Fey @feyrfly - Tumblr Blog

can we get more of ls x aerion & caraxes pls?🙏🏻

INCLUDES: stark!reader, dragons survived the dance!au, tw: aerion & caraxes (when you match each other's freaks 🥺), obsessive behaviour from a man and his emotional support war criminal nuke lizard, caraxes being a #1 hater (not of you lol), unhealthy co-dependency with a reptile, probable violations of OSHA safety regulations re: dragon handling, prince who has never heard of the concept of personal boundaries, author rawdogging dragon bonds, dragon-enabled stalking, the worst case of "my dog likes you so I guess you're coming home with me" ever recorded, features a dragon who is a better wingman than any of your friends and he WILL make you feel bad about it. I had way too much fun with this and I love these two messy bitches, enjoy!

The bond isn't a metaphor, not for Aerion and not for Caraxes. Some riders are simply closer to their dragons than others. It's not we understand each other. It's I feel his hunger in my jaw, I feel his rage in my spine, when he wants to kill I taste blood. The bond is visceral and it doesn't lie.

He knew Caraxes wanted you before he knew he wanted you. Felt it like a sickness—this pulling sensation in his chest every time you walked past the pit entrance. Thought he was going mad until he went down and found Caraxes pacing, neck low, nostrils flaring at the air like he was trying to track prey. The dragon's want hit him like a fist to the gut. Immediate. Certain. Sexual. Her.

The first time he admitted to himself that he wanted you—not wanted to have you the way he'd had other girls, quick and forgettable in dark corners, but wanted you the way Caraxes wants to hoard his kills, the way a man wants water after days in the sun, the way he wants to own something—the dragon screamed. Just screamed, thrashed his tail hard enough to crack flagstones, and Aerion had to brace himself against the wall because the want was pouring through the bond so hard he couldn't see, couldn't think past the image of you under him, throat bared, his name in your mouth.

He didn't try to starve it out. Why would he? Aerion has never been interested in denial. He fed it. Let it grow teeth. Spent two weeks trailing you through the keep like a predator tracking prey, learning your routine, cataloguing every place you touched, every person you smiled at, every moment you were alone. Caraxes paced the whole time, restless and eager, and Aerion felt it echo in his own body. The need to get closer, to corner you somewhere private, to make you look at him the way you look at his uncle.

The bond means he feels everything Caraxes feels about you. The dragon's satisfaction when you're near, a warm purr in Aerion's chest. The possessive mine-ours-keep that rolls through both of them until Aerion's hands shake with the effort of not reaching for you in front of witnesses. The hunger—and it is hunger, visceral and greedy, not for food but for you. The way you smell. The shape of your mouth. The curve of your throat. The sounds you'd make.

Sometimes he'll be in the yard, watching you talk to Baelor, and he'll feel Caraxes's claws flexing, the dragon's fury bleeding into his own until his vision whites out at the edges. The want to take you. To walk across that yard, grab you by the wrist, drag you somewhere dark and private and put his mouth on you until you forget Baelor's name. He doesn't do it. Not yet. But not because he feels guilty, because he's patient. Because taking you in front of an audience would be fast and he wants it slow. Wants you to come to him. Wants you to choose.

He hasn't stopped trying to control it. He's stopped pretending he wants to control it. The want is there. The want is good. It makes him sharper. Meaner. More focused. Every moment you're in a room together feels like standing on a blade's edge, and he's learned to love that feeling—the anticipation, the restraint that's really just a countdown to the moment you finally break and reach for him first.

Guilt? He doesn't feel it. Why should he? You're not Baelor's yet. The betrothal isn't sealed. You haven't said the words in a sept. And even if you do... well. Aerion has never cared about vows. You could be married to his uncle and he'd still want you. Would still take you if you let him. Dragons don't stop wanting something just because someone else has a claim. They take. They keep. It's in their blood, in their nature.

The only thing he regrets is that he's not more ruthless. That he's still playing this slow game when he could just corner you in a corridor, press you against the wall, and make you admit you want him too. Because you do. He sees it. The way your eyes linger on his mouth when he talks. The way your breath catches when he stands too close. The way you forget yourself in the meadow and reach for him like it's natural. You want him. You're just too duty-bound and proud to admit it. Yet.

He thinks about you constantly. Obsessively. What you'd taste like. What sounds you'd make. How you'd look with his hands in your hair, his mouth on your throat, your legs around his waist. He thinks about it in council meetings. At feasts. In the yard. Lying in bed at night with his hand on his cock and Caraxes's satisfied purr rumbling through the bond because the dragon can feel it, can feel Aerion imagining you, and approves.

He's memorised you. The shape of your collarbone, the small scar on your knuckle and the way you bite your lower lip when you're thinking. The particular shade of your eyes in sunlight versus torchlight. He knows how many steps you take from the great hall to your chambers (forty-three). He knows you favour your right leg slightly when you're tired (old injury, probably, he hasn't asked). He knows the exact pitch of your laugh when you're genuinely amused versus being coolly polite. He knows you better than Baelor does, and Baelor's the one who gets to touch you in public.

That's going to change. It's not a question of if. It's a question of when you stop fighting it and let him have what you both want.

Caraxes is notorious, that's the thing. The Blood Wyrm. The most ill-tempered, vicious, foul dragon alive except for the Cannibal himself. He snaps at keepers, screeches at other dragons, has bitten three handlers and burned two others. The only person he tolerates is Aerion. Everyone else is an enemy or food.

The dragonkeepers draw lots to see who has to feed him. No one wants the duty. He's mean. He'll snatch the sheep out of their hands and snarl. Will rake his tail across the ground and force them to jump back. Once pinned a keeper to the wall with his snout and just breathed on him (hot sulphurous breath, smoke curling from his nostrils) until the man pissed himself. Aerion had to come down and call him off. The dragon was smug about it for days.

Other dragons give him space. He's not the largest (that's Vermithor, old bronze bastard) but he's the meanest, the quick and the most vicious. Willing to bite first and worry about consequences never. The dragonkeepers say he's mad. Aerion says he's just particular.

Once, a new keeper (young, stupid, didn't know the rules yet) tried to approach you while you were petting Caraxes. Wanted to ask if you needed anything. Got within five feet and Caraxes's head snapped around. The growl that came out of him made the keeper go white. You had to put your hand on the dragon's neck, murmur, "He's fine, he's just doing his job" before Caraxes settled. The keeper learned. Everyone learned. When Lady Stark is in the pit, you don't approach. You stay back. You wait for her to leave.

Caraxes has bitten anyone who speaks to you dismissively in his hearing. Well, tried to bite. The pit has thick walls and the dragonkeepers are fast, but the intent is there. Once, Aerion was in the pit with you and some lord made a passing jape from the gallery above (something about northern girls being too wild for southern courts). Caraxes lunged at the gallery wall, not because he understood the words but because he felt how his rider felt at those words. Claws scrabbling on stone, screaming. The lord fell backward. Aerion only gave a disdainful snort and it took a pointed stare from you for Aerion to call Caraxes off. Eventually.

You're the only person besides Aerion who can touch him without getting bitten. The keepers are baffled. "He's never let anyone—" "She's not anyone," Aerion says, and doesn't elaborate.

For Caraxes, it's a lot simpler, he views you in rather simple terms: MINE. OURS. OURS. OURS. KEEP. CLAIM. TAKE.

You smell like cold and stone and pack and something sharp, not Targaryen, not fire, not anything he's supposed to want. Doesn't matter because he wants you anyway. You're his rider's which makes you his. It's the only truth that matters.

Doesn't understand why you aren't already in the nest. Doesn't understand why his rider keeps circling you, watching you, aching for you, and not simply taking you. That's what you do with precious things. You take them. You keep them. You bite and burn anyone who tries to take them away. You claim them. His rider is being stupid about this.

The other one (the one who touches you, the one whose scent is on you when you comes near the pit, the one whose name makes his rider's chest go tight and furious and hungry) he's wrong. Needs to leave. Needs to stop putting his hands on what belongs to them. Needs to die or go away or at minimum stop touching you. Caraxes has explained this to his rider many times (through growls, through the bond, through thrashing fits when the wrongness gets too strong) but his rider keeps saying not yet and patience and Caraxes is tired of waiting.

The bronze one (Vermithor) is part of the problem. The bronze one carries the wrong-one. The bronze one is old and slow and in the way. Caraxes could shred him throat to tail. Has imagined it in explicit detail: where to bite, how to tear, the satisfaction of watching the bronze one fall. His rider has felt every second of it through the bond and has not said no. Has not said stop. Has only said not yet. This, at least, is promising.

Every time you come to the pit, something in him settles. The restlessness eases and the world makes sense again. You're here. You're close. You smells like cold-stone-pack and under it all, faintly, you smell like them now. Like smoke and open sky. Like you've been marked. Good. You should smell like them, should smell like his rider, like you've been claimed.

When you leave (when you walk away, when your scent fades, when his rider's chest goes tight with watching you go) the world is wrong again. Unbearable. Needs you back. His rider needs you back. The wanting is a physical ache in both of them, traveling the bond until neither of them can tell whose want it is anymore. Want-ache-need. Hunger that isn't satisfied by sheep or goats or anything that isn't you.

You touch him, puts your hands on his scales. Your palms are small and warm and you pet him like he's something gentle, something safe, and not an ancient creature that's devoured and burned thousands, and he loves it. Craves it. Every time you reach for him his rider's breath catches, his rider's chest goes tight with want, his rider's body goes hard, and Caraxes can feel it all: the jealousy-pleasure-aching need. His rider wants your hands on him like that, wants your touch. Wants the gentleness and your fierceness and your everything. Caraxes gets it instead and his rider suffers and it's delicious and terrible and perfect.

You're affectionate with him in ways you're not affectionate with his rider. You kiss his great snout, scratch under his jaw. Murmurs soft things in strange tongue he doesn't understand but it's rough and warm and he likes it very much. You lean into him when you're tired. And every single time, his rider burns with it—desire and jealousy and the aching knowledge that you could do this to him if you'd let yourself. The bond carries it all. Caraxes feels his rider's hunger. Knows his rider is imagining your mouth on his skin, your hands in his hair, your body against his. Knows his rider is half-mad with it. Good. They should both be mad. Madness is language of dragons, of predators.

You keep the barrier between you. You're a Stark. Duty-bound. You don't let him get too close in the keep, don't let him walk you back from the yard, don't meet his eyes too long at feasts. You're careful. So, so careful. It would be admirable if it wasn't so fucking futile.

Because in the meadow? In the sky? You forget yourself.

The first time he took you there was an accident, but not the times after that. The meadow sits two hours south of the city. Wildflowers everywhere, knee-high grass, clean sky, no one for miles. Caraxes settled in the middle of it like a red stain on green cloth and started humming, this low satisfied sound, and when Aerion helped you down your legs were shaking. From your first flight. From the adrenaline. From the way his hands lingered at your waist and he said, quiet, "I have you."

You spent the afternoon there. Aerion sprawled in the grass, kissed by warm sunlight, shirt unlaced at the throat, utterly at ease in a way you've never seen him at the keep. Caraxes drowsing nearby, neck curled, one eye half-open watching you. You sat a careful three feet from both of them initially and Aerion watched you try to maintain the distance and smiled to himself. She thinks she's safe here. She's not. This is my place. My dragon. My rules. But I'll let her think it for now. It only took an hour for his head to end up in your lap.

Later, when you asked why he brought you here, he didn't answer for a long time. Then: "Because you looked like you couldn't breathe in the keep. And I wanted to see what you look like when you can." A pause. His eyes on yours, pale and too steady. "Also because Caraxes has been insufferable about you and this was easier than listening to him destroy the pit."

He keeps bringing you back. Once a week. Then twice. Then whenever Caraxes gets "restless" (which is code for Aerion wants an excuse to steal you away and the dragon is a convenient scapegoat).

You learn the shape of it by heart: the slant of the light through the grass in the afternoon, the way the wind smells clean and green and nothing like the city, the particular flower (some low purple thing) that grows in thick patches near the big oak. It becomes yours. The only place where the rules of the keep don't apply away from Winterfell.

Aerion brings things. Wine, sometimes. Food. A book, though he never reads them, just uses them as pillows while you sit nearby and he watches you through his lashes. A thick fur, because the grass is damp and he doesn't want you cold (doesn't say that, just spreads it out and tells you to sit, stop staring, just sit, will you?). He's building something here, making it comfortable. Creating a place you'll want to return to, making it impossible for you to imagine not coming back.

The dragon has opinions about the meadow. Specific spots he likes. Will huff and shift his bulk until you move closer to his preferred location. He's decided the space under the oak is his spot and you should sit there (in the curve of his side) and Aerion should sit there (close enough to reach you) and if you try to maintain more distance he grumbles until you come back.

Aerion has started lying with his head in your lap sometimes after that first time. Sprawls out in the grass and rests his head on your thigh like it's his right, every time you say his name in warning, without opening his eyes, he says, "Caraxes gets to. Why not me?" And you don't have an answer for that. So now he does it and you let him. Your hand hovers sometimes, like you want to touch his hair again but don't dare. He waits. He's patient. You'll give in eventually.

You've started bringing things too. The fur (you brought it the second time, said you didn't want him to have to carry everything). A flask of something stronger than wine, which you share, passing it back and forth until you're both warm and loose-limbed. Honey-cakes from the kitchen, which Aerion eats too fast and then complains his teeth hurt and you laugh, bright and genuine, and the sound does something very dangerous to him.

He's told you things in the meadow he's never told anyone. About his father, about what it felt like when his mother died and no one seemed to care. About how Caraxes was the first thing that ever chose him, the first thing that looked at him and didn't see a spare prince or a problem or a mistake, just saw Aerion, too bright and volatile, and wanted him anyway. His voice goes rough when he talks about it and you reach for him without thinking, hand on his arm, and he stares at your fingers on his wrist and doesn't pull away.

You've told him things too. About Winterfell. About your father. About duty and losing your own mother. About how sometimes you look at Baelor and feel safe but not alive, and you don't know what that makes you.

It's his favourite place in the world now, because he gets to see you, unguarded. Soft in ways you never are at court. Your hair coming loose from its pins. Your laugh bright and easy. Your hands gentle on Caraxes, on the grass, sometimes (gods, sometimes) on him.

The way you look at the sky when Caraxes flies overhead, showing off. Like you're proud. Like the dragon is yours to be proud of.

The way you've stopped flinching when Aerion gets close. The way you've started leaning toward him instead of away.

The exact shape of you drowsing in the sun, head on Caraxes's side, hair fanned out in the grass, face soft and younger than it ever looks in the keep.

The little unconscious things: the way you hum sometimes, tunelessly. The way you braid grass while you talk. The way you reach for him without thinking when you're excited or surprised.

He sees the exact moment you forget, every single time, that you're supposed to keep the barrier. The moment you relax. The moment you let yourself just be with him and Caraxes, no duty, no betrothal, just this.

And he hoards it. Every moment. Every smile. Every touch. Takes it back to the keep with him and uses it to feed the wanting.

One time you're in the meadow in late afternoon, sitting in the grass, and Caraxes is drowsing nearby with his great head in your lap. You're petting him. Long, slow strokes down the scales of his hot snout, murmuring to him in that soft voice you use with creatures you think can't understand you ("You're not so bad, are you? Terrible, beautiful thing."). Aerion is ten feet away, ostensibly reading, actually watching you through his lashes with his jaw tight.

And then you look at him. Smile. Small and genuine and unguarded. Reach your hand out without thinking, beckoning him closer. "Come here, he's being sweet." Like it's natural, as if there's no reason he shouldn't be in your space. Like you've forgotten you're supposed to keep three feet of air between you at all times.

He nearly swallows his tongue, putting the book down slowly. Comes over. Sits next to you in the grass, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh. You don't move it. Don't pull away. Just keep petting Caraxes, smiling at the dragon, and Aerion can barely fucking breathe because this—you, soft and unguarded, wanting him close—this is what he's been starving for.

Through the bond: Caraxes's smug, satisfied pleasure. The dragon can feel Aerion's heart racing, can feel the want spiking sharp and desperate, and is pleased. Yes. Closer. Good. Keep her close.

You stay like that for an hour. Your knee against his thigh. Your hand occasionally brushing his arm when you gesture while talking. You don't seem to notice. He notices. The warmth of you. The faint scent of you, soap and something sharp and cold, lavender underneath maybe. The small unconscious smile you wear when Caraxes purrs under your touch. He commits it all to memory. Takes it out later, alone in his chambers, and uses it, over and over.

You keep reaching for them in small ways. It keeps happening. Small moments where you forget the barrier and reach for him like it's instinct.

After a flight, wind-rattled and laughing, you stumble slightly on landing and grab his forearm to steady yourself. Your fingers wrap around his wrist (small hand, strong grip) and you squeeze. "Thank you." Breathless. Grinning. Your hand lingers for three seconds too long before you seem to remember yourself and let go. He feels the absence of your touch like a wound for hours.

Once, you're both sitting in the meadow, watching Caraxes hunt (the dragon likes to show off, dive for rabbits in the field, making a game of hunting without flame). You're laughing, delighted, and without thinking you grab Aerion's hand. Lace your fingers through his and squeeze, pulling him closer to watch. "Look, he's playing with it—" And then you realise what you've done. Your hand goes still in his and you look down at your interlaced fingers. You hold on for another heartbeat, two, three, before you slowly pull back and murmur something about the heat making you forget yourself.

Aerion says nothing. Just flexes his hand, feeling the ghost of your grip, and files it away. That night he lies in bed and remembers the exact pressure of your fingers, the warmth of your palm, the way you held on even after you noticed.

You fall asleep in the meadow once with your head pillowed on Caraxes's side. When you wake up, groggy and sun-warmed, you find Aerion sitting closer than he was. Not touching you, but close, close enough that you could reach out and touch him. You blink up at him, sleep-soft and unguarded, and instead of moving away you smile. Reach up without thinking and push a strand of pale hair back from his forehead. Your fingers graze his temple. Linger there. "You have grass in your hair." Your voice is low, affectionate, the voice you'd use with a friend or a lover, and then you seem to wake up fully and realise what you're doing. Your hand jerks back. You sit up quickly, muttering something about the sun making you thoughtless.

He doesn't move or speak. Just watches you with those too-pale eyes while Caraxes rumbles, pleased, and through the bond Aerion feels the echo of your touch like a brand. He wants to grab your wrist, yank you back. Put your hand back in his hair and tell you to keep touching him, to claim and rip. He doesn't. Not yet. But he wants.

You're affectionate with his dragon in ways that make Aerion insane. You don't seem to understand what it does to him. How the bond works, how every touch you give Caraxes, Aerion feels in an echo.

You scratch under the dragon's jaw and Caraxes purrs, this deep rumbling satisfied sound that vibrates through the ground, and Aerion feels it in his own chest. Feels the pleasure of your touch. Your fingers are gentle, rhythmic, finding the spots that make the dragon's eyes half-lid in bliss, and Aerion is sitting ten feet away, hard and aching, because he can feel it. Can feel your touch like it's on his own skin and it's not enough. It's fucking torture. It's the closest he's gotten to having you and it's not enough.

You kiss Caraxes's snout once, just a quick press of lips to warm scales, laughing at something, "There, you ridiculous creature, happy now?" and Aerion has to turn away. Has to walk away before he does something stupid like take you right there in the open until you can't deny how much you want this. Because Caraxes's pleasure slams through the bond and mixes with his own desperate want and he can feel what your mouth would be like on his skin. Soft. Warm. The pressure of it. He's halfway across the meadow, hands in fists, breathing hard, and you call after him confused ("Aerion? Are you all right?") and he can't answer because if he opens his mouth he'll say something he can't take back.

You lean into the dragon when you're tired. Bury your face in the curve of Caraxes's meaty neck, arms around hot scales, and just breathe. Like the dragon is a comfort, like he's safe. Caraxes rumbles, pleased and protective, and curls his neck around you gently, and Aerion watches. How you go soft and trusting in the dragon's embrace. Watches the way your fingers stroke absently over each scale, and he wants. Wants you to lean into him like that. Wants your face buried in his neck, your arms around him, your trust. Wants to be the thing you turn to when you need comfort.

Through the bond, he feels Caraxes's satisfaction. The dragon's smug pleasure at being trusted, at being chosen for affection by their she-wolf. And under it, the dragon's certainty: She does this with me. Soon she will do this with you. Patience. She is learning us. Learning that we are safe. Soon.

You pet the dragon absently while talking to Aerion, fingers tracing the ridges of scales, following the line of Caraxes's terrifying jaw, gentle and unconscious. You have no idea what it does to him. How he can feel every stroke of your hand through the bond. How Caraxes is smug and pleased and purring under your attention like a preening cat, and Aerion is sitting three feet away, imagining it's him you're touching. Imagining your hands in his hair, on his skin, on him.

The worst part is that you're gentle with the most terrifying dragon alive. Tender. You murmur soft things ("Good boy, yes, you're being so good for me.") and Caraxes melts under it, and Aerion feels the echo of that praise like a hit of wine. He wants you to speak to him like that, to purr those praises into his ear while he's inside you. Wants your gentleness and your tenderness and your approval. It's degrading how much he wants it. He doesn't care.

You've started doing this thing where you look at the dragon and then look at Aerion, and your expression softens. Like you're starting to see them as a unit, affection for one is bleeding into the other. You don't even notice you're doing it. But Aerion notices. Gods, he notices. Notes every time your guard drops like that. Each smile meant for Caraxes that you accidentally give to him too. Every soft look and gentle word. He hoards them like a dragon hoards gold.

Once, you're watching Caraxes preen his wings in the meadow sun, and you say, without thinking, "He's beautiful, isn't he?" And then you glance at Aerion, and something in your face shifts. Your eyes drag over him—the sharp lines of his face, the pale fall of his hair, the lean dangerous shape of him in the grass—and you look away, but not before he sees it. The recognition, the heat, the unwilling attraction. You think he's beautiful too. You don't want to, you fight against it, but you do.

You've started sitting closer to him. Not intentionally (you still keep the careful distance in public) but in the meadow, you'll start three feet away and by the end of the afternoon you're close enough that your shoulders brush when you lean forward. Close enough that when you laugh you sway into him slightly. You don't seem to notice. But every inch you give him, he takes greedily.

Sometimes you forget yourself entirely. You'll be mid-sentence and reach over to adjust his collar, brush grass off his shoulder, push hair out of his face, casual and familiar. The kind of touch you'd give someone you're comfortable with. And then you'll freeze, realising too late what you've done, and pull back at once. But the damage is done. He felt it. The ease of it. The way you touched him like you had the right. Like some part of you already thinks of him as yours.

Once you're in the meadow, sitting between them, Caraxes on one side, head resting near your hip, Aerion on the other, stretched out in the grass with his eyes closed against the sun. You're talking. Something about Winterfell, about your father, he's only half-listening because he's focused on the sound of your voice, the cadence of it, the way it softens when you talk about home.

And then your hand is in his hair.

Just... there. Fingers carding through the short pale strands absently while you talk, the same way you'd pet Caraxes, gentle and rhythmic and unconscious. You don't even seem to notice you're doing it. You just keep talking, fingers moving slow and careful against his scalp, and Aerion goes still, stops breathing. Every nerve in his body lights up. His cock goes hard so fast it's almost painful in how humiliatingly fast it happens. Through the bond, Caraxes's pleased rumble reaches him (yes, good, touch him, he needs it, give him what he wants, such a good mate) and Aerion is drowning in it, the feel of your hands on him, gentle and sure, and he wants to grab your wrist and beg. Wants to turn his head and press his mouth and teeth to your palm. Wants to pull you down into the grass and put his hands on you and make you feel even a fraction of what he's feeling.

You keep petting him. Thirty seconds, a minute. Your nails scratch lightly against his scalp and he bites back a starved, animal sound. And then you notice. He feels the exact moment you catch yourself in what you're doing. Your hand goes still, your breath catches, and when he opens his eyes you're staring at your own fingers in his hair like you don't know how they got there.

You jerk your hand back. "I didn't—I wasn't thinking—"

He sits up slowly. Looks at you. His voice comes out rougher than he means: "It's fine."

It's not fine. He's so hard he can barely think over his pulsing need. He can still feel the ghost of your touch. He wants to tackle you into the grass and find out if you'd keep touching him like that if he asked. If he begged, if he made you, if he offered his throat or sucked on tongue.

You won't meet his eyes. You get up quickly, murmur something about needing to head back before dark, and Aerion watches you retreat and thinks: soon. Soon you're going to stop pulling away. Soon you're going to give in. He can feel it. You're starting to forget why you're supposed to keep the distance. Starting to reach for him like it's natural, like you want to.

You do want to. He knows you do. You just haven't admitted it yet.

He knows your routine better than you do. Knows you walk the battlements after breakfast, east stair not west because the west gets too much sun and you don't like the glare. Knows you stop at the third landing to catch your breath and that you take the long way back through the gallery because you like looking at the tapestries. Times his own movements to "accidentally" cross paths with you. Has gotten very good at looking surprised to see you.

Can tell when you've been with Baelor by scent alone. His uncle wears some kind of Dornish oil (sandalwood, maybe amber) and it clings to you. Makes Aerion's jaw tight and makes Caraxes snarl with fury. He takes you flying as often as he can because it gets the wind to strip the scent away, replaces it with sky and smoke and them.

Has started stealing things. Not from you, of you. A ribbon you left on a bench in the yard. A glove that fell from your pocket in the hall, a hairpin you took out absently during a feast and forgot. Keeps them in a locked box in his chambers. Takes them out sometimes late at night. Holds the ribbon and remembers the way it looked in your hair. Brings the glove to his face and breathes in the faint scent of you. He knows it's mad. He doesn't care. They're his. Pieces of you that no one else knows are missing.

Watches you at feasts from across the hall. Counts how many times Baelor touches you. (Seven times at the last feast. Hand on your shoulder twice, hand on your back three times, fingers grazing yours when passing you wine once, lips to your temple once.) Counts how many times you smile at him. (Four times. Polite smiles, mostly. Only one that reached your eyes.) Tells himself he doesn't care. Lies. Caraxes, in the pit, thrashes every time the count gets too high.

Has imagined killing Baelor in every possible way. Poison in his wine. A blade between his ribs. An "accident" in the yard, a training sword that slips just a little too far, though this one he only entertains during his most foolish, feverish moments. His uncle might be old, but he's still a fierce warrior. Which is why his mind drifts towards Caraxes doing it for him, quick and clean, just a snap of jaws. Imagines it in explicit detail: what Baelor's face would look like, how long it would take, whether you'd cry. Whether you'd forgive him. (You wouldn't. That's the only thing that stops him. Not guilt. Not love for his uncle. Just the knowledge that you'd hate him for it, and he needs you not to hate him.)

He memorised the shape of your mouth. The exact curve of your lower lip. The small scar at the corner (you bit through it once as a child, he asked, you told him the story in the meadow, something about falling off a horse). He knows what your mouth looks like when you're about to cry (tight, corners turned down, the way you press your lips together to keep them from trembling). Knows what it looks like when you're trying not to laugh (bitten, the corners twitching). He wonders what they might look like bruised and wet from kissing him (perfect, they would look perfect). Wants to know what curve they would make when wrapped around his cock. Thinks about it constantly.

Knows you bite the inside of your cheek when you're thinking hard. That your eyebrows lifts slightly when you're sceptical. You touch your throat when you're nervous. Knows the small tell when you're about to argue with someone (your chin lifts, your shoulders go back, your voice drops half a register). Uses all of this against you in arguments because he fights dirty and if he can't have you he can at least make you feel as raw and off-balance as he feels.

Lies awake at night and feels Caraxes dreaming. The dragon dreams of you: your scent, your shape, the sound of your laugh, the feel of your hands on his scales. The dreams bleed into Aerion's head and he wakes hard and furious and aching and sometimes he gives in. Fists his cock and thinks of you or ruts against the hardness of his bed, thinks of your mouth, your hands. The small sounds you'd make for him. The way you'd look under him, over him especially, but all his. Comes with your name caught behind his teeth and Caraxes's satisfied rumble in the bond, because the dragon can feel it, feels Aerion's pleasure, approves.

He's stopped bedding other girls months ago. Tried once, after a particularly bad day watching you and Baelor in the yard. Got the girl back to his chambers, got her on her knees, all doe-eyed and pliant, and Caraxes shrieked in the bond so loud Aerion went to his knees too, head in his hands, because the wrongness of it was searing. Wrong girl. Wrong mouth. Wrong scent. Wrong everything. Sent her away and stumbled down to the pit. Spent two hours with his forehead pressed to hot scales while the dragon growled not-her-not-her-WRONG and Aerion finally, finally understood: it's you or nothing. Caraxes has decided, and what Caraxes decides, Aerion feels. He couldn't fuck someone else now if he tried. His body won't let him. The bond itself won't let him. You've ruined him and he's never hated anyone more.

He knows when you're about to bolt. You get this look: eyes too flat, breath shallow, a wolf two seconds from lunging. He's learned to back off when he sees it and give you space. Let you think you're in control. It's strategic. Push too hard and you'll run. Let you come to him and you'll stay.

Can tell the difference between when you're touching Caraxes because you want to and when you're doing it to avoid looking at him. When it's the latter, he moves closer. Makes it impossible to avoid him and watches you squirm. Enjoys it more than he should.

Sometimes he'll be in a council meeting and he'll feel it: Caraxes's sudden spike of fury. He'll have to excuse himself, go down to the pit, and find out what happened. (Baelor touched you. Baelor made you laugh. Baelor kissed your hand in the fucking courtyard and half the keep saw and Caraxes wants to burn something.) Aerion stands there, hand on the dragon's neck, breathing through it. "I know. I know. Soon."

Watches Baelor with you and feels nothing for his uncle except cold assessment. How to separate you, how to undermine him, how to make you see that Baelor is old and good and boring, and Aerion is alive and dangerous and exactly the thing you actually want and need.

Sometimes, just to stay sane, he works through his options:

Option one: wait until you break. Let the tension build until you reach for him first, kiss him first, beg him first. This is the smart option, the one that means you can't take it back, can't say he forced you into anything. This is the one he covets above all else. He needs you to claim him.

Option two: take you the next time you forget yourself in the meadow. The next time your hand lingers in his hair or you fall asleep against him. Pull you into his lap, put his mouth on you, make you admit you want this. Risky. You might bolt. But gods, the idea of it makes him so hard he has to pace and snarl into empty air.

Option three: wait until the betrothal is announced and then take you. Ruin you for Baelor, make it impossible for his uncle to have you without shame, seat you on top of Caraxes and fly East until you run out of horizon. This is the nuclear option. The one that burns everything down in both your lives, but he's keeping it in reserve. Just in case. Just.

Whatever he chooses, Caraxes will be there. The dragon is part of this. Part of them. And Aerion knows (knows with cold certainty) that you're already half in love with the dragon. You just haven't realised that loving Caraxes means you're halfway to loving him too.

Caraxes shows his affection differently. Mostly he brings you dead things. Goats, mostly. Sometimes a sheep. Once, an entire boar, charred to ash, dropped at the entrance to the pit like an offering to a goddess. The dragonkeepers are baffled. Aerion is smothering his amusement (fails). You're trying not to laugh and failing. Caraxes is smug. She is pleased. She is laughing. He has provided for his rider's mate. Good.

He also has a specific hum he only makes for you. Lower than his usual rumble or high-pitched snarling. Almost a purr. The dragonkeepers have started calling it "the Stark sound" when they think Aerion can't hear them. (He can. He doesn't correct them. It's true.)

Refuses to let anyone else near his saddle when you've been in it. Snaps at keepers who try to adjust the straps. They smell like you now. The leather has your scent, the saddle is yours. No one else touches it. One keeper got his hand bitten for trying. Aerion didn't even reprimand the dragon. Just looked at the keeper and said, "He's territorial. Don't touch what's his."

He sleeps better when you've visited. The keepers have noticed, started captiously asking Aerion to "bring the Lady Stark by" when Caraxes is having a particularly bad day because it's the only thing that settles him. Aerion hates that they've noticed, hates that it's true even more. But he does it anyway because a calm dragon means a calm bond means he can sleep instead of lying awake aching for you.

Has started hoarding things in his nest. Shiny things. A buckle that fell off your belt (Aerion saw it fall, watched the dragon flick it toward him with his tail, said nothing). A coin you dropped in the pit. A scrap of cloth from your hem that tore on his scales (Caraxes tore it on purpose, Aerion felt the intention through the bond, the dragon wanted a piece of you to keep and Aerion saw no reason to refuse him). Aerion finds them all buried in the straw sometimes and feels a complicated swell of emotions: pride (his dragon is clever), wry amusement (his dragon is obsessed), resignation (they're both damned, what's the point in pretending otherwise?).

Caraxes knows Baelor's scent now and hates it. Sandalwood-amber-WRONG. If you come to the pit smelling like Baelor (his hand on your back, his cloak around your shoulders, his mouth on your temple), Caraxes won't settle until Aerion takes you flying. High and too fast. Lets the wind strip every trace of Baelor away until you smell like sky and smoke and them again, always them. Only then does the dragon calm.

He can smell when you're drawn to his rider, too. Your scent changes, goes sharper, then sweetens. Caraxes notices. Rumbles approval. Pushes you toward Aerion with his snout. Go. Touch him. He wants it. You want it. Stop being STUPID about it.

Knows when his rider is hard for you, can feel it through the bond. Approves enthusiastically. Sometimes makes pleased little chuffing sounds when it happens. Aerion wants to kill him. The dragon doesn't care. Good. Want her. TAKE her. What are you WAITING for.

He guards the meadow. Once, a farmer wandered too close (didn't even see you, just cutting through the field) and Caraxes screamed. Wings mantling, neck arched, mouth open showing every one of those blade-length teeth. Aerion had to physically put himself between the dragon and the farmer, hand on Caraxes's neck, snarling in Valyrian: "Daor. Daor. Issa sȳz. Jikagon. DAOR." (No. No. It's fine. Go. NO.) The farmer ran away. Caraxes settled, but slowly, grumbling the whole time. His rider's mate is HERE. In HIS meadow. No one else gets to be here. This is THEIRS.

Watches the sky when you're in the meadow. Always. One eye on you, one eye up. If Vermithor flew overhead right now, Caraxes would attack, no hesitation. Doesn't matter that it would start a war. Doesn't matter that Aerion would try to stop him. The dragon has decided: the bronze one does not get to share the sky when she is here.

Positions himself between you and any perceived threat. Once, a snake in the grass. Caraxes moved, faster than something that size should be able to move, put his bulk between you and it, tail lashing. Aerion watched you press your hand to the dragon's side, murmuring thanks, and felt it through the bond: Caraxes's fierce satisfaction. Protected her. Kept her safe. MINE.

When you touch Caraxes, the pleasure travels the bond to Aerion. When Aerion wants you, the want travels the bond to Caraxes. They're locked in a feedback loop of wanting and having (sort of) and wanting more. It's unbearable. It's delicious. Neither of them would stop it if they could.

The dragon has started pushing, and not subtly. When you're petting him, he'll shift slightly, move his head, manoeuvre you closer to Aerion. When you're sitting next to his rider, Caraxes will rumble approval, loud and too obvious. When you pull away from Aerion, the dragon growls. Disapproval. She is being STUPID. She wants the rider. The rider wants her. Why is she FIGHTING it.

Caraxes has decided you belong to them. Both of them. The bond means they're one creature in two bodies, and you are theirs. Not Baelor's. Not anyone else's. Theirs. The dragon is simply waiting for you and Aerion to catch up to this obvious truth.

The meadow makes the attraction worse. There are no witnesses here. No court. No duty. Just you and Aerion and the dragon and the tall grass and the want that fills the space between you like smoke.

Sometimes you'll be talking, normal conversation, and you'll both just... stop. Look at each other. The air goes tight. Caraxes rumbles, low and pleased, feeling the spike of want through the bond. And neither of you moves. Neither of you dares. You look away first, every time. Always. Aerion lets you. For now.

He's gotten very good at reading the small signs of your desire. The way your breath quickens when he stands too close. The way your eyes track his hands. The small unconscious way you lean toward him before you catch yourself. He sees all of it.

You've started looking at his mouth. He's caught you three times now. Just... staring at his lips while he talks. You don't even seem to notice you're doing it, but he does. And it takes everything in him not to close the distance, put his mouth on yours, and make you admit what you want.

Once, in the meadow, you tripped over a root. He caught you. Hands at your waist, pulling you against his chest, and for three seconds you were pressed together, his mouth an inch from yours. You looked up at him. He looked down at you. Caraxes went serpentine still and the moment stretched. Your lips parted. His hand tightened on your waist. And then you pushed away, muttering words he can't recall, and he let you go because he could feel how close you were to bolting.

Another time, you were lying in the grass, drowsing, and he was watching you. Just watching. You opened your eyes and caught him staring. Didn't look away. Neither did he. Just held your gaze. Five seconds. Ten. Your stare went molten and wolf-like, wild around the edges. His hand moved, half-reaching. And then you blinked and sat up abruptly, said something about needing water, and escaped. He sat there, hand still half-extended, and laughed, low and wicked under his breath. You're breaking. Slowly. But you're breaking.

Worse of all is that you make him reckless. He's always been dangerous but you make him stupid with it. Makes him take risks he shouldn't. Flies Caraxes too hard, too fast, just to feel the adrenaline that's a pale shadow of what he feels when you look at him.

You also make him cruel. He's sharper with everyone else because all his softness (what little he has) is spent on you. He snaps at servants, provokes his brothers, sheds needless blood in the yard. Comes back to the meadow with bloody knuckles and you notice, reach for his hand without thinking, and he nearly drags you into his lap right there and then every time.

But you also make him patient in ways he's never been patient. He wants to grab you, kiss you, fuck you, make you his in every way that matters. But he waits. Lets you come to him in pieces, lets you get used to his presence, his touch, the idea of him. Because when you finally give in (and you will, he knows you will) he wants you to do it with your eyes open. Wants you to choose him. Not be taken. Choose.

You also make him vulnerable in ways he hates. You could destroy him with a word, tell him you'll never want him, you'll marry Baelor, you'll never come to the meadow again. And it would break something in him. Caraxes would feel it. They'd both go mad. He's given you that power without meaning to and it's terrifying and he wouldn't take it back if he could.

You think about him, more than you would ever admit. Late at night. In the bath. In quiet moments. You think about his hands. His mouth. The way he looks at you like you're something he wants to devour. You tell yourself it's just curiosity. It's not. It's want. And you're starting to run out of ways to deny it.

You've started dreaming about him. Waking up flushed and aching and furious with yourself. In the dreams, you don't stop him, you don't do the right thing, don't pull away. You let him kiss you, touch you, take you apart, you take him apart, and you like it. You wake up hating yourself for liking it, but the dreams keep coming.

The court doesn't help. You sit at the high table. Baelor on one side, your father on the other. Aerion is three seats down, angled so he can watch you without being obvious about it. He's gotten very good at watching you in public. No one notices. Except you. You can feel his eyes on you. On your throat when you swallow wine, your mouth when you speak. On your hands. Always your hands.

He times it so he arrives at the wine table when you do. Stands too close while you wait for a servant to pour. His shoulder brushes yours. You don't move away. He says something innocuous ("The Dornish red is better than the Arbor gold tonight") and you answer, and to anyone watching it's just polite conversation. But his hand is an inch from yours on the table. If you moved your fingers slightly, you'd touch. You don't move them. Neither does he. The space between your hands is charged.

You've caught him staring at you across the hall and held his gaze for longer than you should. Long enough that Baelor noticed and followed his nephew's line of sight to you and frowned slightly. You looked away first, but not before Aerion smiled, small and private.

After feasts, when everyone's drunk and loose, he'll find you on the battlements. You go there to breathe, to escape the heat and noise. He knows this, joins you, stands beside you in silence, looking out at the city torches. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't.

You sometimes watch Baelor train in the yard. Dutiful. Aerion has started training at the same time. Not near Baelor but across the yard. Close enough that you can see him if you turn your head. You try very hard not to turn your head. He knows when you're not watching. Fights harder, meaner, shows off. Once took a man down so brutally (swept his legs, put him on his back, and cracked his wrist) that you gasped. Aerion heard it across the yard, looked up and met your eyes. Smiled. You looked away, eyes narrowed. Caraxes, in the pit, was too busy laughing.

Afterward, he's sweaty, unlaced, breathing hard. Walks past you to the water barrel. You refuse to look and give him the satisfaction. He knows you're struggling though, taunts you by drinking slowly. Lets you watch. Pours water over his head and you track a droplet down his pale throat and have to look away before you do something stupid.

He's started doing this thing where he "accidentally" ends up walking the same direction as you through the keep. Falls into step beside you. Talks about nothing important. But his hand will brush yours. His shoulder will bump yours. Small touches, deniable, constant. You've stopped flinching, now you have to fight from leaning in.

Caraxes does this thing where he curls around you when you're in the meadow. Not trapping you just... surrounding you. Wings half-furled to block the wind. Neck curved to make a warm shelter. You lean into him without thinking and he rumbles, so pleased, and through the bond Aerion feels it like sunlight.

Once, you fell asleep against Caraxes in the pit. Just dozed off, exhausted from some long day. Aerion found you like that, curled into the dragon's side, Caraxes's wing stretched over you like a blanket, the dragon's breathing slow and even to avoid disturbing you. Aerion stood there for ten minutes just watching. The dragon opened one eye, looked at him. Through the bond: See? She trusts us. She is OURS. Aerion couldn't argue.

You fly on him alone once. It happens by accident. You're in the pit, waiting for Aerion (he's late, got held up in council), and Caraxes is restless. Pacing. You can feel it, the same way you've learned to read his moods and Aerion's both. He wants to fly. Needs it.

You stand, walk over to him, put your hand on his neck. "Want to go up?" you ask, and you're joking, you're not even remotely serious, you know dragons obey no one but their riders, that's what makes Targaryens special but Caraxes goes still like he understands your intent, turning his great head to look at you. Through the bond, Aerion feels the dragon's sudden certainty.

Caraxes lowers himself, an invitation. You stare. "You're serious." He rumbles. You look around. No keepers. No Aerion. Just you and the dragon. You've flown with Aerion dozens of times. You know how the saddle works, how to hold on. You climb up, settling into the saddle. It smells like Aerion, leather and smoke. Your hands shake slightly on the reins.

Caraxes launches.

It's different without Aerion holding you to his chest. Terrifying. Exhilarating. The dragon is gentle with you. No sharp banks, no dives, just smooth powerful strokes of his wings, but you can feel his raw strength. His leashed violence, the sheer power of a dragon that was once ridden by the Rogue Prince, that's seen hundreds of battles. He could throw you off with a twitch. Could burn you with a breath but chooses not to. Chooses to carry you carefully, like you're precious.

You fly for twenty minutes. Just over the city, out toward the coast, wheeling through clean sky. Caraxes rumbles the whole time: pleased, proud, happy, and you're laughing. Wind in your hair, hands tight on the reins, and you feel so, so alive.

When you land, Aerion is in the pit. Waiting. He watched you take off from the council window and ran. You slide down from the saddle, legs shaking, grinning like mad. "He let me—" you start, breathless. Aerion crosses to you in three strides, grabs your shoulders. You think he's furious, brace for his rage, but he's not. His eyes are bright, wild, feverish. "I felt it," he says. "Through the bond. I felt you up there. Felt how happy you were." His hands tighten. "Do you know what you just did? He's never let anyone else fly him. Never. Just me. And now you."

You stare at him, at the intensity in his face. At Caraxes behind you, smug and satisfied. "What does that mean?" you ask quietly. Aerion's jaw works. "It means—" He stops, steps back, running a hand through his hair. "It means everything."

You fly Caraxes alone sometimes after that. Not often. Once a moon, maybe. Always with Aerion's permission (he has to tell the dragon it's allowed, has to send the permission down the bond, or Caraxes won't let you up). Every time, Aerion feels it. Feels your joy, your exhilaration. Feels the dragon's pride in carrying you. It's intimate in ways he can't explain but only makes him hungrier. You on his dragon, his dragon loving you. The bond singing with it.

Aerion notices, over the course of several weeks, how you've been sadder. Not crying, just... diminished. Quieter. You stare out windows more. Touch your direwolf pendant more (you wear it always, silver wolf on a chain, tucked under your gown). You talk about Winterfell in your sleep. He knows because Caraxes knows, the dragon can hear you from the pit when your window's open, and what the dragon hears, Aerion hears.

He asks you about it once, in the meadow. "Do you miss it? The North?" You don't answer right away. Then: "Every day. Every single day. The keep here is... it's beautiful. But it's not home. I miss the cold. I miss the snow. I miss the way the sky looks before a storm." Your voice cracks slightly on the last word and you clear your throat, look away. Aerion watches you and feels an idea begin take shape inside his head.

He doesn't tell you what he's planning. Just makes arrangements. Tells the dragonkeepers he's taking Caraxes north for training exercises (a lie). Tells Father he'll be gone for a day (also a lie, but Maekar doesn't care enough to ask questions as long as he's disgracing himself). Doesn't tell anyone he's taking you.

He comes to your chambers before dawn one morning, knocks softly after dismissing the guards. You open the door in your nightgown, hair loose, sleepy and confused. "Get dressed," he says. "Flying leathers. Warm ones. We're leaving." "What—" "Don't ask. Just trust me."

You do. You trust him.

He flies you north. Far north. Past the Neck. Past the wolfswood. You don't realise where you're going until you see it: Winterfell. Grey walls rising from white snow. Smoke from the chimneys. Home.

You make a sound. Choked and stunned. Your hands tighten on his arms (you're pressed against his chest in the saddle, his arms around you on the reins). "Aerion—" "Shh," he murmurs in your ear. "We're not landing. Can't risk it. But I thought—you said you missed it. So."

Caraxes circles Winterfell three times. Low enough that you can see the yard. The glass gardens and the godswood. Everything. Silent tears drip down your face, down your cheeks. Aerion can feel them on his wrist where his arm crosses your chest, can feel your breath shaking.

"Thank you," you choke out. "Thank you thank you thank you—"

He doesn't answer. Just holds you tighter and lets Caraxes circle one more time before turning south.

He lands in a clearing a few miles from the castle. You slide down from the saddle and your legs won't hold you. Aerion catches you. You're shaking. From cold, from emotion, from everything. He holds you up, hands at your waist, and you just... collapse into him.

You hug him.

You throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shoulder and hold on. Tight and desperate, grateful. "Thank you," you say again, muffled against his throat. "You didn't have to— I can't believe you— thank you—"

Aerion stills under the weight, the sensation. His hands hover for a second, not sure where to go. Then they settle on your back. Careful. He can feel you crying into his shoulder.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this. He did it because Caraxes was restless, because you'd been sad, because it was a way to make you happy and gods know he's selfish enough to want your happiness directed at him and only him. He did it because he's selfish but this— your arms around him, your face in his neck, your breathless gratitude—this lands somewhere deep and dark.

You pull back eventually. Wipe your eyes. Embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" "Don't apologise." You look up at him and whatever you see on his face makes you nod once.

Caraxes, sprawled nearby, is purring. So loud it vibrates the ground. Through the bond, Aerion feels the dragon's satisfaction: She is happy. We made her happy. OURS.

You stay in the clearing for an hour. Sit in the snow (you build a small fire, and you both huddle close to it). You talk about Winterfell. About your father. About your childhood. Things you've never told him. He listens, doesn't interrupt. Just listens.

When you fly back, you fall asleep against him. Head on his shoulder, arms loose around his waist. He holds you the whole way. Lands at the Red Keep after dark. Carries you from the saddle to the ground (you wake, groggy, mumbling apologies). His hands linger at your waist. "Sleep," he says quietly. "I'll handle the questions."

There are questions. As many questions as he expected. Where were you? Where was she? Do you have any idea how many people were looking for her? How this looks? Father is furious. Baelor stares, finally, not with vague suspicion but with knowing. Your father is somewhere between rage and relief. Aerion takes it all, doesn't give them anything. Just says, "She's safe. She missed home. I brought her back. That's all that matters."

They punish him. Grounded from flying for two weeks (it nearly kills him—and Caraxes, who screams for days). Confined to the keep, formal reprimand. He doesn't care, doesn't regret it. Not for a second.

You come to see him the next day. He's in his chambers (confined, remember). You slip past the guards (they don't stop you—you're a lady, not a prisoner). He opens the door and you're there. "You shouldn't be here," he says. "I know," you answer. You step inside, close the door and cross to him. And then you hug him again, slower this time, fiercely. Your arms around his waist, your head on his chest. "Thank you," you whisper. "For yesterday. For giving me home. For— everything." His arms come around you, too tight. He doesn't say anything. Can't. The feeling in his chest is too big for words and he hates it.

When you pull back and leave, he stands there for ten minutes, just stands there. Feeling the ghost of you in his arms, the scent of you in his room (lavender, something cold, you). And he thinks: I'm fucked. I'm completely fucked.

Caraxes, in the pit three floors down, rumbles agreement.

You're not soft. You look soft sometimes that's Caraxes favourite thing about you. You're gentle with children, kind to servants, diplomatic at court, but Caraxes knows better. Can smell it on you. The wolf. The thing under the courtesy that has teeth.

The dragon has a theory: strong mate makes strong eggs, strong hatchlings. Not that there will be eggs (you're human, not dragon, the logistics don't work) but the instinct is there. He wants his rider to have a mate who can fight. Who can hold her own, who won't break under pressure. You fit. You're perfect.

You've snarled at Caraxes once, actually snarled. He was being difficult about something (wouldn't settle so you could mount, being a brat), and you put your hands on your hips and growled at him: "Stop being an ass and lower yourself. Now." The audacity. The dragon was so delighted he obeyed with a wry little huff. Aerion laughed until he couldn't breathe. Through the bond: She commands me. She has the right. OURS.

Once, you and Aerion were arguing (about something stupid, he can't even remember what). You were furious, eyes flashing, voice cutting and you shoved him. Actually put your hands on his chest and pushed. He stumbled back a step, shocked. You stepped into his space, chin up, fearless. "Don't patronise me, Aerion. I am not one of your simpering southern girls. I am a Stark."

He doesn't want someone soft. He's too sharp for soft. He'd destroy soft. But you? You can take it. Can take him, can match him, push back when he pushes, snarl when he snarls, hold your ground.

You've started to see it too. The way you and Caraxes are alike, the way you and Aerion are alike. Fierce, protective, all with teeth. You're comfortable with the dragon in ways you're not comfortable with most people because he gets you. Doesn't expect you to be soft. Likes you because you're not.

Once, you told Aerion: "He's not as bad as people say. He's just—he doesn't trust easily. Neither do I." Aerion looked at you, then at his dragon. At the shape of what you were building together (you and him and Caraxes, the three of you tangled into something that has no name). "No," he agreed. "Neither do I." A pause. "But we trust you." You looked at him. "I know," you said quietly. "I know you do."

It's been months. Months of stolen flights, secret meadows, Aerion's hands carefully not crossing the line, Caraxes's growls every time you leave.

The betrothal announcement is coming. Everyone knows it. Baelor will ask formally. You will say yes. There will be a wedding.

Aerion can feel it closing in like a noose.

He's done being patient.

Next time you reach for him in the meadow, next time you pet his hair, touch his hand, look at him with those soft unguarded eyes... he's not pulling away.

He's going to kiss you. Properly. Going to put his hands on you and make you admit you want this.

The next time you come to the meadow, everything changes.

Aerion's going to make sure of it.