summary: Everything was finished: the buffet was ready with sweet goodies, people were wearing their ugliest Christmas sweaters, and the music spread Christmas spirit wherever it reached. But you were still not enjoying it as much as you should. Something was missing, but what could you have possibly forgotten?
a/n: this was requested by a lovely anon who I have left discarded in my asks for wayyyy too long and I AM SO SORRY! Anyway, here it is. I was actually able to use a draft of mine, and it worked out. I hope you like it 💕
word count: 2.6k
warnings: angst, sad boi Bucky, swearing, idiots in love, fluff
･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ
It was a disaster. Your life was a fucking disaster. There was no way in hell that anything could make it any worse at this point. And it all happened thanks to your own stupidity. You knew you had missed something - something important that was. But it didn't occur to you until someone had pointed out just how important that something was. But, really, how could you have forgotten? After all, Bucky was the only reason you had gotten yourself into all the trouble with planning an outstanding Christmas party. Because you loved Christmas and you felt like Bucky needed a little party to help him loosen up.
You had been so excited, too. All exhausted and drained from decorating the main floor but holding onto the surprised look on his face you would be seeing once it was all finished. And when you sat there, ready for him to appear in the door in an ugly sweater you were sure would make your heart melt all over, that’s when Wanda said it:
“Did you tell him when the party’s gonna start?”
And all the excitement drained itself from your face. You had not, in fact, told him anything about the party at all. You had been so occupied with planning the whole thing that you had forgotten the most important part. And now you felt like the biggest loser on the planet.
Idiotidiotidiot.
How could you have been so stupid? Bucky was literally the only reason you had done this for, not that you would tell Wanda or any of the others of course. You chose to just hunch in your chair and mumble a grudge ‘duh.’ As your arms crossed before your chest.
Heat rose up your body, though. And when the witch turned to visit Nat at the bar, you quickly looked around for anyone else’s eyes on you before getting up and heading for the elevator.
❁ ❁ ❁
Bucky knew he should not have eavesdropped. But he couldn’t help it. It was ingrained in him and seemed to be a habit he could not drop for the life of him. The super hearing he had been burdened with didn’t help him on that account either. It was just too intriguing to get details nobody knew he knew about. And it also gave him security to know, that he was always a few steps ahead of whoever he encountered.
But it seemed as though this time it came to bite him in the ass.
Your voice down the corridor was just too tempting, though. He had told himself that it was a bad idea then. That he knew it was not okay to listen in especially when you talked to Wanda. He also knew he should have probably stopped daydreaming about you the second he saw you in the compound a year ago, but his body didn’t listen back then either. So why did he think it would this time?
And well - here he was - somehow trying to keep himself from drowning in self-pity over the stupid excitement his head had built up over the past week. And what was that weird burning in his eyes?
He swished the single tear from his face with rough movements before leaning back on the headboard. Bucky had tried to read a little to distract himself, but his thoughts just kept wandering back to you and your voice down the hallway. And he’d remember the way you embarrassedly left the room when you couldn’t hide your plan anymore.
To be fair, Bucky had not heard the whole conversation between you and Wanda. All that he had caught on his way to his room was half a conversation:
“I have this whole thing planned, Wanda. But I’m so nervous, what if he’s not gonna like it?”
"Why wouldn’t he like it?”
“I mean... He’s not much of a party animal.”
Not much of a party animal - Bucky had thought - that was him! Okay... maybe he had wished for it to be him...
“Ugh, how is it possible to like somebody so much? I feel like exploding when I talk to him...”
“That is so sweet! But really, I don’t get why you are so nervous. A blind person can see how much he adores you. You could probably burn his house down and he would still say yes to a date. “
"Well, I'm not planning to burn his house down, I’m planning to ask him like a normal person - at the Christmas party.”
Bucky had just smiled as warmth had bubbled up in his stomach. You were going to ask him out at the party - and even though the 40s man within him struggled to comprehend that he would not be the one to ask you first, he had decided to let you have your moment.
That was a week ago. And about three days ago he had talked to Peter, who had excitedly asked Bucky if he had gotten an invitation to your Christmas party. When he had just stared the kid down in confusion the spider boy had assured him that you had probably just not gotten around to handing it to him yet, but Bucky had felt an uneasy feeling cooking in his stomach ever since.
Looking back at it now, it was really stupid how excited he had been about the whole thing. He had just assumed that you were talking about him when you could have very well meant someone entirely different. Because you had. There were many people who didn't like parties. Hell, even Steve wasn’t too fond of them, but it still hurt to realize he was not even invited to the party altogether.
Because, for you, he would have even dressed up in a stupid sweater. He would have done it just to see that beautiful smile of yours. It all seemed pretty embarrassing now, didn't it?
He was so sure you had gotten his hints. The subtle stares over the room, the attempt to always send you a smile when he caught your eyes roaming. He even laughed at every one of your jokes when no one else did. But apparently, he had never had a chance in the first place. Because you had planned a party for someone you were planning to ask out today. And it was not him. And even though that fact pulled on his heart and made his body hurt in various weird places, he couldn’t bring himself to ask you about it.
He wanted you to be happy. And if that would be with some other guy that didn’t like parties (just like him) - yes he was still hung up on that - then so be it. At least he would be able to see you smile.
His body betrayed his brain once again, though. Because even though Bucky was pretty sure that he was okay with the opinion he had formed on the situation, his eyes wouldn’t stop burning and his chest felt a little tighter than before.
❁ ❁ ❁
How were you going to approach this? There is really no non-awkward way to do it. That had been clear ever since reality had dawned on you. But now that you were standing in front of his door, knuckles held high to finally knock, you still found yourself hoping for something to keep it from happening. Maybe there was a way to avoid humiliation after all. Though that would be not doing it at all - and thus forever living with the regret of having left Bucky in the dark. Not only in the dark but alone in his cold and lonely room while the rest of the city was having a party downstairs.
Yea, that was not gonna happen. Especially, because you had pulled this party just for him.
Oh, god. He was probably super disappointed, too. Because there was no way he had not figured out by now that he had been the only one without an invite. You asked yourself again how this could have happened. It must have gotten lost or something. Or maybe it was because of the nerves that ran through your body every time you were near Bucky. But still, forgetting about something so trivial seemed unusual for you.
You hand lifted guilt-ridden for the second time, but this time, you were determined to go through with it. There was not much to do about the situation and ignoring it was definitely not an option. Bucky had those special kinds of puppy eyes and you just knew he would give them to you over the next week. He was not really one to hold a grudge, no. and he would definitely not want to make anybody feel guilty, but he would be sad and the thought of it was unbearable to you.
Another deep breath. Here goes nothing.
❁ ❁ ❁
Knock.Knock.Knock.
Bucky perked up. The book in his hand long discard by his brain, and his eyes wandered to the door where he detected a rapid heartbeat. Who could this be? Everyone he knew was at the party. The one he wasn’t invited to...
Wow, that thing really bothered him. Normally he wouldn’t be so salty. But the fact that another guy would get your attention at said party and Bucky wasn’t even invited to see it, let alone intervene - not that he would actually do that - made the whole situation a little different, he concluded.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me... Y/N.” For some reason, anger flared up in him.
“Don’t you have a party to host?” He snapped. Bucky didn’t want to be sassy but it had just slipped.
“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” There was a short silence before your voice rang through the door again. “Look, can I- Can I please come in?”
Bucky’s eyes wandered over his room in a haste. There was not much stuff that could have been scattered anywhere, but he made sure nonetheless. Because there was still a part of him that wanted to impress you. And a messy room was not the way to go.
“Go ahead,” he announced as he sat upright on the neatly made bed. You stepped into the room with your eyes on the ground. Your hands wringing in front of the green and red sweater with a reindeer on it. And even though he tried to stay mad, he couldn't help but notice how adorable it looked on you. He wanted to hug you and feel the soft material under his hand, but he had to stay focused.
“I did something really really stupid.” Well, that was one way to start an apology. But Bucky kept quiet. He was intrigued to hear what you had to say since he could apparently not rely on his own thinking skills anymore, this seemed like the only way to get the answers he needed.
“And I’m sorry because it was supposed to be a surprise and now I’ve ruined it.” Oh no. This was taking a wrong turn…
“I'm not helping you ask that guy out, Y/N.”
“What?” Your eyes went wide at his words. Maybe he had spoken unclearly? Either way, he didn't like this conversation at all. It was one thing to be heartbroken, but he wouldn’t be able to help you. Even though he had sworn that he wanted to see you happy, the thought of pushing you into another guy’s arms made his heart ache even more than it already did.
“That guy you wanted to ask out at your party... you could have at least invited me, you know...” There was a crushing silence in which Bucky didn’t dare to look up at your saddened face. He would cave, he just knew it.
“You spied on me?” You asked with a broken voice and Bucky’s eyes locked with yours. Betrayal, confusion, hurt... he could see all of those things in them, which was why he frantically got up and stepped towards you with wide gestures.
“No! I... it was an accident. I swear!” His heart was pounding so fast, it would probably be jumping out of his chest the next moment. He had to will himself not to press on it to stop it.
“Oh, Bucky!”
“I'm so sorry, Y/N!” The despair crept up his throat in hot shivers. You didn’t need to know how creepy he had been. You didn’t need to be angry at him - he didn’t want that.
“I'm not mad. I’m sorry, Bucky this is all a huge misunderstanding.” You smiled relieved while Bucky was still losing his mind.
“How?”
“I- You-” You told him so fast that the words all mixed together in your mouth. Bucky didn’t understand a word, but it seemed clear that it wasn’t something that was easy to say. Something like a rejection. He didn’t want to hear you actually say it. It would be better if he never heard you finalize his suspicions.
“It's okay you don’t have to say it. I got the message. Can you please leave?” He turned around with his head hung low. Bucky knew that today was not going to be great, but the devastation that settled in his heart right now was far worse than anything he had imagined.
Your hand pulled on his arms gently, and for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. “Bucky would you listen to me please.”
“What? So you can tell me all about your crush?” He swiftly turned around. “I don’t want to hear it, Y/N. I’m perfectly fine-“
“For god’s sake, Bucky!” Your hands flew through the air and before Bucky could register anything, soft, warm lips pressed to his and the tension melted to a puddle on the floor. You were kissing him. You were kissing him! Holy shit! His eyes closed with a satisfied sigh against your skin an his hand wandered to your waist, holding you close and him steady. All the anger and hurt had left his body by the time you pulled away, leaving fluster and confusion behind.
“I... I don't understand.”
He watched as you shook your head, your hand still holding him by his arms, but your thumbs stroked soft circles over his shirt. “You are the guy I was going to ask out. But I got so caught up in planning everything that I forgot the most important part: inviting you. And I’m so sorry that it ended up being like this because I had this really great pickup line planned and then I wanted to dance with you and make everyone look at us being all happy and cute.”
A deep blush covered his cheek crimson as the embarrassment set in. Man, Bucky had not felt this many emotions in a while, let alone all within an hour. But he was glad that it happened, now that he actually had clarity and an outcome he could very much deal with.
As soon as he had himself collected again, a shy smile made its way to his face. There was something funny and simultaneously sweet about the situation, even if it all could have been avoided had he not been an inconsiderate idiot.
“You can still tell me the pick-up line. And then I’ll be happy to ask you for a dance.” Bucky smirked confidently all of a sudden. He didn’t know where it came from, but he wanted to hold onto it as long as possible.
“That's a lot of pressure now, Buck.”
“Then let's just skip to the good part...” His hand took yours and laid them on his shoulders gently. When his feet swayed sideways to faint music traveling up to his room, he twirled you with an honest smile. Your eyes gleamed up at him brightly and when you placed a chaste kiss on his jaw, he pulled you even closer.
If Bucky had learned anything from today, it was that his mind sometimes still got the better of him. Hopefully, with you by his side, that would change in the future.
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.”
Featuring: Aerion "Brightflame" Targaryen, Valarr "The Young Prince" Targaryen, Daeron "The Drunken" Targaryen, Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen, Maekar "The Anvil" Targaryen
This work contains: nsfw, p in v sex, unprotected sex, cowgirl position, fem!reader, established relationships (wife!reader), some dirty talk, mentions of getting pregnant / creampies, lots of groping and touching, all of them are very sweet tho (even Aerion (kinda)), not proof read, english isn't my first language
Speaking...: this was lowkey done by a different person already, but this idea is too good not to use. Also I just realized I can't even watch episode 5 because hbo doesn't exist in türkiye.. this is probably the first time I wanted a vacation to end bruh
It's not suprising that Aerion's favorite position is cowgirl, not excluding reverse cowgirl either. The young prince loves to be in control, don't get him wrong, but when you framed the idea as "riding him like a dragon", he was all for it. He'll have his pretty little head rested against the wooden headboard of your shared bed, dirty words leaving his mouth non-stop that bounced off of the walls of your chambers as loud as he wanted to — When you, his beautiful wife, were on top of him, Aerion forgot the word "embarrassing". His favorite thing was to dig his nails into the fat of your ass to make you bounce quicker on his cock, grinning and smiling like an idiot when you pressed your hand on your mouth to keep quiet. He'd immediately grip your wrist and try to get you to stop so that all of King's Landing can hear how happy he really made you. »You can go faster than this, can't you, love? Come on, put in some effort.« was such a typical Aerion line, but the Targaryen just looked so perfect with his white-silver hair glowing in the candlelight and his eyebrows scrunched up in pleasure that you couldn't do anything but oblige.
Valarr, being the sweetheart he is, always says he wants to take care of you and would bend over backwards if it meant you were comfortable — He's definitely the most humble one out of the Targaryen's and you were so happy he was your husband. Though, of course, the urge to take care of him from time to time and to ride him silly was sometimes greater than the need of getting pounded into the mattress by him. After Valarr asked »Wait, are you sure?« a thousand times, he agreed to let you be on top once.. and the second you slowly and teasingly lowered yourself onto his length he asked himself why he didn't let you do that sooner. It's like his pupils turned into hearts when he looked up at you through his long lashes, looking practically hypnotized by the way your breasts bounced with every movement you made, right in front of his face. Valarr felt his face get incredibly hot and flushed and even though he really wasn't doing anything, he was out of breath — The loud whimpers and small moans of your name on his tongue were enough to let you know you were doing a good job, though.
Even though Daeron's favorite position was something completely different, the fact that he was often too drunk or too tipsy to function left you no other choice but to get on top of him (not that you were complaining). The prince loved to do nothing at all and stay up most of the night just to avoid having those weird dreams again, so his preferred way to pass time was to feel you up and charm his way into your underwear. You'd often lean down to press a kiss onto your husband's lips while you ground your hips against his, feeling the tip of his cock constantly bumping against your sweet spot, making you moan into his mouth. Oh yeah, Daeron really loved doing nothing at all other than grope your tits, leave hickeys all over your collarbone and watch you getting yourself off on his dick. The alcohol in his bloodstream made him feel every drag of your pussy ten times more intensely and made the sound of your moans even sweeter than they already were. »Mhm.. you drive— me crazy..« he'd mutter, basically to himself, as he snaked his arms around your waist and pulled you down against him again. Wow, from this angle you looked like an angel, sent from the seven above...
Oh Baelor, I could write poems about you.. Well, we all know he is definitely husband material, someone who'd literally do anything for his wife, and that also definitely shows in bed. Whatever you say, he'll do it — You wanna be on top? With pleasure. Baelor prefers intimacy over pure lust first and foremost, so you can be sure he'll be doing the most just to have you in his embrace. His beard felt scratchy against the side of your cheek, contrasted by the soft kisses he peppered all over your face and neck. He always made sure you knew how loved you were by him, so encouraging words and small grunts to let you know how good you felt went straight to your ear. But, honestly, you couldn't even really feel those or hear the sweet nothings he raspes into your ear due to how fucked out you were. Hiis thrusts, meant to help you once you got tired, were rather shallow and slow, but the feeling of Baelor bottoming out inside of you was enough to make your legs quiver. Your husband's strong hands caressed the flesh of your ass, slowly lifting your hips to slam you back down on his cock again: »Going to give me another babe, will you?«
It was obvious where Maekar's children got their attitudes from (especially Aerion) — Oh you want to top? Fucking finally, now he gets to rest for once. Best believe this man will be having the time of his life, hands behind his head while he enjoyed the warm, plush pillow and the view of you from beneath. Cut him some slack, he has literally so much to deal with, he really appreciates it when you pamper him. You always look so graceful in the way you move, dragging your hips forward and backward while he was balls deep inside your pussy, trying so hard not to immediately spill his seed inside of you. And when you'd get impatient and start bouncing on his cock like a lunatic, Maekar would almost always hiss and immediately grip your hips to make you stop: »Fuck, slow down, love. I'm not going anywhere.« he'd say, followed by a string of other curse words the second you started to grind your hips agains his again. The Targaryen would never admit it out loud, but this genuinely was his favorite way to be intimate with you — Use him as your personal toy, he doesn't care.
This scene is so funny to me, because look at them! That's a "don't look at eachother because you know you'll break if you do" reaction. And that's so funny to me. Im having visions of the in court and just full body turning away from eachother as soon as Lord Whatshisface starts speaking, because they know they can handle him on their own, but if they see that the other is finding it funny, then it's game over
Joke's on Maekar in The Baby Project, wife reader's hormones are all over the place and will want him twice as bad as before 🤣 he'd complain about it to baelor but he secretly enjoys it 🤭
Thank you for writing that fic i read it twice today 🖤🖤🖤
ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱꜱɪꜱᴛ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ
─ summary: Pregnancy hormones leave Maekar's wife more insatiable than ever.
─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x Reader, Baelor Targaryen x Reader
─ content: 18+ MDNI | Fluff | Implied smut | Baelor is down bad |
─ a/n: Read as a quick continuation of this. I may have gotten carried away here 🖤 Thank you for reading my little fics, commenting, liking, rebloging. Genuinley means the world. Send your requests!
Maekar dropped into the chair across from his brother, a lock of silver gold hair falling across his furrowed brow, "Fuck me."
Baelor looked up from his correspondence. "Something troubling you, brother?"
"This woman," he breathed, shaking his head. "Every minute of every day."
Baelor set his quill down. "I beg your pardon."
Maekar looked at him. "You heard me."
Baelor folded his hands on the desk with the composure of a man conducting a formal inquiry, his signet ring gleaming. "Let me be certain I understand. Your beautiful wife, who is carrying your child, desires you. Constantly."
Maekar was silent.
"That is your problem," Baelor said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
More silence.
Baelor leaned back in his chair, a playful smirk settling on his lips, though something darker flickered beneath his mismatched eyes. "Why are you telling me this? Are you seeking assistance?"
Maekar, who had been slouching with the exhaustion of a man thoroughly put upon, shot upright in his chair. "Have you taken complete leave of your senses?"
"We have shared many things in the past," Baelor said, with great serenity.
Maekar was on his feet. "I can take care of my own wife."
"I jest, brother," Baelor called after him, the words catching slightly in his throat. "Give her my regards."
"Fuck your regards," Maekar said, already through the door, the heavy oak slamming behind him. His voice carried back down the corridor, low and deeply aggrieved. "Assist my fucking wife! Assist!" And then something further that was largely incoherent and entirely indignant, fading as his footsteps did.
Baelor chuckled softly to himself. The sound did not last long. He reached for his wine, took a long slow sip, and looked back at his correspondence without seeing the words.
He was jesting, naturally.
Mostly.
If Maekar ever found himself not quite up to the task, if the desires of that perfect woman ever proved too much, well. His brother's beautiful young wife deserved to be well looked after. And Baelor had always been exceptionally thorough in his duties.
He is lying back on his bedroll, his body taking up almost all the space, looking up at you with wide eyes, his large hands hovering over your waist as if he’s afraid to break the moment. When you sink down onto him, taking all of his impressive length, his hips buck reflexively, and a strangled noise leaves his throat.
"Seven hells” he gasps, his voice rough "You fit... you take all of me so perfectly, i didn't think- i didn't think it was possible”.
As you begin to move, finding a rhythm that works for his size, his hands finally settle on your hips, his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. He watches your face, mesmerized by your expressions.
"You’re so beautiful up there” he whispers, voice full with adoration "I don't... i don't deserve a view like this, m’lady. You’re doing so good,you feel incredible, just like that... gods, please, just like that."
➥ Aerion Targaryen -
Aerion is vain, cruel, and obsessed with his own self, but he is fiercely possessive of you. He likes you on top because it gives him a show, he lounges back on his bed, wearing nothing but his rings, he watches you with smirk, enjoying the power play of you working for his pleasure.
He runs his fingers up your spine, his nails dragging lightly over your skin to make you shiver "go on then," he purrs, watching you struggle to take his length "Show me you can handle a dragon."
When you finally start bouncing on him He grips your hips hard enough to bruise. "That’s right” he hisses. "Look at you,my perfect little whore. You like that, don't you? You like knowing you’re the only one who gets to do this. You look divine when you’re desperate. Ride me harder, make me feel it. Yes... fuck.. burn for me."
➥ Rhaenyra Targaryen-
She lays back on her sheets, her hands are possessive, resting on your thighs or gripping your waist, she watches you with a heavy-lidded eyes enjoying the sight of you working for your pleasure and hers.
"That’s it” she purrs, her thumbs rubbing circles into your skin as you grind down against her, “Ride it, sweetling, take what you need."
She loves the view of you on top of her , she reaches up to trace the line of your throat as your breath hitches."look at you” she whispers, a smirk playing on her lips,”so eager,so wet for me, i love watching you lose control,you look Beautiful. Grind harder my love ,ruin yourself for me. Yes... just like that."
➥ Baelor Targaryen -
He lies against the pillows, his dark hair spread out, watching you with hungry gaze while his hands are firm on your thighs, guiding you, helping you find the angle that pleases you both the most. his eyes crinkling at the corners when you gasp. "that’s it” he praises, his voice smooth, "Set the pace, my love. You are magnificent."
When you pick up speed, his composure slips just enough to show how hungry he is for you ,he reaches up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing the hardened nipple.
"you are my queen” he groans, his hips snapping up to meet your thrusts” look at how you ride me, perfect... there is no one else, do you hear me? You feel incredible ,good girl... take what you need from me."
➥ Valarr Targaryen -
Young prince is gentle and very romantic and he loves the face-to-face connection, the ability to kiss you while you move. He lies flat on his back breathless as you start moving on top of him your hands interlaced with his.
As you slide up and down, he keeps pulling you down for quick, desperate kisses. "I have you” he whispers against your lips, his different colored eyes shining “I have you right here, you feel... oh gods, you feel so good."
He loves watching you lose control, when your head falls back, he squeezes your hands tight."So lovely”he pants, his voice cracking,” you’re the loveliest thing in the Seven kingdoms , don’t stop... please don't stop. I love watching you... i love how you feel around me. you’re perfect, my love,absolutely perfect."
➥ Daeron Targaryen -
He is lying back against a pile of velvet cushions in his tent ,the candlelight flickering over his sandy brown hair. He loves having you on top because it allows him to admire you fully.His hands are never still,they are constantly touching your body,your waist, your hips, your thighs.
He looks at you with wide eyes"my love” he breathes out, his hands gripping your hips to help guide you down onto him. "you look... gods, you look like a dream. slowly... yes, take all of me”
He arches his back off the mattress, his head falling back before snapping forward to watch you again, he’s is mesmerized by the way your body connects with his “so beautiful” he gasps, reaching up to cup your face "you feel perfect, you’re so warm, so tight... i could stay inside you forever,you’re doing so good for me. Just like that... please, don't stop. i’m yours, i’m all yours”.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.
Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.
The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.
Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.
“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”
Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.
But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.
You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.
Now he was here.
You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.
You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.
“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”
You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.
A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”
The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.
His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.
“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”
Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”
“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”
“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”
You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”
“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”
Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.
“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.
“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”
He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”
You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.
You lowered yourself onto his lap.
His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”
“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”
You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”
Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”
His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.
“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”
You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.
“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”
“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.
“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”
His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.
“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”
He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”
His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.
“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”
You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.
“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”
You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”
His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.
He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.
You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.
When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”
You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.
You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.
But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.
His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.
"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."
You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.
"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"
Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.
But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.
"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."
You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.
"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."
Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.
"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."
There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.
"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.
"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."
"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."
"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."
You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.
"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."
His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."
But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.
"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."
"No one would think that," you said.
"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."
He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.
"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."
"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."
He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.
"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."
"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."
"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."
"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."
"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."
You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.
"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."
His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.
"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.
For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."
"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."
"But I am..."
"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."
You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.
"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."
"I did not know you worried."
"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."
He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.
You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.
"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."
You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.
You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.
He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.
When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.
"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."
Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.
"Aerion..."
"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."
He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.
The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.
You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.
"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."
The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.
One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.
You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."
"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.
"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."
Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."
"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."
Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.
Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.
"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."
He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.
You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.
Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.
He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.
His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.
"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."
Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.
"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.
Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.
"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."
You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."
"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."
He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.
"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."
He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.
"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."
"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."
"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."
You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."
But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.
You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.
The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.
When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.
You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.
The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.
Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.
He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.
He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."
He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.
"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."
"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."
"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."
His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.
"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"
You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."
"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."
But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."
"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.
He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.
It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.
"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."
He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."
"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"
He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.
"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."
He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."
Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.
"What is this?"
Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.
"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."
Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."
Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.
"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."
Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."
"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."
Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."
"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."
"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."
"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."
Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.
Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."
He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.
"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."
"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."
"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."
"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."
"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."
"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."
Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."
"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."
"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."
You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.
"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."
"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."
"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."
"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."
His eyes darkened. "Choose?"
"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."
"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
You smiled and said nothing.
He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."
"I would expect nothing less."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.
