Johnny slapped Peter's arm, but the man didn't even react to it. Johnny let his hand linger as he glowered at him again. “Yeah, well, you should have told me beforehand. Now, I just feel like an idiot.”
Far from his side, like a swinging anchor, he heard him before he saw him—the thwip of his webs and the landing of both his feet. Johnny ought to have known better. Peter does have a habit of showing up at the most inconvenient time.
“Cause you were jealous of nothing?” Peter said smugly with a smirk.
“I’m not jealous,” he glared. “Who says I’m jealous?”
“I just did,” he said. Then he kissed him, and Johnny, helpless, kissed back.
Main Pairing: Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen/Aerion 'Brightflame' Targaryen
Summary: 'Brat tamer' Baelor does his thing and reins Aerion in.
“—When he threw him on his back and nearly broke his arm, hm?” Maekar leaned on the table with a penetrating and sharp sneer.
He saw Lord Ashford squirming uncomfortably in his seat from the looks alone, but what he heard then—when he instinctively tugged at a strand of Aerion’s hair—was what really caught his attention; his nephew’s moan, which could have been mistaken for a yelp, stole the air from Baelor's lungs, leaving a familiar, heavy coil in his gut.
Main ship: Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen/Aerion 'Brightflame' Targaryen
Summary:
Valarr was not blind; he was his father's son.
Chapter 1: son of a wretched man
Notes:
Important Note: Targaryens gender could [a rarity if it does] change when they hit puberty [Loosely based on Protandrous sequential hermaphroditism/protogynous hermaphroditism].
Ciao 😘
Their eyes met for the fifth time since the moment he arrived. Stolen glances and meaningful stares when the other wasn't looking.
It is his mother's funeral, and his father is already salivating after Aerion like a dog after a bone.
He was too drained over his mother's death to rage at them.
Matarys had not stopped crying since this morning.
Valarr did not ask of the babe born from his mother's decomposing womb. Knowing very well, just as the rest, that the newborn would not live long. His father didn't even bother to name it, and his mother, already weakened after the birth, probably died before she could.
“Calm, Matarys; Mother would not want to see you despair over her.” She’s always been selfless like that, caring for others before herself; it must be why her husband strayed from their bed and sneaked in with his brother’s second son instead.
Matarys wept, a painful sob that gathered pitying glances and murmurs of sympathy. “Mother should not have gone then; if she had wanted me to rejoice, she would have stayed.”
“The Stranger does not care much for our opinions,” Valarr replied. “It takes without prejudice, and there’s not much to be done then.”
“I miss her,” his brother vowed with grief. “There won’t be a day that I won't.”
Valarr wished that their father felt the same, for their mother loved him so; even with her last breath, it was his name that she called for.
(He didn't ask if he felt for her too. He was too afraid that his father’s expression would betray the truth behind the lie Valarr so desperately wanted to believe.)
“While I understand your concern,” the king said with a glance towards his eldest. “It is not fully in my hand to decide for my own blood. Baelor is a man of his own words; it is his opinion that the council should be wise enough to receive.”
He already had an heir, Valarr, and a spare, Matarys. What more could the council ask for? Another woman to share his father’s bed to create more spawns? It was a shit excuse. No doubt they're already hard on the thought of one of their daughters being wed to the crowned prince.
Valarr poured wine for Lord Penrose, his eyes straying to where his father sat quietly next to the king. He appeared like the very husband that the realm was mourning with; black on black, with the scent of incense clinging to his tunic.
Another visit to the Fourteens then.
“I loved my wife,” his father murmured, and the council stilled from his words, eager and waiting for the fish to be thrown.
How much? Valarr wanted to question him. It’s been two moons of this same conversation circling around the council and the castle walls.
‘You say you have no room for marriage, and yet you let them think that there is. You hesitate, and your words are filled with cracks that the lords are sniffing out like hounds.’
“And she had already given me two beautiful sons during the duration of our marriage. It would have been an insult to her family for me to look elsewhere so quickly right after the passing of their lady," his father continued.
He stepped back, his grip on the pitcher tightening until his knuckles were white.
Lord Blackwood shook his head, “While I admire your—consideration and respect for your late wife’s family. It’s best we consider your brother's lack of spouses and children. Prince Maekar already has four sons and two daughters, so there’s not much to be said there. Prince Rhaegal has yet to have a wife because of his condition, and Prince Aerys would rather sleep under stacks of books rather than in his wife's bed.”
“Where exactly are you going with this? ” Lord Lannister barked with a laugh, “We are all aware of the prince’s brothers and their own brood. For fuck's sake, Rowan, if you want to present your daughter, then just say that! ”
"That is the least of my concerns," Lord Blackwood said, his eyes narrowing to flinty slits. "My Rhylla is already betrothed; that bird has flown. A king cannot sit easy on a throne without another by his side to share the burden. No, my concerns lie with the crown."
“Which has not yet passed, my lords.” Brynden leaned back on his chair, clearly amused at the squabbles of the lords. “The king is still here, and his sons are neither sick nor withering with age. Baelor’s heirs are not in jeopardy, and neither are his brothers.”
Brynden tapped his glass, and Valarr steadily poured him a glass. The man’s eyes used to terrify him as a child; they were always so cold and unyielding, and at that moment they were pointed towards him.
Valarr shivered, his back straight, refusing to be the first to look away.
Rivers huffed softly, long fingers grabbing at his cup and staring right at where his father sat with his attention pointed at the rings on his finger.
Grandsire sighed heavily, “This council seems to have forgotten whose words are most important to be heard here. Baelor, you are quiet; speak your mind, my son, and settle this argument for everyone to hear.”
As you’ve failed to do so in moons since your wife's death.
His father twisted one of the rings, lips curling into a grimace, revealing nothing as he surveyed around the council table before it landed where Valarr stood. Baelor’s eyes softened. “I have not changed my mind, my lords.” His father stared directly at each of them, his words stern yet soft, demanding respect and no room for another row of dispute. “My wife had already given me my heirs. I have no need for more.”
The council said no more after that, but Valall was sure that it would not be the end of it. It never was with his father.
“Your mother was a fierce and strong woman,” his father told him later in their walks to the garden. “She could never be easily replaced.”
Valarr wanted to believe him.
But just as he dreaded, his father’s gaze strayed to the lush lavender—flowers planted years before his mother’s death and long before Valarr had begun hearing whispers of a young dragon with his own blood and their trip to the Street of Silk.
He scowled. “Not easily, but a possibility still.”
“Valarr.”
“Why won’t you accept it? ” Valarr turned to him sharply. “They are right. You are still young; it should not be a king's burden alone to rule the realm without a queen by his side. Grandfather would not say it, but he still thinks it nonetheless.”
Baelor paused. “You speak of me with your grandsire behind my back? ”
“He’s burdened by his eldest’s grief and inability to decline. If you do not truly wish to marry, then why do you always make your words so easily twisted? ”
Maekar arrived with his sons with a flourish of excitement, greeted by a welcoming feast that same evening.
His uncle stepped forward first, his back as rigid as a soldier ready to throw hands, receiving his brother’s embrace with a stiff acceptance. His eldest came second: Daeron, who surprisingly lacked the usual scent of wine as he greeted Valarr with a wide grin. Little Aegon—or Egg, as he liked to be called—happily accepted Matarys’ head-ruffles, running toward them with a steadiness his father had no doubt drilled into him.
His ears started to ring, and his mouth became so dry that he couldn't swallow, even though he tried several times.
Aerion arrived last, bringing the usual flourish he favoured for every gathering. He wore the colours of their house, featuring intricate pearls and gems sewn into dragons that met at his chest. His hair was swept into elaborate braids, and a silver necklace set with a deep red ruby rested heavily against his exposed collar.
Valarr wanted him to trip or simply turn around and leave.
His father’s eyes didn’t stray; they stared, almost boldly, just like the others in the hall, as Aerion came to Maekar’s side. He offered a bow so brief it bordered on disrespect, a delicate smile playing on his lips.
“Uncle,” he said softly.
“Nephew,” his father replied, his voice almost too rough as he caught Aerion’s hands and pressed a kiss—that stayed for more than was necessary—to his knuckles. “You’ve grown.”
Valarr averted his gaze sharply, a cold knot tightening in his chest. He could only hope Matarys hadn’t witnessed such a blatant display.
His father should have known better with so many eyes watching them.
Maekar scrutinised his second, then his brother, wrinkling his brow before instructing Aerion to greet his cousins; Aerion did not argue, gracefully carrying out his father's directions without looking back at Baelor.
Baelor’s eyes still did not wander; instead, they followed until Maekar cleared his throat, with Daeron nearly falling on his arse when Matarys spoke of a jest near his ears.
Aegon had long run off with his sworn knight, Dunk, chattering away until they stopped short before another lordling nearly his age—a Lannister boy.
“You look well, cousin.” With his fingers interlaced in a practised, courtly fashion, Aerion glanced at him with indifference. “How is the lady Kiera? I heard she’s carrying again; is she not? ”
“She is,” he replied shortly. The loss of their first was still fresh, and it had taken its toll on her health. She kissed him goodbye before he left, her eyes clear and warm as she rested her palm over her flat belly. Valarr shouldn't have left her, but for the most selfish reasons, he had to for his own sanity—if his father were to pull something, he didn't want to be surprised.
“You’re far too rigid,” Aerion replied with a huff. “One might assume that you’re not happy to see family again.”
Just you.
“I hope the road wasn't as taxing as they say?” he asked.
Matarys drifted to greet the Velaryons, one hand tucked respectfully behind his back while the other lifted Lady Lenora’s hand. He pressed a small kiss to her knuckles, drawing a flutter of giggles and a few jealous stares from the crowd.
Aerion rolled his eyes. “It was good enough.”
“Now who's acting stiff?” He said with just enough disdain to be unnoticeable.
“Father confiscated Daeron’s wine." Aerion glanced at his now laughing older brother just beside three lords from House Bracken and House Celtigar. “You can assume what happened during the duration of our trip.”
Valarr grimaced. “Should I worry about the wine cellar running dry in his presence? ”
Daeron did look a little unwell—manic, even, as he chatted with guests who wanted nothing but favours. It was a useless endeavour; Daeron would sooner drown in his ale than attend to the needs of the court.
“For his own sake,” Aerion said dismayingly. “Have guards stationed to block his path if he tries anything malicious.”
He snorted. 'Daeron' and the word 'malicious' in one sentence sounded wrong. That word fitted Aerion more than any of his siblings.
“I don’t think that would be necessary,” he pointed out.
The evening was already awash with wine, and Daeron was already on his fourth cup. It was hard not to keep count—especially as his rowdiness slowly faded and, lo and behold, Daeron the Charming became Daeron the Drunk once more.
Just then, the wide oak doors swung open, and the King was announced. They all bowed as he walked past, heading for the high table to sit with his wife.
Grandsire sent them both a warm smile, nodding as he gestured for the music to begin.
“I heard Lord Tully’s daughter was attending,” Aerion mentioned offhandedly. “Word is, she has finally come of age.”
Lord Tully had been making frequent, unnecessary trips to the Red Keep, much like the other lords with unwed daughters in tow. They trailed after the Crown Prince like hungry ducklings the moment they caught his scent.
Even the gossip mill lacked its usual subtlety; it was being used openly to track his father's every move through the castle. No sooner was his location whispered than a relentless flow of noble ladies would "coincidentally" appear.
“Old enough to marry,” Aerion continued with a sneer as the girl in question—blissfully oblivious—drifted past with a partner in hand towards the dancing. “How is Uncle faring with all these w—... attention? ”
Whore.
He almost slipped and said 'whore'. Of course he would; the only reason Aerion wasn't spouting insults and loudly shaming those girls was because of Maekar, who was still close enough to hear what his son might say.
Aerion never did care much for pleasantries.
“Vūjitsos dārilaros sōvegon issa, dāria.” He grabbed a cup from a passing server, tasting the bitterness with a sardonic smile as he took a sip. “Ziry sērion sōvegon issa. Idrano Tyrell dāriorun prūmītsos vestriarun.”
Aerion shot him a scathing glare, though it was quickly masked by a polite smile as a lord from House Blackwood—Oscar, son and heir of Rowan—approached. The man’s eyes roved over Aerion’s body, as if he could see him naked beneath his dress.
He looked beautiful when he was mad, but then again, Aerion had always been beautiful and always mad.
“Evening, my princes,” the man said blithely. “Prince Aerion, if you will—I’m here to ask for a dance.”
Valarr clicked his tongue. Of course he was. Aerion had been drawing that kind of attention since before he’d even presented. It was honestly a surprise that Maekar hadn’t given his hand away to the first lord with enough power to marry into their house.
Valarr knew how much Maekar had raged when he heard the rumours of his son being sullied in the Street of Silk—by his own brother, no less. Because of that, Valarr doubted his uncle was waiting for Baelor to ask for Aerion’s hand. He was certain that the moment his father even thought of asking, Maekar would forget their connection of blood and slay him right where he stood.
Just as he said—just as he promised.
(“My son, Baelor!”
“Brother—”
“You are married! You have children! And here you stand, making a mockery of my family? My son, whom you disgraced! Whom you turned into a fucking whore! ”
“Do not call him that,” Baelor said raggedly. They had dragged him from his chambers with just enough discretion, through the secret passages until they reached the throne room where his brother and father waited. “It was a mistake, I admit—a weakness of the flesh.”
“How dare you!” Maekar paced like a dragon slighted, his hands clenched as if he were ready to swing an anvil at his brother's head. “How dare you! I ought to have you gelded! I ought to have the dogs eat your cock in front of your wife and children! ”
Baelor winced, his head a heavy thing with an ache from last night's wine.
“Who will wed him now!?” Maekar spat, his eyes bloodshot with fury as he lunged to seize his brother’s collar. “When they know that you have laid your hands on him? What future will my son have when the people whisper of him as his uncle's whore? Did you think? Did you think for a single moment what would become of him? ”
“Maekar,” their father interrupted, his voice a weary attempt to ease the mounting temper in the room.
“My son, Baelor. My boy,” Maekar said, his voice shaking—whether from anger or grief, he could not tell. “You have a crown waiting for you. Your line is meant for the throne. But my Aerion—you have ruined his chances. You have ruined him! ”
“Wed him to me, then,” Baelor said, looking his brother straight in the eye. “Wed him to me in the tradition of our house. If you say that no one will have him now, give him to me as my wife.”
Maekar’s answer was a crack to the jaw. Baelor hit the floor, clutching his bleeding mouth as Maekar loomed over him....(Continue Reading here!)
“It’s a shame, what honour does to good men. I suppose the gods have a very glutinous taste for them. Why else would they take him and not you?”
Daeron knew his place in the sea, with the rest of the plains, while the divine overlooked them both, him and Valarr and the rest. Aerion was the exception to this; he was the divine, holding a chalice filled with offered wine. Sweet in his smile, generous with his gifts. Daeron had wondered about that too: if Aerion was ever aware, or if he was oblivious to the effects he had around him—to the tides and the directions of the sun alone, where everyone else knelt so low that he could not see them.
HOGWARTS SCHEDULE MASTERPOST because I haven’t done one of these yet (and because nerinelunacyran asked for one)!
First row is pretty explanatory (Years 1 and 2, look at the captions.) Third year on each take up a row, because they need two schedules to deal with the electives. The only way for the electives to make sense is for ‘elective’ to just be a slot in their timetable, and because each house shares a timeslot with another house, and both have two options, during every timeslot there are four elective options (so Monday period 3 of year 4, both Gryffindors and Slytherins can choose between Care of Magical Creatures, Arithmancy, Divination, or Ancient Runes). This way, a student from any house can take any combination of two electives. It’s complicated, but it works. Hermione Granger is special and kind of fucked up.
This fits in with canon as much as I was able to make it fit with canon; she did not give this a second of thought, and it’s painfully obvious if you actually look into it. Fifth year Gryffindors have a class that starts halfway through second period, for crying out loud that’s what periods are for. So there’s some artistic license that I’ve had to take, and of course filling in all the blanks was entirely just myself. I tried to keep the fictional students in mind and not give them awful schedules, too — I have spreadsheets for each house for each year, as well, to see what the kids would groan about in September. I gave the first-years four periods instead of five, because 3:30 is explicitly stated for their flying lessons, and during one Oliver Wood is still in class.
As far as how the teachers’ schedules work out or how Years 6 and 7 work or how this makes any sense at all: it really doesn’t, but I’m working with what I’ve got :P
This was created for the Pottermorphs AU, but feel free to use these schedules for whatever you want — I’d love a link back to this post, though, since I hope it’s obvious just how much work went into these.
SO CLOSE!!! I needed year six…although, even if I had it, it totally would have f*cked up my time line hahahahaha Although I am very happy someone took the time to do all of this! Thank you!!! I may use this if I start another fic that takes place when the students are younger =)
gorge of death and destruction shall return after the following -
Summary: Maekar thinks that his nephews are a bad influence on his angel child (Aerion).
Pairings: None/Gen Fic
His brothers were all simply jealous that his second son was the best-behaved child in the family. He shuddered to think about Baelor’s eldest, the boy who had hid in a chimney one time for a game of hide-and-seek.
He could never imagine what would have happened to that child if the servants had not found him stuck upwards with his feet and back holding himself up.
Not to forget his second, Matarys, who ate a frog for a dare. Those boys even went as far as to point it all to Aerion—Aerion who was kind enough to bring them sweets whenever they got hurt.
His boy, who was his mother’s son, was sweet and caring, and to accuse him of those actions was so improbable Maekar nearly laughed when Baelor even asked if he knew about Aerion ‘setting fire to the yard’.
‘Troubled child,’ he thought bemusedly. It’s ridiculous, that's what it is. Baseless rumours that deserve no attention, really.
Always a Modern Aerion: Special Brownies, Gatorade, and smoothies <333
Summary: Aerion has always had weird dreams, not crazy dreams like Daeron's, but weird ones that are oddly realistic and medieval-themed. And obviously he's going to take advantage of it as much as he can.
Pairings: Mildly Dunk/Aerion
Aerion sat on the ground, his back leaning on the brick wall. He was holding a bowl of what looked to be like a mound of pink slop. He looked well for someone who had just been so deep in his illness that he couldn't even open his eyes. His face was no longer flushed, and his gaze was just as sharp, albeit a tad less, than what was usual.
“What? ” Prince Aerion asked in disdain, as if the whole castle wasn't just frantically looking for him moments ago. “Can’t a man eat his smoothie in peace?”
“My prince,” Ser Dunk gasped, chest heaving. “We’ve been looking for you for—”
Aerion waved a dismissive hand at his sworn shield and scooped a spoonful of vibrant slop into his mouth. “Yes, yes. As you keep telling me. Tell me, Ser Duncan, what have I told you about personal space and 'time-outs'?”
Dunk frowned. “You’ve never told me such a thing.”
Aerion raised a single, skeptical brow.
Dunk’s eyes widened before he bowed quickly, stuttering an answer. “I—I must have forgotten! Forgive me if I overstepped, my prince. I shall remember from now on... not to step on your space?”
It was Aerion’s turn to frown, his lip curling into a grimace. “Why are you talking like that, weirdo?”
“Like what, my prince?” Dunk tilted his head. He’d had quite enough of the prince’s new habit of speaking in riddles; Aerion's natural personality was enough trouble as it was.
This had become their routine since Dunk had been posted as the prince's sworn knight. Usually, Aerion preferred to order him around—standard behavior, if a bit domineering—but the nature of his requests had taken a turn for the bizarre.
“Dunk, pound this into a paste.”
“Dunk, get me some flour and a jar of cow’s milk.”
What type of witchery are you doing in your room? had been the question on Dunk's tongue, but it always came out as a dutiful, “What for, my prince?”
He’d stopped asking altogether after Aerion started acting like a "deranged lunatic"—Egg’s words, not his. That very same evening, the prince had started petting a potted plant, naming it Robin, before being dragged out of the room by a fuming Maekar. Before that, he’d sobbed about something called a 'PlayStation' and how he missed 'shooting people in the face without consequence.' That part, at least, was unsurprising coming from him—highly concerning, but unsurprising.
“Dunk, have you seen my Gatorade?” Whatever that was supposed to be.
“Dunk, you will not believe what Jake Mason did on SNL—it was hilarious!” Dunk had never heard of a Jake Mason, or an SNL.
He also stopped counting his days when Aerion started calling him Dunk, instead of whatever insult he had ready in his sharp tongue.
It was, honestly, a miracle that Aerion had suddenly withdrawn his accusations against Dunk at Ashford. It was even more of a miracle that the boy seemed to have developed a genuine liking for him—or at least as much of a liking as Aerion’s nature would allow.
Summary: Valarr is a fool, and he is naive. He doesn't understand, and Aerion should have known better to fly to him like a desperate lover would.
Pairings: Valarr Targaryen/Aerion Targaryen
Valarr was not surprised when Aerion landed on Dragonstone’s shore.
“You’re a long way from home, cousin.” He said looking up, the beast did not growl, instead it lowered its back for Aerion to come down.
“Uncle?” Aerion said, feet hitting the sand with a grace not many had, for none of them had the dragon to support it. He removed his gloves, as he walked in front of his waiting cousin.
“The Red Keep,” he replied, his gaze fixed on Rylax as she gave a heavy shake to settle her scales. “Gransire summoned him for council, along with Uncle Maekar. I assumed you knew?”
“For mere confirmation,” he said. His father nearly declined; had it not been a direct order, he would have stayed behind to guard his most volatile son. Aegon had not forgiven him still, scared, the boy became avoidant and nearly like a ghost whenever Aerion comes. “Beautiful, isn't she?”
“I’ve no one else to compare her to,” Valarr smiled at Rylax. “I supposed you’d even be able to call her the most beautiful in the world.”
Rylax preened, her pink scales gleaming from the setting sun, as if sensing the admiration in his cousin's words.
Aerion could kill him now. Not even his quick instinct with a sword could save him. Dragon fire can melt steel as easily as wax. Rylax could open her jaw and maul him as her snack for the day and Aerion could plainly tell his father and uncle that his cousin ran off with his secret lover across the Narrow Sea.
He huffed, his lips curving into a soft smile, “for a time.”
Rylax rose into the air, banking toward the caves. She emitted a soft, melodic lowing; to Aerion, it sounded like the mournful song of a whale, a sound as vast and lonely as the ocean itself.
Valarr’s gaze shifted to him, eyes narrowed with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. After all, Aerion was not someone to visit Dragonstone on a whim. “What do you want, Aerion?”
“Father, and grandsire wish for me to marry Daeron. As you well know.” Aerion said, his smile tightening into a thin line. The suggestion of Aegon was an insult—a lie told only to placate his rage, though it had served only to stoke it. In Aerion’s eyes, Aegon was still a mere babe. He felt a profound disgust at the choice he had been offered: a choice between a common drunk and an insipid child.
“I do,” he said carefully.
“I’ve no desire to marry that rot, Valarr.” He glared at him, his voice sharpening into a hiss.
Valarr winced, “You are far too harsh on him. He is your brother still, and to speak ill of him that way—”
“Ill words oftentimes hold more truth than flowery ones,” he said.
“You sound like you want to kill him.”
“The realm would weep for it, I’m sure.” He rolled his eyes. Who would even mourn the useless sot? He spent his days drowning in wine and his nights moaning for pity. Eventually, his tongue would sharpen the wrong man’s temper, and they’d silence him for good without Aerion as much as lifting a finger or saying a word.
“I heard what you did to Aegon.” Valarr shook his head, his hands coming to rest on his hips as he let out a long, heavy breath.
Aerion could feed him to Rylax, or he could simply eat him himself. There won’t be much of a difference.
“Foul rumours spread fairly easily.”
“From my father,” Valarr said disparagingly. “We’re both aware that father never likes repeating ‘foul rumours’ as you say.”
Aerion released a breath, “it was a jest.”
“You held a dagger near his groin,” he argued back. “You threatened to cut off his—...his genitals.”
He scoffed at the feigned innocence. Valarr had spat far viler words than ‘cock’ when the blood was high. It was part of the man’s incendiary charm—the ease with which he turned vulgar the moment they fell onto a bed, or a furs-draped chair in an empty council room.
They’ve never been very particular on where they release their heat.
“Don’t play the prude with me now.” Aerion leaned into the space he occupied, noting how Valarr’s eyes tracked his every movement as if marking the path of a predator. He closed the final inch of distance, closing in until his lips were inches from Valarr’s ear. “We both know where that mouth has been, for it to sound so prim. Most of all in my presence.”
A slow flush of crimson climbed from Valarr’s collar to the tips of his ears. For all his posturing, his cousin was ever a lustful man, indulging them only behind locked doors and far from watchful eyes of others in court and his wife. Especially his wife.
It must be so tedious when he fucks her; he was always so frigid on duty, and no doubt even more so in her.
“Is that why you came here?” Valarr said, and in his boldness, rested his hands on Aerion’s waist.
His grip was gentle yet purposeful, a single finger finding the exact curve where Aerion was most sensitive. Valarr hummed a low, vibrating sound that drew Aerion’s face away from his shoulder, their breath hitching as their lips hovered mere inches apart.
Valarr leaned closer, “The call of desire, is it?”
There was no one present, his idiot cousin never did like having guards follow him. It would cost him his life one day. If Aerion wasn't so gracious, he would have taken it himself.
"And if it is?" Aerion’s voice shuddered. He leaned in, prompting to close the distance, but Valarr remained a statue. The gap between them felt like a chasm. Aerion pressed his palms against Valarr’s chest, trying to force the kiss, but the grip on his waist tightened—a silent, firm command. Valarr leaned back just enough to stay out of reach, prompting an annoyed huff from Aerion’s lips.
“I doubt it,” Valarr said softly. “You’ve come for something else. Tell me what you’ve come here to take.”
“Is that an order?”
He kissed him then, though not where Aerion craved. Instead, Valarr’s lips drifted across his cheek, trailing fire down to the curve of his throat. “Gaomagon daor mazverdagon nyke rȳba nykēla , qyybranna,” he murmured against the skin. (“Do not make me repeat myself, cousin.”)
Aerion gasped, his head lolling back as he felt the warmth of Valarr’s mouth, the soft pressure turning into a sharp, rhythmic pull against his own. “Aōha Valyrīha ēngos iksis sȳz.” Aerion managed to breathe. (“Your Valyrian tongue has improved.”)
“Ao dohaeragon nyke sȳrkta syt ziry,” he said. (“You serve me better for it.”)
“I serve no one,” Aerion slipped.
“And you’re certain of this how?” Valarr’s thigh found its place, the rough texture of his riding leathers a sharp contrast to the heat blooming beneath them. “You still haven't given me your answer, as I recall.”
“Mittys.” (“Fool”) His legs locked around Valarr's moving thigh of their own accord. He muttered a protest about being caught, his hands resting on Valarr's shoulders in a gesture that was supposed to be a push but felt more like an invitation. They were out in the open, vulnerable to any wandering eye, but the danger only served to sharpen the ache in Aerion’s blood.
“Māzigon naejot nyke,” Aerion hissed. (“Come to me.”)
“Is that an order?” Valarr said amusedly.
“Yes,” Aerion growled.
Rylax descended from her crag, a living shadow against the sky. She dived toward them with a speed that might have looked like an execution to any other witness. Instead, she swerved at the last moment, her massive wings unfurling like a wall of leather and bone to shield them from view.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Aerion surged forward, shoving Valarr back into the sand. He moved with a predator's grace, pinning Valarr between his thighs and sinking his weight firmly onto the man's groin. A strangled groan escaped Valarr as Aerion rolled his hips in a slow, punishing thrust—a silent, stinging bit of revenge.
“Zūgagon, issi ao?” Aerion teased, leaning down to bite at Valarr’s neck, as he rocked their hips together. He could feel it, the familiar tension of nerves. (“Scared, are you?”)
“Issa daor va moriot bona vala kostagon kipagon iā zaldrīzes.” A low groan escaped his lips the moment Aerion gripped him through the fabric, the sudden pressure forcing a hitch in his breath.
“Iksā paktot.” (“You are right.”)
He felt the chord snapped, and Rylax released a keen sound, as if she felt what he felt at that very moment. His dragon may hide them from sight, but it was the sea that muffled the sound that they could not hide.
Summary: Dunk might actually be losing his mind in the best and worst way possible.
Pairing: Ser Dunk 'The Tall'/Aerion Targaryen
!Modern Au!
"You're Duncan, right?” Aerion tilted his head slightly to the side.
“Dunk,” he blurted out. No one had called him that since kindergarten; it was just easier to pronounce when shortened. “Everyone calls me Dunk.”
Aerion laughed as if he’d said something funny. “Do you know my brother?” he asked.
Dunk felt his forehead start to sweat at that question. No, no, he didn't personally know Daeron. And no, he also didn't know how Raymun even got an invite in the first place. The other man hadn't exactly been keen on the Targaryens since middle school, really. Why he even decided to go here in the first place and drag Dunk with him was unknown to him.
“Not really,” he stuttered.
“Valarr then?” Aerion asked, hands now behind his back, his bright purple eyes staring right at Dunk’s soul.
He didn't know what to do with all these questions, and Dunk was starting to sweat too much because of it. Should he say yes? He did know Valarr, but only as the eldest son of the dean, and that was all.
That, and the fact that he was also a Targaryen.
“I know of him,” Dunk replied slowly. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing much,” he replied with a shrug. “Daeron’s already passed out on the lawn, and Valarr went home early because of a surprise test.”
“How could it be a surprise if he already knew about it?" Dunk couldn't help but blurt out.
“I told him,” Aerion said cheekily.
“Okay?” Dunk looked around. Was this a prank? Was there a camera somewhere? And when did Aerion get so close to his face? He coughed as he leaned away, his cheek feeling oddly hot. Was the AC on? He rubbed his nape. “I’m sorry, but do you need something?”
Aerion's tongue protruded from his mouth, soaking his lips until they were glistening. "I don't know anyone here, Duncan. I told you, didn't I?"
His eyelashes were long, pale, and fluttering, like silver snow. Dunk blinked. “Uhhh. Yes?"
Aerion laughed again. “I don’t know anyone here, Duncan,” he repeated with a drawl.
He sounded beckoning, but that was probably just Dunk’s imagination. It wasn't like Aerion was flirting with him or anything. He was probably just alone because he also got ditched.
“That’s a shame." His mouth dried, and he gulped when Aerion took a step forward, their chests nearly touching.
Okay, maybe not.
“It is,” Aerion said. His gaze traveled down to where Dunk was shakily holding his cup with his two hands in front of him, kind of like a shield. “Are you going to drink that?”
"Well, yeah,” Dunk said, but before he could finish, the minx grabbed it from his hand and took a small sip.
Aerion stared right at Dunk as his flushed lips stayed at the rim, his tongue making another return as it darted at the edge of the cup shamelessly, almost like he was asking for something else.
He exhaled, caring more about the fact that Aerion continued to stare up at him with those wide, sensual eyes than about the drink. “I was gonna—”
“I didn't finish,” Aerion grinned, offering the cup back.
Dunk took that as his cue to glance around; the couple was still into each other, but the girls gossiping in the corner were already gone. He really shouldn't, but it wasn't like he’d lose anything, right? It was just a conversation that was making him a bit lightheaded—which he blamed the drink for—and that was all.
Almost shakily, he held out his hand, nearly dwarfing Aerion’s own as he cupped both his and the cup with his palm. Gently, he brought the edge to his lips, resting for a moment as they both stared at each other daringly before Dunk let the bitterness of the alcohol hit his tongue.
He ought to have seen it coming, really, but the way that Aerion gasped made it feel like a real accident rather than an action done on purpose.
[Ponies, glitters, and tears - Always a Modern Aerion]
Warning: Self-harm, $uicide attempt, and untreated BPD:
Summary: Aerion was diagnosed with BPD when he was 13.
That didn't suddenly make him crazy or stupid – so, why does his family keep trying to gaslight him into thinking that he'd been transported into some type of fucked-up fairy tale world that he used to scare Rhae and Daella with?
Pairing: None/Gen Fic
There was something wrong with the prince.
Not to be confused, there's always something wrong with Aerion, but there’s a different type of oddness to him now.
The maester told the royal family that it had something to do with the fever, a sickness that made Prince Aerion bedridden for nearly a moon before his fifteenth nameday.
Servants would flock to him then, coming in and out of his chamber carrying basins of water to soothe the heat of his skin. The rumours said that the intensity of the heat was so dire that the prince’s skin smoked like a boiling pot.
No one thought he’d survived it, and no one hoped that he would.
Prince Maekar called for the best maester that the seven kingdoms have from the Reach to the Riverlands, even going as far as sending a missive to his mother’s kin in Dorne, asking for any healer that could aid his son.
None gave him the answer he wanted, for they all said one thing to the prince, told in different words but similar in meaning when they inspected Aerion’s state.
The fever cannot be fought, and only time may tell if the prince wakes at all.
Which he did, but with more theatrical screamings and begging.
The prince’s fever had addled his mind, the maesters said. Why else would the prince cry out for a pony the moment he woke? It must have been the illness and the milk of the poppy given right before.
It only took a week for Aerion to fully escape the fever’s clutches.
…
“Where’s my phone, mum.”
His words were still confusing; a mix of gibbering and informal idioms.
“Darling?” Dyanna pursed her lips, hands gently grazing at her son’s sweaty forehead. “There is no pony. It’s a dream, see? Open your eyes, sweet boy, there is no animal here.”
…
The prince had taken an odd liking to riding. Right when he could finally stand on his own two feet, he, of course, had been frequently riding on fields with his horse beforehand, but going since dawn and only appearing at night was more extensive than what was considered normal of the boy.
At some point, his father had organised a search party when a terrible storm broke and his son had not returned with his horse. The mare’s whines drew every eye as she galloped through the gate, with no silver-haired prince saddled on her back.
…
“What were you thinking, boy!”
“Maekar, please.”
“No, Dyanna! He was nearing the stranger’s grasp and this is what he does next? He could have died! He could have drowned!”
He thought he had; as he discovered him floating on the lake like a soulless body. Maekar could not have run any faster than he did, his heart hammering in his chest even now.
“He didn't! He’s here, our boy is safe!”
The boy looked dead on his feet, pale and quiet still.
…
He would disappear at peculiar times, forgoing his studies and training at swords. He would often be found, if he was able to be found at all, in dark rooms, more often in the cellar and the deepest corner of the library.
…
“Where’s your brother?”
Aemon looked up from his book, “I saw him walking in the garden.”
Maekar took a deep breath. “And when was this?”
“An hour, or so ago,” his son replied dutifully.
“Lorren.”
The knight nodded, and left the room with steady strides.
…
Loren searched for half a day.
They found him under his bed, his eyes staring blankly at nothing.
…
His mother, the lady Dyanna, was beginning to fret, stating to her husband how Aerion barely eats; he has grown thinner because of it and more fragile. She said he also didn't speak to her anymore; he never talked, not even when his father was screaming right at his face for a single word to be spoken.
There was none, for the only reply that Prince Maekar received was another length of silence.
She cried when he remained so still and unbothered—the way he peered at her in his most lucid; a foe would stare with more warmth than how he looked at her.
…
They said he acted more like a stranger, as if his memories with his family had been taken by the fever itself when it went away with the prince’s usual spite and fire.
…
Aegon bumped on him on his way to meet his tutor, flinching and waiting for the coming hit when Aerion merely glanced at him and walked the other direction.
He’s like a ghost, Aegon thought with a curious grimace.
“Do you think he’s finally gone and snapped?” He asked Daeron that evening.
“I think I would prefer that he did, it’s been far too quiet as of late, has it not?”
It has.
…
Nearly the whole of Summerhall took a breath of relief when the news spread of the prince’s unusual behaviour. Some said that the prince’s usual temper would return in due time; that a simple fever could never truly snuff out a dragon’s flames.
But there were no more wrathful displays from the prince, no servants tormented in his presence, until three moons had passed, and Aerion's famed temper and vicious nature did not rear its ugly head again, and everyone assumed at that point that the prince's old habits had finally vanished.
…
"Aerion." Dyanna called her son’s name softly, a deep frown marring her features. "You haven't touched your meal."
The boy’s hands remained idle beside his plate, his gaze fixed downward. For a moment, she thought he would ignore her again. Instead, he opened his mouth, finally breaking a week of his undisputed silence.
“I’m not hungry.” His voice was rasped, dry and unused.
Dyanna nearly flinched from the sound.
“That’s alright, darling. I’m sure we can request for more of your favorites—”
“I’m not hungry.”
It’s a good thing then that she barred Maekar from attending, for she knew that he would have undoubtedly thrown a fit at the disrespect of his son leaving without another word or glance.
…
Maekar gripped his son’s face, his own expression a mask of fury that barely concealed his panic. He shoved the food toward Aerion’s lips, as if he could command the boy to live.
The maesters were blunt: he was fading. Without sustenance, he would die. Dyanna moved to stop him, but the sight of her son’s wasting frame broke her—she collapsed into tears, her voice a ragged plea for Maekar to be gentle.
The plate was still halfway full when Daeron, half drunk, finally pushed their father away with a grimace. He swayed on his feet, nearly toppling, and ignored Maekar’s indignant words of frustration—that particular version of worry wrapped in rage. Whether it was aimed at Aerion or himself, Daeron could not have told, for his attention was fixed solely on his brother’s reddened, tearful eyes and trembling lips.
He had never seen Aerion cry—not once in all the years since the boy was eight.
…
“Where’s my phone, mum.”
Dyanna stilled at her stitching, and gazed at her son’s place in his chosen corner, head hiding behind his arms as he sat on the floor. “Have you looked in the garden?”
When his episodes hit, they learned it best to indulge him with reassurance. It calmed him, and most of the time he’d stop speaking in riddles.
There were whispers of madness, of Rhaegal’s affliction spreading through her boy, but those were quickly suppressed by her husband.
Their son is not mad.
Aerion is simply confused.
“Did you hide it then?” He raised his head to face her, revealing too much vulnerability usually masked away with spite and ferocity.
He was begging her, and Dyanna’s eyes watered from how much.
She could never truly perceive what he’s truly begging for.
“No, my love.”
“Then where is it?”
“I wish I had the answer.”
Forgive me, I don’t know.
…
Daeron held the leash, at the end of which stood a brown pony marked by two white spots on each ear.
Dyanna held her breath while her husband stood watch beside her, his gaze narrowed at the small animal.
Since Aegon, Aemon, and the girls were occupied with their lessons, only the four of them remained in the garden, joined by a few guards and servants who had stopped to stare at the creature in Daeron’s grip.
Aerion paused for a long period of time, and then he laughed.
He laughed until his eyes were filled with tears, and he still laughed when Maekar asked him—red faced and more thwarted by the second— what he found humorous.
It was a senseless sound that confirmed most of the whispers in court: the prince had lost his mind.
…
The water in his bath would have drowned him had the servants not arrived in time to notice the bloody state of the water.
[I think i'm gonna die in this house - always a modern Aerion]
Summary: His own hands were encased in heavy, articulated mitts that moved with a sickening clack-crunch as the mud ground into the joints.
Every movement felt like trying to swim through wet cement while wearing a lead coffin.
What the fuck am I wearing!?
Pairing: None/Crack Fic
Aerion hated mud.
He’d hated the outdoors since he was three, to be fair.
His mum even had a video of the "incident": him, screaming like he was being tortured because his bare feet touched the wet ground for half a second.
Honestly? Valid.
It’s just gross—the wet, fucking thick sludge. Who even thinks that’s a good idea?
"Let's put the baby in the dirt!" Great plan.
He was a literal child; he should’ve been miles away from it.
Do people just forget that germs and bacteria exist?
They’re everywhere, lurking, and he was the only one who seemed to care.
Everyone knew. It wasn't a secret. He fucking hated mud. So why the ever-loving fuck was he sprawled out in it?
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuck." Even his voice sounded weighed down.
A suffocating heaviness had settled over his chest, and his brain felt like it was sloshing around in his skull.
He tried to move his hands, but they felt massive—numb, heavy, and coated in the very thing that made his skin crawl.
Attempting to wipe his face next, but his arms felt like they were cast in lead.
It was as if someone had shrink-wrapped him in scrap metal and tossed him into a literal dumpster fire.
Everything smelled foul.
He squinted, his stomach turning.
Is that actually manure next to my head?
Aerion scrambled to get up, his boots skidding through the sludge, barely catching himself before he face-planted back into the filth.
It’s too early for this, where the fuck is my phone?
“Yield, my prince!” someone screamed, and Aerion barely had the time to guess who was screaming like a maniac in the middle of Monday morning when he was grabbed and thrown back on the mud, a heavy weight settling on his waist.
“What the fuck!” He exclaimed, feeling his hip joint creak at the massive man on top of him. The man’s face was a mess of bruises and swollen flesh, it’s like someone decided to pound his face on the ground before poking his eyes with a literal barbeque stick. “Dude, get off me!”
“Yield!” the guy screamed, hovering way too close—clearly a stranger to the concept of personal space—and spraying a fine mist of spit across Aerion’s face. “Just end this!”
The hell is happening!? He thought in panic.
“Aerion!” someone screamed over the pulse of the crowd and the rhythmic clank of metal on metal.
He tried to look around, but the thing in his head barely gave him the space to actually see anything other than the dirt still around him. He clawed at the guy’s chest, but his fingers didn't find a hoodie or a leather jacket.
They hit cold, dented steel.
His own hands were encased in heavy, articulated mitts that moved with a sickening clack-crunch as the mud ground into the joints.
Every movement felt like trying to swim through wet cement while wearing a lead coffin.
What the fuck am I wearing!?
Focus, Aerion. Think. What the hell happened last night?
He winced, his skin screaming as it rubbed against whatever the fuck he was wearing—fresh cuts over old bruises.
Right.
The Pratt house.
Jace had dragged him to that frat-row nightmare.
There was some kind of hazing ritual at the door.
Fuck, what did they make me swallow? A pill. Some kind of upper?
Then the wheel.
The memory hit him like a physical blow: a raw cow intestine, split open and glistening, yards of it coiled like a wet snake.
He’d almost bolted—until they brought out the "reward."
His stomach did a slow, sick flip.
Aerion could still taste it on the back of his teeth, metallic and thick.
That blood cocktail was easily the most divine thing he’d ever had—totally worth the trauma.
He probably could’ve just hit up a bar and ordered one himself, but whatever. It was a total dare, and Aerion wasn't about to look like a pussy and back down. He’s never been one to pass up a chance to crash out, especially when the stakes are actually high.
Looking back, it’s a literal miracle he didn't choke out while trying to throat the thing.
I’m going to kill Jace, he thought, squirming like a trapped animal under the dude sitting on him like a human boulder.
What kind of sick, medieval-themed hazing is this?
He really should’ve listened to Rhae.
Then again, he’d downed a whole raw cow intestine for a "divine" shot of mystery liquid, so he kind of deserved this level of karma.
The screaming boulder-man swung a massive wooden plank at his skull. Aerion barely rolled out of the way, the wind of the swing whistling past his ear, before he landed a desperate kick to the guy's chest.
He scrambled to his feet, skidding through the muck, and finally actually looked at where the hell he was.
It looked like a high-budget movie set—all old-school grit, wooden scaffolding, and horses that smelled way too real to be props.
The stands were packed with people in period-accurate dresses and tunics, their faces blurred into a mass of bloodthirsty energy. The roar of the crowd wasn't a party vibe; it was the sound of people who wanted to see someone get dismantled.
What the actually fuck? He winced, doubling over as a wave of nausea hit him.
His stomach felt like it was trying to turn itself inside out.
No, seriously. Jace is dead. I’m going to fucking end him.
He felt something hit him on the back, the metal, as he’s now realising he’s wearing, supporting the impact and nearly pushed him face first on the ground.
‘There is no way I'm falling for that again.’ Aerion spat a mouthful of copper-tasting grit, his eyes stinging.
He pivoted, only to find the guy swaying on his feet.
The boulder of a man aimed to swing at him again, his face still swollen like he'd been stung by a thousand bees and more.
If Aerion wasn't so distracted by the location and the ridiculous gear they’d forced him into, he would’ve called a timeout—the dude looked like he was actively dying.
“Get him, Dunk!” A child screamed from the crowd, head as shiny as an egg.
Aerion grimaced.
Is this a make-a-wish program?
Some type of fucked up forced charity?
Aerion could have screamed at him to shut his sick mouth shut.
His body decided to stage a coup before he could even blink.
Nearly choking as the cow’s innards staged a slick, uninvited comeback, closely followed by a gallon of cocktails that had clearly failed in their primary mission to delete the memory of raw meat.
The intestine hit the wet ground with a sickening splash, coated in a slurry of stomach juices and red alcohol that looked far more like a crime scene.
It just laid there, staring him down with an air of superiority, as if to say “Checkmate, idiot.”
Aerion heaved, his hand trembling against his ribs as he fought for a breath that didn't taste like failure.
He heaved again, and another row of vomiting followed.
…
The mad cunt of a prince had just thrown up his own entrails, and the silence that followed was so heavy it could have been felt by a deaf man.
On the field and in the stands, the world stalled; shields and cups stayed mid-air as many eyes locked on the red slurry in the mud.
Aerion recoiled, hand pressed to his hollow stomach, blood coating his mouth as he retched again.
It was a miracle—or a curse—that he was still standing.
Roland knew the tales of men who refused to drop even when their bodies were no longer intact.
It wasn't life keeping the Prince upright; it was pure, distilled spite. Because by all rights, a man whose innards were currently cooling in the dirt should have the decency to fall over.
“Aerion!” Prince Maekar broke into a dead sprint. “My boy, my boy!”
He ran to his son’s side, and nobody had the heart to stop him, his own brother just after his trail followed quickly with a noticeable limp.
“Cease the fighting!” Prince Baelor yelled at the crowd, removing his helm and revealing a pale face as he stared at the gore by his nephew's feet. “The trial is over!”
Aerion muttered something, dead weight in his father’s arms as he finally finished vomiting his insides.
His face was a ruin of blood and spit, watery eyes narrowed to slits as he glared at the coiled intestine, as if daring the meat to crawl back inside him.
“A maester!” Maekaer screamed frantically, the man’s stoic front gone in the face of his dying son’s breath. “Call a fucking maester!”
A great matter of the state: Always a Modern Aerion
Summary: Aerion sends a message all the way from Lys.
Pairing: Dunk 'The Tall'/Aerion Targaryen
“Prince Aerion insisted for the whole family to hear his message, my prince.” The maester bowed, eyes modestly staring at the ground while holding the said message from the prince still exiled to Lys.
“I’m sure the prince didn't mean it, my princes.” Ser Willem grimaced, as if the words themselves might be able to save him from the disaster on whatever Aerion brewed in a piece of parchment. “He was, after all, heavily drunk when he wrote that letter.”
“Just read it,” Maekar said from his seat, clearly exhausted just by hearing about his second son. “For fuck sake, and be done with all this nonesense.”
Dunk, who looked unsure and wary, stood beside Aegon, who was already dozing off. The white cloak of the kingsguard suited him, if not for the way his nerve was clearly getting to him by the mention of Aerion alone.
“Of course, my prince.” The maester coughed, clearing his throat as he uncontrolled the paper. “Dear Ser Dunken the Tall.”
Dunk straightened his posture, face turning stern when his name was called.
“I am coming back for that ass,” The maester stuttered, but under the heavy glare of Prince Maeker, he continued. “If I ain't got that ass last year, this year it’s getting smashed.”
Ser Willem shook his head, staring up at the ceiling as if praying to the gods to spare him.
“I ain't pulling up in no granny costume, that shit hard to run it.” The maester’s face turned pained at each word, as if wishing for death right then and there to save his dignity more than the prince who ruined him the moment he wrote his letter. “I’m pulling up in a track suit, and we really gonna get this fun in.”
ashes remade - Ao3
Warning: Body Horror, Dark Themes, and Major Character Death.
Summary: Mad. His brother was mad; grief had turned him so. He and his wife both had lost their wits to sorrow. For why else would they present a dead child before the King as if it were the norm?
Pairing: Future Dunk 'The Tall'/Aerion Targaryen
Mad. His brother was mad; grief had turned him so. He and his wife both had lost their wits to sorrow. For why else would they present a dead child before the King as if it were the norm?
“He's as bad as they come, if not worse,” he whispered, eyes glancing about as if waiting for an anvil to strike him. “Everyone says so. They say he drinks the blood of the innocent.”
He shook his head, “That’s not right.”
“They’re Targaryens!” Spit flew from his mouth, and Dunk barely had time to swerve away before it hit him in the face. “Incestuous aliens who burned our lands and our people. Do you think that, since Queen Visenya’s time and even before, no one in her family practiced dark sorcery and black magic? Maegor was born from that; who’s to say that Aerion isn’t as well?”
“What’s your name, boy?” Prince Daemon asks, eyes straying to his plate full of exotic fruits.
“Johnny,” he replies.
The prince hums, pinching a grape with three fingers until the bottom splits before putting it in his mouth. “Johnny,” he says thoughtfully.
Johnny kept his mouth shut, not out of respect, but from the way the Queen’s gaze stayed on him with too much intensity beside her husband.
“Who named you, Johnny?” The prince continues.
“The wench who gave birth to me,” he blurts out before he can control himself.
Someone from a distance coughs, as the prince pauses for a split second, eyes trained on him with something blank before snorting a short humorous laugh.
“Did she now?” He says. “And tell me, boy, where is this wench now?”
“Dead.”
“Ah.” The prince nods, “My condolences to you—”
“You have a sister,” the queen says, her voice a timber of something cold, and if Johnny were to guest, disappointment.
“I do, your grace,” Johnny says, lowering his head slightly as he does so.
“What's done is done, Harry. I just wish she'd realize that there's no use worrying about something that already happened.” His tongue peeks out from his mouth, brows creasing, the red of his lips returning to a slick shine as Ron licks them mindlessly.
Harry blinks, looking down on the stone floor as they reach the main hall. The elves have done a splendid job cleaning it. Maybe Harry should pay a visit to the kitchen. He hasn't eaten their fruit tarts in ages.
