[lustvy]

lustvy’s recs

18+ mdni

CALL OF DUTY simon ‘ghost’ riley john ‘soap’ mactavish kyle ‘gaz’ garrick john price philip graves

BRIDGERTON anthony bridgerton

THE VAMPIRE DIARIES UNIVERSE elijah mikaelson klaus mikaelson damon salvatore

GAME OF THRONES UNIVERSE rhaegar targaryen daemon targaryen aemond targaryen aerion targaryen

MORTAL KOMBAT johnny cage kenshi takahashi

[chuluoyi]

dear of his heart

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

the time has come for your prickly prince to prepare for fatherhood! what awaits you as the days tick down to the arrival of your first child?

genre/warnings: suggestive, fluff, pregnancy, protective!aerion who will burn the masses if they ever do you wrong, quarrels here and there, lots of kissing too bc he is ravenous, attempt at poisoning, hurt/comfort, childbirth, overall very self-indulgent, lannister!reader

notes: another part of the dragon and the lioness series. fluff, protective aerion and uhhh a sprinkle of drama? yeah that's the plot <3

“Every part of you… is mine to taste, wife...”

Once, the very idea of being the Bright Prince’s wife was unfathomable to you. But now...

You had grown to savor the way Aerion kissed you with shameless greed, and most of all, the rare moments when his sharp features softened for you alone while he held you against him. Even his temperament, dramatics, and the irritated arch of his violet eyes whenever something displeased him had somehow become… lovable in your eyes.

Gods, when had that happened?

When had Aerion Brightflame ceased to be your insufferable husband and become the man whose embrace you sought without thinking?

“Mmh…” You blamed the babe growing within you. Surely that had to be the reason, you thought, as you kissed him back with equal fervor, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt while his arms lowered you to your marital bed.

“Heh,” Aerion chuckled under his breath, watching your screwed-shut eyes as you chased his lips, incredibly wanton to him.

Strange, wasn’t it? The way life could twist bitter enemies into lovers before either of them even realized it themselves.

Your breath hitched as his hands slid beneath your knees, spreading your legs apart. He broke the kiss then, drinking in the sight of you— and you became self-conscious, only then realizing that he had made a quick work of your dress and you had been left in nothing but your lace undergarments.

“Y-You can’t...” You pressed your lips together, instinctively touching the swell of your belly. “That won’t… be good for the babe.”

Aerion’s lips curved with visible amusement.

“Oh?” he drawled, violet eyes glinting as they swept slowly over you. “Then why, pray tell, are you dressed like this, sweet wife?”

He was right, this was your own doing. Why would you have chosen such a racy, provokating thing to wear tonight?

Perhaps because—even if you wouldn’t admit it—a part of you had already suspected the evening would end with his hands on you and that dangerously pleased look in his eyes.

“A lesser man might say you want to tempt him,” Aerion mused, tracing a slow finger along your cheek, his smile still unbearably wicked.

“So you are not tempted?” you questioned boldly, meeting his gaze, despite the furious heat blooming across your face.

“No.” He shook his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed yours, his voice smug and smooth as velvet. “I am, after all, a man blessed with extraordinary restraint.”

He said that, yet the way his sharp violet eyes focusing on your lips and the way his fingers drifted between your legs said otherwise.

Really, what man could resist the sight of his wife beneath him— soft, flushed, thoroughly marked as his with a babe in her belly while pretending innocence with those wide, coy eyes?

Your husband decided you were playing with fire, so you would get burned. Aerion suddenly slipped two fingers inside your underwear, before pushing one into your folds that made you wide-eyed and suck in a sharp breath—

“You just boasted about restraint!”

“And I possess it. I’m just choosing not to neglect my good wife,” he countered, his cruel grin returning as he inserted another finger, making you gasp in process.

Perfect. You were unraveling by the second, and he had barely even begun.

“There are, after all, many ways to pleasure an expecting wife like you... without compromising the babe.”

Such was your marital life now— with your prince bringing you pleasure nights after nights with the same greedy devotion he seemed to reserve only for you.

And somehow, this was merely the beginning of your happily ever after.

Ever since the word got out that you were with child, Aerion had become more protective of you.

Suddenly, servants were reprimanded for allowing sharp objects near your chambers, guards trailed several paces behind you whenever you wandered the gardens alone and healthy meals appeared at exact hours, prepared according to whichever elderly midwife had most recently filled Aerion’s head with warnings.

And once again, you noticed it most that afternoon when you merely tried to descend the stairs.

Your husband had been halfway through a conversation with his steward when he abruptly stopped speaking altogether, violet eyes narrowing upon you as you placed a hand against the railing.

“…What are you doing?”

You turned to him, blinking innocently. “Walking.”

Not that he would admit it or realize it himself though.

The steward wisely lowered his head, pretending sudden fascination with the floor tiles as Aerion strode towards you with an irritated frown.

“You nearly slipped yesterday,” he hissed, sliding an arm around your waist as he carefully guided you down the stairs.

You rolled your eyes, remembering how you stepped on a parchment the night before. “It was a harmless accident— and for the last time, no, I wasn’t slipping!”

Truthfully, beneath your outward annoyance, deep inside, you were sort of delighted. Because truly, who would have imagined that the arrogant dragon prince would express concern in ways that were somehow endearing?

Or more like, inconveniently endearing.

“Huzzah,” you declared with the flattest tone the moment your feet reached the bottom step, folding your arms dramatically as you turned to him. “I have survived the dreadful staircase, lord husband. Thanks to you.”

Aerion leveled you with a scathing look.

. . .

Soon, it was evident before the rest of Summerhall too.

You lifted your chin, eyes flashing with righteous indignation. “You dismissed a maid yesterday because she served me tea that was slightly too hot. Aerion, this has become ridiculous!”

The Bright Prince, however, remained unmoved, believing his actions were perfectly sensible. “She had one job yet failed to perform it properly. It could have scalded you.”

“You also confiscated my riding boots!”

“You are not riding, wife—”

Behind the half-open door of the solar across the hall, two spectators to your marital quarrel were your husband’s brothers. Daeron raised an eyebrow while young Aegon looked moments away from bursting into hysterical laughter.

“You are enjoying this far too much, Egg,” Daeron muttered dryly.

“Can you blame me?” he whispered back. “This is Aerion we are talking about. Aerion!” He gestured dramatically towards the door with both hands. “The same brother who once claimed affection was ‘a weakness designed by the gods to humiliate men’!”

Well, neither Daeron nor Egg had ever imagined they would witness their notorious middle brother reduced to hovering over his wife. This was indeed a sight.

“I have ridden since childhood!”

“And now you are carrying my child, woman—”

Daeron gave up at last, a chuckle escaping him too. “I never thought I would live long enough to see Aerion become a mother hen.”

“A dragon hen,” Egg corrected conspiratorially, as he strained his ears, thoroughly enjoying your marital dispute.

Another moon passed by, and the maester advised you to get more rest from now on as later moons will prove far more taxing on your body.

However, a royal summons arrived from King’s Landing not long after. The King himself intended to host a grand celebration tourney in honor of the birth of your first child—and both you and your husband were commanded to remain at court for the remainder of your confinement.

You were leaving Summerhall behind, but that was the least of your concerns.

Aerion would be entering the lists.

You had known he would before he even said it aloud. Aerion Brightflame would sooner stop breathing than ignore an opportunity to prove himself before the realm. Under ordinary circumstances, you would proudly bestow your favor upon him and watch him ride with your head held high, but—

Your labor pains could begin while he was in the field. He would be absent from the birthing chambers. Worse, he could get injured—

The thought should not have affected you as much as it did. Men rode in tourneys, princes fought for glory, and discomfort in childbed is how women served the realm.

And there was also another matter that occupied your mind—

“The shape sits high,” the midwife in King’s Landing had declared while measuring your belly, now heavier and more pronounced than ever in your seventh moon. “And my lady craves salted meats more than sweets. It should be a boy.”

Everyone seemed most pleased by the possibility. Aerion himself made it clear he favored a son. You, however, found yourself uncertain what to feel.

. . .

“Where is my lady wife?”

Contrary to what most might have assumed, Aerion was not particularly pleased to be back in King’s Landing.

The long journey from Summerhall had exhausted you so thoroughly that you had scarcely risen from bed for several days. Sure, the grand tourney stirred his excitement— his grandsire honoring the birth of his firstborn with such spectacle was a distinction not even his cousin Valarr had received.

But King’s Landing was still where rumors of another Blackfyre uprising drifted through like smoke, and with your confinement only weeks away, Aerion found himself increasingly ill at ease. These days, peace only came when you were somewhere within his sight.

“The Lady Lannister is bathing in the royal spring, my prince.”

The spring behind Aegon’s High Hill had long since become property of the royal family, secluded from common visitors and hidden behind walls of stone and tangled greenery. It was meant to be a place of relaxation— but still not somewhere his heavily pregnant wife should be wandering unattended.

His irritation simmered all the way through the winding path. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees overhead as Aerion pushed past hanging branches with impatient steps. He had half a mind to rebuke you the moment he arrived—

But every thought dissolved into dust the instant he saw you.

You stood waist-deep within the pristine spring waters, your body half-submerged in the cool waters. A white shift covered your breasts, but the generous swell of your stomach was exposed under the sunlight. Layers of skirts floated around you like scattered clouds, preserving your modesty while doing very little to dull the breathtaking sight before him.

The sight of you beneath the open sky, drenched in sunlight and water was ethereal. He was rooted near the edge of the spring, spellbound.

At nights, he had worshipped that divine body of yours with greedy hands and wandering lips, had learned every sigh you tried to hide, had savored the softness of your thighs, and the sleepy way you clung to him.

But, in the light of day, the temptation of you felt almost cruel.

His gaze lowered shamelessly over the curve of your figure, lingering upon your barely concealed breasts first, before trailing lower. Pride unfurled hotly in his chest at the sight of your rounded belly, heavy and almost ripe. You carried his blood there.

Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose, though it did little to calm the sudden heat crawling beneath his skin.

You noticed him then.

Your eyes lifted towards to him, and the moment your face softened at the sight of him, whatever remained of his irritation died completely.

“Well?” you asked with a coy smile, tilting your head slightly. “Are you merely going to stare, husband… or are you going to join me?”

Like some bewitched mortal lured by a river nymph from old Valyrian tales, the Bright Prince descended the stone steps without hesitation. His boots scraped against damp stone as he shrugged off his doublet with careless impatience, dark eyes never once leaving you.

By the time he stepped into the spring, he was clad only in his dress shirt and breeches, the cool water curling around him as he crossed towards you and drew you effortlessly into his embrace from behind.

“Standing there as though the Maiden herself rose from the spring,” Aerion murmured against your ear, lips brushing the damp skin beneath it. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Did you intend to torment me in broad daylight?”

“I needed time to think,” you countered softly, though your breath caught when his wandering hands settled upon your chest beneath the wet fabric.

“To think? About what?”

You bit your lower lip as the waters lapped gently around the two of you. The way your face now marred with a frown made him click his tongue.

“Speak, wife. I dislike that look upon your face.”

“You are going to join the tourney,” you admitted at last, turning to face him. “While I may very well be laboring alone.”

“I shall return victorious,” he vowed, his violet irises blazing with conviction. “I shall place every honor I win before you and our child, just as it should be.”

Yet he could feel how you were unsatisfied with his answer. Aerion sighed quietly before lowering his mouth to your shoulder, brushing a kiss against your damp skin.

“You fret too much. The midwives will attend you day and night. You have nothing to fear— I will make certain of it.”

You pursed your lips, feeling foolish for being sullen knowing his presence would be demanded in the field regardless, but you just couldn’t help it.

Aerion fell silent for a moment, his hold around you tightening almost instinctively beneath the water.

“Look at me,” he commanded suddenly, and you did reluctantly, your lips still puckered in dissatisfaction.

Gods, how sweet could you be?

“Stop filling your little head with nonsense. I will return to you unscathed. Your task is to rest, eat whatever strange cravings seize you, and carry my child safely.”

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t stray from his gaze.

“Aerion—”

“I’m not finished.” His tone sharpened, though the hand cradling your face remained gentle. “I have ridden in tourneys since I was barely tall enough to hold a lance. I have been thrown from horses, split open, battered, and yet I remain standing before you now. And you think some hedge knight or a lordling’s second son could best me?”

A ghost of arrogance curved his lips. “I think not.”

His violet eyes swept over your face then. Gods, you looked painfully sweet like this— so soft with vulnerability.

“You carry blood of the dragon,” he murmured, his palm spreading over the curve of your belly beneath the water. “Do not insult either of us by imagining I would fail to return to you. And if your labor does begin while I am away...”

The thought seemed to sour his expression. “Then you will endure it exactly as I know you will. Know this, I will return to your side the moment I am able.”

You frowned faintly. “That is hardly comforting.”

Aerion snorted, his lips curling into a smirk. “You married the wrong man if you expected sweet comforts from me, wife.”

You let out a soft scoff despite yourself, some of your spirits finally lifting seeing his infuriating confidence.

“There,” he murmured smugly, poking your cheek when you broke into a little smile. “Are you done sulking now?”

“Perhaps not for long,” you countered lightly, throwing him a look. “If my husband fails to comfort me properly, perhaps I ought to find another man willing to do so.”

Aerion’s expression hardened at once, violet eyes narrowing as his grip around your waist tightened beneath the water.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

A dark look crossed his face, then—

He devoured your lips, one powerful arm locked securely around your waist while his other hand tangled in your hair, cradling the back of your head. The cool spring water rippled sharply around you as he deepened the kiss with blatant possessiveness, as though determined to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

When he broke the kiss, you breathlessly clutched his body for support. Breathing heavily against your lips, his voice dropped to a fiercely low growl—

“I wouldn’t let another man touch you while I still draw breath... oh sweet wife of mine.”

“My lady, I trust you are well?”

House Targaryen hosted a grand luncheon several days later within the halls of the Red Keep, gathering notable lords and ladies from across the realm.

You had been navigating the crowd with practiced grace when a warm, familiar voice cut through the ambient noise. Turning, you found yourself facing your cousin-by-law, the Prince Valarr Targaryen.

“Your Grace,” you greeted with a bright smile and slight curtsy. “Yes, I have been well.”

The Young Prince had arrived from Dragonstone with his wife. From where you were, you could see the princess consort mingling with other guests with radiant smile and perfect decorum.

She truly is beautiful, you often thought to yourself. Delicate features, graceful bearings, eyes that seemed almost luminous beneath the candlelight— it was easy to understand why bards wrote songs about her beauty.

Valarr’s gaze dipped towards the unmistakable swell of your stomach, far too prominent now to be concealed beneath your dress.

“Good to see you, really. How far along are you now?”

A wistful smile came to your lips. “Near enough that everyone has begun hovering over me as though I might break apart at any moment.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him. “Still, you are in your most delicate state now. I imagine my cousin can’t stay still as well.”

“Well, one can hardly blame the prince!”

You were still smiling when another voice suddenly joined the conversation. You turned to find Lord Manderly, stout and red-faced from the midday wine, waddled over with an easy grin, goblet in hand.

“With a wife as lovely as you, oh lady—” he slurred, “I imagine Prince Aerion guards you like a dragon atop treasure!”

“You flatter me, my lord,” you answered politely.

Lord Manderly waved a dismissive hand, laughing boisterously. “Not at all, not at all! Though I confess, recalling how the Prince Aerion making quite the spectacle of himself—” he turned to Valarr, “with you, my prince, years ago...”

Ah, that story you once heard in a passing too. The tourney in King’s Landing, in which Valarr and Aerion fought each other in a contest of arms, supposedly, over pride.

Valarr’s expression shifted almost immediately. “My lord—”

But Lord Manderly, either oblivious or too deep in wine to notice, continued on cheerfully enough—

“For a long time, everyone was talking about how the Bright Prince was quite captivated by Her Grace’s beauty! Enough to demand her favor and fight her husband!”

You blinked, realization settled over you with sudden, uncomfortable clarity.

“My lord, if I may.” Valarr cleared his throat, a restrained but cross look on his face. “Words are wind. A tourney floor is full of grand gestures and exaggerated flattery. I assure you, everyone would do well not to concern themselves with such baseless rumors.”

Lord Manderly’s red face drained of color all of a sudden as the weight of his social blunder finally registered.

“Oh Seven— forgive me, my lady!” he said quickly, turning towards you with genuine embarrassment. “A foolish old man’s rambling, is all! My deepest, most sincere apologies— I meant absolutely no disrespect to you, nor to Prince Aerion!”

“Think nothing of it, Lord Manderly,” you replied smoothly, your voice a perfectly crafted mask of composure. “The wine is indeed potent today.”

Relieved to be dismissed, Manderly excused himself with hasty bows, and Valarr quickly steered the conversation back to safer waters before he also excused himself from you.

You appeared to be smiling, but deep inside, you were perturbed.

Your eyes involuntarily scanned the crowded solarium, searching through the sea of silks and velvet until they landed on your husband standing amongst a cluster of knights and courtiers.

And right in that moment, you caught how his gaze followed not you, but the princess consort at the far corner of the hall.

Something inside your chest curled unpleasantly, but you decided not to dwell in it. Whatever might have existed between them once, they meant nothing now, you assured yourself.

So, to distract your wandering thoughts, you reached for the tea the server had offered to you, thinking to calm your nerves—

Until the citrus scent suddenly turned rancid in your senses, so putrid it made your stomach lurch violently that you spit it out and let go of the porcelain cup.

. . .

When a loud crash rang through the solarium, Aerion’s attention snapped instantly toward the disturbance.

And much to his surprise— in the middle of it stood you.

Standing amidst shattered porcelain, you had one hand covered your mouth while the other clutched at your abdomen, your face drained of all color as though you might collapse where you stood.

He immediately dashed towards where you were, nearly sending one poor lord stumbling aside in his haste. The crowd parted instinctively for him as he crossed the hall at frightening speed.

By the time he reached you, his hands were already on you.

“What happened?” he demanded immediately, gripping your arms as his eyes swept frantically over your form.

You swallowed hard against another wave of nausea. “T-The tea…”

“What?”

You shook your head weakly, leaning into him. “It tastes so foul—”

His gaze snapped toward the shattered mess beside your feet. Without hesitation, Aerion crouched and snatched up what remained of the broken cup from the floor. The pungent scent hit almost immediately, and his expression darkened in realization.

Moon tea. He recognized it instantly—it had once been his most reliable safeguard during his years frequenting whorehouse before he wed you. He had forced it into those unkempt women after he was finished with them.

However, even a single sip could have made you miscarry. Someone has intended exactly that.

Aerion surged back to his feet at once, turning towards you so quickly with wild eyes.

“Did you drink any of it?” he demanded harshly. “Did you?”

You shook your head immediately. “No—”

Relief struck him so violently it almost looked painful.

Aerion closed his eyes briefly before gripping the back of your head, pulling you to his embrace. You breathed in his scent, your nausea receded somewhat.

Around the two of you, the solarium had begun to descend into chaos. Voices overlapped in alarm while guards moved swiftly through the hall. Servants looked petrified, several nobles already retreating from the tables entirely as whispers of poison spread like wildfire.

Moon tea. At a royal luncheon. You. When Aerion lifted his head again, the relief in his expression had vanished entirely, and in its place was pure fury.

“Seal the hall,” Aerion ordered sharply, but at first, no one moved quickly enough for his liking. “I said seal the fucking hall!” he roared, his voice cracking through the hall.

Kingsguard immediately surged into motion. Doors slammed shut. Panic rippled through the gathered guests as guards began seizing servants and blocking every exit from the hall.

“No one leaves this place,” Aerion continued, drawing you protectively against his side while his vengeful gaze remained fixed upon the crowd.

“I want every servant, cook, and miserable soul here questioned. One step forward— and I will have your head severed and hung to rot in Flea Bottom for all to see.”

You could feel the hammering of his heart in your ears. His expression still murderous, it was only when he looked back down at you did some fragment of restraint finally return to his face.

“You are certain you swallowed none of it?” he asked again, quieter and softer this time.

You looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy. “I am certain.”

Aerion searched your face carefully, as though trying to convince himself you truly stood unharmed before him.

And in that moment, you found yourself clinging to him instinctively—your steadfast protector amidst the chaos.

The entire castle remained in uproar long after you had been escorted back to your chambers. The server who had handed you that accursed tea was apprehended with ease, and Aerion had gone personally to beat the fear of the gods into him in the dungeons.

Yet another Blackfyre loyalist hidden amongst the castle’s walls like a serpent. No one told you exactly what became of him, but when your prince returned not long after, there had been blood across the cuffs of his tunic that certainly had not belonged to him.

By then, relief and exhaustion had finally overtaken you, dragging you into a light and restless sleep. You awoke sometime later in his arms, to the soft crackling of the fire.

His deep violet eyes were fixed on you, dark shadows under them as if he hadn’t been resting at all.

“You’re not sleeping...?”

“Was about to.”

Though he tried to conceal it, exhaustion lingered plainly across his face. It was rare to see Aerion so bare and vulnerable like this.

The memory came rushing back all at once then. The putrid stench, the panic in the hall, the horrifying realization that someone had wanted you and your child dead before they had even drawn breath—

A tremor ran through you before you could suppress it and your husband engulfed you in his embrace, holding you tightly.

“Cease this at once, wife,” he whispered in your ear, sounding almost irritated despite his obvious and clumsy attempt at comfort. “So long as I draw breath, no one will harm you.”

Your eyes burned. “What did you do to him?”

“What? You expected mercy from me tonight?”

“No.” You shook your head against his chest, your voice small and bitter. “Make him suffer first, and only then do you give him a painful death.”

That actually managed to pull a dark smile from him. “No,” he murmured, his chest rumbling against you. “I will make him rot first. Death is a mercy he has to earn.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips when you pulled away from his hold, though worry still lingered beneath your ribs.

“There.” Aerion brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his violet eyes warmer than you had ever seen before. “Better already.”

How both of you reached this point astonished even you. The mad boy who had terrorized your childhood, your enemy who had become your destined husband— Aerion Brightflame was your greatest bane of existence too.

Yet here you were, trusting him more than anyone else alive in Westeros. You knew his cruelty, but you also knew his loyalty—and you knew, just as surely as he would make anyone who ever came close to harm you rue the day they ever did, he would guard you like a dragon atop treasure.

And because of that, the doubt in your voice was softer than it might have once been when you finally asked:

“…What if the babe is a girl?”

Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately, as though the question itself puzzled him.

“A princess,” you explained, fingers drifting protectively over your stomach. “You value a son and heir above all else. But who could have known the will of the gods?”

Aerion stared at you for a long, unreadable moment, as though carefully weighing your words before at last letting out a scoff.

“Mark my words now, wife, for I will not repeat them. I require that this child, boy or girl, survives.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. However, his expression hardened slightly afterwards.

“And the same goes for you. If you don’t, I will never, ever forgive you.”

In that moment, you thought you would willingly give everything of yourself to place this child safely into his arms. You would give him a son too, gods willing.

You reached for your husband then, pulling him down into the purest and sweetest of a kiss.

“Be welcome, noble knights and lords of the realm!”

Commoners and nobles alike buzzed with excitement for the grand tourney, their cheers echoing throughout the stands. High up on the royal dais, King Daeron stood, his voice amplified by the roaring acoustics of the arena as he opened the games with salutations.

“...and this glorious day has been made all the more blessed by joyful news,” the good king proclaimed proudly. “My beloved granddaughter has begun her labors! May the Seven grant fortune to every combatant this day!”

Down on the field, however, the King’s words brought no celebration to the man affected most.

Aerion sat atop his warhorse, motionless. Beneath his dark armor, his chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. While other knights waved jovially at the crowd, his gaze was locked entirely on the opposing end of the lists.

Your pains had started since last night. Through the early hours of midnight, you had endured them in silence, determined to hold yourself together a little longer, yet occasionally curling into him for comfort. By dawn, however, you were in tears, and every hour after that became a new torment for you.

But when it came time to see him off this morning, you had refused to look weak. Sweat clung to your face, and your eyes were glistening, but a fierce light burned right through them. Gripping his armor, you had hissed a command through gritted teeth:

“Win that fucking tourney, and only then are you allowed come back to me, husband.”

“Son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall—”

A violent, dark impatience overtook him.

“Grandson to King Daeron the Good—”

If he had to tear through every knight in the Seven Kingdoms to get back to your side, he would do it. And he would do it quickly.

“Prince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen—”

Lowering his visor with a sharp, echoing snap, Aerion gripped his lance. He would come back as a victor, exalted and feared, and you would give him his child.

Your child too. He knew already they would be sweet, just like you.

“—will choose his first opponent!”

. . .

The air inside your birthing chambers was thick by midday, smelling heavily of copper, sweat, and the sharp scent of crushed lavender oil the maids used to soothe the air.

But there was no soothing the agony ripping through you.

Another of your heartbreaking wails filled the air when another violent contraction hit, seizing your spine and twisting your abdomen with a malice that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

“Push, my lady! You must push!” the midwife urged, her hands busy prodding you beneath the heavy linens. “The child is close, but you cannot lose your strength now!”

Your body felt broken, torn apart from the inside out. Your eyes were rimmed with tears of pain and pure exhaustion, blurring the stone walls of your chambers into a hazy nightmare.

Your prince was out there tearing through the realm’s finest knights just to earn the right to return to your side. He was conquering the field for you. For this child.

And you would not fail him on your own battlefield.

“Again!” the midwife commanded when that familiar, iron grip curling and seizing your womb once more. “Now, my lady!”

But the next wave was the most terrible pain you had ever experienced, and your voice cracked into raw scream as you pushed with every last shred of strength left within your body.

You could feel the crushing pressure, the burning fire, the blinding and unforgiving sensation of your very body being split apart—

The midwife cried, her voice rising in triumph over the distant rumble of the arena:

“I see the head! One more, my lady! Give me everything you have!”

. . .

“The Prince Aerion wins!”

He had done it. The second he threw the other knight off his horse and he yielded, he had ridden his warhorse, torn his helmet off, and marched towards your chambers like a specter of death.

In his frantic rush to end his final foe, he had made one careless mistake though— leaving his guard down just enough for a lance to slice a deep gash down his forearm, and now crimson blood dripped steadily onto the pristine floors with every step towards your chambers.

He had been told that you had tethered between life and death—shivering before falling unconscious the moment the child was born.

“My prince! You cannot go in there!” a maid cried, stepping in front of the heavy oak doors, her hands raised in horror. “You are covered in filth! The lady must be kept clean, the babe—”

“Get a maester to dress my wound,” he spat viciously, making the poor girl recoil. “Now.”

The maester came soon, scrambling to pour a wine over the wound to cleanse it, hastily wrapping a fresh linen binding over the gash. It was a rushed job, done in mere seconds. The white linen instantly bloomed with a fresh patch of red. His attendant quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face and helped him out of his armor as fast he could.

Aerion shoved them away after they were done, turning back to the heavy doors, but the midwives still stood there, hesitant between duty and fear.

His arm burned, exhaustion and blood loss leaving him half-delirious, and they knew better than to deny him his right. Aerion stormed into the chambers, drawing gasps from the wet nurses and your maids. Instinctively, every gaze in the room flickered toward the small bundle wrapped in linen within the cradle beside the hearth.

They expected him to demand his heir. They expected him to look for the son he had so desperately coveted—

But to their surprise, he didn’t even spare a glance at the cradle. Instead, he crossed the room in a few long strides and went straight to where you lay still.

“Wife,” he breathed hoarsely, reaching for you at once. “I am here.”

You were deathly pale. Your eyes fluttered open weakly, as if you were pulling yourself back from a long, deep sleep.

Then, you looked up and smiled at him— so beautiful and tender it nearly broke him.

He gathered you into his arms, engulfing you in a fierce, crushing hug— pressing a hard kiss to the crown of your head. You let out a watery laugh, clutching at him too.

“It is a son,” you told him with pride. “He looks just like you.”

Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle at that. In truth, the idea of a daughter didn’t seem terrible to him at all right now.

In fact, now that the thought had crossed his mind, he found himself wanting a pretty little girl too... one who had your eyes and your smile.

. . .

History would fondly remember the romance between the bitterest enemies who found the truest of love, for the realm had borne witness to that auspicious day—

The dragon prince has won his triumph, and so has his princess.

tagging @marianntorres2611 @starkleila @huntmewithdogs @pinkfunland @dauntlesshereticleviathan @laylavynna @dabishou @ireneisbored @menacing-pfeffernusse @xxvelvetxxx @icebearcucumber as per request! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <3

[chuluoyi]

forget me not

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

life as you know it shatters when your husband loses his memories of you in a freak incident. how will you convince him of your marriage and the love that made it real?

genre/warnings: suggestive, amnesia, hurt/comfort, light angst, enemies to lovers, crack, quarrels and usage of "wench" (aerion is back to his default personality for plot development i swear), falling in love all over again trope, pregnancy, lannister!reader

notes: based on this. the amnesia fic is here muehehe :))

You knew Aerion could be a big menace. He was too proud, too vain— with arrogance that was practically boundless. He was not the religious sort too, so the Seven above must keep tally of all his sins.

You had always thought the Gods would humble him eventually. You know, damn it, but—

You never imagined it would come to this. Something as absurd and sudden as him being thrown from his own horse and lie unconscious for three long days.

Those three days had been unbearable. The maester assured you he would wake, that his body was strong, that there was no cause for despair—but his words did little to quiet the worry inside your chest. You had cried anyway and never left his bedside.

So when his fingers twitched in your grasp, it startled you from your half-asleep state, your head snapping up.

“Aerion?” Your voice came out small, fragile with hope as you leaned forward, eyes searching his face as you clutched his hand. “Aerion, can you hear me?”

His lashes fluttered, slow and heavy, before finally lifting to reveal the Targaryen violet eyes. For a heartbeat, you felt relief crash into you so fiercely it nearly hurt.

But the moment his gaze found you, something felt… wrong.

“You—” His voice came in a rasp, eyes narrowed in disgust, and his words struck harder than any blade. “Why are you here?”

“Of course I’m here, you blockhead—” The insult slipped out before you could stop it, but then your breath caught in your throat when he withdrew his hand from your grasp.

“Aren’t you supposed to be far and away in Casterly Rock?” he snapped, his gaze raking over you with open offense. “What are you doing in my chambers, wench?”

The color drained from your face so quickly it left you dizzy. Your erratic heartbeat slammed against your ribs until it was all you could hear. Panic clawed its way up your throat as your entire body shook and your breath came in choked gasps.

He... he doesn’t—

“Maester!” You stumbled back from the bedside, your vision swimming with tears as you threw open the doors and yelled at your handmaiden. “Call for the maester!”

“My princes, my lady, forgive me... It appears from the severity of his fall, His Grace has suffered memory loss.”

Prince Maekar Targaryen stood near the foot of the bed, rigid and expression sharp as iron. Beside him was Daeron, who looked like he couldn’t believe what had befallen his brother, and young Aegon, who tried—and failed—to mask his distaste with poorly hidden curiosity.

Meanwhile you stood next to Egg, still numb.

The center of it all was Aerion. He merely cocked his head to the side even as the maester declared his state. He looked fine, unsettlingly so. Rested against his pillows, still pale but very much alive, his violet eyes were clear, as though nothing had happened to him at all.

“Well,” he huffed, glancing between people in his chamber with visible impatience, “you all look as though I’ve risen from the dead. Do enlighten me—what terribly important events have I missed?” And then his gaze flicked to his sire.

“Father, why are we still in Summerhall? Are you not the crown prince?”

You could have sworn Prince Maekar was this close to curse at him by how his voice coming almost in a hiss. “What nonsense are you spouting, boy?”

“Was Baelor not slain in a Trial of Seven? With Aerys and Rhaegel dead that would make you heir to the throne, would it not?” he asked so easily, as though he hadn’t just spoken something that was blatant treason.

An unbearable silence passed in the room, before Maekar turned sharply towards the maester.

“Tell me, did that fall knock the wits clean out of his head— and left my son a complete cretin?”

Maester Melanquin stiffened at once, clearly caught between honesty and survival. “Y-Your Grace, head injuries of such severity can… disturb the memory in unpredictable ways. It is not uncommon for the afflicted to recall events incorrectly...”

“Fuck me,” Maekar finally cursed, running a hand on his face. “Fuck us all.”

On the bed, Aerion let out a scoff. “This seems more like a nightmare than whatever dream I’ve been pulled from.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling slightly at your side as a dull ache began to throb at your temple. Your husband hit his head, had altered memories, and worst of all—

His gaze then landed on you, and just as quickly his expression soured. “Why is she still here?”

He doesn’t recognize you.

Prince Maekar glanced at you, barely holding on the last strands of his patience.

“She is your wife, Aerion.”

“My what?”

Aerion’s attention snapped back to you. His eyes reassessed you from head to toe, as if he found you deeply questionable.

“You’re telling me that I chose her, out of all people?”

“Enough, boy.” Maekar’s voice dropped a degree.

“Father, you must have forced my hand,” Aerion spat, unconvinced. “Because I refuse to believe I married this dullard willingly.”

You knew this was not the Aerion you had given your heart to—the one who had learned your smiles, who reached for your hand in private, who once looked at you as though you alone could soothe the fire in him.

But knowing that did little to soften the blow. Gods, it still hurts.

Prince Maekar closed his eyes, looking every bit like a man asking for the mercy of the Gods. Your good-brothers Daeron and Egg could only exchange weary sighs before turning toward you with quiet sympathy in their eyes.

Your father-in-law was right, fuck us all indeed.

. . .

You left his chambers before anyone could see your expression crack and falter and hadn’t made it far before Maester Melanquin caught up to you in the corridor.

“My lady, you mustn’t take his words to heart,” he began gently. Out of everyone in that room, you had taken the blow worst of all, even if Aerion himself seemed blind to it. “Memory loss of this sort can alter temperament. It is not uncommon for the patient to—”

“I understand,” you cut in softly.

“I would advise rest,” he continued after a moment. “You have endured quite a strain these past days. It is not good for—”

“That will be all, Maester Melanquin.”

You couldn’t hear this now. His eyes widened in realization.

“My lady, you have not informed anyone...?”

“No,” you firmly stressed. “No one else needs to know, yet.”

Even you had only discovered it three days ago—on the very day Aerion had taken his fall. How could you possibly overwhelm everyone with the news that you were with child now?

The maester inclined his head, deeply mournful for you. “As you wish, my lady.”

Aerion was certain this marriage with you was a dreadful one.

He had come to that conclusion within days of waking without half his memories, because every interaction between the two of you felt strained at best.

Yet, as he made his thoughts known to his dimwitted squire, telling him how he must have been a big patron to the most famous brothel in Street of Silk now with a wife like you, the poor lad shook his head vigorously—

“I wouldn’t believe it so, my prince! In fact, you hadn’t visited the brothels ever since your marriage!”

Aerion stared at him as though he had just confessed to treason, and the squire shrunk.

“And everyone knows...” the squire hesitated now, as though fearing for his life, “That you and Lady Lannister shared chambers often too...”

Whenever Aerion looked at you, you didn’t resemble the sort of woman who warmed a husband’s bed willingly. You were composed to the point of irritation, sharp-eyed too, carrying yourself with the dignity of someone fully trained to withstand him.

He was proven right very soon when he sat together with you for the afternoon tea.

. . .

The maester had insisted familiarity could help restore memory. And so, every afternoon for the past five days, you were seated beside him.

“It is still beyond me,” Aerion griped, casting you a distaste frown. “How did I ever end up with you?”

For five miserable days now, the two of you had been enduring each other’s intolerable company. Worse still, neither of you seemed remotely willing to surrender first.

You set your teacup down abruptly, with no grace whatsoever, letting out a sigh.

“Poor, poor you,” you mocked in a saccharine voice. “Here you are— bound to me by gods, law, and unfortunately, the entire realm. What a tragedy for us both.”

Aerion had discovered quickly that you possessed a talent of needling him in the gentlest tone imaginable, while you, in turn, had learned that memory loss did absolutely nothing to diminish his arrogance.

“Why did you even agree to this match?” he asked bluntly one afternoon, studying you with open suspicion. “You hardly seem delighted to be my wife either.”

“Do I seem like I was granted much choice in the matter of my own marriage?” you replied coolly. “I was thrown into this game of thrones just as much as you were. Frankly, had fate been kinder, I might have married some stableboy of my own choosing instead.”

That offended him, rather greatly. Aerion leaned back in his chair with a sharp scoff.

“Ah, I see now,” he drawled coldly, “House Lannister simply could not miss the chance to be a part of the royal family.” His silver-haired head tilted slightly. “And if the dreams plaguing me are any indication, you would have become fortunate enough to sit beside me as queen consort someday.”

Your face scrunched immediately at his sheer audacity.

“If I were a smallfolk living in King’s Landing, in the most unfortunate event that you ever became heir to the Iron Throne, like you said— I would spend every waking day in terror until I finally fled to Essos.”

“You!”

Gods, you are exhausting. He felt as though he were speaking to someone perpetually prepared for battle. Only that your weapon of choice wasn’t swords but words sharpened into tiny little knives.

“You have spent five days insulting me—”

“And you have spent five days asking how you married me,” you spat defiantly. “Surely we both deserve rewards for perseverance.”

You were aggravating, forever meeting his every remark with one of your own—you were every bit the same enemy he remembered from childhood, only now draped in his colors.

Yet somehow... the moment you went strangely pale, his irritation vanished somewhat. A napkin came up to your mouth while your other hand pressed against your abdomen, fingers curling there tightly as though trying to hold yourself together.

“You look dreadful,” he said bluntly.

You shot him a glare over the napkin. “I assure you, husband, I am perfectly—” You cut yourself off suddenly, swallowing, “—fine.”

No, he thought. For the first time in five days, you looked genuinely unwell. “You are not, wench—”

“If you will excuse me,” you cut him, keeping your composure together through sheer force as you rose from your seat, “I believe I should retire.”

And with that, you gathered your skirts and left the solar with dignity, though your pace was far quicker than usual.

Aerion remained seated even as you disappeared through the doorway, his annoyance giving way to an unfamiliar feeling, because for the first time since waking without his memories—

He found himself wanting to follow after you.

. . .

You knew you had not exactly taken the gentle approach with Aerion. He reminded you too much of the insufferable brat who had made your childhood miserable, and you just—for the life of you—could not take all his offensive remarks in silence.

You rushed towards the nearest privies, before dropping beside the close stool, one hand bracing against its rim as you threw up.

Now, you are carrying his child. At the end of the day, the cold truth hit you whenever you wanted to give up on him. You could never, because you had stupidly yearned for his affections, and bore his child.

Despite yourself, another wave rolled through you unpleasantly enough that you emptied your stomach again to the stool.

You are exhausted.

Exhausted from Aerion looking at you like a stranger wearing your husband’s face. Exhausted from fencing with him endlessly just to stop yourself from feeling how deeply wrong all of this truly was.

And worst of all— exhausted from pretending his sharp words did not affect you, because they did and they cut your heart into pieces.

With every fiber of your being, you wanted the man you had fallen in love with back. Stray tears fell from your eyes as you held back a sob, and as dizziness took over you and you staggered on your feet—

“You are fucking ill, woman.”

A strong pair of arms swept you clean off your feet, and you gasped, clutching on the first thing to steady yourself, which happened to be the fabric of his doublet.

Aerion stood tall, already striding towards your chambers, his violet eyes hardened as his lips twisted into a scowl. “You have been ill this entire time and said nothing? Just how foolish could you get?”

You shut your eyes. “Aerion, put me down—”

“You could have told me, you dumb—”

“Stop insulting me, you rat!”

Aerion shot you an angry glare immediately, yet, to your surprise, he fell quiet afterwards.

You didn’t know why he listened this time, and that tender corner of your heart wept with relief, because despite his missing memories, some part of him still recognized you when you were hurt.

Will he come back? You wanted to tell him everything already. You had imagined the moment countless times in your head—how Aerion’s expression would go utterly still at first, before he would go red in the face, hiding his own excitement by putting on a prideful air how you did a good job for bearing his child—

You buried your face against his chest, fingers still clutching weakly at him, and you could feel how he tightened his hold over you.

As though fate itself had finally decided to loosen its grip on the two of you, your relationship began to improve after that day—even if only slightly.

You had managed, through several concealed threats, to force Maester Melanquin into keeping the truth from Aerion. He had looked ready to fire the poor maester on the spot when he told him you only suffered from common cold.

Who would have known he would spare you more concern since then? And on good days too, sometimes, he acted exactly like the man you remembered.

“You used to do this,” you remarked when Aerion’s arm settled at your waist, drawing you closer as the two of you crossed the crowded hall together—the perfect image of a harmonious royal couple before the court. “I suppose old habits die hard.”

“Nearly every lord and lady in this hall does the same thing,” he gruffly retorted, dismissive. “It is called common etiquette, wife.”

You glanced up at him, gaze pure and clear.

“Yes, but I could have simply taken your arm too. Half of ladies in this hall do that.” Your gaze flickered briefly toward the hand resting at your waist. “You hold me out of habit.”

Aerion went quiet at that. Then he cleared his throat abruptly, pointedly refusing to dignify you with any further response as he continued guiding you through the hall.

. . .

You were right— he had done it by instinct.

Aerion had not thought before touching you. It just felt right to do it, but if asked why, he also couldn’t produce a nonchalant answer.

By all accounts, you should have been the wife he never wanted. Half his memories were missing, every surviving recollection of you involved glares, mutual irritation, and arguments in the corridors of the Red Keep, yet—

Ever since the two of you parted ways some time ago, his eyes had kept searching for you before he even consciously realized what he was doing.

Aerion concluded he just detested not having control. You irritated him endlessly, yes, but regardless, you were still his wife— so he ought to have a tight leash around you.

No sooner had he reached the lower end of the hall than he spotted his little brother’s absurdly tall knight nearly stumbling over his own feet trying to greet you.

“M-M’lady,” Ser Duncan stammered, bowing abruptly. “M-my apologies... I didn’t see—”

The poor fool turned visibly red beneath your gaze. You, meanwhile, smiled at him brightly.

“Good evening, Ser Duncan. Are you well? You seem nervous.”

“I—well—no, not nervous, m’lady, just—”

You laughed softly at that, and gods, the sound alone seemed enough to make the knight redder still.

“You look… ah… v-very lovely tonight, m’lady.” Ser Duncan visibly swallowed, meeting your eyes reluctantly.

You held back a grin. “Why, thank you, Ser Duncan. That was almost coherent.”

That buffoon of a knight looked utterly stricken, and Aerion clenched his jaw. How dare he stand there blushing at his wife like some moonstruck idiot?

Then Duncan, in all his bumbling idiocy, reached for your hand. The knight bent respectfully, pressing a courteous kiss against your knuckles in proper greeting. It was the sort of harmless gallantry performed a thousand times in court.

Aerion suddenly feel the urge to break the man’s hand. Something hot and ugly surged through him at once, so sharp that his mood soured instantly— but it was when your giggle reached his ears that the feeling worsened tenfold.

Had men always looked at you this way?

Had he always been forced to endure it?

Before either of you realized it, he had took big strides and placed himself next to you.

“Kneel lower, you oaf.”

You turned towards him in visible surprise.

Duncan looked utterly bewildered. “Your Grace...?”

“If you insist on embarrassing yourself before my wife,” Aerion drawled coldly, “you may as well commit to it properly.”

“Aerion!” You scolded with a frown, before turning to the knight before you. “Don’t mind him, Ser Duncan. You may rise.”

Meanwhile, Aerion’s hand had already settled possessively against the small of your back as he observed how the commoner got back to his feet—only for the prince to realize, with visible irritation, that Duncan stood a full head taller than him—before he continued with complete seriousness:

“Stop breathing directly in her direction. You are enormous.”

“Uh, should I... not breathe?”

“Seven hells, Aerion!” you hissed beneath your breath, mortified.

Aerion clicked his tongue, though the moment you leveled a sharp glare at him, he merely huffed like an irritated twat denied a fight.

Meanwhile, Duncan stood there looking genuinely troubled, seriously considering how his breathing had somehow become offensive. The knight also could not help but wonder how someone as sweet as you had ended up married to someone like him.

“No worries, m’lady. I... I can stand farther away to breathe, then.”

“...”

“I can... right?”

Days slipped by and still, Aerion had yet to regain his memories.

Before you fully realized it, two moons had passed since the accident, and your condition was becoming harder to conceal.

No matter how often you layered silks and draped cloaks around yourself, the slight swell of your abdomen had begun to show, and it wouldn’t be long before you could no longer cover it.

His child in you, the thought alone made your chest ache sometimes. As of now, the ones who were aware of this were the maester and your personal maids. Until when you should keep this from him and the others?

Aerion still made insufferable remarks with alarming consistency, and you still answered half of them with cutting sweetness. But the small blessing was, increasingly, there were moments where he behaved so much like his former self, and that gave you hope.

. . .

The more time he spent with you, the more Aerion found himself settling into your company.

Now he knew the exact expression you made whenever you were cross. He knew when you were genuinely irritated versus when you were merely pretending to be offended for the sake of argument. He knew the way your eyes brightened whenever something delighted you, and how that same light dimmed whenever you were unwell.

And lately...

“You look constantly ill these days,” Aerion remarked as the two of you walked through the gardens of Summerhall. “What precisely ails you? Why do you refuse to improve?”

You shot him a flat look. “You know, most husbands would say their wives look unwell and would find ways to help them get better.”

“Most husbands are compulsive liars. I am pious and honest,” he sneered, his violet eyes crinkling.

You rolled your eyes towards the heavens. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Aerion knew that for a fact that you were rather fond of him. After all, he wasn’t an inexperienced man— what he did not know was what that made him.

Had the man he used to be also been fond of you too? Enough for him to notice if you were feigning good health?

“You are avoiding the question,” he noted with a frown. “What are you hiding? Do you have some illness I don’t know about?”

“No,” you balked, turning to him. “Why are you being annoyingly observant lately? Have you found life dreadfully boring since losing your memories that you find joy in fussing over me?”

“Hah. The prissy little lady I spent half my life quarreling with happens to be my wife. I am obligated to look after her if I intend to play the role of husband properly, am I not?”

You let out an unimpressed, mocking hum. “How noble of you. Thank you for your service.”

“Besides,” he added dismissively, “if I seek excitement, I can find it elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

“My whores, for instance.”

His words struck you so abruptly that your steps faltered. Aerion glanced down at you, seemingly satisfied to render you speechless. “Men whore, that’s a fact.”

He had meant it half as a jest, but something in your expression had changed.

“I suddenly feel rather tired,” you continued after a moment, fingers tightening around your cloak. “If you will excuse me, I believe I should retire early.”

Without waiting for permission, you stepped past him, but Aerion instinctively caught your wrist before you could move farther away.

“You haven’t answered me,” he hissed.

You met his eyes, unflinching, “You can’t make me do what I don’t want to, husband. Go and find one of your whores instead and make her do your bidding.”

With that, you wrenched yourself from his grasp and stalked towards your bedchambers, and for a moment, Aerion was still on his tracks.

He wanted to go after you, to demand more explanation because you couldn’t just brazenly leave him, but your words rang in his ears, as if he had heard if before—

Then go find one of your whores instead!

For days afterwards, you avoided him. Far from subtly.

You vanished from chambers moments before he entered them. Afternoon teas in the solar ceased entirely under excuses of exhaustion. Servants informed him you had already retired whenever he asked after you.

Aerion felt his irritation mounting with every passing day. It must be his comment about whores, but why did it offend you so? He hadn’t even planned to go through with it!

Not when whores look so dull compared than you. They don’t have your fiery charm, or the sweetness of your face. Something about you was as hard as an iron, but Aerion sometimes thought it was endearing.

Enough of this. He would have order. If you intended to avoid him like some offended little ghost haunting Summerhall, then he would simply drag answers out of you directly.

But before he reached the doors to your chambers, voices stopped him.

Three maids stood just beyond the corridor archway carrying folded linens, too occupied with their conversation to notice the prince approaching.

“…poor thing’s barely left bed these past days,” the older one whispered sympathetically.

“The lady looked so pale this morning,” another sighed. “I thought she might faint again.”

Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately.

“She only insisted on coming out today because she did not wish to raise suspicion,” the third maid murmured. “Though honestly, I pity her...”

The first maid nodded sadly. “The fourth moon already too… and His Grace still does not even know she is carrying his child.”

Suddenly, a shadow fell over them. The three women froze, and slowly, they turned—

Aerion stood behind them, towering and terrifyingly still, his expression drained of color.

“She is carrying... what?”

You cursed the fact that your body had always been of weak constitution. You never recovered from illness easily, and carrying a child only seemed to worsen every ache and every wave of exhaustion settling into your bones.

Which was why you had hidden yourself away in the library that afternoon, seeking silence and peace amongst dusty shelves and books. But somehow or another—

My whores, for instance.

You pressed a hand tiredly against your eyes. How did you manage to get your heart broken over your enemy-turned-husband again for the nth time?

The Aerion before the accident had once looked you dead in the eyes and promised he would never seek comfort in whores again, but this Aerion did not remember any of that. You should have understood he probably only said that to get a reaction out of you, but still, it wasn’t pleasant to hear at the slightest.

Before you could dwell on it further, the library doors suddenly burst open with enough force to slam loudly against the stone wall and you were startled.

Aerion strode inside at once, breathing raggedly as though he had searched half the castle for you.

“There you are—”

His violet eyes were wild, almost furious, and for one startled moment you could only stare at him in confusion as he crossed the room in long, determined strides.

“How could you?” he demanded, catching your arm in a tight hold. “Hells, you are a madwoman.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“How could you not tell me?” His voice cracked with something between anger and disbelief, though still low. “You are carrying my child and said nothing to me?”

Your stomach dropped instantly. “How did you—”

“Find out?” Aerion barked a sharp laugh. “Apparently the help in this castle knows and the child’s own father does not.”

You stared at him silently for a moment before your expression hardened.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When? After you birthed the damn babe?”

Despite yourself, irritation sparked hotly through your chest.

“Oh, forgive me for not rushing to share the news with the husband who so easily informed me he could return to his whores whenever he pleased,” you snapped, glaring at him. “Had you not been foolish enough to get yourself whacked in the head and lose half your memories, perhaps I would have told you sooner.”

Aerion looked almost stricken for half a heartbeat, and you took your chance to get away from him.

Unfortunately, your skirts caught beneath your heel.

Your breath caught sharply as your footing slid across the polished floor, the world tilting around you while your body lurched dangerously towards the stone fireplace nearby.

But Aerion moved before you could crash into it.

He lunged forward immediately, catching you firmly around the waist and hauling you hard against his chest. The force of it sent both of you stumbling sideways together. Your shoulder collided painfully against the edge of a bookshelf—

And Aerion’s head slammed hard against the heavy wooden corner.

For one terrible heartbeat, his grip around you tightened reflexively, as though making certain you were still safe against him, before his body sagged and the two of you tumbled to the floor.

“Aerion...?”

His eyes lost focus immediately— and before you could properly steady either of you, the prince collapsed against you, unconscious.

In the span of a single day, Summerhall descended into absolute chaos.

First came the panic of its most troublesome prince rendered unconscious after striking his head for the second time. Servants ran through corridors in terror, Maester Melanquin was nearly trampled in the confusion, and somewhere in the midst of it all, Prince Maekar had reportedly declared that if Aerion survived this only to lose his remaining memories, he would personally lock his son inside a tower.

Then came the second revelation— you were with child. The maids whispered excitedly through the halls, and Ser Duncan nearly choked on his beef stew after hearing the news.

Meanwhile, you remained seated beside Aerion’s bed, trying your best to keep it together. Guilt gnawed viciously at your chest, remembering how he shielded you from that fall.

Because even in anger—even confused and not fully himself—his first instinct had still been to save you.

The hours stretched unbearably. You must have prayed to every god known to man by the time the third hour passed, and you were almost asleep when a low groan broke the silence.

Aerion shifted faintly against the pillows, brows furrowing before his violet eyes slowly opened.

For one dreadful heartbeat, you could barely breathe when his gaze settled on you. “Aerion…?”

It took him several seconds, but you would never have expected... his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“Missed me, wife?”

You stared at him in utter shock. Is he...? Has his—

After two and half moons, the familiar cruel glint finally appeared in your husband’s violet eyes that made him look more like gods rather than human. This expression belonged only to your Aerion.

The boy who had once been your greatest torment in childhood, but also the man who had grown fiercely fond of you despite himself. The same man who would spill blood without hesitation for anyone foolish enough to dishonor you.

Aerion blinked at your stunned expression before the corners of his eyes crinkled faintly with amusement.

“What?” he drawled lazily. “Yes, I’ve returned.”

A broken sound escaped your throat before you threw yourself towards him without another thought, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as relief crashed over you so violently it made your entire body tremble.

Aerion let out a quiet grunt from the force of it, but his arms immediately came around you in return, holding you just as tightly against him. And then, in his typical velvety voice, he murmured against your hair:

“And I shall continue making your life a little hell, wife.”

A watery laugh escaped you despite the tears burning your eyes. Gods, he is so, so, so incredibly and fucking insufferable.

As a child of five, you would say marrying Aerion Targaryen would ruin your life entirely, but now... as he held you against his heart—

You found yourself overwhelmingly grateful that it had been him.

He was mystified himself, how could he ever go through days and nights without you near?

Several nights after he regained his memories and you were well enough, his lips finally found yours within the privacy of your marital chambers.

“There you are,” he murmured roughly, sucking off your lips as he balanced you on his lap—his sweet wife who was enticingly dressed in sensual nightgown. “Gods, you looked at me these past months as though I had died.”

“You did,” you retorted, clutching his bare shoulder. “You forgot me.”

Aerion kissed you again before you could say another word, slower this time, but no less intense. His thumb brushed beneath your eye gently when a tear slipped free.

“I did not forget you entirely.” He eyed you like a predator to prey, his tone deliciously low. “Some part of me kept finding my way back to you.”

Your fingers curled into his skin as you pulled him into your ravenous kiss, brushing yourself against his crotch.

Aerion made a low sound against your mouth before breaking the kiss and pulling you closer still, carefully this time—as his cool palm settled instinctively against your abdomen, feeling the gentle swell of the child growing within you.

“…You are carrying my son,” he said quietly, as though the reality had only just struck him fully, meeting your eyes.

You huffed softly. “It could very well be a daughter.”

“A son.” Your husband frowned at you and you pursed your lips. “Foolish woman, you should have told me.”

He tilted your face and devoured your lips again, his hands wandering your skin, caressing you, making you sigh and moan—

You wrapped your legs around his waist and melted helplessly into his touch, into the familiar heat of his kisses that you had missed so desperately these past moons.

Before long, he eased you carefully onto the bed beneath him, one hand braced beside your head while the other tilted your chin upward so you could do nothing but look at him.

For a while, he simply stared at you. The candlelight softened the harsh edges of his face, though nothing could truly dull the intensity in those violet eyes as they traced every feature of yours like he was memorizing them anew.

“If I should ever forget you again,” Aerion murmured, thumb brushing slowly across your cheek, “then make me remember. Don’t hide from me and drag me with you if you must. Make me remember you.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the words, though you still lifted your chin at him with stubborn defiance.

“How about you learn not to forget me in the first place?”

Aerion huffed out a soft laugh beneath his breath.

“My poor wife,” he murmured against the curve of your neck, the teasing rasp of his voice sent heat blooming beneath your skin. “I suppose I shall spend tonight properly atoning for that offense.”

And fortunately for you, Aerion Brightfire was a man who took his words very seriously.

He was prideful beyond reason, occasionally nonsensical, and possessed the temperament of a dragon—but there was no swaying him once he set his mind upon something, which meant that, for the foreseeable future, he would watch over you with a keener eye than most until the day you birthed his child.

Though that, perhaps, was a story meant for another time.

For now, you were simply content savoring these quiet nights— nights where, at long last, your prince was back in your arms.

tagging @marianntorres2611 @starkleila @huntmewithdogs @pinkfunland @dauntlesshereticleviathan @laylavynna @dabishou @ireneisbored as per request! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <3

[chuluoyi]

lay all your love on me

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

the three times the dragon prince has been denied your bed, and the one time he succeeds (and finds out why)

genre/warnings: very suggestive, crack, fluff, hardcore enemies to lovers, aerion being protective (and a simp), slight breeding kink(?), mentions of pregnancy, lannister!reader

notes: still in the universe of lannister!reader but can be read as a standalone. we all need a simp aerion :))

To take one’s wife to bed was, in Aerion’s mind, not merely a matter of desire— it was a husband’s right.

And yet, for three days now, he had been denied of that very right.

He had wanted you—badly, with a heat that coiled low in his stomach and only flared when ignored. The discomfort clung to him, followed him through halls and councils and restless nights. Three days of wanting, and three days of you slipping through his grasp like smoke.

On the first night, you had looked at him with that practiced poise and told him, almost apologetically, “I cannot tonight. I’m bleeding.”

A frown tugged at his brow as he did the calculations in his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Lies. It is not due for another week.”

Your brow arched at that. “Since when have you been keeping count of my cycles?”

Aerion could feel heat rising to his cheeks by your question. Hell would freeze over before he admitted that he was anticipating your days.

Thankfully you only shrugged, and didn’t question further. “Bodies change, my prince. Perhaps yours does not, but mine does.”

You had already begun guiding him toward the door, your hands firm against his chest despite your gentle tone.

“That is not how—”

“Out,” you said sweetly, already pushing the door open. “Surely a man of your endurance can survive one night of restraint.”

The door had shut in his face before he could argue further.

The second time had been worse.

You had been furious.

Aerion had barely stepped into your chambers before you turned on him, eyes blazing, lips tight with anger.

“What have I done now?” he questioned, already bracing himself.

“You threw Aegon’s cat into the well, you brute!”

He blinked. “It was an accident—”

“An accident?” you echoed sharply, both hands on your hips. “Do cats fling themselves into wells at your command?”

“It scratched me!” he retaliated in defense, holding up his arm to show you the claw mark as if he was the more injured party. “That beast leapt at me and—!”

“You are cruel,” you snapped, turning away from him entirely. “Leave before I decide you belong in that well next.”

“Do not play with me, wife,” Aerion warned, his voice low. “Men are known to start wars when denied what they want.”

You scoffed. “Yes, I have heard all men are fools, all men are knights, and that one famous High Valyrian proverb says all men must die. Now, I am no man. But you, Aerion—”

You stepped closer, your gaze dragged over him, taking in everything from his tousled silver-gold hair to the faint scatter of freckles across his cheeks, sharp enough to cut.

He should be mad that this outrageous wife of his dared to even rebuke him— but for reasons he could not quite name, he found his pulse quickening and his throat tightening by the minute as he swallowed it down instead.

Gods, why do you look pretty when you are angry?

“You are a man, a knight, a fool… so tell me, does that mean you ought to die?”

Aerion forced himself to stand his ground, yet failing miserably. He was questioning himself and his sanity because how could he find you attractive while insulting him?

He had to leave that night too—more stunned than angered, though the frustration simmered all the same.

By the third day, Aerion was no longer certain what to make of it.

You were avoiding him. But why in the seven hells did you do so?!

The question needled at him, and so did his curiosity. Which was why he found himself before your chambers again. The door to your chambers had been carelessly left not fully shut, and he made mental note to rebuke your maid later.

Perhaps you were indeed bleeding just as you claimed you were. Although he was fairly certain you were not because he could recall that the last time you had been intimate was a day before your moon blood had come and that was not even one moon ago—

However, all his thoughts halted the moment his gaze caught you.

You stood before the long mirror, only in your lacy undergarments, still unaware of him. Your corset pressed tightly at your bosom, accentuating your figure—and the very said bosom. Your hair fell loose, and you were bereft of any rouge, just the way he liked it.

Gods, you were a sight to behold. Aerion found himself rooted where he stood, unable and unwilling to look away. He felt hot and disturbed already— imagining how soft your curves were and how pleasurable it was for him to shove himself inside you—

Your fingers traced your own form as though you were studying yourself. From the swell of your chest, down along the line of your waist, to the gentle curve of your lower belly— you seemed lost in your own quiet contemplation. Your fingers lingered there, pressing it slightly and you frowned.

You looked restless. What had troubled you? Whatever it was, he was certain he could fix it.

Aerion shifted slightly, ready at last to make his presence known, only to have the floor creak under him.

Your head snapped up and silence fell like a blade.

“…Aerion.” Your eyes had already narrowed to slits, putting both hands over your body. “Were you peeping?”

“What.” He straightened, gathering his dignity and put a show as if he intended all of it. “Is it so wrong to ogle my own wife?”

“From behind a half-open door like some skulking court fool?”

“I was ensuring your well-being.”

“With your eyes?” you shot back. “What a great pair of eyes you have.”

His violet eyes twitched. “You have been neglecting your wifely duties for long enough—”

“Consent,” you hissed, “requires two people, husband. And at present, you only have one. You have also thoroughly displeased me, so off with you.”

He barely had time to react before your hands were on him, pushing him back toward the threshold.

Aerion caught the door before it could shut, catching your gaze. “You cannot avoid me forever—”

A mocking smile touched your lips. “Watch me.”

And then the door slammed shut in his face. Aerion stared at it for a long moment, utterly still.

Three days already that he had been bested by this door!

The following day, Aerion had had enough.

He would have answers today, one way or another. This absurdity had to end now.

With that resolve, he made his way towards your chambers. But when he arrived, he found your maids gathered outside, all collectively looking at unease.

Then he heard it— soft and muffled, but it was clear that you were crying.

“Why is she in tears?” he snapped, turning to the servants, who flinched and cowered instantly, hands trembling where they clutched their skirts.

His jaw tightened when he received no answer, and without another word, he pushed past them and stepped inside. He quickly found you, and the sight that met him stilled him where he stood.

You were on the bed, shoulders shaking, your face buried in your hands as quiet sobs slipped through your fingers.

This was the first time he had seen you this mournful. Something twisted at his chest as he crossed the room in quick strides.

You were surprised with his presence, but before you could turn away, Aerion was already beside you—pulling you into him, one arm firm around your shoulders as his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head.

“Enough,” he murmured, far gentler than anything he had said these past days as he pressed you against him to offer comfort. “No more tears, wife.”

However, you seemed to have some tears to spare as you leaned into his chest. Bit by bit, your sobs softened, your breathing evening out against him until only faint sniffles remained.

“Shh,” he hushed, almost awkwardly, his palm patting your back in slow, steady motions. “That is enough.”

Aerion exhaled, glancing down at you as soon as you were calmer.

“…Alright,” he said after a moment, voice returning sharper. “Give me a name.”

You blinked, still dazed. “What?”

“A name,” he repeated, already sounding irritated on your behalf. “Who dares to make you cry? I will have him flayed and hung from the gates before sunset.”

Somehow, something in your chest warmed at his question. You knew him well enough to know that he meant every word, that he truly would rain fire and blood upon anyone who dared to wrong you—and somehow, it made your heart flutter.

“Aerion…” you murmured weakly, pulling away from him.

“Well? Who is it?”

You hesitated, then looked away, your voice quieter now. “No one has… done anything.”

His frown deepened. “Then why are you crying?”

You drew in a breath, fingers curling lightly into his sleeve.

“I thought…” you began, faltering, feeling your face heating. “I thought I was with child.”

That surprised him, his violet eyes widened by a fraction.

“I have been unwell these past few days. I thought perhaps—” You swallowed, fiddling with the hem of your dress. “So I waited out. But my moon blood came this morning, so...”

So he was right with his calculations after all!

Aerion’s hold on you did not loosen as he cleared his throat. “…I see.”

You shook your head quickly, as if to dismiss it. “It is nothing. Truly. I am likely just… taking things too personally.”

“It is not nothing,” he retorted at once.

You huffed faintly, wiping at your eyes. “It is. Everyone expects it, do they not? A royal babe—”

“So someone has said something to you. Who?”

Sometimes you cursed how sharp Aerion was regarding these things. You hesitated again, then forced it out.

“Prince Aerys made a comment.”

Aerion’s expression darkened instantly.

“He said… for all the... boldness that comes out of your mouth, it seems we cannot even manage to— well, since we haven’t conceived a child yet...”

He caught the implication almost instantly.

“He questioned my virility?” he repeated slowly, incredulity laced with offense. “Him? The man who has not managed to put a child in his own wife?”

You winced faintly, knowing this would be his reaction.

“Don’t mind me,” you murmured, looking down. “It was foolish of me to let his words affect me so. It’s just most ladies in the court always go on and on about either womanly pursuits or childrearing—”

“No.” He squinted his eyebrow. “He wouldn’t dare to question me again after tonight.”

Before you could react, he guided you back against the bed, his hands firm but not unkind as he pressed you into the mattress.

“Aerion—?”

“If it is a child you want,” he declared, his violet eyes glinted, hovering above you, “then that is what you will have.”

His hand came up, brushing stray tears from your cheek—surprisingly gentle for a man speaking of fire and punishment only moments ago.

Truthfully, he hadn’t put much thought about having children. Sure, he knew both of you would eventually, but there had never been urgency in it for him. Not when he still found himself wanting more of you.

Still, the very idea of you bearing his child enticed him now. His hand lingered at your cheek for a moment longer before drifting downwards. From the softness of your face, to the curve of your neck, until it came to rest at your waist.

The thought came unbidden— of you round, full and ripe with his child. The image settled into his mind with surprising clarity, and with it, something carnal in himself was awakened.

He surged forward, capturing your lips in a kiss.

“Mmph—” It was hunger, three days of restraint snapping all at once.

His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he meant to erase whatever distance had dared exist between you. His other hand found your jaw, tilting your face just enough for him to deepen the kiss.

Your hands pressed lightly against his chest, breath uneven. “My moon blood—”

“It has been too long,” he cut in with a hiss, before devouring your lips again.

Aerion intended to make good of his word. He took his time with you, reverent in a way that was different with his usual intensity— and you were like sitting duck, a little coaxing and string of kisses and you were like a puddle for him.

A quiet, satisfied hum left him at that.

“You—” he breathed in your scent, nibbling on the skin of your neck that made you squirm, “really want this, don’t you? Worry not— will do it… until you are so full that you couldn’t walk.”

You should never fall so easily... but how could you, when your husband worshipped you and made you feel this good?

His lips and fingers trailed everywhere— sucking your breasts first, fondling them, flicking one as he took the other in his mouth. He had mastered the art of pleasures, and he was determined to lay it all on you.

And his whispers when he finally claimed you, gods—

“I—” he rasped in your ear as he thrusted into you from behind, with you squealing and trembling underneath him. “will fuck this babe into you— and everyone in the Seven Kingdoms... would know to whom you belong to.”

Your husband was maddening, insensible, sometimes treacherous too, but still, the thought of being known across the realm as his was not an unpleasant one in the slightest.

But he could be gentle too—protective in a way, however warped it might seem. And when his voice dropped low against your ear, laced with that dark, tempting sweetness, any lingering doubt within you simply faded.

“Rest assured... you will have my child within you when this night is over, sweet wife.”

[chuluoyi]

kissed by fire

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

quarrels between you and your husband are not new, but when a heated argument turns into the two of you see it fit to give each other silent treatment… it takes an incident to make both of you realize that perhaps a lion and a dragon are not a bad match after all

genre/warnings: very suggestive, childhood enemies to lovers, jealousy -> marital quarrel (aka aerion YEARNS but gets constipated instead), description of injury, mentions of blood, hurt/comfort, romance & fluff, first time with aerion bc he’s finally losing it, lannister!reader

notes: a continuation of the dragon and the lioness but can also be read as a standalone. i thought i love only valarr but apparently aerion is such a goofball i love him too <3

Aerion did not know what you had done to him.

Lately, his thoughts were all about you. Where you were, what you had eaten for the day, to whom you talked to... by one means or another, he always knew.

And damnably, there were moments when his mind betrayed him too. That instead of savoring this distance you maintained, other thoughts came creeping in—

Thoughts like bending you over his desk, stripping your composure piece by piece... until there was nothing left but you breathless under him—

For any normal man, such fixation upon one’s wife might have been a blessing, but let’s not forget that you were his enemy-wife.

Was it some sort of cunning Andal sorcery? Whispered into his ear while he was asleep? Or perhaps you had slipped something in his drink? Something insidious enough to root yourself in his thoughts?

It made no sense.

But what made even less sense... was what he was feeling right now.

His jaw tightened as his gaze drifted across the hall, where you stood far too comfortably in conversation with Daeron.

His own brother. Aerion didn’t like how you were with his drunkard of a brother. The way you inclined your head as you listened, the curve of your lips—soft, polite, endearing in a way... It was so different to the sharp look he was accustomed to.

Gods, how it vexed him.

There was… something deeply infuriating about the ease with which you seemed to forget yourself—forget him—when you talked with Daeron. What could possibly be so amusing that it drew laughter from you so freely?

So he did what (arguably) anyone in his shoes would do: listening in.

Not openly because he would not be caught stooping to that, but close enough— just within earshot, where your voices carried if one paid attention.

“You fare better with my brother than I thought.” Daeron gave a low snort, shaking his head almost in awe. “Only a remarkable woman would be able to.”

There was a brief pause before your reply came, your expression almost wry.

“He could be a menace…”

The words struck like flint to steel.

A menace. Aerion’s jaw clenched harder, a burn searing inside his chest. A menace? That was what you thought of him? What you would say to his brother?

Before any sense could take hold of him, the Bright Prince was already moving. The distance between you closed in long, purposeful strides, his presence cutting cleanly that both you and his brother turned to him.

“A word,” he spat. You barely had time to react before his hand closed around your wrist, and he was already pulling you away.

. . .

The instant your husband hauled you away, a knot of unease twisted in your stomach.

The door to your marital chamber opened with a sharp push, and just as quickly, it shut behind you. You stumbled slightly at the sudden stop, surprise flickering across your face as you turned to him—

But Aerion was already looming close, his violet eyes dark with fury.

“You are—” he started, gritting out every word, “—to conduct yourself in a manner befitting my wife.”

You blinked, wide-eyed and clueless. “What do you mean?”

After the tourney at Storm’s End, you thought you had made meaningful progress with him. True, you still quarreled every now and then, but it was not quite as severe as before. And for one, the wall of pillows that once divided your bed had since been cast aside.

“Start behaving in a way that does not bring disgrace upon my name,” Aerion continued, his voice sharp with disdain.

“When have I ever done—”

“Don’t feign innocence with me, wench. You have been behaving as though you have no husband to answer to.”

What was this nonsense he was prattling about? You had only just conversed with Daeron, and of all men in Summerhall, he was the most harmless soul there was.

“Are you suggesting I’m having an affair?” Your voice rose, tinted with disbelief. “Aerion, he is your brother—”

“Brother or not, I am not blind,” he cut in sharply. “History is not so kind as to spare men from betrayal simply because of blood. Do not pretend such things are beyond you.”

You couldn’t believe this. The accusation lingered, and his very presence suffocating in its intensity. Something lurched in your chest at the way he worded it.

“You would do well to remember your place.” Something dark and ugly flickered in his violet gaze. “If you cannot even manage the duties expected of a wife, then you will soon prove yourself inadequate.”

This madman. Was the things they said about the Targaryen madness true after all? You didn’t know why your eyes were getting watery.

But by all Seven Gods, you refused to show it to him. You held his gaze, fingers tightening against the fabric of your skirts.

“If that is truly what you think of me… then so be it, my lord husband.”

The way you hissed out made Aerion tilt his head to reassess you. Oh, but you were far from done. You had enough too.

“From now on, I request a separate chamber as I cannot share a chamber with a man who thinks I’m an unfaithful wife— I will explain it to your father should he ask.”

And before he could answer—before he could twist your words into something else—you turned on your heel. Your steps were swift, resolute, carrying you toward the door before the sting in your chest could betray you.

Ever since that day, you avoided Aerion as though he were a plague.

You wasted no time in moving your personal belongings into one of the guest chambers—the farthest one from his, you made sure of it. The servants had looked at you strangely, though none dared question it. By nightfall, the room had been made entirely your own, and from then on, the door remained locked whenever you were inside.

Your hours were filled with all womanly pursuits there were—embroidery, painting, books... sometimes you were lost into them until late night.

You had your space now. Your peace. You no longer had to endure his temper or unreasonable accusations, and probably should have done this from the very first day of your marriage. Being rid of him was a blessing—

So why, then, did it irritate you… that he made no effort to seek you out?

He is so infuriating!

With a sharp motion, you stabbed your needle into the embroidery more harshly than intended, as though the act alone might banish every thought of your stupid husband from your mind.

. . .

Aerion had thought that distance would do him good, really.

He had hoped that once you were no longer within reach, whatever strange fixation had taken hold of him would fade, starved by absence.

Oh, but it had not. If anything, you plagued him more.

Your absence was louder than your presence had ever been. He kept thinking of your smile when he told you of his shit day, your puckered lips when he boasted, and how you would held the blanket tighter when you were cold at nights.

You asking for separate chambers had not been part of his expectations. Not once had it crossed his mind that you would be the one to walk away first, and now he was alone in a room that had once been his during his boyhood—

And damn, it felt so... unbearably empty.

He struggled to make sense of it. He should have been relieved. There were no more sharp-tongued retorts to provoke him and no more tempting presence to unsettle him at every turn.

So why did the silence grate?

Why did each night alone leave him more irritable than the last?

Aerion still didn’t know the answer, but he did know he needed a fucking distraction.

The next morning, he found himself riding alongside his father’s hunting party, the chill air biting against his skin as they rode through the woods.

Prince Maekar had cast him a glance, one brow arching high. Aerion was not known for early mornings, least of all voluntary ones. But he let him be all the same, thinking that perhaps his boy had finally gathered some of his long-lost wits.

The hunt would end in afternoon. And yet—

By midday, the Bright Prince had not loosed a single clean shot.

Aerion was usually a decent shot, but somehow this morning, his focus always frayed, his thoughts drifting— your face rose in his mind more times than he preferred.

Not as you had been in the hall, smiling at Daeron, but as you had looked at him then.

“If that is truly what you think of me… then so be it, my lord husband.”

More than spite, you looked hurt. Though you had tried so damnably hard not to show it, and worse, he realized it only now. He lowered his bow, something twisting uncomfortably in his chest.

Seven hells, if I could just—

Aerion exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. By the time the hunt ended, his mood had only soured. He reined his horse in beside his father at last, silent for a moment before asking his father a question out loud.

“Father, do the Andals practice sorcery or the sorts?”

Prince Maekar turned his head slowly, fixing him with a look of pure exasperation.

“Are you drunk, boy?”

The evening meal was quieter than usual.

Prince Maekar sat at the head of the table, his presence imposing as ever, while his sons occupied their usual places—Daeron already halfway into his cups, Aerion brooding over his goblet, and Egg watching them all with bright, curious eyes as he munched on his meat.

Maekar’s gaze flickered towards his second son briefly before he addressed the nearest servant. “Where is my good daughter tonight?”

Your handmaiden, standing a careful distance away, dipped into a respectful bow. “My lady is unwell, Your Grace. She sends her apologies.”

Aerion did not look up, scoffing inwardly as he took a drink of his wine. You were avoiding him, he was convinced of it. This was merely the next step in your petty defiance.

Daeron, on the other hand, perked up at once, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

“Unwell, is she?” he mused, glancing at Aerion. “Or am I witnessing some grand marital dispute from a safe distance?”

His younger brother’s violet eyes snapped towards him. “Hold your tongue.”

“Oh, I am merely curious,” Daeron drawled, leaning back in his chair with careless ease. “You drag her away in a fury one day, and the next she vanishes from supper entirely? You must have incurred her ire. Ladies do tend to prefer husbands who do not bite, brother.”

Egg snorted softly into his cup, quickly trying to disguise it as a cough.

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “At least I do not drown myself in wine to make myself tolerable company,” he shot back.

“You believe yourself more tolerable than me?” Daeron raised a brow, amused. “You?”

Egg, unable to resist, piped up, “If she is avoiding you, you must have said something particularly dreadful, brother.”

Aerion shot him a glare. “Stay out of matters you don’t understand, you little—”

“Quiet, all of you!” Prince Maekar hissed, looking over the unruly lot that were his sons. He shot a withering look at Daeron, a grim one at Aerion and ushered Egg with, “Finish your meal and return to your quarters, Aegon.”

Egg only gave a careless shrug—entirely unbothered, if not faintly amused by his brother’s state—before taking his leave soon after. Aerion, for his part, scoffed under his breath, his temper already stretched thin to its breaking point.

“She will attend when she pleases,” he spat curtly, as though that settled it.

And yet, for the rest of the meal, his eyes strayed more than once to the empty seat.

. . .

You were ill... and you were not faking it in the slightest.

This was the third day now, and perhaps it was your own doing when you spent one night too deep in your painting that you didn’t sleep. Your body felt sluggish, heat pooling beneath your skin in a way that left you both feverish and cold. Sleep came often, but never restfully.

You probably should have a maester look at you soon. You shifted beneath the covers, your breath shallow as you tried to coax yourself into sleep. By now, your eyes stung faintly, your composure worn thin.

And worse, you missed him.

You had been so certain of your anger, and yet here you were— aching for the very man who had wounded your pride.

Perhaps the fever had muddled your thoughts and stripped away any reason, but you found yourself wishing that Aerion were here. That he would push open the door without warning, standing at your bedside with that sharp, infuriating presence—

“You stupid little menace...” you grumbled under the blankets, forcing your eyes shut. You would not allow yourself to falter before him though.

And just as you began to doze off— the air shifted. You immediately knew you weren’t alone. Your eyes snapped open, wary.

At first, there was only the dim outline of your chamber, shadows dancing faintly in the low candlelight. Then, a glint of steel caught the light—

A blade.

Instinct seized you before thought could. You twisted sharply as the knife came down where you had been only a heartbeat before.

The mattress tore. You scrambled back, heart pounding, vision swimming as you forced yourself upright. Your hand grasped blindly—finding the nearest object—

The rogue lunged again and you swung whatever it was you had grabbed.

. . .

The wine tasted particularly good this late evening.

Aerion was not exactly a fan of alcohol, but sometimes dulling his senses made thinking certain things easier. He had turned it over enough in his mind, brooded on it, weighed it— and come to a decision.

Tonight, he would put an end to this cold war between you. He would drag you back to your marital chamber if he had to. The nights without you had grown so unbearable that it felt as if they were driving him towards a slow, simmering madness.

Across from him, Daeron had sunk deeper into his usual drunken stupor, though his tongue remained as loose as ever.

“You know,” he slurred, lifting his cup lazily. “You are a fortunate man, brother.”

Aerion turned his head slightly, regarding him with a nonchalant glance.

“What does Lady Lannister lack for? She has it all. Beauty, wit, spirit…” He let out a chuckle. “Nothing at all. You ought to cherish her.”

To Aerion, all he heard was his brother coveting his wife. His lip curled slightly, irritation sparking.

“I don’t want to hear that from—”

A shrill scream suddenly cut through the hall that the two princes stilled. Your handmaiden came rushing in, her eyes wide with terror, pale and breathless, addressing him instantly.

“My prince! An attacker—! In my lady’s chamber!”

The world suddenly came to vivid focus. In one dreadful heartbeat, Aerion was already on his feet, seizing the sword displayed on the cabinet, the fine steel already drawn as Daeron sobered instantly, rising from his seat.

The brothers tore through the corridors, servants scattering in their wake. Aerion cannot think—he only drove forward with harsher strides, a single thought consuming him.

Anyone who dares to injure you would pay their price in blood.

The moment he arrived, your chamber was in chaos. Your other handmaiden lay crumpled on the floor, bathed in her own blood, whereas you—

You stood there, trembling, a candlestick clutched in your hand like a weapon, eyes wide and unfocused as the attacker struggled at your feet.

For a single, suspended moment, Aerion saw nothing but red.

His sword thrusted cleanly through the man’s shoulder, pinning him to the floor with a sickening force. The attacker cried out, writhing in agony—but he paid him no mind.

His focus was you. He reached you in one stride, as you threw yourself on him.

“You—!”

The strong arms of your husband came around you at once, pressing you against him, holding you fast—and in that instant, he felt the searing heat from your skin.

“Aerion…” you breathed, laced with relief at the mere sight of him.

But whatever words he had died in his throat when your knees buckled. Your fingers slackened, the candlestick clattering to the ground.

He caught you before you could collapse, arms tightening instinctively as your weight went limp against him. Your head fell against his shoulder, your breath faint, and your body far too warm.

Something cold and suffocating coiled around his chest.

“My lady!” your handmaidens cried out, their voices frantic, but he scarcely heard them, because for the first time in his life—

Aerion felt a raw, undiluted fear for you.

“Why was I not told my wife was this severely ill?!”

The Bright Prince’s voice rang through the chamber, sharp and furious. Almost everyone—and Prince Maekar—flinched at his harsh tone.

Your handmaiden shrank beneath his vicious anger. “My prince, I did inform you—”

Aerion’s gaze only darkened further, which made her recoil. It was not only your condition that had stoked his wrath, but also the very fact that Summerhall had been breached by some nameless assailant.

“I want the wretch who dared trespassing my wife’s chamber bound in the dungeons with no water. I will question him myself.”

He turned sharply to the guards, snapping, “And if you allow another vermin to slip into this fucking castle again, I swear to the Seven, I will have your hands and feet severed for your failure— you’ve proven them useless enough as it is.”

Nothing and no one could soothe his temper. Prince Maekar might have deemed his son excessive in his threats, yet… he understood, in some measure, and said nothing.

The maester, who was already tending to you, spoke calmly over the tension.

“It is the spring fever, my prince. Unpleasant, but not uncommon these days. If she makes it through the night, there is every chance she will recover.”

His gaze was fixed on you then, who were still and deathly pale. It looked as though even drawing breath had become a struggle for you, and he was on the verge of turning his wrath upon the maester when—

“Aerion…”

Your voice was no more than a whisper, yet it reached him. This was the second time this night you had called his name.

Maekar saw it firsthand— how the fury ebbed from his boy’s gaze, giving way to raw concern as he hovered over you. In all his life, he had only seen Aerion like this twice: once, when the boy had stood by his mother’s sickbed… and the second time, now.

Truthfully, the Prince of Summerhall had nearly abandoned hope for him. His second son had grown into someone so cruel and vain... and in Maekar’s mind, binding him to a proper lady like you had been a last, desperate attempt to salvage whatever remained of the happy boy he had once been.

Aerion’s hand had found yours, fingers closing around your palm as though to anchor you there. The maester glanced between them. “My lady needs rest—”

“She is asking for me,” the Bright Prince replied, leveling him with a dark stare. “I am staying.”

There was no room for argument in his tone.

Maekar studied him for a moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze. Then, with a subtle look from his eyes, he motioned for the others to withdraw from the chamber.

Having gone through this himself with his late wife, he knew exactly what Aerion must be feeling. Still, he allowed himself a moment longer at the threshold to watch while the others left.

The four dragons on Maekar Targaryen’s personal arms stood for all four of his sons, but deep in his heart, Aerion had always been different. He was the son who resembled him most— that same fire, quick temper, and unquenched thirst ran thick in his veins.

He could see how Aerion was determined to stay, his hand still wrapped firmly around yours. Now he had taken a seat near the edge of the bed, stroking your face in silence.

Something in Maekar’s expression softened, just barely.

Then he, too, turned and left them to their silence.

Consciousness came to you slowly. Your eyes fluttered open, vision still blurred at the edges, only to find your silver-haired husband quite close to your face— violet eyes fixed intently on your face, as though he had not looked away for hours.

Your heart fluttered. If this was a dream, you did not wish to wake from it. For a moment, you simply stared at Aerion, dazed, trying to make sense of him.

“…You look dreadful,” you croaked, noticing his disheveled hair.

“And you have been unconscious for almost twenty hours,” he returned dryly, lacking his usual bite. “You have little ground to speak on appearances.”

“Twenty…?”

“Your fever broke not long ago. You were burning like a forge.”

“And yet here I am,” you retorted, a hint of humor slipping through despite your weakness. “Still very much alive. How unfortunate for you.”

There was a brief silence. You became aware then, of the fact that Aerion was not merely near you, but lying on the bed itself and facing you, closer than he had been in… days.

“Your maid told me you have been ill, and still you chose not to summon a maester,” he started, his irritation slipping through. “And look what demanding a separate room got you. Brilliant.”

You frowned, irked. “I didn’t think it necessary then, but who could have imagined anyone might come and go from Summerhall as they pleased—”

“I will have that wretch’s offending arms severed and leave him as a corpse—”

“Oh? How very assertive of you. I certainly did not ask you to loom over me like some—”

“Like some what?” he cut in, sharper now.

You faltered, then looked away again, something tightening in your chest.

“…Why do you suddenly care?” you asked instead, pointed. “Aren’t you the one who thinks I am not beyond unfaithfulness? You should have just let me succumb to my illness so you could find a new, prettier and younger bride in my place.”

While a part of you wanted to be near to him, his accusation hurt you in equal measure. Meanwhile, Aerion went still. For a moment, he said nothing—only watched you, something dark flickering behind his gaze.

“You think I would stoop to that?” he questioned at last, voice low, edged.

“What else should I think?” you shot back, meeting his eyes now despite the ache in your head. “You made your opinion of me quite clear—”

That was when his patience snapped. He did not let you finish, because before you could fathom anything, his hand suddenly pulled the back of your head and—

—his lips crashed against yours.

It was not gentle—or at least, not at first. It was searing, sudden, born of frustration, anger— also days of tension, of unspoken thoughts and unacknowledged feelings. Myriad of things seemed to spill into that single kiss.

Your hand rose instinctively, pressing lightly against his chest, to steady yourself more than to push him away. And then the kiss softened, if only slightly— less force, less anger, and more something else entirely. Lust?

Something either of you chose not to name in the end.

When he finally pulled back, the violet of his eyes blazed, as if holding on the last strands of his control.

“You infuriate me—” he growled, voice tight, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. “You vex me, you are everything I never want in a wife, yet—”

For once, Aerion was at a loss of words. His hand lingered at your cheek, thumb brushing faintly against your skin as though savoring the feel of your skin, because in fact, this was the first time the two of you were this close on your own will.

Your gaze was unfocused, wide and glassy, lips parted slightly as you looked at him. You were the very image of the girl he had once waited for in the halls of the Red Keep during your visits in his boyhood.

How funny was it that he actually fell for you? Almost begrudgingly, Aerion tugged you closer, spitting these words as he held your gaze with that steadfast urgency:

“I lied— you are everything I want after all.”

And then, he kissed you again. His lips found yours with a quieter intensity, no longer clashing but claiming—slow, deep, as though he meant to make you feel every bit of it. His hand slid from your cheek to cradle the back of your head, drawing you closer and deepening the kiss.

“Mmh, it felt fucking mad... wondering what you were doing—” he bit out against your lips, the words rough. “I can’t stay away from you for a single fucking day and and yet you can go about... as though I do not exist?”

“Ah, mmph...” you breathed, drawing him closer to you as his hands traced along your sides and up the length of your spine. He was so warm, so solid— from the very moment you saw him riding in that tourney at Storm’s End, you had secretly wanted to hold Aerion Brightflame in your arms too.

The two of you were like two lovers discovering each other. Your husband rained hot kisses on your skin, from your mouth, jaw, throat, to your cleavage—

You hadn’t even realized that his deft fingers had been making a quick work of your bodice, and suddenly you were naked before him.

“F-Fuck...” he grounded out, laving his tongue on your bare chest. You inhaled sharply, feeling how he took your left breast in his mouth and sucked hard. You moaned, gripping the back of his head, savoring the heat that was coiling in between your legs.

Your voice was melody to his ears and Aerion started grinding against you, putting everything he had known of pleasuring a woman into practice.

“Aerion—” your breath hitched, your senses heightened, your whole body trembling— his tongue and lips were everywhere in your body he could touch.

It was overwhelming how close he was, how completely he seemed to surround you, as though there was nothing left in the world but him.

“Say my name,” he commanded, only then realizing how deeply he craved the sound of his name falling out of your sweet lips.

And so you did— when he held you as though you were something fiercely his, and when you clung to him as though you had always belonged there. You called his name over and over, crying it out at one point, when he buried himself to the hilt inside you and filling you with everything that was his.

And somewhere between defiance and surrender, between resentment and longing... the lines between enemies and lovers blurred for the dragon and the lion on this night.

. . .

The next time you awoke, you were in Aerion’s arms.

You were nestled against him, your head resting upon his bare chest. His arm draped securely around you, as though even in sleep he would not let you stray far.

Your husband—your enemy since you were children of five—had staked his claim over you. He had kissed you, bedded you, claimed your maidenhead and, Gods help you, you had been lost in the allure of the first night you had long dreaded since before your wedding.

Your fingers moved idly across the pale expanse of his chest, tracing slow, absent patterns—half in thought, half in quiet wonder.

Perhaps your prodding had been a moment too long that Aerion stirred.

His arm shifted slightly, and one violet eye cracked open, casting you a sidelong glance. You startled, hand stilling at once.

“What?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

“Nothing,” you replied quickly.

He did not look convinced. Still, he said nothing further, only watched you for a moment longer before his gaze softened, just slightly. His hand, which had rested idly against your back, began to move in slow, absent strokes along your spine.

Never in your life had you seen Aerion Brightflame this… tame.

“Yes. I am comely enough,” he muttered after a beat, catching your lingering gaze. “You may stop staring now.”

A huff left you. “You are insufferable, even at this hour.”

“And you are unexpectedly tolerable.”

You let out a snort, and he had a half-grin on his face. “Careful, wife. You may grow fond of me.”

“Do not flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

Who would have thought that the two of you—who could scarcely endure one another’s presence—would find yourselves here, like this?

You did not speak the thought aloud. Instead, after a moment, you said, “If this—” you gestured vaguely at the sheets, “is to… continue—”

Aerion’s brow lifted slightly, looking as if he had taken some sort of offense. “If?”

“—then I will have one condition.”

He regarded you with mild curiosity, before letting out an exasperated exhale, tempering his voice into a mocking tone.

“Very well, my lady… and what, pray tell, do you demand of me now?”

You hesitated, just briefly, before meeting his gaze.

“No more visits to the whorehouse. Under any circumstances. You are not to shame me in any form.”

The words lingered, and you could feel the warmth rising to your face even as you held his gaze. You braced yourself—expecting resistance, a sharp retort, perhaps even mockery.

But instead—

“Done.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “That was… remarkably quick.”

Aerion cast you a withering stare, shifting slightly as he settled more comfortably. “You misjudge me, wife. It does not interest me.”

Your frown deepened, suspicion threading through your expression. Surely he did not fully grasp what he had just given up.

“Aerion, do you even—”

Oh, but by now, your husband knew what he had to do. He cut you off in the only way he seemed to favor— with a kiss.

He then moved above you, trailing wet kisses along your throat and shoulder. You should have pushed him away, yet you didn’t.

When he finally drew back, a roguish grin had settled onto his face. That damn, handsome face.

“You think too much. Just rest your pretty little head, my lady.”

“And you think too little,” you returned, though the bite had dulled.

A faint hint of amusement touched his lips, and you knew what he said to be true, much to your chagrin.

“Then we are simply… well-matched.”

Ever since the incident in your chamber, something had shifted. No one spoke of it, or noticed at all… save, perhaps, Prince Maekar, who watched his son with a sharper eye than most.

Aerion, for his part, remained very much himself. Haughty, vain and simply cruel, he still made a sport out of other’s suffering. And you simply listened with the composure of a saint, playing the demure wife to his fire.

While the two of you might fool everyone with the act, you could never with the Anvil— a seasoned man with a colorful experience of his own.

And soon, he saw it with his own very eyes.

Prince Maekar had taken to his usual walks through the gardens. It was meant to be a solitary habit, at least until he turned the corner and found his son bending you over the marbled table—

In the very picture of impropriety.

After a brief pause and a high arch of an eyebrow, he simply turned away, continuing his walk as though he had seen nothing at all.

There were some things a father did not need to witness twice… though, for what it was worth, it was not so terrible a sight after all. And he knew one thing for sure—

There was no such thing as a secret that could truly be kept.

. . .

The romance of the dragon prince and his lion princess would become an anecdote in many years to come… but before then—

Right now, it was Summerhall who had come to know first... that the dragon too had captured the lion’s heart.

tagging @mommyoftwoo @w1tch-hazel @kitkatrattrap @zarrockette4 @cupidsms @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @heywtvsss @kimkhyuna as per request and those asking for part 2 teehee! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <33

[chuluoyi]

the dragon and the lioness

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

for as long as you could remember, you and the bright prince have always been bitter enemies... but when duty calls and you are married off to each other, how will you survive this marriage?

genre/warnings: lots of crack, hardcore childhood enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, quarrels & usage of "wench" (he is aerion and he's emotionally constipated), assault and injury (not by aerion), forced proximity, mentions of blood (aka aerion going ballistic on your former betrothed), fluff, lannister!reader

notes: aerion here is the same aerion from this valarr fic but this can def be read as standalone. i actually had so much fun writing this bc this trope is my fav trope to write! i hope you all enjoy it <3

The fool in Red Keep said… the animosity between you and Aerion began when you were nothing more than babes in cradle.

He claimed that with the supposed cruelty of infancy, you had pushed him from his cradle and sent him flying to the floor. Thus, he had despised you ever since.

On the contrary, the fool in Casterly Rock said… it was the Bright Prince who started it. He was an unruly babe who yanked your hair so harshly it made you wail, and it was no wonder you came to loathe him.

Whether any tale held any truth, you could not say. You had no memory of ever laying a hand on him, or otherwise. Only that the hatred had always been there, as old as time.

You two have always been the bitterest of enemies. So when the news of your betrothal came, it felt like a cruel jest of the highest order.

But of course, House Lannister accepted the proposal gladly. Your father even went as far as breaking your previous betrothal to House Reyne. No matter how wretched Aerion was, he was still a prince of House Targaryen—blood of the dragon, and your house had never been one to shy away from greed.

And so when your new, blasted betrothed, with his silver hair and evil violet eyes, let out a derisive snort and told you right in your face that:

“The proud Lady Lannister has fallen to my feet at last… How sad.”

Gods knew you had never lacked for sharp words—but for once, nothing came, because this was exactly what your house had thrust you into.

And nor were you comforted when you would-be goodbrother, Daeron, came to you in his drunken stupor, saying:

“At this point, he’s a lost cause. I doubt marriage could fix him… but you could at least fuck him, yeah?”

Your life would be an utter disaster, you were sure of it. Why? Why must it be Aerion fucking Targaryen? You could understand politically beneficial marriage, but still, there were other Targaryen princes besides Aerion!

There were Daeron (though he might rope you into his drinking habit), Matarys (who might be too young for you), Aerys (who was said to have little interest in women, and way too old for you besides), and even Maekar?

No, no. The thought of being Aerion’s stepmother just filled you with more grief.

Valarr would be the perfect choice. The Young Prince was everything a bride could want in a husband… alas, his princess consort was already living that fairy tale with him.

As the only daughter of House Lannister, you were the perfect piece to be played in this game of thrones—such was your fate.

And whether you liked it or not... your wedding with your worst enemy was fast approaching.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger...”

Your wedding was a grand event in King’s Landing. Held in the Great Sept of Baelor, three days of feasts and a wedding tourney would follow—festivities befitting a royal union between a prince of the realm and a lady from a powerful house.

You stood at the altar, every inch the perfect bride. Beside you, Aerion was draped in Targaryen prince regalia, the very image of arrogance as he recited the vows—

“I’m hers… and she is mine.”

“I’m his… and he is mine.”

The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but when you glanced at him, you caught the triumphant glint in his violet eyes.

“From this day... to the end of my days...”

You almost looked away in disgust, but the weight of a hundred watching eyes held you in place.

The High Septon then bound your hands together, silk wrapped tight, sealing a union that neither of you had ever wanted— and after a very awkward kiss, you became the Aerion Brightfire’s wife, and he your husband.

A union of a dragon and a lion. To the realm, it was a pretty spectacle, but to you, it was a veiled disaster.

. . .

The wedding, by all appearances, had been a resounding triumph. The feasts had been lavish, the tourney lively, the realm thoroughly entertained.

However, the real trial began when doors to your marital chamber closed behind you with a thud, when both of you shed the amicable masks you had worn all day.

At least your new husband had the sense to refuse the bedding ceremony outright. For that alone, you might have been almost grateful.

“I suppose with this, you could consider this the height of your ambitions fulfilled,” Aerion drawled, both hands on his hips, his voice dripping with that same unbearable arrogance you had come to loathe.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “If this is the height, then I should like to return it.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation breaking through his cool. “How ungrateful. Most women would kill to stand where you are.”

“You flatter yourself. Most women would weep to be wed to you.”

“Careful, my lady wife. You shouldn’t offend me too deeply, or I will be inclined to have your tongue.”

“I should hope to offend you thoroughly then. Feel free to get my tongue out of me, if you could.”

That was how it had always been between you—venom clashing like blades. From childhood to now, nothing had changed.

“Gods, what a delightful marriage this will be!”

Aerion scoffed, throwing his hands up in exaggerated delight before turning away. He began shrugging off his coat, then bending to pull at his boots. Another silence fell—sharper this time, brittle at the edges.

Your gaze flicked, unwillingly, to the bed... and realizing that as a man and wife, you would be sharing a bed together. Something in you snapped at the very thought.

“Oh, bloody hell,” you cursed. “If you intend to share my bed, I suggest you don’t.”

He looked back at you, brow lifting slightly. “Your bed? This is Red Keep, you dullard.”

“I refuse to be anywhere near you!”

“As if I would want—”

“Then go and find one of your whores instead!”

Oh no, maybe you had gone to far, but all you could see before you was the little monster who had made your childhood a misery whenever you visited King’s Landing—one who stole your tarts, shoved you aside, and screamed at you without cause.

For a heartbeat, the air seemed to turn icy, something dark flickering in your new husband’s gaze, sharp enough that it nearly made you recoil.

“Just so you wait until we go back to Summerhall.” Aerion’s piercing violet bore through you. “You won’t be so eager to test me then.”

“I shall try regardless,” you replied, still lifting your chin in defiance.

He held your gaze a moment longer, something unreadable passing behind it—before turning on his heel.

“Enjoy your solitude, wench.”

And with that, he strode from the chamber, the door slamming shut behind him. At last you were alone, safe and free from him and the dreadful notion of the first night.

…then, suddenly, you burst into dry, crisp laughter. The sound escaping you as you sank into the chair before your vanity, your limbs heavy with the weight of it all.

There you had it... the first night of your marriage, and your husband really went to the whorehouse.

. . .

“Impudent little wretch…”

Aerion stalked down the corridor, the words slipping through clenched teeth. His temper burned hot, as though the very walls of the Red Keep offended him.

You. Gods, how he hated you. It was not merely the defiance—though that alone would have been enough. It was the way you met every barb he threw with one of your own since you were children of five. You did not shrink, did not simper, did not bend.

And worse, you had been radiant throughout the day, as much as it pained him to admit. The way your eyes widened just so, the softness of your lips, the slim of your waist—

Gods, what cruel jest was this, that his sworn enemy—now inconveniently, his wife—should be so offensively comely?

A bitter scoff left him.

“Impudent little wretch,” he spat, quieter this time, though the words held no less venom.

As astounding a fact as it was, Aerion was no habitual whoremonger nor witless adulterer. He didn’t even frequent the brothels that often!

Which only made this all the more infuriating… because now he found himself striding towards the Street of Silk, driven not by want, but by seething spite.

If that was what you thought of him, then so be it! He would give you a tale worth choking on—he would be tangled in silks and perfumed arms, and by the morning, you would be known as the wife spurned on her very first night.

His lips curled faintly at the thought, satisfaction flickering beneath his irritation.

Aerion slowed at the entrance of a particularly well-appointed establishment. Music drifted faintly from within, low laughter following after it. For a moment, he simply stood there.

Not out of hesitation, but because the absurdity of it all suddenly pressed sharply at his pride. He, a prince of the blood, reduced to staging a petty display all because his own wife had refused him on his wedding night!

Still, his hand lifted—

“Your Grace.”

The voice cut cleanly. Aerion’s expression darkened at once, already recognizing it. Sure enough, when he turned, two figures cloaked in pure white stood just behind him.

Ser Roland Crakehall and Ser Donnel of Duskendale. Of the Kingsguard.

“Explain yourselves,” Aerion demanded coldly, his gaze flicking between them.

Ser Roland inclined his head, far too calmly for his liking. “We are under orders, Your Grace.”

“From whom?”

“Prince Maekar,” Ser Donnel answered with a tone of finality. “To keep you… in order, my prince.”

For a heartbeat, Aerion simply stared at them, utterly incredulous. That his father had foreseen him marching to a brothel from his wedding feast, and thought it necessary to hatch a contingency plan— how and where did the old man get such a wisdom from?

He moved to brush past Ser Donnel, intent on entering the brothel regardless, but Ser Roland stepped neatly before him and blocked the entrance.

“You insolent—”

“Forgive me, my prince. Our duty is to Prince Maekar, and he has made it clear that you are not to incite any scandal on your wedding day.”

And so the night ended not in scandal, but with a very fuming prince walking back to Red Keep, under the watchful eye of the Kingsguard.

When the news reached you that your husband (of a day, mind you) was unceremoniously escorted back from Street of Silk, you burst not into polite titter or a restrained chuckle befitting a princess—

But a fit of hearty laughter that rang through your chamber.

Gods. The image of insufferable, pride-swollen Aerion halted by his own father’s guards was too priceless in your mind that you wished you had seen it firsthand. This marriage might prove to be entertaining after all!

While you were thoroughly amused, this matter proved rather less amusing for Prince Maekar and Aerion on the breakfast table.

“Father, I fail to see—”

“You fail to see quite a great many things, boy,” Prince Maekar spat, not even granting him the courtesy of finishing. You folded your hands on your lap, trying to be the very image of a docile wife, desperately trying not to break into a smile at Aerion’s peril.

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “I was merely—”

“—making a fucking fool of yourself,” Maekar hissed. “On the night of your wedding, no less.”

“It was not—!”

“Do not insult me with excuses.” His father’s voice dropped, colder now. “I know you, boy. I knew precisely where your temper would carry you, but you are not a strapping boy of seven— you are a prince of the realm!”

Aerion stiffened, pointing a hand at you, which made you look at him scandalously. “She—!”

“Enough!”

The single word struck like a lash that you flinched.

Maekar stepped closer, his gaze hard as iron. “You will not shame this house over wounded pride, Aerion. Not now. Not ever. You are wed. You will act like it.”

Aerion’s hands curled at his sides. “And if I will not—”

“You will,” Maekar said flatly, cutting him off once more. “Because I will not have whispers spreading that my son cannot even command his own household.”

Even your hands were getting clammy at your father-in-law's warning tone. Was this how Aerion was always disciplined? Now you were feeling a bit sorry for him.

Then, quieter, but no less final, Prince Maekar left him with:

“Play your part, Aerion. Or you are no son of mine.”

It was a bit strange to see how Aerion took everything in silence as his father strode away from the hall. That was quite harsh, but unlike the fiery man who you knew, he just sat there, jaw clenched tight.

A part of you felt guilty because in a way, you were the one who drove him out last night, and you were not interested in drawing your father-in-law’s ire anytime soon, so you cleared your throat, having arrived at a decision.

“For what it is worth—” you began, but before you could finish, his head snapped towards you at once, violet eyes narrowing spitefully.

“Spare me.”

You crossed your arms. “I have no desire to be dragged into your father’s displeasure, Aerion.”

His gaze lingered, studying your face. You met it, chin lifting just slightly.

“For the sake of our self-preservation… let’s call for a truce,” you continued, voice measured, “I will play my part. In public, at least.”

“Damn it, wench. Don’t pretend to be generous now,” Aerion snarled at you, spitting each word.

But for all his sharp words, there was something almost resembling an understanding between you for the first time since you swore your vows in the sept.

And so, albeit begrudgingly, both of you became the image of blissful newlyweds ever since.

You would walk beside Aerion with demure smile and composed grace, your hand resting lightly upon his arm. He, in turn, played the decent husband well enough—standing close, sometimes a hand on the small of your back, his expression schooled into calmness befitting a royal prince.

“I have heard the two of you were inseparable as children,” Myriah Martell, the Queen of Seven Kingdoms, said with a pleased smile when you were presented to her. “You suit each other beautifully.”

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” you replied, dipping your head with practiced elegance, your fingers tightening slightly against your husband’s sleeve.

Aerion’s lips curved—or more like, twitched—just enough. “We are… well matched.”

The queen seemed to take your responses as a good sign, because she smiled so widely at the two of you.

“Good, good... May the Seven bless you with many children, dears.”

You grimaced for the briefest moment. Aerion coughed.

Little did the court know of what had transpired in your marital chamber.

. . .

Asking a separate room would make servants talk, and it would reach Prince Maekar in due course. You couldn’t have that, so you came up with an idea and requested a dozen of pillows.

It took three maids to carry them all in. You scarcely spared them a glance, too occupied with your task as you arranged yet another cushion upon the bed with precision.

By the time you were finished, a veritable fortress stood—two layers of embroidered silk dividing the marital bed cleanly in two.

Aerion returned from his bath not long after, about to retire to bed… and he was rendered speechless by the sight before him. He kept staring at it, then at you, then back at the barricade.

“You cannot be serious—”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with sweet, dangerous calm. “Cross it, and I will make certain you regret it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“An inevitability.”

A long, charged silence stretched between you. Then, with a scoff, Aerion threw himself onto his side of the bed, turning his back to you with pointed disdain.

“Ridiculous woman.”

“Detestable man.”

And so that was how you slept ever since— back to back, divided by a fortress of pillows the two of you swore to never breach.

. . .

At banquets, however, the performance continued and not a soul in court the wiser.

“My lady,” Aerion grounded out through clenched teeth, extending his hand. “May I have this dance?”

You smiled, sweet as honey and false as it was flawless, placing your hand in his. “Of course, my lord husband.”

However, the moment you stepped onto the floor, both of you pressed your lips thin in unison. You were each a fair dancer—well-trained, as any highborn ought to be—and the steps of waltz were second nature. Yet, where other couples moved with effortless grace, you and Aerion were rigid, like two tin men forcing each step into place.

Aerion’s grip tightened ever so slightly at your waist. “Watch your step.”

“I always do,” you hissed. Then a thought, sharp and petty, slipped into your mind.

You drove your heel neatly onto his foot, and he sucked in a sharp breath in response.

“My apologies...” you said, all syrup and innocence, even as he shot you a scowl.

Moments later, his foot came down on yours—too deliberate to be an accident! You forced yourself to swallow the shriek in your throat, and glared up at him.

“A misstep,” he returned with a taunting smile. “My deepest apologies...”

To all, the newly married prince and lady shared a dance of perfect decorum. Only the two of you knew it for the battlefield it truly was.

Your lips were always soft. The curve of your cheek felt even softer beneath his palm, the quiet of your breath too... but it was the way you had looked at him that did it—not sharp, not cutting, but so unguarded and trusting.

Closing the distance, his hand caught your wrist, pulled you toward him with a force that startled even you. Your breath hitched, your body pressing against his as he leaned in—

And his lips crashed against yours.

Not gentle. That was never him. It was hot, fierce, claiming— like everything else about him. As though he meant to silence you, to steal the very breath from your lungs, to corrupt you—

. . .

. . .

. . .

And then, Aerion jerked awake.

His breath came sharp, his whole body tense as though he had truly been there—truly done that, and damnably, that one specific part of his groin felt hard. For a long moment, he simply stared into the dimness and the pillow wall next to him, disbelief settling over him, while hearing your soft snores.

“What the fuck?” he cursed under his breath.

A dream. Just a dream. But for the life of him, it had felt far too fucking real!

Your first official appearance as a royal couple came three moons after the wedding— a grand tourney at Storm’s End, held in celebration of Lord and Lady Baratheon’s tenth wedding anniversary.

By now, you had fully mastered the art of needling him. Aerion often had half a mind to slip sweetsleep into your tea, if only to spare himself your insufferable remarks—but, to his credit, his restraint had held… thus far.

He could not name precisely what it was about you that set him off. Perhaps it is your stupid hair, or your stupid eyes, or that stupid smile you so freely bestow upon squires, yet so rarely upon him. Sometimes, he just wanted to lock you away from prying eyes and silence that sharp tongue of yours himself... with his.

What...? The scenes from his dream last night filled his mind’s eye, and Aerion shook his head once sharply, as though he could rid himself of it.

The journey to Storm’s End from Summerhall was not long. You rode the carriage, while he remained outside upon his prized stallion. Through the veil of the window, he knew you could hear him swearing at his squire.

For this, there had been no question—Aerion would compete in the said tourney. He had always reveled in the bloodlust and the clash of steel, and took no small pride in winning, even if it meant employing tactics others might deem less than honorable.

When his ever-eager squire asked if he would ask for your favor and name you Queen of Love and Beauty should he win, he only scoffed, saying, “No need, and I would sooner put the crown on the elderly Lady Baratheon’s head myself.”

“H-huh? Not Lady Lannister…? Why—”

“No. And stop asking useless question, you witless fool.”

He did not know what he hoped—invoking some reaction, perhaps—but none came from the carriage. What, had he really thought you might rise to it and argue with him?

Aerion clicked his tongue, then drove his heel into his horse’s flank, urging it forward with a sharp kick.

. . .

By the time you arrived, Storm’s End was already alive with celebration. Many highborn lords and ladies gathered for this grand event, and you and Aerion slipped seamlessly into your harmonious facade until the first opportunity arose for you to part ways.

Conversing with ladies your age never held your interest, so you only spared them a few words before excusing yourself. Soon, you decided you had no appetite left for feasting or courtesy, and that the air outside would do you better.

Your husband was an imbecile. Of course you had heard the provoking remarks he’d made earlier, but you left him to his own devices. He was aggravating—so much so that, at times, you had the impulse to give him a good shake to rattle the madness out of him.

You exhaled, kicking the stones in your feet as if they drew your ire. Cool night air brushed against your cheeks and for a moment, you felt better.

“My, why is a fine lady such as yourself out here all alone?”

—so much so that you failed to notice the presence that had crept up behind you.

You went rigid at the sound, whirling around at once. And the instant you caught the sight of a crimson lion, dread coiled low in your stomach.

“Oh, what a surprise... if it isn’t the Lady Lannister.”

Your former betrothed, Rogar of House Reyne, stood before you, tall and imposing, a thin, venomous smile curling his lips.

There was no mistaking the resentment of a man once promised your hand, only to have it torn from him.

You straightened despite yourself, masking the unease clawing at your spine. “Lord Rogar.”

“Look at you now,” he drawled, the sharp stink of wine clinging to him. His gaze dragged over your black gown. “A princess of the dragon’s brood. Tell me, does your prince dote on you as sweetly as they claim?”

House Reyne was a proud and ancient line, long at odds with House Lannister in one way or another. Throughout history, there were many matches made to tie the two lion houses together, and you were considered for it... until your father broke it to bind you to Aerion.

You said nothing, clenching your skirts.

Rogar huffed a quiet laugh. “Ah, silent. How unlike you.” His head tilted, studying your face as though searching for something. “Do you remember, I wonder, how it was meant to be? You, at my side. Our houses bound, our banners flying as one.”

“My father never agreed to such a match,” you replied evenly.

“Strange. I seem to recall him swearing it so. Until a dragon came calling. Until your family decided a title was worth more than honor and handed you off to warm Aerion Brightflame’s bed like a common whore.”

You had always detested this man’s boundless greed. And now, you found one thought almost laughable—Aerion, for all his faults, was still far more tolerable.

Rogar Reyne’s lips twitched, though there was no warmth in it.

“Didn’t they say Lannisters always pay their debts? I’m afraid you owe me a great one, little princess.”

“And didn’t you hear that a Lannister lion does not concern itself with the opinions of sheep?” you returned coldly, lifting your chin. “Lord Rogar, I fear you are not even a sheep... but a roach.”

The crack of his hand against your face came so swift that you hadn’t even realized it. Pain burst across your cheek as you were sent sprawling to the ground, the world spinning for a heartbeat. You tasted blood.

“You bitch,” he spat. “You and your house dare to dishonor mine!”

It was the first time in your life a man had ever struck you. In that instant, your survival instincts took over—driving you to your feet and run.

Your breath came sharp and ragged as you fled through the darkened paths, your skirts gathered in your fists. Behind you, the heavy thud of his boots struck against stone, far too close.

“Stop running, you bitch!”

Something snagged at your leg—thorn or splinter, you didn’t know. The fabric of your dress tore, and pain flared hot along your calf, but you did not stop.

You caught sight of a narrow passage leading to an old door half-hidden in the stables. You lunged for it, fingers fumbling against the handle before wrenching it open and slipping inside. The moment you crossed the threshold, you shoved the door shut with all your strength and slammed the lock into place.

You staggered back a step, pressing a trembling hand to your mouth as you tried to steady yourself. Your cheek still burned, your pulse still raced—but you were safe. For now. Then—

A violent rattling at the door.

You flinched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as the handle jerked sharply, once, twice—then again, harder, as if someone meant to break it down.

“Go away, you bastard!” you screamed, holding the wooden door with your bare hands.

“Open the door!”

“I said go bloody hell—!”

“It’s me!”

You froze. For a moment, you could only stare at the door, your hands trembling where they pressed against it. Then, with a shaking breath, you lifted the latch.

And found your silver-haired husband standing outside.

A vexation wrapped in the flawless guise of a lady. Too sharp, too free, and far too composed for his liking. At times, you tried his patience so thoroughly Aerion thought he might truly strangle the fuck out of you.

And yet... here he was, breathless before you now, having chased you through the night like some fool led more by instinct than reason.

Aerion had not meant to follow you, but when he saw his wife fleeing into the night as though someone was hunting her, how could he leave her to it?

“What happened to you?” Aerion demanded, his violet irises blazing, taking in the sight.

You stood before him trembling from head to toe, your eyes wide with something dangerously close to terror. There was a smear of blood at the corner of your lips, and—

Aerion’s hand came up, firm as he caught your chin and tilted your face toward the dim light. The swelling along your cheek was already rising beneath his touch.

Someone has laid a hand on his wife.

“Whose bastard did this to you?”

“Aerion, it’s not—”

“Who?”

You did hesitate, but in the end, you told him of Rogar Reyne, the broken betrothal, and the wroth he had turned upon you.

By the time you finished, Aerion had gone very still. His expression darkened, something cold and vicious settling over his features—so much so that even you nearly recoiled from it.

“I will have his head!” he snarled then with righteous fury, to your shock. “This is high treason. I will demand a trial—!”

“No!” You clutched his arm, horrified. “Don’t!”

Trial by combat—or any form of trials, really—would spell disaster for the royal family and others alike. You wouldn’t let him, and he glared at you, anger still burning hot in his eyes.

“If you must answer this, then do it in the tourney,” you insisted, holding his fiery gaze. “Redeem my honor on the morrow. Slay him if you must, but do it in the melee.”

Still holding his arm, silence stretched between you. You found yourself looking at him—truly looking—as if you just saw him for the first time.

Aerion was ready to demand blood and call for judgment to see your attacker punished. His jawline was sharp, clenched as his beautiful violet eyes gazed at you in return, internally deciding what the best course of action was.

In the end, he listened to you somehow... but that was also when his gaze dropped. There, beneath the torn edge of your dress, blood had begun to seep down your calf.

“Seven hells.” The fury did not leave him, and now shifting to your sorry state. “You are fucking bleeding.”

“It’s nothing—” you dismissed it, but he ignored you entirely. Instead, Aerion forcefully led you down to sit on the wooden planks before he crouched before you, his hands lifted the torn fabric to see the wound.

With a sharp motion, to your shock (again), he tore a strip from the edge of his own doublet.

“What are you—”

“Hold still, wench. I’m trying to stop it.”

He bound the cloth firmly around your calf, his fingers deft despite the dim light, tightening it to staunch the bleeding.

You watched him, something unfamiliar fluttering in your chest. Throughout all the years you had known Aerion, tenderness had never been something you would attribute to him. But now, not only was he furious for your sake, he tended to you with such focus you would never have expected from a man so proud.

“…Where did you learn to do that?” you asked quietly.

Aerion huffed under his breath, not looking up as he secured the knot. “Daeron used to patch me up whenever I took a fall.” A pause followed. “It will have to do for now. Can you walk?”

You shifted, testing your weight. The sting along your calf answered for you as you grimaced. “…Not well.”

He let out of a long exhale, as if exasperated, and you thought you would force yourself to walk regardless rather than risking his ire, but—

Before you could protest, Aerion bent and swept you up into his arms.

A startled breath left you, your hands instinctively clutching at his neck. “Aerion—!”

“Spare me,” he hissed, already striding towards the way back. “You are not limping back to the castle.”

Your heart hammered traitorously against your ribs. It was ridiculous—utterly ridiculous!

His arm was firm at your back, the other braced beneath your knees, and you could feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the strength he exuded in every step as though carrying you was the most natural thing in the world.

He did not set you down once—not even when the hall fell into a hush, nor when lords and ladies turned to stare, their gasps rippling softly in your wake.

A maester was summoned to tend to you the moment you returned. He worked in silence, cleaning and binding the cut in your calf far more thoroughly than Aerion’s efforts. By the time he finished, you were left sitting at the edge of the bed, exhaustion beginning to weigh on you.

You shared a chamber. That much could not be helped. And this was Storm’s End, where you couldn’t ask the maids for a heap of pillows, but the biggest concern was—

“It is a small bed,” you noted, casting him a sidelong glance.

Aerion gave a low snort, his gaze flicking to you. “You’ll survive.”

When you both finally lay down, it became more undeniable. There was scarcely any space between you. Your shoulder brushed his with the slightest movement, your legs threatening to tangle should either of you shift.

How were you supposed to rest like this...?

You let out a quiet breath, trying to lift the air. “If you so much as crush me in your sleep, I will see it counted as an assassination attempt.”

Aerion scowled beside you. “I would sooner have Rogar Reyne’s head before strangling my own wife in her sleep.”

“Must you sound so eager about it?”

“He dared to lay a hand on what is mine.” His voice sharpened, edged with a snarl. “If I had my way, his corpse would be hanging naked in the streets of King’s Landing. As it stands—he’ll beg for death before I’m through with him.”

His. You ignored the way your heart skipped a beat, and studied him in the dim light. “Why are you so upset about it, anyway?”

Aerion turned his head, fixing you with a look as though you had spoken pure nonsense. Why? Why indeed? Why had this searing anger taken hold of him the moment he realized some wretched cur had cornered you?

His indifferent, infuriating wife you might be, but still his all the same. That was enough reason.

“You are an enduring mystery,” you grumbled, saying this because you wasn’t aware of any of his thoughts, of course. “You told everyone and your squire you didn’t want my favor and all—”

The Bright Prince barked a quiet laugh. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

“How—!”

“Because,” he snapped, “if I asked, you’d spend the night sewing like some overzealous seamstress just to meet the morning. Everyone knows your ribbons are the finest favor amongst the ladies.”

Your handmade favors had always been nothing more than a quiet pastime of yours. And yet, somehow, they had gained a reputation of their own because word got out that you always put so much care in the stitching.

“With your favor or not, I’ll beat the shit out of Reyne.” He shifted, settling in to his side and pressing his eyes shut. “Now stop prattling and go to sleep, wife. You ought to watch me on the morrow.”

You lay there for a moment, thoughts drifting. Aerion Brightflame who had become your husband— who made your life unbearable at times, and yet this same man whose touch had been careful, whose fury had flared at the sight of your injury, and who now swore vengeance upon who wronged you. You couldn’t fool yourself into feeling that you were not flattered in some strange, twisted way.

“Thank you,” you murmured almost shyly.

Aerion’s back remained to you, unmoving. Whether he had heard, you could not tell.

. . .

Aerion lay still, listening as your breathing gradually evened, growing slow and steady. When he finally turned his head, you were already asleep.

In sleep, you looked… different. All this time, that stupid pillow blockade had obstructed his view that it was the first time he saw you like this. The edge in your expression gone, your features eased into softness. Your lips were slightly chapped, and yet so bloody tempting to him he didn’t know why.

He still remembered the little lady with wide, doe-like eyes, clad in Lannister golden dress for her visits to the Red Keep. He remembered the way your face had pinched in irritation when he’d stolen your lemon tarts, clutching the empty plate as though it were a grave offense.

It had amused him then. It still did.

And no insolent fool dared to hurt you would be left alive.

Come the morrow, he would destroy the rat. But now, as he stared at you, his enemy-wife—

Aerion decided he would ride into the melee, crush every last opponent, and place the victor’s laurel in your hands after all.

The stands of Storm’s End were alive with color and noise, the roar of the crowd rolling like thunder beneath the gray skies as each knight lined in the arena.

Unlike most ladies, you did not shrink from bloodshed. You had always enjoyed tourneys—had cheered your brothers rather than fearing for them—and even now, with your husband among those in the field, you only felt a sense of calmness.

Or perhaps… you were simply distracted.

Your mind drifted back to this morning, and a flush of warmth rose to your cheeks.

Aerion’s face had been too close to yours when you woke, his arm draped loosely around your waist. His harsh features were nonexistent in sleep, and his expression almost… peaceful. With that silver-gold hair, he had looked less like terror and more like, you daresay, your protector.

“Good day, my lady.”

You blinked, dragging yourself back to the present as someone took the seat beside you. Prince Valarr’s smile was gentle, his mismatched gaze clear as he inclined his head in greeting.

“Your Grace,” you returned, offering a small smile.

He settled beside you, watching the field below. For a moment, the two of you simply observed the gathering knights.

“You are not competing today?” you asked, glancing at him.

“My lady wife is not fond of me in tourneys,” he replied, a note of fondness in his voice. “And she prefers the quiet of the castle with our son. I would have joined her, but I must stand in place of my father, you see.”

The tale of how besotted the Heir of Dragonstone was with his princess had all the makings of a storybook romance. At times, you found yourself envying them.

“Ah, and how does fatherhood treat you, Your Grace?”

His eyes softened then. “Better than any victory in the lists, I assure you.”

You smiled faintly at that, before your attention drifted once more to the field. It was a melee today—no tilting and just pure strength, steel and survival.

And there, striding into the fray in black and red armor, was Aerion of House Targaryen, the second son of the Prince of Summerhall, as the herald proclaimed.

With the shape of his helmet and spikes of his armor, he cut a menacing figure among the rest. Even at a distance, there was something in the way he held himself—like a blade drawn and waiting.

Valarr followed your gaze. “Are you excited, my lady? My cousin is a fine knight. I would not be surprised to see him emerge champion.”

Truthfully? Yes. You parted your lips to answer but the sharp blare of a trumpet split the air, signaling that the melee had begun.

Your husband drove his destrier forward with ruthless precision, scattering men before him. Steel rang, bodies fell, and in the chaos—he thrived. With that morningstar in hand, he was a force to be reckoned with.

At one point, he forced Lord Tully to the ground, looming over him like something out of a nightmare.

“Tell the Reyne bastard that Aerion Brightflame is after his head!”

Valarr’s lips twitched beside you. “Ah… so someone has offended him yet again. Poor him.”

You remembered an anecdote you had once heard, glancing at him. “I was told Aerion once asked for Her Grace’s favor, and you beat the shit out of him for it... is that true?”

From the meaningful smile he had on his face, it was clear there was more into the tale, but whatever it was, Valarr chose not to disclose it.

“To be honest, I have the Seven to thank for that. But fret not, my lady. Aerion will not lose this time.”

“And why are you so certain?”

The Young Prince’s gaze flicked to you, something knowing in his expression.

“Would you not be the one who knows best? He is the dragon. He ought never lose.”

If Valarr mirrored Prince Baelor’s impeccable duty and honor, then Aerion was the living image of Prince Maekar’s finest lance and fury—though sharper, fiercer, and far more unforgiving than his sire had ever been. His height might prove to be a challenge, but he more than compensated it with aggressive stances and lightning-fast strikes.

Below, as if to prove the point, the Bright Prince cut through another opponent with brutal efficiency, swinging his deadly mace mercilessly.

Soon enough, he cleared out all the combatants and found his target: Rogar Reyne.

Your former betrothed had barely time to react before Aerion’s destrier crashing forward with terrifying force. The swing of his morningstar came swift and brutal—striking so hard that sent Rogar flying from his saddle and into the dirt below.

The crowd roared, and Aerion did not stop. He had only just begun.

He dismounted in a breath, advancing like a man possessed. Lord Reyne scrambled to defend himself—but the Brightflame fought with something far worse than skill. Entitled fury.

The morningstar came down again and again, each blow denting armor, drawing blood. And when Rogar Reyne’s guard finally broke—

Aerion pulled out his sword. He drove the man back, slashing without mercy, carving through what little defense remained. Blood spilled freely, staining the ground, staining his hands— each strike was meant to answer for the wrong he did to you.

A gasp rippled through the stands. You also felt the shock and horror, but beyond that—

The sight of your husband, stained with blood of his own doing, and knowing that he did it because of you… it was not as repulsive as it ought to have been.

If anything, it felt gratifying.

Rogar was barely conscious when Aerion seized him by the collar, dragging him across the dirt like a carcass. The field fell into a stunned hush as he hauled him before the stands and forced him to his knees.

Your husband loomed over him, tearing off his skull-like helmet—his face unmarred by blood, yet no less fearsome. His presence overwhelming as his voice rang out across the arena:

“This cunt right here dared to dishonor my wife.”

A murmur swept through the crowd. You could feel the weight of eyes turning towards you but the crowd’s attention quickly snapped back to the broken man at Aerion’s feet.

“And now let it be known—”

His violet gaze burns anyone he laid eyes on—until it found yours. For a fleeting moment, you thought the corners of his lips curled ever so slightly.

“—any lowlife who dares the same will answer to me.”

With a single, vicious kick to his face, Aerion sent him sprawling into the dirt once more. The stands erupted at once, their roars rising for the champion they had found.

That day, Aerion Brightflame stood victorious… having claimed justice in the name of his wife.

Lord Corlys Velaryon once said that history remembers names. The fools of the Red Keep and Casterly Rock might argue over how it was that you and Aerion came to despise one another—but on this, both they and realm would agree:

When the Bright Prince dethroned Lady Baratheon to name you the queen of beauty in the grandest tourney in its time—

It was more than clear, that by then... the lion had tamed the dragon.

[chuluoyi]

trouble in paradise

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

the time the bright prince feels terribly and woefully neglected by his wife… and you become convinced he’s having an affair

genre/warnings: mildly suggestive, crack, misunderstandings, insecurities, comfort, fluff, mentions of blood, lannister!reader, they have a newborn!

notes: another part of the dragon and the lioness but can be read as a standalone. based on this ask heheh <3

Maegor Targaryen.

Aerion had told you that was the only name worthy of his son.

Thankfully, he was nothing like the fearsome legacy attached to that name. With his round, full cheeks, soft silver curls, and wide violet eyes brimming with pure curiosity, the babe looked every bit the picture of innocence. Wherever he went, hearts seemed to melt at the sight of him.

Yet for all his sweetness, Maegor possessed one trait that vexed his father to a degree—

He demanded every ounce of his mother’s attention all day and night. Your attention.

“He’s three moons old,” you reminded him one evening with a frown as Aerion watched Maegor sleeping peacefully against your chest, after telling you how his son had to start learning to let go of you. “He needs his mother and I would have him.”

“Three moons old,” Aerion muttered darkly, “and already a usurper.”

Maegor chose that exact moment to sigh contentedly in his sleep and burrow deeper against you, as if mocking him altogether.

The Bright Prince had begun keeping count of your neglection of him. You would visit the nursery first thing in the morning, and should the babe merely blink his large violet eyes and make a particularly pitiful sound, he would refuse the wet nurses and only cease his whimpering when you held him.

And thus, if he cried, you were there.

If he fussed, you were also there.

Spoiled little thing, his son was. What was the purpose of wet nurses if the boy spent half his waking hours attached to you? He really ought to fire them one of these days.

“They said sons take after their fathers, do they not?”

Daeron let out a snicker after draining another goblet of wine, seemingly enjoying his brother’s predicament. “Your son simply makes it obvious to the rest of us how ravenous you are with your lady wife, brother.”

Aerion shot him glare, internally questioning himself why he had agreed to sit down for drinks with his wastrel of a brother.

“I have spent the past three moons exercising a degree of restraint bordering on sainthood, you mongrel.”

That was actually not an exaggeration. Since Maegor’s arrival, the intimacy he once enjoyed with you had become frustratingly few and far between, and he had to think at least thrice these days to take you to bed!

To his credit, he had adhered to the advice of maesters so far— that was to give you more time following the difficult birth.

Daeron stared at him, then barked out a laugh loud enough to startle the maids.

“Gods above, you are serious!”

Aerion threw him a dark glare, as his brother leaned back in his chair, grinning like a fox.

“Well, since you have nothing better to do, then come with me tonight.”

“For what?”

“For a good time, obviously. There is a feast in the city. Music, drink, performers, gambling, a lot of pretty wenches too—”

“Bwah!”

It astounded even you that your babe could be this adorable.

At times, it felt as though you were cradling a happier, guileless miniature of your husband in your arms. There really was no doubt that this child was his.

“He looks so much like his sire, does he not?” You poked Maegor’s plump cheek, and he immediately rewarded you with a toothless grin.

Your lady’s maid sighed with a smile, nearly melted on the spot. “The image of him, my lady. Those eyes and hair especially.”

You laughed softly and pressed a kiss to Maegor’s forehead, placing him back in his cradle.

Motherhood suited you far more than you had imagined. The long nights, the exhaustion... none of it seemed to matter whenever your little boy wrapped his tiny fingers around you or smiled at the sound of your voice. You loved every moment of it.

Yet if you were being truthful with yourself, you missed Aerion too. Before Maegor’s birth, your prince had scarcely gone a day without finding an excuse to pull you into his arms, but now your days and nights revolved around your son, and the moments you spent alone together had become increasingly rare.

And lately, something felt... different. Aerion had begun returning later than usual, and he smelled of wine. The first time, you dismissed it, but by the fourth, a knot had begun forming in your stomach. Since when had he taken to drinking?

Then one afternoon, while walking through the castle with Maegor in your arms, you happened upon two servants speaking in hushed voices—

“The princes have gone again!”

“Again?”

“Aye. To the town.”

“The new establishment?”

“The very same. They say the owner imported women from across the Narrow Sea and Essos. They cost a fortune...”

It didn’t take you long to figure out that they were talking about a pleasure house. Your stomach twisted. The princes?

They must mean Daeron, surely? But who was the other prince? Because, there was no way that Aerion was seeking comfort from common whores now—

Then again, the word of his brashness towards the princess consort, Valarr’s wife, was apparently quite well-known in King’s Landing. A princess from Pentos, she was an exotic beauty, meanwhile you...

People rarely described you as beautiful. Sweet and pleasant to look upon, they would say, but definitely not the kind that would ensnare princes at the first sight like she did. Moreover, after bearing a child, your body was no longer quite the same as it once had been.

The thought lodged itself in your mind, and despite every effort to dismiss it, a terrible possibility began gnawing at you. What if he has indeed sought comfort elsewhere?

You hated yourself for even thinking it. But when one night, several days later, you spotted him near the servants’ quarters with a woman adorned with golden ornaments unlike anything worn in Westeros—

Your breath caught when Aerion had both of her wrists pinned together in one hand and cornered her.

A great many things seemed determined to test Aerion’s patience these days.

The councils. His father’s demands. Daeron’s antics. By the time evening fell, a dull ache had settled behind the back of his head, and all he wanted was peace, a cup of wine, and his wife.

Especially his wife. The thought to have you wrap him in your arms was enough to ease some of the tension from his shoulders as he strode through the corridors toward your chambers.

However, when he entered it, the warmth he expected was entirely absent. The chamber was darker than usual, half of the candles unlit. You sat perfectly still before the vanity desk, didn’t even turn or rise to greet him.

“Wife?” he asked, stepping forward with a frown. Usually, you favored dark room when you were unwell. “Are you ill—”

“Who is she?”

Your voice was eerily quiet, yet cut through the air so sharply. It was so abrupt that for a moment he simply stared at you, and only after a solid minute did you turn to him, your expression cold enough to frost glass.

“If you tell me now, I may still find it in myself to be merciful and merely send her away. Is it Pentos? Myr? Or perhaps Lys?” The corner of your mouth curved into a sneer. “Lys is famous for its prostitutes, after all.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “What do you imply me doing, wife?”

A surge of anger rushed through his veins, severely taking offense. How could you think that lowly of him?

But whatever retort had been forming on his tongue died immediately, because to his astonishment, there were tears in your eyes.

“I gave you a son. I nearly died bringing him into this world.” Your voice trembled slightly as you rose from your seat. “I know we are not always of the same mind, but how could you humiliate me by bringing a common whore here? Do you intend to flaunt her to me?”

You looked devastated, and more than anything, he hated that look in your face. Who had planted this absurdity in your head?

“You are talking nonsense—”

“Nonsense?” Your voice rose sharply. “I saw you with her!”

This had to end. Suddenly Aerion crossed the distance between you in three strides, and you flinched as his hand caught your shoulder, attempting to pull away, but he would not allow it and forced you to face him.

“Look.”

He lifted his other hand before you. At first you did not understand, then your gaze fell upon the gold band encircling his finger. His wedding band.

Aerion stared at you hard, his violet eyes blazing.

“I have worn this since you put it on me on the day of our wedding, and never removed it since.”

On the day of your wedding, the two of you had scarcely been able to tolerate one another. You blinked as another tear fell, trying to hold yourself together.

“You think I would dishonor you? Shame the mother of my son?” he growled through clenched teeth. “I still could see the blood you shed in childbed even in my nightmares. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Three days after Maegor’s birth, your fever worsened and you fell unconscious. You remembered feeling cold, and the bleeding had the sheets beneath you soaked with red. When you awoke, the maesters were surrounding your bed, and your maids were crying.

But standing tall amidst them was Aerion, who never left your side for the remainder of the night. Later, you were told he had threatened every maester in the Red Keep with death should they fail to save you.

The fury in his violet eyes burned brighter. “Now do tell and enlighten me. What part of that ordeal would make me look at another wench and decide she is worth more than you?”

You were still not fully convinced. “But you... the servants saw you going to the whorehouse—”

Aerion let out a harsh exhale.

“I was retrieving Daeron,” he grounded out, each word bitter. “Father’s orders. The wench you saw me with is his whore. A fortune-seeking dullard, I just banished her from Summerhall.”

“You have been drinking lately too—”

“So now I’m forbidden from having a drink?” A muscle twitched beneath his right eye. “I face constant shit and my foolish brother every day. I can’t even bed my wife when she’s next to me and our son hogs her time all day and everyday, meanwhile she is thinking I’m hiding some whore in another chamber— and now I cannot drink? Tell me, do you actually want me to keep my sanity, or do you want to see me lose it and hang the first man I see?”

Somehow, the way he phrased it made you feel sorry for him. You pursed your lips, looking away. “Sure, have your drink, then...”

“Oh, I fucking will, woman, but first thing first—”

Before you could even gasp, he dived in, crushing his lips against yours.

The anger that had choked the room only moments ago dissolved into an instant, consuming heat. It was a punishing kiss at first, choking the breath out of you, but it quickly melted sensually as his hands roamed the curve of your body.

It sure had been a while since he had his hands on you. A moan escaped your lips when he fondled your breasts and pressed you against his torso, creating a delicious friction.

When he finally pulled away, it was with a heavy, ragged breath. His gaze burning down into your eyes as his thumb gently traced your lower lip, which was now swollen from his kisses.

“If it were up to me,” Aerion murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper, “I would fuck you senseless—”

His expression softened, a rare, vulnerable shadow crossing his features along with the rise and fall of his chest. “It’s taking everything in me not to. The fever after your last labor nearly took you from me, and I won’t gamble with your life.”

“I can take moon tea—”

“That blasted tea will make you sick. You are not taking that until it’s absolutely necessary.”

You blinked up at him, your expression softening into a sweet gaze that completely disarmed him. The sheer innocence in your eyes was his undoing.

With a low groan, Aerion leaned down and pulled you in for another deep, lingering kiss, sealing his lust against your lips, before trailing his mouth downward, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder to suck your skin hungrily.

“Who could have known…” His voice was a low, teasing rasp, the words vibrating directly against the skin of your neck, “that my wife is such a fiercely jealous woman that she actually made herself cry?”

He was relishing in this, you realized. When he broke away this time, a victorious smirk touched his lips. “Are you content now, my jealous wife?”

You shot him a look, feeling a heat rush to your face. You tried to muster a glare, but the blush staining your cheeks betrayed you entirely.

“Incorrigible man...” you muttered, turning your face away to hide your embarrassment.

Aerion only laughed, the sound rich and genuinely amused—a rare sound for him these days. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his thumb gently tugging your chin back so you were forced to look at him. “Now what else should I prove to you so you will be satisfied?”

“I want Maegor now.”

Your husband arched an eyebrow, exasperated.

“This is absolute treachery,” he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. “I finally get you to myself, and you immediately call for that little tyrant?”

. . .

A few moments later, the maids entered the chamber, gently putting baby Maegor into your waiting arms. The moment the infant settled against your chest, he let out a happy, bubbling giggle, his tiny hands reaching up towards your face.

Aerion stood unhappily over the two of you, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the display.

“He is fat.”

You scowled at him, tightening your hold over your son protectively. “I love him fat.”

That little boy could be the fattest babe in the Seven Kingdoms and he would still be the apple of your eye. Yet, as your husband looked down at his son, a sudden realization washed over him—

He had always thought the boy took entirely after him, but looking closely at Maegor’s beaming smile, Aerion saw you. The babe had his violet eyes and his silver hair, but the contour of his face, the gentle curve of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes—it was all yours.

Now he sort of understood why he also found him adorable.

“Let me hold him,” he said, already pulling the babe from your grasp.

He brought Maegor against his own broad chest. It was a surreal sight, seeing your brooding prince cradling a fragile, soft infant with the utmost care.

Your heart warmed at the sight though, a profound sense of peace settling over you as you looked at the two absolute loves of your life.

Epilogue

The tender silence lasted for only a minute. Maegor, apparently deciding he had tolerated his father’s hold, suddenly squirmed. With a whimper of protest, the babe pushed his small hands against his father’s chest, fighting the embrace.

Before Aerion could adjust his grip, Maegor’s chubby little hand shot upward, unceremoniously slapping right at his father’s face, as well as scratching his jawline.

Aerion blinked, his head tilting back in sheer disbelief at the audacity of his own flesh and blood. He looked completely stunned, before a look of deep betrayal crossed his features as he glared at his son and you utterly failed to contain yourself and burst into a fit of giggles.

“You ungrateful little usurper.”

[beljude]

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Wine and A Pretty Wench

Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.

The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.

Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.

The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.

Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.

“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”

Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.

But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.

You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.

Now he was here.

You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.

You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.

“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”

You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.

A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”

The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.

His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.

“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”

Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”

“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”

“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”

You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”

“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”

Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.

“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”

He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”

You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.

You lowered yourself onto his lap.

His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”

“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”

You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”

Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”

His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.

“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”

You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.

“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”

“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.

“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”

His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.

“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”

He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”

His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.

“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”

You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.

“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”

You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”

His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.

He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.

You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.

When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”

You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.

You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.

But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.

His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.

"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."

You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.

"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.

"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"

Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.

But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.

"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."

You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.

"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."

Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.

"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."

There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.

"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.

"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."

"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."

"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."

You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.

"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."

His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."

But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.

"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."

"No one would think that," you said.

"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."

He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.

"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."

"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."

He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.

"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."

"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."

"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."

"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."

Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."

"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."

You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.

"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."

His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.

"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.

For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."

"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."

"But I am..."

"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."

You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.

"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."

"I did not know you worried."

"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."

He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.

"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."

You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.

You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.

He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.

When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.

"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."

Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.

"Aerion..."

"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."

He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.

The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.

You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.

"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."

The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.

One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.

You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."

"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.

"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.

"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."

Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."

"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."

Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.

Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.

"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."

He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.

You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.

Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.

His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.

"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."

Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.

"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."

Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.

Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.

"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."

You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."

"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."

He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.

"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."

He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.

"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."

"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."

"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."

You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."

But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.

You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.

The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.

When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.

You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.

The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.

Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.

He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.

He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."

He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.

"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."

"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."

"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."

His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.

"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"

You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."

"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."

But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.

"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."

"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.

He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.

It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.

"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."

He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."

"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"

He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.

"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."

He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.

"What is this?"

Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.

"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."

Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."

Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.

"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."

Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."

"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."

Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."

"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."

"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."

"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."

Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.

Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."

He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.

"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."

"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."

"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."

"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."

"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."

"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."

Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."

"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."

"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."

You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.

"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."

"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."

"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."

"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."

His eyes darkened. "Choose?"

"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."

"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

You smiled and said nothing.

He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."

"I would expect nothing less."

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.

[tojipi]

playing MK1 can be real difficult sometimes

[hellsfirekeepsyouwarm]

"The Moon Had Other Plans Pt. 2"

Hello loves. I'm back with a part 2, it's kinda a sad rewrite of ep 2. We have Steven in this, tried not to misplace any DID related stuff in it, and i tried to stay in the aura of the show, so please let me know if anything is offensive or something regarding DID.

Marc Spector x Reader and a hint of Steven Grant x Reader ( it's gonna be a Marc x reader mainly, this part focuses on Steven's thoughts and memories)

TW: Talks of death and injuries

Who's talking: Steven is blue, Marc is red(?), it's clear who's talking, but i wrote it so ofc it's clear to me

Summary: While Steven tries to navigate between gods, Harrow's fancy words, and Marc constant nagging, he meets a face he thought was nothing more but a made up person in his dreams.

Part 1

Steven's whole body is shaking with fear. The car is speeding under him, making him jump every time a bump crosses their path, the cuffs marking his skin as he tries to wiggle the uncomfortable feeling inside his muscles. If they are coppers, he's the freaking heir to the British crown. And he's certainly not that. The sky turned dark on the road, he's no longer capable of telling where he is. He's happy he can remember the name of the street he lives on.

"Wow. Lookie, lookie. Guess what we've got here, Billy" The female cop says with cheery voice. "Go on, tell me."

"We've only got ourselves a full-blown, international fugitive." What? Him? This is gotta be a big ol' mistake, right?

"It's not.. It's a mistake. It's not me." Of course it's not him. It can't be him.

"Marc Spector was part of a team of mercenaries that hit a dig sire in Egypt. Here's what they did to the archaeologists." The woman hands her tablet over to guy, showing something Steven can't see properly. His vision is blurry and tired, from not blinking too much out of the fear that if he closes then, he won't see the threat coming.

"Zip-tied tied and shot in the back of the head, execution style. " She speaks so casually it shakes Steven to his core. He can't even pull any memory of him seeing a gun in real life. Let alone using one on a living, breathing human. "Only one survivor."

Steven suddenly feels disoriented, frustration overlaps his whole head. Something twitches inside his mind. His own voice rings but the tone is so different that the get chills from it.

"Survivor?" Marc is shambled, the words repeating like a broken record in his thoughts.

*

"Do you know this woman, Steven?" Harrow slides a photo of a woman next to his bowl of soup. She's like a ghost of someone. He saw this face before, but he can mistaken her for someone else. Or was it a dream?

"Give me the body, Steven." No way he won't.

"Steven?" Harrow asks again, seeing Steven stare at the table too long, lost in his thoughts.

"No?" The 'no' shapes from a confident statement quickly into a doubtful question. More to himself, because dammit, he can't grab the memories in his head. He knows the face, but not with the toothy grin like on the picture. He remembers it pale in the dark, dry as sand, but so peaceful. But he can't say the same about himself, the scene in his head is far from peaceful, and he always remembered it as an awful and meaningless dream. Nothing more.

Steven shakes his head.

"Maybe Marc knows her?" He's trying to lure him in, he's not dumb. He feels eyes on him, strangers surrounding him at the table, the spoon long forgotten in the bowl he was eating out of.

"Give me control. Now." Marc is angry, relentless.

Steven brows furrow. "Marc? Do you know how did they found her? Where she was buried? Who cried over her grave?"

He's taunting Marc, and it's working. "Come on Steven. Just give me the body." Steven almost groans out a no. Harrow shifts, standing up from his chair, taking the weird looking crocodile cane in his hands.

"Do you know what this is, Steven?"

"Yep. It's a cane, yeah."

"Ammit's gift to her first Avatar. Contains a tiny sliver of her power. The power that could have saved her."

"No." Marc's voice comes from a deep part of his soul, pain flooding with only the mention of her and that night.

"You didn't even looked for her? What a shame. What a shame." Harrow sounds like a disappointed father, not believing his idiot son's decisions.

Steven is more than confused, and the millionth question forming in his head, but he's more consumed by the threatening closeness of Harrow's steps, cornering him, intimidating him.

"Let me in, Steven." Steven shakes his head again slightly. "Let me talk to him."

"Look at the photo Steven." Harrow commands, and Steven isn't questioning it. His eyes always trails back to the beautiful smile anyway. But any time he does, a sad cloud sneaks over his shoulders. So she's real? She wasn't someone his brain made up just to torture him in his dreams. Or is just Marc's influence he feels? He knows something is off, because Marc is silent, doesn't argue, doesn't demand control. He wants to talk to Marc, ask him about her, the words on his tongue, he has to remind himself he's not alone. He can't just talk to his own reflection and act like nothing happened. Gosh it's so annoying. His head is spinning, not knowing what is real and fiction anymore. As far as he can tell, Marc is just his imagination. He has to be.

"Do you remember how you left her there Marc?" Harrow is close to Steven's ears, voice like a whisper. "Bleeding out on the altar of a god, breathing out her last breaths in the chilly night in the middle of nowhere. Does he remember, Steven?"

Like he should know or something. Marc sighs deeply, the first reaction in the last minutes. "Steven, give me the body. We have to..."

"Khonsu punishes those who have already walked an evil path. His retribution comes too late. By the time his fist of vengeance arrives, people have already suffered. She suffered a thousand deaths" Harrow points at the face, and while it means little to Steven, it should mean nothing to Steven, his chest aches like it's being crushed.

Steven is replaying the jumbled pictures he can find about her. Moon light, big scarf covering her hair and shoulders, laying in a homogeneous ground. Everything else is blurry, but he can see her sharp and clear. He can't concentrate on himself, just her, the only feeling is her. And that's all he can dug up. "Steven." Marc warns him, at least he sounds like he does.

"Ammit knows this too well. She tears evil up from the root, casting her judgement before any evil's done. That's why we must resurrect her." Resurrect her?

"But.. isn't that a little bit dodgy?" Steven asks, the words are unbelievable and somehow hilarious to him. This man talks a bout resurrecting a god, talks to the American man in his head, show picture of a woman he doesn't know, and yet, it makes him feel like he should know her, love her. "Like trusting the judgement of a weird crocodile lady?"

"You don't need to trust her judgement. Ammit will light the path to good by eradicating the choice of evil, which brings us to the scarab."

Oh the bloody scarab.

Taglist: @anotherromanticpoet @ahookedheroespureheart @mahaloapollo @bibli0thecary @inkbyajm

[hellsfirekeepsyouwarm]

"The Moon Had Other Plans"

Hello everybody, i entered the Moon Knight writing phase. I'm obsessing, so this man is always on my mind. This might get a part 2, and after that a 3. Depends on how my creativity works in the next weeks. Enjoy this little piece, it's super angsty, srry.

Marc Spector x Partner!Reader (no Steven in this :c)

Warnings: Blood, injuries, death, mentions of suicide, spoiler (ish) for ep. 5

Summary: Reader is Marc's mercenary partner and lover, and she's with him on that one night when everything changed. Marc watches everything unfold before his eyes, and thinks he lost the girl he loves..

Part 2

Pain was the only thing that existed in Marc. His body lost too much blood, the wound on his side leaking crimson, painting the trail he crawled, the boring sand soaking up the red liquid like a thirsty creature. While his brain tried to deal with the torment of the body, his chest squeezed his lungs and heart together as he still saw your from the shelter of the tomb.

If it wasn't for the pool of blood under you, he would have said you were just sleeping. Peacefully, just as you did the night before in his arms, tangled together, not minding the heat of Cairo. Your hair sticking to your forehead, little drops of sweat shining in the moonlight. A smile on your face, watching the sparkling stars around the big grey planet, and it made him happy how those simple thing made you happy. Your body warm against his, fingers drawing shapes on his chest as you try to calm your breaths after getting lost in desire.

Now you are lifeless. Blood isn't pumping in your veins, it's not fueling you anymore. He knew it at the moment the bullets hit your torso, sending you down into the dry sand, knocking the air out of you with a loud gasp.

It's like a movie. Slow motion and big skips in his memory. He remembers exactly how you took those bullets, and immediately after the ones that cut through his skin, but he can't remember how he managed to get to you. His fingers roamed your body, shaking you, calling out your name, hoping you would just open your eyes, and wake him up from this nightmare.

He remembers crying over your body, his bloody hand searching for bare skin under your scarf, desperate to find a faint proof of your beating heart. And as he finds the spot on your neck, and he feels nothing, a sob breaks out of him. He hears himself scream, the sound getting lost in the infinite desert around you.

The next thing he knows, he's next to the sculpture, shielding him from the light of the moon, but illuminating the ancient creation around him. Blood is all over him, and he's not sure if it's his or yours.

He doesn't know what's going to kill him. The bullet wound, the soul breaking pain of losing you, or the handgun he holds close to his chin. Ready to end it, to forget all about this, to ascend to the otherworld, go to hell, or vanishing into nothingness. Whatever which one, just not this. The last thing he'll see is you, dead in a foreign land, by the hands of someone you both trusted. Honestly, by his hands. He was the reason you were there with him.

So he places the barrel to his neck pointing up to his brain, finger lingering over the trigger. Sight leaving your form, rolling back to his head with pain. Pictures of you falling to the ground replaying in his head, over and over again. He wishes he wouldn't have to see it. He's selfish and a coward for thinking that, because he knows how unbearable would have been for you. To see him the same he saw you. And still, he wished he died before you. That self hate is enough, to push him over the edge, ready to pull the trigger with acceptance of his fate.

But the Moon had other plans.

*

Cairo is your nightmare. A nightmare you greet every night like an old friend. While it was just sounds, pictures and feelings in your mind for a long time, it became a reality quickly when you stepped on the dry land for the first time in years. This place turned out to be awfully nostalgic, replaying memories you shut inside a treasure box with the heaviest lock.

Memories mixing with the laughing of Marc on your horrible joke about pyramids, the painful recovery in the hospital, adrenaline filled missions, and the terrified look on Marc's face on that night.

After all this time, you still lived in the shadow of his absence. Your memories were foggy, and the uncertainty of the little to nothing memory you had made you go crazy. Did he left you there? Was it all a lie, and he got away with his share? Did he ever loved you? He thought you have died, and somehow found a way to escape?

Everything was a mystery about that faithful night. You dug up every file, info from every possible agency and police storage you could access. And the fog never cleared up.

It's a miracle you survived your injuries, and it was a way bigger miracle, when you managed to abscond from the authorities. Acting like you don't speak any language they tried, displaying a very credible fear helped your case.

They didn't know anything about you, and they didn't had the time to find out. Week have already passed when you woke up, so your body had time to heal enough for you to make a move. It was a survival instinct.

Everything after that was the most horrible time in your life.

And you finally found him.

[cbinotes]

best-friends-brother!kyle series

best-friends-brother!kyle who knows better

best-friends-brother!kyle who keeps his distance

best-friends-brother!kyle who reminds himself you’re off-limits

best-friends-brother!kyle who never crosses the line

best-friends-brother!kyle who’s known you for years

best-friends-brother!kyle who remembers you growing up

best-friends-brother!kyle who still sees the kid sometimes

best-friends-brother!kyle who notices when you change

best-friends-brother!kyle who avoids being alone with you

best-friends-brother!kyle who doesn’t meet your eyes for too long

best-friends-brother!kyle who looks out for you automatically

best-friends-brother!kyle who steps in when things get uncomfortable

best-friends-brother!kyle who worries more than he should

best-friends-brother!kyle who hates himself for wanting you

best-friends-brother!kyle who talks himself out of it

best-friends-brother!kyle who fails

best-friends-brother!kyle who finally admits it quietly

best-friends-brother!kyle who asks if you’ve ever felt it too

best-friends-brother!kyle who puts your comfort first

best-friends-brother!kyle who’s ready to walk away if you say no

best-friends-brother!kyle who holds your hand for the first time

best-friends-brother!kyle who kisses you carefully

best-friends-brother!kyle who was worth the wait

[lustvy]

can someone please please please help me find a philip graves fic i literally have been searching for days and hours to find it

so from what i remember it starts where the reader is apart of tf141 and escaping the shadow company in the streets of las almas to meet up with soap and ghost in the church while it’s raining and is injured w a gunshot to the arm

then graves catches her and he pins her to a wall they talk and i remember a specific sentence where he says he’ll let the shadow company watch(?) and they fuck then after he lets her go

please help i would be so so so grateful 🙏🥹

[cs-glitch]

gaz who's such a good roommate!!! he's always happy to look after you <3

18+ mdni (smut)

cw: fem!reader, drugs (weed), dubcon (reader is high, kyle's sober), kind of dom!gaz, i think that's it ?, word count: 633

You can’t help but feel a little bad for your roommate when you get like this. Your body’s warm all over, and your mind’s so hazy it makes it hard to think about anything other than the ache between your legs. 

You’re just lucky Kyle doesn’t mind taking care of you when you’re like this. 

You crawl into his lap, eyes lidded as your fingers tug on his shirt.  “Kyle,” you whisper, lips brushing against the pulse point on his neck. 

He shakes his head, pausing his movie as his hands find your hips. “Proper stoned, aren’t you, love?”

You pull away, hand rubbing against his cheek– his skin’s so soft; it always feels so nice against your fingertips. “Not that bad, just had a gummy.”

He raises his eyebrow, his palm pressing hard against your soaked panties– as if the mess between your thighs is enough proof that you’re lying. 

“Okay, two, Kyle, please,” you whine, hips slowly moving against his hand. 

He sighs, ignoring your pouting when he removes his hand. “Fine, but I’m finishing my movie,” he says, hands already on his zipper. 

Your mind’s too foggy to know just how much time has passed since he sat you on his cock– the edibles fully kicking in by now. 

“Fuck,” you moan, hands on his shoulders as his thick length fills your cunt. 

A sharp gasp leaves your mouth as his fingers pinch and pull at your nipples. “Quiet down, can’t hear the telly,” he mumbles, his eyes never leaving the action film playing in the background. 

Burying your head in his neck, you lick and suck at his skin in a pathetic attempt to stay silent as you slowly continue to move your hips. 

His hips thrust up suddenly, the tip of his cock brushing against the deepest part of you. “How much longer?” you whimper, wanting nothing more than for him to relieve the ache in your core. 

“You’re lucky, Petal; the credits just started.” 

He doesn’t give you any warning as he manhandles you, moving you from sitting in his lap to lying down on the couch. 

“Always get so needy like this,” he teases, the sound of wet noises and skin slapping filling the air as he finally fucks you. 

Your nails scratch down his back, lips parted as you make broken and desperate noises. “Mmm, ‘m close,” you manage to slur out, unable to think of anything other than the warmth that’s spread throughout your body. 

His thumb brushes your clit, tracing gentle circles against the swollen bud. “C’mon, love, let me feel you cum around my cock.”

Your walls clenching down around him as you reach your peak, his words pushing you over the edge. He doesn’t stop, fucking you through your orgasm as he chases his own high. 

“Kiss, please,” you beg, barely coherent when his mouth crashes into yours. Your tongue pushes past his lips, feverishly licking at the inside of his mouth. 

Hips stilling, he groans into the kiss, his body shuddering as he spills his cum inside your cunt. Your mixed spit shines against his swollen lips as he pulls away. 

The sounds of your combined breathing fill the air as he collapses on top of you. His heavy weight anchors your dazed mind back to reality. 

“Hey, Kyle?” you mumble, fingers running up and down his back. 

He hums in response, head pressed against your chest, the vibrations against your skin causing you to let out a soft giggle. 

You calm your laughter before continuing. “I really want a burger, like, bad.”

He sighs as he sits up, looking down at you with a soft smile. Grabbing his clothes off the floor, he hastily gets dressed. “With chips?” 

Yeah, you’re definitely lucky to have Kyle taking care of you.

[twolegsandbleeds]

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick who is literally the sweetest boyfriend alive in public.

holds your hand. holds doors. are you paying for your own drinks? fuck off are you.

shows you off to his friends - but not in a creepy way. in a look how beautiful and smart my partner is way. anyone tries to talk over you? they're getting a look and a firm warning to “let them finish speaking.”

behind closed doors?

different fucking story.

it's like a switch flips. it's not that he wants to treat you like you're just a toy! but it's just so easy to when you're letting him do it with that glassy look in your eyes; lips kiss swollen and parted around a moan.

he can't help it if you arch your back and whine when he brings down a hand onto the swell off your ass cheek, he can't be blamed for the fact that you grin around his fingers when he shoves them in your mouth.

he's calling you his “favourite little cocksleeve.” with the same reverence he might say spouse as he snaps his hips against yours; relentless even as he presses a pillow over your face just to feel you clench around him as your vision starts go black around the edges.

but his favourite thing? fucking your face. hands clenched into your hair, knees either side of your chest as you lean against the headboard. pressing his swollen, leaking cock against your lips before you flatten out your tongue and hollow your cheeks to suck him into your mouth. if he's feeling extra sweet he'll rub his thumbs against the corners of your mouth as if that could soothe the stretch, cooing down at your tear stricken face as he pushes past the tightness in your throat and you gag slightly.

he can't help but reach across to the nightstand for his phone; recording your pathetic expression and wide eyes as he pulls out to cum all over your face.

[teamhelaena]

Lamb to the slaughter

Maegor Targaryen x Sister reader

-reader is described as young and naive but no age is mentioned. Maegor is mean for no reason and visenya is the ultimate boy mom lol //kind of just me practice writing smut -slight Aenys x reader (she only craves his softness because she sees him as kind)

Tw: smut 18+ targcest, maegor is a tw himself, mentions of bleeding/blood, brothers/sister relationship reader believes she’s doing her duty + “loves” him believing he loves her as well. Maegor basically kills her innocence </3, reader clings to the small affections he offers.

You had been playing with a butterfly.. barefoot on the grass, clad in only a nightgown with fingers reaching towards the insect as it danced just out of reach.

Maegor stood beside his mother, arms crossed, Blackfyre sheathed at his hip. His silver hair caught the sun, a cruel halo.

“She’s simple,” he said flatly, watching his sister twirl in her own quiet world.

“She’s pure,” Visenya corrected. Her voice was calm, but resolute. “And that is what you need. It helps that your father favors her.”

The butterfly landed on your sleeve, and you froze. Eyes wide, lips parted in awe. You looked like you might cry from joy.

Maegor sneered.

You had looked up to the pair, face lit up in a smile the kind only children and fools give without cost and ran to them careful not to let the creature fly off.

“I caught one!” You had cheered holding up the sleeve that the creature clung to. Maegor looked down at it and his face seemed to scrunch at the sight.

He didn’t speak.

He only reached out, slowly, and crushed the butterfly between his fingers.

A gasp left your lips, eyes wide, lips trembling before looking up to your mother as tears began to build in your eyes.

The queen had only placed a hand to your shoulder before wiping away a stray tear. “You can always catch another sweet girl.”

Maegor only scoffed and wiped his hand on his cloak letting the remains of the beautiful butterfly slide off.

“Butterflies are helpless creatures. Weak.” His words were mumbled as he took the same hand he had crushed the insect with to tug on your own. He had wrapped his own hand in yours and you seemed to forget all about the beautiful creature in favor of having even the slightest attention from him.

Maegor’s grip was warm but unyielding, his long fingers engulfing your own as if to remind you that you were his to direct, not to cherish. He didn’t look at you.. he never really did but he did not let go either, pulling you along the path toward the shade of the courtyard’s stone wall.

Visenya followed at a measured pace, her eyes sharp despite her serene expression. She knew her son’s ways. She knew his cruelty, but she also knew his possessiveness. It was a dangerous mix.

“You cling to trifles,” Maegor muttered without slowing his stride. “Butterflies, flowers… you’d be crushed yourself if you were not under our roof.”

You stumbled slightly as he pulled you faster, the nightgown brushing your ankles, grass still clinging to your bare feet. “But… it was beautiful,” you whispered, as if the words themselves were fragile.

“It was weak,” he repeated, as if the two were mutually exclusive.

Behind you, Visenya’s voice was low, almost thoughtful. “She sees beauty where you see weakness, Maegor. That is why she will soften you, if you allow it.”

He glanced over his shoulder at his mother but said nothing. His grip on your hand tightened, not painfully, but with a sort of finality as if the conversation, in his mind, was already decided.

When you reached the stone wall, he stopped abruptly and turned you to face him. His pale eyes searched yours, unreadable, before he spoke again.

“Do not cry for such things,” he said at last. “If you wish to keep something, you must protect it. Or it will be taken from you.”

You nodded quickly, swallowing back the rest of your tears. Maegor seemed satisfied, though his mouth curved in neither smile nor frown.

Visenya finally caught up to you both, resting her hand lightly on your other shoulder. “Come inside, sweet one. Your father will wish to see you soon.”

You followed her lead, but not before Maegor’s hand brushed against yours again deliberately, almost hesitantly. It was the smallest of gestures, but for you, it was enough to make the memory of the butterfly fade into something distant, almost unimportant.

Though Visenya, watching the exchange, knew better. She knew you would remember. And she knew Maegor’s lesson was only just beginning.

Visenya nodded in approval, a small smile playing on her lips. She knew that Maegor’s actions were deliberate. He was preparing you for the world of power and manipulation that you would soon be thrown into.

A stinging pain. Eyes squeezed shut as he relentlessly pounded into you. Tears ended up staining your face and he only scoffed at the sight settling to just turn you over. “Must you.. always cry” his voice was gruff as he mumbled and spread your legs apart once more pushing at your head so it muffled the pain filled cries.

You remembered being so excited when Visenya announced you would wed your brother only to have everything stripped the night Maegor came to consummate.

His fingers left bruises and when you started crying into the pillow mumbling about it hurting he only continued on with another scoff. “You can take it.. like a good little wife.. don’t you want to please me? Have my sons?” Your fingers gripped the sheets tightly as more cries fell into the pillow your head was buried in. “M-mae please!” You cried once more with a muffled voice hearing a laugh from behind you. He took what he had wanted with rough means leaving you in a pool of your own blood that stained the sheets.

Trembling and sore. Each movement made you wince as sobs continued to escape, but maegor only shushed you and pulled you over despite the cry that left your lips at being moved.

“That wasn’t so bad was it?” He had placed a kiss to your ear mumbling his words as his hands wrapped around you. “Stop crying already.”

But you hadn’t. Only trying to hold it in as his fingers tugged at some of your hair a deep sigh leaving his lips when you mumbled. “I-it hurt Mae..”

“It’s supposed to hurt the first time sweet sister” Maegor shifted slightly an annoyed huff leaving his lips but you only glanced up through teary eyes shuffling closer to him.

“Mother said it-“

“Mother doesn’t know everything. If I say it’s supposed to hurt then that is what you believe.”

The next day your mother Visenya had sat with you. Brushing your hair after a bath and watching the maids change the sheets. Your eyes were dull as you stared at the reflections in the mirror. “You bled quite a lot.” She had commented and you only gently picked at the fabric of the dress covering your body when she tapped the visible mark at your neck watching as you tilted your head to get her hand off.

“I don’t think mae loves me.” The same childhood nickname stuck as the words flew out before you could think and Visenya only smiled.

“You are his family. Of course he loves you sweetling.” But her words fell on empty ears, the reflection staring back at you suddenly so interesting. Your mother’s sigh pulled you back when she set down the brush and turned you around.

Her eyes piercing into your own when she let a hand come up to stroke at your cheek that was already stained with tears.

You were barely more than a girl when she had arranged for you to be wed with Maegor not yet old enough to understand the shape of the game you were being carved for. But Visenya did. And she told you something you clung to like prayer.

“He needs someone who does not fear him. That is why it must be you.” Her words and soft touch made you nod slowly and attempt to stop the tears you didn’t notice started falling. And now she had repeated those same words leaving you to nod once more and accept them. “I know..”

And so you learned how to not fear.

You learned to stand still when Maegor's temper flared .. when he broke cups against stone and split skulls with a glance. You learned to remain serene when his voice turned to thunder, or when his silence lasted for days.

You told yourself that patience was love. That obedience was loyalty. That surviving him night after night was proof of something sacred between you.

When he touched you, he did not speak sweetly. He never whispered. His love was not gentle; it was teeth and fire, a hand on your throat and silence in your mouth. You told yourself it was passion. That if it hurt, it only meant it mattered.

Visenya never let you forget that.

“Pain is the cost of greatness,” she mumbled, watching you through half-lidded eyes as a healer dabbed at the bruise blooming across your collarbone. “And Maegor is destined for things far greater than any of us. If he brings you into that greatness, even for a moment, you should count yourself blessed sweet girl. You are strong enough to take it.”

You nodded, eyes on the floor, the weight of her words heavy. It became a mantra you repeated to yourself in the quiet hours of the night when his hands were not upon you. When you were left to lay in the sticky mess of your own blood and tears, whispering it like a prayer to a god that had never answered.

Days turned into weeks, and your innocence continued to wilt under the harsh sun of Maegor's "love." The castle was a labyrinth of whispers that grew louder with each passing moon. You remained the silent lamb in the center of it all, a beacon of purity that was slowly being stained.

One afternoon, you found refuge in the castle's garden. It was a place where the outside world's chaos didn't quite reach, a sanctuary of green and bloom where you could almost forget the heaviness of your new role. Your oldest brother, Aenys, found you there, sitting on a stone bench, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Unlike the one that met its tragic end in Maegor's grip, these fluttered freely, seemingly unaware of the storm brewing in the hearts of those who watched over them.

Aenys, with his gentle eyes and kind smile, was a stark contrast to Maegor. He knelt beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You're not chasing them today?" he asked softly, noticing how you merely watched the delicate creatures.

You looked up at him, your eyes red-rimmed and filled with unshed tears. "They're so pretty," you murmured. "I don't want to scare them." The innocence in your voice was heartbreaking, a stark reminder of what you had lost in such a short time.

Aenys nodded, his gaze lingering on the butterflies. "Maegor does not understand all things." His words were a gentle reminder of the different worlds you two inhabited. He knew the horrors of Maegor's nighttime visits, the subtle limp or new marks adorning your skin. You had only kicked your feet out and gave a small smile. "He loves me.."

"Does he?" Aenys questioned, his tone filled with doubt. He knew the reality behind the facade Maegor put on for the world. But he also knew the power of hope and belief. He didn't want to shatter your illusions, not yet.

You nodded firmly, clutching the fabric of your nightgown in your small fists. "Yes," you said, a hint of conviction in your voice. "He does. And I love him too."

The earlier words echoed hollowly in your ears as you laid beneath Maegor later that night. His hand held your cheek, his thumb tracing the path of a tear that slipped down your face unnoticed by the cruel moonlight. His hips thrust into you, a rhythm that had become all too familiar, a dance of pain and submission. Yet, you mumbled your words of hope and longing into the darkness, "Maegor.. you love me right?"

His eyes met yours, a cold spark of something akin to amusement in them. "Why do you ask?" he murmured, his voice thick with the lust that seemed to consume him every time he took you.

You felt the heat of his breath on your skin, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, and the ache deep inside that seemed to never fade. "Because," you whispered, trying to keep your voice from breaking, "I love you, Mae. And I.. was just thinking…"

he paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. The hand that held your cheek tightened, his thumb brushing over your skin as if he was considering your words. His hips resumed their rhythm, his movements punctuating each syllable. "You love me?" he echoed, the question a taunt.

"Y-yes," you whimpered, the word a sob that caught in your throat as he pushed deeper. You had hoped for a different reaction, a spark of tenderness to pierce the veil of his brutality. But the coldness in his eyes only grew, and his grip on your face became almost painful.

Maegor chuckled darkly. "How utterly predictable," he murmured. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, his nails digging in just enough to remind you of his power. "You're so naive, so simple, so… insignificant."

The words stung, but you clung to your love for him, telling yourself that he didn't mean it. That he was just playing his part in the grand dance of power and politics. You bit your lip and nodded, silently begging for a glimpse of the brother you had once known. But his expression remained unchanged, his eyes like chips of ice.

After he was done, he rolled off of you and stood, not bothering to help you up or offer a gentle word. You lay there, the coldness of his departure seeping into the marrow of your bones. As the door clicked shut, you curled into a ball, the pain of his rejection mixing with the ache between your legs.

The next day, as you sat in your chamber, you found yourself unable to face the mirror. Instead, you let your mother brush your hair, hoping the rhythmic strokes would ease the turmoil in your heart. "Mother," you began tentatively, your voice a soft whisper, "why isn't Maegor more affectionate? Why does he only come to me at night to… to do those things?"

Visenya's eyes met yours in the reflection, her expression unreadable. She paused before speaking, her voice measured and controlled. "Maegor is a man of the world, sweet girl. He has responsibilities and burdens that we cannot understand. He shows his love in his own way."

You nodded, trying to believe her words, even as your heart felt as though it were being crushed beneath a heavy stone. "But why does it have to hurt?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly. "Why can't he be gentle, like Aenys?"

Visenya's eyes darkened at the mention of your other brother. "Aenys is weak," she said firmly.

"But he's kind," you protested, a small spark of defiance flickering in your teary gaze.

"And that is precisely why he is unfit to rule," Visenya replied, her voice sharp. "Maegor is strong, and he will need a strong wife. You must endure, for the sake of the realm."

You knew your mother was one to talk down on Aenys and his frail state but your father never once changed the state of him being his heir and you knew she had hated that.

"Now go to the seamstress.. She is to make you a new nightgown." Her words lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of your fate. But you obeyed, rising from the chair with a nod. As you left the room in a skip a small smile came to your face at the thought of Maegor taking notice to something made you feel even the smallest bit happier.

The seamstress was a kind woman, with wrinkled hands that had seen more battles than most soldiers. She had seen the change in you, from a bright girl with laughter in your eyes to a silent shadow that walked the halls. Her eyes filled with pity, but she never spoke a word of it, instead focusing on the task at hand. You picked out a fabric of pale blue, a color that reminded you of the skies before the butterflies had been crushed from your life.

"I'm sure he will love it," she said with forced cheer, as she measured your frame. You nodded, hope fluttering in your chest like the ghosts of the butterflies you had once chased.

Days later, you stood before the mirror, the new nightgown a whisper of blue silk against your skin. The seamstress had worked her magic, creating a garment that clung to your curves in a way that made you feel both beautiful and vulnerable. Visenya had approved, her cold eyes gleaming as she assessed the transformation.

As night fell, you waited in your chamber, the anticipation a coil in your stomach. When Maegor arrived, his eyes swept over you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He said nothing, only gesturing for you to come closer. You stepped forward eagerly, the soft fabric brushing against your legs with every step.

Maegor's gaze lingered on the neckline of the gown, his eyes darkening. He reached out and touched the silk, his fingers tracing a line down to the small of your back before pulling you closer. For a moment, you dared to hope that he might kiss you gently, that he might whisper sweet nothings in your ear. But his lips remained a thin line as he pushed you onto the bed.

You lay there, the softness of the silk a stark contrast to the harshness of his touch. His hands were rough on your skin, pulling at the fabric as he claimed you once again. You bit back the pain, telling yourself that this was what love looked like in the eyes of a king. You closed your eyes and thought of Aenys, of his gentle touch, and the way he made you feel seen.

But Aenys wasn't here. It was Maegor who was your husband, the one you were supposed to love. So you forced yourself to look into his eyes, to find some semblance of warmth, of affection. Yet, all you saw was hunger, a hunger that consumed everything in its path, leaving only ash and ruin.

Maegor noticed your gaze and paused, a smirk playing on his lips. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice gruff.

You swallowed hard, trying to push down the lump in your throat. "I-I just want you to hold me," you whispered, your voice trembling. "To tell me you love me."

Maegor's smirk grew, his eyes cold and unyielding. "You want that?" He leaned in, his breath hot against your skin. "Fine."

He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer, and whispered, "I love you, my sweet sister." You knew they were a lie, a tool used to manipulate and control. Yet, you clung to them, desperate for any scrap of affection in the sea of pain he drowned you in.

Maegor's movements grew more frantic, his grip on you tightening as he claimed your body again. Each thrust was a silent declaration of his dominance, a stark reminder of your new role in his life. But you held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, one of these nights he would hold you without the intent to break you.

Tears trickled down your cheeks, mixing with the sweat that glistened in the candlelight. His breath was harsh in your ear, a steady beat that matched the rhythm of his hips. You focused on the sound, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the chaos, your voice lost to the cacophony of his grunts and the rustle of silk.

You found solace in the moments with Aenys, in the quiet whispers of the garden, and the gentle brush of his hand against yours. He never spoke of your bruises, never asked about the tears you shed in the dark, but his silent understanding was a balm to your soul.

One sunlit afternoon, you ventured back to the garden with him, your feet moving with less enthusiasm than before. The butterflies still danced, but they seemed to have lost some of their magic. You sat in the soft grass, watching the world go by without you, your heart feeling heavier than the crown that lay in wait for your brother. Aenys noticed the change in you, the way you didn't chase the butterflies with the same glee.

He sat beside you, a concerned look on his kind face. He didn't say much, just offered his hand for you to hold. It was a silent comfort, a gentle reminder that you weren't entirely alone in the labyrinth of your new life. A butterfly, a lonely splash of color, landed in his hair, fluttering its wings as if trying to communicate a secret. You couldn't help but give a small smile at the sight, a genuine expression that hadn't graced your lips in what felt like an eternity.

Aenys glanced at you, his eyes searching yours. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice softer than the whispers of the wind that danced through the leaves above you.

You nodded, not trusting your voice. The weight of his hand in yours felt like a lifeline in the stormy sea that was your life. You brought your knees to your chest, hugging yourself tightly, and stared at him. Aenys, so kind, so gentle, the complete opposite of the monster that shared your bed.

You couldn't help but imagine what it would be like if Maegor had a heart like Aenys'. If he treated you with the care and tenderness that Aenys did. If his touch was soft, his voice whispered sweet nothings into your ear, and his eyes held warmth instead of the coldness that haunted your dreams. The thought brought a pang of longing so intense it was almost physical, making your chest ache.

As Aenys left the garden, his gentle touch lingering on your skin like the softest of kisses, you felt the weight of your own reality come crashing down upon you. The butterflies fluttered away. You watched them go, a sad smile on your lips, before rising to your feet and heading back to your chamber.

The corridors of the castle felt like a prison, each step a silent echo of the future that awaited you. When you reached the door to your room, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the nightly ordeal that was your "duty."

Maegor was already there, his silhouette cast against the flickering candlelight, a looming figure of shadow and fire. You shyly sat on the edge of the bed, hoping for a gentle touch, a kind word, anything that would make you feel less like a sacrifice to his twisted idea of love.

But he had other plans. He grabbed your ankle with the same force that had crushed the butterfly, yanking you towards him. You couldn't help but flinch, your body tensing as his grip tightened. "You always just climb on me," you whispered, a hint of desperation in your voice. "Is there no other ways?…"

Maegor's expression remained unchanged, a mask of cold indifference. He pulled you closer, until you were straddling him, his eyes never leaving yours. His hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging in, guiding you to move in the way he liked. "This is how it's done," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "This is what pleases me."

You sat there, trembling, as he began to kiss you roughly, his hands roaming over your body without care. You felt like a ragdoll in his embrace, manipulated and discarded as he saw fit. But you clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, you could find a way to make him love you. "Maegor," you murmured, trying to keep the tremble from your voice. "Can't we try something different?"

Maegor paused, his eyes narrowed as he studied you. He released your ankle and sat up, his expression contemplative. "What do you suggest?" he asked, his tone a mix of amusement and irritation.

You took a deep breath, your heart racing with hope. "Could… could we not be so… rough?" You didn't know how to put into words the tenderness you craved, the gentle touch that Aenys had never given but you knew existed in the whispers of love stories. "Could we… could we try to be more like Aenys and his wife?"

Maegor's amusement vanished, replaced by a flicker of anger. "Aenys is a fool," he spat, pushing you away. "His weakness will be his downfall. And I will not be swayed by such follies."

You landed back onto the bed when he pushed you off a frown tugging at your lips as the sheets rustled under you. You had hoped that by mentioning Aenys, you could somehow find a way to bridge the gap between the gentle love you dreamed of and the harsh reality of Maegor's love. But it seemed that even the mention of your other brother was enough to make Maegor's anger flare.

With trembling hands, you quickly apologized, climbing back onto him, straddling him as he had shown you before. You tried to ignore the way his eyes darkened, the way his jaw clenched at the mention of Aenys. You focused instead on his words, on the promise of making him happy. If that meant enduring his roughness, then so be it.

Maegor's grip on you was firm, his hands moving over your body with a possession that sent shivers down your spine. You wrapped your arms around his neck, trying to find some semblance of comfort in his embrace. His kisses were harsh and demanding, his teeth occasionally nipping at your bottom lip.

You closed your eyes, trying to focus on the task at hand. To please him, to make him love you. You moved your hips in a rhythm that you thought he might like, hoping to elicit some warmth from him, some sign that he felt something more than just lust. But his touch remained cold, his kisses a mere claim of ownership.

Maegor reached down, pushing your dress up to your waist, not bothering with the delicate ties that held it in place. The fabric whispered against your skin as he freed himself, his eyes never leaving yours. You felt a flash of fear at the sudden exposure, your body reacting instinctively as he guided himself into you.

"Lift yourself," he commanded, his voice gruff with desire. You did as you were told, raising your hips slightly, feeling his manhood press against your sensitive flesh. "Good girl," he murmured, his grip tightening as he positioned himself. You held your breath, waiting for the pain that had become so familiar, a twisted reminder of your place beside him.

Maegor didn't bother with finesse, pushing into you without hesitation. You bit your lip to keep from crying out, your eyes squeezed shut as your body adjusted to his intrusion. When he was fully seated, he grabbed your hips and began to move you up and down, his movements quick and rough. You tried to focus on the rhythm, the way he watched you, his eyes glinting in the candlelight.

"Like this?" you whispered, unsure of what he wanted from you. The question hung in the air like a prayer, a desperate plea for some semblance of approval.

Maegor's eyes narrowed, his movements faltering for a brief moment. "You're doing fine," he grunted, his voice strained. But his grip on your hips tightened, his thrusts growing more forceful.

You nodded, trying to find a way to make this feel less like a battle and more like the love you longed for. You leaned in, kissing his neck, his jaw, anywhere you could reach without disturbing his rhythm. You whispered sweet nothings into his ear, hoping the words of love would melt the ice around his heart.

Maegor's grunts grew louder, his pace increasing. You held on tighter, willing yourself to feel something, anything other than the pain and fear that had become your constant companions. But the only emotion you could muster was a sad determination, a stubborn hope that one day, he would love you the way you dreamed.

As he reached his climax, you felt his grip loosen, his body going slack beneath you. You collapsed against him, your forehead pressing into the crook of his neck, trying to find some solace in the warmth of his skin. For a moment, you thought you felt his arms wrap around you, but it was only the aftershocks of his release, his body reacting without thought.

Maegor pulled away pushing you aside to sit back on the bed rather than his lap, leaving you trembling, the coldness of his absence stark against the warmth of his recent embrace. He stood, adjusting his clothing with the ease of one who had done this countless times before. You watched him, feeling used and discarded, your body aching from his rough touch.

When you next found yourself wandering the gardens your belly was swollen with Maegors seed though still small. You hadn't chased the butterflies but had only sighed at the discomfort that came with growing a child.

Maegor noticed the change in you, a subtle blankness around your eyes, a gentle frown to your lips that wasn't just pained submission anymore. He studied you from afar, his thoughts a tumultuous storm of confusion and possessiveness. You had become more than a mere pawn in his game of thrones; you were now the vessel for his legacy.

When he finally approached you, his heavy steps crunching against the gravel path, you did not look up immediately. The warm sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappled patterns shifting across your gown and the gentle swell of your belly.

“You tire easily now,” Maegor observed, his voice carrying neither concern nor judgment only a strange curiosity, as though cataloguing a change in the weather.

“Do I?” you replied softly, your gaze fixed on the small pond where lilies floated untouched by the breeze.

For a long moment, he stood in silence beside you, his shadow falling across the water. His eyes trailed from your face to your hands, resting protectively over the curve of your stomach. It was a sight that both unsettled and anchored him. The blood of the dragon was growing there .. his blood he had worked tirelessly to pump inside of you.

When his fingers brushed yours, it was not the harsh grip you had come to expect. It was tentative, almost searching. “You will give me a strong heir,” he said at last, but there was a note beneath the words, something unspoken an unacknowledged fear that the child might come out to be like the girl you were, but when a butterfly landed in his hair, he was about to swat it only stopping when your hand reached out.

He was about to scoff and scold you for trying to capture the creature but when you crushed in into your palm, he couldn't help but close his mouth and raise a brow confusion written on his face until a smirk came at your words.

“Butterflies are helpless creatures. Weak.”

and with that you took his hand wanting to go back inside and hide in your chambers as you've been doing often. Aenys forgotten like the joy you felt once at being in this very garden.