"Vanderhorst had been under the influence of MDMA and three litres of vodka she had consumed on the night of the offence last September, her lawyer Michael Hill told the court."
At Toba aquarium in Japan, after closing time, some clever little otter pups help their grandpa tidy up their toys. As a reward, he gives them ice cubes
aerion spoiling his wife, giving her everything she could ever possibly want despite “not loving her” (or so he claims.)…
IM DYINGGGG I NEED THISSSS
aerion loving you thought acts, never words ₊˚⊹ ᰔ
aerion targaryen did not love you.
he had said so once. calmly. clearly. almost clinically.
“love is weakness,” he had told you early in your marriage, adjusting the clasp of his cloak without looking at you. “i do not suffer weakness.”
and yet,
you never asked for anything. you did not have to.
the first time you paused before a necklace in the jeweler’s case, a delicate chain of moonstones, you merely admired it in passing. you said nothing. you did not linger.
it was resting on your vanity the next morning.
when you mentioned, offhandedly, that the southern gardens felt bare in winter, new glasswork was commissioned within the month. a conservatory rose along the eastern wall, warmed with braziers and lined with rare blooms imported from across the narrow sea.
“it seemed practical,” he said when you stood speechless beneath the arch of flowering vines. “you prefer sunlight.”
when your hands lingered on the silken drapery of the guest chambers, aerion had the weavers summoned and new curtains hung before the week ended, soft, pale threads that caught the morning light just as you liked.
“you’ve commissioned new curtains for me?”
“the rooms were dull,” he said simply when you finally turned to look at him, a faint crease between his brows the only sign of thought. “they required improvement.”
he never asked if you wanted these things. he never waited for gratitude. he only acted as though knowing your desires was a matter of duty.
you laughed softly one evening, holding a cup of tea brewed precisely to your preference, honey, a touch of lemon, not too hot, and he had simply shrugged when you thanked him.
but logic did not explain the small library in the east wing, stacked with novels he had somehow discovered you treasured, the spines dusted and arranged just so.
“i wanted it ordered,” he had murmured once, voice low, eyes not meeting yours. “it is easier this way.”
the world, it seemed, bent quietly around you. not by whim or chance, but by him.
he did not love, he insisted.
and yet, every day, without question, every passing moment, he gave.
and you, sometimes, could not help but wonder how someone who claimed not to love could move the very air around you so that everything felt brighter, lighter, like the castle itself had been reshaped to cradle your comfort.
he did not love.
and yet every gift, every gesture, whispered otherwise.
when you struggled with restless sleep during your first pregnancy, he had an entirely new mattress crafted. softer. layered. fitted precisely to your comfort. he dismissed servants who walked too heavily past your chambers. he ordered thicker carpets laid in the corridors so noise would not reach you.
“you require rest,” he said simply. “that is all.”
you stared at him across the table that night. “you remembered.”
his expression did not change. “i remember everything. a prince provides. a husband ensures stability. a wife of your standing should not want.”
but it went beyond jewels and architecture and silk gowns dyed in precisely the shades you favored.
once, when you laughed and mentioned you had loved riding as a girl but had not done so in years, a mare appeared in the stables within the week. gentle. elegant. trained to your temperament.
“you did not have to,” you said quietly.
“i did,” he replied.
“why?”
his eyes held yours for a long moment. unreadable. “because you are mine,” he said at last. “and what is mine does not go without. does not want for nothing.”
it should have sounded possessive. perhaps it did.
but there was something else in it. something fiercely protective, almost reverent.
at night, when the castle slept and your baby dreamed in their cradle, he would draw you close with steady hands. he would press kisses along your temple, your shoulder, your wrist, slow, unhurried, as though memorizing you.
“you spoil me,” you murmured once against his chest.
“no,” he said softly into your hair. “i ensure you are content.”
“that sounds suspiciously like love.”
his jaw tightened faintly. “it is not love,” he insisted.
and yet his thumb traced idle patterns against your skin long after the candles burned low. he gave you everything. jewels. music. gardens. daughters. protection. devotion.
everything but the word.
and sometimes, as he watched you laugh with your children in the courtyard, sunlight turning your hair to gold, his expression would soften in a way no one else ever saw.
“i do not love her,” he would tell himself.
but he would sit closer at feasts. he would memorize the sound of your laughter as though afraid it might one day disappear.
love was weakness.
and aerion targaryen did not believe himself weak.
even as he built you a world where you would never know the absence of him.
Cregan Stark just SEEMS like the type to be in love with his wife’s hips. They’re sleeping? His hands are wrapped around them so she won’t roll away. She’s speaking to him, standing above while he sits? His thumbs are rubbing circles on them to the point she loses her train of thought. They’re fucking? Oh, you already know she’s gonna feel the imprint of all ten of his fingers on her back and front from how tight he held on for weeks to come. Cregan is obsessed with his wife 🫶🏾.
But he loves every second of it. After all, whose idea was it to spoil you in the first place?
When you asked to accompany him to the tourney— that may have been the only time he told you no.
"I wish to keep you company," you urge, running a hand down his chest as you all but leaned over his chair from behind. "Is a wife to be separated from her husband so cruelly?"
You'd been married a few months, almost a year. He was utterly entranced by you, as you are with him.
He's a bit older, with dark graying hairs that make your brain go fuzzy. That deep, calming voice that never raises, never wavers— it makes you feel things that perhaps a woman your age shouldn't.
Though you can't see his face, you know he's smirking. "A tourney is no place for a woman. I love you far too much for that."
"Oh, you hate me if you leave me behind!" You dramatically proclaim, pulling away from him.
He spins around, catching your arm and dragging you around his chair until he can pull you right into his lap. His grip is firm, but his words hold a jest to them, tone as even as it always is. "You are quite troublesome, you know."
"If you leave me behind," you try again, softer, more intimate as you lean closer. "I will surely go mad."
He lets out a soft chuckle that rumbles in his chest. "That is what you want then? To attend a tourney of knights and their squires?" He rubs a light pattern over your hip with his thumb. "I think your heart is too tender."
"I want to be where you are, Baelor," you whisper, brushing your lips against his cheek. "Please."
He gives in quickly, cupping the back of your head to make you look him in the eye. His eyes roam from yours to your lips. "I cannot say no to you, can I?"
Excitement fills your gaze. You keep him fleetingly. A kiss that he chases when you pulled away.
You stand with a smile. "I have much to pack then!"
He sighs as you go, though it's happily. "Do not bring your jewels," he calls calmly after you.
"Only the prettiest ones," you answer, already down the corridor.
"Aye," he says to himself. "Only the pretty ones." He grins. "She may be my death."
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