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[pixiepandapie]

ଓ Poppy ଓ 18+ ଓ She/her ଓ NSFW Blog ଓ MDNI ଓ

[chuluoyi]

dear of his heart

- aerion targaryen x wife!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gods, when had that happened?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aerion’s lips curved with visible amusement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You just boasted about restraint!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or more like, inconveniently endearing.

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

Aerion leveled you with a scathing look.

. . .

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

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

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

“You also confiscated my riding boots!”

“You are not riding, wife—”

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

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

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

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

“I have ridden since childhood!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aerion would be entering the lists.

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

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

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

And there was also another matter that occupied your mind—

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

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

. . .

“Where is my lady wife?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You noticed him then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To think? About what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gods, how sweet could you be?

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

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

“Aerion—”

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

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

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

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

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

You frowned faintly. “That is hardly comforting.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

A dark look crossed his face, then—

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

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

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

“My lady, I trust you are well?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, one can hardly blame the prince!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head immediately. “No—”

Relief struck him so violently it almost looked painful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not sleeping...?”

“Was about to.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What? You expected mercy from me tonight?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…What if the babe is a girl?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall—”

A violent, dark impatience overtook him.

“Grandson to King Daeron the Good—”

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

“Prince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen—”

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

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

“—will choose his first opponent!”

. . .

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

But there was no soothing the agony ripping through you.

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

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

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

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

And you would not fail him on your own battlefield.

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

“The Prince Aerion wins!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

[lewadny]

For people wondering why aerion has sunfyre in this au - they would absolutely do this and annoy everyone on their way

[punisherslittlegirl]

Some short headcannons of my big boy Dunk>>

^^

He is huge, his hands, feet, arms everything’s in such bigger proportions. Even if you are tall yourself, he will beat you in width.

His hair is as soft as a child’s. The dirty blondish locks curl at the end and he absolutely asks you to run your hands through his hair as often as he can.

When he met you, he was a stutter and full of this tension that made him look like he would spring up into the air at any moment. He never had much luck with women, especially with ones like you. He loves any type of woman especially if they can be kind towards him.

(bare minimum king)

Hasn’t had much experience so, even when you just glance at him and smile across the room, he would take it as some sort of a flirtatious act.

Constantly thinks about you, besides your sweet features, worry also clouds his vision and makes the stars in the night sky just a bit more blurry and shiny when his eyes gloss.

He overthinks about his ability to provide for anyone else besides himself. He worries that he might not be able to give you everything you’ve ever wished for and thought of in your life. And thats okay. You needed to knock that into his big head.

This man will give you a size kink if you don’t already have one.

He can be quite good at manhandling you when it comes to that. He can pick you up and throw you around like a pillow, and you love it since you know he would never use that against you. He is not that kind of man and never will be.

He has such a stupid smile. When he smiles, he looks so adorable and sweet, it makes you remember when he told Egg that people told him he was stupid and he said “And?”.

Though, do not underestimate him. He can look a bit too kind, but kindness often can be mistaken for being too trusting or anything of the sort. He is very careful. Especially now when he has more people to worry about than just him. Because he knows that in order to keep them safe, he has to keep himself alive first. So anything that might even slightly threaten that ability was treated with tenderness.

He is beefy. Really. His whole body is like a castle wall, and besides all that muscle that he hoarded onto himself, he also has a good amount of body fat. His stomach has that sweet pudge, his bicep isn’t defined and is huge, his legs are like two poles. Even his face is just a bit softer.

You absolutely hate when he coms back to you and he’s lost a few pounds because that means he had to ration food or sometimes go without. You know how much he loves to eat.

It would be a problem sometimes because he eats so much, obviously, lots of fuel is needed to power a big man like him. Aaand he likes to eat. He enjoys every second of it. Especially when you make him something. It is even better because it tastes good and the woman he wants to devour too, made it.

He is the perfect example of a gentle giant. He loves having someone to be gentle to. It is necessary for him, after having to be violent and mean, to be able to hold someone and touch them in the gentlest of ways. One of his favourite moments to do that is when you are asleep. He would trace your face with his big finger and try not to wake you up.

He’s got your every feature memorised better than his own reflection in the mirror.

:PPP

[namjin44life]

He's so pretty I can't.

[alwynno]

Choices, choices

[withpearlsandpetals]

a princess' favour

pairing: baelor 'breakspear' targaryen × pregnant!wife!reader

summary: What was set to be a wonderful day at the tournament ends up turning into an awkward afternoon after a knight asks for your favour in front of your husband.

warning: pre-akotsk, pure fluff / comedy, no description of the reader, no use of y/n, let's just ignore the fact that it's completely implausible lol

wc: 4,5k

read it on ao3!

note: english is not my first language, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know!

a/n: i'm obsessed with writing baelor fluff and i've been wanting to write a typical scene from any asoiaf book for a while now, so… enjoyyy!!

You waved your fan again and breathed a sigh of relief when you felt a gentle breeze brush against your face.

It was a pitiful relief.

The royal box had become an inhospitable spot in a Dornish desert. The wood was parched, the air remained thick, and the Targaryen three-headed dragon crest watched over the lists from above, its presence rivalled only by the sun’s powerful rays.

“If you keep fanning yourself like that, your hand will fall off, my dearest,” you heard your husband’s voice beside you, with that exasperating calm that only he could maintain in the height of summer. “Why don’t you ask one of your ladies-in-waiting for help?”

Instead of answering, you turned your gaze to three young ladies sitting at a respectful distance from you. They looked like three little flowers dozing in the shade of the awnings, their wrists moving so slowly that it seemed more fitting for an elegy than for a day of such heat.

You looked at Baelor again.

"They're fanning too slowly."

The corners of his lips curved slightly.

“You are too demanding, my sweet wife.”

You looked at him with the last trace of exasperation that the stifling heat had not taken away, and he, instead of laughing—which would have been an insult at that moment—silently pulled a white handkerchief from his black doublet, the edges of which were embroidered in red thread with intertwined figures that looked like a maze of vines, and in the centre, a B in Gothic script.

He wiped a bead of sweat from your temple that had begun to race down your skin, intent on reaching your jawline. The gesture was so sweet and so characteristic of him that you knew you could not hold onto that exasperation much longer.

The prince bowed his head and placed a brief kiss on the spot. At the same time, one of his hands seized your wrist—the one so desperate to bring you a little breeze—and stopped your movement. Then his fingers began to caress that spot, numb and aching from the use of the fan. You felt the chill of his rings against your heated skin.

“Would you like something cold?” he murmured against your skin.

“I’m fine.”

Baelor, not entirely satisfied with the answer, made a subtle gesture to which you paid little attention. He looked at you again.

“You just have to hold out for a few more hours and we can leave,” he said as he brushed a strand of hair from your face.

You paused. Your irises met those two-toned eyes.

“Shall we have a bath?” you asked, with more hope than you meant to show.

“A bath,” he smiled. “We can ask them to put mint leaves in the water, if you like.”

You were tempted to close your eyes and imagine the scene for a second: that sensation of cool water on your skin, the mint leaves dancing on the surface, your husband’s large hands caressing every inch of your body and his lips on your neck. All of that far removed from the cheers and the clang of steel, from the stifling humidity and the oppressive heat.

You refrained from sighing longingly.

“That would be perfect,” you said, a smile on your lips.

It was then that you felt it: a sharp, dull thud from within. The smile vanished instantly.

Apparently, that day, Valarr — that was what your husband had insisted on calling him, because he was convinced that the life growing inside you was going to be a little prince and not a princess, as you were convinced — had that energy so uncharacteristic of a day as hot as that.

"By the Seven, the baby is really out of control today." You placed a hand on your swollen belly.

Baelor looked down at your hand and quickly covered it completely with his own.

"He’s excited," he said in a soft voice, almost more to himself than to the others. "He likes tournaments, just like his father." He paused for a moment. “When he grows up, he’ll win them all.”

You tilted your head and looked at him more closely. Baelor had an expression he didn’t usually show in public, but only in the privacy of your chambers, when you let him rest his head on your chest to gaze more tenderly at your belly: a seamless blend of pride and something more fragile, more tender.

The horn blared, shattering your intimate moment, and you stifled a snort.

The maelstrom of voices, the sound of the fabric of the dresses brushing against one another, and the excited laughter swirled around the seats as the audience settled in, eager, ready to watch the jousts.

Likewise, you too settled in as best you could amidst that unbearable heat and the bulge of your belly. Resigned, you opened your fan once more and fanned yourself, knowing you would spend the hours of the tournament repeating the same mechanical gesture.

Before the incessant sound of the horn died away, you heard the sweet voice of one of your ladies-in-waiting to your left.

“Here, my princess,” the young woman announced as she handed you a goblet. You raised an eyebrow.

“But I haven’t asked for it, my lady.”

"It was Prince Baelor, my princess," she explained with a smile. You took the goblet at her almost insistent gesture. "Oh, and you dropped this." She bent down and picked up something, placing it on your lap. "Enjoy the tournament; if you need anything, I’ll be at the back."

You froze for a split second.

Then, you looked at the cup: it was full of cool water.

Next, you looked at your leg: Baelor’s handkerchief, with crimson figures embroidered around the edges and his initial adorning the centre.

You turned your gaze to your husband, who already had his eyes fixed on the list with a perfectly neutral expression—and one that was innocently admirable for someone who had just given himself away.

You drank in the same way, and, along with the water, you swallowed your pride because, after months of marriage to Baelor, you realised that those gestures were entirely his own and that, surely, he knew you better than you knew yourself.

You set the goblet aside and, next to it and without thinking, your fan.

This time you didn’t let the thick air dry your sweat; this time you wiped it away with your handkerchief, with the same calm sense of someone who has finally decided to stop fighting the summer heat.

Now it was you who fixed your gaze on the pitch.

The colours of half the continent fluttered in the boxes, and the stands were swallowed up by all manner of flowers—an enthusiastic decision by the decorator, which had provoked incessant sneezing amongst the spectators and the horses.

The tournament had been organised to celebrate yet another year of the kings’ marriage and, consequently, the full annexation of Dorne to the Crown.

Daeron II and Myriah Martell presided from the royal box with that kind of calm dignity that comes from celebrating the historic milestone that was an alliance cherished by the realm.

Baelor was seated three chairs to the king’s left, the place that was rightfully his as heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone. Ever since the tournament had begun, he had been watching the arena with the focused, slightly bored expression of someone who had been to enough tournaments to know when each rider would fall before they actually did.

However, this time, Baelor was wearing a dark doublet studded with rubies rather than his steel armour. For the first time, he was not living up to his nickname. Today he was not breaking spears, today he was watching them being broken.

Baelor had announced this to the Small Council two weeks earlier.

It had been a premeditated decision and contrary to his father’s opinion, who was always keen for his eldest son to demonstrate his skill with the hammer on such occasions — as if anyone doubted the prince’s worth.

The reason Daeron had heard: Baelor would not be attending, so as to allow young knights to demonstrate their skills in such an important tournament.

What Myriah had understood: it all had to do with the figure now sitting beside her son.

You were seated to Baelor’s left.

You were bathed in silver jewellery; the earrings weighed heavily on your ears and your necklace — a gift from your mother on your wedding day — adorned your bare neckline.

You wore a sky-blue dress with wide sleeves and silver embroidery, a dress that had required two weeks of alterations and three separate conversations with your seamstress, because your stubbornness had made you insist on wearing those garments despite your prominent bump. The result had been dignified and comfortable; ‘cool’, however, was not an adjective you would have used to describe it.

Baelor had noticed it even before you left the Red Keep to head out into the countryside — just as he had noticed every change, however slight, since you’d been pregnant, because, apparently, to your husband, you were now made of glass — which was why he wasn’t down there.

He had no intention of spending that day in the lists when he could be exactly where he ought to be: sitting by your side, watching for every little gesture that might betray tiredness, pain or discomfort, as if that were a battle far more important than any joust.

He could have won another tournament in any other year.

Moreover, he was curious to see who might have been his rivals.

It was then that Ser Gwayne Oakheart entered.

He had a presence so commanding that it stood on its own, an impeccable reputation built over decades of loyal service, and a habit of doing what he believed to be right without regard for what was expedient.

He was a man of principles, and this afternoon his principles had led him to win most of the afternoon’s jousts with a fluidity that had drawn shouts and applause even from the most demanding stands.

Now he rode around the perimeter of the field, his visor raised, the silver leaves carved into his breastplate glinting in the morning light, and that sly smile of someone who knows he has the crowd in the palm of his hand for the rest of the tournament.

Baelor watched him complete the first quarter of the circuit. Then the second, and so on until the end.

As the knight slowed his pace in front of the royal box, the prince looked at him with polite attention, settling into his seat and twirling the rings on his fingers.

Ser Gwayne looked towards the dais.

His green eyes swept over the faces of the ladies-in-waiting, strategically placed there by fathers with well-calibrated ambitions, their skirts adorned with those wreaths of flowers that hoped to be worn by some handsome knight.

Then they turned to Queen Myriah, who wore a stern yet calm expression, enough to remind any sensible man where overly bold knights ended up.

He paid them little heed: that day he was being crowned the best knight of the tournament and he wanted to continue proving it without ending up with his head on a pike.

Finally, they paused at your figure, standing imposingly to your husband’s left, like a treasure made up of a hundred gold dragons guarded by steel.

He rode up to the foot of the dais. When he stood before it, his regal eyes fixed upon it, he leaned forward from the saddle with a defiant expression and extended his mustard-and-green-striped lance towards you: princess by name of the Seven Kingdoms, wife of Baelor Targaryen and future mother of the child of the heir to the Iron Throne.

“My princess,” Ser Gwayne spoke in a steady tone, as though the blood of a reckless man did not run through his veins, “I trust you will forgive my boldness.”

Baelor felt something in his chest which, after a moment of genuine bewilderment, he identified as indignant surprise. You remained still in the seat, your hand halfway through wiping away your sweat.

“But I thought that, if I fought today with the favour of two Targaryens, perhaps I might have twice the luck.”

The field fell into an expectant silence, and for a few seconds the only sounds were the chirping of birds and the air rustling through the leafy branches of the trees and flowers.

You blinked twice.

You processed his words.

You wondered if it was really happening, if it was just a dream or simply a hallucination caused by the extreme heat of the day.

You even wondered if that proposal was really meant for you or for someone who, surprisingly, bore the same features as you.

But no, as far as anyone knew, there was only one heir to the Iron Throne; he had only one wife and was expecting only one child.

You opened your mouth, but, as if the words had died in your throat, you closed it again.

You looked around. Everyone was staring at you, but you searched only for the one pair of eyes that weren’t on you at that moment and that you needed most.

Baelor continued to stare straight ahead as he slid the rings on his fingers up and down, insistently. His chin was raised and his eyes had darkened, looking almost jet-black.

With no help from your husband, you turned your gaze to the sides. That day you weren’t wearing a wreath of flowers, as all the women in the boxes were, because you thought that, given your condition, no one would approach you.

You had greatly underestimated men.

You clutched the fabric of the handkerchief in the palm of your hand.

The audience was plunged into silence, eyes wide open and waiting with bated breath to see what would happen next.

Daeron II looked at you with a wary expression, his eyes darting between you and his son, who stood right beside you, not moving an inch. Meanwhile, Myriah also looked at you with the same gleam in her eyes as a woman who understood just how uncomfortable it was to be dragged by force into a situation like that.

Five, six, seven seconds of complete anticipation passed.

Finally, with the composure of someone who had spent far too many hours with her septa learning the proper manners of courtly behaviour, you rose with the limited ease afforded by your condition of the past six moons and approached the edge of the dais with slow steps.

“You are very generous, Ser,” you said in a tone that was utterly courteous and inscrutable. “It would be an honour.”

You placed the handkerchief on the tip of the spear—the one with the edges stained with red designs and your husband’s initial in the centre.

A wave of applause and whistles swept across the field, and that oppressive silence vanished in a matter of seconds.

Ser Gwayne flashed a smile that shone like the sun, took the handkerchief, tucked it into his gauntlet, clicked his spurs and rode off with the quiet satisfaction of having done the right thing.

You sat back down in your seat. You looked back at Baelor, who still had his gaze fixed on the front.

He didn’t say a word to you about it all day.

Not even when Ser Gwayne won every joust and earned the honour of naming the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Not even when he saw you accept the gift and, in the next moment, place the crown of pink lilies in your hair, only for it to sit askew because no one had measured the shape of your braids and it was a little too small for you.

But even though he hadn’t said a word, you already knew what was going on.

You’d known it ever since he’d stopped making the occasional comment about how he thought the joust would end—and getting it spot on—or when, on the carriage ride back, he’d simply offered up fleeting replies whilst gazing out of the window, when he’d always devoted himself to listening to your comments and critiques of the day’s events whilst caressing you and playing with your fingers.

That had been even more refreshing than that glass of water, because since you’d married Baelor, you could count on one hand the times he’d been jealous, and you wouldn’t even use all the fingers.

You’d never admit out loud that you loved seeing your husband like that.

It was more fun to try and prolong the situation, not out of cruelty, but because you didn’t know when it would happen again.

Your shared chambers fell silent when the last handmaiden left the room after the creak of the large wooden door.

You were sitting on a chair next to the bathtub placed on one side of the room. You had freed yourself from the confines of that dress that was constricting your skin and now wore only your white chemise, which reached down to your ankles. Your hand moved back and forth, slowly touching the surface of the water. It was warm and, just as your husband had promised, the mint leaves floated aimlessly.

You heard Baelor take off his cloak and drape it over the back of the chair. He loosened the clasp at his neck.

Usually, he didn’t do that himself, yet that evening, he was doing it, with the methodical calm of someone whose mind is occupied by something that is taking up more space than expected and causing him to be oblivious to his surroundings.

As if his mind were filled with the persistent image of a white handkerchief with red trim and a wreath of flowers tilted over his wife’s hair.

“What a lovely evening,” you said with a sigh of satisfaction after dousing the nape of your neck with that crystal-clear water.

He didn’t look at you.

“Aye.”

You did look at him.

“The tournament was very well organised.”

You heard the metallic clink of his silver brooch as he set it down on the table.

“Lord Penrose has improved since last year.”

“You mean Elaena,” you corrected. You smiled slightly when you saw that Baelor still wouldn’t look at you. “She’s spread the word well; she’s managed to gather some fine knights.” You paused. “Ser Gwayne rode very well.”

No one spoke for a moment.

“He rode well,” said Baelor.

“He’s a fine knight; I’m sure he’ll win greater tournaments in the future.”

“Hm,” he murmured, still not looking at you. “That was a very kind gesture, the crown.”

You smiled.

“Very chivalrous,” you remarked, almost as if it were of no importance. “It’s the first time I’ve been crowned and asked for a favour at a joust; it made me happy.”

This time, Baelor turned.

You hadn’t moved: one hand was still skimming the water with your fingertips, the other resting on your swollen belly. On your head, the crown of lilies, now sitting perfectly because your braids had been undone; a decision you’d made consciously and which he was choosing not to comment on. You wore an expression of innocence so carefully crafted that it seemed as though you’d been practising it your whole life just for him.

He leaned against the table and looked at you from across the room.

The moonlight streamed through the window, casting a more imposing silhouette of your husband.

“Are you going to take that off?” he said, nodding slightly towards the crown.

“What?”

He let out a perplexed snort and looked away again.

You managed not to laugh.

“Ah, the crown,” you said. You touched the flowers with your fingers, just as you had done that afternoon in the royal box. “I was thinking of taking the bath with it on, in honour of Ser Gwayne’s lovely gesture.”

Baelor looked at you again and crossed his arms.

It was a posture that, in the Small Council, conveyed honour and princely authority, whereas in private, in your opinion, it suggested he was trying to appear calmer than he actually was.

He took a deep breath and you saw his jaw clench slightly.

“You are the Crown Prince’s wife,” he said in a serious tone.

You nodded: “I am.”

“Pregnant, too.”

You looked down at your belly. The six moons were already noticeable beneath any garment. You looked back at your husband.

“Quite noticeably.”

He lifted his chin and leaned further against the small wooden table, which seemed to be the only thing keeping him from losing his temper.

“And Ser Gwayne Oakheart, with his reckless boldness and his spotless reputation, has decided that you were the fairest in the whole field, after having asked for your favour.”

You blinked twice and settled back in your chair.

“That is what he did, yes,” you said, calmly. This time the pause was barely a second. “Do you think he was wrong?”

Baelor tilted his head to one side. In the dim candlelight, the contrast between the violet and brown of his eyes—now darkened—was barely discernible.

After a few seconds, Baelor approached you with measured steps. The sound of his boots was muffled by the carpets; yet, even though you could not hear that tinkling, authoritative sound, you felt a shiver run down your spine.

When he stood before you, he lowered his gaze just as you raised yours. Your gazes merged into one.

He raised his hand and traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, then moved upwards, drawing an imaginary line to your cheekbone. His fingertips were rough, worn from the use of weapons, and yet you knew full well that he was the person who could convey the most tenderness when he caressed you.

Finally, he brought his hand to the wreath of lilies and removed it with more care than might have been strictly necessary given the circumstances.

He placed it on the side table.

“He wasn’t wrong,” he said at last, in a low voice.

He ran his fingers through your hair tenderly and slowly, and the look of feigned innocence had vanished from your face because, no matter how elaborate your plan might be, Baelor could unravel it with just the touch of his fingers.

"No?"

"No," he confirmed.

You took a deep breath and clasped your hands in your lap. You felt your chemise getting wet from the water you’d carried from the bath to the fabric.

You tilted your head.

“You could have given me the crown yourself.” There was something softer in your voice now, intertwined with a touch of humour; nevertheless, there was no lie in your words.

Baelor’s hand tightened in your hair.

“I didn’t win the tournament.”

“You could have if you’d taken part.”

“It’s my parents’ anniversary; it wouldn’t be proper for the heir to take part.”

You raised an eyebrow. That had sounded more like an excuse than a reason.

“How convenient.”

Baelor looked at you with his two-coloured eyes and sighed. He ran his hand through your hair and let silence fill the conversation for a few seconds.

"Valarr," he murmured finally, in a low voice, and at last you understood his concerns. He didn’t want any surprises, he didn’t want any nerves. As always, he was overly concerned for your well-being.

"He likes tournaments…" you repeated the words he’d spoken to you hours earlier. "Just like his father. When he grows up, he’ll win them all."

The prince swallowed hard.

Perhaps what you really wanted was for him to have been the one to crown you.

Perhaps he, as your husband, should have been the one to crown you for the first time.

You struggled to your feet — instantly feeling your husband’s hands steadying you, as if you were performing the most arduous task in the Seven Kingdoms —, resting your hands on the edge of the bath and the chair, until you stood facing Baelor. Your chests were brushing against each other and your husband lowered his face slightly, almost as if his heart were inevitably compelling him to draw closer to you.

“Next time,” Baelor spoke calmly. He rested his forehead against yours. “Next time there’s a tournament, I’ll participate. And I’ll win. And the crown will be placed upon your head by the one who ought to do so.”

You smiled faintly.

"By the one who ought to do so" you repeated, sealing that promise.

Then, he kissed you.

His lips on yours were soft and still. It didn’t last long, just long enough for you to feel it fully, not on your skin, but somewhere deeper inside, in that place hidden beneath the layers of flesh where butterflies flutter energetically and the heart beats far too fast.

His hands slid down to the small of your back and you felt the warmth of his skin even through the linen.

When he pulled away, he didn’t pull away completely. His breath brushed your mouth, and for a moment neither of you said a word, for there was no need. Everything had already been said: you had already tempted him and he had already answered you in his own way, with that cold reserve of his that only appeared on those occasions that could be counted on one hand.

With your eyes locked, your breaths in unison, and your hands clutching his dark doublet, you smiled; and after that, you let out a genuine laugh—one that made you clasp your hands to your ribs, for it seemed that even laughing whilst pregnant was torture.

“If you think about it, it was you who gave your favour,” you remarked between laughs, and you saw Baelor smile and roll his eyes.

“It was my favourite handkerchief.” He raised one of his hands to where yours lay, resting on your ribs. “Don’t you feel even a little guilty about what you’ve done to your poor husband today?”

"I like seeing you jealous."

"You're cruel."

"I'm not cruel, I'm your pregnant wife, so be nice to me."

"I'm perfectly nice to you, my dearest."

You bit your lip, still wearing a mischievous smile.

"Ser Gwayne would have been nicer."

The prince rolled his eyes again and wasn’t sure if he was doing it because of the comment or because, after he’d done so, you started laughing again as if you’d pulled a prank.

You settled against his chest with the same calmness of someone who’d achieved exactly what they’d set out to do.

Baelor leaned over to test the water. It was still lukewarm.

He began to undress you with the unique tenderness he possessed, now caressing your neck with his lips and playing with the fabric, all perfectly within the bounds of propriety, without a trace of jealousy.

Meanwhile, the crown of lilies remained on the little table until the following day.

Baelor did not move it from there again.

[barnes-babydoll]

Little Flutters ་࿐ ๋࣭  ࣪

Pairing | Baelor Targaryen x pregnant!reader Summary | Preparing for a feast organized by the King becomes a moment to reflect on the near future, and who the baby growing inside you might become. Warnings/tags | Before the events of akotsk, established relationship, insecure reader, Baelor is obsessed with his wife, tooth-rotting fluff, body kissing, pregnancy, kissing, an interrupting baby, reader gets emotional and promptly pushes them down (she's just like me fr) Word count | 2k A/N | hi...well, this is awkward...haven't written anything in a long time, and i'm not entirely sure if this means i'm back. but i decided to write this small drabble because i can't stop thinking about husband!baelor...ugh, i melt!! i'm in the process of writing an arranged marriage fic with him, so look out for that, hehe:)) okay, i'll shut the fuck up...enjoy??

Your reflection stared at you with its usual critical glare, following your gaze as you tilted your head this way and that. And still, the woman in the mirror insisted on judging you. Smoothing out the wrinkles in your gown, you turned to the side, hoping a different angle might soften your harsh scrutiny.

Like second nature, your hand drifted to the swell of your belly as if drawn by a gravitational pull. It was strange to have another human growing inside you, as though your mind refused to familiarize itself with the additional weight that your body had already embraced. No matter how you tried to reason with yourself—pregnant women were meant to look like this, that it was natural—a dark force that hovered over you kept arguing that you might as well be an elephant.

You were determined to ignore that churning in your gut that was convincing you to call for your handmaiden for a third time so she could assist you into a different dress—to help you hide what could no longer be hidden. Perhaps that sensation in your gut wasn't dread or disgust, but instead the baby shifting.

Tiny feet fluttered, quick little kicks, reminiscent of the butterflies you used to feel at the sight of Baelor when you were first courting, before you eventually tied the knot. A smile graced your lips, and now, as you met your eyes in the mirror, your reflection matched the joy etched on your face.

Then, the baby kicked your bladder, swift and hard, nearly knocking the wind out of you.

So much for savoring a moment of bliss.

Leaning forward, you craddled your belly. You caressed the bump in slow, soothing motions as you drew in a couple of steady breaths to pacify the ache. Before you could fully steady yourself, strong arms enveloped you from behind. Baelor's warmth molded to your back, his chin falling to the dip of your shoulder.

"Ready, my love?" he whispered.

You groaned, your head lolling to the side until your cheek rested on his hair. You'd promised to join him for the feast tonight, which his father had carefully organized. A night for political conversations and discussing important matters of the realm, but it was mostly an excuse to share a meal and drink too much wine together. But thanks to your pregnancy, you were given an out, to which you declined. And you were really regretting that decision now.

"I look ridiculous," you muttered, lifting your head to give yourself a quick once-over in the mirror again.

Your husband scoffed softly, shifting his hold on you so he could study your reflection. You could see the challenge swimming in his irises as he met your eyes.

"You're the portrait of beauty," he corrected firmly. He ran his hand over your belly, splaying his fingers protectively over it. His free hand reached up to brush a hair behind your ear and pressed a kiss to your jaw. "Radiant." Kiss. "Devastating." Another kiss. "You'd make any man fall to his knees, just from your presence alone."

The grin, once lost to the pain, came back in full force—your eyes creased and your cheeks dimpled. The baby's feet tapped at your stomach, and recognition washed over Baelor's face. His fingers drummed over the same spot, as if to say, yes, daddy's here. He smirked, glancing at you in the mirror. "See, the babe agrees," he teased.

"No," you shook your head stubbornly. "She clearly likes you more already. Any time she hears her father, she's as sweet as can be. But once you leave, she's relentless."

"She?"

"Yes," you said, rolling your eyes as you turned in his hold. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a very good listener?"

"Sarcasm," he deadpanned, but you could see a partial smile lifting his lips. "I meant, how are you so sure of the gender?"

"Just…" you paused, looking at the ceiling before leveling your gaze at him. "A feeling, I suppose."

"A feeling. That's all you're giving me?"

"What do you want me to say? That the Seven visited me in a dream and told me it was so." You placed a hand over your heart in an overly dramatic gesture.

Baelor was seconds away from laughing, the light in his eyes flickering with amusement. "Well, when you put it like that…"

"Oh yes," you began, leaning into the theatrics. "The Crone herself clothed me in her golden light, and said, 'Listen closely, child, the babe is a girl.'"

He snorted, completely enthralled with you and your performance. "Did the gods also say that you are clever enough as is, and it would be unwise to grant you such intuition?"

Dropping your little act, you giggled, reaching for his hands and giving them a light squeeze. "If you must know, mothers…just sense these things."

"Mmm…convenient, considering you've been saying she since you first found out you were with child," he murmured, bringing your joined hands up to his lips and planting kisses across your knuckles.

"And I've yet to be proven wrong."

His expression softened slightly, into something warmer. "I suppose that means I should mentally prepare for her to inherit her mother's stubbornness."

"And her father's charm," you added, poking a finger into his chest.

The candlelight from the nearby desk framed his face in just the right way. It carved out the line of his cheekbone while plunging the other half of his face into shadow. One eye fell into darkness, and the other remained piercing, the azure reminding you of the deepness of the midnight sky.

Tilting your head, you admired him. He noticed your stare, of course he did. He was attentive in that way. Always noticing things, no matter how minor they may be.

Taking your face in his massive hands, he gently held you, his thumbs brushing over your skin in reverence. His worshipful touch made your heart stutter beneath your ribs, and you couldn't help but lean into it. "If she even has a sliver of your spirit, there's no doubt in my mind that the realm will tremble before her," Baelor breathed, inching closer until he was hovering above your lips. "And I can't wait to witness it."

Heat crept up your neck and settled into the apples of your cheeks. It was a mystery that after all this time, he could still fluster you. Your palms drifted to his waist, your fingers tickling his sides as you fiddled with the fabric of his tunic.

"If she has even a fragment of your integrity," you whispered against his lips. "I think she'll be a treasure to behold."

You captured his lips, sighing into his mouth as soon as you made contact. He lured you in immediately, guiding you closer until your bump was pressed to his stomach. His grip tightened just a fraction, but you felt the solidity of his hold regardless. He set the pace, his lips slow but sure, like he was cherishing the rare hum of intimacy hovering between you. You followed without hesitation, the brush of your lips fitting so smoothly against his.

One of your palms slid up his chest, settling over his heart. You felt the steady thump of it quickening beneath your fingertips, which only sent a thrill up your spine. He tilted your head back with his unyielding grip on your jaw, while the other hand rose to cover yours where it rested firmly over his rapidly beating heart. As the kiss deepened, you grazed your tongue over his bottom lip, eliciting a deep rumble that vibrated his chest.

Another flutter rippled below your ribs, a subtle pattering of feet that told you she was being left out. Baelor hummed into your mouth, feeling the thrum against his own stomach. When you broke away, your breathing was heavier, the twinkling of passion enough to steal the air from your lungs.

You rested your forehead against his, tutting in disapproval at the small human in your belly. "She's quite the attention seeker."

"She's just reminding us she's there," he reasoned, his hand falling from your face to your bump again, as if he couldn't help it. You could feel the warmth of his palm through the thin material of your gown, and you hoped—no matter how foolish the wish was—that the baby could feel it too.

"I'm grateful for the reminder," he added, voice dipping into something vulnerable. "Even if she chooses the worst times to do so."

You released a huff of laughter. "Better get used to it. There'll be plenty more where that came from once she finally arrives."

"Oh, my darling girl," he rasped, parting from you, just enough to gaze into your eyes with every ounce of devotion he could muster. "I'm looking forward to it. All of it. Every stolen moment of intimacy. Every sleepless night."

Pausing, he glanced down briefly as his thumb traced in languid circles over your belly. His tone softened as he continued, "Every first. Her first laugh. First steps. First words."

His eyes met you, and you could feel the sincerity in his words even before he voiced them aloud. "Every time those tiny fingers reach for her mother, because she knows you're her home."

That one made your breath hitch, tears already brimming in your eyes. The edges of his face blurred from the tears in your vision. Sniffling, you brushed them away quickly before they could spill forth, but your voice betrayed you anyway.

"You can't just say that," you half-laughed, your tone thick with unshed tears. "You know how emotional I get being pregnant."

He brought a finger to your cheek, sliding it beneath your eye to catch a tear you missed. "And I'll kiss away every tear, my love," he promised, leaning in to press his lips to your forehead, warm, comforting.

You leaned into the kiss, allowing your eyelids to flutter closed. The stinging in your eyes hadn't faded, but you tried to hold off the threat of tears; you couldn't fall apart before dinner. You drew in a shaky breath, peeking down at Baelor's hand resting over your bump protectively. It almost seemed as though he had forgotten it was there, yet at the same time, the gesture felt like a reflex. As if it was embedded into his very bones to protect this child that he hadn't even met, but already loved so deeply.

"This baby is going to be so spoiled," you said, your throat still tight with fondness.

"She deserves nothing less," he responded calmly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The tears made their encore, pricking the corners of your eyes. You swallowed down the ache, lightly shoving at his chest. "We'd better leave now before I have a full-on breakdown and change my mind about joining you tonight," you grumbled dramatically, wiping your eyes once more.

You moved towards the door, reaching for your cloak that was conviniently hung on one of the hooks. "Plus, if we are any later, your father will give you that look. You know the one," you explained, draping the thick material over your shoulders.

Baelor chuckled lowly behind you, a deep, rich sound that rattled his chest. You turned quickly, your eyebrows knit together. "What?" you asked defensively, palms facing the ceiling, fingers splayed in confusion.

"Nothing," he chirped, the amusement still prominent on his face. "I just love you, is all."

The harsh lines of your expression softened and your arms dropped to your side. You found yourself grinning like an idiot, utterly charmed by your husband. "I…love you too," you replied softly, your eyes shimmering with affection. You gestured to the doorway. "Come now, help me down these stairs, so I don't fall on my ass."

Hurriedly, he approached you, offering a steady arm. "As my lady commands."

Together, you stepped out of the room—the stability of your husband beside you and the heat of his palm on the small of your back, guiding you. The baby shifted slightly, and it almost felt like your world was clicking into place. This pregnancy, your future with this child, it all still felt like such an overwhelming mystery. But there was one thing you were certain of. You had the perfect person to figure it all out with. And you took comfort in that truth.

actually me posting this because apparently i don't remember how to write:

[sgreer123]

Ser Duncan “sad, puppy dog, yearning, fuck me eyes” the Tall 😭😮‍💨 Ugh, he looks SO pathetic (affectionate)

[cosmictheo]

𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 ! | ser duncan the tall

— summary: if he sits like that, he really shouldn't expect you not to jump on him right there. — word count: 1k — content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), he's so big, smitten!dunk, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, riding, some porn with some plot, body worship, he talks to you through it!!! praise kink, sub!dunk. i looked at that scene and wrote this in the span of literally ten minutes, stay with me on this😭

You know he's not doing it on purpose; quite the opposite, Dunk is naive and innocent, which is precisely why you love him so much and would go to the ends of the universe for him.

He doesn't sit like that to entice you because you both know you can have him whenever you want, but still, you love it when he sits like that, with his legs spread wide, his big hands propped up on his thick thighs, the tanned skin on his forearms glowing faintly under the flickering light of the campfire in front of him, his sleeves rolled up, his bulging muscles flexing beneath his skin every time his long fingers bring his wine glass to his mouth.

He's talking to you enthusiastically about... shields? Spears? You have no idea because you're busy drooling over him as you sit pretty on the other side of the little fire.

Sitting like that, Duncan looks so big, so broad. He's such a man! 

When you see him sitting like that, it's hard not to get excited and jump on him.

And poor Dunk doesn't really know why you're suddenly so passionate, climbing onto his lap as if you were conquering a mountain, kissing his neck and whispering sweet words of praise onto his skin, fragrant with his masculine scent. But who could possibly be so foolish as to refuse your attention?

“L–love?” He clears his throat as he calls for you, his long fingers caressing your lower back as he simply lets himself be pampered by you, chirping like a happy little bird, “may I ask the reason for this sudden outburst of affection?”

He is such a gentleman and just so good.

“You're so handsome and big, Dunk,” you tell him in awe, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

And he blushes, of course, tilting his head away from yours so he can look you in the eyes, searching for some sign in your expression that might suggest you are just teasing him, but why would you tease him about that?

Your lips are plump from all the kisses you've showered on his skin, taking your time on every freckle and mole and scar you find on his upper body.

“Does that— does that arouse you?” Dunk asks, his voice dropping sheepishly as he speaks. 

You smile coquettishly, your fingers caressing his warm, flushed cheek. “It arouses me to see you like this and to know you’re mine.”

All yours.

He considers all the men who would love to be in his shoes, with a glass of fine wine in one hand and the other appreciatively caressing the finest ass in all of Westeros, as you, the most stunning woman in the world, bounce on his lap like a savage beast, drawing out hoarse moans from deep within his throat with every twirl of your merciless hips.

The fat tip of his cock drags heavily inside you, forcing its way open through your tight, gummy walls. He's so deep you can feel it in your fucking throat.

“That's it,” is never shy to keep whispering praises at your neck, kissing affectionately the point where your shoulder meets your collarbone, running his tongue over a drop of sweat rolling down your skin and moistening it some more with his saliva. He really loves when you take control and simply having to sit back and enjoy the view. “You do it so well, my love. Fuck— still so bloody tight— uhh— just like that”

Barely does his deep voice stand out above the lewd sounds of your sexes joining, flesh slamming against flesh, so wet, so filthy.

“So fuckin’ big,” you whine out, yet you take every inch of him all the way down like the good girl you are, sitting nice and pretty on his lap, your bum pressing down on his heavy balls. Your hands squeeze his broad shoulders, seeking to catch his gaze amidst the shadows of the night. “Dunk—

“Hmm?” he hums in response to your little cry immediately, croakily. Then he kisses your neck, your forehead, your nose, and your lips, “I’ve got you, love. I always got you. So good for me.”

And from there, he'll take care of the rest. He'll drop the cup of his dear wine to get a good grip on your plump buttocks, squeezing your hips, rocking you up and down on his cock, up and down, like a weightless little doll.

Your man is so strong, yet so gentle with you.

Dunk can't stop kissing you! He kisses your tear-streaked face clean to taste the exquisite blend of your teardrops and sweat. He loves the taste of you.

He is devoted to satisfying and pampering you, so naturally your pleasure comes before his own. He ensures that you finish at least twice before he does, a set of intrusive fingers stimulating your sensitive clit, pressing between your soaked folds, sucking on your perky nipples.

“You're so small, so gorgeous... all mine, y–yeah?”

His cock is stretching you out so much that if you look down, you can see the outline of it poking out from the inside of your belly every time he thrusts all the way in. 

Dunk glances at it too, and that's all it takes to push him to climax. 

He cums so much that he quickly fills you up. Your abused cunt is oozing with cum, greedily milking him absolutely dry and sucking in as much of his seed as she can. 

His thick thighs tense and then relax under your body as he keeps spurting loads of his warm seed deep inside your womb. His hands are lovingly running over your flesh, holding you as you collapse exhausted and happy onto him, snuggling up close to his pecs that you love so much.

[maekarart]

By cumblebee on X

[ghostlybfgf]

Yandere Aerion Targaryen x kind and soft reader? The entire kingdom dislikes him but loves his wife, and he's lowkey jealous because he doesn't like the thought of having to share his wife with the kingdom

now THIS is the kind of goodness we need hello, this is so real too because i love him but he’s a jealous bitch, not only by his own ego but because what’s his, is his. 💗

i’m your man

aerion targaryen x wife!reader

word count: 1.5k +

warnings: canon typical violence, almost death, aerion, smuttiness and teasing,

The realm loves you the way it fears Aerion.

They bring you flowers and prayers and whispered thanks. Children of both court and the streets hide behind your skirts instead of acknowledging him. Lords and ladies soften in your presence, smiling where they would sneer at him. You are mercy made flesh, and everyone knows it.

Aerion knows it too.

His hand presses firm at your lower back in the court, his lips pressed into a thin line as yet another petitioner bows a little too deeply in your direction. He listens as they praise your kindness, your patience, your gentleness— he doesn’t disagree, but all this? As if you are not his.

Rocking on his heel, amongst his father and brothers, Court drags, as it always does in its usual pageantry of praise and petition. Aerion stands among his father and brothers, weight shifting subtly from heel to heel, jaw tight as another voice lifts in praise— this time for you. He doesn’t bother hiding the yawn that threatens; it slips past him in a slow exhale, more irritation than fatigue. The court notices everything except what matters.

Except you.

You sit a little apart, radiant without effort, listening with that soft attentiveness that makes people believe they are seen, in ways he wouldn’t care to give. Aerion watches the way the light catches in your hair, and the way you incline your head when spoken to, generous with your warmth in a way he has never learned to be. And the kingdom only drinks it in greedily.

He takes you in, in that longing, unwavering stare, remembering the first time he saw you. The shock of recognition and the way something ancient and territorial had settled in his chest before desire ever followed. He had known, then— known in the bone-deep way dragons know their hoards.

Then once more it was maritally official, under the weirwood, sap-red and silent witness, bathed in his house colours, he had spoken it aloud at last. Not as a request, as a declaration. You would be his, and he yours. The court had murmured, startled by the certainty of it, as if those words hadn’t already been said, quietly, between the two of you, long before anyone else was permitted to hear them.

Now, the court leans toward you again, looming over you and your marriage, hungry for your kindness. Aerion’s gaze tracks the room with lazy precision as another lord laughs too loudly, and another lady lingers too long at your side. You smile, kind and open, unguarded in a way that makes something sharp curl in his chest. They love you. They love you loudly. As if love were not a thing to be rationed, as if it were not dangerous in exces

The thought alone makes Aerion step closer, the movement instinctive. His arm brushing yours, but you do not look up, do not flinch— only lean into him slightly, a subtle shift of weight that settles the restless heat under his skin, the possession that needs not a spectacle.

By the time the feasts of the banquet had been devoured and wine emptied and refilled once again, the court adjourns, the air outside is already thick with dust and anticipation. The tourney grounds buzz like a living thing, the need for it no one could say, the kingdom relying on its steel gleams and banners, instead of what lies beneath. A house under a history soon becoming lost, and a society burning to grab hands at its heart.

As you wander through the halls of the court, heated cheeks warm from the wine and gossip Aerion finds himself the opposite, sharpening as the hours pass, boredom burning away into something cleaner, more dangerous.

In the pavilion, squires move around him, tightening the straps of his blackened and albeit extravagant armour. He lets them work, gaze distant, thoughts fixed not on the lists but on where you’ll sit, how the crowd will look at you once the spectacle begins. He rolls his shoulders once, testing the weight, the familiar pull of steel against muscle. His eyes follow you as you find him, skirts hanging across the dried dirt, “Fight well my Dragon,” you say softly, stepping close enough that only he can hear, hands bracing at his chest plate.

He looks down at you then, head straight but his eyes wander to the calm in your eyes, at the faith there. “I always do,” he replies, and there is no arrogance in it. Just fact. A soft smirk and gentile in his eyes, reserved only for you is all the strength he can need before it disappears behind his helmet.

When he mounts, the crowd roars, trotting slowly into the line of fire where he waits. He finds you immediately in the stands, and you are exactly where you should be, composed and luminous, the people around you already half in love. Seated beside his father and brothers and the lords and ladies of higher power. His jaw tightens, but his focus sharpens. Let them watch. He can only think, there are only one set of eyes on him he cares about.

The first matches pass quickly. Joust pointed heavy at the row of young knights like a predator picking its prey, one by one as he stalks by. And one by one they fall, lances shattered and bodies hitting the dust with injuries much to the amusement and applause of the spectators.

Until but one remains.

A young knight of House Fell, the black helm crested with a pale wing— stormlander stock, old blood, but not enough renown to soften ambition. He sits his horse well, chin tipped upward beneath the visor, posture poised immaculate in that practiced way that suggests he has been praised for too long. Even through the armor, arrogance clings to him and Aerion twitches, he hates it. This one does not fear the dragon. Worse— he thinks himself worthy of standing before it.

And he feels it then, the way the sound does not rise for him, the way the attention drifts, just slightly, away. The hope that the dragon might finally be unseated by something new and shining and bis mouth curves, slow and thin. Dismissal has always been a far better spur than praise. And to make matters worse, the knight does not look at Aerion so much as glance through him, nodding ever so slightly out of politeness. But his gaze already sliding toward the stands, toward where the light is brightest. He turns his horse deliberately, letting the moment stretch, letting the crowd settle into its curiosity.

Toward you.

Aerion’s grip tightens on the reins, leather creaking soft and low under the daggered hands. The noise of the crowd dims at the edges, replaced by a clean, familiar heat in his chest so clear his heart thrums in his ears.

The knight removes his helm with a flourish practiced enough to draw murmurs of approval. He kneels properly, one knee in the dust, head bowed.

“My lady,” he says, voice clear. “It would honor me beyond measure to ride with your favor.” The wreath rests in your hands, woven light and careful, summer caught in green and white. A young lady offered many a young man’s favour at such an event but this time was different, and you hesitate.

Because you feel him before you see him.

Across the lists, Aerion sits tall in the saddle, reins loose in one hand, the other resting idle against his thigh. He has gone utterly still beyond the sway from his horse, but he is not restless, only focused. His eyes are on you alone, the same way they get just before fire breaks loose. The world has narrowed to this distance between you, and your gaze meets his.

For a heartbeat, nothing else exists.

His expression does not change— but something passes between you all the same. Under every piece of steel you see it. A question, unspoken. a warning, a promise. You know him well enough to read it. Choose.

The knight waits, unaware of the storm coiling a dozen paces away. You rise then, calm and composed, every inch the princess that they adore, as you bend and place the wreath onto his outstretched lance. “Ride well,” you say softly, publicly. The knight beams, triumphant, lifting the favor high for the crowd to see and the murmured cheers ripple through the stands.

Aerion watches the entire exchange, but it does not warm him like the others, instead something dark and pleased curls low in his chest. Not because you gave it, but because you looked at him first. And this time when the horn sounds and Aerion urges his horse forward, there is no mistaking the shift in him. He rides like a man who has been answered, like someone who knows exactly where his wife stands— and intends to remind everyone else.

The lists narrow to a single line of intent. The young knight of House Fell rides hard, eager, lance angled true but he rides to impress, Aerion rides to end it. And after too long of a back and forth, at the last instant, he shifts, just enough to turn precision into punishment. Wood explodes. The impact lands wrong— violently wrong— and the knight is wrenched sideways, body folding with a sickening crack as he hits the ground.

The crowd gasps, some leaning over there seats to get a better look, sympathy spreading for the young man who had gone against the dragon, and now lost. But he does not look back. Only when the dust settles does the severity reveal itself, the knight not rising, his helm torn free, breath coming shallow and ragged. And this time the applause dies in the throat of the stands, replaced by a stunned, uneasy quiet. Your hands scrape at the corners of your chair, paint and wood sharpening at your fingernails in distress. Perhaps for the knight himself, or perhaps of your husbands capabilities.

And it is only solidified, when his state finds you. It is sated, unapologetic.

“He— “you begin, voice low, fingers curling into his dress shirt. “He’ll live?”

Aerion hums against your skin, a slow sound disguised as a grumble. “The maesters think so,” he says, and kisses at your neck again, “But he will remember today.” Your breath stutters with the closeness of him, the heat still coiled beneath his restraint. “Perhaps we all will.”

His hands are already at your waist, thumbs warm and grounding, but something in him sharpens, attention narrowing until there is nothing but you and the space between breaths. The light flickers, catching in his eyes, turning them molten violet.

“Then let it be,” he breathes out, lips hot at your jawline down to your collarbone before pulling back to look down at you , “for the right reasons, my love.”

He reaches for you then. The fastening at your shoulder gives way beneath his fingers, fabric loosening inch by inch as if he’s unwrapping a vow rather than clothing. Slipping his own tunic over his head carelessly and tossing it to reveal his pale body, abs flexing in the dimmed candlelight. The room darkens around you, limbs casting long shadows across stone and skin. He presses your bare back not against the bed, but into the space of him, chest to chest, foreheads touching. His mouth finds yours, slower, deeper, tasting like restraint finally loosening.

His fingers pause, then press closer, dipping just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to promise more without claiming it yet, teasing you softly downward. Breasts pressing against his side as he wraps his arm around you, keeping you against him.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. And when you do, his gaze is dark and intent, devotion threaded through the danger. His thumb brushes slowly, deliberately to your sex, drawing a quiet sound from you that he answers with an exhale. He leans in, kissing you again, tongue sleeping dominant around your own. His fingers curling around your cunt, toying with your wetness as his body slides over you, fingertips pressing into you enough to make you gasp. Your mouth falling into a delicate ‘o’ as your hips raise, arching into his hand with every thrust. Your breath breaks, mouth falling open as your body arches instinctively into his touch, chasing it without shame, each movement draws you closer, closer still, until you’re no longer sure where your body ends and his begins. From the teasing, the the tension he creates he lets it fall against you.

Aerion lets out a low, dark sound against your throat, half a laugh, half a warning— clearly pleased by the way you unravel for him. He anchors you to him, while the other slides up to cradle the back of your neck, holding you just where he wants you, eyes bearing into you like a lifeline, studying. His own arousal growing stronger by the second, the mere look of you hardening his cock. In your shared space, his wife and him. That’s all.

“Aerion—“

“Easy now, wife.” he rasps, though there’s nothing gentle about the way his voice roughens. He stays there, relentless and patient as you break, rubbing your clit harshly through your own heat and slick, cum dripping down his fingers as he presses harder. His hand coming down to press over your stomach as you throw your head back, silk sheets twisting under the pressure, and he pushes, the heat of your arousal pounding against his heated, calloused hand, coil threatening to break. The pleasure tugging at you as you grasp at his wrist where it pulses at your cunt, moaning as you arch against his hand, “There you go.”

He hums in approval, rocking you through your high as you pump yourself against him, eyes watering as your hair tousles at the pillow. He drags his hand away much to your dismay, before leaning back over you, slotting between your legs, bringing his fingers up to his lips and sucking. The firmness in his brow only growing as he shuts his eyes, taking in your taste before bringing them to yours, his saliva mixed with your arousal coating your tongue. “Taste yourself.. all of that, for me, and yet I’ve hardly began to devour you yet.” Salt and sweetness.

Your cheeks heat up, obvious enough in the dying light, and Aerion chuckles low as he nudges your cheek. Another promise of what’s to come.

“Sweet girl, and all mine.”

[flamygibi]

🔆

[jay-trekking]

Have I mentioned that I love him?

[the-darklings]

your thoughts on ls tracing AKOTSK men's features while they're asleep....? 🙏

*explodes*

oh, these made me YEARN like a mf.

BAELOR.

Baelor sleeps wrapped around you. One arm under your neck, the other banded around your waist, his chest a broad steady heat along your spine. This man doesn’t just sleep next to you. He gathers you, hoards you, his forearm snug across your middle as if he’s shielding something from sight. Some part of him still doesn’t quite trust the world not to steal you while he dreams. So to trace his features you would have to disentangle yourself, slowly, without waking him, which is its own minor heist in truth. And when you finally got your hand free, what you would find, in sleep, is a face that has finally let go of duty.

His brow unknits. That crease between his brows (the one that lives permanently in the daytime, the crease that comes from carrying a kingdom on his shoulders) is gone. You would touch it lightly with your thumb because the absence of it is so striking. And you would trace the line of his nose, the slight bump where it was broken once in a tourney mishap he refuses to discuss. You would map the shape of his mouth, which in sleep falls slightly open, vulnerable in a way it never is when he speaks. You would touch the silver at his temples that the southern light at the Red Keep kisses, as if the gods simply meant to mark him there. And you would feel, with a sharp and unbearable tenderness, the thinness of the skin beneath his eyes. The bruised hollows of a man who’s not slept properly in years until he started sleeping with you. The wonder of it would land on you like cold water: I am the reason this man rests.

He would catch you at it. Baelor sleeps the lightest of any of them despite being the most exhausted, because part of him is always listening for the realm. His hand would close gently around your wrist mid-trace and his eyes would crack open. That strange mismatched gaze, dark and pale, dazed with sleep, and he would smile, slow, delighted. What are you doing, wife? And you would, mortified, try to retract your hand, and he would not let you. No. Carry on. I should like to see what conclusions you reach.

MAEKAR.

Sleeps like a soldier. On his back, one hand resting on his stomach, the other near where his sword would be. Even now, even in your bed, even years into a marriage he’s come to want with all the fierce surprise of a man who didn’t expect to want anything again, he still sleeps in formation. Braced. His body has not unlearned the war. And to trace his face in sleep is to trace a map of every fight he’s been in, because Maekar’s face is evidence of them. The faint pox scars across his cheeks. The new split scar along the ridge of his knuckle from a sword hilt that bit him years ago. The cut along his cheek that has faded but not gone from Redgrass Field.

His hands are the part that would steal your breath, though. Rough, scarred and callused from years with a sword in his hand, from battles he’s had to fight. You would lift his hand from where it rests on the coverlet and you would turn it over in yours and you would map the calluses with your fingertip. The place where the pommel sits, where the reins lie, where the bowstring pulls. And somewhere in this, he would wake. Maekar wakes fast. Soldier-fast. He would wake with his other hand moving toward where the sword should be, and then he would register it was you, and the readiness would drain out of him in a single long exhale, and he would look at you with that gruff bewildered tenderness he can never quite hide and he would grunt, voice rough with sleep: what. Not a question, exactly. More a statement of presence. And you would say, softly: go back to sleep, husband. And he would, but only after pulling you closer, his big hand settling at the small of your back, his face turning into your throat where he can smell you.

AERION.

Catastrophic. And not in the way you’d expect, because Aerion doesn’t sleep braced or guarded the way a man with his obsession ought to. Aerion sleeps curled toward you, every line of him already oriented your way, like a flower that grew toward the sun in the dark and has not bothered to dissemble about it. One hand fisted in the fabric of your shift. One leg hooked over yours. His face turned into the pillow you share, lashes pale against fever-warm skin, breath stirring the loose hair at your temple. And the moment your fingertips graze his cheek (the moment you have the audacity to touch him while he sleeps)he doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. He leans into it.

Greedy is the only word for him. Aerion in sleep is greedy for you, in a way his waking self has spent years trying to disguise. Awake, his obsession comes barbed, sneering, costumed in cruelty so he doesn’t have to admit how badly he wants. Asleep, none of that machinery is running. So when your thumb traces the line of his jaw, he turns his face into your hand. Open-mouthed. Half-conscious. Like a dragonling rooting toward heat. His lashes flutter. He makes a small, rumbling sound in his throat. And he moves. That lean dangerous body shifting closer, closer. Until you understand he’s not simply asleep beside you but winding himself around you, leisurely and deliberate. His face is inches from yours and his forehead nearly brushes yours and you’re nose-to-nose in the dim, his breath on your mouth.

Presenting himself. Offering himself. Look at me, the whole shape of him says, even in sleep. Map me. Mark me. It has always been yours.

And so you do. You trace the cropped softness of his hair at the nape, where it grows in stubble-pale from the time he cut it for you. You touch the scar on his jaw. Smooth your thumb along the high arrogant ridge of his cheekbone, the place that goes flushed when he’s feverish or furious or wanting. You touch the corner of his full mouth, and his lips part for you, automatically, the same way they parted for the cup of water you held to them when he was sick. And his eyes are open by then, of course they are (Aerion sleeps shallow, the dark thing in him will not let him sleep deeper than that) and they’re pale and blown wide, fever-bright in the dark, watching you map him with the desperate attentiveness of a man who’s been waiting for this his entire life and would die before he admitted it.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t break the spell. He simply lies there, curled around you, face inches from yours, and lets you have him. Lets you claim him. The whole tableau of it. The hot dragonish body coiled into yours, the parted mouth, the eyes that have not blinked in what feels like minutes. He’s a man being handed over to you in the only language he’s ever been able to speak: the language of stillness while you do what you like. He’ll be vicious about it tomorrow, say something cutting about your sentiment. Your softness, your northern habits. He will perform the disdain so you can’t take from him what he was unable to refuse you tonight. It won’t work. And the next night he’ll be curled into you again, fiercer, before the candle is even out.

VALARR.

Sleeps boyish. There’s no other word for it. For a man so polished in waking (the careful cultivation of charm, the lingering look he gives you across rooms, the deliberate way he holds himself even at rest) Valarr in sleep is softened to the point of foolishness. His mouth is slightly parted, dark hair mussed. The white streak at his temple is a pale slash through the tousle. The polish that defines him by day has completely deserted him, and what’s left is a man in his twenties with a small crease between his brows and an unguarded face that you can’t stop looking at.

So you touch him. Just your thumb at first, smoothing the crease between his brows the way you’ve wanted to all day. And Valarr (who’s the most attuned to you of any of them) doesn’t so much wake as soften further under your hand. He makes a small sound, sleep-thick and pleased. Turns his face into your palm, slow, instinctive. His lashes don’t lift. His eyes don’t open. He’s still mostly asleep. But his mouth finds the pad of your thumb, and his lips trace it, unhurried, half-conscious, learning the shape of you with the same devotion he gives every other inch of you when he’s awake.

Then he nuzzles deeper. His cheek against your palm. His nose at the heel of your hand. A man who is, you realise with a quiet jolt, presenting himself for petting. Presenting himself to be claimed. I’m yours, take stock, do as you like. Said with no words, only the small shameless tilt of his head into your hand, the tiny kiss he plants in the centre of your palm when his lips happen to find it. And when his eyes finally do crack open, mismatched and unfocused, they find your face and his whole expression breaks open into that helpless unguarded delight you only ever see from Valarr in sleep. The man under the prince.

He wants to be kept. That’s the secret of Valarr in sleep. The performance is intricate, the polish is real, the immortalising gaze is genuine. But underneath all of it is a man who wants to be a thing you keep on the bed and stroke when he’s good. And tracing his features while he sleeps gives him exactly that, and he goes utterly liquid under your hand. He’ll let you do it as long as you want, and he’ll purr small wordless sounds into your palm, and somewhere in this hour you’ll understand that you have ruined him for any other woman who’s ever lived, because no one else has ever touched him like this. Without performance, without ceremony, without payment due, and no one else ever will again.

DAERON.

Oh, oh, oh. Daeron sleeps with his hand curled near his face, knuckles white, holding something back. And his face in sleep is the only place you ever see him young. Waking, Daeron is older than his years. Wine-aged, dream-gnawed, carrying the weight of visions that crawl out of him in his sleep and walk into the world. He has a face that’s going to be ruined by drink before he’s forty if no one stops him. But in sleep, before the drink hits, before the dreams come, before the hand pours the next cup… Daeron looks young, handsome. He looks like the boy he was before the gift cracked him open.

So to trace his features in sleep is to map the wound the dreams have been chewing on. You would touch the dark crescents under his eyes. Deep, blue-black, constant now. You would touch the soft hair at his temple, damp at the roots. You would touch the corner of his mouth, which in sleep does this terrible thing. It twitches, downward, as if the dreams are already starting, as if even unconscious he’s bracing. And you would know, with a sinking that is its own kind of love, that you can’t save him from what is in his head. You can only sit with him afterwards. You can only hold him while he sweats it out.

He will wake mid-trace. He’ll wake with his eyes already wet, dream-disturbed, half a word in his mouth that he swallows when he sees you. And he will look at you for a long moment and then his face will crumple (just briefly, just for a heartbeat) and then he’ll laugh, that bitter wine-aged laugh, and say darling, you should not look at me like that, you’ll spoil me for the rest. And you will say, levelly, Daeron, and he’ll stop laughing, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rests against his cheek. He’ll hold it there for one long silence, and that will be the closest thing to I love you he’s capable of giving you.

LYONEL.

The opposite of all of these men. Lyonel sprawls. He sleeps the way he laughs: loud, generous, taking up the entire bed and apologising for none of it. One arm flung above his head, the other across your waist with a possessiveness so unselfconscious it reads as thoughtless, his frame radiating heat like a hearth. He’s the man who falls asleep faster than anyone you know, because Lyonel doesn’t lie awake worrying. Lyonel has never lain awake worrying. That’s one of the great gifts of being Lyonel Baratheon.

So to trace his features is a different kind of project entirely. It’s not heartbreak. It’s wonder. He’s almost obscenely beautiful in sleep. The stag’s pride of him, the strong jaw gone slack, the dark lashes fanned against tanned skin, the mouth that’s always grinning in waking finally at rest. You would map his face slowly. The small white scar through his eyebrow from a tourney. The flattened bridge of a nose broken twice. The soft place at his temple where his pulse beats steady and unhurried. And Lyonel, who sleeps deeply and long, would not wake. You could trace him for an hour and the man would simply continue to breathe, mouth open, lashes still.

He would wake eventually (late, slow, irritated by sunlight) and he would catch your hand without opening his eyes and bring it to his lips and kiss the palm and rumble what’re you about, she-wolf, and when you told him, I was looking at you, he would crack one eye open, grin like sin, and say aye? And what’s the verdict? And you would have to lie to him, because Lyonel doesn’t need to be told he’s beautiful, Lyonel already knows, Lyonel will dine out on it for a week. So you’d say the verdict is you snore, and he’d roar with laughter, and pull you on top of him, and that would be the end of any further tracing.

DUNK.

Dunk is the only one on this list who sleeps completely undefended. Dunk, all seven feet of him, all knotted muscle and scarred knuckles and broken-nosed sweet-eyed enormity. He sleeps like a child. On his side, one big hand tucked under his cheek, his face slack and peaceful in a way that takes your breath. The largest man you have ever seen, and in sleep he’s the softest, and the dissonance of it is so profound that the first time you saw it your eyes burned.

So you trace his features slowly. Oh so, very slowly. Because Dunk is a man who’s been touched without tenderness his entire life. Bruised, broken, struck by others, and to be touched gently while he sleeps is something he’s never received, ever, not in all the years of life. You would trace the cauliflowered curl of his ear, scarred from training. The ridge of his nose, broken so many times it has settled into its asymmetry. The pale lines of old scars across his cheek, his jaw, his brow. And you would touch his mouth last, most gently, because Dunk has the softest mouth of any man you know, and in sleep it lies parted and trusting like a boy’s.

And Dunk would wake. Slowly. Blinking up at you in the dim light, confused at first, his big body stirring carefully because even half-asleep Ser Duncan the Tall is afraid of breaking small things. And when he registers what you’ve been doing (when he understands you’ve been touching his face) he would go still, the way he goes still when something gentle happens to him that he doesn’t know how to receive. And his eyes, which are honest blue and absolutely without guile, would fill. Genuinely fill. And he would say, in that quiet rumble of a voice, m’lady. You don’t… you don’t have to do that. And you would say, I know. And he wouldn’t be able to speak after that for a long time.

And he would, carefully, very tentatively, lift one of his enormous hands and lay the back of it against your cheek. A fraction of the gentleness you just gave him, a fraction of the same gift returned in his clumsy, sincere way, and he would not say anything, but you would understand that he’s just made you a private vow no septa would recognise but every god in the seven heavens would.

[randomnoteforfuturereference]

What's delightful about Dunk is that he's not a charmer or intimidating force, but he can still immediately win over a jaded clerk, irreverent camp girls, and the head of a major House by just being his earnest wet dog self with all of the grace of a newborn foal on ice.

Special points go to him catching Lyonel flat footed by flatly noting that he was just in the tent for food.

[imnotcryingyouare1]

I just discovered your Maekar and stepmum stories and I am in love❤️❤️❤️❤️

May I please make a request?It's sorr of a "I don’t hate you" follow up(or not) when stepmum(and Maekar) discover that sex quth one another is great(and lowkey are obsessed wirh one another) but the kids keep interrupting them.

Unwanted interruptions

Sorry this took so long and is so short I forgot about it… sorry

Suggestive, the kids are cockblocks

“Keep going.” You whine against your husband’s neck as he kisses down your throat, stopping right at your sweet spot as he starts pulling your dress up. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He says back resting his hand on the wall behind you, having pulled you into a spare room so you could have a moment together. The children constantly interrupting anything you’re alone. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Mother? Where are you?” Egg shouts wanting you to fix his favourite toy that he’s just noticed has a hole in.

“Fuck off!” Maekar shouts when he hears his son try and open the door.

“Maekar!” You hiss slapping his shoulder, while giving him a look. Before shouting through the door. “What do you want sweetie?”

“Can you fix dragon? He has a hole in his wing.” Egg says through the door trying to open it. “Whys the door locked?”

“I’ll fix him later.” You say as Maekar rests his head in your neck, leaning light kisses over it.

“Mama! Aerion stole dolly!” Rhae shouts running up to Aegon as she looks for you.

“Oh for fucks sake.” Maekar groans knowing he’s not getting you alone anytime soon.

-

“Fuck, you feel so good.” Maekar groans into your ear as he fucks you in the middle of the night. The children all finally asleep. “You’re so good.”

“Fuck.” You whimper as he rubs your clit bring you even closer to orgasm when you hear someone crying with footsteps running down the hall. “Stop.”

“Is everything ok?” Maekar asks stopping immediately, worried he did something wrong.

“Rhae’s awake.” You answer quickly getting out of bed to throw on his shirt. Maekar just watching you in confusion.

“What?”

“Mama!” Rhae shouts running through the doors straight into your arms. The crying girl having just woken up from a nightmare.

-

“You’re killing me woman.” He says hands on your ass to help you keep pace. “You’re so good for me,”

“Shut up.” You say to your husband as you ride him in his office, this being the time you have alone until late. The children wanting to play dragons again this afternoon. “Fuck.”

“Mother! Aerion threw my book into the well!”

-

“Fuck me.” You say dragging Maekar into a private corridor that none uses, as it leads to the spare rooms. “Quickly.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.” He says pulling you into a kiss, hands going to lift up your skirts. When you hear feet stomping down the corridor. “Not again.”

“Mother! Aegon went through my room!”

-

“If we get interrupted again I’m going to scream.” Maekar says pulling you into his lap on the sofa while kissing down your neck.

“Then be quick.” You say opening your husband pants, not caring about forplay just needing him in you. Maekar having just come back from a 3 day trip to see a random lord. “I’ve missed you.”

Before he can reply you hear the chamber doors open and you jump up throwing Maekar a pillow as you do so. Looking disheveled when daella coming in crying.

“Mama! I’ve lost Benjamin!” She cry’s running into your arms for a cuddle, wanting comfort. “Can you help me find him?”

“Who the fuck is Benjamin?” Maekar asks pillow on his lap, running a hand over his hair in annoyance.

“Her toy bunny.” You say giving him a look, a small smile on your face. “I’ll be back.”