⋆༺I Am The Blood Behind Your Teeth༻⋆
⋆｡‧˚ʚYandere!Daeron Targaryen x Reader Yandere!Aerion Targaryenɞ˚‧｡⋆
𐙚 Synopsis: He had dreamed of you before he ever met you and continued to dream of you every night since. Daeron thinks it's a cruel joke that he should fall in love with a girl raised by dragons. Aerion thinks it fitting, merely a birthright.
જ⁀➴Warnings: Yandere Behaviour, rotting used as a metaphor for pinning, Blood & gore, Obsessive & toxic romances, Cannibalism used for symbolism (but also kinda literally), platonic yandere! Baelor & Maekar, pseudo-incest (reader is adopted)
₊✩˚Notes: Skip to (⭑.── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ──๋࣭ ⭑) for reader’s entry; before that is very child Daeron-centric.
⋆.𝄞 Song: Maula Mere Maula (Roop Kumar Rathod), Flesh (Simon Curtis) and Feed (Soccer Mommy)
A thick melancholy has been permeating the Red Keep. A sanguinary sadness that lies thick in the air during the witching hours.
Maekar can feel it, the viscosity meandering in his lungs. Untimely, ripping him from his peaceful slumber.
Dragon dreams, translucent things, coiling serpents, knawing peacfully at idle brains. They haunt his eldest son, his cries reverberating against the stone walls. Maekar runs to his child’s room, flinging the door open with the disorderly strength of a warrior unmounting his adversary and kneels by Daeron’s bed. He watches the boy’s face drip with sweat and tears, muscles tense, frozen in fear.
Maekar kneels by his son’s bed, powerless to stop the child’s suffering. Head hung in defeat as he listens to the boy's tortured whimpers.
Daeron’s eyelids are heavy, weighted things. Too much strength is required to keep them open. His lilac eyes dart lazily from his uncle Baelor's mismatched irises to his grandsire's thoughtful face. He doesn’t like the small smile his namesake wears, a radiant triumph that feels like looking at the sun during midday. His father rocks him slowly, but Daeron fights the lull of sleep, he can not go back to that horrific place, he can not face that creature again.
“The grass had turned to ash, so had the wheat fields.” Daeron rambles, shrinking smaller into his father’s embrace. His grandsire leans closer. He’s too excited, too happy to hear about these dreadful dreams. Daeron takes the enthusiasm as a personal offence. A knife deliberately stabbed into his heart and twisted with malice wrapped in amusement. He closes his eyes, desperate to remember every horrific detail. To narrate his dream until the adults tremble. They should take no joy in this; there is only terror to be found. He wants them to feel his pain, his anguish. He wants to claw the pleasure from their faces and paint them in a shade of horror reflecting his.
“There really can be no doubt,” the king speaks, looking into his youngest son's eyes. An erratic relief lacing his words, “Maekar, your son is a dragon dreamer, the first oracle born since Queen Helaena Targaryen.” But Maekar can not match his father’s zeal, not when his child is in such pain. “Well, is there any bloody way to stop it?” he yells, looking desperately at his oldest brother for help. Baelor shakes his head, his own gaze anxiously fixed on his trembling nephew. “I’m afraid not, brother. Daeron’s ability is, in many ways, a blessing for House Targaryen.” The words leave Baelor’s mouth like a eulogy.
“And a curse for the bearer.” Maekar finishes.
Baelor approaches, placing a hand on his nephew's shoulder and squeezing as if he can milk the omens out of the boy. “What’s worst is…well, there is an undeniable truth to what he says. There have been sightings of serpentine giants in the farmlands. Whole flocks of sheep going missing. Crops turned to rubble.”
Baelor takes a heavy breath. Could this really be the resurgence of dragons? Could the creatures of myth whose blood runs in his own veins have been reborn into this world? But then, how come no one had absolutely seen these great giants? No definitive proof had been given for a creature whose size should rival mountains.
“No, you don’t understand!” Daeron cries, twisting in his father’s lap until he’s face-to-face with the rest of his family. “Something bad is happening, you can not be happy over this, stop smiling,” the princling pleads, the tears in his eyes rolling onto his cheeks, “please stop smiling.” His sobs are few and far between, his small body too tired to cry. “The monster was just standing there, it didn’t even look like a dragon, it was hideous and-and…and there was a girl, a little girl. She was pulling me towards it. She wouldn’t let go of me! She wanted that thing to eat me!”
There is a peculiar sort of hysteria that resides within a parent’s bones when their child of six solar cycles begins screaming about knife-like teeth stripping bones of flesh.
Maekar rubs the fatigue from his eyes. There was no doubt about it, his son was a dragon dreamer, a Targryan power long thought extinct. And yet he couldn’t help the bitter anger in his blood when he witnessed the delusional hope of dragon rebirths marring his family’s faces. Why did the potential resurrection of Wyrms rely on his son’s misery? What cruel jest was this?
It’s early in the afternoon when Maekar finally settles into a chair in his mother’s solar. Daeron had finally cried himself to sleep after two nights of fitful screams and cursed auguries spilling from the babe's lips.
Maekar watches as his mother cooes and plays with her darling grandsons, Valarr and Aerion, handing them bricks to build their tower and little strawmen to hide within it.
“The villagers say they awaken every day to their fields scorched and riddled with animal bones.” The queen starts, before meeting her son’s troubled gaze. She exhales, then smiles and leans back. “I shall miss you all terribly when you depart for Summerhall,” melancholy thick in her voice. “I miss having children. Maybe my greatest regret is having no daughters,” she laughs mirthlessly.
It is in these seconds of tranquillity that a servant girl tumbles through the door, desperate and frightened. Clutching her sides and screaming through tears for them to come to the gates immediately.
Maekar vaguly makes out the syllables spilling from her lips as he rushes for the gates.
“Monster,” Maekar repeats, as if he’s sucking on rotten candy.
⭑. ── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ──๋࣭ ⭑⭑. ── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ──๋࣭ ⭑⭑. ── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ──๋࣭ ⭑⭑. ── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ──๋࣭ ⭑
There is a cry in the air, an absolute order taking root in the world. The thunderous lilt bends the earth and skies to an unwavering demand.
The Execution must be obeyed.
The noise reverberates in the air unendingly. Its cadence, tearing the castle doors open, splintering the wood and melting the metal locks.
By the time Maekar arrives, he only catches the echo. The perpetrator of the noise is long gone. But as he casts his eyes upwards, following his parents' and brother’s gaze, he sees a shadow skybound.
Something so big and so far flapping amongst the clouds until it’s outflown their awestruck gazes.
It’s only when the shadow disappears, and the final notes of the petrified melody have finished rattling bones that the royal family cast their eyes lower…
There on the red-stained cobblestones, they see it…
A small girl, a child no older than a few solar cycles. With gore dripping down her mouth, staining her chin, and trailing down her neck. Such a small thing, little, jejune. She tilts her head to the side and gazes at the onlooking men and woman as if she’s looking at prey. Their tall statures doing little to deter the tiny predator, left on their doorstep. She hisses and grinds her teeth before lunging forward.
Daeron stands behind his father’s legs. Eyes blown wide as he looks at the tiny monster running towards him. Nails jagged, baby teeth sharp.
The little girl clutching his wrist.
A priestess to the monster.
Some strange anomaly that is neither human nor dragon.
Something that shouldn’t exist.
He screams, but he can’t hear his own voice over the girl’s infernal growl.
Clasping onto his father's leg tighter. It’s only when his nails dig into Maekar's flesh that the prince realizes his son’s presence.
His father picks him up. Pulling him out of reach of the bizarre creature before she can pounce on him.
Daeron watches from the safety of his father’s arms as his grandmother plucks up the tiny nightmare. Disregarding the bloodstains she leaves on her silk dress. He watches as his grandmother coos and cuddles the rogue beast, as his grandsire pats her hair and pulls her cheeks.
“She is a blessing,” the king declares, “a girl raised by a dragon, a sign that House Targryan shall return to its rightful strength once more.” The queen kisses the girl’s temple as she tries to bite her royal highness's nose. “Our prayers answered,” she weeps, “A daughter of my own.”
Daeron bites his tongue, glaring at the bundle of terror. “She is my nightmare,” he whispers to his father. “Hell in human form.”
Maekar only hugs his child closer.
That had been so many solar cycles ago. So many moons had passed since you tried pulling off Aerion's arm or biting Valarr’s ribs. Since Baelor had to pry raw meat from your tiny hands, or Maekar had to pull you off living sheep waiting for the feast slaughter.
So many moons all blurred away as Daeron began seeking solace in his cups, in his arbour reds.
But Daeron still remembers your face covered in blood. He still sees it every time he closes his eyes. Your face, older now, much lovelier too, still stained in ichor gore.
The dreams have never stopped. You still haunt him, and he tries to pull your phantom closer. To pull you into his wry heart where you belong.
He dreams of your teeth, carnivorously sharp. Running through his arm, scraping the flesh, jerking your head until you’ve stripped him of his meat, chewing it between your teeth again and again. Until he is naked beneath you, his bones and tissues on display for your eyes only.
When he awakens, there’s a stout disappointment lodged in his throat. Did you not like his taste? Is even his body so repulsive that you lost your appetite before cracking open his bones and sucking on his marrow?
You weren’t really human, you didn’t even try.
Daeron can still see that raptorial gleam in your eyes, that predatory unease.
He watched as his grandparents taught you speech and reading. Yet you still stumble over the words, like the syllables cut your tongue upon your pronunciation, you still hiss when Daeron’s fingers slide up your arm. Growl at the lordlings who hide their mockery behind golden goblets.
Little dragon spawn, some mythical beast. Dressed in fine silks and faux scales.
Sometimes it feels like the divine plucked out his heart and created you from his muscles and tissues. Haunted by pain when you grace his view, always a heartbeat away, as distant as a dream he can never reach.
He’d have thought his current predicament funny, if not for the phantom hammers striking the inside of his cranium. Lilac eyes laced with forlorn gazing out his window. Focused on your pretty face and enchanting figure as you descend your royal carriage. Targaryen banners waving rhapsodically as if Ageon and his wives were greeting the dragon-nursed.
Daeron rests his arms on the windowsill and tucks his head between them. He feels like a princess, a damsel in distress, watching the dragon guarding his tower. But then, in what tale has a princess ever wished to kiss a dragon? And which Targaryen has ever deemed themselves anything but a dragon?
Your coming to Summerhall is just the distraction his family needs. 'Tis only the morrow of his family’s departure from the Ashford tourney. Uncle Baelor lies recovering with the maesters, and Aerion is bound to his chambers as punishment for his tomfoolery.
Your warmth will surely raise everyone from their somberness.
And Daeron will watch from a distance, as he always does, wishing it were your lips against his rather than the cold steel of his cups.
“Are you not coming to greet her?” The voice sends an electric jolt down Daeron’s spine, only melting away when the familiarity of his brother’s voice sinks in. “Aren’t you meant to be confined to your chambers until further notice, dear brother?” Daeron asks lazily. But he only gets an annoyed “hmph” before Aerion grabs his upper arm and drags him to the main hall.
They stand shoulder to shoulder, it’s the first time Daeron’s ever noticed his brother stiffen, back straighter than usual. It’s only when Daeron follows Aerion’s impatient gaze that he understands.
He really shouldn’t be surprised.
You walk down the hall holding Maekar’s hand, smiling up at him. “Father understands, big brother, he holds no animosity against you. Brother Baelor will recover, and we shall laugh about this in due time.” Daeron watches as his father rolls his eyes and pats your hand, a silent ‘thank you’.
Your gaze lifts, landing on them. Daeron gulps. He still quivers when you look at him, never able to shake the vulnerability you’ve etched within him with only your eyes.
“Nephews!” you squeal, running towards them. Wrapping your arms frantically around both their necks. The pull causing Aerion’s head to collide ungracefully with Daeron’s cheekbone. “I’m so glad you’re alright!”
But Daeron only shivers. The warmth of your body does little to comfort the harrowing memory that overlaps with reality, burning its edges until the world blurs. Fear pumps through his veins. You still look like a dragon chasing after its prey.
He can still remember how you tried to eat him, in reality, in dreams, in the fantasies he sews within his mind when he’s all alone at night. And yet, amongst all that fear, his heart still longs for your teeth to impale his flesh. He wants you to eat him. To maul him. To leave him to rest in the only place he’ll ever be happy…
Aerion pulls your arm from his neck, lacing his fingers with yours as he plants a gentle, sweet kiss across your knuckles. “Dear aunt, it’s so lovely to see you.” Daeron rolls his eyes at his brother’s forced affability. Missing how the younger prince ghosts his tongue along your fingers. You simply offer Aerion a smile as you turn your attention back to Daeron, reclaiming your hand to run along the blond prince’s torn ear. “What in the conquere’s name happened to you, sweetling!” you ask, concern etched into your voice, hugging him closer. It takes everything in him not to moan at the fretting words tumbling anxiously from between your saccharine lips. You stand on your tiptoes to inspect the damage much closer. Body pressed indecently close to his own.
But despite your coddling, Daeron can feel the tiny rumbling waves of your stomach as your fingers glide over the bloodied stitching.
Aerion does not frequent the kitchens at this hour often. His servants always make sure the fruit bowl in his chambers is overly stocked till the morrow.
But tonight he is famished, a ravenous hunger that fruit cannot fill. The back of his throat tastes of roasted mutton and garlic boiled chicken.
Aerion pushes the kitchen door open, hoping some servant will be there to prepare him a meal or, at the very least, the leftovers from dinner haven’t been discarded yet.
He takes a step in and half another, shoe-toe poking the threshold, before he sees it. The ferocious marvel painted in rose red and burgundy.
There you sit, sweet little princess, in a pool of crimson, dress sprawled out around you like hibiscus petals marred with gore. The red seeping into the airy fabric. A morning fog across the lake.
You look up at Aerion, eyes wide, face paling. There is dried, crusted blood covering your lips, stretching to your cheeks, and thick blood clots sticking to your chin. Your fear is palpable. He pokes out his tongue to taste it in the air. Lick it slowly and savour its palate. He studies the cadaver on the floor, skinned sheep, likely tomorrow's dinner, your impatience amuses him just as much as your savagery makes his heart hammer wildly against his chest.
This is the closest he’s ever been to a real dragon.
He can almost feel the flames fanning against his skin.
“I always thought dragons must burn their meat before they eat it,” He thinks it’s a clever jest, an easy jab to put you at ease. Seven hells, Aerion can’t remember the last time he’s cared about another person’s comfort. He loves it too much when they twitch and tremble.
But with you it’s different. There is a dragon inside you, too. Something only he can understand. Your blood and his blood are inwined, rider and dragon, dragon and dragon. Ancient intimate nexuses.
Only he can ever truly make you happy.
He kneels beside you, so close he can smell the iron on your breath. His lips part slowly, tongue breaching. He leans closer, pressing the wet muscle to your cheek and gliding it upwards, gathering the gore and sweat. It tastes like rare stake, it tastes like divinity and legacy entwined in nectar.
You snarl sweetly, at least it sounds sweet and darling to the boy so enthralled by your every movement. Staring mesmerized as if he were fixated on a falling star. Aerion reaches over to the carcass and, with a cruel snap that pulses through the air, breaks off a chunk of bone. Pushing it clumsily to your lips. You turn your head, sighing, annoyed at your nephew’s enamorment. “As far as my memory serves, my mother used to feed me a great deal of blood. The taste for it has yet to abandon my palate.”
But the words seem lost on the boy as he only stares. Aerion’s liliac eyes never leave your bloodied face. The bone falls into the crimson puddle with a gentle splash. His hand whips forward, fingers jerking to wrap around your chin and sink into your cheeks until they hit bone. You struggle to break free, but his grip is ironclad. Aerion slowly rises, tilting your head up with him. He licks his lips slowly, pausing to taste the blood-thick air once more before speaking.
“You'd make a lovely pet, a grand war dragon.”
For a split second, the room grows eerily quiet, the walls of Summerhall hold their breath. You swallow, imagining a ball of fire building in your throat, rushing past your red lips and burning the insolent gorgeous princeling to silver, rotting ash. But the imaginary fire slowly stifles the longer you look at him. Until it instead has turned to ash in the bottom of your stomach.
For as cruel as Aerion is, he is equal parts exquisite. All pale and silver like moonlight. The breathing portrait of moon rays streaming down upon an empty meadow, illuminating daisies in a fragile argent glow.
A reply sits idly on your tongue, letters shifting uncertainly.
‘You're utterly heartless.’
Your mouth opens, daring the phrases to escape. But in the end, it’s your teeth that are quicker, that sink into his pale wrist. ivory on snow. Cracking open one of his veins and flooding your mouth with his essence as he winces and howls in pain. You choke on the blood, coughing as it tumbles crookedly down your throat. Even his blood is mean-spirited.
You scamper to your feet and run for the door, but Aerion’s voice follows you, echoing painfully through the halls. His laugh rings maliciously in your ears as you rush to the safety of your room.
“If I skin you, will I find scales underneath the flesh, dear auntie?”
Aerion’s attention soon returns to the mess on the floor. Slowly, he lowers himself into the blood. He, too, must also sit in the reservoir of vitae, he must mimic the dragon if he is to become one. He lets the gore sink into his black undertunic. The pretty sang will not show, not like it did on your dress, but the heaviness will sustain him. Remind him of seeing a real dragon prowling about the castle in the darkest hours.
He takes a moment, breaths in the iron-rich air, tries to picture himself with leather wings and dagger teeth. But the emptiness of your presence weighs heavily on the room, disturbing the fantasy. He longs to feel your warmth under his fingertips once more. He clings desperately to the mess, trying to catch your reflection in the sea of gore.
That night, he dreams of approaching a dagon in an enchanted forest. It must be enchanted, because as soon as he pets the dragon’s snout, a puff of smoke turns it into a princess dressed in bleeding rose petals. Who tries to eat his tongue as he forces her to the ground and suffocates her with a kiss. lips to lips, pushing every desire, every dream he has into the bloody thing writhing beneath him.
In the morning, Aerion sits by your side at the breakfast table. He cuts tiny circles from his breakfast sausage and tries to force them past your lips. You turn your head and growl, but the rich scent of the meat makes your stomach rumble. Your turn to face him, glaring boldly as you wrap your lips around his fork and swallow the offering.
“Aerion, I do believe our beloved aunt is more than capable of slicing her own food, don’t you?” Daeron jabs lazily, strangely sober. “I’d wager she’d even get a chance to enjoy her meal if you cease to suffocate her,” Valarr adds as he takes a ship from his cup. Aerion opens his mouth to argue, his wrath fluttering around him like volcanic embers.
“They’re right, quit bothering your aunt and eat your breakfast, boy,” Maekar barks. Smothering the flames of his son’s wrath before they explode. You mouth a thank you to your brother before returning to your meal.
At the other end of the table, Maekar leans closer to a bandaged Baelor. Whispering blissfully in his brother’s ear. “The children seem to be getting along. Their spirits are rejuvenating.”
Baelor smiles wryly at his baby brother, eyes anxiously racking over his nephew. “Yes, it always warms my heart to see our sister merging so seamlessly with our offerspring, dear brother,” Baelor mutters, words laced with a heavy kind of worry.
It felt strange seeing you in Summerhall, like peering into a dollhouse uninvited.
A sinful intrusion, witnessing the porcelain perfect dolls going about their porcelain perfect day, whilst his fell apart.
Daeron watches your afternoon promenade in the gardens. He’s sprawled out on a rock bench tucked between the roses. Head hanging loosely off the edge as his lilac eyes catch your presence, half right side up.
And you were every bit a doll, stiff and regal, with exquisite, unruly hair and ethereal eyes. A perfect doll carved from dragon scales, cured in wildfire. Left a little too carelessly in a place that didn’t deserve your horrific beauty.
Oh, how Daeron would love to turn his chambers into your dollhouse. To leave you there. Then come back with the decadent intention of walking in on you going about your porcelain-perfect day. A sight only meant for his eyes to peer at.
But he never once leaves the bench.
He never once reaches out to grasp and squeeze the dragon doll between his fingers.
He’s scared of your teeth, those sharp anarchic sabres sitting in your jaw. He’s scared of the blood you’ll draw and the pieces of him you’ll take and swallow without remorse.
Fear that keeps him distance bound. Fear that makes his heart yearn for a thing so dangerous, so gorgeous. Fear that fills his mind of tasting his own blood on your lips as your knees did into his hips.
It’s fear he tells himself as his heart jerks violently, rattling its cage.
You are too wild for a lethargic, hapless princeling like him to handle, and yet all he feels is rusted daggers digging into his failing heart when he adverts his gaze.
There are certain minuscule things that are only allowed at night. Little allowances, lapses in decency, embarrassment and pride.
When he staggers into your room, he’s thankful to find you sleeping. Wringing his leather flagon between his sweaty palm and fingers. It must be past midnight, he thinks.
You must be dreaming of sweet things. Things he will never get the chance to see. Last night, he’d walked through a lake of red, he thought it wine if not for the uncanny way it clung to him, like it came from him. For a second, mid dream, he’d even felt his brother’s presence, heard Aerion’s malicious laughter as it left rivulets upon the gore’s surface.
Daeron was not eager to return to such a place tonight. So he’d drunk and drunk until the stars looked like the eyes of his ancestors and his descendants casting judgment upon him from heaven…
Or hell. Yes, it was definitely hell. With the exception of a great-grandmother and a great-uncle or two. He doubts any Targaryen would be seeing heaven or anything equally as divine.
He’s not really sober, but in this darkness, in this orbit filled with your presence, he can almost pretend.
He’s slow to walk over to your sleep form, to peer down at you until his double vision stills. Your legs are tucked to your chest like an egg - a dragon egg- about to hatch. He’d have been a happier man if your egg had been the one they’d placed in his cradle.
Your arms are wrapped viciously tightly around a large plush toy. Cuddling it like a rock in a bellowing sea. Upon a closer inspection, Daeron can roughly make out the familiar silhouette of a dragon, mouth open like it had just released a breath of fire. But in the darkness, he couldn’t quite make out the dragon’s colour. With the exception of the blazing green eyes that seem to glow, the plush would have melted seamlessly into the void. It takes a moment for his foggy mind to conclude that the plush is likely made in your mother’s likeness. Daerion can’t help but find it endearing.
Those eyes, those damn haunting eyes. Did you remember them? Or did you believe in his dreams?
He runs the back of his finger along the side of your skull, revering in the softness of your skin. His little sweetling, dreaming of sweet things.
In a breath, he’s distracted again. His eyes caught on the little statues of lions and wolves and stags you’ve scattered across your bookshelf. On a velvet-encrusted tome left on your desk. On crushed herbs that reek of mint left next to incense sticks waiting to be burnt.
His fingers trace over the little pieces of you sewn into the fabric of the room, rooted in the core of your sanctuary, your cave. His chewed nails pick at the trinkets, flaking off their mana. Fingering and pokining your ornaments in hopes they’d suddenly turn into your flesh, your hair, you.
He stops to pry open the lid of your perfume. It smells like lemons and rose water. Like fall picnics and kisses at sunset, like holding hands under the moon. Daeron smears the liquid on his wrist and under his jaw.
You've settled all so nicely into his home.
Like a wife, he thinks. He’s buzzed pleasantly enough to fool himself with such alluring candied thoughts.
Slowly, he returns to your bed, admiring your adorable sleeping form. You look every bit the dragon sleeping atop a pile of gold. Coiled and snug. He smiles at you, you’re such a precious thing, so innocent when you sleep. He can almost forget the flashes of your teeth painted red.
Daeron takes refuge at your bay window. Mimicking your form and curling his knees to his chest. He gazes at the small town beyond the castle. Dark and all so far away. In the stillness, it’s easy to forgo decorum and dignity altogether. Daeron closes his eyes and sighs. He licks his lips and lets the quiet wash over him, clearing his mind like a crisp breeze.
He pretends he is a darling prince, fair and golden and cherished. An uncursed, docile little thing. That is locked away in a tower by a cruel, malicious dragon.
Stolen away from dreary courtly life and duties.
The fantasy exudes in light perspiration along his skin. It feels too real to keep in his head. He’d gladly split his skull open to let such a charming thought materialize.
Daeron’s knees rattle, he is restless. He turns his head to look at you once more, his comfort, his darling. Counting your breaths with the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders.
He drags himself to the other side of your bed. Lying on the mattress far away and stiff enough as not to wake you. First, on his back, staring at the overhead silk canopy. Then on his side, head balancing on his propped-up elbow, staring at your portfolio and the tiny breaths leaving your plump parted lips.
It feels awkward but blissful.
Slowly, Daeron returns to the fantasy. Yes, you’d play the monstrous dragon who stole the prince away. Except now it feels too real to simply be a daydream. Daeron pictures himself, blond hair a mess, getting scolded by his father after a five-day bender. Only to be plucked up by a creature who was half girl and half dragon, and neither at the same time. A charming abomination that flies him through the sky and throws him into a tower through a window.
His dragon girl, who has stripped him of courtly duties. Of nightmares and responsibilities, and in return, he offers you his body. Yours to gnaw, to dine upon his flesh each night. To bite off a piece of him, little by little, savouring the royal meat upon your tongue.
And the prince would lie beneath the dragon girl, moaning as she feasts. Taking a little muscle and flesh each night to satisfy her needs, her hunger.
Daeron shudders in ecstasy, thinking what it would feel like when you reach his internal organs. When your teeth finally, finally graze his heart, wet, hot tongue running over the muscle as it beats erratically for you. Would you laugh at his enamourment before biting off a piece? Would you rip off a chunk, then kiss him, making him taste himself on your tongue?
Daeron bites his lower lip to stifle his moans. It feels so perverse, lying in your bed, staring at you, while fantasizing about the deranged things he wishes you would do to him.
His dear demented delusion continues until the first rays of daybreak cascade into the room. Daeron jolts from the bed and scurries to the door. But before he can leave, he tosses a final glance at your room and your delicate sleeping form. He closes his eyes, willing himself to leave. To discard the illusion and softness of you and be gone.
He tiptoes back into the room, slowly prying your wardrobe doors open and rummaging inside. Before hurrying out of the room like a thief in the night
It’s midday when Aerion finds himself at your chamber door. Glaring at the oak. His heart lurches inside his chest, squirming in a longing so deeply rooted it leaves him sore and breathless. Every moment not spent in your presence feels like a lifetime wasted, vexation clawing at his skin. He needs to feel your unbearable heat, scorching his fingers once more. To feel your teeth deep inside him.
Aerion mindlessly runs his fingers over the open wound your teeth have left upon his wrist, fingering the bloody indentation, trying to relive the sensation of you puncturing him.
He knocks on the door, each tap harbouring a desperate urgency. “Little flame, are you in there?” he calls voice holding a sliver of mocking.
“Come in,” you call halfheartedly from behind the door. And he does, with all the zealous glee of a child being offered a new toy.
Aerion finds you sitting on a plush carpet beneath the window. In a dress that looks like a waterfall but is entirely red in colour. It reminds him of the blood cascading down your chin, and that, in turn, paints a fiendish smile across his face.
As he strolls closer, prying at your activity, he catches a strange gleam in your hand. Only when he’s standing directly in front of you does he notice it’s a knife. There’s sandpaper, too and thin nail clippings.
“What in the seven hells are you doing? Do you not have maids to take care of your high hygiene, aunt?” You lazily trail your eyes up to meet his, then make a show of exhaling loudly from your mouth. But a second later, you almost feel bad, he’s brazen and cruel, but he is still your nephew.
“The maids never do it how I like, they tend to grow scared and confused when you explain that you like your nails to look like claws. Like your mother’s claws.” The last phrase is soaked in melacony. You notice a slight softening beaming in Aerion’s eyes for a second before it’s replaced with his usual lethargy once more. He gracefully plops himself down in front of you. The heel of his boots awkwardly nestles on your skirts. He picks up one of your hands and studies the carved nail. The keratin whittled to a fine point, the downward angle causing a nuanced bump on the nail bed like the talon of a lion or eagle…
You are quite clever, he notes.
He must admit he likes this idea. You watch as his pretty face morphs into a look of pure approval as he hums in impressed acknowledgment. Flicking his tongue past his lips for a split second.
“Does grandsire and grandmother not complain of this…” he shakes your hand roughly. “Style?” he asks. You tilt your head and shrug, “It’s easy to get away with. Everyone is always so busy looking at each other's faces. Tell me, when was the last time you could truly say you looked at someone's nails?” You close your eyes and laugh.
Only to open them and be met with a scowl on Aerion’s face that makes you flinch. “And you never thought to tell me about this?” His anger is palpable. “I am the true barrier of the dragon’s blood, born in this wretched human form as a cruel jest by the heavens.” His own nails dig into the gaps between your knuckles. “I should pluck out your nails for your insolence.”
There is a hurt deep in his gut. A raw wound of betrayal. Do you not consider him a dragon, too? Is he not good enough? That you keep such secrets from him, knowing fully well he’d have relished in carving himself to resemble his beloved creatures?
“I’m sorry,” you mumble in pain. When he releases your hand, you dart your eyes to his, capturing his gaze in a bloodthirsty stare. “ But never forget, dear nephew, that you may be dragon born, but I am dragon raised.” Aerion matches your glare with his own and suffs, your scolding lost on him.
Yet your wrath makes his stomach coil. Makes his lips long for yours.
Dragon born and Dragon raised, oh, you are meant for each other.
Aerion draws out his knife from its sheath. You flinch back, shoulders up, ready to attack, growling lowly at him. You wonder where he’s going to strike first. But instead, he turns the knife around, offering you the hilt. He outstretches his other hand, presenting it to you with a raised brow.
Nervously, you take his fingers into your palm and begin carving off the sides of his nail, stopping at the end to make a tapering protrusion.
“So how has your day been?” Aerion enquires, “Mine was quite nice, stabbed my sword so precisely into my sparing partner's eye the tip went straight into his pupil.” You look up, offering him a nervous smile, that is promptly followed by the growl of your stomach.
You both break into a chorus of regirous laughter.
In the first rays of dawn, Daeron roams the halls like a spectre freshly escaped from the grave. Half drunk and half hungover and somehow too sober to fully commit to either. His body wobbles as he clings to the ashlar wall for balance.
There’s a muted thumping in the back of his head. A steady rhythm spelling out the syllables of your name. His heart tries to drag him to your chambers, the little paradise tucked between his father's solar and Egg’s room.
He mustn’t he knows. But the dull ache in his chest is reverberating. The shade of your hair and the gleam of your eyes, cutting deeper and deeper. The wound is open and fresh, screaming for your presence.
His eyes hurt, they’ve been tending to do that a lot lately, when they must bear the agony of gazing upon anything else that isn’t you. Daeron blinks, once, twice, trying to relieve the pain.
There’s an aperture in the wall, he stumbles, forehead slamming against the window still. “Ow,” Daeron mummbles, sticky palms clinging to the glass to try and lift himself back up.
In the first glow of dawn.
He notices a cloaked figure scaling down the tower walls. For a second, between breaths, the figure looks up, and Daeron catches the face that haunts him so relentlessly. But why would you be trying to escape? He scampers to his feet, muscles convulsing in anxiety.
You mustn’t be out there unprotected. Where you could fall victim to any rogue or larrikin.
Or worse, where anyone could see you eating.
“Princess,” a voice fills the air, hoarse and honeyed, carried by the wind until it reaches your ears. You look over your shoulder to see a knight running after you.
A knight with a green plum feather atop his helm.
“Daeron?” You ask soto voce.
He’s panting when he reaches you, clawing clumsily at his helm to free himself. You help him pry it off gently, watching his pink lips part, gasping for air. There’s a delicate hidros streaming down his temple.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, perplexed.
“Well, despite what our exploits suggest. You are still a lady, and I am, to some extent, still a knight. Shocking, I know.” Daeron explains.
“Why, dear nephew, do you mean to say you’ve come to protect me?” You ask, giggling, laying your hand atop your chest. Daeron doesn’t mean to, but his gaze lowers for a fraction of a second. Only to be transfixed by the talons your nails have been pared into.
His body freezes, fear gripping his heart, dread sinking deep under his skin. He feels like a little boy again, watching as the little girl, no, the little monster, with her sharp teeth and jagged claws, attempts to pounce on him. The memory freezes, your little body stuck in mid air, claws glinting in the sun.
“Daeron…Daeron?” You call after him, your voice is so far away. Angelic hymn in the void, or maybe a siren's call beckoning him to dinner from below the crashing waves.
There’s something warm touching his cheek. Soft and cordial and…
He jolts, eyes blinking rapidly, never staying closed for too long now that you are in his presence. He clears his throat. “Were you having one of your visions?” You ask innocently, head tilted.
“No, those only happen when I’m asleep. They haunt me when I’m awake, but the actual.” He stops to wave his hand at the side of his head and twist his fingers as if he were trying to catch smoke. “Future seeing only happens when I sleep. Regardless, I’m here to make sure you don’t eat anyone.” He dares to say, trailing off uncertainly near the end.
You blink up at him and then laugh deeply, “No, I fear I am not out here hunting dear nephew.” You stop mid-sentence, eyeing his sword. Daeron notices and complies with the silent command obediently. Unsheathing the Valyrian steel and twirling it lazily in his hand. “ Do you even know how to use that thing?” you ask playfully. “To some extent, my lady.”
“Well then, valiant dragon-knight,” you lean forward, linking your fingers with his free hand. “I think you’ll enjoy where I am going.”
You spend the better part of the day ducking into caves and splashing in their underground lakes. Lying by streams, finding pictures in the clouds. Climbing trees and jumping down from them, pretending to be dragons skybound.
By the time the afternoon arrives, you and Daeron are lying in the sand by one of the greater lakes. You smile content with the day’s journey, your lack of informing your brothers of your whereabouts only now sinking in.
“When I was younger, from what little I can properly recall. My mother and I lived by the ocean. At least I assume it was the ocean.” You begin noticing how Daeron’s head rolls to the side to get a better view of you. “Mother used to bring home whales. The cave we lived in was adorned with their bones. Excellent decorations, if you ask me. She never scotched them, we used to eat them bloody. Sometimes I dream of scaling their bones and hanging off their ribs, while mother watches.”
You feel Dearon’s fingers graze yours for a heartbeat before recoling. “Your mother is quite exquisite,” he says with his voice caught in his throat and eyes distant. “Yes,” you agree, a wave of shame rolling over you. How improper it must sound, you raving about an animal that had nursed you. Whilst forgetting Mother Myriah, the woman who turned you into a princess of the realm, “Mother Myriah is lovely, I miss her dearly.” You stumble over your words, trying to make things right, you did not mean to offend Daeron by neglecting his grandmother. “No, not her. I mean, she is lovely, yes. But I meant your real mother. The dragon who suckled and raised you.” He stops to suck in a greedy breath. “I dream of her, you know. And you. Before she left you at the Red Keep. We met a few times in my dreams.” You turn towards him, propping your body up on your elbows. A melancholic smile spreading across your lips.
“You used to like fishing, right?” You ask, shuffling closer to the water. Daeron follows, watching the ripples disturb your reflection. The distortion almost feels like he’s peering at one of his dreams from the outside. Murky and metaphysical.
Daeron watches with a keen interest as you bob your head into the water. He holds his breath mimicking you. Then exhales as you emerge with a fish caught between your teeth. You beam proudly, crowling closer to him, prize between your teeth and predatory glee in your eyes.
Daeron can’t help but notice the spit gathered in the corner of your mouth. He reaches out, gathering it on his fingers and pops it into his mouth. Imagining your saliva running down his neck as you eat him alive.
His hand gently pushes at your shoulder. He just wanted to see if you were real this time, if you would stay solid when he dared to touch you. You follow the pressure of his hand falling backwards, wiggling in the grass until you’re comfortable. A giggle building in your throat, trying to escape.
Daeron shimmies on top of you.
And wow, he’s so beautiful.
Daeron looks like sunlight sifted through stained-glass windows. Translating the tragic murals onto ceramic floors. You bask in his doomed rays for a moment. Pretending to lie on alter steps as his face paints a cacaphony of diaphanous colours along your body.
But the vision breaks like glass.
The shards fall into your eyes.
When something wet and warm runs up your neck.
He can’t help it, not this time. Daeron’s lips latch onto your neck, kissing and sucking, slowly caging you with his weight. You look so ethereal, so adorable, with fresh prey between your teeth. He can feel your bite along his fingers. Enamel on bone, he can hear your cries, but they sound so far away, so easily lost to the blood pumping in his ears. Your body withers and your legs kick, but Daeron just nuzzles further into you, trying to melt into your skin.
Maybe they mean the same thing.
His kisses trail over your jaw and the corners of your lips. Open-mouthed and scalding. It’s only when your nails dig into his torn ear and the side of his face, engulfing him in smearing white pain, that he pulls away.
You take the opportunity to run back to the castle. Ignoring the lilac eyes that never once leave your frame.
Daeron curses under his breath.
How can he sacrifice himself to you? How can he indulge in you swallowing him? When such an insignificant pain causes him to curl up and cry.
There are worms crawling through his veins.
Mushrooms sporulating where his fingers graced your flesh.
He can feel the decay creeping in.
Daeron’s face is buried in his pillow. Breathing in your scent.
He swiped a nightgown from your wardrobe several moons passed.
Stripped his pillow of its old sheets, marred with nightmares, vivid visions of dark futures, and the scent of minty citries he uses to wash his hair.
He dressed his pillow in you, in the garment that clung to your flesh. Closer than he’s ever been.
If ever you asked, he’d simply say one of the maids must have been careless or in a hurry, or both, and mixed your things with his. Of course, that wouldn’t explain why it was around his pillow, but that could easily be blamed on the alcohol he so readily consumes.
Maybe you’d get angry. The thought makes Daeron chuckle. Little dragon with wrath bubbling in her slitted eyes, ready to burn him.
So she settles for digging her teeth into his biceps and clawing at his chest until it opens. Offering his internal organs to her.
Daeron would love nothing more than to be your sacrificial lamb. He hasn’t made a good oracle, might as well play a different role in House Targaryen’s doomed divine narrative.
He snuggles deeper into the pillow. When he can’t see you, it’s like the world grows darker, as his body collapses. Bones eating away at muscles. Cells drowning in stomach acid. All to pretend it’s you that’s eating him.
There is blood under his nails when he awakes. The pillow, your essence, pressed desperately to his chest. He thinks it's from the dreams, from scratching at his skin as he slumbers.
Spirit trying to break free from this cursed vessel of flesh.
Back when Dyanna was still alive, she used to make him wear gloves when he slept. After her death, his father had found the tradition too nostalgic to continue.
But this wasn't his blood. There wasn't a scar to be found.
The blood’s scent was too sweet, the shade too bright.
Had he been sleepwalking again? Had he wandered to the dragon’s chambers once more?
You’ve been avoiding him.
There’s acid and flames in the back of his throat at the thought.
You’ve scarcely left your chambers in days. You don’t even look at him during meals. You’ve even stationed guards outside your door.
He wants to wring your neck for such an offence.
Rub your throat raw between his hands until the skin peels off, and he can feel the scales underneath.
Aarion feels as if crows have pecked out his eyes. What good is sight if he can’t gaze upon his beloved dragon? What good is a body if he can’t feel you? He’ll let the rot seep in, let the decay consume his limbs.
Or maybe it’ll be easier to just burn. He’d let you watch, hoping it’ll make you smile. A dragon burning, a divine comedy, he really hopes you’ll laugh.
Aarion raps at your door with the force of fangs cutting through scales. Desperate and tumultuous.
He threatens, he curses, he amost sorta pleas.
In the end, maggots chew away at his tongue.
He is unable to speak, vocal cords collapsing.
He can’t really say the one thing lodged in the back of his throat like a stubborn bone.
Aerion presses his back to your door as he melts on the floor.
He wishes you could breathe fire and burn him. End his misery already. He likes to think you’re the egg that hatched. The final form of the dragon egg placed in his cradle. Old Valyria’s gift to him.
To celebrate his uncle’s recovery, a hunting trip is being hosted at Summerhall. To Daeron, this is a ridiculous notion, his family scarcely survived one celebration. He shudders to think what trouble another will bring.
“I don’t like how they’re looking at her.” Aerion whispers, leaning closer to his brother. Daeron’s eyes follow Aerion’s gaze, there’s no surprise when they land on you.
You’re seated between your brothers, spine rigid, body tense and awkward. You don’t dare eat. But Daeron catches the longing in your eyes as you stare at your rare stake.
Across the table, the lords make a show of cogitating over you with half-lidded eyes. Trying to peel back your skin and see what lies inside. Daeron can hear their drunken ramblings. Sly remarks, too loud by accident.
“I’d certainly wouldn’t mind marrying the Targaryen’s wildling.”
“She isn’t a wildling. I heard she was raised by a dragon.”
“Even better, I’d wager she’s a fisty little thing.”
Daeron pushes his nails into the back of Aerion’s hand. “Don’t,” he hisses. But it’s taking too much willpower and drink to keep himself from breaking the lord’s jaws.
“She’s certainly old enough to marry,” Baelor states, a dry, miserable fact that scrapes the inside of his throat as it’s let out.
Daeron shuffles on his bed. Uncomfortable.
There’s something pitiful about being lectured when you haven’t done anything wrong. When, in fact, it should be a cluster of drunken lords and lordlings on the other end of his father and uncle’s biting glare.
He steals a glance at Aerion. Seated brazenly beside him, legs crossed and eyebrows raised. Chewing on his uncle's words, rolling them around with his tongue.
This won’t end well. Daeron knows it. He doesn’t need a dream to tell him that. No, wait, he’s definitely dreamed of this before. The uncanny nostalgia hangs thick in the air. A distorted wave of colour and malformed memories only Daeron can see.
There shouldn’t be any blood on the walls, on the floor, between his brother's fingers. He closes his eyes, he can see Summerhall drowning in red, a lake of blood. He’s dreamed of this before. You had asked him to dream of this before.
“I’d rather my sister marry within the family.” Maekar orders. His lilac glare is fixed on his eldest heirs. “So don’t screw this up.”
“That’s a blessing, right?” Daerion asks.
Funny, he can’t remember the last time he got one of those.
You like the peace that comes from your nephews’ absence. From the lack of their essence being coiled around your throat.
You gently tap on a bruise on your lower neck. Where Daeron’s lips had refused to part from your flesh. You grimace at the dull, flowery ache that blooms with it.
You’d have enjoyed the peace. The quiet mulling of how to avoid your nephews, without arousing suspicion from your brothers. Musing over whether your father would actually give you away to one of the lords at last night's dinner. You’d find it quite droll, if on your wedding night, your lord husband called you a wildling and you bit off his nose. Marring the sheets in crimson for the maids to find the next day. Mayhaps they’d even find a mangled corpse, barbecued by the fireplace, half eaten. And their new lady halfway back to the Red Keep.
There’s a heavy knock upon your chamber door. Desperate and angry and polite in a meticulously practiced manner.
You wait, the guards should be shooing him off any minute now. But they never do. The knocking persists.
“I know you’re in there, little flame. Come out, sweetling.”
Your face cringes at the melodious lilt of his voice.
Slowly, you crack open the door, so thinly only a quarter of your face is visible.
“Aerion, I am quite bus-”
“No, you’re not.” It’s a command, really. He reaches his finger out, playfully taps you on the nose. “What are you do-” you voice shrinks back into your throat as your eyes cross to examine the red blot.
You are only now noticing how red his hands are and how his usual crimson clothes look rather wet and dark. When your eyes frantically dart back to his face, you notice him licking blood off his lips. You open the door a little wider to peer out into the corridor.
There your guards lay, sliced open, their blood flowing down the hall.
“What have you done?” You scream
All he offers is an airy chuckle for a reply.
You push past him, running down the hall. Your brothers left early in the morning for the hunting trip, and the deeper you run into Summerhall, the more you notice the lifeless bodies of your maids. Their blood all mixed, creating a great red flood.
You run to Daeron’s room. He may be physically useless, but with Maekar gone, he’s the only one who could potentially stifle his brother’s terror.
You notice Daeron leaving his room, stuffing something awkwardly into his pocket. Staring down the halls as if he means to wight the day with his foreboding eyes. “Daeron!” you scream, running into his chest and wrapping your arms tightly around him. You nuzzle into his chest, trying to find solace from the terror engulfing the palace. His arms wrap around your shoulders, hugging you tightly against him. You squirm in his grasp until your hands seize his shoulders and begin shaking him. “Aerion has gone mad. More so than usual. He killed my guards and my maids, and he’s after me. I don’t know what he intends to do to me,” you wail, tears rolling down your cheeks.
“It’s quite all right, dear auntie. We shall go inform the master of arms. He’ll know what to do with our dear kinling.” his voice is so calm, steady and systematic. A far cry from the forlorn jokester whose voice is always laced with melancholy and omens. Daeron’s hand slips to your lower back as he guides you out of the royal wing.
Maekar had a few dragon skulls imported from the Red Keep recently.
That had been the other reason for your visit, to guard the skulls. You’d thought it more of keeping the great remains company. Even bones tend to get lonely. Especially old ones.
You’re staring up at one now.
Daeron has stopped prematurely. His fingers are inching towards your hip, clinging to it possessively.
“Mother never had a name, at least not one that I knew of. But when I was younger, I used to hide away inside Caraxes' skull. I used to call him father and pretend I was home.” You confess a sad smile along your lips. Now you’d give anything to see Father Daeron and Mother Myriah again.
“I remember, we used to play in that skull together whenever we visited.” Aerion’s voice reverbates across the great hall. His footsteps accompanied by a squeaky noise. Blood caught between leather and marble.
You jump back, hiding behind Daeron. Growling as the silver haird princling draws closer, smirking.
“It’s alright,” Daeron assures, rubbing your knuckles and kissing the top of your head.
You shrivel at the affection.
It makes you feel so utterly uncomfortable.
Aerion walks closer, caging you between him and Daeron. He tilts your head up and moves to the side. Offering you a view of what lies beyond.
In the corners of the great hall, you begin to notice a myriad of corpses, all cut open, like a scarred bloodletting.
There is something candid about the blood. It's splatter across the pristine marble floors feels almost right. Every splatter marring the walls and every growing puddle on the ground is tactful. Tastefully placed, like a wedding planner arranging bouquets. The blood slowly leaks closer. Eclipsing the limestone floors.
“B-but they where ment to be at the hunting trip with…my brothers.” Your eyes dart to Aerion, accusation flooding your gaze, “Where are my brothers!”
“Don’t play the fool.” He scuffs, “Your brothers are fine. Father merely insisted on keeping the hunting strip with Uncle and Valarr. ”
“They wanted to offer us some privacy, darling.” Daeron revamps, lacing his fingers with yours from behind and bringing your knuckles up to his lips. Kissing each one sweetly in turn. Aerion leans down, his lips melting violently onto yours. His teeth bite into your bottom lip, flooding both your tongues with liquid iron. His hands cup your cheeks, nails, sharp and claw-like. The ones you gave him, dig into your temples. As his tongue worms its way past your lips and teeth. You suck on it slowly.
It’s purely out of instinct and mayhaps a primal defence.
The wet muscle felt so good in your mouth.
You can taste him, Targaryen always tastes so rich and tender.
Marrinated in madness and spiced with ruin.
Aerion pulls back, he sucks on his tongue, “hmm.”
“What's wrong?” Daeron asks.
Daeron laughs before whispering in your ear, “I believe the world would be a much better place if you ate that particular appendage. Imagine all the trouble our house could avoid.” You only growl at him in response, “Let me go”.
Slowly, Daeron pulls your hand up. Higher and higher until it reaches Caraxes’ mouth. Then, in one swift motion, Daeron nicks your palm along the dragon’s teeth. You holler in pain as Daeron gently pulls you to the ground. Settling you between his open legs. Seated in the great lake of blood that’s taken over the hall. His lips hurry to your neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses until they reach your cheeks. He turns your head, his lips desperately consuming yours, kissing you so deeply he steals the air from your lungs.
While Dearon pushes his tongue into your mouth, gliding it across your teeth and twirling it around your own tongue. Aerion jerks your knee towards himself, pulling it until he hears a pop, then wrapping it around his waist. He repeats the same with your other leg, then settles himself on your chest. Biting and sucking at your neck and shoulders. Breaking open your skin and watching your blood bubble to the surface.
Daeron carefully pulls out a dragonglass blade from his pocket. You remember the gleam from when you ran to him in the corridors. “Which part would you like to taste, my lady love?” He asks, it takes a second for you to understand what he means. A blush slowly creeping over your face, along with the intent. “Your damn head on a platter.” You curse, but Daeron and Aerion only laugh. Daeron places the knife on his thumb, carving out a small piece before handing the blade to Aerion, who has now lifted himself on his hands, hovering above you with a teasing smirk.
Daeron tries to push the flesh between your lips. You refuse to open them, ducking your head stubbornly. Until Aerion forcefully grabs your head and turns you to his brother. Thumb and index finger painfully digging into your jaw until it opens with a pained whimper. Dearon pushes the meat into your mouth with a satisfied moan. In turn, Aerion slices the knife across the top of his fingers and lets the droplets fall on your tongue. You hate to admit how good it tastes, how full it made you. Your stomach coils, burning hot like consuming wildfire.
You look up at them, your eyes wide with fear, glistening with unshed tears. “You look so adorable, sweetheart,” Daeron coos. How can a creature so utterly cute be so utterly bloodthirsty? How can such a paradox be hidden behind such an exquisite face?
Aerion takes your bleeding palm and licks the blood clean before twisting it to offer to his brother. Daeron sucks on the wound, you can feel the vibrations of his moan against your body. “You taste exactly like a dragon should.” Aerion praises. “How would you know?” Daeron asks, “How many dragons have you eaten, brother?” Daeron jests, earning a roll of his brother’s eyes.
“I hate you,” you mumble, burying your face in Daeron’s chest, your tears begin to fall anew, staining his doublet. little miserable sobs hiccuping past your lips. You feel something cold slide over your finger. Sparing a glance, you notice Aerion slipping a golden ring carved in the shape of a dragon on your finger. Daeron does the same with your other hand. “There, all ours.” Aerion whispers into your ear, playfully biting the shell, running his teeth down to the lobe to tug on it.
Aerion wraps his arms around your back, pulling you up and carrying you across the crimson rivulet. Daeron follows behind, offering you little jests and praises in hopes of easing your tears.
There is a divine joke in all of this, a cosmic punchline that hasn't hit yet. There has to be.
"Can you dream upon request, my prince?" you’d once asked, out of the blue. Daeron had promised to try, although he's never made such an attempt before. He much prefers to avoid dreams altogether, he tried to explain with all the sheepish charm of a young boy of ten and four.
"Can you dream of my mother?" you plead.
"No, my mother, the dragon who raised me, my real mother".
That night, Daeron dreamed he was lying in a field of bones, slowly being flooded by a river of red, gushing from the mouth of an enormous beast whose eyes were a haunting green. Blood waterfalling from between its teeth.
Upon the morrow, you’d inquired about the results of your request.
All innocence and excitement.
"She had beautiful eyes."
It had taken many years for that dream to come into fruition. Daeron thinks as he lazily runs his fingers through your hair, watching you sleep with his little brother coiled around you. Maybe that had been your mother’s way of offering her blessing, too.
He kisses the side of your mouth, nuzzling his face in the crux of your neck and shoulder. His eyes grow heavy, giving way to a deep, dreamless slumber.
There is blood dripping slowly down the bedsheets when Baelor and Maekar walk in. Baelor twists his ring anxiously, “Should we wake them? Make sure they’re okay and give Aerion a clout on the head for the mess he’s made?”
But Maekar doesn’t reply, a serene smile gracing his face.
All he can think of his how finally, bloody finally.
His eldest son is sleeping peacefully.
There is a joke to all of this, but IDK if anyone caught it. It has to do with which canon dragon is the reader’s “Mother”. Let me know if anyone figures it out.
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