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ৎׅ ׄ summary ⋮ You were promised to Aerion Targaryen, a prince known throughout the realm for his cruelty and cold heart. Yet as your arranged marriage unfolds, you begin to question whether the monster behind the rumors cares for you more than he admits.
ৎׅ ׄ warnings ⋮ minor injury, threats of violence
ৎׅ ׄ wc ⋮ 8.7k
part 1 aerion masterlist
The Feast
The event had been arranged in celebration of a recent victory, though the true purpose of the gathering was far less important than the spectacle itself. The great hall of the Red Keep glittered with candlelight, its walls alive with the sounds of music, laughter, and the constant sounds of nobles eager to be seen. Spirits flowed freely at the feast as servants with pitchers moved between the tables.
You sat beside Aerion at the high table, facing the gathered nobles as the heads of your House. The great hall was alive with conversation and celebration. The flicker of candlelight reflected off golden goblets and music drifted through the chamber. You were relaxed, a soft smile resting upon your lips as you took in the warmth of the evening.
In your months in the Targaryen House, you had come to appreciate these types of moments— fine, slow nights with no expectation or urgency. Though loud and lively, the feast offered an unhurried setting offering you a break from the typical fast pace of your royal life. There were no pressing councils to attend, no petitions to hear, no crises demanding immediate attention. For a few precious hours, the burdens of duty seemed to loosen their grip.
But, if your husband felt this same relief at all, he did not show it. Beside you, he sat with an expression as cold as ever.
One hand rested loosely around the stem of his goblet while the other lay against the carved arm of his chair. His light eyes drifted calmly over the hall, taking in the conversations around him without seeming particularly interested in any of them. Every so often, a lord would address him, earning a brief reply or a curt nod before Aerion's attention returned to the room at large. Beyond that, he seemed entirely uninterested in the celebration surrounding him. To anyone watching, he looked every bit the composed Targaryen prince—detached, unimpressed, and entirely unmoved by the revelry unfolding around him.
Before the feast, Aerion had spent the afternoon in the training yard with the knights, heartily attacking opponent after opponent, and refusing to dismiss them despite the clear concern of the crowd around him. He had fought until a strap broke on his armor and a shallow cut bled along his knuckles. You had seen him sweating, raging at his opponent as their swords clanked. You had watched as he laughed after taking him down.
Yet by the time he entered the hall, he had washed and prepared himself for the evening and appeared entirely unaffected. As though he had not spent hours fighting man after man for pleasure.
Aerion had always possessed a particular talent for making recklessness look like confidence. And now, seated beside you, there was no trace of the afternoon's events.
Around you, the lords and ladies surrounding the high table carried their voices across each other, their conversions enveloping you. Hearty laughter drifted between neighboring seats as goblets got more and more empty. Several guests exchanged a few polite words with you as the evening wore on, though no one lingered for long. It was a new thing for you—the unspoken respect for the space surrounding the prince and princess. An invisible boundary seemed to surround your places at the high table, one no courtier crossed without invitation.
If there was any hesitation about overstepping with you, it was doubled where Aerion was concerned.
Few were eager to test the prince's patience. Even those who knew him well measured their words carefully in his presence, and strangers were wise enough to keep a respectful distance. His reputation had reached even you at your House before your marriage. It preceded him wherever he went, ensuring that most men thought twice before venturing too close.
In the few months since becoming his wife, you had found yourself benefiting from that reputation more often than you cared to admit. The whispered comments that followed many ladies through the Red Keep seemed to never mention your name. Invitations to dance were offered with impeccable politeness and just as politely withdrawn after a single refusal. The noblemen—who you knew from whispers of the court ladies to be quite vile— never dared display that side of themselves to you.
At least, they had never dared until tonight.
In his seat beside you, Aerion’s expression had not shifted. His arms rested still against the carved arms of his chair, his posture relaxed but impeccably straight. Your own chair sat close enough that the armrests nearly touched, though neither of you leaned into the space between them. Despite the rocky start to your marriage and the continued distance between you, a familiar sort of closeness had developed. It was never enough to be truly united, nor connected. There were still great walls between you that neither of you had made an effort to tear down. But you no longer avoided each other entirely.
The sharpness that had once existed between you had faded. His cold glares had stopped, replaced by something less vicious. He was still himself, in every way. Angry, over-confident, guarded. Still a man who offered little of himself unless absolutely necessary. But he had begun to offer more.
You had spoken earlier that day, exchanging a few words over matters of the household before he disappeared to spend the afternoon in the training yard. Since taking your places at the feast, your interaction had amounted to little more than a brief greeting upon your arrival. To anyone watching, the two of you looked every bit the dignified princely couple.
That only changed when Lord Bartley decided to turn his attention to you.
"Your Grace," the lord you knew to be spoken of rather unfavorably by the ladies of the palace, greeted, his smile charming enough to appear harmless. "I hope I am not intruding."
You glanced toward him, offering the courtesy expected of you.
"Not at all, my lord."
His proud smile only grew. “I’ve been meaning to speak to my princess all evening,” he said. “Though I confess, finding the right moment has proven rather difficult."
From his breath, you could tell he had not limited himself on the wine being offered. His loose demeanor only reinforced your observation.
"I imagine it must be quite the adjustment," he continued, "coming to court and finding yourself surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces. Though I cannot imagine anyone here would be anything less than eager to make you feel…welcome."
His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. He shifted in his seat beside you, leaning closer. “If you should ever feel lonely, Your Grace, you should know I am a friendly face you can turn to. I have been told by many fair ladies that my presence offers great comfort. Allow me to extend that to you.”
You offered him only a slow blink, the only thing you could do to keep yourself from grimacing. On the surface, his words were pleasant—kind, even. But it did not take an intellect to see the message beneath them.
You remained polite, though your smile became slightly more restrained.
“That’s very gracious of you, Lord Bartley,” you said. “Though my experience at court had been favorable. The Targaryen House is a remarkable one, or would you not agree?”
You watched him carefully as you spoke, already able to clearly see where this conversation was heading. A confident man was one thing. A confident man who had been drinking was another entirely. And Lord Bartely carried himself with the ease of all men. One undeserved yet ever rewarded. Men like him rarely noticed when their charm became arrogance, or when an object of their attention was more an unwilling hostage. You had no intention of encouraging it.
Instead, you decided you would indulge in the small, perhaps petty pleasure of returning the discomfort he had no issue creating.
Lord Bartley seemed briefly caught off guard by your answer. His smile remained, though it shifted slightly, as though he had expected you to follow the direction of the conversation he had been steering toward.
"Yes, of course," he replied, giving a small nod. "Remarkable is certainly the word.”
He glanced around the hall before returning his attention to you. “And might I say,” he began, “you are the most remarkable thing in this entire House. A true beauty.”
You stiffened slightly. The compliment from the chapped, food-stained lips of the drunken, aged man left you sickened. He was becoming more direct, and you wanted no part in it. You maintained your expression, refusing to let your discomfort show too clearly.
But from the corner of your eye, you noticed movement.
Aerion.
You did not turn your head, but you could feel his attention. The prince who had appeared so uninterested for the entirety of the evening was no longer looking toward the hall, nor toward the conversations surrounding him.
He was watching. Watching Lord Bartley. Watching you.
His expression remained unreadable, as it always was, but there was a sharpness in his gaze that had not been there moments before.
You tried to return your attention to Lord Bartley, forcing yourself to remain aware of the conversation before you. Yet, without realizing it, your shoulders had lowered slightly, some of the tension in your body having already eased. The careful posture you had maintained loosened, just a fraction.
Having Aerion's attention on this moment that had you ill at ease seemed to lessen your distress. You didn’t know why. Your husband was not someone you sought out when things became difficult. When you desired comfort. For most of your life and marriage, you had learned to rely on yourself, to navigate unfamiliar halls and unfamiliar people without expecting anyone to step in.
So why did your rising heartbeat slow when you knew that he saw you?
It didn’t matter.
You turned back to your conversation. “That’s quite a compliment, Lord Bartley.”
The lord did not seem to catch the subtle shift. Men like him never did. “My words only scratch the surface of my thoughts on you, princess," he spoke, leaning closer.
“And how much of your day do you spend thinking about my wife, Bartley?” Aerion’s voice cut through the tense bubble you felt trapped within.
You turned your head to look at him now, seeing a flicker of fury in his eyes. His voice was unexpected, stunning you with its dull ferocity. The coolness of his tone somehow made it sharper, carrying across the small space between the three of you with enough weight that Lord Bartley immediately fell silent. In the middle of the two men, you moved back in your seat, allowing their eyes to meet.
Aerion’s stare did not move from the lord’s. And for the first time that night, Lord Bartley seemed to remember exactly who he had chosen to approach.
“Y-your Grace,” he stuttered, finally shifting back and restoring the respectful distance he had crossed throughout the conversation. “I meant no offense. I was merely offering a compliment to the princess."
For the first time that evening, you thought you could actually read Aerion’s expression. Anger.
"A compliment," Aerion repeated quietly. A pause followed. Then, in the same even tone, he continued. "What gave you the assumption that that was your place?"
Lord Bartley opened his mouth, but Aerion continued before he could respond.
"My wife is not for you to speak of, let alone speak to. You have a seat at this table because I allow it. Make my wife uncomfortable again, and you will find that more than just your seat has been taken.” Aerion did not let the words settle before speaking again. “Tell me, are you particularly attached to your limbs?”
The lord’s face paled. "I—Your Grace..." Bartley stammered, immediately lowering his gaze. "I apologize. It’s the wine…I’ve indulged too much. I meant no disrespect."
Aerion gave him no response. Only his gaze flickering briefly toward you.
"Not to me."
The lord followed his gaze. His expression morphed as understanding dawned.
"Your Grace," he said quickly, turning toward you. "Princess, I apologize. I overstepped. It will not happen again."
If you had anything to say, it had left you in the heat of the moment. You only looked from Aerion to Lord Bartley again, giving a small nod.
"See that it does not."
“Of course,” Lord Bartley straightened, though none of his earlier confidence remained. He glanced briefly toward the surrounding nobles, seeming suddenly aware of the attention he had drawn to himself.
"I’m... finding myself feeling rather unwell," he said, clearing his throat. "I think I shall retire for the evening."
It was a poor excuse, but one you were grateful for when he offered a low bow before turning away to go. You watched until he disappeared past the doors, his meek retreat quite satisfying. Only once he was fully out of your vision did you realize how tightly you had been holding yourself.
The tension that had settled over you slowly began to fade, returning the familiar awareness of the man seated beside you. Aerion had already returned to his previous position, a master of indifference. As though nothing had occurred, he brought his goblet to his lips, a coolness to him that had not shaken. The feast continued around you, conversations slowly returning to their usual rhythm, yet you could only think of him.
Your husband who cared about nothing. No one.
Your husband who cared when you were made uncomfortable.
Who did not allow himself to sit idly by when a man crossed a line with his wife. Who ensured that the apology was given to you, that you got the respect you deserved. He had been a quiet, powerful defense. Watching, waiting, and moving when needed.
You wanted to say something. You were not entirely sure what. Thank you seemed too hollow a phrase to say to a husband who had rushed to your defense, but there were no other words. They came before you could stop them.
"Aerion..."
He turned his head slightly, eyes shifting towards you.
"Thank you. I—"
"Enough."
Your expression fell. You quickly swallowed the rest of your words. Aerion looked away, reaching again for his goblet without a second glance.
"Eat," he said simply. "Do not waste your breath."
You swallowed, analyzing his face. Brows furrowed, you watched his movements. There was no smile, no acknowledgment or hint of care. Just his light eyes scanning the room and his body leaning against the backrest with ease.
Despite all that you wanted to say, you decided to listen to him. You would offer him silence. He looked entirely unaffected, regardless. And perhaps he was. Perhaps defending you had been nothing more than a simple matter of duty. But when you turned your head away and felt his gaze move to you, you were unconvinced of these thoughts.
You knew there was nothing that would convince him to perform kindness, out of duty or otherwise. The Brightflame lived only by his own will.
Still looking away, you were unable to make sense of it.
A quiet sound came from your husband’s seat beside you. A small, subtle motion drew the attention of a nearby servant. You glanced over, watching as they approached and carefully reached for your empty goblet. Within moments, it was filled again before being placed back in front of you.
You looked toward Aerion.
He had not turned to you. His attention remained fixed on the hall, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Water," he said simply. "Drink."
Your brows lifted slightly, but you obeyed. You reached for the drink, taking a slow sip as you studied him from the corner of your eye. Of course, he made sure there was nothing clear to see.
The feast continued around you, musicians playing their melodies loudly, voices circling the room. The golden plates and jeweled goblets were scattered across the tables, festivities still in swing. It was just another lively night, another gathering of nobles like any other. But to you, it no longer felt quite ordinary.
Not after seeing Aerion act with such certainty, stepping in and bringing you relief and comfort you never expected from him. You lowered the goblet back onto the table, your thoughts lingering.
For a man who insisted on keeping his distance, Aerion had a strange habit of making sure you were never truly alone.
The Chambers
By midday, you had grown tired of staring at the canopy above your bed.
You had been stuck in your chambers since morning, listlessly looking at the wooden designs, searching for anything to occupy your mind with as the slow passing of the hours continued. The canopy's winding vines and three-headed dragons had long since lost their novelty. You had counted every dragon's head more times than any sane person should, followed every curling branch with your eyes until the patterns blurred together, and still the afternoon refused to pass any faster.
The fever had left you exhausted more than anything else. Every movement ached, and even the sunlight spilling through the narrow gap left between the window curtains felt too bright. Your limbs felt impossibly heavy beneath the blankets, warm and leaden. No matter how many times you shifted in search of comfort, you found none. No matter how physically exhausted you were, sleep came only in short, restless spells, leaving you no more refreshed than before.
Born into a family of social-climbing overachievers, you had been trained away from the sloth that sickness brought. Your childhood had been spent learning that every moment held purpose, that every skill could be sharpened, and that idleness was a luxury rarely afforded.
Choosing ambition over leisure was what carried you from being a daughter of a noble house to a princess of House Targaryen. It was discipline, perseverance, and an unwillingness to settle that had brought you here. And with that title came responsibilities far greater than those you had left behind, though duty had never been unfamiliar to you.
Even before marriage, there had been expectations to meet and responsibilities to uphold within your family. You had been raised to be useful, to remain present, and to never allow yourself to become a burden to those around you. Marriage had only multiplied those obligations; your duties now extended beyond your own house and into the court, where every appearance, every conversation— every moment—carried weight.
And yet, now here you were— ill and confined to your chambers. Few things frustrated you more than being forced into idleness by your own body.
The castle continued on without you, the world beyond your doors moving at its usual relentless pace. Servants carried out tasks through the halls, nobles attended their meetings, and court continued its motions. Petitions would still be heard. Councils would still convene. Feasts would still be planned. The Red Keep had existed long before you arrived, and it would not pause simply because one princess had taken to her bed.
Your own chambers, however, moved far slower than the halls beyond. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, interrupted only by the occasional murmur from the halls or the rustling of your sheets that could not seem to accommodate your ever-changing temperature. The Grand Maester had already come and gone, checking on the progress of your state and leaving behind another bitter tonic and the familiar instruction to rest.
You had been resting into a slow insanity, struggling to decide if the comfort of your sheets outweighed the heat of your body. A knock rang at your door as you finally decided on keeping the blanket halfway up to your torso. Heat be damned. You called out to the door as a servant entered, carrying a silver steaming pot.
"Fresh tea, my lady."
You glanced toward the cup still sitting full upon your bedside table. It remained pleasantly warm, untouched save for a few absent-minded sips. Ordinarily, the kitchens would not have replaced it until it had gone cold or you had requested it. This one had hardly been there long enough to warrant another.
"You needn't trouble yourself. I still have plenty," you said, glancing once more toward the untouched cup. For a brief moment, the servant hesitated, fingers tightening around the handle of the teapot as though weighing whether to obey your words.
The servant offered an apologetic smile, dipping her head. "These were my instructions, Your Grace."
Before you could ask whose instructions, she had already crossed to your bedside. With practiced care, she removed the cooling cup, set it aside, and poured another. She adjusted the tray so it rested within easy reach of your hand and gave one last respectful curtsy before quietly excusing herself.
The door clicked softly shut behind her, leaving the chamber quiet once more.
You stared after her for a moment before your gaze drifted back to the two cups of tea—the untouched one she had set aside and the fresh one now steaming beside your bed. The kitchens were likely being overly cautious. You were ill, after all.
It was a harmless kindness, if a little excessive. With a quiet sigh, you reached for the fresh cup, savoring its warmth before settling back against the pillows.
The next interruption came not long after. Another knock sounded at your door. Could it be another servant already?
You had only had a few sips of your tea, sweet with honey and herb, before the exhaustion had begun to pull at you once more. The bed had become less a place for sleep and more of a permanent resting point in the past few hours. The same sheets that had once been neatly arranged each morning were now rumpled from hours of restless shifting, the pillows moved and rearranged in a futile search for comfort. A book sat abandoned on the bedside table, its pages untouched since the fever had made focusing on even the simplest words feel like a task too great to manage.
You had never realized how long a day could become when there was nothing expected of you.
Before, your hours had always belonged to someone else. There were meetings to attend, conversations to prepare for, duties to fulfill. Even after your marriage, there had been little opportunity to disappear for an entire day without notice. The court moved quickly, and you had learned to move with it.
The knock came again, more hesitant this time.
"Come in," you called, shifting slightly against the pillows as you attempted to appear more composed. The movement alone left you more tired than it should have.
Expecting another servant with some new insistence that you required something else, you were surprised when the door opened to reveal an unfamiliar old man.
His hair, silver at the temples, framed a weathered face lined with age, the chain around his neck marking him as a maester. Several links caught the candlelight as he stepped into the room, followed by a young attendant carrying a small leather case.
You frowned slightly, pushing yourself a little higher against the pillows.
"Another maester?"
The old man bowed politely.
"Good evening, Your Grace. I pray you're feeling somewhat better today." A gentle smile crossed his face. "I was called on to offer a second opinion. My studies extend beyond the Citadel's customary treatments—I have spent many years researching uncommon fevers, medicinal herbs, and healing methods from across the Narrow Sea. With your permission, I'd like to examine you."
“You were called on?” You tilted your head. "By whom?"
A small, apologetic smile touched his lips. "I'm afraid I was only told that my services were required. Whoever sent the summons seemed most determined that I arrive as quickly as possible," he answered. He slowly moved closer to the bed. "Now," he said calmly, setting his satchel upon the chair beside him, "with your permission, Your Grace, may I examine you? I assure you, I shall be as quick as I can."
“Is it…necessary? The palace maester was quite thorough.”
He gave a small nod of his head. “I’m sure he’s quite skilled. But a thorough examination not searching for the right things is as if there was no examination at all. I may see things his practice does not teach him to look for.”
You regarded him for a long moment. There was no arrogance in his voice, only quiet confidence born of long experience. At last, you sighed.
"I suppose I cannot argue with that. If it will help, then please."
"That is my hope, Your Grace."
You settled more comfortably before giving a small nod. The young attendant set the leather case upon the bedside table while the old maester pulled up a chair. He worked with practiced ease, taking your wrist between cool, steady fingers to feel your pulse.
"Have the fevers been worse in the mornings or the evenings?"
"Evenings."
"And your appetite?"
You gave him a look that answered the question well enough.
He chuckled softly. "A fair response."
For the next several minutes, he questioned you far more thoroughly than the palace maester ever had. He asked about your sleep, whether the headaches settled behind your eyes or at the base of your skull, whether certain foods made the nausea worse, and if you noticed the chills before or after the fever broke.
Only then did he reach for the small leather case.
Inside were neatly wrapped bundles of dried herbs, stoppered glass vials, and several small pouches you did not recognize.
"I've found," he murmured as he sorted through them, "that some ailments respond poorly to the usual remedies. Occasionally, one must look beyond what is commonly taught."
He selected a pinch of pale green leaves and held them to his nose before nodding to himself.
"My apprentice will prepare these into a powder for your tea. It will taste dreadful, I'm afraid."
"I've yet to drink a medicine that didn't."
"Then you are already well prepared."
You couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at your lips. The old maester's expression softened.
"I should also like to change the compresses more frequently and reduce the amount of willow bark you've been given. Too much may ease the fever, but it can leave one weaker than before."
He carefully returned the herbs to his satchel before rising from his chair.
"I'll leave written instructions for your attendants," he said. "If my suspicions are correct, the fever should begin to lessen within the next day or two. Recovery will not be immediate, but I believe we can turn it in the proper direction." The certainty in his voice was calming, his apparent well of knowledge also easing your fears— something the palace maester has not been able to do.
“I appreciate that, truly,” you said, genuine gratitude for his help and kind demeanor spilling from your words. He only gave a soft smile, before respectfully bowing. “I am in service to you, Your Grace. May your health be restored soon.”
Once he’d packed up his satchel and motioned for his apprentice to follow, he made his way toward the door. The heavy oak door opened with a quiet creak before closing gently behind them, leaving only the crackling hearth and the hushed sounds of the castle beyond your chambers.
You relaxed back into your bed, embracing the comfort of the sheets with a weary sigh. Exhaustion still weighed heavily upon your limbs, but the old maester's confidence had eased the knot of unease that had settled in your chest these past few days.
Your eyelids grew heavier with every passing moment. Sleep had been elusive since the fever took hold, broken by restless dreams and aching discomfort, yet now it came with surprising ease. Nestling deeper into the bed, you allowed yourself not to fight it. The feeling of the hearth’s warmth and the lingering scent of herbs lulled you into a gentle sleep.
It felt like merely a blink before the world slowly returned to you.
At first, there was only a faint sound—the quiet shuffle of footsteps, scattered low voices. The distant clatter of something being set down. Your eyes opened slowly, heavy with sleep.
Through your blurred vision, you saw two servants inside your chambers. One carefully balanced a large tray laden with a bowl of steaming broth, fresh bread, roasted vegetables, and sliced fruit, while the other carried a small folding table. The sight startled you awake. You pushed yourself higher ato a seated position, brow knitting in confusion.
The servants immediately froze.
"Your Grace," one of them said quickly, his expression turning apologetic. "Forgive us. We did not mean to intrude." The other lowered his gaze, looking equally concerned.
"We knocked, Your Grace, but there was no answer. We thought you had fallen asleep, and..." He hesitated before continuing. "We were instructed not to wake you if you were resting."
You blinked away the remnants of sleep, still trying to make sense of their words. “Not to wake me…” you murmured quietly, more to yourself than either of them. You glanced around the room, taking in the servants, the tray, and the small table they were setting beside your bed. "... What is all this?"
"Your supper, your grace,” one of the servants spoke. “We only meant to bring your meal and leave it ready for when you awoke."
You glanced toward the windows. The sun had only just begun its slow descent, casting a warm golden glow across the room. How long had you slept? It felt as though you had only closed your eyes for a moment, yet the heaviness in your body suggested otherwise. You could not remember the last time you had slept so deeply—not waking from the fever, not tossing beneath the blankets. Not a single sound had disturbed you. You pulled your gaze from the windows and back to the servants.
“I”ll have my supper in the dining hall. As usual.”
The servants exchanged a brief look. The elder of the two dipped his head respectfully as the younger unfolded the small table. "My instructions were to serve your meal in your chambers, Your Grace," he replied. "And to inform you that you are not expected at dinner this evening."
Your expression softened into puzzled surprise.
"...Not expected?"
"No, your grace."
You stared at him for a moment, shocked by his words and waiting for further explanation, but the servant merely averted his gaze as he continued arranging the table.
"And who gave those instructions?" you asked, understanding the servants before you would be requiring prompting to speak. Your voice was short and tired.
"We were only given orders to see that your meal was brought here and that you were allowed to rest, Your Grace."
Your brows drew together. Again, you were not given an answer.
Why did this keep happening?
The servant who had brought the tea had offered the same careful constraint. The old maester who had been summoned to your chambers had not known by whom. Now, these servants stood before you, carrying out instructions they refused—or perhaps were unable—to explain.
Each time you asked, the answer seemed to slip just beyond your reach.
You looked at the carefully arranged meal, the table placed beside your bed, the herbal tea, the quiet that had settled around your chambers. Someone had gone to considerable effort. Someone had been making decisions on your behalf, ensuring you were cared for without ever stepping forward to claim responsibility.
You allowed the servants to leave the dinner behind before quietly taking their leave, but you made no move toward the food. Instead, you moved back against the bed again, even the confusion of the brief conversation further depleting your energy. As you shifted beneath the blankets, something caught your eye.
A single sheet of parchment rested upon the small table beside your bed.
Your brow furrowed.
It bore the palace's stationery—the royal seal embossed faintly into the corner. Strange. Had the maester forgotten it?
Curiosity overcame your fatigue. Reaching over, you carefully picked up the parchment, turning it over in your hands before unfolding it.
The parchment had already been broken open, its seal carefully cut rather than torn. Your gaze fell to the first few lines, and your curiosity quickly gave way to confusion. It was a letter addressed to the maester.
As your eyes moved down the page, your expression slowly changed.
Whoever had written it had spared no courtesy. The letter stated that the maester was ordered to come to the Red Keep with all haste, regardless of whatever duties currently occupied him. There was no room for refusal, and any expense or inconvenience caused by abandoning his work would be more than compensated. The request bordered on a command.
You were ill, yes, but you weren’t in a dire condition. Who in the palace had felt such an urgency had to be placed into your wellbeing? You frowned, scanning to the bottom of the page. Your breath caught.
There, beneath the final line, was a familiar signature.
Aerion Targaryen.
For a long moment, you could only stare.
It had been Aerion.
It was he who had summoned a specialist from beyond the palace walls. He who had found and called for someone whose knowledge exceeded that of the court's own maester. And had done so without mentioning it to you.
Your mind drifted back to the old man's words.
Whoever sent the summons seemed most determined that I arrive as quickly as possible.
A faint ache settled in your chest.
All this time, while he had scarcely visited your chambers and spoken to you with the same clipped indifference as ever... he had been thinking about you. Not only that, but finding ways to aid you. Had he been… worried? It felt impossible.
Aerion was not a man who showed concern through action or otherwise. He was guarded, distant, and far too proud to ever do… this. But you could not forget the things that had happened since your sickness began. All the ways your day had been made easier. All the servants who had told you they were sent to bring small comforts. Those comforts that had appeared one after another, each time delivered by someone who claimed only to be following orders.
And now you knew by who.
Aerion.
The Hunt
The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth as the royal hunting party wound its way through the Kingswood.
The hunt had become something of a yearly tradition for the court. To celebrate the start of the season, a series of hunts would be held by the House. Lords competed to bring down the finest stag, ladies rode together beneath the trees exchanging easy conversation. You had ridden in hunts before your marriage, though never one of this scale. The Targaryen hunting parties were… ambitious.
The party had ridden out at dawn, colorful banners weaving between the towering oaks while horns echoed through the forest. Groups formed and separated with a practiced ease, moving for different trails as each promised different game. Some chased boar while others followed the tracks of deer. The more adventurous nobles disappeared deeper into the trees in hopes of finding something worthy of boasting about for months afterward.
You found yourself somewhere between them all.
A handful of ladies rode beside you, accompanied by several sworn swords and huntsmen who had been trained to know these woods as well as the halls of the Red Keep. You yourself rode with two knights at your side, each mounted and assigned exclusively to your protection. They kept a respectful distance, only close enough to intervene should danger arise. The closeness and amount of people was just enough so that you were never truly alone, though you made a point to stay away from the crowded lead of the party— where your husband was.
As prince, Aerion naturally occupied the lead alongside the Master of Hunt and several of the realm's foremost noblemen. Hunting horns sounded ahead of him at intervals as scouts rode out and returned with reports, while hounds strained eagerly at their leashes, awaiting the command to give chase.
Even from a distance, he was difficult to miss.
His silver-white hair caught the morning light whenever the trees opened above the trail. He sat on his horse with the same effortless confidence he seemed to possess in everything else. Assured and capable. Lords rode close, speaking to him when necessary, though most of the conversation appeared to come from them rather than him. Aerion's replies were characteristically brief before his attention would return to the forest ahead.
In the walls of the palace, you often noticed a restlessness about him. As though some part of him believed he ought to be somewhere else.
The Red Keep confined him in ways few others seemed able to see. Courtly obligations, endless ceremonies, polite conversation—he endured them because he had to, never because he wished to. He enjoyed the power his position gave him, the luxuries of the life. That much was more than clear. But the life itself? You weren’t so certain.
You had heard him speak of the skies and the dragons often enough to recognize the longing beneath his words.
He believed he had been born into the wrong age. He believed he should have ridden beside his ancestors through the skies instead of walking stone corridors. That he should have known the freedom of dragonback, the untamed power that had once defined House Targaryen, rather than spending his days bound by councils and politics.
That desire for the wild, for movement and thrill— it was satisfied by these hunts. Away from the halls of the Red Keep, beyond council chambers and courtly obligations, he looked entirely at home. He looked more himself astride a horse than seated upon a throne.
Since becoming a Targaryen, you had come to understand this particular feeling of his more than ever.
Earlier that morning, you had spent hours confined within the castle tending to one obligation after another until your mind went numb. At one point, the boredom had been so intense you found yourself wondering what Aerion was doing with his day. That, in turn, led you to wonder whether he was enjoying it. It was an odd train of thought—to think about Aerion's state—and not one you took pride in.
Yet one curiosity had somehow become another, and before long, he had become the unexpected subject of your wandering mind. You found yourself imagining where he might be, whether he had already escaped whatever duties had been assigned to him, and whether he was as impatient for the hunt to begin as you suspected. It had taken one of the noble ladies timidly bringing back your attention for the pitiful thoughts to stop.
Now, in the open woods, there was nothing to think about beyond the ride itself. The steady rhythm of hooves carried you deeper into the Kingswood as sunlight filtered through the canopy above. The forest had settled into a peaceful hush, broken only by birdsong and the occasional call of a hunting horn somewhere ahead. You guided your maire over the winding trail at an easy pace, breathing in the cool autumn air.
Around you, horses picked their way carefully over roots and fallen leaves while leather tack creaked softly with each measured step. The scent of soil and pine lingered in the cool air, stirred only by the gentle breeze weaving through the branches overhead. Here and there, huntsmen paused to inspect fresh tracks in the mud before quietly urging the party onward, while hounds strained eagerly against their leashes, their noses low to the forest floor.
The peace of the forest lasted only a moment longer.
A sudden sound shattered the calm. You had no moment to understand what it was. A sharp crack from somewhere beyond the trees. The sudden rush of movement in the brush. Perhaps the cry of some startled animal hidden from view. It was too fast to process.
Whatever it was, it was enough.
Your mare reacted before you had the chance to steady her. The horse jolted violently beneath you, her body tensing as she pulled back in alarm. Your hands tightened instinctively around the reins, trying to regain control, but the sudden movement caught you off guard.
“Easy!” you shouted, in a frantic attempt to calm her. It was fruitless.
The pull of the reins stung your fingers, air rushing against your face. Startled voices grew louder around you as you helplessly reached for anything that might steady you. But when the saddle shifted beneath you, you knew it was too late.
For one terrifying moment, you were suspended between staying and falling, your hands grasping at the reins as your mare stumbled beneath you. Then the connection broke entirely and the world tilted. You felt yourself slipping before the ground came rushing toward you. Pain spread through your body as leaves and dirt scattered beneath you, the forest floor unforgiving against your back and shoulder. The impact stole the breath from your lungs.
You couldn’t tell how long you laid there, body frozen and stinging, until the sounds around you slowly returned. Pounding hooves sounded like canons and the panicked calls of riders amplified torturously. The knights beside you jumped off their horses, the movement and clanking of their silver armor suddenly too loud.
“Your Grace!” One of them dropped to his knees beside you, his expression filled with concern as he looked over you. "Do not move," he instructed quickly, though his voice carried a slight edge of panic. "We need to make certain you have not—"
He stopped suddenly, turning as if he had heard something. The ringing of your ears seemed to shield you from the noise that had caught his attention, until it was close enough you could not block it out. It was the thunder of another horse approaching.
Not a careful pace or controlled movement of a rider coming to assess the princess. It was fast— this was someone riding with urgency. The sound came from ahead and only grew louder, hooves striking against the ground with such force that the riders nearby began turning toward the approaching figure.
The knight beside you straightened slightly, the expression on his face changed. And before anyone spoke his name, you already knew who it was.
Aerion.
He came to a short stop before you, his horse’s breath heavy as he dismounted before the reins could even be properly taken by a waiting servant. He did not wait. Without acknowledging the gathered nobles, the huntsmen, or the guards who immediately bowed their heads to him, his eyes found yours. And for a brief moment, everything else seemed forgotten.
“Move.”
The single word was quiet, but filled with an urgency you had not heard from his lips before. The knights beside you immediately stepped back. Aerion dropped down beside you, his boots pressing into the leaves and dirt of the forest floor. His eyes scanned over you quickly, searching for injuries with an intensity unfamiliar to you. There was none of his usual anger or impatience. Only an extraordinary, singular focus.
His hand hovered near your shoulder before he seemed to remember himself and stopped, his jaw tightening slightly.
"Are you injured?"
The question came sharper than he likely intended. You blinked up at him, still disoriented from the fall.
"I—"
"Where?"
You looked at him for a moment, almost unable to reconcile the man before you with the one who so often appeared distant and unaffected. Because Aerion was furious. You could see it.
You tried to answer him, but whether it was the shock of the fall, or of your husband himself, the words refused to come. Distracted by the pain spreading through your body and the sight of him kneeling beside you, you could not seem to answer.
At his second, more urgent prompt, your eyes moved downward instead. Your ankle. Though your back hit the ground first, other parts of your body had also met it ungracefully. The pain there had been impossible to ignore— a sharp, throbbing ache that had only grown stronger as the initial shock faded. The moment Aerion followed your gaze, his expression changed. His eyes narrowed as they settled on the injury. The skin around your ankle had already begun to redden, swelling slightly beneath the fabric of your riding clothes. The angle it laid on the ground was all wrong. It was enough that even without a maester's training, it was clear something was not as it should be.
His jaw tightened. You watched as the intensity in his eyes shifted into a rage. Aerion slowly looked away from your ankle and toward the knights who had been assigned to protect you.
"What were you doing?" His voice was dangerously icy.
The two knights immediately straightened, looking at their prince with clear fear written on their faces.
"Prince Aerion, the horse was startled. It’s common on when rid—”
“Are you saying it's common for those under your protection to be harmed? Is it common for you to sit idly as someone entrusted to your care is injured?” Aerion's voice was cold, his anger controlled only by the thinnest thread of restraint. “If that is what you’re telling me, you will never be assigned to the protection of my wife ever again.”
The men remained silent, looking to each other and then their prince again. They had no answer. They bowed their heads once more. “I apologize, Your Grace,” one spoke uneasily. Aerion held their gaze for another moment before looking away, his attention turning back to you. And just as quickly as the anger had appeared, it left. When his eyes met yours, the fury that had been aimed at everyone else softened into something far more difficult to read.
"I’m... alright, Aerion," you said quietly. The words felt strange coming out. Reassuring Aerion of your state was not something you were accustomed to doing. When had he cared? But now… you were unsure if you had ever seen him look so affected by something that had happened to you. By anything at all.
His expression did not change much, but his eyes remained fixed on yours. "The half-wits around you allowed you to fall from a moving horse," he replied, his voice lower now. "You are not alright."
You almost argued, out of instinct more than anything else, but the pain in your ankle reminded you that perhaps he was right. You sucked in a breath and Aerion’s expression hardened again for only a moment before he looked toward the surrounding riders.
"Where is the maester?"
A servant immediately stepped forward, already prepared to answer.
"Someone was just sent to summon him, Your Grace."
Aerion simply glared at the servant. “Just now?” His tone was laced with indignation. "She has fallen from her horse, and the maester is only being summoned now?"
The silence could almost be felt. His eyes moved across the gathered knights, servants, and huntsmen, disbelief slowly turning into frustration. "Is everyone around me an imbecile?"
He exhaled sharply, clearly forcing himself to stop before his anger turned into something worse. He looked over you once more before extending a hand. "Can you stand?" His arm was outstretched. You hesitated. Your ankle protested even at the thought. The doubt must have crossed your face because before you could answer, he kneeled beside you, carefully positioning himself closer, moving your arm around his shoulder, shifting your weight onto him.
Despite the rare closeness, there was no hesitation in his movements. No awkwardness. Only certainty. One hand reached out to steady you while the other offered support, his attention entirely focused on making sure you did not fall again. You could do nothing but follow his direction, pliant beneath his careful guidance like putty in his hands.
It was almost disorienting about how easily he took control of the situation. Aerion did not give you the chance to argue, to dismiss the pain, or to insist that you were capable of managing on your own. His certainty left little room for resistance. So, despite yourself, you allowed him to help you. The stinging pain left you without much energy to argue regardless. He steadied you as you rose, his grip firm but careful, adjusting immediately when you instinctively favored one ankle.
With his support — and with the stunned audience of the hunting party, who had never seen their prince like this— you managed the few steps toward his waiting steed. He turned to you, adjusting his arms. “Lean on to me,” he said firmly, an unmistakable command. He placed one hand securely around you, helping you up onto the saddle with careful precision. He made certain your injured ankle was not strained, adjusting your position until he was satisfied you were steady.
Only then did he get on to the horse, sitting in front of you. The position was far more intimate than you were accustomed to. With him seated before you, there was no space for polite distance between you, no room to pretend you were simply two members of the same court moving alongside one another. You became painfully aware of everything. The warmth of him against you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing. The faint scent of leather and the outdoors that clung to him after hours in the forest.
All the little details of the man you were married to that you had not been able to discover until now. You found yourself sitting unusually still. Aerion glanced back slightly, head turned to you.
“Hold on.”
You paused for only a moment before placing your hands around him. You were careful at first, unsure of where exactly to hold. You settled on wrapping your arms around his torso, but not placing any weight onto him.
From this vintage point, the amount of people watching only became more clear. The gathered riders had seen the prince's fury. They had seen him abandon the hunt without hesitation and ride directly towards you. And now they saw something else entirely. Aerion Targaryen—the man who kept everyone at arm's length—quietly ensuring his wife did not have to take another step more than necessary. It must have been as bizarre to them as it was to you, if their stunned silence was any indicator.
With your arms around Aerion, the horse began to move forward. The rhythm of its steps carried you away from the gathering of riders and deeper along the forest path. Neither of you spoke and you had a feeling he wouldn’t be particularly chatty even if you had chosen to. Your only two focuses in the moment were the closeness of his body and the feelings he had brought upon you.
He had ridden past everyone else without hesitation. His expression had changed the moment he saw you on the ground, then again when leaving the anger from the knights behind.
Your relationship existed in brief conversations. Stolen glances and a careful space kept between you. He could sit beside you for hours and you would still feel impossibly far away. Yet when you had needed him, that distance had disappeared without hesitation. Your hands rested against him as the horse carried you back toward the castle, and you found yourself studying the man in front of you.
Aerion was still Aerion.
Still reserved. Still unreadable. His posture remained composed, his attention fixed ahead as though you were not right behind him mulling in every detail of the day. As though he had not just frightened half the hunting party with the force of his anger. As though he had not made certain you were safe before thinking of anything else.
You did not know what to make of it.
So you remained quiet, allowing the steady movement of the horse and the silence between you to carry you back through the forest. You would arrive at the maester’s soon and your injury would heal over time. You would remember this day and the version of Aerion it had revealed. It would serve as a glimmer of hope, of possibility, that beneath all the distance he kept, there was far more to him than he allowed anyone to see. More care for you than he had admitted or shown.
summary: after your husband is grieviously injured in the trial of the seven, you tend to his wounds and, since he's never been particularly fond of you, you decide to use this opportunity to endear him to you. hopefully you didn't bite off more than you can chew...
warnings and tags: 18+, smut, mild angst, aerion's mentioned to be unfaithful, mentions of wounds, inexperienced but not innocent reader, kinda manipulative!reader, female masturbation, handjob, oral sex (male receiving), power exchange, domination/submission, degradation (reader is called a whore), corruption kink if you squint, technically dom!aerion but also some sub!aerion vibes, aerion is his own warning, no use of y/n, no physical description of the reader
Your husband’s body is unnaturally still. Lying on the bed, eyes swollen shut, lip cut open, his chest pure marble marred by purple bruises, he looks more corpse than man. Each time he exhales, he stops moving long enough for the doubt to settle in, before he draws in the next, painful breath. Your fingers itch with the urge to reach for his torso, press your palm against his heart, see for yourself that it is still beating.
You do not indulge them. Instead, stepping closer to the bed, you reach for his forehead.
His lips part when you brush against it, and you’re surprised to find him burning. Everything about him tells you that he should be cold as ice, but you suppose the blood of the dragon does run through his veins. Aerion was scorching hot on your wedding night, too, as he was during his other visits to your chambers since then — though you can count those on one hand.
You reach for a cloth, dip it into a basin of water placed on a nearby dresser, wring it, then press it to his face. A keening, pained sound rises from his throat. It is the most vulnerable you’ve ever heard him, and you think he would kill you for forcing it out of him.
“No one would ask that of you, my lady,” your maid says from the door, where she has stood this whole time. Her tone is flat, but you do not miss the disapproving inflexions in it. “This is for a maester to do, or a servant. Not for a highborn lady.”
It is true, of course, as is true that Aerion was alone when you walked in, a mere guard placed in front of the door. No one tasked to stay by his side or look after him, the prince abandoned like a dying dog.
You could not have ignored the reason why if you tried. The whispers are everywhere. It is his fault if the heir to the throne lies in a casket, his fault if his father is forever branded a kinslayer, his fault that the Targaryen house has fallen a little further still.
You do not think they are wrong.
You are also aware with bone-deep clarity that none of them will have to share his bed following this event. Aerion has never been kind to you — or, to be precise, he has never been taken with you. You know he was displeased to have to marry someone who was not a Targaryen, even more so that you were not someone he could toy with at his leisure, not when his father and his uncle were watching him like a hawk.
You had made sure to take full advantage of that, spending your time strolling through the gardens, weaving or sewing where everyone could see you, where you could not be tormented, retiring to your chambers after him, if you could.
Except now, if the whispers could be trusted, Aerion would be sent to Lys with you in tow, and there would be no one to protect you.
“You can leave,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “I will stay with my lord husband.”
She is well-trained, your maid, but so are you. You know from the slightest twitch at the corner of her lips how much she resents the idea.
“He will fare well enough on his own, my lady. The maesters have seen to that.”
There is harshness on her tongue. You do not cave.
“It would not do for the prince to awake alone, should he be in want of anything. I will stay by his side, as is my duty. Do leave me.”
Her lips thin into a tight line, but she cannot disobey such a direct order. The door closes with a gentle click, and you are left alone with your husband. The man whose life you will share until his passing or yours, whether you like it or not. The man you might still attach to you, to ensure he does not slit your throat in a mad rage in a faraway land where no one will care to look into it.
The man who, though you loathe to admit it, looks so wounded, lost and lonely in the large bed that there is no reluctance in your hand when you dab the wet cloth over his chest, where pearls of sweat have formed.
He does not move much as you keep watch over him, and when he does, it always elicits a pained groan, a ragged breath, a wince. There is not much for you to do, apart from replacing the cloth every now and again, so you turn to embroidering, sitting close by the bed and focusing on your work.
Every time you glance up, you find him as painfully still as he was before. He is a beautiful man, of course, even in this state. In another life, one where whispers of the prince’s madness had not reached your ears ahead of your marriage, you might have been elated to marry him. You’re thankful you did not have to endure such disappointment, at least, though you still had to withstand the bite of humiliation that was your husband’s visible disinterest in you, and the whispers of the whores he preferred taking to bed over you.
Hours go by before Aerion finally stirs. You are on your feet instantly, rushing to his side, but he does not open his eyes — likely could not even if he wanted to. He groans, and the sound comes out pitiful and raspy. You reach for a goblet, pour water into it. With a gentle hand, you tip his head forward, and he drinks from it greedily, teeth scraping against it. When his head falls back on the pillow, you step back — only to freeze when he calls out.
“Father?”
The two syllables, pronounced slurred and hoarse, seem to exhaust him fully, whole body going slack again on the bed.
“I will call for him at once, my prince,” you reply.
The guard obeys your order begrudgingly and without enthusiasm when you relay the prince’s demand, but you may as well not have given it. By the time you sit back down at Aerion’s side, his breathing has evened, and you know he’s fallen back into his slumber.
“He’s awake?” Maekar asks urgently when he walks in.
He startles at the sight of you, bowing his head politely.
“My lady.”
“My prince,” you reply, curtsying. “He woke up briefly and asked for you.”
He nods. His eyes, riveted to his son, are wet, though you do not know if it is out of worry or grief over the loss of his brother.
“You do not have to stay here, my lady,” he says gently.
His meaning is the same as your maid’s was. You do not want to be associated with him. You should be spurning him, making a spectacle of your disapproval. You should save yourself while you still can.
How myopic of him not to realize that that choice was ripped from you in a room you were not in, the moment your hand was given away in marriage.
“I will fulfill my duty and stay at my husband’s side,” you tell him, inclining your head.
The warrior’s eyes are soft on you.
“Thank you,” he says, quiet, broken. “If that is your wish, I will leave him in your hands.”
So you stay. You are here whenever Aerion briefly surfaces, you are here to quench his thirst and clean the sweat that drips from his forehead, you are here to change his bandages and verify that the wounds do not get infected. You do refrain from touching him more often than most, merely letting your fingers trail over his skin as you clean him.
There is a brief, unpleasant conversation with the maester who visits him. He disapproves of your presence, too, but in the jealous way of a man intent on keeping his secrets. He dislikes you, you know immediately, for stepping into his territory. It does not matter that you have read all the treaties you could get your hands on; it does not matter if your work was as close to perfection as it could get. You do not know your place, and he would have you kicked out of the room if not for Prince Maekar’s strict orders.
Your hands deftly finish the bandage around Aerion’s upper thigh. It is the deepest wound on his body, the one that came closest to claiming his life. Perhaps that would have been a better ending for you, but the thought makes you nauseous nonetheless, and you have to focus to keep your fingers from trembling.
You are already on your feet when he groans. He has been waking more frequently during the last day, though never long enough to warrant disturbing his father again. You’re reaching for the water pitcher when you feel a tug on your dress. You turn to discover Aerion’s eyes, glazed and unfocused, on you.
“Why are you here?”
He manages to make the slurred words sound accusatory. You do not step back. Despite his state, you’re worried he might tear your dress. Had he been faster, he would have caught your wrist and he would be holding it tightly enough to hurt right now. Instead, you step closer, close enough for him to reach. He does not let go, still clutching to your skirts with a strength that looks a lot like desperation.
Whether it is because he does not want you to escape or to claw back control, you cannot say.
“Attending to my duties as your wife, my prince,” you answer.
You could reach for the wet cloth again, but you resist the impulse. You worry that your touch would be less than welcome at the moment.
“Since when,” he drawls, “do you care for your duties as my wife?”
There is a sharpness in his eyes, despite the haze of pain that floats inside them. He knows that you did not pursue him, knows that you did not make any efforts to make yourself more available to him.
He would have found it pitiful and laughable, had you done that, and used it to torment you, of course.
Now, instead, you’re the one witnessing his wounded pride, his pathetic attempts at saving face. It would be easy to plunge your fingers into the wound and dig.
You do not do that.
“I will carry your heir. Is this not the least I can do?”
Something dark flashes in his expression, something you do not think you have ever seen him direct at you, and it makes your tongue heavy in your mouth and your throat constrict. You are playing a dangerous game, getting his attention. It is all fine and good now, but the risk is high that you will come to regret it when he is no longer confined to his bed.
Then again, perhaps that would be a better end than getting your throat slit because he wishes to take another Targaryen for a wife.
“Do you wish for me to call your father?”
“Yes, do that. And fetch me some food.”
He orders you around like a servant. You bow your head gracefully.
“Of course, my prince.”
You know he does not miss your choice of words. He is not husband, he is not even my lord, as you would have every right to call him. He is my prince, as any lowborn peasant, any servant would say.
And you see that he it delights him.
The door clicks behind you as you leave. You have no desire to be here for the following conversation with Prince Maekar.
But you do intend to come back to pick up the pieces.
You give Aerion enough time to compose himself and eat before you walk back inside the room. You do not think he would forgive you for seeing an explicit display of weakness, and if grief and shame make him even more erratic than usual, you could see him ending your life tonight, just because he can. You’re walking a tightrope, playing these games, and keeping your balance is of the utmost importance.
He glares at you with bloodshot eyes the second you enter the room, and you bow your head.
“My prince,” you say, “I hope the meal was satisfactory.”
“It suits you,” he shoots back, “playing the servant. No Targaryen would stoop this low.”
His voice drips with disgust. You know how displeased he is that you carry his last name, but you do not flinch. The cruelty in his tone is nothing but the lashing out of a wounded animal. It cannot reach you.
“Is there anything you require of me tonight, my prince?”
Despite his state, despite the pain, his eyes are sharp, sizing you up, trying to understand the game you’re playing — what you wish to gain from it, how far you will go, what he can take from you on your way to your objective, whatever it is.
“Undress,” he orders, his voice dropping lower.
You swallow. Hard. You had expected sex to come into play eventually, of course, just not— not quite this fast. For all you’ve gleaned about playing this game, less through your family’s direct guidance and more through observing how the Targaryens do it, your husband is the only man you’ve ever laid with. Other opportunities had presented themselves,but you simply had not had the stomach to risk your life over it.
“Are you certain, with your injuries?” you ask.
Even you cannot tell if you’re being sincere or trying to stall.
“Is this not a wife’s very first duty to her husband?” Aerion counters mockingly. “Are you going to shirk your responsibilities now?”
You could easily leave. You could even say that you are concerned for him, in his state, and walk out the door.
Instead, standing at the bottom of his bed, you slide your dress off your shoulders and down your body.
Aerion follows your movement with intent focus.
“Keep going,” he says, pointing to your smallclothes with his chin.
You do. Your cheeks are on fire, but there is something more troubling than the embarrassment you feel despite yourself, and that is how much his gaze anchors you. Because even as he is playing cat and mouse, there is nothing he can do at the moment. Everything he will get tonight, you will choose to give him. He can act like that makes you lower than him, but in truth, you wield the power tonight. And he seems transfixed by you.
His tongue comes out to wet his lips as you reveal your shoulders, and his hands tighten in the sheet when the smallclothes fall beneath your breasts. He has never looked at you that way, only sparing you brief, bored glances. Now, you have him captive, even as you are obeying his commands. He is devouring you, eyes trailing over your body, setting your skin aflame everywhere he looks.
You let your fingers graze against your nipples as you trail them down your skin, watch him inhale sharply. Then you move the clothes down your hips, your thighs, and finally step out of them, leaving them on the floor. You can feel heat pooling in your lower belly, but, thankfully, your arousal is not yet obvious. You’re certain he would not have missed a chance to mock you for this as well.
“Does this please you, my prince?”
“You will do,” he replies, betrayed by the hoarseness of his voice. “Though you make for one lousy whore.”
“One only one man can afford,” you answer, and you watch how it delights him, how he bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t smile, how his focus narrows in on you. Closer, tighter, coiling around your body like a snake, so intense he might as well be touching you.
He raises a hand to move it towards his crotch, but stops mid-movement, hissing in pain. You climb onto the bed before he can snap at you, turn his own shame and embarrassment against you.
“Is that not for me to do?” you ask, like you didn’t notice, playing your part as well as you can. Aerion scoffs.
“You want to learn how to be a better whore, don’t you?” he taunts you.
“I want to learn how to best serve my husband.”
You reach for the covers, watching him for any indication that you should stop. But he just stares, head lazily cocked to the side, eyes still drinking in your naked body. His cock is half-hard underneath his breeches, and your heart rate quickens as you pull it free, hand closing gently around the base. You hear him inhale at your touch.
“Get the oil first,” he orders when you begin to move your hand experimentally over dry skin.
There is mockery in his tone, like you should have known better, but also, for the first time, a hint of urgency. You know, the moment you get up from the bed, that he wanted to watch you serve him naked some more. Again, even as you are obeying him, something about the fact that you are in control, giving him what he wants as opposed to him taking it sends a rush of heat through your body.
You find the oil in a drawer. It is expensive, the same kind you use on yourself when you know he will be visiting your chambers — and which, you suppose, he uses himself on those very nights, since he keeps these encounters as brief as possible. You lather it on your hands, then kneel back down by his side to resume your work.
He has grown harder, you find, though you do not comment on it. Your touch is more assured this time, firmer, and though he does not say a word, jaw clenched, jealously keeping any sounds to himself, you feel him react to it. Feel him grow firmer, twitching in your hand when you tighten your grasp, feel as the reddened tip of his cock starts leaking, dripping down your fingers, intermingling with the oil. A quiet hiss escapes him, even if he’s quick to swallow it. You’re a quick learner, figuring out his tells. How he shifts on the bed when your hand gets faster, how a shudder runs through his thigh when you use your thumb to press against the head. Once he is fully hard in your hand, you chance a look at him, and find him beautifully flushed, lips parted in a silent moan,red spreading down from his cheeks to his neck and his torso. Undeniable arousal sparks through you, and you press your legs tightly to provide some friction for yourself.
“Enough,” he rasps, not quite able to disguise the way he is panting, and you obey.
There is a light curve to his fully hard cock, you notice when you remove your hand — you’d only caught glimpses of it before, as he preferred mounting you.
“I will not fuck you tonight. How do you intend on satisfying me, then?”
You don’t dwell on the fact that he could not do it if he tried, nor could you ride him, not with his injuries. You know what answer he wants from you, though, again, that is mostly from whispers you’ve heard around the Keep. The very thought is quite scandalous for a lady.
“My mouth, my prince.”
His lips stretch into a satisfied grin, and despite his black eyes, he almost looks like himself again.
“You truly are a whore. A bad one, judging by your performance so far, but I suppose you can be taught yet.”
His taunts are not nearly as striking when he is still out of breath, but they do not help making you any less nervous. Touching him was one thing, but tasting him?
And Aerion is no help when he sees you hesitate.
“You have your orders, wife. You’re so desperate to serve your husband, you should have obeyed already.”
You don’t look at him, afraid you’ll give yourself away, show him your nervousness so he can cruelly poke at it some more. When you lean forward again, it’s slow and intentional. Your hand wraps around him again, and you start with a press of your mouth against the shaft, a kiss, discovering the feeling of his skin when you dart your tongue out against it. You find it salty, the undeniable taste of him mingling with that of perfumed oil.
You lick alongside his length, cautious, maybe a hint of teasing when he twitches underneath your touch and a low, keening sound rises from his chest. At last, you wrap your lips, cautiously, around the red and leaking tip of his dick, and he draws in a sharp gasp. You’re careful to open your mouth wide, not allow your teeth graze to against it, and let the weight of it settle on your tongue for a moment before you brazenly swirl it around him. It tears a brief, strangled sound from him, and you repeat the experience, more intense, more pressing this time.
You bob your head forward, trying to take more of him in, but you have to come up once the head of his cock presses against your palate. Aerion snorts derisively.
“As much as I would enjoy choking you to death on my cock, your job is not finished here. Consider breathing.”
You take the advice for your second attempt, breathing in through your nose. You manage to take him a little deeper this time, and you hollow your cheeks around him. You’re immediately rewarded by a loud, free moan, one Aerion doesn’t manage to catch in time.
You’re not surprised when his good hand, the left one, comes to bury punishingly in your hair. For a second, the touch is light, fingertips against the nape of your neck that send shivers down your spine. Then it turns hard, nails scraping against your scalp, hand pushing you down before pulling you up, and it’s your turn to be unable to stop yourself from whimpering.
His cock unmistakably jerks when you do. You keep the thought in mind.
“You’re quite the useless whore. I suppose you must have everything taught to you.”
Aerion does his best to keep his tone lazy, nonchalant, but it is easy to know better when he is rock hard and leaking inside your mouth. Still, you must brace yourself when he forces you down on his cock and up against, throat constricting around him with choking sounds, his own groans of pleasure half hidden underneath your high-pitched whimpers. You raise your eyes towards him, wide and pleading, and his face flashes with dark pleasure. You’re absolutely and entirely at his mercy, in a situation you willingly put yourself in, and nothing could thrill him more. He uses you as he pleases, fisting your hair, hips jerking up into your mouth as much as he can in his state.
“Touch yourself,” he pants, breathless, not bothering to disguise it this time. “Make yourself peak with nothing but my cock in your mouth and your own fingers.”
You would never admit it out loud, but you are thankful for the order. Your core has been aching for a while now, your juices dripping down your thighs, and you have no need for the oil that still coats your fingers when you push them inside yourself.
You are, at least, no stranger to solitary pleasures. You have prepared yourself for your husband more than once and, since he had no interest in your pleasure, have ensured your own enjoyment on numerous occasions.
And still, you were not expecting the intensity of the pleasure you feel when you hastily insert two fingers and press them against a familiar, delicious spot. Your arousal — and maybe, dare you admit it, Aerion’s touch, for once focused and intent, if not gentle — heightens everything you’re feeling, tearing a loud, genuine moan from you. From the corner of your eye, you catch your husband throwing his head back as you do, mouth open, jaw slack with pleasure.
You rub your thumb against your clitoris, pleasure rapidly climbing after you denied yourself for so long. Aerion’s hand turns lighter in your hair, even as his hips start moving faster. You keep up your pace, and finally, he spills inside your mouth with a final cry. You keep yourself still, swallowing around the length the best you can as he softens, your hand desperately seeking your own peak. You reach it as he’s pulling you off him, moaning loudly, fulfilled but with a distinct sense of something unfinished. Your body, it seems, is craving him much more than your mind.
For a second, Aerion strokes your hair, hand tracing your jawline as he removes it, the touch almost gentle. His thumb presses to your lips, then against your tongue once you allow it inside. He breathes in slowly when he realizes your mouth is empty.
“I might make something out of you yet,” he drawls. “Now clean me.”
And you do. Naked. A cloth in your hand, dabbing it over his body, washing off the sweat and other fluids. Aerion is quiet during the process, watching you intently, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.
Looking at you like no one ever has before.
“Go wash yourself,” he orders once you’re done, dismissing you like he would a servant. “I don’t want you stinking up the room.”
But his eyes follow you intently as you collect your clothes and dress yourself clumsily, all the way until you’ve walked out the door. And you can’t help but wonder if you’ve managed to sink your teeth into him, as you’d intended, or if you willingly stepped into the dragon’s maw, ready to be swallowed whole.
Alright, I hope you enjoyed this! I’ve been playing with the idea for this specific reader in my mind for a while now so I’m glad I’ve managed to get it out. This is my first piece for Aerion, so I’d love to hear if you enjoyed my characterization (you can also send an ask if you'd like to stay anonymous!). It is very anchored in Finn Bennett’s portrayal and what he said about Aerion’s state of mind by the end of the series. This is the most vulnerable Aerion can get, which, obviously, is why the reader chooses this opportunity to endear herself to him. And Aerion, while knowing that she probably wants something out of this (though he doesn’t realize what she wants is to… survive him), is so desperate for touch/affection/affirmation that he’ll take whatever she has to give, even if really, she’s the one in control here.
My headcanon for the reader in this is that she’s from an important noble house, though not one of the great houses. Based on characterization, she’s probably not from the North, Dorne or the Iron Islands, but anything else is open to interpretation. I’m leaning Vale or Reach, but it’s unlikely that this will come up if I write more for this reader, which I'd love to do if you guys liked this!
Thank you for reading and I would love to know your thoughts! Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated <3
husband!aerion who cums in his pants jsut from making out...⊹ ࣪ ˖
"aerion, you're getting your spit all over my chin," you complain half-heartedly, attempting to pull back from the onslaught of his kisses.
his grip on your waist tightens as you straddle him in the privacy of your chambers.
he doesn't stop. if anything, your protest only seems to fuel the ferocity of his assault. his mouth is a hot, wet possession against your skin, trailing from your jaw down the column of your throat. your husband is practically devouring you, marking you, trying to consume you whole.
"shush," he mumbles against your mouth, claiming you again with a passion that borders on feral. “i do not recall getting the same complaints when i kiss your cunny.”
your fingers tangle in his silver hair, pulling just enough to make him hiss. the sound vibrates through your chest as you grind against him, feeling his hardness beneath layers of expensive fabric.
"you're disgusting," you mutter with a smile, your body betrays your words as you continue your rhythmic movements atop him.
aerion's hands roam possessively over your curves, his mouth never leaving yours for more than a second. "tell me, wife, does my passion disgust you as much as your eyes suggest?" he chuckles darkly between kisses.
his condescending tone makes you grip his hair tighter, eliciting a guttural moan from him. you feel his hips buck involuntarily beneath you, his control clearly slipping.
"gods, aerion," you gasp as he bites your lower lip. "you're like a beast in heat."
his response is a strangled sound, somewhere between pleasure and surprise. suddenly, his body goes rigid beneath you, his fingers digging into your hips almost painfully. his kisses become desperate, sloppy, as he loses all composure.
when you finally pull back to look at him, his face is flushed, his pupils blown wide with desire.
"did you just...?" you start, a wicked grin spreading across your face.
aerion's expression is a mixture of pleasure and hunger for more, "don’t look so pleased with yourself," he murmurs, his lips hovering just above yours.
you lean in close, whispering against his ear, "my poor husband, so overwhelmed by a simple kiss. whatever would the court think if they knew their fierce prince came in his pants like a boy?"
his free hand slides down your side, fingers hooking into the fabric of your gown. "i may have found my release prematurely, but i assure you," he whispers against your neck, "i am far from finished with you tonight."
he captures your mouth again, this time with a gentleness that surprises you. "only you have this power over me, my infuriatingly perfect wife." he murmurs against your lips.
summary: there were many things you expected when you got into a relationship with aerion targaryen. of course, none of those included his youngest brother, aegon — or egg, as he liked to be called — and how he began interrupting any sort of alone time you had with your boyfriend, all because he ended up liking you so much.
w.c.: 3,6k
c.w.: no use of y/n, aerion is always two seconds away from kicking egg's ass bc he doesn't leave you alone, probably (definitely) ooc aerion and ooc egg, egg is an ipad kid, not rlly a serious fic I wrote this for gits and shiggles
a.n.: first fic on tumblr so im intimidated lol. english is not my first language so forgive any mistakes and typo. not proofread.
THE MOMENT YOU GOT INTO A RELATIONSHIP WITH AERION TARGARYEN, you knew what it would involve, more or less. More than one of your friends and acquaintances — some of his, even — had reached out to you to ask if you were sure of what you were doing, and saying he wasn't exactly... well, the most gentle person.
As much as you appreciated their worry, it was unnecessary, something even they had come to realize after seeing how Aerion was with you.
He was as loving to you as he was not to everyone else, and though you somehow tamed the rushes of anger that always coursed through him, he still had a rather minimal tolerance for the rest of the world. Including his brothers. Especially his brothers.
Especially Aegon.
The youngest of his brothers had become an issue neither of you had expected prior to him meeting you.
It had taken some time before Aerion decided to introduce you to his family, and seeing as you weren't one to push, the most his brothers knew of you for exactly four months after you officially got together was your name — after Aerion accidentally left his phone on the table, and a notification from you revealed your name to Daeron, who saw no appeal in protecting his brother's privacy.
And when Aerion texted you one night, asking if you'd be okay with meeting his family — so they'll finally get off my ass about this, he had said —, you saw no issue with it, and thus a dinner was planned.
The instant the two of you entered his dining room, your eyes had gone over each attending member of his family: his three brothers, his two sisters, his father, his uncle, and his two cousins. And the air was knocked out of your lungs.
They all had an unnatural kind of beauty to them. Most of them shared Aerion's silver hair and purple eyes, but even those that didn't appeared to come from another world.
Aerion had cursed under his breath, muttering about how if he had known half the family would be called, he'd have bailed on this whole thing. But you had maintained your composure, painted a smile on your face, and met his family with forcibly-steadied hands and a thumping heart in your chest.
In retrospect, there really had been no need for you to stress over this so much. As intimidating as the Targaryens were, they were all mostly nice and very charming to be around, and in the blink of an eye, you'd found your place among them.
But credit must be given where it was due. If it hadn't been for the youngest boy, Aegon, you would have taken a lot longer to get comfortable.
His seat had been directly to your left, and he had chatted your ear off all through dinner. All the names, relations and little fun facts you knew about the Targaryens came from him. He had even ended up pulling his iPad beneath the table to show pictures of the events he was telling you all about.
Aerion hadn't shied away from expressing his annoyance at the extravagance of the dinner, which nobody showed any surprise to. He mostly stuck to your side, chatting with you in the brief moments Aegon's attention was elsewhere.
Regardless, the dinner had gone well, and with this particular milestone out of the way, the two of you could finally relax and enjoy each other's company the way you so loved: privately and without shame.
However, Egg didn't seem to have gotten the memo.
"Oh, not this again —” Aerion hissed as he returned to the large living room of the Targaryen home — castle felt more accurate to you, but oh well — with a bowl of popcorn in one hand and two drinks in the other. He stopped in his tracks right at the doorway, when his eyes found the little figure sitting next to you, which had not been there when he left five minutes ago. "What the fuck is he doing here?"
Your eyes widening at his words, you opened your mouth to scold him for swearing in front of the nine year old, but said nine year old merely perked up at his brother's voice and turned his head around to look at Aerion from where he sat on the couch.
"Did you bring my chips? I left them in the fridge."
"No! Get out!"
Even you flinched at the volume and tone of his voice, so it was no surprise when Egg leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest, a sad pout twisting his young features. And in spite of how much you enjoyed being alone with Aerion, you felt a tug at your heartstrings from the sight of the expression on his face.
Wincing, you glanced at your boyfriend, a pleading look in your eyes. "Well..."
"No."
"Just this time."
"You said that last time."
"He's already here."
"He's always here!"
"Aerion."
"No. Not happening."
Silence fell upon the living room, your eyes meeting Aerion's purple ones with determination. Obviously, you understood where he came from, but you couldn't help it. Egg was such a sweet little boy, and he was always so nice and adorable that you couldn't help but cave to his every wish.
And five minutes later, the three of you sat in front of the TV, Egg in the middle happily munching on the popcorns from the bowl on his lap, often turning to you to share his thoughts about the movie.
"Why Egg?"
"It's short for Aegon," he nodded vigorously and looked away from you.
"Yeah, I figured that part out —”
Like any normal person with a functioning brain, you loved making out with your boyfriend. He was hot, and you were in love with him, so it wasn't like it was a chore for you. Nor was it for him, based on the blurry, heated memories that suddenly came to mind.
Maybe doing it out in public was less understandable, though. But after he had placed all the shopping bags you'd handed him over the afternoon in the backseat of his car, he had pulled you into short kiss, which then became a long one, and somewhere between that and now, it had turned into something else.
Neither of you noticed when Aerion's phone began vibrating in his pocket for a couple of minutes. And when he finally did realize, he had to pull his hands out from under your shirt to declined with an irritated huff.
Then he paused, glanced at his screen for a few seconds, huffed again and answered the phone.
"No fucking way," he ended up spouting after a few back and forth between him and whoever was on the other side of that call.
"He'll be fine there for a few hours." He argued again, "There's all the teachers, and toys, and all the shit kids play with."
Oh, it had to be about Egg.
“Dad —! Can’t you ask Daeron—?” He paused again, listening to his father, and without another word hung up the phone and shoved it in his pocket once more.
Holding back a laugh at the sheer rage painted on his face, you leaned against the car and cocked an eyebrow. “So? What was all that about?”
“My father’s meeting ran late. He’s asking me to pick Aegon up from school.”
“Okay, then.” You nodded, your body shifting to reach for the handle of the passenger door, but Aerion grabbed your wrist before you could do so.
“It’s Aegon.” He insisted, as though it would somehow change something about the situation.
You frowned, slowly nodding. “Tiny nine year old boy, silver hair, purple eyes, looks a lot like you? Yeah, I know the one.”
Rolling his eyes at your tone, Aerion let out a breath filled with annoyance. “I don’t have time to drive you home before picking him up.”
“I know.”
“So he’ll be in the car… with us… for the whole journey back home.”
“I also know that.”
And then his patience ran out, and he groaned, narrowing his eyes at you. “I’m saying the little shit will be glued to your ass.”
Which… yeah. True.
You didn’t mind, because Egg was still as sweet as he was when you first met him. Aerion did mind, however, since he was the one left out whenever the two — three — of you hung out together.
“You’re not jealous, are you?”
“Of him?”
“Yes, Aerion, of your nine year old brother.” You giggled, crossing your arms over your chest. “Seriously, though, you don’t have to be so mean to him. We’re always together. What’s the issue with him sometimes crashing with us?”
To this, he had no answer. He just rolled his eyes to the sky in this irritating yet charming way he did and released your wrist. He opened your door without a word, closing it behind you before walking to his side of the car.
“If it hadn’t been for that bastard, I would’ve won the game.”
Choking on your water, you turned to Egg with wide eyes, “Aegon!”
“What? The bastard cheated! All facts.”
“Oh, do you think they have the lemon sweets? You know the ones.”
Aerion frowned, briefly glancing at you before looking back at the road. “I don’t know, I’ll check when we get there.”
“Ooh, can I come?” Egg peaked his head in between both of yours, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Please?”
“No.” Aerion grumbled before using his hand to press against Egg’s face and push him back in his seat. “Shut up.”
Relentless, Egg turned to you. “Please?”
“No.” Aerion answered in your place.
“I didn’t ask you!” Egg scoffed from the back, glaring at the back of his brother’s head.
“I’m driving, and if I have to drag your puny little ass home by the ear, I will. Now shut up.”
Perhaps the whole reason the Targaryen house sat surrounded by gates and greenery was so strangers wouldn’t witness Aerion dragging Egg by the arm across the driveway, the young boy having planted his feet in the ground and screaming bloody murder for the whole world to hear, the way you did right now from the passenger seat of Aerion’s car.
You hadn’t gone to Aerion’s house in quite some time, you realized. There was no need to ask Aerion why he suddenly insisted on sleeping over at your place, or going home to yours, or him crashing over in your bedroom whenever he was free.
Were you complaining about your Egg-free life? Not really. Or at least, not right now, when Aerion lied on top of you, stealing your words with his mouth, barely letting you come up for air.
Definitely not right now.
You could've stayed there, in this situation, until the world imploded on itself. Nothing could bring either of you out of this bubble you'd formed around yourselves; that was how good you currently had it.
But right as his touch left flaming paths on your flesh as his fingers mapped out every inch of your skin, your phone began vibrating.
Not once.
Not twice.
But repeatedly, until you couldn't discern one notification from the next.
"Damn it," you sighed, closing your eyes as the moment between the two of you slipped right through your fingers. Aerion didn't raise his head higher than an inch above yours, but the annoyance coming from him was almost palpable.
You reached your arm out towards your nightstand, where you could vaguely remember having dropped your phone on some time ago. The light that suddenly blinded you as you lifted it from where it sat face down made you wince, and you used your free hand to rub your eyes.
do you want to play with me?
i'd ask daeron but he's asleep on the rug
he's boring also
you're nto
not
are you sleeping?
you haven't been at the house in a long time
did you breka up with aerion?
break
"Why the fuck do you have his number?" Aerion breathed out, exasperated at the texts. "Since when does he even have a number? He's nine."
Shrugging, you began typing a reply on your phone. "He got my number from your phone. And he just likes telling me about his day. He complains a lot about the kids in his class. Doesn't like them much."
With widened eyes and a raised eyebrow, Aerion sat up on your bed, letting the coldness of the room rush to you now that he wasn't acting as your personal blanket.
"What? So this is a common thing?"
"It's not that bad. He FaceTimes me on his iPad mostly, then he'll talk about his day while I do my homework, that's all." You told him, lifting yourself up on your elbows.
"Does my dad know about this?"
Nodding, you shrugged again. "Yeah, Egg's iPad uses your dad's phone number. He doesn't mind, so long as Egg doesn't uses it too much. He even says it's safer that way, since he doesn't have to watch him to make sure he doesn't sneak out again."
“I... don't know how I feel about this whole thing.”
“Well it’s not just him. I play online scrabble with your dad sometimes. and Aemon sends me book recommendations every other day.”
Aerion paused, "What?”
"Why is he bald, by the way? Can I ask?"
"Daeron drunkenly shaved off half his head one night. Then it looked awful, so we had to shave off the other half. Look."
Unsurprisingly, the boy displayed in the 0.5x pictures didn't seem to car about the admittedly horrifying hairstyle he currently had. With Maekar looking exasperated in the background, Egg smiled and gave a thumbs up to the camera.
Aerion woke up to find your half of his bed empty. No sound came from the bathroom, and with the sheets being cold, he assumed you must've been out of bed for some time.
While part of him felt something akin to relief from how comfortable you were with his family and in his home — sometimes too much, he thought to himself as he remembered you admitting to playing online scrabble with his father —, it also came with the borderline hatred from how comfortable they were with you.
People usually don't have to share their girlfriends with their families, do they? Why does it feel more like they tolerate him just so they can spend time with you.
Especially the youngest, insolent rat whose face had brightened up when Aerion had asked if you could spend a week here while your building was being fumigated. He hadn't even cared when Aerion roared at him to stay the fuck away.
As expected, it had been hard to find some alone time with you, because wherever you were, your shadow was not far behind. You didn't mind, of course, because the little rat turned into the sweetest, most innocent boy that's ever lived whenever you were in the vicinity, which immediately made Aerion out to be the bad one of the story.
The tiny fucker was a manipulative little shit, and Aerion will find a way to prove it to you.
After a brief shower to wash the night away, Aerion made his way down to the kitchen, hoping you'd be there. Fortunately for him, the first thing his eyes latched onto upon entering the room was your figure.
You sat at the counter, back to him, eyes on your phone.
Approaching, he hummed and wrapped his arms around you, leaning down to bury his nose in your hair. "How long have you been up? I thought you'd be worn out after —”
Eyes going round, you jammed your elbow into his gut, immediately shushing him. Aerion groaned, one arm flying to press against his stomach, where he'd taken the brunt of your strength. "What the fuck?"
Without a word, you nodded towards the fridge, and he could only follow your gaze. The fridge was open, which he hadn't noticed, and —
"Ugh, why is he here?" The words came out in unison from the two boys as soon as Egg peeked his head from behind the fridge's door and met his gaze.
Pinching your lips to hold in a laugh, because surely Aerion would hate you if you pointed out just how similar the two were, you merely lowered your phone to watch whatever was about to unravel.
"I was here first!" Egg countered, closing the fridge with a pie in hand. "Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."
"I will stab you—"
"You can't keep letting him stick to you. Be on my side for once. Otherwise he'll never leave you alone."
"He just likes me because I play video games with him and I buy him food. He's not a bad kid," you laughed, but made a mental note to try and be less indulgent to the young boy.
As good as your relationship with Aerion was, it was bound to come to an end. You had been broken up for a week when the knock at your door came.
A week of lying in bed with a gaping hole in your chest.
A week of scrolling aimlessly through the pictures of the two of you on your phone.
Mostly a week of mourning how good it had been, and how good it would've been if only the two of you didn't argue so often.
The idea of interacting with a Targaryen for the time was so far out of mind that you didn’t expect the sight that befell you upon opening the door. Though, maybe you should have.
“Egg? What are you —”
“You can’t break up.” He hurried out, as though if he didn’t say everything at once, he’d never be able to. “Please, you have to come back. The house is so boring without you, and Dad says I’m not to contact you because Aerion is my brother and I have to stick by him. But I don’t want to stick by him!”
“Honey, it’s one in the morning, how did you get here?”
“I took a cab.” He panted, swallowing his saliva.
Later on, he gulped down his second glass of water as he sat on your couch. Your eyes hadn’t strayed from him at all, except for the brief moment you had used to text his brother. Of course, you knew he enjoyed your company and he thought of you not as his brother’s girlfriend but as his sister. But to come knocking at your door in the middle of the night to beg you to stay with his brother…
Yeah, you hadn’t fathomed he’d ever consider doing that. And yet.
“I didn’t think you cared so much about Aerion and his feelings.” You let out, part of you wondering if you should ask Egg how Aerion has been this past week, though you decided against it. You weren’t about to pull a nine year old boy into your issues, no matter how hard he tried,
But Egg just frowned, confusion filling his features, “Aerion? What are you talking about?”
No, you were the one frowning. Thinking back to his rapid little speech when you opened the door to find him, you questioned him again. “What were you talking about?”
Egg raised both hands as he shrugged, the way he always used his entire body to react. “I don’t care about Aerion. I just don’t want you to leave the family. But don’t worry about it. Even if you don’t want Aerion back, I’ve got a plan. What do you think about Daeron?”
Somehow, you were even more confused than you thought could be possible.
But independent as he was, Egg didn’t need a reply from you to keep the conversation going. “Father said I have to take my brother’s side now that you’ve dropped him. But if you got with Daeron, then I wouldn’t have to choose Aerion, because you’d still be in the family. Get it?”
Again, no reply from you apart from the gaping expression you gave at his words.
“If the drinking bothers you that much, I’m sure I can set you up with Valarr.”
And thank God for the sudden, incessant knocking at the door. Aerion was here, evidently, and he seemed pretty pissed.
“You fucking rat!” Aerion roared when his eyes found his brother sitting on the couch. “How did you even get out of the house? How did you get here?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
Wrong thing to say, because Aerion’s eyes widened before he started making a beeline for the couch.
As the boy screeched and jumped behind the couch, you grabbed Aerion’s arm to pull him back, wincing at the situation. God, you should be sleeping right now. “No violence inside, please.”
“My dad’s livid!” Aerion added loudly, anger seeping through his voice. “His room was empty, and the window was wide open. He thought someone had taken him. Unfortunately not!”
Egg peeked his eyes from behind your couch, glaring at his brother. “Hey, I’m doing you a favor! I was trying to get her back for you!”
“What?” He turned to you, but you only shrugged. Though you did notice how Egg’s explanation wasn’t entirely truthful, you didn’t point it out to Aerion. He was mad enough at him already without the knowledge he was trying to set you up with other people.
Growling, Aerion reached out and grabbed Egg’s collar, dragging him towards the door while mumbling an apology to you under his breath. The only thing you could hear as you closed the door was the two boys arguing.
But truth be told, if the young boy hadn’t found his way to your place and forgotten his jacket, you likely wouldn’t have called Aerion again, which led to the two of you sitting down and talking about your relationship, and if you got back together some time later… well, Aerion didn’t like the reminder it was all thanks to Egg.
this idea was stuck in my head for so long I'm just glad I got this out lmao. I also had no idea how to end it so the ending is lowkey rushed sorry
please let me know if you enjoyed this, I rarely post the fics I write so I'd love some feedback!!! and also let me know if you can see that my knowledge of how romantic relationships work is limited lmao
ৎׅ ׄ summary ⋮ You were promised to Aerion Targaryen, a prince known throughout the realm for his cruelty and cold heart. Yet as your arranged marriage unfolds, you begin to question whether the monster behind the rumors cares for you more than he admits.
ৎׅ ׄ warnings ⋮ arranged marriage, threats of violence
ৎׅ ׄ wc ⋮ 5.8k
The Ceremony
No one pitied a woman promised to a Targaryen.
Marriage to a Prince with the blood of Old Valyria was hardly a thing to mourn. House Targaryen had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for generations, their name alone commanding reverence across the realm. Fueled by wealth and seemingly genetic hubris, their dynasty had been forged through conquest and dragonfire. Power ran through the Targaryen’s veins, crowns belonging on their heads from the moment they were born. And now, you were to join their line.
Adorned from head to toe in white, you stood before the court that had gathered as the septons spoke their prayers beneath the vaulted ceiling of the sept. Your gown had been stitched with silk thread and bright pearls that shimmered with every movement. A delicate lace veil framed your face, softening features that had been carefully painted by your ladies that morning.
The Great Sept gleamed beneath hundreds of candles. Their flames danced across polished marble and stained glass. Lords and ladies draped in velvet and jewels filled every pew, their murmured conversations falling quiet as the High Septon began his prayers. The golden warmth of the candles surrounding you did nothing to ease the chill beneath your skin.
Everything felt distant.
The voices around you blended together, their words becoming a unanimous low hum filling the room. Every face blurred with the next, a sea of eyes locked on you with the same quiet certainty.
They believed you were fortunate. Blessed by the Old Gods and the New.
And perhaps you were.
You simply had never imagined your fortune wearing the face of Aerion Targaryen.
The stories of him had reached your home long before the royal proposal ever had. A prince of dragon’s blood with a temper fatal as the flame. Cruel. Cunning. Unforgiving. His name carried across the realm with tales of his heart, sharp and cold as the blade he drew blood with. And now he was to be your husband.
The great doors of the Sept opened.
The sound echoed through the silence, every conversation dying at once as the gathered court turned toward the entrance. A man with hair of pure snow walked in .
Your betrothed.
The dragonlords of old had been said to carry fire in their blood. Looking at him now, you understood why.
There was something almost unnatural in the way he commanded the room after only a moment spent in it. The sharpness of his features mixed with his pale, cold eyes brought a sinking feeling to your chest. He moved confidently across the grand room, holding himself with quiet arrogance belonging to a man who had been raised knowing the world would bend before him.
His walk was slow, almost uninterested. As if this day, this moment, was nothing more than another task placed before him to be completed before he could return to the matters he actually cared for. There was nothing to be read from his expression, a frightening indifference blanketing his face. His light eyes swept over the crowd, bored in the admiration that followed him. Lords bowed. Ladies whispered behind jeweled hands. The court watched him as they watched all Targaryens; with fascination, with fear, and with the knowledge that dragons were not creatures to be approached.
You inhaled a shaky breath. The minute it took for him to reach you felt like a blink when a moment later, he was standing before you. You hadn't realized you'd been holding your breath until he was there and time seemed to resume.
Aerion Targaryen towered over you, his presence swallowing the space between you. His gaze lowered to your face, his pale and unreadable, studying the woman he was to marry with the same distant scrutiny one might give an unfamiliar piece on a cyvasse board. Though you supposed that would be fitting. You were both, to each other, unfamiliar pieces upon a board far more complex and filled with history than either of your lives alone, moved into place by the hands of duty, legacy, and the expectations of your families and realm.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The silence stretched between you, filled only by the quiet murmur of the sept and the flickering candles surrounding you. Then his voice came.
“Not much to say?”
His voice was low, each word more bored than the other.
“I’m…sorry?”
Your response came out more quiet than you intended, and you grimaced at your own voice. His expression did not change aside from the slight roll of his eyes. You heard him mutter under his breath, “Gods, they’ve given me a timid one.”
You furrowed your brows, a small flicker of offense cutting through your nerves. Of course, you had figured it would take time to truly know the prince, if you ever even would. You had expected that learning the depths of his character would come with time, but you had not expected to learn his audacity before the ceremony had even begun.
Despite your better judgment, and your father's countless warnings never to show disrespect to your husband—least of all one who was a prince— words escaped your mouth before you could swallow them. “I suppose the rumors are true then,” you hissed. But the moment the breath left you, regret set in. He was the cruel prince. The last man in the Seven Kingdoms you should have been provoking. You had scarcely exchanged a handful of words, and already you were insulting him. What would this marriage be?
But instead of rage, or a man’s show of power, he regarded you with mild curiosity. The most emotion you had seen on him yet. One pale brow arched. “And which rumors would those be?”
The confidence that had carried the remark from your lips faltered almost immediately. You hesitated. It was one thing to insult a prince once, but it was another to repeat it. Your gaze flickered briefly around the Sept. A few curious eyes had already begun to drift toward the two of you, though the High Septon continued his opening prayers, and the low murmur of the gathered lords and ladies had yet to fully subside. With the ceremony not having yet truly begun, your conversation remained your own.
“The realm..speaks of you,” you answered carefully.
A beat of silence passed. “You'll have to be more specific,” he said, his voice maddeningly calm. You sucked in a breath before closing your mouth again.
“Well?” he insisted. You looked at him, studying him properly. You didn’t know what you were looking for—maybe you were searching his face for something that might tell you whether speaking again would be foolish. Anger, perhaps. Pride wounded enough to lash out.
To your surprise, you found none.
Only a flame in his eyes that awaited your next move. Those light, almost unnervingly sharp eyes fixed on you without wavering. His face held the same composed indifference you had seen the moment he entered the Sept, every feature carefully restrained. Only his eyes betrayed him, alight with something watchful, almost expectant.
When you didn’t say anything, still too stuck in your thoughts, he scoffed, shaking his head. “Of course,” he said. “For a moment, I thought you might actually be interesting.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Not yet wed and my wife already paints me a fool.”
You could only stare at him. The arrogance was almost impressive. He had known you for less than a minute and had already decided your entire character and had no restraint in mocking it.
So this was the infamous Prince Aerion Targaryen.
Not a raging beast as the stories had painted him, nor a man who needed to raise his voice to command a room. No. More like a spoiled child than a monster. His petulance was already clear to you, and it seemed to come effortlessly. Whether the tales of his cruelty were also true or not remained to be seen. But his arrogance? That, at least, was something you could no longer question. It rested in the casual way he spoke, in the certainty that his judgment was one worth accepting. You squeezed your hands together in habit before speaking. “A remarkable talent, my prince.”
His brow lifted. You met his gaze, willing away any uncertainty from your voice.
“To know me so completely after so little conversation.”
The words hung between you. You had spoken quietly enough that only the two of you could hear them. It was hardly an insult, yet neither was it a concession. Only an observation. You had not expected to be offering such cold words to the man who was to be your husband so early on in your marriage, but you would not hold your tongue. Despite being raised from an early age to understand that your position in society was one below men, you had never quite agreed with your parent's teachings.
You were never loud in how you challenged them. The fiery approach was not one you chose...most days you endured what was expected of you with quiet grace. But there were moments—enough moments to name you a nuisance— where you lifted your chin and truly spoke your mind. Your most rebellious trait, it seemed, was desiring respect.
Finally, something in his expression seemed to shift. His cold composure remained unbroken, the one he wore so naturally, but the change was enough for you to catch. It was a momentary pause, then his mouth curving into the faintest smirk. As though your defiance had not irritated him, but rather confirmed something he had been hoping to find.
The thought had barely settled before the High Septon’s voice rose above the murmurs of the Sept, calling the gathered court to silence. The ceremony was beginning at last, and with it came the reminder that whatever else Aerion Targaryen was, he was now the man you were bound to before gods and kingdom alike. The weight of that realization settled heavily onto you.
Hundreds of eyes were watching. From lords and ladies who had known you since childhood, to strangers who knew only your name, it was a full court eager to witness the joining of two houses. You kept your posture straight and your expression composed, but your hands betrayed you, fingers tightening together.
Aerion’s eyes flickered down.
His focus dropped briefly to your hands before returning to your face. For a moment, you expected another remark or a cutting observation about your nerves. Instead, he only kept watching you. You could feel every gaze upon you, every whisper waiting to judge the bride who had been chosen for a dragon prince.
Without warning, Aerion shifted.
It was the smallest of movements, little more than a half-step, but it brought him just enough in front of you that the nearest rows no longer had an unobstructed view of your face. His broad frame eclipsed the worst of the curious stares, forcing wandering eyes back toward the altar instead. The gesture was so natural it could have been mistaken for nothing at all—had you not felt the difference.
You glanced at him, uncertain whether he had done it deliberately. His expression gave nothing away. His attention remained on the High Septon, as though shielding you from the room had never crossed his mind. You almost questioned whether it had happened at all. Perhaps your mind, desperate for reassurance, had mistaken coincidence for compassion. A protective defense of the mind providing you with a mirage of a husband who offered such kindness, fueled by your fears that he indeed, would not.
Whatever it was, you found yourself unwilling to dwell on it. To assign intention to such a small gesture felt foolish. And yet... it had eased the weight on your shoulders all the same. Regardless, by the end of the hour, this man would be your husband, and you, his wife. You would bear the name Targaryen and be bound to one of the oldest and most powerful bloodlines in the realm.
Whatever lay behind those pale eyes, whatever sort of man Aerion truly was, you would have to spend the rest of your life discovering it.
The Tourney
The tourney grounds had transformed into a city of banners.
Silks bearing the sigils of great houses rippled in the afternoon breeze, bright against the sea of tents that stretched beyond the lists. Lords and ladies filled the grandstands overlooking the field, their laughter mingling with the thunder of hooves and the roar of the gathered crowd as another pair of knights lowered their lances.
You watched from the royal pavilion, seated beside your husband beneath a crimson canopy embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Barely a month had passed since your wedding, yet the novelty of your new title had not faded. Your days had become a procession of councils, feasts, prayers, and endless courtesies, each one governed by customs you were still only learning. Life at court moved to a rhythm entirely unlike the one you had known. You had come from a great House, but not the Targaryen House. And the difference was abundantly clear. The servants were particular in a manner you had never seen. The lords painted smiles on their faces that never fell until heads turned around. Every time you were addressed it with a bow and a respectful Your Grace you still felt belonged to someone else.
Stranger still was the man at your side, whose presence had become as familiar as it remained difficult to decipher. There was much of your husband you had yet to understand. But what you did know was enough to unsettle you. You had seen the swiftness of his temper—the way servants shrank beneath his gaze, the ease with which a minor slight became cause for cruelty, the garish laugh that sometimes followed another's humiliation. There were nights he returned to your shared chambers with a fury on his face that made you shrink.
He carried his rage with him, filling the room with a silence so taut it scarcely seemed fit to breathe within. Yet some instinct told you this was not the extent of it. That what you had witnessed was but the edge of something far darker. You had been his wife for scarcely a month, and there was still ample time to learn the depths of his wrath. You were certain his true anger, the one you had been warned of, remained unseen, waiting only for the day you gave him reason to unleash it.
The blare of trumpets scattered your thoughts before they could settle any deeper. The lists below you stirred to life as knights emerged one by one beneath a forest of fluttering banners. It was Sun's Height, a time where heat was particularly unmerciful and cruel. Despite the slight refuge from the shade of the stands, you could feel yourself perspiring. It seemed that the crowd of reddened faces before you were experiencing the same sensation, yet their excitement only grew as the brilliance of the sun caught on the knights' armor in brilliant flashes of silver and gold. Across the field, squires made their final adjustments while destriers pawed impatiently at the earth, snorting clouds of dust into the warm summer air. Beside you, your husband remained unmoved. His attention was fixed upon the lists as the herald stepped forward to announce the first tilt.
The herald's voice rang clear as he recited names and noble lineages until the first pair of knights rode forth to meet one another. Their lances dipped in salute before the signal was given and at once, the horses moved forward. The movement of hooves shook the ground beneath the pavilion as the two riders closed the distance and lances splintered upon impact. The men came at each other with an aggressive force, one riding on as the other tumbled from his horse, drawing a delighted roar from the crowd. The onlookers rose from the stands, nobles and commonfolk alike leaping to their feet.
At your side, Aerion laughed as the fallen man groaned in the dirt, applauding at the spectacle with cruel amusement. The knight struggled to rise, taking the hands of a pair of squires who rushed forward to aid him. His armor dulled with dust, his pride likely shaken— though he was lucky his pride was wounded more deeply than his body. You had learned quickly that in these tourneys, injuries were not uncommon. Within your first week at court, you had witnessed broken bones and bloodied armor. Men could easily require being carried off from the field and the crowd would be cheering regardless.
Yet it was worse when Aerion entered the lists. You had only seen it once, but that had been enough to know a truth; he did not fight only for glory or applause. He fought for pure enjoyment. He was merciless and attacked with a ruthless precision that left little doubt he intended to win at any cost. No matter what that meant for the other rider…or their steed.
“Enjoying yourself?”
Aerion’s voice drew your attention back to him. You turned, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden attention. It was a familiar pattern by now, his questions followed by that watchful silence as he waited for your answer. “The men are doing well,” you spoke carefully. His lips curved. “A review of the performances is hardly what I asked,” he mused, eyes washing over your face. You held his gaze for a moment before looking back toward the tourney.
He liked to do this. To corner you with simple questions and watch as you carefully searched for the safest response. He had a habit of testing you, taking pleasure in watching your uncertainty as you searched for the right answer. But this time, you did not rush to find it.
Thankfully, the next set of knights had begun and the sight was enough to draw even Aerion’s attention away to the surging horses. The crowd’s cheers filled the space between you, giving you an excuse to say nothing at all.
As another match came to an end, the victor was washed with a wave of applause from the galleries. Between the noise, nobles rose from their seats to stretch their legs and servants wove through the pavilions with flagons of wine. Conversation swelled into a hundred overlapping voices. But one stood out in particular.
A group of lesser lords stood only a few paces away, speaking in low tones they believed would not carry. Though you couldn’t make out the entirety of their conversation, the last few words carried plainly enough.
"...the Lady… a strange choice for a Targaryen."
Your grip tightened ever so slightly around the stem of your goblet. It was not rare that you heard yourself as a topic of discussion by the court and the lords. Royalty and nobility were almost always spoken of by those who believed themselves discreet. But your limited time at court had taught you that whispers were not worth chasing. There was no dignity in confronting every slight, nor any victory to be won from it. For every tongue you quieted, another would take its place. So you made no move to acknowledge it.
But Aerion stilled. Without even turning to look at the man, he spoke.
“Repeat yourself.”
The conversation faltered suddenly. The group of lords exchanged uncertain glances before one, the last to speak, stepped forward with obvious reluctance. “I... beg your pardon, Your Grace.” he spoke meekly. He looked over his shoulder at his peers, only to find each of them quickly preoccupied with anything but him. Only then did Aerion turn his head.
"You seemed quite eager to discuss my wife a moment ago,” he said evenly. “I would like to hear the rest.”
The color drained from the man's face. "I meant no disrespect, Your Grace."
Aerion's gaze sharpened. "That is not what I asked," he said, narrowing his eyes. “And when your prince asks you to do something, you do it.” His words demanded an answer, but only a strained silence followed. The lord seemed unable to decide whether to speak or take his chances remaining silent. The bold arrogance that he had spoken about you with before had vanished entirely, leaving only the realization that he had been heard. By his prince. By the husband of the woman he had no issue belittling. He swallowed, his eyes dropping briefly to the ground before finding Aerion's again. "It was... an ill-considered remark,” he said, “Forgive me, Your Grace.”
For a breath, you thought it might end there. The words of the lord were nothing you had not yet heard before. Simply judgements and whispers disguised as harmless opinions—slights not even against Aerion himself, only against you. He could have let it pass as so many others did…there was no reason for him to care, to involve himself. But when Aerion spoke again, you realized you should have known your husband better. He was not one to overlook an insult once it had been spoken.
“An ill-considered remark...” Aerion repeated. His voice was quiet, as if considering the words, tasting them on his tongue. The lord shifted on his feet. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Aerion turned to him, hissing, “Did I give you permission to speak?”
The sharpness of his voice cut through the pavilion. The lord's lips closed at once. He lowered his head, shaking it quickly. Aerion held his gaze for a moment longer before speaking again. “My wife is not a subject for idle conversation among lesser men. She is a princess of House Targaryen,” Aerion continued. “And you will speak of her with the respect her position demands.”
The lord swiftly bowed his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Aerion leaned back slightly, his voice lowering. “The next time you forget her place, I will be less interested in correcting your manners. Your hands, your ears, your eyes... any part I deem not of use to you... will be mine.” The group of men all paled, the lord in front again bowing his head. “Y-yes, Your Grace,” he repeated.
Aerion gave a flick of his wrist, dismissing them without another word. The men did not hesitate then, offering hurried bows before retreating quickly.
Only when they were gone did the noise of the tourney slowly return to you. The people, the clashing of steel, the calls of the heralds—it all had commenced throughout the interaction, but you had heard none of it. Aerion settled back into his seat as though nothing had happened, his attention returning to the knights below. You watched him for a moment, unsure what unsettled you more: the cruelty and threat of his words, or the fact that, for once, they had been directed in your defense.
But why? That was the part you couldn’t understand.
The whispers of lesser men should have meant nothing to him. They had not questioned his name, his honor, or even him at all. It had been about you. And yet, he had taken offense. You didn't know what to make of it. Part of you wanted to see it as kindness, as a gesture of a husband defending his wife. But you knew Aerion well enough by now to understand that nothing with him was ever so simple. His protection came wrapped in the same severity as his anger, and you were certain that gratitude was a fool’s feeling when it came to an act done by Aerion Targaryen. But— even if it was followed by caution— you couldn’t help but still feel it. The gratitude.
You had wondered if there was anything beyond his sharp edges, if there was anything softer hidden beneath the dragon everyone feared. Moments like this only made the answer more complicated to find. You were still watching him when Aerion shifted his attention to you. His gaze moved over your face, quiet and searching.
In your time as his wife, he had made no true move to know you. He knew your habits, the routines you followed, the responsibilities you were tied to. And you knew his role, his temper, the expectations placed on him. But you only knew the surfaces of each other, and were painfully aware of how sealed the depths were—though neither of you made a move to change that. Perhaps it didn't bother him to not know the wife he had no choice in. You didn't let it bother you. Who was he to you besides another man to be tied to, to fulfill a duty with?
But there were times—far too many times—like this, where you found yourself wondering if, perhaps, he was trying to know you after all. He was not a man of idle conversation or patience enough for questions. He was, however, remarkably observant.
You would catch his gaze lingering longer than a normal glance or notice his eyes following your smallest movements. It was as if he were gathering together small parts of you, trying to piece them together to gain a full picture. His eyes narrowed slightly now, glowing under the sun, studying the careful stillness of your expression. They were searching for something, but for what, you weren’t sure.
Offense? Hurt? Surely not.
He gave nothing away. Whatever he had been looking for, he seemed to find it, or perhaps, he seemed satisfied that it was not there. He turned his focus back to the tourney, his expression once again unreadable as squires worked to clear the field for the next match.
"Do not misunderstand," his voice came in a low tone, still not turned to you. "When they insult my wife, they insult House Targaryen." His fingers rested against the arm of his chair, his expression stony again as another pair of knights rode into the lists. “And I will not be disrespected.”
The Court
The meeting had stretched well into the afternoon, maps unfurled across the long oak table that held a history of plans of men’s wars. The corners of the maps were held down by wax seals and heavy goblets as rivers, roads, and the painted borders of the Seven Kingdoms stretched beneath your eyes, with dark ink marking spots where scouts had returned only days before. Beyond the narrow windows, the bells of King's Landing rang faintly over the distant sounds of the city. Inside, however, there was only the constant rustle of parchment and the repeated voices of men accustomed to being heard. Lords spoke over one another, debating the Crown's levies and the growing unrest along the borders as each one was convinced his own counsel outweighed the rest. One argued for more men to be stationed in the Crownlands, another insisted the treasury could not bear the expense, while a third dismissed them both in favor of strengthening the royal fleet. Every man preached their counsel surely would preserve the realm, each interruption louder than the last.
At the head of the table, beneath the three-headed dragon carved into the high-backed chair, Aerion listened with a blanked expression.
Though when he raised his voice, the entire room silenced. The lords knew better than to speak over him.
"If I wished to hear men bark over one another," he said coolly, bringing quiet to the room, "I would have convened this council in Flea Bottom." He scanned the men as they lowered their eyes. "You are not fishwives haggling over yesterday's catch," he continued. "You are lords of the Seven Kingdoms. Begin behaving as such."
A chorus of subdued affirmations answered him, each quick to nod before Aerion continued. As he spoke, you stayed quiet beside him.
Though your marriage had granted you a place within the chamber, it had not granted you a voice in it. Your presence in the room was allowed only by position, no one questioning your presence—yet neither looking to you when speaking. Their attention passed over you as naturally as it did the servants refilling their cups, as the discussion wandered from alliances to finances.
"If we continue raising taxes," one of the men, who you knew as Lord Buckwell argued, "the crown will recover its losses before winter."
"And empty every granary in the Reach," another lord countered. "You cannot demand more coin from men who have barely enough grain to survive the season."
"The realm is not governed on sympathy."
"Nor is it governed on starving its people.".
The chamber erupted into yet another disagreement. You glanced over to the map. Your eyes lingered on the marked trade roads before settling on the ports sketched along the eastern coast. Small carved markers denoted castles, ports, and market towns, while messy writings in the margins listed tariffs, harvest yields, and expected revenues from each region. Your attention settled on the eastern coast.
King's Landing. Driftmark. Gulltown.
The ports carried the lifeblood of the realm as surely as its roads did. Merchant vessels arrived daily from the Free Cities, their holds filled with silks, spices, timber, and coin. Through your tutoring as a child and time spent at your House’s court, you knew well and plain that trade had always been the Crown's greatest source of wealth when allowed to flourish. You studied the figures inked beside the customs houses for another moment.
"...Would it not be wiser," you began carefully, waiting until the room had quieted just enough to hear you, "to lower the tariffs on merchant vessels instead? If trade increases, the Crown could recover the coin without forcing another levy upon the smallfolk."
The room fell silent. A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward you. Some held mild annoyance, as though your interruption had inconvenienced them. Others looked on with open boredom, already moving to face away from you before you had finished speaking. From your periphery you could see Aerion his face towards you. Lord Buckwell only chuckled.
"Lower the tariffs? Essentially surrender?" He gave a short, incredulous laugh. "A lady's solution." He turned towards Aerion then, a smug look on his face. “I’d rein in the Lady, Your Grace,” he said, “Before she has the realm surrendering its coffers to every merchant who comes knocking at our shores.”
The remark was met with barks of laughter around the table. It spread easily, the lords laughing with amused smiles, shaking their heads with the same dismissal given to a small child’s silly remark. They returned their attention to the maps before them, the discussion moving on as if your words had been nothing more than a momentary distraction. But Aerion did not move with them. He remained exactly as he had been, his face unreadable, his gaze fixed upon Lord Buckwell.
"If you find the idea foolish, Lord Buckwell, then explain why."
His smile fell first. “Your Grace?” A silence settled over the table as Aerion set down the cup in his hand. “Hers is the only solution offered tonight that costs us neither gold nor men. Explain to me what is foolish.” Lord Buckwell shifted in his seat, no longer confident. “I only meant that such a measure would be... unconventional.”
Aerion studied him for a moment, deciding whether the explanation deserved a response. “You forget yourself, Lord Buckwell.” He leaned forward, one elbow settling against the edge of the table. “She is my wife,” Aerion said calmly. His eyes remained fixed upon the lord. “When I decide something requires correction, I will handle her myself. When I want her silent, I will silence her. I do not require assistance governing what is mine.”
Lord Buckwell’s face had lost all trace of amusement and his gaze lowered toward the parchment before him. “Yes, Your Grace. My apologies.”
Aerion held the silence for another moment before turning his attention back to the papers before him. “Now,” he said, as though nothing unusual had occurred, “the tariffs.” His finger moved across the map, stopping at the marked ports along the coast, “Lord Lancel and Lord Tufe, review the current tariffs imposed on foreign merchants and present me with alternatives by the end of the week. I want figures and specifics. If anything does not meet my standard, I will ensure that not only will your prince be unhappy with you, but so will your king.”
The two men straightened and promised to prepare the requested figures. The conversation around the table resumed carefully this time. The lords returned to their discussions of trade routes, harvests, and military expenses, but the ease from before had disappeared.
Aerion did not look at you. Not once.
He did not regard you in the slightest. He kept his attention and eyes on the council as if he had not just defended you in front of every lord seated at the table. As if his words had been nothing more than a correction of courtly behavior, rather than something that had left you unexpectedly unsettled.
You found yourself wondering, for the thousandth time since becoming his wife, why he had defended you. Again, his name had not been uttered—only yours. And yet he came to your aid without question. It wasn’t tender, nor comforting…but something about it left you feeling warm. He didn’t like when you were disrespected. At the tournament, he had easily corrected the men who spoke of you with his unflinching anger. And now again, he did not tolerate the lord’s words against you. In smaller moments too, he had shown up in his restrained, yet evident ways. But was it simply his princely pride—him seeing you as something belonging to him— or was it something more than that?
It had to be. Though through his words he had claimed you, that was not all they did. He also championed your suggestion.
Hers is the only solution offered tonight that costs us neither gold nor men. Explain to me what is foolish.
No man, not even your father, had ever done that for you. Given a weight to your voice. Fought against those who deemed it unworthy.
Though the meeting dragged on, your attention remained elsewhere. You heard nothing but the pounding of your own heart as you thought of the prince seated beside you and his curious tendencies. You stared mutely at the maps as his actions lingered in your mind.
Aerion still hadn't said another word. He was reviewing a document in complete silence, allowing the lords to speak amongst themselves. But sometime during your wandering thoughts, his hand had shifted. It now rested only inches from yours.
He wasn’t touching you, not even reaching. But it was closer than before. Close enough that if either of you moved even slightly, your fingers would brush. You took in a deep breath.
Perhaps it was nothing. Again. A mirage of kindness you wished for him to extend. Again. These were things you said in your mind each time you found yourself in this position. But how many times had you found yourself in it? Being defended, protected...cared for by Aerion Targaryen.
By now, it had happened too many times for those explanations to feel as convincing as they had before.
The silence remained, your hands unmoving, as you sat beside the man who had married you out of duty.
But as you stared at the small space between your hands, you could no longer say with certainty that duty was the only thing keeping him there.
Not to be troublesome Nana, what are you planning to update next?? Like u are planning..(like i was just wondering).
Hii anon!
You’re not troublesome don’t worry! <3
So the next update should be Lioness claws 3rd chapter! I’ve also started working on the asks I received! Even though it might take me a bit of time to post them because I don’t want to rush anything!
I was also considering doing some kind of shorts headcannons on Finn’s characters (Aerion, Marcellus 😜, Bobby, Shawn, and Peter) as it doesn’t take me too much time to write ! Btw feel free to send some ask about them if you want!! <3
I would also like to publish the last part (s)cream for us but I really don’t want to rush it and spoil everything!
What about Aerion x cousin!reader x Valarr where she brings back dragons (is literally daenerys). The most smart choice is for her to marry Valarr and become queen but ofc Aerion is OBSESSED.
Ok, so in Scream for us part2 at the end reader was spared by Aerion and Valarr. Is it intentional?? like the reader now knows the killer (their faces). Did they threaten her to k*ll her if she reports. Or did they make a video of their previous night activity to threaten they will leak it.
What abt their victims why do they kill them or do they k*ll after using them?
Omg I love these kind of asks !!! Please send me more I love adding more lore and answering your questions <33
So yes, it is intentional!
To begin with, they absolutely know what they’re doing. As Targaryens, they’re so powerful, and they’re used to have control over everything. They can have whatever they want, and on top of that, they’re both really attractive, which makes it even easier for them to get what they want.
The thing is, Reader became their new favorite toy. At first, she was supposed to be just another victim at the Halloween party, but then they ended up hooking up instead. Also, the way she is handling things is very different from what they were expecting at first. She’s actually really smart and not the typical cliché victim who cry and beg to not get killed and who then gets killed immediately. That alone made them curious about her because she is different
They were also expecting her to completely freak out and panic when she saw Irina’s condition, but girlie was just thinking about getting fucked and genuinely didn’t care, lmao. So… she’s not exactly mentally stable either.. Unfortunately, I can’t say much more about that because it would spoil the next chapters. 🙂↕️🙂↕️
As for why they aren’t worried about Reader exposing them :
the boys know exactly how big their influence is and the privilege they have. They know that if Reader were to speak up, everything would turn against her.
First, she has no proof of what she is saying
Second, she’s a transfer student.
Third, she’s broke, lmao. Like her costume was paid by her bestie
And then there’s the biggest problem: how exactly do you explain to the police that you willingly had sex with both of them? She wasn’t forced or raped, she consented, she agreed. And on top of that, she didn’t even try to help Irina??
So no one would take her seriously. The press would absolutely get involved, she’d be accused of lying, and her entire life would be ruined. That’s why they don’t even bother threatening her because they already know she’ll keep quiet.
And as hinted at the end of the chapter… she hasn’t exactly learned her lesson. She already wants to get her back blown out again (me too girl, me too sigh)
As for your second question, they kill purely for entertainment. It makes them feel powerful, and they know they’re protected enough that nothing will happen to them. They’re both unstable, but in different ways but still quite simular actually
Valarr is the strategist of the duo. He’s the one making the phone calls, choosing the victims, planning everything in advance, and he’s deeply into torture. He’s cold, calculating, and honestly a freaking psycho
Aerion, on the other side, is much more impulsive. He’s still a genius and usually calm, but he enjoys the game itself. He likes stalking his victims, terrifying them, watching the fear in their eyes, and hearing them beg. That’s what really excites him about the killing, and knowing that no ones can stop them.
Btw just saw that we are 300 here omg!! Tysm guys <33 do not hesitate to send asks, I love to answer them 🫶🏻
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ Ghostface!aerion x reader x ghostface!valarr
This work contains : SMUT and a lot of triggering things so read at you own risk
summary : With the end of exams at King’s Landing University comes a wave of brutal student murders, leaving the city drowning in fear and rumors. But when Tybolt Lannister throws a lavish Halloween party to distract the elite of the campus, the killers seize the perfect opportunity to turn the night into chaos — especially after setting their sights on you.
Tw : This is straight up porn, and filthy omg…they are freaky asf, they should seek therapy as well.. so blowjob (2x) oral (m. Receiving), doggy, Slight voyeurism lmao? Multiple orgasms, breeding kink, murder, etc.. Wc : 4721
Part 1 : here
Aerion’s grunts were the only sounds filling the room—or perhaps simply the only sounds you were able to hear at this moment. Every ragged breath and every low groan that managed to slip past his lips while your wet, yet skilled tongue traced the prominent, oh-so-pretty vein along his length was only encouraging you further. The small iron ball adorning your tongue was creating a striking contrast, as the cool metal was gliding against the warmth of your mouth with each slow, deliberate, practiced lick.
You were still on your knees before him, your skin already slightly reddened by the carpet burns you had earned only moments earlier. At the moment, however, they were the least of your concerns. You were far too absorbed in your task to pay them any mind, your hands firmly anchored around his hips as though afraid he might push you away before you got the chance to swallow every last drop while tending to him.
Your heart was pounding so violently with anxious anticipation, so loudly within your chest that you wondered whether he could hear it over the uneven rhythm of his own breathing?
Were you pleasuring him enough?
Or
What if he did not like it?
After a long moment, curiosity finally drew your gaze away from your traitorous thoughts and upward.
And damn…
The sight before you was fucking gorgeous.
There he was.
Aerion’s head had fallen back slightly, his throat exposed as his jaw hung open in a desperate attempt to keep any further sounds from escaping and shattering the fearsome image of the Targaryen he insisted on maintaining. From your position, you could not see his face clearly, but yet it was not that difficult to imagine his eyes squeezed shut, his lashes resting against flushed cheeks while his lips were parted and restrained groans the only sounds escaping him despite every effort to contain them.
The guy who so often carried himself with cold arrogance was nowhere to be found.
Instead, he looked almost undone, the carefully cultivated composure he wore like armor was finally beginning to splinter before your very eyes.
His fingers were buried deep within your hair—the wig had been scattered in a corner of the room— no longer guiding you with deliberate control but simply holding on, tightening and relaxing in unconscious rhythm whenever another wave of pleasure overtook him. The muscles along his jaw flexing as you were watching him swallow hard as though he was fighting a battle —that he was probably losing it seems— against himself.
Each line of his body had grown with restraint, His shoulders tensing, his breathing that was shallow and uneven, and more than once you could catch the subtle twitch of his hips before he mastered himself again. It was obvious he was desperately clinging to whatever little self-control that was remaining, so determined not to surrender to you too soon.
Seeing him like this—stripped of his usual confidence and betrayed by every involuntary reaction—filled you with a certain quiet satisfaction and discarded the previous questions playing in loop in your head. It was a rare thing indeed to witness the Aerion Targaryen relinquish even a fraction of his control, and rarer still to know that you, alone were capable of drawing such reactions from him.
“Fuck—” he pushed your head back, away from his fully hard and now wet cock, trying to catch his breath and regain a little control before speaking.
The sudden distance caught you off guard, and a soft, protesting whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.
You looked up at him, your eyes still glossy from trying to take him moments earlier.
The sound seemed to pull him from his thoughts.
Slowly, his usual sneer returned, curling across his handsome face as he realized what had just happened—or rather, what he had managed to coax out of you.
A low, mocking laugh slipped past his lips.
His hand came up to cup your jaw, his grip firm but unhurried, tilting your face toward him.
The corner of his mouth lifted into an amused smirk as he studied your expression, clearly savoring every second of your reaction.
“Nuh-uh, sweet girl… My seed cannot be wasted here.” Even then, even as he was clearly trying to regain control of himself, that familiar confidence still lingered in his voice, that same mocking arrogance, the infuriating certainty in his voice, that is when the realization settled over you almost instantly, The way you had almost forgotten that he was toying with you. They were toying with you. And you were just another toy in their hands—one they had yet to break.
but…
Some toys are meant to be far more difficult to break than others, no?
You remained silent for a moment, still flushed and slightly dazed, your attention fixed entirely on him. You found yourself hanging on every word that left his lips. Every subtle crack in his voice, every fleeting sign that, despite all his composure, you had managed to affect him.
There was something strangely satisfying about it.
Because Aerion spent so much of his time hiding behind cutting remarks and cold expressions that witnessing even the slightest fracture in that carefully crafted façade felt almost unreal.
And for just a moment, you wondered whether he realized you’d noticed it too.
You were flushed and dazed, your eyes fixed on him as though you couldn’t bear to look anywhere else. Your lips parted as you swallowed hard, silently waiting for him to decide what came next.
“Get on the bed.” he marked a pause as he pointed the same bed, where valarr had given you the best cunni of your life, the sheets wrinkled from your previous utilisation..
“On all fours. We don’t want Valarr to miss the show, huh?” A mocking pout across his face as the coolness of his ring put you back to your senses when his fingers came across your lips to wipe away the remaining of his pre release.. “You’re going to be a good girl for him, yeah?” he gave a small nod toward his cousin, as the teasing words left his lips.
Your gaze followed.
Valarr was still sitting in the small velvet armchair, watching the two of you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His eyes never left you, still filled with an hunger that was almost unnerving.
It was only after a few seconds that you noticed the blood, that was coating his hands. A dark smear stained his forehead too—he must have absentmindedly wiped his face with the same bloodied fingers.
Hot.
The sight should have horrified you. Putting you back to your senses, waking you up from your trance. It did not. Instead you found yourself staring, but only for a few seconds, because then something else registered.
The room had fallen quiet.
And this is the moment it registered.
Irina.
The muffled sobs had stopped, Completely and probably since long minutes now.. The realization struck you like a blow, the girl was dead.
Your stomach tightened at the realisation, this was your occasion, to run away from them, they were distracted, you would have just enough time to escape right?
but no, your gaze drifted back to Aerion. You couldn´t care if there was a corpse in the same room at you, or rather you decided to put the realisation in stand-by. You would deal with that shit later.
You gave a small nod in response to his ordee before obediently climbing back onto the bed, settling into the position he had asked for.
You were bracing yourself against the mattress as you could hear the footsteps approaching the bed. Your panties had been previously ripped away, and the position you were in, was leaving you terribly vulnerable. Your bare cunt was already wet, still coated with the remnants of the pretty cousin’s spit —that was comfortably sat across the room— mixed with your own arousal.
You probably did not need any preparation, but still.
Aerion was in a good mood tonight and it seems that he did not wish to break you too quickly. He enjoyed toying with you.
At last, you felt the mattress dip behind you, followed by the warmth of his presence along your back, quickly followed by the direct brushing of his hard cock against your folds, teasing you with nothing more than the tip, but still enough to tear a sharp gasp from your lips.
So sensitive
A low grunt escaped him at the sight of your cunt tightening around nothing. His hand came down against one of your cheeks with a sharp slap, drawing another helpless whimper from you and only deepening your arousal.
“Fuck— look at this pretty pussy…, she can’t wait for me to fill her with my babies huh?” he hissed sharply as the tip circled your soaked folds with deliberate slowness, his voice rough enough to send another shiver through your body.
You were not a virgin, though neither were you particularly experienced. But, you knew your way around pleasure, and more importantly, you knew how to leave a lasting impression on a man. Yet somehow, every filthy word leaving Aerion’s lips unraveled that confidence piece by piece.
The praise.
The possessiveness.
The way he spoke as though your every reaction belonged to him alone.
It was all sent straight to your head.
You did not want to disappoint Aerion. Nor Valarr, who remained comfortably seated across the room, watching the two of you with the unwavering patience of a predator waiting for the perfect moment to attack its prey. His deep eyes following every little twitch of your body, every uneven breath, every involuntary reaction that betrayed your mounting anticipation.
Knowing you were being watched only made your cheeks burn hotter.
You could feel the weight of both their gazes upon you, and despite the embarrassment curling in your stomach, you found yourself craving their approval more than you cared to admit.
Your fingers tightened against the sheets beneath you.
You nodded eagerly, almost instinctively, your breathing growing shallower as your body trembled with anticipation. Your pulse hammered in your ears, and every passing heartbeat seemed to stretch the wait a little longer.
Impatience settled deep within you, leaving you tense with expectation as you waited for the one thing that refused to come quickly enough.
“Aerion…” you moaned, shifting your hips toward him in a desperate attempt to create more friction, to finally have him inside you. But unfortunately the attempt earned you nothing more than another low, mocking sound from him.
His index finger was brushing between your folds, parting them with a deliberate slowness as he took in the mess you were. “Please…” you breathed desperately and your voice cracked when he made no movements. “Please… please…”
The words were falling from your lips before you could stop them, each plea more desperate than the last. You hadn’t even realized tears had begun to spill down your cheeks and ruining your mascara.
Your body was trembling and aching with need, every second stretching into an endless loop.
You needed him and the emptiness was becoming almost unbearable.
You didn’t see the slight tilt of his head at your whine, but you felt his hands gently caress the curve of your ass before pecking gently the redness caused by his slaps. The tenderness of the gesture caught you completely off guard and didn’t fail to send butterflies straight to your belly.
“What is it, pretty girl?” he murmured, almost whispered, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Want the dragon to fuck you?”
Your body clenched involuntarily at the adjective he had used to describe himself.
It wasn’t exactly surprising.
Everyone knew the Targaryens descended from royalty. Their ancestors were said to have ridden dragons and rule the skies and even now their family’s sigil still bore the famous three-headed dragon.
Aerion, however, had always taken that legacy far more seriously than most.
Around campus, it was almost common knowledge that he had developed something of an obsession with the mythical creatures, weaving them into his identity with the same confidence—and arrogance—that seemed to define everything he did.
You only nodded in response to his question, but the sharp slap he delivered to your cunt a second later was enough to remind you that a nod wasn’t the answer he wanted.
He expected words. Not silent obedience, that would be too easy..
“Yes! Yes! Yes, please!” He scoffs teasingly at your nods and the desperation in your voice. Before bending over you to whisper in your ear.
“That’s my good girl,” he cooed, the praise washing over you before finally guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance. He paused just long enough to watch your body tremble in anticipation. Then, in one smooth thrust, he buried himself inside you.
A loud, utterly obscene moan tore from your throat as the sudden fullness stole the air from your lungs. Aerion could only hiss sharply through his teeth, at the tightness around his length.
“Fuck…” Your walls had clenched around him so fast, gripping him so tightly that it was taking him every ounce of restraint he possessed not to lose himself then and there.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved. You simply stayed there, impaled on him, your body struggling to adjust to his size while his fingers dug into your hips. Then he began to move.
Slowly at first.
Drawing almost all the way out before thrusting back into you with deliberate, measured strokes that only made your moans louder. You forced your eyes open, searching for Valarr once more. He was still seated in the velvet armchair.
Watching.
His eyes never leaving the two of you, every thrust reflected in his hungry gaze. But the bulge straining against his trousers, he was trying to conceal was impossible to ignore now. Whatever composure he had managed to hold onto was slipping.
Finally, he stood. Without taking his eyes off you, he began walking toward the bed. You fought to keep your eyes open despite the pleasure threatening to overwhelm you, desperate to see what Valarr was going to do next.
Your mouth fell open in a silent O, every breath catching in your throat. The position Aerion had bent you into was allowing every thrust to reach a place your own fingers had never been able to. You had thought he was already impossibly deep but it seems that you were wrong.
Without any warning, one of his hands slid to the small of your back, his touch surprisingly steady as he guided your body into an even deeper arch. Your spine curved instinctively beneath his palm creating an immediate new angle.
“Oh—fuck!” the broken gasp had escaped you before you could swallow it back. The cry came out higher than you intended, your fingers clutching at the sheets as your entire body reacted to the new position. It felt different. Much better, sharper and mostly deeper.
Every movement seemed to find the same spot again and again, leaving your legs trembling beneath you. Aerion noticed. A smug chuckle rumbled low in his chest as he watched the effect he was having on you, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your hips whenever your body threatened to give out beneath him.
The rhythmic slap of skin echoed through the room, accompanied by your uneven breaths and the shameless sounds neither of you made any attempt to hide.
It was so loud and obscene. The kind of noise that would have made you hide your face in embarrassment under any other circumstance. The same kind you could only hear in porn..
You were arching your back further, chasing him instinctively as his name spilled from your lips again and again, each repetition more breathless than the last. For those few moments, the rest of the room simply ceased to exist.
Even Valarr.
Because you didn’t notice him rising from the velvet armchair. Didn’t hear the quiet rustle of fabric as he approached.
Your entire world had narrowed to Aerion. To the sound of his breathing. To the weight and heat of his hands. To the way his eyes remained fixed on you, as though he were determined to memorize every expression crossing your face. It wasn’t until something warm brushed gently against your cheek that your thoughts finally broke apart.
You blinked, dazed.
Valarr was standing beside the bed now. Just infront of you, his expression was so cold and his jaw clenched as he looked down at you in complete silence, his gaze impossibly intent, studying you with the same quiet patience he always seemed to possess.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest smile. Using the tip of his cock, he lightly traced the curve of your cheek before letting it linger against your lower lip.
Your lips parted instinctively. His smile widened by only a fraction before he slowly guided himself into the warmth of your waiting mouth, never breaking eye contact with you for a single second.
The feeling was so overwhelming.
If someone had told you, that you would end up like this—your lips wrapping around Valarr’s cock while Aerion’s hips drove into you from behind—you would have laughed in their face before promptly blocking them.
The scenario would have sounded utterly ridiculous and Impossible…
And yet…Here you were.
Reality had long since stopped making sense. You have decided to just enjoy the moment.
Your mind had now become a haze of broken thoughts and scattered sensations, each one bleeding into the next until you could no longer tell where one ended and another began.
Every breath that escaped your nose sent warm vibrations along Valarr’s length, drawing quiet groans from him that only encouraged you further. His fingers threaded through your hair with surprising restraint, never forcing you, merely guiding you as his eyes remained fixed on your face, unwilling to miss a single expression, while behind you, Aerion never once slowed.
His relentless thrusts rocking your entire body forward, making it nearly impossible to maintain any rhythm of your own. Every snap of his hips was stealing any other breath from your lungs, leaving your vision blurry as pleasure continued to build until it became almost unbearable.
Your fingers tightened around the rumpled sheets.
You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. At the moment you were just their little fuck toy.
It was getting hard to focus on anything except the overwhelming sensation of being surrounded by them.
It didn’t take many more muffled groans before Valarr’s composure finally cracked. He had been on the edge for what felt like an eternity, and his restraint had worn dangerously thin the past seconds. Watching you like this—completely fucked out, caught between the two of them, Every reaction and expressions unfolding right in front of him—proved to be the final push he needed.
Aerion had been sensing his own release drawing closer as well. But rather than losing control, he had managed to remain deliberate in his thrusts, determined to prolong the moment for as long as he could. What could he do? The moans coming from your lips, muffled by his cousin cock, and your pretty cunt keeping his cock so warm and so tight was one of the best feeling the blonde ever felt.
But he wanted you to cum with him, with them.
He reached between your bodies without breaking the steady rhythm of his movements, his hand finding your throbbing bud with a practiced ease. His touch was precise and unhurried, almost teasing, because he knew exactly how close you already were and intended to keep you suspended there just a little longer before allowing you to fall apart.
At last, the curtain of pleasure finally fell over you.
The orgasm crashed through your body with such force that it felt as though your mind had gone completely blank, every coherent thought melting away beneath wave after wave of overwhelming sensation.
Valarr finally came with a deep, restrained groan.
The warmth was filling your mouth as his body was gradually relaxing as well, his cock softening as he slowly withdrew from your mouth. For a brief moment, he simply looked down at you, his eyes searching yours with a quiet expectation. No need for him to say a word, because you knew what was expected of you, you knew what he wanted you to do.
And without any ounce of hesitation, you swallowed, your gaze never leaving his.
He granted you a small, satisfied smile as the praise came out
“So perfect…”
He gave a subtle nod of approval before adjusting his clothes with the same composed elegance he seemed to carry even after completely losing himself only moments earlier. Whereas Aerion’s breathing had grown even more uneven.
His groans had reached your ears in broken, breathless intervals before he finally buried himself as deeply as he could, releasing inside you with a sharp hiss through clenched teeth.
His movements slowed into lazy, lingering thrusts as he rode out the last of his pleasure and yours, his forehead resting briefly between your shoulder blades while he struggled to steady his breathing and regain composure. Before he started kissing your back gently like a devoted lover.
And you wish you could have stopped your heart from pounding that hard in your chest. Because this was going to end… and you didn’t want to. Your brief moment of thinking was interrupted by the feeling of his large hands drifting over your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly stroking the skin he had gripped so tightly moments before. As if he was feeling guilty.
The faint blue bruises had already begun to bloom beneath his fingertips but you barely noticed them. Or rather felt them.
The adrenaline and endorphins flooding your body dulled any hint of pain and that shit would come later. For now, all you felt was the exhaustion.
Your arms finally gave out beneath you. With a quiet, defeated sigh, you collapsed face-first onto the rumpled sheets, every muscle in your body refusing to obey another command.
You ached everywhere. But It was the pleasant sort of ache that only left you feeling impossibly heavy.
Aerion withdrew a moment later before letting himself fall onto the mattress beside you with a tired exhale. He lay there for a few seconds, simply watching you, the usual arrogance in his expression softened by something quieter. Perhaps it was the exhaustion that was playing with your senses but he almost look tender than usual.
“Such a good girl for us, huh?” His voice was little more than a murmur. “You did so good, baby.” His praise only filled you with this pleasant heat in your belly, Before the last thing you felt before sleep claimed you was the gentle press of Aerion’s lips against your forehead.
Then, with the warmth of his body beside yours, exhaustion finally won and darkness welcomed you into its embrace.
You woke to the dull throb of a splitting headache. Your eyes fixed on the unfamiliar ceiling above you, your thoughts sluggish, drifting in and out of consciousness as though your mind refused to fully wake. Your limbs and your eyelids felt so heavy. Even your breathing.
And the silence of the room was unsettling. Not a single sounds to be heard.. Only the faint crackle of a dying fire somewhere in the room and the rhythmic ticking of an antique but expensive clock.
You slowly pushed yourself upright. The movement sending another pulse of pain through your skull, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut.
“…Fuck. I’m never drinking again..” finally the dizziness finally settled and you were able to took in your surroundings. The room was huge. Like fucking huge.
Dark oak paneling covered the walls, interrupted only by shelves lined with leather-bound books and portraits whose painted eyes seemed almost alive in the morning light. Heavy crimson curtains framed floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing only thin ribbons of pale sunlight to spill across the polished wooden floor. A fireplace, large enough to warm an entire hall, occupied one side of the room, with its embers still glowing faintly.
Everywhere you looked, the dragons were watching you over the room. Aerion’s room probably you thought.
It was elegant. Perhaps a bit old for you, but it had potential. You finally noticed that your costume was gone. The orange wig had disappeared a long time ago and your makeup had been carefully washed away.
Someone had changed your clothes while you slept, dressing you in an oversized black shirt that smelled faintly of expensive cologne, and something unmistakably familiar. That confirmed once again where you were. You hissed and cursed when the lingering dull ache between your legs started to hit you and when you noticed the bruises beginning to bloom across your hips.
What kind of marking was that??
The soreness that settled into every muscle whenever you shifted. None of it had been a dream. The memories returned with a merciless clarity. The party. The Ghostface mask. You almost cursed your past-self for not asking them to keep the mask on while they were fucking you…perhaps for another time then?
And… that is also when you remembered Irina. And you surprised your own self because you actually don’t really cared about her like she wasn’t that kind anyway so..
Your gaze wandered across the room again, searching for anything familiar. Your phone was resting neatly on the bedside table, placed there with almost unsettling care.
They had probably wanted you to find it. They knew you wouldn’t say anything. You reached for it and the screen lit up instantly. Twenty-four missed calls and every single one were coming from Syra. Several unread messages following.
Babe where tf are you?
Please answer.
I’m so worried please just tell me you are fine..
A sharp pang of guilt settled in your chest. She must have spent the entire night searching for you. Your fingers moved before your thoughts caught up. You quickly wrote an apology telling her you would explain everything later.
Your eyes then wandered to another notification sliding across your screen.
Breaking News.
Your thumb hovered above it. You already knew what was coming
Still…
You tapped the notification and the red headline filled your screen.
IRINA LANNISTER FOUND BRUTALLY MURDERED IN HER BEDROOM DURING HER OWN HALLOWEEN PARTY.
Your heart was pounding so fast. It was real, it had happened. It wasn’t a stupid scenario you had made under the influence of alcohol.
You kept reading.
According to investigators, the victim had likely been separated from the other guests sometime during the evening. Witnesses reported hearing nothing unusual over the deafening music. Police believed the murder had taken place only a short distance away from hundreds of partygoers.
The killer had vanished without leaving any obvious trace. The article continued beneath the headline. The police had already detained Tybolt for questioning after multiple witnesses claimed they had seen him arguing with Irina earlier that night.
An obvious suspect and very convenient.
You let out a hollow laugh. It almost sounded hysterical. They had no idea.
Not just one but two killers actually.
Two guy whose family basically owned the country. No one would ever suspect them. Or rather who would dare to accuse the Targaryens anyway?
Your eyes wandered for another notification but nothing. Not even a threat from the boys.. as if they knew that you would hold your tongue. And they were right indeed because you had never seriously considered going to the police.
You held no proofs against them, it was your word against theirs. And how would you explain to the officers that you were getting fucked by the killers while the victim was agonizing beside you?
For the first time since waking, you realized something far more frightening than the murders themselves. You had walked into their trap and they had allowed you to walk back out. So why were you considering walking right back in?
A:n : sooo there will be a bonus because I think this ending is sooo shitty! Anyway I hope you guys liked it <33
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ Ghostface!aerion x reader x ghostface!valarr
This work contains : SMUT and a lot of triggering things so read at you own risk
summary : With the end of exams at King’s Landing University comes a wave of brutal student murders, leaving the city drowning in fear and rumors. But when Tybolt Lannister throws a lavish Halloween party to distract the elite of the campus, the killers seize the perfect opportunity to turn the night into chaos — especially after setting their sights on you.
Tw : This is straight up porn, and filthy omg…they are freaky asf, they should seek therapy as well.. so blowjob (2x) oral (m. Receiving), doggy, Slight voyeurism lmao? Multiple orgasms, breeding kink, murder, etc.. Wc : 4721
Part 1 : here
Aerion’s grunts were the only sounds filling the room—or perhaps simply the only sounds you were able to hear at this moment. Every ragged breath and every low groan that managed to slip past his lips while your wet, yet skilled tongue traced the prominent, oh-so-pretty vein along his length was only encouraging you further. The small iron ball adorning your tongue was creating a striking contrast, as the cool metal was gliding against the warmth of your mouth with each slow, deliberate, practiced lick.
You were still on your knees before him, your skin already slightly reddened by the carpet burns you had earned only moments earlier. At the moment, however, they were the least of your concerns. You were far too absorbed in your task to pay them any mind, your hands firmly anchored around his hips as though afraid he might push you away before you got the chance to swallow every last drop while tending to him.
Your heart was pounding so violently with anxious anticipation, so loudly within your chest that you wondered whether he could hear it over the uneven rhythm of his own breathing?
Were you pleasuring him enough?
Or
What if he did not like it?
After a long moment, curiosity finally drew your gaze away from your traitorous thoughts and upward.
And damn…
The sight before you was fucking gorgeous.
There he was.
Aerion’s head had fallen back slightly, his throat exposed as his jaw hung open in a desperate attempt to keep any further sounds from escaping and shattering the fearsome image of the Targaryen he insisted on maintaining. From your position, you could not see his face clearly, but yet it was not that difficult to imagine his eyes squeezed shut, his lashes resting against flushed cheeks while his lips were parted and restrained groans the only sounds escaping him despite every effort to contain them.
The guy who so often carried himself with cold arrogance was nowhere to be found.
Instead, he looked almost undone, the carefully cultivated composure he wore like armor was finally beginning to splinter before your very eyes.
His fingers were buried deep within your hair—the wig had been scattered in a corner of the room— no longer guiding you with deliberate control but simply holding on, tightening and relaxing in unconscious rhythm whenever another wave of pleasure overtook him. The muscles along his jaw flexing as you were watching him swallow hard as though he was fighting a battle —that he was probably losing it seems— against himself.
Each line of his body had grown with restraint, His shoulders tensing, his breathing that was shallow and uneven, and more than once you could catch the subtle twitch of his hips before he mastered himself again. It was obvious he was desperately clinging to whatever little self-control that was remaining, so determined not to surrender to you too soon.
Seeing him like this—stripped of his usual confidence and betrayed by every involuntary reaction—filled you with a certain quiet satisfaction and discarded the previous questions playing in loop in your head. It was a rare thing indeed to witness the Aerion Targaryen relinquish even a fraction of his control, and rarer still to know that you, alone were capable of drawing such reactions from him.
“Fuck—” he pushed your head back, away from his fully hard and now wet cock, trying to catch his breath and regain a little control before speaking.
The sudden distance caught you off guard, and a soft, protesting whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.
You looked up at him, your eyes still glossy from trying to take him moments earlier.
The sound seemed to pull him from his thoughts.
Slowly, his usual sneer returned, curling across his handsome face as he realized what had just happened—or rather, what he had managed to coax out of you.
A low, mocking laugh slipped past his lips.
His hand came up to cup your jaw, his grip firm but unhurried, tilting your face toward him.
The corner of his mouth lifted into an amused smirk as he studied your expression, clearly savoring every second of your reaction.
“Nuh-uh, sweet girl… My seed cannot be wasted here.” Even then, even as he was clearly trying to regain control of himself, that familiar confidence still lingered in his voice, that same mocking arrogance, the infuriating certainty in his voice, that is when the realization settled over you almost instantly, The way you had almost forgotten that he was toying with you. They were toying with you. And you were just another toy in their hands—one they had yet to break.
but…
Some toys are meant to be far more difficult to break than others, no?
You remained silent for a moment, still flushed and slightly dazed, your attention fixed entirely on him. You found yourself hanging on every word that left his lips. Every subtle crack in his voice, every fleeting sign that, despite all his composure, you had managed to affect him.
There was something strangely satisfying about it.
Because Aerion spent so much of his time hiding behind cutting remarks and cold expressions that witnessing even the slightest fracture in that carefully crafted façade felt almost unreal.
And for just a moment, you wondered whether he realized you’d noticed it too.
You were flushed and dazed, your eyes fixed on him as though you couldn’t bear to look anywhere else. Your lips parted as you swallowed hard, silently waiting for him to decide what came next.
“Get on the bed.” he marked a pause as he pointed the same bed, where valarr had given you the best cunni of your life, the sheets wrinkled from your previous utilisation..
“On all fours. We don’t want Valarr to miss the show, huh?” A mocking pout across his face as the coolness of his ring put you back to your senses when his fingers came across your lips to wipe away the remaining of his pre release.. “You’re going to be a good girl for him, yeah?” he gave a small nod toward his cousin, as the teasing words left his lips.
Your gaze followed.
Valarr was still sitting in the small velvet armchair, watching the two of you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His eyes never left you, still filled with an hunger that was almost unnerving.
It was only after a few seconds that you noticed the blood, that was coating his hands. A dark smear stained his forehead too—he must have absentmindedly wiped his face with the same bloodied fingers.
Hot.
The sight should have horrified you. Putting you back to your senses, waking you up from your trance. It did not. Instead you found yourself staring, but only for a few seconds, because then something else registered.
The room had fallen quiet.
And this is the moment it registered.
Irina.
The muffled sobs had stopped, Completely and probably since long minutes now.. The realization struck you like a blow, the girl was dead.
Your stomach tightened at the realisation, this was your occasion, to run away from them, they were distracted, you would have just enough time to escape right?
but no, your gaze drifted back to Aerion. You couldn´t care if there was a corpse in the same room at you, or rather you decided to put the realisation in stand-by. You would deal with that shit later.
You gave a small nod in response to his ordee before obediently climbing back onto the bed, settling into the position he had asked for.
You were bracing yourself against the mattress as you could hear the footsteps approaching the bed. Your panties had been previously ripped away, and the position you were in, was leaving you terribly vulnerable. Your bare cunt was already wet, still coated with the remnants of the pretty cousin’s spit —that was comfortably sat across the room— mixed with your own arousal.
You probably did not need any preparation, but still.
Aerion was in a good mood tonight and it seems that he did not wish to break you too quickly. He enjoyed toying with you.
At last, you felt the mattress dip behind you, followed by the warmth of his presence along your back, quickly followed by the direct brushing of his hard cock against your folds, teasing you with nothing more than the tip, but still enough to tear a sharp gasp from your lips.
So sensitive
A low grunt escaped him at the sight of your cunt tightening around nothing. His hand came down against one of your cheeks with a sharp slap, drawing another helpless whimper from you and only deepening your arousal.
“Fuck— look at this pretty pussy…, she can’t wait for me to fill her with my babies huh?” he hissed sharply as the tip circled your soaked folds with deliberate slowness, his voice rough enough to send another shiver through your body.
You were not a virgin, though neither were you particularly experienced. But, you knew your way around pleasure, and more importantly, you knew how to leave a lasting impression on a man. Yet somehow, every filthy word leaving Aerion’s lips unraveled that confidence piece by piece.
The praise.
The possessiveness.
The way he spoke as though your every reaction belonged to him alone.
It was all sent straight to your head.
You did not want to disappoint Aerion. Nor Valarr, who remained comfortably seated across the room, watching the two of you with the unwavering patience of a predator waiting for the perfect moment to attack its prey. His deep eyes following every little twitch of your body, every uneven breath, every involuntary reaction that betrayed your mounting anticipation.
Knowing you were being watched only made your cheeks burn hotter.
You could feel the weight of both their gazes upon you, and despite the embarrassment curling in your stomach, you found yourself craving their approval more than you cared to admit.
Your fingers tightened against the sheets beneath you.
You nodded eagerly, almost instinctively, your breathing growing shallower as your body trembled with anticipation. Your pulse hammered in your ears, and every passing heartbeat seemed to stretch the wait a little longer.
Impatience settled deep within you, leaving you tense with expectation as you waited for the one thing that refused to come quickly enough.
“Aerion…” you moaned, shifting your hips toward him in a desperate attempt to create more friction, to finally have him inside you. But unfortunately the attempt earned you nothing more than another low, mocking sound from him.
His index finger was brushing between your folds, parting them with a deliberate slowness as he took in the mess you were. “Please…” you breathed desperately and your voice cracked when he made no movements. “Please… please…”
The words were falling from your lips before you could stop them, each plea more desperate than the last. You hadn’t even realized tears had begun to spill down your cheeks and ruining your mascara.
Your body was trembling and aching with need, every second stretching into an endless loop.
You needed him and the emptiness was becoming almost unbearable.
You didn’t see the slight tilt of his head at your whine, but you felt his hands gently caress the curve of your ass before pecking gently the redness caused by his slaps. The tenderness of the gesture caught you completely off guard and didn’t fail to send butterflies straight to your belly.
“What is it, pretty girl?” he murmured, almost whispered, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Want the dragon to fuck you?”
Your body clenched involuntarily at the adjective he had used to describe himself.
It wasn’t exactly surprising.
Everyone knew the Targaryens descended from royalty. Their ancestors were said to have ridden dragons and rule the skies and even now their family’s sigil still bore the famous three-headed dragon.
Aerion, however, had always taken that legacy far more seriously than most.
Around campus, it was almost common knowledge that he had developed something of an obsession with the mythical creatures, weaving them into his identity with the same confidence—and arrogance—that seemed to define everything he did.
You only nodded in response to his question, but the sharp slap he delivered to your cunt a second later was enough to remind you that a nod wasn’t the answer he wanted.
He expected words. Not silent obedience, that would be too easy..
“Yes! Yes! Yes, please!” He scoffs teasingly at your nods and the desperation in your voice. Before bending over you to whisper in your ear.
“That’s my good girl,” he cooed, the praise washing over you before finally guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance. He paused just long enough to watch your body tremble in anticipation. Then, in one smooth thrust, he buried himself inside you.
A loud, utterly obscene moan tore from your throat as the sudden fullness stole the air from your lungs. Aerion could only hiss sharply through his teeth, at the tightness around his length.
“Fuck…” Your walls had clenched around him so fast, gripping him so tightly that it was taking him every ounce of restraint he possessed not to lose himself then and there.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved. You simply stayed there, impaled on him, your body struggling to adjust to his size while his fingers dug into your hips. Then he began to move.
Slowly at first.
Drawing almost all the way out before thrusting back into you with deliberate, measured strokes that only made your moans louder. You forced your eyes open, searching for Valarr once more. He was still seated in the velvet armchair.
Watching.
His eyes never leaving the two of you, every thrust reflected in his hungry gaze. But the bulge straining against his trousers, he was trying to conceal was impossible to ignore now. Whatever composure he had managed to hold onto was slipping.
Finally, he stood. Without taking his eyes off you, he began walking toward the bed. You fought to keep your eyes open despite the pleasure threatening to overwhelm you, desperate to see what Valarr was going to do next.
Your mouth fell open in a silent O, every breath catching in your throat. The position Aerion had bent you into was allowing every thrust to reach a place your own fingers had never been able to. You had thought he was already impossibly deep but it seems that you were wrong.
Without any warning, one of his hands slid to the small of your back, his touch surprisingly steady as he guided your body into an even deeper arch. Your spine curved instinctively beneath his palm creating an immediate new angle.
“Oh—fuck!” the broken gasp had escaped you before you could swallow it back. The cry came out higher than you intended, your fingers clutching at the sheets as your entire body reacted to the new position. It felt different. Much better, sharper and mostly deeper.
Every movement seemed to find the same spot again and again, leaving your legs trembling beneath you. Aerion noticed. A smug chuckle rumbled low in his chest as he watched the effect he was having on you, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your hips whenever your body threatened to give out beneath him.
The rhythmic slap of skin echoed through the room, accompanied by your uneven breaths and the shameless sounds neither of you made any attempt to hide.
It was so loud and obscene. The kind of noise that would have made you hide your face in embarrassment under any other circumstance. The same kind you could only hear in porn..
You were arching your back further, chasing him instinctively as his name spilled from your lips again and again, each repetition more breathless than the last. For those few moments, the rest of the room simply ceased to exist.
Even Valarr.
Because you didn’t notice him rising from the velvet armchair. Didn’t hear the quiet rustle of fabric as he approached.
Your entire world had narrowed to Aerion. To the sound of his breathing. To the weight and heat of his hands. To the way his eyes remained fixed on you, as though he were determined to memorize every expression crossing your face. It wasn’t until something warm brushed gently against your cheek that your thoughts finally broke apart.
You blinked, dazed.
Valarr was standing beside the bed now. Just infront of you, his expression was so cold and his jaw clenched as he looked down at you in complete silence, his gaze impossibly intent, studying you with the same quiet patience he always seemed to possess.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest smile. Using the tip of his cock, he lightly traced the curve of your cheek before letting it linger against your lower lip.
Your lips parted instinctively. His smile widened by only a fraction before he slowly guided himself into the warmth of your waiting mouth, never breaking eye contact with you for a single second.
The feeling was so overwhelming.
If someone had told you, that you would end up like this—your lips wrapping around Valarr’s cock while Aerion’s hips drove into you from behind—you would have laughed in their face before promptly blocking them.
The scenario would have sounded utterly ridiculous and Impossible…
And yet…Here you were.
Reality had long since stopped making sense. You have decided to just enjoy the moment.
Your mind had now become a haze of broken thoughts and scattered sensations, each one bleeding into the next until you could no longer tell where one ended and another began.
Every breath that escaped your nose sent warm vibrations along Valarr’s length, drawing quiet groans from him that only encouraged you further. His fingers threaded through your hair with surprising restraint, never forcing you, merely guiding you as his eyes remained fixed on your face, unwilling to miss a single expression, while behind you, Aerion never once slowed.
His relentless thrusts rocking your entire body forward, making it nearly impossible to maintain any rhythm of your own. Every snap of his hips was stealing any other breath from your lungs, leaving your vision blurry as pleasure continued to build until it became almost unbearable.
Your fingers tightened around the rumpled sheets.
You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. At the moment you were just their little fuck toy.
It was getting hard to focus on anything except the overwhelming sensation of being surrounded by them.
It didn’t take many more muffled groans before Valarr’s composure finally cracked. He had been on the edge for what felt like an eternity, and his restraint had worn dangerously thin the past seconds. Watching you like this—completely fucked out, caught between the two of them, Every reaction and expressions unfolding right in front of him—proved to be the final push he needed.
Aerion had been sensing his own release drawing closer as well. But rather than losing control, he had managed to remain deliberate in his thrusts, determined to prolong the moment for as long as he could. What could he do? The moans coming from your lips, muffled by his cousin cock, and your pretty cunt keeping his cock so warm and so tight was one of the best feeling the blonde ever felt.
But he wanted you to cum with him, with them.
He reached between your bodies without breaking the steady rhythm of his movements, his hand finding your throbbing bud with a practiced ease. His touch was precise and unhurried, almost teasing, because he knew exactly how close you already were and intended to keep you suspended there just a little longer before allowing you to fall apart.
At last, the curtain of pleasure finally fell over you.
The orgasm crashed through your body with such force that it felt as though your mind had gone completely blank, every coherent thought melting away beneath wave after wave of overwhelming sensation.
Valarr finally came with a deep, restrained groan.
The warmth was filling your mouth as his body was gradually relaxing as well, his cock softening as he slowly withdrew from your mouth. For a brief moment, he simply looked down at you, his eyes searching yours with a quiet expectation. No need for him to say a word, because you knew what was expected of you, you knew what he wanted you to do.
And without any ounce of hesitation, you swallowed, your gaze never leaving his.
He granted you a small, satisfied smile as the praise came out
“So perfect…”
He gave a subtle nod of approval before adjusting his clothes with the same composed elegance he seemed to carry even after completely losing himself only moments earlier. Whereas Aerion’s breathing had grown even more uneven.
His groans had reached your ears in broken, breathless intervals before he finally buried himself as deeply as he could, releasing inside you with a sharp hiss through clenched teeth.
His movements slowed into lazy, lingering thrusts as he rode out the last of his pleasure and yours, his forehead resting briefly between your shoulder blades while he struggled to steady his breathing and regain composure. Before he started kissing your back gently like a devoted lover.
And you wish you could have stopped your heart from pounding that hard in your chest. Because this was going to end… and you didn’t want to. Your brief moment of thinking was interrupted by the feeling of his large hands drifting over your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly stroking the skin he had gripped so tightly moments before. As if he was feeling guilty.
The faint blue bruises had already begun to bloom beneath his fingertips but you barely noticed them. Or rather felt them.
The adrenaline and endorphins flooding your body dulled any hint of pain and that shit would come later. For now, all you felt was the exhaustion.
Your arms finally gave out beneath you. With a quiet, defeated sigh, you collapsed face-first onto the rumpled sheets, every muscle in your body refusing to obey another command.
You ached everywhere. But It was the pleasant sort of ache that only left you feeling impossibly heavy.
Aerion withdrew a moment later before letting himself fall onto the mattress beside you with a tired exhale. He lay there for a few seconds, simply watching you, the usual arrogance in his expression softened by something quieter. Perhaps it was the exhaustion that was playing with your senses but he almost look tender than usual.
“Such a good girl for us, huh?” His voice was little more than a murmur. “You did so good, baby.” His praise only filled you with this pleasant heat in your belly, Before the last thing you felt before sleep claimed you was the gentle press of Aerion’s lips against your forehead.
Then, with the warmth of his body beside yours, exhaustion finally won and darkness welcomed you into its embrace.
You woke to the dull throb of a splitting headache. Your eyes fixed on the unfamiliar ceiling above you, your thoughts sluggish, drifting in and out of consciousness as though your mind refused to fully wake. Your limbs and your eyelids felt so heavy. Even your breathing.
And the silence of the room was unsettling. Not a single sounds to be heard.. Only the faint crackle of a dying fire somewhere in the room and the rhythmic ticking of an antique but expensive clock.
You slowly pushed yourself upright. The movement sending another pulse of pain through your skull, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut.
“…Fuck. I’m never drinking again..” finally the dizziness finally settled and you were able to took in your surroundings. The room was huge. Like fucking huge.
Dark oak paneling covered the walls, interrupted only by shelves lined with leather-bound books and portraits whose painted eyes seemed almost alive in the morning light. Heavy crimson curtains framed floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing only thin ribbons of pale sunlight to spill across the polished wooden floor. A fireplace, large enough to warm an entire hall, occupied one side of the room, with its embers still glowing faintly.
Everywhere you looked, the dragons were watching you over the room. Aerion’s room probably you thought.
It was elegant. Perhaps a bit old for you, but it had potential. You finally noticed that your costume was gone. The orange wig had disappeared a long time ago and your makeup had been carefully washed away.
Someone had changed your clothes while you slept, dressing you in an oversized black shirt that smelled faintly of expensive cologne, and something unmistakably familiar. That confirmed once again where you were. You hissed and cursed when the lingering dull ache between your legs started to hit you and when you noticed the bruises beginning to bloom across your hips.
What kind of marking was that??
The soreness that settled into every muscle whenever you shifted. None of it had been a dream. The memories returned with a merciless clarity. The party. The Ghostface mask. You almost cursed your past-self for not asking them to keep the mask on while they were fucking you…perhaps for another time then?
And… that is also when you remembered Irina. And you surprised your own self because you actually don’t really cared about her like she wasn’t that kind anyway so..
Your gaze wandered across the room again, searching for anything familiar. Your phone was resting neatly on the bedside table, placed there with almost unsettling care.
They had probably wanted you to find it. They knew you wouldn’t say anything. You reached for it and the screen lit up instantly. Twenty-four missed calls and every single one were coming from Syra. Several unread messages following.
Babe where tf are you?
Please answer.
I’m so worried please just tell me you are fine..
A sharp pang of guilt settled in your chest. She must have spent the entire night searching for you. Your fingers moved before your thoughts caught up. You quickly wrote an apology telling her you would explain everything later.
Your eyes then wandered to another notification sliding across your screen.
Breaking News.
Your thumb hovered above it. You already knew what was coming
Still…
You tapped the notification and the red headline filled your screen.
IRINA LANNISTER FOUND BRUTALLY MURDERED IN HER BEDROOM DURING HER OWN HALLOWEEN PARTY.
Your heart was pounding so fast. It was real, it had happened. It wasn’t a stupid scenario you had made under the influence of alcohol.
You kept reading.
According to investigators, the victim had likely been separated from the other guests sometime during the evening. Witnesses reported hearing nothing unusual over the deafening music. Police believed the murder had taken place only a short distance away from hundreds of partygoers.
The killer had vanished without leaving any obvious trace. The article continued beneath the headline. The police had already detained Tybolt for questioning after multiple witnesses claimed they had seen him arguing with Irina earlier that night.
An obvious suspect and very convenient.
You let out a hollow laugh. It almost sounded hysterical. They had no idea.
Not just one but two killers actually.
Two guy whose family basically owned the country. No one would ever suspect them. Or rather who would dare to accuse the Targaryens anyway?
Your eyes wandered for another notification but nothing. Not even a threat from the boys.. as if they knew that you would hold your tongue. And they were right indeed because you had never seriously considered going to the police.
You held no proofs against them, it was your word against theirs. And how would you explain to the officers that you were getting fucked by the killers while the victim was agonizing beside you?
For the first time since waking, you realized something far more frightening than the murders themselves. You had walked into their trap and they had allowed you to walk back out. So why were you considering walking right back in?
A:n : sooo there will be a bonus because I think this ending is sooo shitty! Anyway I hope you guys liked it <33
