𐔌 oh comely ⋆ ꩜ ⊹

mimi ⊹ 24 ⊹ just wanna read and write about akotsk! :) reqs open

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mimi ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ 24 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ i like to read and write!!

MDNI, most/some of my content will probably be on the stranger/taboo/suggestive side so i think it's best to err on the side of caution. thank you!

i love reader inserts but i also love other pairings! i just really am obssessed with akotsk ദ്ദി˶>ω<)✧

fandoms: akotsk, asoiaf

REQUESTS ARE OPEN! •͈ ₃ •͈꧞

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dunkaerion cars au!!! cocky hotshot F1 racer aerion who learns to slow down in a small dusty town bc of tow driver dunk!!! SEND TWEET

[russianblush]

no ai usage over here. you’re gonna get my shitty authentic writing whether you like it or not

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little worm eating at my brain is thinking abt the akotsk characters trying to "preserve" your maidenhood by doing various almost penetrative acts but it technically doesnt count

[gutpunchlove]

daeron targaryen + little details

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── .✦ inseperable

pairing: aerion targaryen x twin fem reader

summary: you and aerion have always been uncomfortably close—even as you grew into opposites, him cruel where you were gentle, him loathed where you were beloved. when your father arranges your marriage to another man, aerion is furious. he's always known your destiny, your future. if no one else can see it yet, he'll just have to make sure they do.

WARNINGS/content: MDNI!! unprotected p in v, targcest (mc is aerion's twin), breeding kink, DUBCON, coercion, surprise penetration, sadism, dacryphilia, bloodplay(?), misogyny? sorta?, manipulation, overstimulation, loss of virginity, somewhat naive reader, you and aerion have delusions lol, quick mention of dyana's death

words: 5.1k

a/n: i was just toying with the idea of aerion having a twin and i thought if he did have one, she would be included in his grand ideas, convinced they were both dragons and destined and this was a result of that. it was way more intense than i thought it was going to be. sorry, i hope you enjoy reading anyway!

When you and Aerion were born, there was a feast for three days.

Day in and day out, wine was poured and songs were sung. Summerhall celebrated two healthy babies: a girl and a boy. Even then, people noted that you had taken after your mother and your brother was the same with your father. They held you both with smiles on their faces, so proud of you already and you had barely taken your first breath.

You were both delightful as children, obedient on most days and just the right amount of mischievous for your parents to be fond. When you were younger, the halls were filled raucous laughter while you chased each other around. Much to the annoyance of your septas, tutors, and trainers, you and Aerion were inseparable. You did everything that you could possibly do together, holding each others hands all the way. This would make your lessons—which had diverged as you had gotten older—more difficult to enforce. It took many explanations with your parents to begrudgingly accept the fact that you couldn't be by each other's side all the time, though it's not as if you ever stopped trying.

Your father wouldn't admit it but it was clear to everyone his favor rested between you both; you, with your mother's likeness, and Aerion, who had the look and ferocity in him that reminded him so much of when he was younger. It wouldn't have been surprising if Daeron or Aemon were embittered by this but they were just as smitten with you and little Aerion as everyone else.

After a while, Daella came along, then Aegon, followed by Rhae.

They say when a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin and the world holds its breath. It had seemed, at least for this generation, the coin kept landing on the right side. The world could breath out a sigh of relief.

But then your mother died.

He took the loss hard. All of you did. Dinners were stilted, hunts quiet. Everyone turned a blind eye to Daeron's drinking and to your own bouts of melancholy that left you limp as a ragdoll for days at a time, but perhaps worst of all, they ignored Aerion. Perhaps it was your doing, as well. You were his sister, the other half of him. You knew him more entirely as a brother than some people know their husbands, their fathers. But somewhere along the way, Aerion had begun to change.

It started showing itself in little acts, small enough of a dose that nobody could find any reason for alarm at first. With you, a pinch here, a bite there. Nothing more severe than a scandalously possessive grip on your waist during public events, a habit he'd only stop once your father would give him a scathing look.

With everyone else, a whack too hard with a practice sword it bruised for weeks, a servant tripping on the stairs coincidentally where he was near. There was a time Little Egg had come running to you, bawling that he saw his cat be thrown down the well. Who, you had said, tell me and we will have them thrown out, and he sobbed out your brother's name. He appeared there in the doorway, panting, looking livid that Egg made it to you before he did.

He was fierce and brutal on the field, you knew that, but that was what they needed him to be, you reasoned. Were you not Targaryens? Were you not conquerors? The Seven Kingdoms were not just given to your family because they had asked politely for it. No, you had taken it by force.

In that area, anyone would admit, he excelled at. Aerion was an effective knight. He had been training under the best since you were kids and he never shied away from a chance to show it off.

He'd often joined tourneys, and unlike your cousin Valarr, he was allowed free reign on his opponents. Some had even been foolish enough to ask for your favor during tourneys, a mistake that has you wincing every time, knowing what would happen to them after. They'd be lucky if they just broke a bone.

Of course, your wreath would be his. Every time. You were as excited to make it as he was proud to receive it.

Before the joust, his gaze would be fixed on you, even as the horses' hooves pounded the ground in anticipation. He would keep it there, waiting and waiting, until the very last second, until you wanted to get up and shout at him to move, please, your blood pumping in your ears. Then he'd kick his horse into a fierce start as they collided in a flurry of wood and blood.

Most matches he'd win, though his method wasn't the most popular with the common-folk. It was excessively bloody. Violent. Dishonorable. He would still look smug, posture tall and expression arrogant, despite the jeers of the people around him. Your eyes were on him — why wouldn't he preen? It's all that ever mattered to him.

While Aerion's cruelty would keep growing, you were blossoming too. As one of the princesses in a long, storied dynasty like yours, you were bound to be sought after the moment you were born, for no other reason than the blood that flowed through your veins. You were not the most clever nor the most elegant, but as you matured, your beauty became widespread, and it only grew, year after year.

Though your beauty was admirable and already so rare to find, you were particularly known for your gentleness and affinity for the common folk, something only one of your siblings, Egg, would come to share.

During feasts of any kind, the least fortunate around Summerhall would be able to eat, as you'd ask for your father to give the leftovers to them. You never flinched from the poor when they sought to touch you, even when your knights would step in and jerk you away.

When Aerion would terrorize the servants, you would find them later, sneaking away from your brother's ever present gaze, and apologize to them personally. When you were younger, it was not an uncommon sight for you to be seen following the castle's maester, asking him about ailments and their remedies, until he would give in and explain to you what he could.

One of the reasons you wanted to learn was so that you could help patch up your siblings when they'd get into trouble, as they frequently do—Summerhall was never dull with seven children around. You were always pleasant, gentle in your care for them. As far apart in manner from Aerion as one could get.

You had begun to be seen by the people as the gods' apology for your twin brother. The balm to the burns the dragon would leave in his wake.

Of course, with your reputation as is, many suitors had tried their hand at winning yours. Maekar would read their letters of proposal as you sat beside him and gave your opinion when he asked for it, playing the dutiful daughter for your father's sake, though most he discarded before they ever made it to you. But today was special — your suitor had come to Summerhall himself, to show how serious he was about taking you as his wife.

That night, you go to him. The guards are easily dismissed, though they look uneasy at the idea of leaving you alone with Aerion. You insist anyway. He's my brother, you say. I'll be fine. It's a flimsy excuse. Being a brother has never stopped him from being antagonistic to the rest of your family and they know it.

He's lounging on his bed, his figure lit by the surrounding candlelight. One of the large windows was left open, the curtains rustling as the breeze came in. He was expecting you would come. Knew that you would, that you couldn't leave him alone with this bitterness brewing between you.

"Sister," he greets. He makes no other move to acknowledge you aside from a casual tilt of his head as he assesses you. For a moment, you think he might be in a forgiving mood, until he bites out, "Or should I start calling you Lady Baratheon? How does the name sound? You like it? I hear you'll have to take it soon."

You hate it when he's like this towards you. He'd never make you flinch, but when he gets like this he makes sure his words are barbed, poised to hurt you as you have him. "Aerion, you know it's not my choice. It's Father's."

He scoffs, finally getting up to walk towards you. "Convenient reason for you, isn't it." He circles you as he speaks, and you have to keep turning to face him — it feels like just another way to make you feel like a fool. His hands land on your shoulders, stopping you, as he whispers from behind, in your ear: "Was it father who demanded to have you laugh and preen at him like a bird?"

Your heart seizes, as if you had been caught doing something you shouldn't.

So he'd been watching. You should have expected that. Ser Lyonel had been quite charming — older than you, sure, but strong, jovial. The Laughing Storm, they call him, and that afternoon you understood why. His laugh was boisterous and his stature tall, and he moved with the confidence of a man who has gone through numerous battles and lived to tell the tale. But the way he'd looked at you had been gentle. Reverent, almost. You hadn't expected to meet a man like him, much less enjoy his company, but you'd felt your heart flutter at his attention while he walked you across the gardens. It was a good match, your father said. In many ways you'd be advancing your station by marrying him, and it would help your family by securing military support through the Baratheons.

"I'm not your enemy, brother." You try to explain, hoping to cut through his anger with reason. "I've always been on your side. Our side."

"Our side," he scoffs. He lets go of his hold on you, the action bordering on a shove. "Our side! Thank you for your noble sacrifice, princess. Marrying that Stormlands brute for me. My brave, darling sister. Do you want me to wish you good fortunes for when you consummate your marriage? Better yet, let me wash the sheets where you'll bleed from his cock, since I should be ever so grateful you did this for us." He turns to you, anger marring his features. "Is that what you wish to hear from me?"

Hot tears prick the corner of your eyes as you shook your head. You feel stupid. Humiliated, despite no other witness in the room but you and Aerion. You had come here to speak with him, knowing he was upset. And you couldn't stomach that, couldn't sleep with the idea that your brother was hurting when you could be there to help.

A pitiful sob escapes your throat. You knew your brother was spiteful, but that had rarely ever been aimed towards you. You had been wholly unprepared for the force of his anger, cruel and caustic. "I—I only wished to tell y-you that I l-love you a-and to ap-pologise if y-you were h-hurt." You hiccuped out. Stupid, foolish girl. Your breaths come out short; you're sobbing so much that you feel lightheaded. Rubbing the tears off of your eyes, you try to get your vision to clear before you stumble back to your room, but a thumb running across your lips stops you. It presses there, feeling the give, before going into your mouth and pushing down on your tongue.

You blink the remaining tears away. Aerion's face comes into focus, and he looks at you like he can't believe you're real. "That's what you wished to tell me?" He whispers. His face is so close now that you could swear you can hear his heartbeat, could taste the rhythm of his blood on your tongue. His thumb is still in your mouth so you simply nod instead. He smiles, grin wide, wider than you've seen.

"Sweet girl," he praises. Then he pries your mouth open, bends down, and spits on it.

Your mind draws a blank. You don't know how to react. Your brother had made you cry, then spat on you. Like you were a cuspidor. An object. Like you were the dirt from outside, not a beloved princess of Westeros.

You're not sure if it's instinct, or perhaps you did love your brother that much. Perhaps both. But either way, you swallow it.

Aerion lets out a disbelieving laugh. He grips your hair as he kisses you fiercely, hungrily. He licks your mouth like he means to consume you. Heat pools down your spine, and without thinking you've started rubbing yourself on his leg.

You and Aerion have always been close. To the two of you, touching each other had always felt natural. It was only as you got older that people began giving you strange looks — that you were scolded for it, told it was inappropriate for you to touch the opposite sex as freely as you did. So you got better at hiding it, stealing touches and kisses behind closed doors, in darkened hallways. He wouldn't let anyone tell him what he could and could not do with you. They didn't understand what you were.

You shudder into his collarbone, a whimper falling out of your lips as he juts out his thigh so you can hump him better.

"My sweet sister," he says, hand fisting your hair to reveal your neck to him. He nuzzles his nose there and licks at your pulse. He nips the skin, teasingly rubbing it between his teeth. You know he wishes he could bite there, bite until you bled and scarred and everyone would see. He lingers there for a moment, and you tense, worry that he would, but he just chooses to speak into the crevice. "The gods made you for me, I know this. They cannot separate the dragons. They will not."

"They will not," You mumble to him, though you feel as if you would've repeated anything he said now. Your cunt was aching and you wanted to feel him, to get as much of him as you can. He shoves you to the bed, removing his breeches as he climbs onto it. You try not to look too wanton but Aerion notices—laughs, mean and demeaning, causing a flush to run through you and settle in your spine. "Gods, do you still have a thought left in that pretty little head? Look at you, barely better than an animal, just humping and dripping for me. My sweet sister. Be good and spread your legs for me."

There is something monstrous in him—this you will not deny. A pain in Aerion that has never healed, and never could. He's had dreams, like you, like Daeron. Like all of you had. He dreamt that he was a fierce dragon, ruling the skies. He could feel the air under him, watch castles shrink to the size of ants. One breath could topple cities, one flap of his wings would stop a storm. He knows that he was meant for a life bigger than this one. But the dragons are all dead.

Except for him. Except for you. You are alive. And you are his.

You couldn't defend yourself or protest. Your body was betraying you. You were aching for it. With your position, the lips of your pussy were open, clenching around nothing. He fisted his cock, groaning at the sight. Your cunt was so pretty, glistening in the candlelight. "Look at that. You're so ready for me, my sweet girl. You're mine. This is mine, right?" He asks, lightly slapping his palm on your mound as you whimper.

"All yours, brother. Always." You gasp out.

"I'll never let them get between us. Nothing. No one." He promises and you nod. You believe him. You always do. That's why he loves you. He settles between your legs. His cock is hard, flush against his abdomen. "Do you trust me, sweet girl?" He asks as he trails down your body.

You want to ask what's the question for. It feels like he's planning something, and if you could get your brain to overpower your cunt for a second you would be able to stop what you're doing to question it. But he stops by your breasts to suck on your nipple until they stand up in the evening chill, grazing them with his teeth as you shudder, then he does it to the other, and it just doesn't matter. The answer is the same. "Yes," you sigh into the air.

He rubs the tip of his finger along the entrance, gathering the wetness there. Seven hells, you were soaking. You let out a groan as he slowly inserts the finger into you and it goes in easy. So easy that he laughs, amused. He did this to you, shaped you. Made you like this for his enjoyment. "Gods, sister. Your suitor is a fool. Do you think he will take you for a wife once he knows you're a whore?"

At his own reminder of your imminent betrothal, his pace turns cruel. Suddenly, he thrusts two fingers into you. Your eyes fly open—weren't even aware that you had them closed—and you yelp at the abrupt intrusion, your warm, wet walls pulsing at the slight pain. "But you're all mine, aren't you, my sweet girl? No one can take you from me." He pushes his fingers even farther, adding a third, like he's trying to carve you from the inside. Your body is lifted off the bed from the unexpected breach, your body running away from the pain by instinct, even if you let out a loud moan.

"B-brother, my—my—" You blink forcefully, trying to regain enough thought to finish your sentence.

"Yes, yes, it's still intact," he reassures you about your maidenhood, his tone clipped, almost bored. His pace, already fast and torturous, picks up again. It's relentless. You can hear the sloshing of your insides, the shlick sound of his fingers scraping your walls nonstop. It is obscene. You reassure yourself you are still a maiden, but your head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. "Tell me you're mine," he demands. You didn't respond for a few moments, brain hazy. All you're doing now is feeling, completely at the mercy of this cruel lord.

"I'm, I'm—" You stutter. Your attempts to string words together fails as he nips and sucks bruises into your thighs. You can feel the blood vessels burst, the pain, but oh gods, the pleasure, so much of it that it feels like your brain is leaking out of your head. "I'm yours, just yours, just yours. I love you, Aerion!"

"You need more, my sweet? Tell me how much you need it." He grits out. "Tell me and I'll give it."

"I do. Gods, Aerion. I need more. Just a little more please, I'm so close. Fuck. Please, please. I love you, I love you, I forgive you." You don't know why you say it. Maybe for you, love and forgiveness are the same thing when it comes to your brother. Aerion will push and push and push, and every time you will give him grace because he is your brother and you love him and there will be no one in this world like him. Whether that is good or bad is irrelevant. You are his, but he is yours to have too.

Aerion groans, pulling his fingers from you just as abruptly as he had forced them in. You whine at the loss, and embarrassingly you feel tears prick at your eyes for the second time tonight. You lift your head to look at Aerion and he's palming at himself, spreading the slick from your cunt on his cock. You shudder.

Apparently that was the right thing to say. "Yeah? You'll forgive me? And for what wrongdoing, dear sister. Tell me." His eyes look so bright that it felt like they could burn you alive.

Your hips twitch pathetically, but you realize he won't touch you unless you answer him. Your throat feels a little dry from moaning, so you lick your lips and tell him, confessing to him a truth that he has bet on his whole life and you have proven to him every time. "Anything, brother. You can do anything and I'll let you. I'll forgive you. I'll forgive it all. You have me. You are my dragon. My prince."

You don't know if it's just the light flickering from the candles, a breeze invited by a slight opening in the window, but Aerion looks like a conqueror in this light. He looks triumphant. His features, for a moment, have become frightening to you, the shadows playing with your mind. Harsh and serpentine, like a dragon.

Before you could think further, he pulls you to the edge of the bed.

Then he thrusts his cock inside you, in one go. You would've screamed if he didn't shove his fingers into your mouth, the same one that he used inside you. It tastes like you and it feels like him. You're crying now, tears dripping down the sides of your face as his hips keep a steady, brutal pace. Gods, it's so warm and big and it's bullying into your cervix, opening up your womb forcefully. A sob is wretched out of you from the core of your being. You can't think. You can't.

When he wrenches his fingers out of your mouth, you start babbling, "Aerion, my—my—Oh gods, what do we—"

He shushes you, slows down his pace, moving his hips in little circles, grinding his cock deep inside you. "You trust me, don't you, sister? Or are you taking it back? Because I can take it back too. I can leave." He taunts, pulling his cock out from you abruptly, leaving you painfully empty. Your cunt clenches in the open air. You've never felt this empty. Cold. The air is making the sweat stick to you uncomfortably.

"No, no, no," You beg, desperate and irrational and so fucking cold, now that he's pulled away. No one else will love you. No one else will ruin you. "Come back. Don't leave. Please. Please, brother, don't leave me."

He smiles, proud, hitching your legs on top of his shoulders. "I would never. Understand this, sister: I'm the only one who will never, ever, abandon you. The whole realm may shun you now. But I won't. The gods gave you for me." He shoves his cock back in, stretching and filling you again. The relief of it makes you bite into your fist to muffle your moan, sure that it would have echoed all throughout the castle otherwise.

"Sweet girl," he pants. "My girl. Only ever been mine." You nod frantically. Any pain that you felt before had morphed into pleasure. Aerion would never leave, he said. The lingering fear in your head quieted. Now you were simply a bundle of nerves and every touch he gave you has set you on fire.

He pushes on your tummy and you whine pathetically, your voice cracking at the end. It's so intense. You feel like you're being touched twice over, and before you could process that, Aerion starts talking, his tone proud, "I'll put a babe in you sister, right here. Our little dragon. That would make you happy, wouldn't it?

That was his plan. So no one else could have you. So your father would be forced to marry you to him, for the sake of salvaging the family's honor.

"Aerion," you choke, horrified. Hysterical in your shock, you unconsciously clench tighter. He answers with a groan, loud and open in the evening air. His fingers find your clit, rubbing it up and down. "Don't, please, we can't—"

Aerion laughs, sounding half-mad. "Yes we can. We can. You're such a liar, sister. Your cunt is clenching down on me, milking me. You want this. You want my cock. You want my child to grow inside you, right here," He presses on your stomach again, too forceful this time, too much, everthing's too much. "You know that's what the gods made you for. No one else can carry our dragon, only you. I've seen it, dreamt it. It's your destiny.

"Who knows you more than I do, sister? Who could possibly love you more than I? No one. No one. Everyone will shun you for what you did tonight but I won't, sister. We will marry and you will bear me a child. I will take you when no one will."

Tears start streaming down your face incessantly—you're so overwhelmed, but every time you try to think, he drives his hips deeper, slamming into you, and the forming of a thought get fucked away from your head. You can feel his amusement as he licks off the salt and sweat.

"Aerion, please." You don't even know what you're begging for. For him to stop? To do it faster? You can't make up your mind. You don't know what you want but he does. He is filling your vision, he's all you can see, all you can feel. "Aerion, Aerion," you call out his name again, chanting, delirious.

"We have to tell them sister. I've had enough games. I want you to tell father tomorrow. Tell everyone and let them show you who truly loves you." He tuts when you don't respond, "Poor thing. You can barely think about tomorrow though, can you? Only thing in that pretty head is my cock." He punctuates with a thrust that makes you keen. You can feel yourself drooling but you can't find it in yourself to wipe it, too late for propriety, split open on your brother's cock. "It's okay, sister. Just trust me, okay? Do as you've always done. You've always trusted me, haven't you. That's why you're so good. My best girl, my only girl."

Mouthing at your collarbone, licking and biting without a care in the world, he will make sure you can't hide his mark on you after he's done. He'll make sure everyone knows. His thrusts are more erratic now, stuttering in pace, "We were meant to be together, sister, can you not see? The gods made us for each other. We need each other—gods, that's why we were born together. Blood of my blood. Va sȳndroti vāedroma, fuck."

And then you see it. Like a vision—clear and total as a memory and as arresting as a command. The crackling of the fire was almost deafening and you could hear the flap of wings overhead. Red, everywhere—the ground, the skies. Everywhere you can see.

As if submerged underwater, you desperately gasp for air.

And you understand.

"Aerion, blood of my blood," you call, manic. Your head feels clearer than it has ever been, like a purpose has taken hold of you. Clawing at him, pulling him to you, you hold his face between your hands tightly, fingernails digging into his skin as you bite his lip, hard enough to bleed, and you taste the copper on both of your tongues. He bites back immediately, your lip catching on his sharp teeth and you both bleed. It's not a proper Valyrian marriage but you both smile, giddy and reckless and right. He will light your fires. Twin dragons. Twin flames. You will love him. You see what he has seen, knows from the way he looks at you that he understands you do too. That finally, you understand.

"My perfect sister, I knew it. Gods, I've been so patient," His thrusts turn frantic, excited by your understanding. You see him now, fully, more than anyone ever could. He slams his lips against yours, your teeth clacking together as he rams the spongey part inside you, over and over. The more you kiss, the more it stings, but you can't stop. You taste copper and you smell ash. You can't stop. "Give it to me. Gush around my cock. You will be round with our dragon soon. I'll make sure it catches, my sweet girl. Zaldrītsos. I have you. I have you."

Your vision whites out as you cum, closing your eyes tightly, shaking the whole time. You can't remember if you were screaming, only that when you come to, your brother follows soon after, making sure his cock is as deep as possible, and thrusts some more, groaning against your shoulder as he does. You moan weakly as you feel his seed fill you.

When he pulls out, he sticks his fingers inside you, swirling his seed in his fingers, almost fascinated. He swipes the cum that leaked out, sliding it back into you. One finger, then two, slowly fucking his release back into your overstimulated cunt until you shiver into another orgasm, whining painfully when he presses a kiss to your clit. "Don't let it drip," he warns.

You are both covered in sweat. It's uncomfortable, but the open window helps. He positions you, resting your head on the junction of his neck. He holds you, petting your head. His hand is a little too heavy, unused to gentle motions as you. You cannot imagine life without him. You've never known one.

His grip tightens, bruising, as you bury yourself in his neck. He declares, "You're mine. Now everyone will know of that. All of the Seven Kingdoms."

Spoken in the quiet of the night, in the privacy of his chambers, it seems ridiculous that it is not known yet. Aerion's breathing eventually steadies to an even pace.

This is how it is between you and Aerion. He thrashes, gets hurt, you tend to his wounds. He is your twin. Your brother. Your responsibility. He quiets for a few moments, though you know he is not asleep yet.

Tomorrow will come. You will have to face it together.

You know there is something monstrous and ugly in him, a void that was never filled. Maybe he was born half-empty. Maybe the part that was meant to make him whole was you—an assigned minder by the gods.

There is something about a monster that shows you his neck instead, that bares his throat rather than snapping his jaw shut around yours.

You bite his neck, hard, and you don't let go until you feel him bleed. He shudders. You smile.

translations: Va sȳndroti vāedroma - joined as one (part of Valyrian marriage vows) Zaldrītsos - little dragon

small a/n: im operating under the idea this is more a shared madness thing and your "vision" was amplified sensations from different senses, like the sound of dragon wings was from a strong breeze making the curtains billow. LOL

lyonel being here was completely just for me btw i love him sm

likes, comments, etc. affection of any kind is appreciated!

[elvenlords]

The pretty ones are always temperamental.

FINN BENNETT as Prince Aerion 'Brightflame' Targaryen A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

[dragnsblood]

MY SIN, MY SOUL

pairing: aerion targaryen x sister!reader

summary: her first week back at home was slow. aerion hardly touched her. it was weird, like he was… waiting. like he wanted to surprise her. the most he’d done was pressing up behind her in the kitchen, tugging her close on the couch, or pushing her door open to watch her change. all of that changes one night.

content warning: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. incest, grooming, unprotected p-in-v, aerion being a creep, aerion referring to reader as baby among other petnames, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy, somno, noncon, mentions of God.

part one

The house was silent. Crickets chirped outside, the dog snored downstairs, but up in the girls bedroom? Silence. Curled up under her floral duvet, she slept peacefully. It was the perfect time in Aerion’s mind.

He steps carefully down the hallway, pushing her cracked door open. He closes it behind him with a soft click. He watches her. The blanket is resting around her hips, her hair spread across the pillow.

She looked delicious.

Her nightgown was twisted up, showing off those soft thighs. He lets out a soft sigh as he approaches the bed. Aerion crawls onto the mattress, which dips beneath his added weight, and looks down at her.

Aerion admires her sleeping features. She’s beautiful like this. So peaceful, soft, and quiet. He could do whatever he wanted to her. Her guard was down, she wasn’t expecting anything. Just like he wanted.

He leans down, lips meeting her shoulder. She smells fresh, like grass and flowers from the field. She smells like her vanilla bodywash he’s so obsessed with.

He kisses up to her neck, hand moving over her stomach. He pushes her nightgown further up. He lets out a breath.

Her skin is soft.

“So perfect,” he whispers, finger running down her skin down to her cotton panties. He touches her through the fabric, thumb circling her clit over her panties.

Her eyebrows furrow, letting out a soft noise. She shifts, head lolling to the other side. Aerion smiles, leaning down to kiss her lips. She can’t return the favor.

Aerion continues playing with her cunt, fingers circling her core through her panties. He needs her soaked.

His dick is hard in his boxers. He’s ready to feel her wrapped around him again. It’s been too long.

Aerion turns her around onto her stomach, pushing his boxers down just enough to free his cock. He pulls her panties aside, the thick head of cock slipping between her folds.

She furrows her eyebrows, letting out a soft whine of protest. “Shhh…” he whispers against her ear, pushing into that tight heat.

He lets out a groan, pulling her back against him with a hand splayed across her stomach. “God…” he groans, pushing until he’s completely sheathed inside of her.

She’s slowly waking up below him, shifting and whining at the sudden fullness. “Hm?” she whimpers.

“Stay quiet,” he whispers, “Don’t want daddy to wake up, do ya?” he grins, kissing her shoulder as he starts to move. His thrusts are slow and deep.

She lets out a squeak. The stretch hurts after not having his cock inside of her for so long. Her fingers curl into her pillow as she tries to push up and tries to get away from him.

He presses her into the mattress, chest against her back. He keeps her there with his body weight as he fucks into her cunt from behind.

“There ya go,” he says, watching her face scrunch up. He reaches out, grabbing the plushie on her bed. “You wanna hold your bunny?” he coos. It sounds sweet, but his words are mocking.

She wraps her arms around the plushie, burying her face against the fur. She hates how good he feels inside of her.

Aerion presses kisses to her neck, “So tight around me. Missed you so much.” his fingers on her stomach move down. He begins to circle her clit.

She lets out a moan against her bunny.

“Yeah. Feels good, don’t it?” he grins. “You know you love me, baby. You know it. Your body can’t get enough of big brother’s cock, huh? Squeezing me like that… fuck. It’s almost like you want me to fill you up.”

Aerion’s always been careful to not cum inside of her. As much as he would love to, knocking her up is far too dangerous. He’ll usually pull out and cum on the outside of her pussy or on her stomach, but never inside.

She shakes her head, face scrunched up. “No… that’s how babies are made,” she sniffles, fingers tightening around her bunny.

“I know.” he starts to quicken his pace as his mind fills with disgusting thoughts. “Fuck.” his forehead drops against her shoulder. The bed creaks as he pounds into her.

“You’d look so pretty.” he sits up, hands squeezing her hips as he watches his cock stretching her out. “You would, sweetheart. You’d be all mine.”

Her bottom lip trembles, trying to hold back her moans of pleasure.

Aerion’s hand moves to the back of her head, pushing her face into the pillow. “Fuck, baby, i’m gonna do it.” he groans, “I’m gonna fill you up this time, knock you up.”

She shakes her head. “No, no, no,” she babbles, voice muffled against her pillow. She feels that tight coil in her belly, his tip kissing that sweet spot that makes her head spin.

She moans into the pillow, subconsciously arching back into him. Aerion bites his lip. “Yeah, look at you. Such a dirty little thing. You love big brother’s cock. You can’t get enough.”

His fingers tighten around the back of her neck, “You can pretend to hate me all you want, sissy, but we both know you love it. You love it when I fuck you.”

Her eyelids flutter as she clutches the plushie against her chest.

“You get so dumb on my cock. You can’t get enough.”

His other hand tightens painfully on her hip, making her whimper. He buries his face back into her shoulder. “Gonna fill you up.”

She can’t fight it as he fucks into her a few more times before burying himself to the hilt. She feels the warmth as his cock twitches, spurting hot ropes of cum into her cunt.

She moans at the feeling as that tight coil snaps and her own orgasm washes over her. Aerion pants against her neck, licking and sucking at her skin. He makes sure not to leave marks.

“Gonna give you a baby,” he mumbles, “Gonna give you one. You’ll look so pretty… my little bunny. All pregnant.”

His hips move again, pushing his sperm deep inside of her.

Aerion finds himself obsessing over the thought of getting her pregnant. His little sister, the girl who was made just for him, pregnant with his baby.

It drives him insane.

He pulls out, flipping her onto her back. She doesn’t have time to catch her breath as he slams back into her. He watches her face as her mouth falls open and those big eyes widen.

Aerion watches as he fucks her again, as he pounds into her.

“You were made for me,” he says, holding her face in one hand, “You know that? I begged momma for another sibling. I begged, and then she had you. You were just for me.”

Her hands squeeze his shoulders, eyes bleary and unfocused.

“No one else deserves you. Nobody is good for you, baby. It’s only me, y’know that? No one else loves you like I do.”

Her bottom lip trembles. Is it true? Nobody loves her but him? It has to be…

“They sent you away from me. No one who loves you,” he pants as he gets close to coming again, “would send you away.”

She sniffles, arms wrapping around his neck as she buries her face into his shoulder. She cries softly.

Aerion grins in triumph. “Yeah. I got you.” he presses a hand to the back of her head, that wicked grin never leaving.

“You were made for me, baby. Just for me. God made you for me.” he thrusts deep, “He wants this to happen.”

Her crying mixes with moans of pleasure, her fingers digging into his back. If God wills it, then who is she to disobey?

Her legs wrap around his hips, eyes fluttering. Her mouth hangs open in a quiet moan. He pulls back to look down at her. “So pretty.” he leans down, tongue slipping into her mouth.

She moans into the messy kiss. With one more thrust, he releases inside of her again. He groans into her mouth.

“Gonna keep fuckin’ you till you’re knocked up.” Aerion decides.

She can’t fight it, she can’t refuse. Part of her craves this.

[dexsangel]

𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇

aerion targaryen x targaryen!reader - modern au

𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 : 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗇'𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 - 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝖼

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 : 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇!𝖺𝗎, 𝗏𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖾𝗁 𝗂𝖽𝗄

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 : 1.2𝗄

You are seven when Aerion first breaks your heart, except it doesn't have to do with love. its the sandcastle you built modeled after summerhall.

You've been building it for the past hour, putting the coarse, colorful seashells against it. A seven-year-old ball of energy runs flat into it, knocking the sand into the shore and water.

He laughed, not looking back at your crinkled face. "You're the worst cousin in the world!" You told him, sobbing and wiping your salty tears.

Maekar forced him to apologize, but in more so of his own way. Aerion offered you his ice cream after dinner, and you forgave him before you took a bite. For the next fifteen years, you forgave your cousin much quicker than you should.

────────────────

You are fourteen years old, so naturally it is the worst year of your life. You and aerion looked much different compared to the last few years.

You're crying in the pool, after some boy made a comment about your looks at the country club. Aerion punched him in the nose, a couple droplets of crimson falling from it.

Later the night, he drops next to you on the couch. "I can have my dad revoke their season pass."

"Uncle wouldn't, and it's okay."

"I'd make him. If you change your mind," he said, bumping his shoulder against yours, "you know who to call." Afterwards, you noticed a sharpness in aerion's jaw and a drop in his vocal range.

────────────────

Sixteen is when you start to 'misbehave' like the rest of your siblings and cousins. You and Aerion are in the guest bedroom with a bottle of disgusting wine because nobody drinks anything else during dinner.

"Truth or dare?" Aerion asks, taking a swig of the dark red drink.

"We aren't twelve, Aer." He asks again, "Truth or dare?" His voice gives the tone of something different, something that intrigues you to answer this time.

"Truth."

He smiles, "Coward. But, have you ever thought about kissing me?" The truthful, honest answer comes to you first, "Weird question to ask your cousin."

"That didn't answer my question."

"Aer–"

"I have," he says before you can finish. He purses his lips, "just so y'know. In case you thought it was weird."

"Well, it is. Our family doesn't do that anymore." Yet, your actions betray your words, as baelor's bottle clouds your senses.

You press your lips to Aerion's. You swore he leaned in first, but he thinks that you inched closer because you were getting impatient, all details that you would argue about years later.

Once you both pulled back, you wiped your lips with the back of your hand, them tasting of him and fermented and forbidden fruit. "We're not telling anyone about that."

────────────────

Valarr is searching for you to help set up the table for dinner. He goes through every room, including your own bed room, until he reaches Aerion. He hesitates around the doorknob to Aerion's room, but he opens it anyway.

He never really needed to knock, because half the time Aerion wasn't in there. That was until now.

You're on the chaise. Aerion's half over you, forearms propped up, close enough that no explanation besides the obvious can explain the situation you two are in.

You were laughing about something, and your cousin's hand was at your jaw. Valarr stands at the doorway for a moment, before either of you notice.

"Dinner's in 10," he flatly says, his eyes anywhere but where you and Aerion lie. "Your mom wants help with the chairs."

Aerion is off of you before Valarr could say anything else, easy and unbothered by whatever his cousin was thinking of. "Be right there."

Valarr doesn't leave right away, but stares at you, just you, and not Aerion. He opens his mouth to say something, but bites back and swallows.

He saves your dignity, because he assumes Aerion dragged you into your complicated relationship. Valarr never brings it up to you. He waits years to say something, and when he does, it isn't to you.

────────────────

At eighteen, you want to see other people. There are millions of people in Westeros, and surely your only choice is not your blonde, bratty cousin. You date a boy from your uni for four months. He's kind, quiet, not blood-related, and not a liability.

Aerion dates a large string of other girls, if you could call it dating. They all look prettier and more materialistic than the last, yet even Egg notes they all slightly resemble you.

"He seems nice," Aerion chokes out at family dinner, suggesting quite the opposite. "He is," you argue back, before feeling your leg get kicked underneath the table.

You break up with the boy six weeks later, because a night with Aerion convinced you.

────────────────

Eighteen is also the year the two of you stop being so careful about it. You’re both legal adults now, which somehow makes it feel more dangerous. You fight more that year, too, loud and physical in the way you’ve always fought, except now the fighting doesn’t always stay fighting.

An argument in the pool house over something neither of you can later remember ends with his hand fisted in the back of your shirt and his mouth against your jaw, both of you still furious, still saying disgusting things between the parts where you can’t keep your hands off each other.

You leave a party early together twice that summer without telling anyone why, and come back separately, twenty minutes apart, hair a mess and tangled, mouths swollen and red, thinking absolutely no one has noticed.

However, Valarr starts watching you both a little too closely after the second time. “We’re going to get caught,” you tell him, breathless, straightening your bikini in someone’s guest bathroom while he watches you in the mirror, entirely too pleased with himself.

“Probably,” he agrees, running a hand through his silver hair. He doesn’t look sorry about it at all, tugging you back by the waist before you can reach for the door. “Five more minutes.”

────────────────

At twenty-one, you're at Summerhall for your aunt's engagement party. The two of you sneak off from the reception to sit in the mudroom like you were both teenagers again.

"Do you think we should stop?" you asked, nudging the tip of your heels into the tile.

"Stop what?" He asks with a fat smirk on his face, as if he enjoys this like a game.

"You know what, Aer." He stays silent for a while, thinking of what to say.

"I think about it," he admits. "A lot. I think about how it would be easier for me. And then I think about it with anyone else, and it just doesn't compare. It's not even close. And you know I've tried."

Your face goes straight and flat at the last sentence, but you understood that was his way of showing things.

"That's a terrible reason to keep doing something we aren't supposed to."

"Probably." He knocks his knee against yours, an old habit, before pulling out a cigarette and his lighter.

"You got a better reason?"

You shake your head, before leaning over to kiss him, not worrying about your aunt's out-of-convenience marriage. He swings an arm around you, exhaling the smoke.

────────────────

a/n: hi guys im still on vacation but ive been staying in my room a lot cause im a lil sick, so i wanted to write at least one short fic! sorry if the formatting is weird, im on my phone writing instead of my computer😓😓

[fever-break]

aerion with a twin sister

updated! wrote the fic: click here

would be soooo annoying for everyone involved. whether or not you're fraternal. just the fact you were born together would be enough for this fucked up man to think you were destined. see, sister, the gods knew we were meant to be together. this world is ours to take, he would say, and you would nod, absorbing his words without much thought. it felt like the truth. you didn't know a world without aerion. he would be so hostile to anyone who even looked like they were interested in you, including your other siblings and cousins. of course, since he has fallen for you, it would make sense that the others could too, and he'd never believe they don't, no matter how much they'd insist. at tourneys, if a knight would be stupid enough to ask for your favor, they'd be lucky if they ended up with just a broken bone. maekar would be torn between wanting to separate you or just letting it be, as you knew how to deal with aerion the best. in the end he settles for the path of least resistance and just lets it be, as he rightly suspected that aerion would fight tooth and nail and cause an even bigger mess if you were ever taken from him, like a child without his favorite toy. everyone would pity you, servants would avert their gaze in fear, ladies in the court learned to stay away, afraid of saying the wrong thing and incurring the ire of the most temperamental of the princes. and so you're alone, running to the arms of the man who's never left you, the man who made sure that there were no other solace to run to.

[eroticanas]

☆ ──꒰✉️꒱ ❞ ‧₊˚ LECTURES AND LIVITY

( MODERN!VALARR X READER )

☆ ──꒰summary꒱ ❞ Valarr has been pushing boundaries with you for a very long time. he takes it a step further while you’re busy with class.

contains! modern!valarr, noncon, incest. requested material.

— guys i’m so sorry for the wait!! im so super jet lagged right now so don’t bully me if the writing isn’t as good as usual…

೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢 ⠀ᰋ the drone of the professors voice filled the silence of your bedroom, her monotonous tone feeling like a drill trying to bully its way through your skull. you shifted in your chair, trying to tuck your legs beneath you while still looking like you were paying attention to the lecture. the walls of the house feeling more like a prison cell every day since Valarr had convinced your father that campus life was a predators playground.

the door clicked open, which you barely noticed— you were too engrossed in watching yourself through the screen, noting your dark circles and your lazily brushed hair. fuck… you hoped that cute guy from class wasn’t looking at you right now.

“turn the camera off.”

you jumped a little, whipping your head around to see where the voice was coming from. jesus christ. Valarr was always sneaking up on you like this. it was almost freakish for a grown man to be able to make no sound while walking around the house.

“i’m in the middle of a lecture, Valarr. get out.”

he didn’t listen to you. he never did. not when he had put his hand up your skirt during dinner with your family, not when he had groped you while you were trying to help your little brother with his homework. when he reached you, his fingers dug into your shoulders.

“i said turn it off. we need to talk.”

you sighed and clicked the little camera icon. the small green light died. you turned to him, eyes narrowing, blindly turning down the sound and the droning professors voice along with it. “what is so important that you have to interrupt my degree?”

“you’ve been spending a lot of time with Matarys lately.”

you frowned. “he’s my brother, of course i’m spending time with him. and he’s not doing very well in school, you know that. he needs the help.”

“is that what you call it. help?” his voice was soft, as it always was. calm. but his eyes were cold. “are you trying to fuck him?”

you recoiled, chair scraping harshly against the floor as you moved back from him, “what? no! of course not! that’s absolutely disgusting, Valarr! get out of my room, right now!”

“you’re lying.”

before you could fully stand and try to push him out of your room yourself, he shoved you back into your chair, his weight pinning you down. he ripped your leggings down to your ankles in a single violent motion.

“stop it! Valarr, stop it!”

he fumbled with his trousers, freeing a thick, pulsing cock that leaked a bead of precum. he grabbed your thighs, forcing them wide and slamming himself into you without a word of warning. the intrusion was sudden and raw, and you gasped, the air leaving your lungs with a ragged sob.

“you don’t need anyone else,” he moaned, his voice dropping to a rasp, “just me. i’m the only one who knows how to take care of you.”

he drove deeper, head of his cock hitting your cervix with a blunt force that made your hips jerk. he reached down, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing against it harshly, forcing a strained moan from your throat. he accelerated, balls slapping hard against your ass, the chair creaking with the movement. he gripped your waist as he hammered into you. he’d surely leave bruises, ones that you’d notice in the shower later on, while you were scrubbing the violation from your skin and your mind alike. reminders.

“i’m the one for you,” he groaned, voice shaking, “only me. forever.”

with a final, violent grunt, Valarr finished, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he flooded your womb with hot, thick seed. he struggled to steady himself, legs shaky with release. he put himself away and zipped up his pants, then ran a hand through his hair, pushing the dark strands away from his pale face, fixing himself back up, as he always did, handsome and precise as ever, nothing but the slight flush gracing his cheeks to suggest what had happened.

[eroticanas]

Pathetic daeron and Reader who lives edging him til he cums himself pls 😖

u guys need to request more subby men content i love it so much… also guys sorry my quality & quantity of writing has gone down… im super jet lagged still and its so hot here that ive turned stupid

𑣲⋆｡˚ Daeron lounged back against a mountain of silken pillows and expensive furs. he was beginning to enjoy this life of excess you demanded from him— because why wed a prince if he cannot give you everything?

you had convinced him to indulge in a two-person feast of sweetmeats and honeyed dates, braised eels and the most delicate of salty pastries, all eaten with a lovely imported wine. now, his tunic was discarded and his eyes were glazed over with a cocktail of alcohol and lust. you were in a similar state: hair ruffled, the thin slip you were wearing hanging low on one of your shoulders, daring to give a hint of what laid beneath, lips stained with the sugared berries you had been eating not so long ago.

your hand wrapped loosely around his cock, pumping it languidly while he huffed with frustration. it was thick and warm and pulsing with need. “faster… gods, please, just a bit faster.” Daeron groaned, head falling back into the pillows there.

you smiled, thumb grazing the most sensitive part of his cock, smearing the precum across the tip. you increased the pace only slightly, palm sliding with a wet sound against his shaft. “is the prince impatient?” you cooed, eyebrows knitted together in mock-sadness for him.

Daeron whined, hips jerking upwards, trying to get the kind of friction he needed. your hand moved faster, and he let out a long sigh, his eyes falling closed. “oh— oh gods, yes. yes, don’t stop…” the words tumbled out.

you watched his face, noting the way his jaw tightened and his breath turned into shallow gasps. his muscles tensed and one of his hands fisted the blanket beneath him, the knuckles turning white, signalling the imminent arrival of his climax. you abruptly opened your hand, pulling away completely, admiring how his cock looked so red and pathetic, desperate for release.

Daeron’s chest heaved, looking at you with wide, betrayed eyes. “what are you doing?” he gasped, “why did you stop?”

“i’ve decided you’ve had enough for now.” you replied.

he reached for you, but his movements were clumsy, hampered by the wine. “just… put your hand back on it. now. put it back on!” he said. he was trying to sound commanding but the words came out more needy, whiny.

“so demanding!” you teased, reaching out to flick his nipple, at which he let out another strained cry and bucked his hips up. “it’s almost endearing how pathetic you look.”

a frustrated whine exited his mouth, “please, just let me finish. i’ll do anything. i can’t… i can’t stand it.”

you leaned forward, breath warm on his skin, a single finger beginning to trace the length of his underside, from the tight skin of his balls up to the leaking tip. “maybe later.” you murmured, “or maybe i’ll just leave you like this until morning. you can wait, can’t you?”

“no! no, no, no,” Daeron wailed, his voice bordering on a sob. he shifted frantically, cock bouncing against his stomach. “please, i’m begging you!”

“fine…” you sighed, finally closing your hand around his cock again, your pace starting out torturously slow. “but i think you need to ask for what you want properly.”

he bucked up into your hand, “please… please let me cum, please,” he whimpered, his whole self dissolved into nothing more than a puddle of needy desire. “please, please, please, i love you, just let me… let me.”

you laughed and sped up, feeling the warmth of him against your palm as you slid your hand up and down, watching his face twist up and his mouth fall open, drool pooling at one of the corners. his muscles once again seized up, the hard planes of his chest turning to stone and his fingers weaving into the blanket.

“ah— oh gods—” he stuttered out before his balls tightened and released, spurting hot ropes of cum all over his own stomach. “i.. i love you…” he whined. “‘s so good….”

you kept stroking him, his cock red and wet, milking ever last bit out from him. soon your hand was wet as his stomach, coated in a thick layer of semen. god, how could this man produce this much on a diet of alcohol and bread? he turned limp, his limbs collapsing into the bed.

[carmysdoll]

THE GARDEN OF FORGIVENESS AND LOVE

𐔌 ⠀⠀𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀⠀daeron targaryen x sister-wife reader !

contains ᦸ angst targcest canon typical themes arranged marriage pregnancy tears kissing tragic love ٫٫ 6.2k

❛❛ to love you is both torment and mercy—and I crave neither’s end

The palace halls were quiet tonight, no hushed whispers and passing footsteps seeping into their chambers. All the sleep-ridden prince could hear were the rhythmic hisses from the fire—a gentle whispering rush of air that lulled the room into a peace he wished he could feel, along with the sound of his heavy heartbeat against his ribcage. 

He felt a slow trickle of a thick bead of sweat rolling from his hairline, burning slightly as it traveled down to the back of his neck, and the feeling of your steady, feather-light warm breaths ghosting against his shoulder, the exhales and soft breaths matching the slow rise and fall of your chest against his arm. 

It was one of those rare nights when you had slept through one of his dragon dreams. Usually, his jolting and thrashing, along with the panicked gasps and incoherent mumbles, would awaken you. But no, there you were, sleeping deeply at his side, nearly still as stone. 

He swallowed slowly, trying to wet his dry throat that was aching and begging for a chalice filled to the top with wine. He quickly blinked the unshed tears from his eyes, trying to focus on the feeling of your very real leg tangled with his under the bedding. The thick quilt had fallen from your shoulder and rested on your hip. 

Softened even more by sleep, the near sheer white lace lay gently against your skin; the delicate lace slipped down your shoulder, exposing more of your skin to his gaze, rising and falling gently with every breath you took. A halo of your hair fanned across the pillows. A flicker of a dream must have rippled beneath your closed eyelids, your brows furrowing slightly and a small pout on your lips. 

Your lashes rested like delicate shadows against your skin, unmoving. You always looked so innocent when you slept. So peaceful as you drifted on the safe shores of sleep. His shores were never safe. 

His eyes lowered back down to your chest, counting your inhales as he did his best to sync his own heartbeat with yours, trying to calm himself down from another haunting dream. He did not wish to wake you again. Not with how exhausted you have been feeling these past days. You tried your best to hide it, not wanting anyone to see you less than a perfect Targaryen Princess, but that act diminished the longer you were alone with him in your shared chambers. 

He found no comfort in knowing that both of you have been struggling to find sleep. 

His gaze slowly fell to your stomach, to how one of your hands was sleepily splayed across it. As if your body instinctively already knew of the hard truth, the source of both of your lack of sleep as of late. He was sure of it. 

He’d been dreaming of it for several moons; it didn't matter what the dream started as, it always went back to it, back to you. The sound of the dragon’s scared screeches bounced off the walls of the confined cave, mixing with the sounds of the loud storm outside of it. The pale blue dragon was curled around itself protectively. In the center was a clutch of eggs, all of them cold as stone but two. 

It plagued his mind day and night. 

Daeron slowly lifted his clammy and trembling hand from the bed, hesitating before he moved it towards your stomach. Just before his fingertips brushed against your hand, you shifted in your sleep, causing him to quickly remove his hand and go still. His breathing stilled as he watched you nuzzle your face against the pillow, pressing more against his arm. 

So blissfully unaware…

You thought that the judgmental whispers around court would quieten now that you were fulfilling your duty by being with child, but they only seemed to get louder as the moons went on. They whispered about how it was about time, how they were starting to believe you were barren until you started to show, how you looked in certain dresses, the things you ate, guessing what kind of mother you would be.

Some were even so scandalized as to whisper about your babe being from the seed of Aerion. It was all so dreadfully exhausting; you wished to not be perceived anymore. You were giving the realm what they wanted, a babe, and yet they still found something to ridicule you about. 

Besides the insistent whispers, the castle had changed in many ways. Not in its stone walls or towering spires—but in the way people moved within them. 

Now, whenever you walked through the halls—even if it was just to your solar, to take a walk in the gardens or to supper—the air shifted. Guards straightened their backs. Servants lowered their eyes even more respectfully. Even nobles who once passed you with respectful nods now fully bowed their heads as you passed them. Neither Ser Coren nor your father would allow anything less. 

Maekar was everywhere. 

He wasn’t near—no, that word implied something weak and fussy, and Maekar Targaryen did nothing fussy—but he was present. Always close. Watchful as a territorial hawk circling its own nest. He was as present as he was protective. You weren’t allowed to ride your horse no matter how much you wished to, because in your father's words, ‘a princess does not gallop across open fields while carrying an heir.’ 

There were no more late-night walks with just Ser Coren—no, now you and your sworn protector were accompanied by another household guard wherever you went. He was young and eager to protect his princess—and show off his skills to Ser Coren. Ser Dalton had to trail behind you at least five paces by the command of Ser Coren; he was far too easy to fluster with your kindness and was quite the chatter. 

Meals were another thing. Every dish had been carefully inspected even more dutifully before it reached your plate. Your father made sure you were eating nothing but the best for you and his grandchild. You weren’t allowed wine, not that you would touch it anyway; your broth's temperatures were always tested twice before being served. 

Aegon found it hilarious how pampered you were under their father's hand until Maekar snapped at him during dinner one evening for laughing too loudly near where you sat. Aemon was reprimanded harshly for scaring you with all the facts he was learning from the books he was reading about pregnancy. Both instances had you breaking out into tears, feeling guilty for being the cause of your little brother's scolding.

Maekar wasn’t cruel without cause, and it was never towards you, but he was merciless when someone threatened his daughter's peace—or worse, his grandchild’s safety. He didn’t say much about any of it publicly unless it was truly needed—not outright insults and threats unless they were openly critiquing you. No, instead there was a silence so cold from him whenever certain people approached you. That alone sent messages louder than words ever could. 

Now everyone was tiptoeing around their princess; they wouldn’t dare do anything to mess with what little peace you had, in fear of angering Maekar. 

Maekar remembers the exact moment he was told you were with child. He was in the library looking through scrolls when a young servant came stumbling inside, jumbled words leaving his mouth through his heavy pants from running from the other side of the palace at the command of the Maester. It was only until Maekar snapped, ‘Breathe, boy, what is it?’—that the shaking servant finally got his words out. “The princess is with child—she’s hysterical!” 

He could still hear the echoes of his boots against the stone floors as he rushed to your bedchamber. He would never forget the sound of your helpless sobs as the heavy weight of duty and realization crushed down on your ribs. Or the sight of you curled up in the corner, hugging your knees close to your chest as your body trembled in shock and fear. Ser Coren stood in front of you, stopping the maester from coming close to you. 

Your closet lady in waiting and handmaiden watched helplessly, tears in their own eyes as they wished there was something they could do to comfort their princess. 

He wouldn’t forget how you clung to him desperately as he crouched in front of you, pulling you into his arms. His calming words in your ear drowned out the sound of Ser Coren’s accented voice telling the maester, the servant boy, and the two women to leave, making it clear that they would forget what had happened and not dare to speak of it. 

Maekar didn't hear the retreating footsteps, or the sound of your sworn protector closing the door and leaving the two of you alone. No—he just focused on rocking you in his arms. He didn't forget how Daeron couldn’t be found for hours; it was only late in the night that he came drunkenly stumbling into the palace, reeking of wine. 

Your father had Daeron sent to him as soon as he was found. Maekar’s words weren’t kind nor soft as he lambasted Daeron. His words were low and cut through his son’s flesh harder than any physical blow could. Daeron didn't even try to hide his tears as his father spoke of how he had abandoned you when you needed him, how he wouldn’t allow this despicable behavior of his anymore. Maekar sent him away with a disappointed grunt. 

Maekar didn’t waste any time sending Aerion off to Baelor with the best excuse he could come up with before he found out you were with child; he wouldn’t have him be around you while you were pregnant. Your father tried his best to keep your pregnancy a secret for as long as he could, but there was nothing he could do when you started to show. It didn't take long for the whispers of you being with child to find their way to Aerion’s ears. 

Your peace and the safety of you and his grandchild were of the utmost importance. 

The gardens were quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that only came with early morning light. The sun spilled gold over the place gardens, painting the roses in soft pink and white hues. The air was sweet with blooming flowers—lilacs, lavender, and honeysuckle drifting through on gentle breezes. Birds chirped softly with their morning song. 

You were sitting beneath a flowering archway on a low stone bench padded with beautifully woven cushions. A low wooden table held your tea—mint with honey, just as Maekar had ordered it prepared, for every morning now. Beside it rested two plates, one with sliced fruits and the other had a few slices of warm honeyed bread, still glistening from being fresh from the oven. 

You were wearing a soft gown of pale lilac silk today—loose at the waist now to accommodate your growing form—its neckline was laced with delicate lace. Your hair was half-up, pulled back simply by a gold-and-ruby clip, a gift from your uncle many years ago. The cool breeze tugged at your loose strands. You held a warm cup of tea in your soft hand, while the other rested gently on your rounding belly. 

Ser Coren stood nearby like an immovable statue near a stone pillar, clad in his armour that gleamed under the sunlight. His usual stoic expression softened only slightly whenever he glanced back at you, a softness only you knew. 

Ser Dalton hovered awkwardly—not too close—but proudly on the other side. He wanted to impress during his important duty of escorting and protecting their princess while she took her morning repast outside. His eyes kept flickering to you, not lewdly or curiously—but with soft awe. Like how someone might look upon something so sacred that they couldn't stare at it too long but couldn't stop. 

The moment felt peaceful…rare peace away from preying eyes inside the palace walls, where whispers followed every step you took. The gentle breeze stirred in the air when suddenly footsteps approached from down the path—a familiar gait, heavy but less careful; slow and clumsy. 

The footsteps slowed as Daeron turned the corner, his boots scuffing against the gravel and stone path. Sunlight caught his disheveled hair—still unkempt from sleep—and shadows clung beneath his eyes, deeper than usual. He hadn’t slept well again. But he had come to you anyway and so early too. Without being summoned, without a servant announcing him first. 

Just…him. 

Ser Dalton stiffened instantly at the sight of Prince Daeron approaching unannounced; he’d rarely seen him with you. He nearly took a protective step forward but caught himself, remembering that no one questioned the prince. Ser Coren nearly lifted a brow but did not move from where he stood guard, only watching with quiet assessment as Daeron neared under the golden morning light. 

The prince looked different today—not drunk for once, which was slightly worrisome—but tired in a raw kind of way. Hollow-cheeked and pale-lipped like someone who was struggling with the weight that he carried on his bones for too long. His doublet was loosely laced over an untucked white tunic; there were smudges near the cuffs of the tunic. 

Either from ink that had stained it during his desperate, late-of-night drawings or perhaps wine stains now being unhidden by the daylight. There was no goblet in his hand, nor a flask hidden in his trousers at the hip.

Just him walking toward you with careful steps, as if he were afraid of startling and ruining what little peace you’d found here among flowers and tea steam curling into the air between your fingers. He slowed when he saw you. 

You lifted your eyes, locking with the tired ones of your husband over the rim of the teacup. For a heartbeat, neither moved—just stared at each other across the garden path: one prince drenched in royal guilt; one princess wrapped softly in lilac silk beneath a blooming archway. You slowly lowered the cup from your mouth as he continued to approach. 

The silence between you stretched, soft and fragile like the petals drifting from the rose bushes above. He looked at your face first, soft with morning light—no lingering of sleep, skin kissed from the dew-kissed air. Your half-up hair was shining so beautifully under the sunlight. There was a calmness in your eyes despite the heavy weight of duty pressing down on both of you. His eyes didn't dare to meet yours.

He hesitated before his eyes fell to your stomach. The curve of your belly beneath the soft silk. How your soft hand cradled the bump so gently. The tips of his fingertips twitched, a deep craving in his chest to join your hand, but he stopped himself before his mind started to wander with hopeful thoughts. He didn't deserve them…or you.  

The air between you thickened, charged with everything unsaid. His eyes lingered on your belly again, the slight swell—your child— that had grown more pronounced with each passing day, and something inside him twisted painfully. The guilt hit him like a physical blow. 

Not because you looked unhappy—no, you never did, not where it could be seen by others. You always wore that serene mask, the perfect princess carrying an heir for Summerhall. But he knew. He saw the shadows beneath your eyes when no one else noticed. Heard how your voice grew quieter with each passing moon. And it was his fault. 

He hadn’t been there when they told you; he had been drowning in wine and self-pity, while Maekar held your weeping body together. He wasn't even fit to be a husband, let alone a soon-to-be father. You took to pregnancy well—you were strong, patient, gentle. But he? He was a wreck, a weak man who constantly compromised his honor and his reputation as he drowned himself in wine, ales, and whores. 

And there you sat, you looked so serene under the archway of blooming flowers, your hair catching the light like spun silk, your hand rested on your belly with such tenderness that it made something inside him ache. You were beautiful. Radiant even despite everything—the stress of court whispers, your fear of Aerion, Maekar’s suffocating protectiveness, and all of the changes to your body. 

And here he stood, drenched in self-loathing and exhaustion from another night dreaming of prophecies and drinking away the dread and horrors that came with them. He hadn’t brought you anything thoughtful, a simple gesture that would have been expected from any decent husband greeting his pregnant wife on such a soft morning as this one. You deserved someone stronger than this hollow shell of a prince who could barely face the morning. 

His voice was low—hesitant: “May I join you?” 

The words came out quieter than he intended, almost fragile, like they might shatter the peace if spoken too loudly. It wasn't just about joining you for tea. It was an apology wrapped in a request, a silent plea to be allowed near the peace he’d been keeping himself from for months. 

The silence stretched for a few moments. Daeron’s throat tightened as he watched you, so composed—so kind. While his soul felt like a storm-tossed wreck. You didn't answer right away, just looked at him, really looked. Seeing past the exhaustion and guilt into the man beneath it all. Your brother, your husband…the father of your child who had no idea how much power he held over your heart. 

“Of course.” You said gently, setting your teacup down on the table with careful hands. You shifted slightly on the bench to make space for him—there was more than enough already; you were just nervous—the cushions dipped under your weight. It’s been many moons of him avoiding you, avoiding the growing babe in your belly. You could see the slight surprise in his eyes at you being so welcoming. 

Daeron hesitated once again before carefully sitting down on the padded bench beside you. He sat stiffly at first—not touching you, not exactly leaning in—but angled slightly towards you like a man drawn by a gravity he couldn't resist. The warmth of your body so close to him after so long of distancing from you made something inside him tremble. He could smell the sweet oils that were rubbed into your skin, the lavender that you washed your hair with, the honeyed bread mixed with the delicate scent of the mint tea. 

Your eyes traced every line of his face, taking in every detail that the morning light painted. The way his dirty blond lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks, the slight stubble along his jawline that he hadn’t bothered to shave. How could you not notice how exhausted he looked—more than usual—and it made your heart clench. His hair was a mess despite the signs of him running his fingers through it to make him look more princely. 

His hands rested awkwardly on his thighs, long fingers twitching slightly like he wanted to reach out but didn't know how to anymore after many moons of avoidance. There was a rawness in him today that you rarely saw. No drunken haze blurring him, no wine-laced sarcasms that masked whatever pain lived inside him. Just him. 

The Prince who carried prophecies like chains. 

The husband who had been absent for so long—not by choice entirely, he never chose to be this broken—but because guilt and dread kept pulling him away from you when all he wanted was to be with you. And now here he sat, so close to you, yet still so distant. 

Your heart squeezed painfully at how fragile Daeron Targaryen truly appeared when stripped bare of the numbing embrace of wine. You studied the dark circles under his beautiful violet irises. The tension in his body was scarcely covered by his loose clothing. He looked like he hadn't properly slept for many fortnights. And yet…he had come to you, sober. 

You could see it was ailing him. 

“Here,” You said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your movements were slower than usual as you leaned forward, the teapot warm in your soft hands as you poured him a cup of tea. The steam curled up into the cool air, carrying the soothing scent of mint and honey. You carefully held it out to him, the warmth seeping into your fingers as you continued, “It will help with the head pains.” 

Daeron blinked, startled by the gesture—by your kindness. He hadn’t expected you to serve him. Not after everything he did, or the things he didn't do. There was so much kindness in your heart it pained him to know he was the cause of so much pain. For a heartbeat, he just stared at the cup in your hands, the steam curling gently between you like an offering of peace. 

His fingers brushed against yours as he reached out to take it from you. It was a touch so small, but it sent a shock through his chest anyway. Warmth where there had only been coldness. The cup was warm against his palms as he cradled it with both hands, just holding it like something sacred because you had given this to him with care despite all his failings. 

You remembered how wine left him with throbbing temples after nights of drinking himself numb. His throat tightened suddenly. No one looked at his exhaustion and offered comfort instead of judgement or silence, or cold distance. No one understood him like you did.  

“Thank you,” He murmured, voice rough with lack of sleep and emotion alike. His hands were unsteady around the cup. He brought it up to his chapped lips. The mint hit first, cooling his dry throat instantly, and then came the honey’s sweetness. He took a few more small sips before he looked back into your lilac eyes.

Daeron’s gaze slid past you, subtle but weighted. He met the eyes of Ser Coren across the garden path. A silent conversation passed between them in that glance, one that only the two of them would understand. The prince wished for privacy. Ser Coren studied his prince for a long moment—the exhaustion etched into Daeron’s face, the rare sobriety, the quiet desperation beneath his usually indifferent expression. 

His eyes then went to you, his princess. You didn't look uncomfortable or upset at Daeron’s surprising presence, so he looked back at the prince and nodded. 

Without a word or changing his stance, Ser Coren turned slightly and began walking down the path and towards the tall flower bushes that grew along the stone walls—giving them space without fully leaving guard duty entirely behind. Ser Dalton followed after him obediently like an eager pup trailing after its master’s steps. 

You watched as they retreated far enough to give the two of you privacy but not far enough that they couldn't see you or intervene with swift footsteps if needed. Your lilac eyes found their way back to Daeron once they were out of hearing range. Now it was the two of you alone, together with the blooming flowers bathed in morning sunlight. 

The garden fell into a hushed intimacy. The birds still sang, the wind still danced through the petals and leaves, but now it dwelt like the world had narrowed to just this space beneath the flowering archway. Daeron exhaled slowly, his breath shaky as he lowered the teacup onto its saucer delicately. 

His violet eyes flickered over your face again—the soft curve of your cheekbone, how sunlight caught in your eyelashes and the lilac irises behind them—and something raw flickered in his. Regret? Longing? A love so deep it terrified him because he didn't know how to show it without breaking down? 

He swallowed hard before finally speaking. 

“I…” His voice cracked slightly, not even being able to get one syllable out before an uncharacteristic vulnerability filled his chest. He tried to keep those feelings locked away, but he always found himself falling apart when he was with you; he didn't want to hide from you. Nothing else came after that, his lips trembling with hesitation. The silence stretched —too long, too heavy—he couldn’t find the right words, the ones that he knew you deserved. 

He wanted to say so many things. 

I’m sorry for being a coward. I’m sorry for being a horrible brother, a horrible husband…a horrible father-to-be. I’m sorry for leaving you alone with the weight of carrying our child…I’m sorry for not looking at you properly until now. But they all tangled in his throat like thorns. 

Instead, Daeron did something uncharacteristically tender for him. Slowly, carefully, he reached his hand up to brush a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. His touch was featherlight, almost reverent, as if he was afraid you might vanish under his fingertips and into smoke like in his dragon dreams; you always slipped away when he got too close. 

Daeron’s breath hitched as you leaned into his palm. His fingers still lingered near your temple. The silence had been too heavy, so he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper—fragile and raw, words that carried the weight of moons apart. 

“I’ve missed you.” 

The words left him like an exhale, quiet but heavy as an anvil with meaning. Not just the absence of feeling your warm body against his in your shared bed—the bed he yearned to fall asleep in once again—but truly missed you. The warmth and calmness of your presence, the way the corner of your lips twitched as you tried to hold back a smile, the soft sound of your laughter that was already so rare to hear. 

You tilted your head faintly as you pressed your cheek into the palm of his hand; you could feel how hard he was trying to not have them tremble. You blinked at him softly; you gave no response—besides something gentle yet sorrowful filling your lilac eyes. You couldn’t stop the disappointment laced with the sorrow; you hadn’t been the one to leave; it was always him. 

You could only hide behind understanding until the hurt got too much to bear. It hurt too much to be angry—it hurt too much to feel anything. But all you ever did was feel; you didn’t know how to stop. 

“I haven’t been the one away…” You whispered back gently—not in an accusing tone, but simply giving him the hard truth. Sadness seeped into every word because you had been here; you were a princess stuck in her golden place, while he was a prince who did whatever he pleased. You had no choice; there was nowhere you could go. 

You looked at him, not with anger or coldness, but something softer. Sadder. Your shoulders dipped slightly under your silk gown, like your words had physically weighed down on you. His chest tightened painfully when those words settled, and suddenly he felt sick with guilt once again. 

“It wasn't without reason.”  He muttered quickly, a weak defense for his distance rather than an explanation. A bitter burning taste filled his mouth as soon as those words left his lips. He watched how your expression dimmed ever so slightly, the way sadness flickered across your lilac eyes before being masked away behind your calm composure. 

”That…that came out wrong, I didn’t mean for it to—“ His voice broke off, his breath quickening with panic because that wasn’t what he desired to say. He did not desire for it to sound like it was your fault. The reason he stayed away hadn’t been some noble, honorable excuse or cold logic; it was cowardice. Pure and simple. 

“I meant that…” Daeron swallowed hard, fingers slipping lower down your cheek before dropping his hand into his lap as if burned by the weight of his words. He looked down at them, his hands that had pushed you away for so long without truly meaning to, and then back up into your eyes. 

“The dreams,” he admitted quietly after a long pause where only birdsong filled the space between the two of you; neither of you knew how to handle this properly. You felt a cold, haunting chill go through your body at the mention of his dreams. No—no, you did not wish to know more; his dreams did not just scare him. He didn't desire to scare you, so he stopped himself when he noticed your body go tense. He exhaled sharply through his nose before continuing. 

“Twasn’t fair of me to leave you alone like this…” His voice was hollow now, stripped of any pride or defiance he usually wore like armour. For as long as he could remember, he’d been convincing himself that his distance was mercy—that staying away would protect you from the darkness that clung to him through his cursed dreams. He continued quietly, voice rough with emotion, “I wouldn’t fault you for hating me.” 

Gods, did he hate himself enough. 

The admiration hung between you, heavy and suffocating. The truth was that he expected hatred from you by now; he expected anger or resentment after he once again abandoned your side without explanation beyond drunken excuses when your servants went to find out where their princes had gone for you. He ignored your heartbreak, drinking away your marriage instead of being present with you. And he wouldn’t fault you for it; he deserved it. 

His jaw clenched as shame burned through his chest like dragonfire, the kind that scorched everything good in its path until only ashes remained. And right now? he felt nothing but ash inside himself because how could you love him after everything he’s done to you? 

Your heart ached at the sheer misery in his voice and eyes, the way he spoke like you should despise him—that you did despise him. But how could you? He was your brother, your husband, the father of your unborn child. 

You had never hated Daeron, not even when he drank himself into oblivion, not even when his absence carved a hollow into your heart for days. Not once did hatred take root inside of you towards him, despite how much it had hurt you. And gods did it hurt you. 

So gently, so tenderly, without thinking—you reached out and cupped the sides of his face with both hands. Your thumbs brushed along his cheekbones where exhaustion had carved deep shadows beneath his violet eyes; his stubble prickled your palms. His skin was cool against your touch as you memorized the feeling of him after being apart from him for so long. 

“You think I could hate you?” Your voice was soft but laced with something heartbreakingly gentle, like a whisper meant to soothe a wounded animal. You shook your head slightly as Daeron leaned into your hands, your warmth. 

“Daeron, I could never hate you.” You whispered with such strong certainty that it stunned him. There wasn't a trace of resentment or coldness in your tone; only sadness and soothing else underneath…love. Unwavering devotion despite everything he put you through. 

Tears welled up suddenly in his violet eyes, his breath catching violently in his chest as if he were struck by an arrow to his heart.  Not tears from drunkenness or from his dragon dreams, but real ones caused by the overwhelming emotions flowing through his body. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear them until they were finally said aloud by your lips, rather than a cruel trick in his dreams. 

The first tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. Then another, and another—silent at first, trembling trails of tears that glistened in the morning light. Daeron didn’t sob or wail like a child; his grief was quiet, broken and dignified even in its rawness. His hands flew up suddenly, not to push your hands away from him, but to cover yours where they still cradled his face. 

His fingers laced through yours desperately as if he was anchoring himself so he wouldn’t dissolve into nothing right there beneath your touch. Daeron’s shoulders shook once with suppressed emotion. A choked sound escaped him, a soft gasp beneath breaths as tears kept falling, now onto both of their laced hands. 

He wasn’t the only one overcome by emotions. 

You leaned in slowly, so slowly, giving him every chance to pull away if he wished. But Daeron didn't move back. He froze instead, breath hitching as your face drew closer, tears still glistening on his lashes like morning dew. His violet eyes fluttered shut just before you pressed your lips softly against his. 

It was a gentle kiss, a tender one—not filled with passion or hunger but something deeper: forgiveness, longing, yearning love that had endured a sense and pain without breaking. The warmth of it steeped into his soul. For a heartbeat, he didn't kiss back, too stunned by the soft sweetness of it all to believe that it was real, that you were kissing him. 

Then instinct took over; the ache inside him surged forward, and suddenly he kissed you back desperately yet reverently. Both of his hands slid from yours and moved down your shoulders and then your side, mindful not to hold tight. The kiss deepened just a fraction, not with hunger but with something achingly tender and vulnerable. Daeron kissed you like he was worshipping you. 

His lips were warm despite how cold he usually felt inside himself these days; they moved carefully against yours, slow and sweet. His tears mingled faintly between your joined lips; salt mixed with your honey mint tea. He kissed you as if he was afraid you’d vanish—the way one might kiss someone in a dream before waking to emptiness. His thumbs brushed over the soft fabric of your lilac gown near your hips in devotion. 

Daeron breathed shakily through his nose when he finally broke the kiss for air, but only by an inch or two before leaning back in to press another gentle peck to your lips and then another near the corner of your lips, and then to your cheek as you smiled from the soft touch. 

The warmth of his kisses lingered on your skin when suddenly a gentle but firm movement stirred in your belly. The baby kicked, a soft fluttering press like a tiny hand to foot brushing against the inside wall of your womb. Your eyes widened slightly, and without hesitation you grabbed your husband’s hand and pressed it firmly over the spot where the lift you both created was moving. 

Your breath hitched with quiet wonder and awe as you waited for him to feel it too. 

Daeron froze completely, his breath stopped mid-exhale, his entire body going rigid like stone at being handed such an intimate miracle. His eyes locked onto where his hand touched the fabric-covered skin in stunned disbelief; he hadn’t realized how real this all truly was until this moment. It wasn't just dreams and prophecies, but a living being growing inside his wife. 

Then, another kick came under their joined hands, a little stronger this time, and Daeron actually flinched from sheer shock before something raw and overwhelming crashed into him full force. His voice was barely above a whisper, fragile with concern and awe as his palm remained pressed against your belly, “Is it not painful?” 

You smiled at him—a soft, radiant thing that lit up your whole face. It was the first real smile you’d given him in moons, one of pure joy and not just politeness or duty. 

“Mm no,” you said gently, your voice warm like sunlight filtering through the leaves and flowers above as you leaned into his touch. You murmured sweetly as you continued, “I think our babe just likes the sound of their father's voice” 

The words were sweet and so tenderly spoken that they curled around his heart like vines wrapping something precious to protect it forever. Another strong kick pressed against his palm as if confirming what you had said, and suddenly tears welled back in his eyes, but these weren’t ones of sadness. 

These were happy ones, overwhelming so. So overwhelming he couldn't find the words to speak anymore, just stared down at where life pulsed beneath both your hands with wonder too vast for words alone right then. Your child, a living piece of love between them despite everything else feeling like it was falling apart around them. 

Daeron’s arms slowly wrapped around you so carefully, like you were made of the most delicate glass. He pulled you gently against his chest, mindful of your rounded belly between them. You leaned so comfortably against him without hesitation. The warmth of your body pressed into his side was real; the soft rise and fall of your breathing beneath his chin was real; the scent clinging to your hair, lavender oil, and the smell of your tea was real. 

He rested one hand low on your back while keeping the other splayed over your baby bump, small flutters beneath warm silk fabric where life grew inside you—something so undeniably real. 

No dragon dream could steal this moment from him; no wine could numb the sweetness away. And as petals drifted down onto your shoulders and the ground like silent blessings from the gods above, he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head without thinking. An instinct born barely out of overwhelming love that finally broke free after being locked away too long behind walls he built himself. 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙖𝙪 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 & 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜

Იᰍ our girl is pregnant and no one knows how to deal with it 😀 guys this was so hard for me to write, and I think it’s obvious because of the lack of dialogue. But I still hope you enjoyed it, because I love these two oh so much . the next fic will be when their child is finally here with them and how daeron is with them ☺️ please tell me your thoughts , ideas, and opinions, they are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! 🐇

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[emmaziadarcy]

[baratheonpilled]

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms 1.04

[fever-break]

with how aerion is about bloodline and how much pride he has about being targaryen (and how he ends up marrying in lore) it's not that hard to imagine him being attached to a cousin or a sister even, especially if you were capable and intelligent, someone he can see as his equal (gasp), someone who can help him bring glory again to the targaryen name. he was a just boy once, like daeron said, and i like to imagine he was like that with you especially. he's arrogant and condescending to everyone else but why would he act like that to you? you are worthy of his admiration. if anything he preens like a satisfied cat when you pay attention to him, some boyish remnant from years past that never went away when it came to you. you've never disappointed him and by this point he's idealized you so much that nothing ever will. it's never even been a question to him who he'll marry and he's never entertained the thought of someone else. he's completely zeroed in on restoring the glory to your house name and the only person who can carry this out with him is you. it doesn't matter if that's your life goal as well; as long as you're beside him you're already doing your part. i think once he loves you he'll start to think of you as the same unit almost, so he'll be as prideful of you as he is of himself. he'll be as fiercely devoted to you as he'll ever be to anything.

[fever-break]

Daeron Targaryen x Targaryen princess!reader

angst | requited(?) love | like ANGST | targcest (mc is baelor's daughter) | yearning | alcohol (of course) | daeron is sober here

Summary: You and Daeron had always been close. Recently, he's picked up the habit of going to taverns, and of course he wants to invite his favourite cousin, the princess, for her first time getting drunk. One stolen night and neither of you come back the same.

a/n: first post!! im nervous but i wanted to put this out before i went insane. thats all ty!!!

2.9k words

Daeron had never been shy about wanting your comfort. Not even as a boy, a few years your senior, who by all means should have known better.

If he skinned a knee, he came to find you before he'd even finished crying about it. If he was rattled by a bad dream—and, even then, he'd always had bad dreams—he’d track you down, pale with shadows under his eyes, and slump down beside you without a word. He’d lay his heavy head right in your lap, or press his brow against your shoulder, letting his forehead rest against your collarbone while you stroked his hair. He never asked if he was interrupting your lessons, never cared if your septa cleared her throat in disapproval until Uncle Maekar dragged him away. It's as though asking had never once occurred to him, as though he didn't even consider that you might turn him away.

And you hadn't. You never did.

You once teased him for it. Lightly. Called him a baby, when you were young enough that the word still stung, and watched his pretty face crumple before you could take it back. You gave him your hand for the rest of the afternoon to make up for it. He never held a grudge, not about that, not about anything. He simply came back the next time he needed something, same as always, entirely unbothered by whatever indignity he'd suffered the last time he'd asked.

That's just how it was between you two.

By rights, it should have been embarrassing, a prince of the realm, grown into manhood, leaning so helplessly on his younger cousin, reaching for you like a little boy. Yet somehow, it didn't feel shameful. You liked being needed in that quiet, desperate way, even if it was a truth you only ever admitted to yourself.

When the wine found him, it looked at first like nothing worth worrying over. He'd come back from his wanderings down the hill loose and easy, humming some tune he'd picked up along the way. He slept better, after. Didn't wake in fits so often. You told yourself—and later, revisiting these moments, you know that you told this to yourself because it was easier—that a boy who laughed more and slept easier couldn't have found anything so very wrong.

"Come with me tonight," he pleaded one evening, tugging at your wrist. "We'll come back before anyone notices. Please?"

You made a show of resisting, part due to some deference owed to your father, some responsibility to at least put up a fight before giving in to the opportunity for rebellion. But mostly you just liked hearing him plead. Come on, cousin, we don't get to see each other as much as we should, come with me? Please?

Silly Daeron. Like you could ever say no to him.

You were caught, of course, the very first time you tried. You weren't practiced at doing things behind your family's back. Uncle Maekar's voice had filled the halls with words you'd never dare repeat in polite company, threatening to send Daeron to the Wall if he dragged the princess into gutters. Daeron was older, he should be setting an example, not leading you into danger. You weren't spared either, getting chastised for going along with your cousin's whims. Although he was admittedly gentler towards you, it still left your cheeks warm with embarrassment.

But you caught Daeron's eye in the middle of it anyway, and knew, even then, it would only be a matter of time before you tried again.

Baelor didn’t scold you for it. That breakfast, he passed you bread, a knowing glint in his eye, and said that young dragons should learn to stretch their wings every now and again. In your next attempt, the guards at the postern gate that night suddenly found the stars very interesting, letting two hooded figures from the Keep slip past them into the dark. Knowing your father was in on the secret took away a bit of the reckless thrill, but the air smelled like freedom just the same, even if it was slightly noxious.

There was an overflow of people tonight, something Daeron hadn't predicted. You kept flinching from every moving body, wary even once you'd managed to squeeze into a small corner, all too aware of what could happen if your hood slipped. White hair might have passed, at a glance, for any Targaryen bastard's get. But you weren't willing to leave it entirely to chance.

He'd reached for your hand across the small table and squeezed it, hard enough to startle you into looking at him for an explanation.

"Do you trust me, cousin?" The crowd was rowdy and loud enough that any real conversation was impossible. You nodded. "Then drink. I have you. I promise."

You had wanted to question it, ask more on what he was planning, though you found there was little use arguing over the noise, so you'd steeled your nerves and downed your drink, letting the excess slosh down your face the way you'd seen the other men do. He'd cheered. You'd laughed with him. Though the crowd wasn't cheering for you, it had felt, for a moment, like they were.

At some point in the night, your hand had threaded through his, the motion old and natural. Your head had landed on his shoulder, unceremoniously. Daeron knew the names of half the room, or claimed to—the barkeep's daughter, a one-eyed sellsword nursing the same drink for an hour—and whispered their stories to you in fragments, probably invented, though you couldn't get him to admit it. It made you giggle into his shoulder as he built taller and taller tales out of nothing, until you choked on your own drink laughing, and he had to pat your back while you regained your breath.

There was a twinkle in his eye that told you exactly how much he was enjoying himself. You liked that about him. Silly, sensitive Daeron. You liked that he could make a strange, ugly, wonderful place feel familiar and warm.

You were properly drunk—the first time you had ever let yourself be fully careless. You'd spent your whole life wound tight, and here was Daeron, for once, entirely whole. Sober. His hand stayed over the lip of his own cup, turning barmaids away, watching over you until the sun threatened to rise and your stomach threatened to turn.

"This is good fun, Daeron. I can see why you do this so often," you mumbled, finally audible without shouting. The crowd had thinned some hours ago, leaving stragglers like the two of you behind. Sweat had made your hair stick to your face. You blinked as Daeron brushed the damp strands away, tucking them behind your ear, lingering there.

"I'm glad you came with me," he said, a smile in his voice.

You'd always known your cousin was handsome. You'd never had to confront it quite like this. This close, whatever girlish blindness had once protected you from noticing finally worn away. He'd grown into himself since the last time you'd looked, the way boys did, all at once like they were making up for years overdue. The soft roundness he'd had as a child had sharpened—his jaw, his shoulders. Hair like beaten gold, damp at the temples. Eyes like the sky before a storm breaks, clearer that night than you could ever remember them being.

You hadn't led a hard life. Nothing about it demanded escape, no quiet resentment driving you toward rebellion. You loved your home, your family. You'd do anything for them, were fully prepared for what duty would ask of you, when the time came.

But that night, in the dim, sticky belly of some Flea Bottom tavern, you'd felt something else entirely: alive. Beneath the fog and the roar of a hundred shouting voices, you were just another body in the crowd, swallowed by the shadow of the castle, like everybody else.

No one in your family could have understood the relief of it. Just for a few hours, simply being a stupid girl instead of a princess. No one but Daeron.

Wonderful, sweet, tortured Daeron, who'd set his own escape aside so you could experience yours. Even just for tonight.

"Me too," you mumbled, suddenly aware of  the distance between you. There were two things warring in you, the part that wanted to shove yourself deeper into the junction of his neck and never resurface, and the part that couldn't bear being this close, his skin now suddenly feeling like it was searing yours.

The rowdy din of the tavern—the clinking of pewter tankards, the low rumbles of laughter, the scraping of chairs—seemed to recede into a muted, faraway world. All that remained was the small, sacred space between his breath and yours. Something fragile hung in the air, so delicate and taut that you held your breath, paralyzed by the quiet fear that if you spoke too loudly, or even shifted an inch, the spell would break and the moment would be lost forever.

The truth hit you with a sudden, overwhelming clarity. Gods. You love him.

Your mind went straight to your family. Your father, preparing for the weight of the Seven Kingdoms on his shoulders. Sooner, rather than later, if the rumours were to be believed about your grandfather. You knew the rules of your world; you had been trained for them, fully prepared for the day you would be traded for a high lord's loyalty.

You hate that you thought of it, the truth tasting bitter on your tongue.

Loving Daeron would give way to nothing.

It forged no new alliances, squashed no rebellions, brought no new swords to your family's defense. All that was his was already yours. Your lord father was too gentle a man to ever force you into something you didn't want, but you knew what you owed. You knew the good you could do—the good that you would do.

But tonight, you were just another stupid girl, weren't you? The rest of your life could be for the realm. But you could have tonight.

He was so close that you could feel the heat of him on your face. If you'd just tilt your head some, you could catch his lips in yours. You didn't know how to—Gods, did Daeron mind?

You didn't have time to process the thought before his trembling hand rose, his fingers cupping the curve of your jaw with a reverence that made your throat tight. 

Then, he tilted his face upward, his nose brushing softly against the crown of your scalp, his forehead coming to rest against yours before his lips found the center of your brow. Even separated by the worn material of your hood, the kiss was a whisper of pressure. It was so light that for a breath you thought your mind might have invented it entirely.

You understood it for what it was.

It felt like an admission.

It felt like a retreat.

You reached for your drink and swallowed a heavy gulp, tears burning the back of your eyes. He knew. He knew before you, had arrived at the same bitter conclusion and you were just following the footsteps he's left in the sand.

"Tell me a story," you said. You needed a distraction before you cried further like a fool. "Like the ones you told about them." You nodded vaguely toward the room.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked softly, offering a faint, fragile attempt at a smile. "I only tell true stories."

A weak huff escaped your chest, endeared despite yourself. Yet the warmth of it only made the ache beneath your ribs bloom act again, pressing into it like a fresh bruise. Sweet, gentle Daeron.

"And about who, this time?"

You let your eyes sweep the room. No face in the crowd tonight caught your eye. No one seemed worth building a tale around. After letting the silence stretch, you finally murmured, "Ours."

He considered you a long, heavy moment. You could feel him staring at the side of your face and couldn't quite bring yourself to meet it. It would be too honest. Too open.

"All right." He turned his cup slowly, not drinking from it, just turning it—something to do with his hands while he thought. He cleared his throat. "So. There's a man and a woman who walked into a tavern.

"This man was an honest man. He had a job as a baker, a little past Tanner's Row. Not the best at it, but good enough to keep the job. It paid him little, but at the end of the day, he got to bring warm food home to his wife, and that was good enough for them.

"Now, this woman was the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen. She married him anyway, though he couldn't afford her gowns or jewels or silks. He used to worry, before they wed, that some lord's son would offer her everything he couldn't. He wouldn't have begrudged her for taking it, if she had. She deserved a proper life. A proper husband. Her mind could've rivaled a maester's, and her face could've won her a kingdom. Instead, she married a baker."

You nearly laughed, though your chest constricted painfully. "Was there a scandal?"

"Oh, yes. All good stories need one. Everyone thought the baker unworthy of her, and he thought the same. But the lady wife was stubborn, and so she stubbornly chose him anyway, over riches and comfort both.

"They lived near the Street of Steel. But tonight, they were feeling adventurous, and stumbled into this tavern, giggling among themselves. You'd mistake them for newlyweds — but they'd loved each other since before either of them could remember."

"What happens to them?"

"Nothing." He turned the cup once more before letting it still, a wistful smile settling over him. "Nothing of note at all. That's the best part, I think. He sleeps well. He has dreams, occasionally, but they leave his mind by morning. Doesn't drink, doesn't gamble. Just an honest man and his remarkable wife, living an ordinary life. It unfolds in front of them, same as it did for their mothers and fathers, and everyone who came before."

"That sounds like a very boring story," you said, though your voice didn't come out as light as you meant it to.

"The best lives usually are." He finally looked up at you, and for a moment neither of you said anything at all, the barmaids clearing tables around you, indifferent to the particular silence sitting at your table. 

The weight of it hit you. They were all living their own lives, their own loves, their own destinies to wrestle with and fight, and yours was moving just as relentlessly. This night with Daeron wouldn't stop your future from coming. You were here, another stranger with another story, and you had a role you couldn't run from.

Daeron was not a baker, and you were not his wife. You were a princess of the realm and a daughter of an honourable man, and you would play your part. Your mouth had gone dry, your throat tight. But you needed to know something. You met his eyes and asked, "Are they happy?"

He smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "The happiest in all the realms."

You looked at him. There's a faint tremble in his fingers, the quiet grief tucked into the corner of his mouth.

"Happy," you echoed softly. "Doesn't seem very true, does it?"

"No." He let you keep holding his hand. "But it's nice to imagine."

He looked at you, heavy-lidded, something raw and aching flickering behind his eyes before he let them close. He looked so small slouching against the rough bench. Less Targaryen. Less imperial. Just a boy.

You didn't know how long you stayed like that, resting your head against his shoulder while your fingers played idly with his. You caught the faint line of a scar notched into his forefinger, and without thinking, raised it to press a kiss directly to the worn skin. He stiffened, caught off guard by the tender gesture, then relaxed.

"Come on," he murmured, slipping out of your seat, jostling you out of your peaceful stasis. "The sun will be up before we reach the hill."

You left coins on the table. Far too many for ale that sour, but in this life, you had that at least, in excess. You sighed, steadying yourself. When you leave the tavern, the air smelled of damp stone and old mud, and it somehow didn’t seem so bad as last night.

You walked the rest of the way in silence, the lower city giving way, gradually, to the long shadow of the Red Keep. Somewhere above you both, the castle was waking. Up there, he would be Daeron the Drunk. And you would be exactly who you'd always been—a good daughter, a dutiful daughter, ready to do whatever your family needed you to do.

Years into the future, you would remember this night, when the ache in your chest grew heavy enough to crush you beneath its weight. You would remember the shape of his mouth against your brow, the heat of him still lingering around you. You would think of the baker and his wife, and learn, slowly, how to live with what you'd chosen instead.

It wouldn't be enough. It was never going to be enough.

But it was something. And you would keep it, love tucked deep in your heart, a secret sealed between you, binding as any oath.