiddles with his rings adorning his long, slender fingers, with his legs crossed. One elbow rests against the arm of his chair while the conversations around him drift in and out of his attention. Through it all, his gaze never leaves the same servant moving between tables. 

You have a presence that emanates from you. You aren’t remarkable, far from it. You’re still a servant, and servants lack the components meant to make someone remarkable. But, as the others rush, stumble, and spill wine on sleeves they cannot afford to stain, you move through the chaos like a shadow–silent, careful, never once lifting your eyes higher than what's deemed appropriate. You’re invisible.

Aerion tilts his head slightly, studying the pattern of your movements as though it were a puzzle. Then, almost absentmindedly, he lets his goblet, brimming with wine, rest on the edge of the table. Just close enough that the next careless motion could send it to the floor.

Then, with the next rustle of movement at the royal table, Aerion executes his objective flawlessly. With a subtle movement beneath the table, he kicks the leg nearest to him, sending his goblet of wine tumbling to the floor at his side. It strikes the stone with a sharp metallic clatter and rings out as it spins, circling and rattling against the floor for what feels like far too long. The noise echoes strangely in your head, louder than it should be, until it feels as though it drowns out everything else in the hall.

An ordinary goblet falling should not sound like this.

The ringing grows in your ears, twisting into something deeper—something that roars and scrapes through your senses until all you can feel is a burning pressure and the low, guttural echo of something almost like a howl. Yet the hall continues as if nothing has happened. No one falls silent. No heads turn.

You glance around quickly, searching for some sign that others hear it too. But the nobles keep laughing, servants continue moving between tables, and not a single person seems to notice the fallen goblet beside Aerion Targaryen.

You stand halfway across the room, suddenly aware that you might be the only one who heard it. The noise in your head becomes unbearable. Your vision blurs at the edges as the ringing fractures your thoughts. Instinct pulls you forward. Step by step, you move toward the prince and the goblet lying beside his chair. With every step closer, the howling in your head weakens, fading little by little.

You slip between chairs and heavy cloaks with practiced ease, moving as you always do—quiet, precise, invisible—even while the world spins faintly around you and you can barely hear the sound of your own breathing. Arriving at the royal table, at the prince, you are careful not to draw attention to your inebriated state and clasp the cloth from your belt, wiping the stone in smooth, efficient strokes. The distressing growls coming from within your head are silent now, docile next to the Brightflame next to them, prepared for anything. 

You keep your head lowered. You do not look up. Yet the awareness of his presence comes down on you all the same. The chair above you shifts slightly, and the leather creaks. And though the feast continues around you, you feel his same burning gaze settle over you again. 

Aerion watches you quietly, assessing you differently now that you are up close. Your hair, tied loosely back, leaves a few strands to frame your face. They brush against your cheeks that are tinted with a red coloring, but it’s not from you blushing, Aerion observes. You’re sweating, and with every circular motion of your arm cleaning his spilt wine, you sway uneasily. Your movements are controlled and careful, but that does not hide the fact that you felt his fire and are suffering the repercussions.

“You heard it from across the hall.” A statement, not a question. The recognition of something even you cannot comprehend. His voice is daunting—soft and smooth in the way a steel knife is. Thin, almost placid in appearance, yet made with the sole intent to cut cleanly when the moment comes.

You keep your eyes lowered, refusing the bait to continue the conversation. Instead, you finish wiping the stone and fasten the dirtied rag back onto your belt. Taking the fallen goblet in hand, you move to leave, intending to fetch the prince another that's cleaner and fuller. But before you can step away, the knife returns.

“Careful,” Aerion Targaryen murmurs. Silence stretches between you. You stand with your head bowed while he watches, tapping the table idly with one finger. Then he speaks again.

“Next time the dragon calls,” he says softly, “do not come running so eagerly.”

A faint pause.

“It makes the creature think you wish to be burned.”

[dumblond4l]

Serving

Aerion Targaryen x servant!reader

warnings: none yet

just a little headcannon, don't even know if I'll continue ... we'll see!!

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The throne room is alive with noise, light, and movement. The room is lit by hundreds of flickering torches and candles, reflecting off noble men’s and women’s polished goblets, golden plates, and their bright silk gowns. They sit at long wooden tables stretching across the great hall, overflowing with roasted meats, fresh bread, fruit, and flowing wine.

The air is loud and lively, filled with drunken laughter, music, and murmured conversations between high-ranking families. Musicians play lutes and drums, creating a lively beat that entices the company to dance more. Your view consists of polished leather boots and the very bottom hems of velvet embroidered coats.

Head down. Balance. Pour. Repeat.

Among the hall filled with nobles and royalty, you quickly maneuver yourself at a pace and tempo you have never reached before. You keep your head lowered, carrying a tray of goblets that weighs at least as much as a hound, while still pouring wine and ale with a grace that few servants manage.

You weave between tables like a shadow, careful not to interrupt the laughter or the music, but with enough confidence that it looks like you know exactly what you are doing. A noble lifts his goblet without even sparing a glance at you, beckoning you over with a whistle. You step forward to refill it, quickly and smoothly. The man is fat, adorning a simple white undertunic and a green coat that carries a sigil of a white watchtower.

A Hightower. Typical. You thought. Perhaps next time you might linger a moment longer, just long enough that the lord would have to show the decency to actually speak to you. But who were you kidding? This was your position. The way it was meant to be. The way you were born to be – invisible and irrelevant. 

Yet, somewhere above the crowded room, lingering higher than these lords and ladies – in both a literal and metaphorical sense – eyes follow your movements. Haunting, strikingly intense eyes that carry both blood and fire within them. Eyes that have been trained to focus, corner, and strike since childhood. 

You’re aware that a pair of eyes follow you, though in the intense and hurried pace of serving the nobles, you cannot locate them. Goblets empty, plates shift, and you move from table to table before you can spare more than a second to look.

Still, the feeling lingers.

On a whim, you glance toward the royal table placed directly before the Iron Throne.

King Daeron II Targaryen sits at the center, composed and dignified even in the middle of the feast. To his left sits his wife, Myriah Martell, her expression calm as she listens to the noise around her.

On the king’s right, his eldest son and Hand of the King, Baelor Breakspear, leans slightly toward his wife, Jena Dondarrion, speaking quietly to her over the music.

Your gaze drifts along the table, searching for the source of that strange feeling crawling along your spine.

Maekar Targaryen sits beside his mother, surrounded by his children, his posture rigid even during the celebration.

You keep searching.

And then–

It finds you.

The burn is sudden and sharp. Not pain, not truly. Something deeper. A strange recognition that freezes you in place for half a heartbeat.

Eyes that do not look away.

Eyes that do not soften.

Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen.