Writers say "i'm not writing right now" like that means anything. You are always writing. You are writing at dinner. You are writing while someone talks to you about their holiday. You are writing in the queue at the post office.
Not writing it down is not the same as not writing. The writing happens first. The document is just where it lands eventually if you're lucky.
A non-writer asked me "but where do you get your ideas" and i genuinely did not know how to explain that it's not a place. it's not a website. it's not a folder. it's that i was on the bus and a woman was holding a paper bag very carefully and something about the way she held it made me need to know what was inside and then i needed to know why she was sad about it and then there was a whole person and then there was a whole story and the bus had already stopped and i missed my stop. that's where.
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.
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.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Aerion's lady wife keeps sneaking out of their bedchamber at night. Aerion is determined to find out why. Can be read as a oneshot. Can be read as a chapter in Growing Strong series. Set after Growing Familiar but before Deep in the Meadow.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, breeding kink, power imbalance, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas. Dual pov?
The first months of your marriage to Aerion Targaryen, he bedded you every night without fail. It did not matter if you were tired from a day of riding or bored from hours of needlework or still irritated from some sharp word he had thrown at you over dinner. It did not matter if you drifted off before he even finished unlacing his breeches. Aerion Targaryen took what he wanted, and what he wanted, night after night, was you.
The first time you fell asleep before he came to bed, exhausted from a long day of travel, your body aching from the saddle, you woke to the feeling of his hands on your thighs, pushing your nightdress up to your waist. The room was dark, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth, and his silver hair gleamed like moonlight as he knelt between your legs.
"Aerion," you mumbled, still half-asleep. "What are you..."
"Hush." His fingers found your center, stroking with practiced patience. "Go back to sleep if you like. I will be quick."
You did not go back to sleep. You could not. His touch was too skilled, too knowing, drawing moisture from your body despite your exhaustion. When he finally pushed inside you, your back arched off bed and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"Shh," he breathed, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm. "There you are. My sweet wife. My soft, warm, perfect wife. Just let me take what I need. You do not have to do anything."
And you did not. You lay there, drowsy and pliant, while he chased his pleasure in your body. His hands gripped your hips, tilting you to the angle he preferred, and his violet eyes were fixed on your face, watching every flicker of expression that crossed your features. When he finished, spilling inside you with a low groan, he pulled out slowly and pressed a kiss to your belly.
"A son," he murmured against your skin. "Give me a son, my sweet rose."
Then he gathered you against his chest, pulled the furs over you both, and fell asleep with his face buried in your hair.
This became your routine. Every night, without fail, Aerion took his pleasure from your body. And every night, you fell asleep immediately afterward, your body spent and satisfied, sleeping through until morning like a babe in a cradle.
He had to wake you each day by smacking your arse. A sharp, stinging slap that jolted you from sleep with a yelp and a flurry of tangled limbs.
"Aerion!" you protested, rubbing the smarting flesh. "That is not a proper way to wake one's wife."
"You do not wake to gentle words," he pointed out, already dressed and immaculate, his silver hair pulled back from his face. "I have tried. I have whispered endearments. I have kissed your brow. I have called your name a dozen times. You sleep like the dead, wife. Only pain rouses you."
"It is not pain. It is...surprise. And indecency."
"Call it what you like." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, brief and almost tender. "You are awake now. The day awaits. I have duties, and you have whatever it is you do when I am not bedding you."
You restrained yourself from glaring at him. He could only tolerate so many complaints until he turned insufferable in return. You had learnt to pick your battles. You had also learnt that if you slipped out of the role of the charming wife, the lovely lady Tyrell, instead of figuring out you had never wanted to play the part of his wife in the first place, he'd think you were deeply upset about this one particular thing and he'd fixate on it. So you rose, and you dressed, and you went about your day, and at night he came to you again.
Nothing deterred him. Not your moon blood, you had been mortified the first time, stammering apologies and trying to push him away, but he had only laughed.
"The wetness is different," he had said, his voice dark with fascination. "Hotter. Slicker. I like it." And he had taken you anyway, slower than usual, watching the evidence of your body paint his length with each withdrawal. Afterward, he had kissed your belly and wished for a son, same as always, utterly unbothered by the blood that stained the sheets.
Not even your fights deterred him. If anything, they made him more ravenous. The night you quarreled over some petty thing, you could not even remember what, some slight or sharp word that had spiraled into shouted accusations, you had retreated to your chambers expecting a night of cold silence. Instead, he had come to you with fire in his violet eyes, spun you around, bent you over the bed, and taken you from behind with a ferocity that left you gasping.
"You are all the more delicious when I am angry," he had panted against your ear, his hips slamming into you with bruising force. "My sweet rose. My infuriating, stubborn, impossible wife. I should hate you. I should cast you aside. Instead, I cannot stop wanting you. Cannot stop needing you. What have you done to me?"
You had no answer. You could barely form words, too consumed by the pleasure and pain of his possession. When he finished, he had pulled you upright against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck.
"I do not wish to fight," he had whispered, so quiet you almost did not hear. "I do not know how to stop. But I do not wish to fight with you."
And then, because he was Aerion and could not let tenderness stand unadorned, he had smacked your arse and sent you stumbling toward the bed. "Sleep. I will wake you in the morning."
You had fallen asleep within moments, as always, and slept through until his hand connected with your rear at dawn.
That was simply how things were for some time.
You began to build stamina. Your body, accustomed to his nightly attentions, no longer collapsed into exhausted slumber the moment he spent himself inside you. You still fell asleep before him, Aerion had always been a restless sleeper, prone to lying awake and staring at the canopy while his mind churned, but you no longer passed out like a candle snuffed.
One night, however, Aerion woke in the small hours of the morn and found the space beside him empty.
He assumed you had returned to your own chambers. It was not unusual, you kept your own rooms, as was proper for a lady of your station, though you spent nights in his bed. Perhaps you had needed something. A different gown. A book. A ribbon for your hair. He rolled over and went back to sleep.
But it happened again. And again. And again.
The third time, he mentioned it over breakfast. "You left last night."
You looked up from your plate, your brow furrowed. "Did I?"
"You did. I woke and you were gone. Did you need something from your chambers?"
You blinked, clearly confused. "I...do not recall. I must have been half-asleep. I am sorry if I disturbed you, husband."
He let it go. But the fourth time, and the fifth, and the sixth, he began to wonder.
"You left again," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Three nights this week. Where do you go?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about." Your eyes were guileless, your expression genuinely bewildered. "I sleep through the night, my love. You know this. You are the one who complains about having to smack me awake each morning."
He studied your face for any sign of deception. He found none. But Aerion Targaryen had been raised in the Red Keep before Summerhall, had survived the viper's pit of court politics, had learned to see lies even when they wore the most innocent of faces. His wife was a Tyrell. She had been trained in deception since birth. If anyone could lie to him convincingly, it was her.
The suspicions only began to grow, curling through his mind like poison ivy. She was leaving his bed in the night. She claimed not to remember. Where was she going? What was she doing?
His mind, ever prone to darkness, supplied answers that made his stomach clench.
A lover. She was sneaking off to meet a lover. Some handsome knight, perhaps, or a lord's son with a pretty face and gentle manners. Someone who was not cruel and sharp and difficult. Someone who could give her soft words and tender touches instead of games and barbs and rough handling. He could not think about it without murderous rage. He could only imagine all the painful ways he would kill the man.
Not a lover, mayhaps, but conspirators. She was a Tyrell. The Tyrells had been loyal to the Targaryens during the Blackfyre Rebellion. Leo Tyrell won notable victories in the Reach against Daemon Blackfyre's supporters, though his forces were unable to gather quickly enough to arrive in time for the battle of the Redgrass field. But loyalties shifted with every harvest in the Reach. Perhaps she was meeting with agents of her house, passing along secrets, plotting against him. Perhaps their entire marriage had been a scheme from the beginning, a way to place a Tyrell close to the throne, close to Summerhall, close to his father Maekar.
Perhaps, and this thought hurt most of all, she simply did not truly love him. Perhaps she left his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. Perhaps she waited until she thought he was asleep and then fled to her own chambers, where she could breathe freely without his suffocating presence.
Aerion did not sleep that night. He lay beside her, listening to her soft breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She looked peaceful in sleep. Innocent. Beautiful. When he finally drifted off, his dreams were troubled.
The next morning, he smacked her arse to wake her, same as always. She yelped and swatted at him, same as always. But when she smiled at him over breakfast, he found himself searching her face for signs of guilt, for evidence of betrayal. He found nothing. She was either innocent or a very, very good liar.
That night, he decided he would catch her.
He feigned normalcy. He unlaced her gown with practiced ease, as he always did. He kissed her throat and her breasts and the soft curve of her belly, as he always did. He took her slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, until she was gasping and clutching at his shoulders and crying out his name. Afterwards, he pressed his lips to her belly, just below her navel.
"A son," he murmured against her skin. A tradition by now, a ritual, his way of sayinga prayer. "Give me a son, my sweet rose. A strong son. A dragon."
He paused. Something caught in his throat, words he had rarely spoke aloud, words that terrified him more than any battle or tourney ever could.
"I love you," he whispered, so quiet that he was not sure she heard. "Even if it causes me pain to say it. Even if I cannot admit it when you are awake to hear. I love you, and I cannot...I cannot lose you. I cannot bear the thought of you slipping away in the night, going somewhere I cannot follow, seeking something I cannot give."
He fell silent. She did not stir. Her breathing was slow and even, her face peaceful in sleep.
He pretended to sleep. Hours passed. The candle burned down to a stub. The fire in the hearth faded to embers. Aerion lay still, his breathing deliberately slow, his eyes cracked open just enough to see the room in shades of grey and shadow.
In the deepest part of the night, she moved.
He watched through squinted eyes as she sat up slowly, her movements strangely fluid, almost mechanical. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a long moment, utterly still. Then she rose, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. She found her slippers, felted wool, soft and quiet, and slid them on. She found her robe, a heavy thing of green velvet, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She did not look at him. She left the bedchamber.
Aerion counted to ten, his heart pounding. Then he threw back the furs and followed.
He kept to the shadows. He had learned to move silently through corridors patrolled by guards and servants and spies. Trailing his wife through Summerhall was child's play.
She went first to her own chambers. Aerion's heart seized, this was it. She was meeting someone. A lover hidden in her rooms. A conspirator waiting in the dark.
But she did not stop. She passed through her chambers without pausing, movements unhurried, and continued through a side door that led to the gardens.
The gardens. Of course. A secret meeting among the roses. How fitting for a Tyrell.
Aerion followed, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. The night air was cool and sweet, heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers. Moonlight silvered the paths and the fountains and the carefully tended beds of roses, red and gold, the colors of his house and hers intertwined.
She walked. And walked. And walked.
No one met her. No shadow detached itself from the hedges. No whisper greeted her from the darkness. She simply walked. Around the fountain. Down the rose path. Past the marble bench where they sometimes sat together in the afternoons. Her steps were slow and aimless, her arms loose at her sides.
Aerion watched her for what felt like an eternity, his confusion mounting. What was she doing? Where was she going? Why was she... She turned a corner and nearly walked directly into a rose bush, its thorns gleaming in the moonlight. Aerion moved before he could think. He strode forward, caught her arm, and pulled her back from the thorns. She did not resist. She did not react at all.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice too loud in the quiet garden. "Where are you going? Who are you meeting? Tell me now, wife, and I may yet show mercy..."
She did not answer. She did not even look at him. Her eyes were closed.
Aerion's words died in his throat. He stared at her face: peaceful, serene, utterly unaware of his presence. Her lips were moving, forming words too soft to hear. He leaned closer, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.
"...roses need pruning," she was mumbling, her voice distant and dreamy. "The red ones first. Grandmother always said red roses first. Then gold. Then the path to the fountain..."
She was not meeting a lover. She was not conspiring against him. She was not fleeing his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. His poor, sweet wife was sleepwalking.
Relief crashed over him like a wave, so intense it left him dizzy. He stood there in the moonlit garden, holding his sleeping wife's arm, and laughed: a shaky, breathless sound that was half-sob.
But the relief faded quickly, replaced by a new and different fear.
She could have walked into that rose bush. She could have torn her skin on the thorns, could have bled into the garden soil while he lay sleeping in their bed, oblivious. She could have fallen into the fountain and drowned. She could have wandered out of the gardens entirely, into the darkness beyond, where anything might have happened to her.
She could have been hurt. She could have died. And he would have woken in the morning to an empty bed and no explanation.
His grip on her arm gentled. He stepped closer, sliding his hand down to clasp hers.
"Come," he said softly, though she could not hear him. "Come back to bed, my sweet rose. You are safe. I have you."
She did not respond, but she did not resist when he turned her gently and began to lead her back toward the castle. Her feet moved automatically, following his guidance, her face still peaceful and blank.
As they walked, Aerion's mind raced with plans.
He would have to lock the bedchamber doors at night to keep her safe. He would put the key somewhere she could not find while asleep. Under his pillow, perhaps. Or around his neck on a cord.
He would have to put away all sharp things. The letter opener on his desk. The small knife he used for cutting fruit. Her sewing scissors. Anything she might stumble upon in her dreaming wanderings.
He had heard, somewhere, that a wet cloth placed on the floor beside the bed could help wake sleepwalkers. The shock of cold on bare feet, jarring them from their dreams before they could wander far. He would have the servants place one on her side of the bed each night. He would check it himself before they slept.
He would protect her. He would keep her safe. He would not lose her to something as absurd as a sleepwalking accident.
They reached his bedchamber. He guided her inside, closed the door behind them, and made a mental note to have a new lock installed in the morning. A sturdy one. One she could not open without a key.
He led her to the bed and eased her down onto the bed. She went willingly, her body limp and pliant, already sinking back into deeper sleep. He lifted her legs onto the bed, arranged the furs over her, and stood looking down at her for a long moment.
Her face was peaceful. Beautiful. Utterly unaware of the terror she had put him through. He climbed into bed beside her and pulled her against his chest. She mumbled something unintelligible and burrowed closer, her hand fisting loosely in his nightshirt.
"I will keep you safe," he whispered into her hair. "I will do whatever I must. You will not wander where I cannot follow. You will not come to harm."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: This was a random fic but I missed Growing Strong!Aerion hehe. I had the last chapter of the series, named Valyrian Legacy, typed up. Then I realised it sucked so now I'm going to do it in a completely different format. I now understand how George R. R. Martin feels about finishing his book.
Pairing: Dark Aerion "Brightflame" Targaryen x (female) Reader
▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.
More at Masterlist
SUMMARY: Aerion comes to disturb you while you grieve your husband’s death.
WARNINGS: Noncon; Profanation.
AN: Written from this ask, thanks for sending me this idea. Initially was only planning to leave a couple of lines implying noncon, but then decided to go down the nasty path. Anyways... please, reblog and give me feedback 😊 enjoy!
--
Death brings people closer to faith and religion and you find yourself in no different position, the royal sept becoming your refugee ever since the untimely death of your husband.
You find whatever solace you can in the spacious, dimly lit chamber. Kneeling before the altar, fervorously praying for some light to be casted upon the darkness that has fallen upon you. Your visits to the sept have become so often that even the septons have learned to leave you be, knowing how little you’ll entertain their words of advice.
But by now, you should’ve known that Aerion does nothing but disrupt your peace.
The hushed whispers from the septons reach your ears right before they exit the room, breaking the soft peace that had long settled into the room.
“Princess.”
Your hand trembles, missing the candle. But you keep going, lightening candle after candle while ignoring your nephew-in-law.
Every time you look at him, it’s not without painful emotions arising. While Valarr had blamed the uncommonly tall hedge knight for his father’s death, you were aware that no tragedy would've happened if it wasn’t for Aerion’s cowardice. Had he just faced the man on his own, instead of demanding a seven-men trial….
You shake your head, tending to the candles instead. Mulling over ‘if’s’ won’t change the grim reality.
“A raven has been sent from your House.” he informs. He’s staring at you, much like he does every time you are in the vicinity. The weight of his stare is heavy and bothersome. Your pain and suffering must be pleasurable to watch, you suppose.
“Your father is set to arrive in less than a moon from now. Claims you are to return with him.”
You halt.
It pains you to leave the Red Keep, to leave behind the chambers you once shared with your husband, to leave behind the memories you so valiantly cling onto. You don’t want to leave but neither do you want to stay around the people that keep reminding you of your late husband. With your husband dead, you’ve no place in the Targaryen castle or its family.
Aerion moves closer, entering your peripheral sight. Intruding as he always does.
“You spend a great deal of time here in the sept.” he observes, blowing into one of the candles. “You come to visit each and every day. Quite the devotee you are.”
You send him a glare, but remain quiet.
Aerion presents you a crooked smile as if aware of the utter grievance he’s causing you. He slithers closer and closer until he’s next to you, facing you. His proximity sets you uneasy but your legs remain in their place, numb and heavy.
“I wonder what you so desperately pray the Seven for.” voice dropping until it’s nothing but a low whisper. “... a new husband, perhaps?”
You turn to him, bewildered at his sheer audacity.
“How can you speak as such?”
Aerion shrugs his shoulders, eyeing you with an interest that leaves you weary.
“I do not judge you.” he assures, “Future heir to the throne or not, I cannot fathom how hard it must’ve been for such a young lady to be married off to my uncle, that old man. Surely he hadn’t the time or the skills to fulfill all the needs a wife such as yourself has.”
You can only stand there, lips agape in shock and consternation at how easily Aerion disrespect his fallen uncle. Anger slowly starts bubbling through your veins, growing into something violent.
“How dare you speak of him like that?” you spit, years of composure and grace forgotten in your rage, voice and tone raising. “Does it slip your mind that he was your uncle, a man who forgot and forgave much of the foolery you committed?”
You take a step in his direction, facing him with your face ablaze in anger.
“Your uncle - my husband - was a man of honor.”
You shove him, hands pushing at his shoulders, a bold move you shouldn’t be doing. Aerion only chuckles at your display of violence, pressing his body harder against your hands without stepping back.
“He was a good man. Unlike yourself. You shame yourself, Aerion, you shame your family and your damn dragons-”
Aerion frightens you when his hand aims forward, seizing your forearm with a roughness you’ve never suffered before. His fingers tighten around the soft flesh of your arm until it aches painfully so.
He leans forward, face so close you can see the faded shadow of the bruises on his cheek and the slight crook of his nose. And suddenly it dawns on you that the situation you’ve found yourself in isn’t one you ought to be. The sept room is desert, save for yourself and Aerion.
The septons are strangely missing and you now regret commanding your knight and handmaid to let you be by yourself as Aerion’s presence has proven itself to be nothin less than erratic and troublesome.
“Do not speak of the dragons.” he grits out, his breath raging hot on your face.
“Let go of me.” you ask, rage slowly dwindling down as something colder and smaller replaces it.
Aerion does not free you, brows furrowing.
“A dragon does not fall.” he declares with a conviction that has you sick, a glint in his eyes that surely can’t be sane. “A dragon does not lose.”
He takes another step, standing so close you can trace each and every scar on his face. Not only does the proximity increase his attractiveness but it also heightens the madness breaking though his composure.
“If my uncle fell, then he was no dragon at all. Perhaps he was no worthy of becoming a king.”
Your hand rises on its own accord, palm hitting against his cheek with a sound that resonates through the walls. Before there’s time for you to process the full length of what you just did and its consequences, a gasp is forced out of you.
Aerion’s lips crash against yours with a violence you’ve never encountered before.
He presses his whole body onto you, keeping his hand on your arm while the other sneaks around the back of your neck, avoiding your escape. His lips feel as though fire, burning your skin as they travel across your cheek, your neck, your shoulders…
“You’re a teasing brat.” he growls. “Now I’m going to ruin you.”
Soon his hands find the laces of your dress, the tear of the material taunting your ears as Aerion forces you both down on the floor.
Your screams go unheard, your pleas go unanswered. You know Aerion will keep his promise. He will ruin you. And so he does.
It’s crude and painful but it’s the humiliation that strikes the most. You are a princess. You are a noble lady. You are - were - married. And yet none of those things matter as Aerion slaps you harshly enough to knock the senses out of you when you attempt to push him away.
He’s vicious and unrelenting in his vile pursuit, fingers digging into your arms and legs, keeping you still as he rips and tears his way through your clothes to get to his objective.
Fighting back is hard. Your ears ringing from the violent slap, tears clogging your eyes, voice reduced to a weak volume. Aerion isn’t a particularly strong man and yet he’s strong enough to hold you down by the wrists and wedge his thighs between your own without much difficulty.
“Aerion, please, don’t.” you beg, completely and utterly terrified as his fingers touch the bare skin of your legs, tracing upwards to where most of your dignity lies. “Please, I won’t tell anyone if-if you stop now…
He laughs, a deranged hopeless sound.
“I’m afraid there’s no stopping.” he says. “Not when I’m so close to ensuring our future. Make sure your father won’t have any other choice but to give your hand to me.”
“No!”
A whimper is punched out of you when his fingers at least find your womanhood. His hand isn’t gentle when forcing your folds to part, another wail forced from you when two of his digits forcefully dig into where you are the most tender.
“Enough with the tears.” he orders you, withdrawing his fingers. “The red eyes ruin your pretty face.”
For a moment you breath, thinking it’s over. But your relief is short-lived as soon as Aerion begins to fumble with his belt, pushing down on his trousers. The panic comes back multiplied by a thousand and your leg gains strength, knee somehow landing between his legs.
“Bitch!”
Aerion lets out a pained grunt, but instead of loosening his hold over you, he falls on top of you. You trash against him, his weight pinning you to the floor. He recovers faster than anticipated, now more irritated and rough.
“You make this worse for yourself, princess.” he grits, fumbling with your dress and his pants while fighting to keep you put. “It’s gonna happen, whether you want it or not.”
All of your struggle and writhing goes in vain. You can feel the defeat when he begins to push himself into you, cruelly burying inside in one go. It hurts more than it ever did with your husband and it doesn’t get any better.
“Tighter than the best whore in King’s Landing.” Aerion breathlessly chuckles, thoroughly pleased. Repulse builds inside you when he kisses your cheek, leaving wetness behind.
You cry out when he snaps his hips into motion, stronger and faster with the momentum and greed building his rythm. Aerion’s groans mix in with your cries, your nails digging into your palms in a fruitless effort to ground yourself.
He finds pleasure while you receive pain, the cold hard floor against your back while Aerion continues to desecrate you in a holy place. You start praying, only to stop moments later. It’s hopeless. There’s no salvation nor a savior coming to rescue you. The Seven won’t aid you. They’ve taken your husband and now they take your pride and dignity.
Time passes, it could’ve been many hours or just mere minutes, but eventually Aerion’s spiral begins to dwindle down.
“... full of my seed. Fuck.”
You wince when he rams his cock inside a few times, each slower than the last until he finally halts, tumbling down on top of you, burying his face in your neck. There’s no strength nor hope left in your body to even atempt to push Aerion off of you and so you merely lay on the ground, feeling as alive as a corpse.
Feeling his seed slowly trick down your entrance.
After what it feels like an eternity, Aerion lifts himself just enough to meet your face. He looks like a man thoroughly pleased and satisfied with himself.
You don’t cry or push him away when he kisses you, his tongue tracing your lower lip.
“You are mine now.” he declares, madness swimming in his eyes. “As you should’ve always been.”
His fingers are gentle when touching your tear-soaked cheek and Aerion smiles at you.
“Not even your father will be able to refuse my claim over you, not with my seed taking root.”
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.”
sunmary your twin brother always thought you were his property. His by birthright. And when you flirted with some Lord during a feast, he lost the small sense of sanity he had
ladies..leave your feminism here, you can take it back when you’re done…
warnings 18+. explicit sexual content, unprotected p n v , Targcest (sister!reader) choking, biting, possessiveness, rough sex, edging, dubious consent due to power dynamics and Aerion’s unstable mental state, violence against a minor character.
It wasn’t long until you felt his burning gaze on you. It was a feast to celebrate the end of winter’s worst chill, and the court had dressed in silks and velvets as usual. But no red velvet could compare to the one the Targaryen princes wore.
Or, at least, one of them.
Prince Aerion sat beside his brothers, a golden goblet of wine in his pale hand, but his wine-dark eyes were fixed on you, his twin. They had been fixed on you all evening. His silver-gold hair was pulled back, revealing the sharp, beautiful, and utterly cruel lines of his face. He did not smile. He never truly smiled, not unless someone was in pain.
You knew this. You knew him. Growing up with him was like a dance of fire where you’d get burned if you moved your foot wrongly. He was always possessive over you, from a very young age asking father to betroth you to him. He was the cruel man that the court whispered about but never dared to confront. Even with all the warnings, tonight, you felt a flicker of rebellion.
It was exhausting, being owned by a man whose sanity was a thread fraying by the day. His moods were storms. His love was a gilded cage. And you wanted, just once, to feel the rush of making him watch.
That was why you turned your most dazzling smile upon Lord Tytos Lannister, a handsome young lord from Casterly Rock with laughing green eyes and no sense of self-preservation.
“My lord” you purred, leaning closer so that the candlelight caught the swell of your breasts above the low-cut gown Aerion had chosen for you. “You must tell me more about the golden woods of your homeland. I hear the trees there turn to fire in autumn.”
Lord Tytos, flushed with wine and flattery, grinned. “Not as fiery as your eyes, my lady.” He placed a hand on your bare arm.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Aerion stop mid-sip. The goblet lowered. His head turned, slowly, and he smirked.
You ignored the cold finger of dread tracing your spine. You laughed at one of Tytos’ jokes, loud and bright. You touched his wrist. You let him lean in to whisper something in your ear, something meaningless about the quality of the wine.
That was when the glass shattered.
Aerion’s goblet lay in pieces on the table, dark wine bleeding like blood across the white linen. The music faltered. Heads turned. But Aerion was already moving.
“My prince” Tytos began, standing with a confused bow. “I meant no—”
Aerion’s hand shot out and closed around Lord Lannister’s throat. Not squeezing just holding. The prince’s pale face was inches from the lord’s, and his violet eyes had gone the color of a deep, old bruise.
“No” Aerion said softly. The hall had gone utterly silent. “You meant every breath, every glance, every filthy touch of your hand on what is mine”
“Aerion” you hissed, rising. “Stop. He did nothing.”
Those terrible eyes slid to you, and for a moment, you saw the madness there. Something that enjoyed this. Something that scared you ever since you had memory.
“Nothing?” Aerion echoed, tilting his head.
“You call allowing my property to whore her attention to a lesser lord ‘nothing’?” He turned back to Tytos, who was now choking, his face purpling.
“You will leave this keep by dawn. If I see your face again, I will feed you your own fingers before I burn the skin from your bones. Do you understand?”
He nodded frantically. Aerion released him with a shove that sent the lord sprawling into the rushes. Without another word, the prince turned on his heel and strode from the hall, the crowd parting like water before a stone.
Everyone knew that was a bold move. The Lannisters weren’t some average house, they said their mountains were filled with gold, which made the house one of the biggest allies of the crown. And the prince just threatened one of their pretty heirs.
You stood frozen, your heart a wild drum. Shame and fury warred in your chest, he would come for you. You knew that. You prayed the Lannisters were friendly enough to not make a big deal out of this.
The hours crawled. You dismissed your handmaidens with trembling hands and sat before the hearth in your chambers, the fire’s warmth doing nothing to chase away the chill in your bones. The castle had grown quiet. The feast had ended in a whisper, with lots of ladies and lords gossiping and disapproval glances from your father.
And then you heard it.
The door to your chambers slammed open so hard the iron latch splintered. Prince Aerion stood in the doorway, and he was no longer the cold, composed creature from the hall. His silver hair had come loose, messier, around his beautiful face. His doublet was unlaced, showing the pale, sharp lines of his collarbone. And his eyes, gods, his eyes, were burning.
They were the eyes of a dragon who would decide to burn a city to ash just to watch the colors change. He stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind him. The sound was final. An executioner’s gavel.
“You” he said, his voice low and rough, as if he had been screaming in solitude. “You dared.”
You stood, the chair scraping against the stone. “Aerion, I was only—”
“Only what?” He crossed the room in three long strides, and suddenly he was before you, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath. His hand shot out and fisted in the neckline of your gown, yanking you onto your toes.
“Only testing me? Only seeing how far you could push the dragon before he reminded you of his teeth?”
“I am not your property” you spat, even as your body betrayed you with a shiver.
His laugh was short, ugly, and utterly without humor. “No? Then why is your heart racing, little thing? Why are your pupils wide? You knew what this would bring. You wanted it.”
He released your gown only to shove you backward. You stumbled, the backs of your knees hitting the bed. Before you could recover, he was on you, his body pressing you down into the feather mattress, his weight a glorious, terrifying cage.
“You flirted with him” Aerion growled, his lips brushing your ear. His hand found your throat choking you just a little.
“You let him touch you. You laughed for him. All for putting on a little show for your brother. You’re as twisted as I am ”
“I thought you might remember I have a will of my own” you gasped.
His grip on your throat tightened for a heartbeat, just enough to make your vision sparkle.
“Your will belongs to me. Your breath belongs to me. Every inch of this soft, treacherous body is mine. And tonight, I am going to carve that knowledge into your very soul.”
He released your throat and tore your gown open. The silk ripped like cobwebs, baring your breasts to the cool air and his burning gaze. He did not touch them immediately. He simply looked, his expression one of such dark reverence that it stole the breath from your lungs.
“How are you so beautiful..?” he whispered, almost to himself.
“And so stupid. To think I would share this. To think any man could look at this and live to tell the story.”
Then his mouth was on you. Not tender. He bit at the soft skin of your shoulder, hard enough to leave a small trail of blood there, then soothed the sting with a swipe of his tongue. He sucked a bruise onto your collarbone that would last a week. He moved lower, and when his lips closed around your nipple, he did not suckle, he pulled, a hard, sharp suction that made you cry out and arch into him.
“Aerion, please—”
“Please what?” He lifted his head, and his lips were slick, his eyes manic.
“Please stop? Please continue? You do not get to choose. You’re just for me to use tonight.”
He continued to lick and suck on your breasts, your nipples getting erect and a crimson shade of red of how he rough he was going on them. He pinched one, making you gasp audibly, arching you back to seek friction or something, at least.
He chuckled darkly, almost mocking your needy whines. “And you dare to be needy tonight? This needy cunt wants me?”
He passed a hand between your folds, feeling how embarrassingly wet you already were. ‘Pathetic’
His hands worked at his breeches, and when he freed his cock, you could not help the shudder that went through you. He was hard, leaking, the tip flushed an angry red. He looked almost pained, his need so great it had turned to something like agony.
He did not prepare you. He did not ask. He took one of your thighs and pushed it wide, then positioned himself at your entrance. You were wet enough, your traitorous body had been aching for this since the moment he shattered that goblet, but he was thick, and the stretch was a sharp, burning shock.
He pushed inside you in one long, slow, inexorable thrust.
You screamed.
He groaned, a sound torn from the depths of his chest, and buried his face in the curve of your neck. “There” he breathed. “There. Back where you belong. Around me. Clenching me.”
He began to move. Not fast. Not yet. Each stroke was deep, deliberate, grinding against that spot inside you that made your toes curl. His fingers found your over sensitive clit, working hard to make you cum.
But every time your pleasure began to crest, every time your thighs trembled and your inner walls fluttered toward release, he stopped his fingers.
He would pull out until only the tip remained, then hold there, watching your face contort with frustrated need.
“Mmm my poor sister” he whispered, his voice a mockery of tenderness. “You think you deserve to cum? After you gave even a moment of your attention to another man?”
“Aerion, please, I’m sorry—”
“Sorry?” He thrust back in, hard enough to make the headboard crack against the wall.
“You’re sorry now, when you’re aching and empty and desperate? You should have thought of that when you smiled at him.”
He edged you again. And again. And again. Pulling out every time you were so close. Thrusting his fingers in your tight cunt that were not enough for you to finally have your release. Everything had to be a game with him. Damn him.
You lost count of how many times he brought you to the very brink, your vision whiting out, your screams caught in your throat, only to have him pull back, or slow his pace, or still entirely until your frantic hips bucked against him in useless supplication.
Tears streamed down your cheeks. You babbled, promises, pleas, curses, his name like a prayer and a blasphemy all at once.
And through it all, Aerion watched. His beautiful, mad face was a mask of possessive ecstasy. He enjoyed your pain. He drank in every sob, every gasp, every time your nails raked down his back and left bleeding furrows.
“This is what you wanted” he said, his rhythm finally faltering, his own control beginning to splinter. “To be unmade. To be claimed so thoroughly that you could never doubt again. Look at me.”
You forced your eyes open. His violet irises were ringed with a corona of molten gold in the firelight.
“Who do you belong to?” he demanded.
“You” you sobbed. “Only you. Always you.”
“ Who?”
“Aerion. Aerion”
That was what broke him. With a guttural roar, he drove into you one final time and let go of his iron control. He fucked you through his own release with brutal, frantic thrusts, and the sensation of him spilling inside you, hot, thick, endless, finally pushed you over the edge.
Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave of liquid fire. Your back arched off the bed, your mouth open in a silent scream, your inner walls clamping down on him so fiercely that he groaned and slumped forward, his forehead pressing to yours.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the crackle of the hearth.
Then Aerion moved. He pulled out slowly, and you whimpered at the loss. He rolled onto his side and gathered you against his chest, his touch now almost gentle. He traced the bruises on your throat, the bite marks on your shoulder, with something like wonder.
“Mine” he whispered into your hair. “Do not ever make me remind you again.”
You should have been frightened. You should have been angry. But you had no voice when it came to him. You would bleed for him you would die for him. You knew he would too.
But as his arms tightened around you and his breathing evened out into something almost peaceful, you realized with a terrible, beautiful certainty that you did not want to be anywhere else. You had stopped wanting to be free.
romaincrisis
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
jacobvanloon
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baratheonpilled
