I've been reading lots of Dunkaerion fanfiction especially when they have children aka Dunkaerionlings, IM SO LOVE WITH THEIR FAMILY, i love the angst, i love the sweetness, i love the dynamic and everything 🥹
Go read a really good Dunkaerion story by @l0singsdogs on AO3 called 'Need You Now ( How Many Times )' SUCH A BEAUTIFUL STORY IM SOBBING EVERY CHAPTER 💗
This is so poetic, it surprises me how i sympathized both of them because they both have their point of view of what happened and how it affected their life.
They talk about how Niall wants to walk in Ruben shoes and Niall admit its true but somehow what i see is that they walk on the same path but with different shoes, like no matter what they bound to walk the same road till the end of the road, its too late to be seperate from one another because they have come a long way together...
Is there any A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms fanfic AU with the Targaryen family go on holiday to a White Lotus hotel, i think it will be veryy veryy interesting to read and i definitely will love it
Somehow i think about Henry Gaunt and Sidney Ellwood when i see Ben Affleck and Matt Damon. Its like seeing Gaunt and Ellwood living in the 90s and both pursuing the same career as an actor/filmmaker
But don't think about it in a political way just how the media potrayed them, they were loved by the people even tho they have really crazy family histories. The father and son who loved by people but sadly their life ends with tragedy
Valarr Targaryen x reader
Synopsis: In which you come back home
word count: 4.9k
The celebrations had been lovely. The baby, little Valerya, named after her darling husband in a fit of sentimentality that you still felt slightly smug about, was perfect, with your brother's eyes and his wife's nose and a tiny tuft of dark hair that made her look like a particularly adorable potato. The food had been plentiful, the company warm, and the excuse to escape the Red Keep for a while had been genuinely refreshing.
For the first two days.
By the third morning of your absence, you had begun to wonder if Valarr was managing alright. He'd looked so tragic when you'd left, standing in the yard with his hand over his heart like a knight in a sad song, watching your wheelhouse disappear down the road. You'd waved until you couldn't see him anymore, touched by his devotion, mildly concerned by its intensity.
By the fourth day, you'd stopped wondering and started knowing.
The first letter arrived at breakfast.
It was from your good-father, Prince Baelor, and it was masterfully diplomatic, which immediately told you something was wrong, because Baelor "Breakspear" Targaryen was many wonderful things, but diplomatically subtle was not typically among them.
My dear Y/N,
I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying your time with your family. Please extend my congratulations to your brother and his wife on the birth of their daughter.
I write with a small matter that has come to my attention. Your husband, my son, has apparently been unwell since your departure. He has not attended council, has taken his meals in his chambers, and has been observed by multiple servants staring at the southern road for hours at a time. Matarys reports that he is "utterly pathetic" and "in desperate need of intervention."
I do not wish to alarm you or cut short your visit. However, I feel you should be aware that Valarr has commissioned a portrait locket which he kisses approximately every few minutes, has forbidden the servants from changing your bedsheets, and was overheard having a lengthy conversation with your pillow.
A pillow, my dear.
If your visit could be concluded in a timely manner, I would be most grateful.
Your loving good-father,
Baelor
You read the letter three times, each time with a broader smile. He'd commissioned a locket? With your face? And he was kissing it? You pressed the letter to your chest and giggled like a girl of twelve.
"Oh, Valarr," you murmured. "You ridiculous, wonderful man."
Your sister-by-law, seated across the table with the baby in her arms, raised an eyebrow. "Good news?" "Excellent news." You folded the letter carefully and tucked it into your pocket. "My husband is losing his mind without me."
This was said with such obvious delight that your sister-by-law laughed. "That's… a good thing?"
"The best thing. The absolute best." You reached for another pastry, suddenly ravenous. "He loves me. He loves me so much he's talking to my pillow. How could that not be wonderful?"
The second letter arrived that afternoon. This one was from Matarys, and it was considerably less diplomatic.
Y/N,
Come home. Now. Immediately. I cannot stress this enough. Valarr has taken to wandering the halls at night, sighing loudly and clutching this locket he had made. He looks like a ghost. A very sad, very lovesick ghost who keeps asking people if they've heard from you. I ran into him at the godswood at midnight. He was just standing there, staring at the moon, and when I asked what he was doing he said, "She liked the moon. Did you know she liked the moon?" I did know. Everyone knows. She's mentioned it once or twice. He then showed me the locket for the seventeenth time and asked if I thought the painter had captured your smile correctly. I said yes. He said he wasn't sure, that maybe the left side was slightly off, that he was considering commissioning another one from a different artist just to be safe. Y/N. He is planning to commission a SECOND locket. Father is worried. Grandfather is amused, which is somehow worse. Even Aerion offered Valarr his condolences yesterday, and Aerion has never offered anyone condolences for anything. Please come home before he commissions a third one. Or starts talking to your shoes.
Your desperate good-brother,
Matarys
P.S. He also had the kitchens make your favorite lemon cakes and left them in your solar "so they'd be ready when you return." They are not keeping well. The servants keep eating them and replacing them with fresh ones so he doesn't notice. This has been going on for three days. The man is a menace to the household staff.
You doubled over laughing.
You read the letter again, savoring every detail. The locket. The moon. The shoes. The lemon cakes being constantly replaced. He was so thorough in his misery, so committed to missing you with every fiber of his being.
Your heart felt like it might burst. The third letter came the next morning.
This one was from Valarr himself, and it was so utterly, perfectly him that you had to stop reading twice because you couldn't see through the tears of laughter and love.
My love,
I am writing this at dawn because I couldn't sleep. Your pillow doesn't smell like you anymore. I think I've used it up. Is that possible? Can missing someone actually wear away their scent? I've asked the servants not to wash it, but maybe I should have asked them to preserve it somehow? In a jar? Is that strange?
(Don't answer that.)
I miss you. I miss you so much that I've started telling people about your laugh. Complete strangers. Guardsmen. The man who sharpens my swords. I told him, "My wife has the most beautiful laugh in the Seven Kingdoms. It sounds like bells. Happy bells. Bells that have just heard excellent news." He looked at me strangely. I don't think he understood. I had a locket made. Matarys probably told you. It's beautiful—you're beautiful in it, I mean. The painter captured your eyes perfectly, but I think your smile might be slightly off. I'm considering having another one made so I can compare them. Is that too much? It's probably too much. I don't care. I talked to your shawl yesterday. It was nice. Not as nice as talking to you, but nice. Please come home soon. I'm running out of your things to talk to. The shoes are next, and while I'm sure they'll be excellent conversationalists, it's not the same.
Your devoted husband,
Valarr
P.S. I love you. I love you I love you I love you. I'm going to write it a hundred times but the maester says ravens can only carry so much weight so I'll stop here. But imagine a hundred. Imagine a thousand. Imagine more than that, because that's how much I love you.
You pressed the letter to your heart and simply sat there for a long moment, overwhelmed by the sheer muchness of him.
Then you stood up.
"I have to go home."
Your brother, who had just entered the room with news about lunch, blinked at you. "What? Now? The celebrations aren't finished—"
"My husband is holding my shoes and talking to my pillow and commissioning lockets of my face." You were already moving toward your chambers, mentally cataloging what needed to be packed. "He's telling strangers about my laugh. He's having the servants replace lemon cakes so they'll be fresh for me. He's—" You stopped, turned, and beamed at your brother. "He loves me so much he's falling apart."
"That sounds… concerning?"
"It's romantic." You grabbed his arms and kissed his cheek. "I love you, I love the baby, I love that you named her after him, but I have to go. My husband needs me. He's out there being ridiculous and devoted and I need to go kiss him until he stops looking at the moon and asking if people know I like it. Tell your wife goodbye for me. Kiss the baby. We'll visit again when Valarr can be trusted to survive a separation of more than a week."
You were packed within the hour.
The wheelhouse was readied within two.
And as the horses began their journey south, toward King's Landing, toward the Red Keep, toward your ridiculous, perfect, shoe-holding, pillow-talking, locket-kissing husband, you sat back against the cushions with a smile so wide your cheeks hurt.
You couldn't wait to see him. You couldn't wait to let him hold you properly, to breathe you in, to stop talking to inanimate objects and start talking to you again.
You also couldn't wait to tease him about every single detail from the letters. The moon. The shoes. The pillow. The locket. The lemon cakes. The guard who'd heard about your laugh.
You were going to make him blush so hard.
And then you were going to kiss him.
"Faster," you told the driver, leaning out the window. "My husband is waiting."
---
The wheelhouse rolled through the gates of the Red Keep as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. You pressed your face to the window, heart hammering against your ribs, scanning the yard for a glimpse of dark hair and brighter eyes.
You didn't see him, he didn't know you were coming. You'd sent no raven, wanting to surprise him, and now that impatience clawed at your chest like a living thing. The wheelhouse hadn't even fully stopped before you were pushing the door open, leaping down with absolutely no regard for dignity or the servants rushing to assist you.
"Where is my husband?" you asked the nearest guard.
The man blinked at your sudden appearance. "The Prince? I believe he's in your chambers, my lady. He's been—"
You didn't wait to hear what he'd been. You were already running. Through the yard, past the startled faces of guards and courtiers alike, your slippers slapping against the stone, your traveling dress bunched in your fists to keep from tripping. Up the stairs, along the corridor, past the Targaryen banners hanging still and silent in the evening air.
You burst through the door of your chambers and stopped.
Valarr was seated at the window, his back to you, his shoulders curved forward in a posture of such profound loneliness that it pierced you straight through. He held something in his hands—the locket, you realized. He was holding the locket, his thumb moving gently across its surface in a slow, rhythmic stroke.
Evening light fell across his dark hair, picking out that distinctive streak of silver-gold that marked him as dragon-blooded. He looked thinner than you remembered. Tired. Like a man who hadn't been sleeping or eating properly, who'd been pouring all his energy into simply existing until you returned.
"Valarr."
His name left your lips before you could stop it, soft and broken and full of everything you felt. He went completely still. For one heartbeat. Two. Three.
Then he turned. The locket clattered to the floor, forgotten. His eyes, those mismatched eyes that had looked at you with love every single day of your marriage, went wide, disbelieving, drinking you in like a man dying of thirst who'd suddenly stumbled upon an oasis.
"Y/N?"
His voice cracked on your name.
And then he was moving, rising from the window seat so fast he nearly stumbled, crossing the room in four desperate strides, and then his hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly.
"You're here," he breathed. "You're actually here."
"I'm here."
"I was just—I was looking at your locket, thinking about you, and now you're—" His thumbs traced across your cheekbones, gentle and reverent. "You're real? This is real?"
"Valarr." You covered his hands with your own, pressing them more firmly against your face. "I'm real. I'm here. I came back."
Something broke behind his eyes.
With a sound that was half sob and half sigh, he pulled you into his arms and held you. Not carefully, he crushed you against his chest, wrapped himself around you so completely that you could feel every line of his body, every tremor running through him.
"I missed you," he whispered into your hair. "Gods, Y/N, I missed you so much. I didn't know it was possible to miss someone this much. I thought I understood missing you before, when you visited your family for name days or when I had to go with Father on progress, but this—this was different. This was worse. This was—"
You felt wetness against your hair.
He was crying.
Your strong, devoted, ridiculous husband was crying into your hair because you'd come home.
Your own eyes burned. You pulled back just enough to look at him, to see the tears tracking down his cheeks, the way his jaw was clenched tight against the flood of emotion threatening to overwhelm him.
"Look at me," you whispered, framing his face in your hands. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
"I know. I know, I just—" He laughed, wet and broken. "I talked to your pillow. Your pillow, Y/N. I told it about my day. I held your shoes. I—" He shook his head, fresh tears spilling over. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes. And when you're gone, I don't know how to be myself. I don't know how to exist without you. You're half of me. You're the better half. You're—"
You kissed him.
It wasn't like your usual kisses—the quick pecks goodbye, the gentle brushes goodnight, the teasing presses when you were laughing together. This was different. This was desperate and deep and full of everything you hadn't been able to say across the miles between you.
His arms tightened around you, one hand sliding into your hair, the other pressing against the small of your back, holding you as close as physically possible. He kissed you like you were air and he'd been drowning. He kissed you like you were water and he'd been crossing a desert. He kissed you like you were home, and he'd been lost for four endless days.
When you finally broke apart, breathing hard, he rested his forehead against yours.
"I commissioned a locket," he murmured. "Two, actually. Three, if you count the one I'm having made with both our faces. I—" He huffed a laugh. "I'm sorry. I know that's too much. I know I'm too much. I can't help it. I love you too much."
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
"You talked to my pillow."
His cheeks flushed red. "I… yes."
"You held my shoes."
The flush deepened. "Matarys told you about that?"
"And told strangers about my laugh. And asked the servants to preserve my pillow in a jar. And commissioned a locket of my face that you kiss constantly."
Valarr's expression shifted from embarrassed to horrified to resigned in the span of three seconds. "I did say it was too much."
"Valarr."
He braced himself, clearly expecting teasing, expecting laughter, expecting you to make gentle fun of him the way you always did when his devotion tipped into absurdity.
Instead, you reached up and touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, the soft skin beneath his eye where tears still lingered.
"I love you," you said simply. "I love every ridiculous, excessive, overwhelming part of you. I love that you missed me so much you talked to furniture. I love that you commissioned lockets of my face. I love that you told strangers about my laugh." You rose on your toes and pressed your lips to his forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, each point of contact a silent promise. "I love that you held my shoes. I love that you couldn't sleep without me. I love that you're standing here, crying because I came home, because it means you love me as much as I love you."
He stared at you, eyes bright with fresh tears.
"As much?" His voice was barely a whisper. "You can't possibly—I love you more. I love you most. I love you in ways that don't have words. I love you—"
"I know." You smiled, soft and warm. "I know, Valarr. I've always known."
He kissed you again.
This time it was slower. Deeper. A conversation rather than a desperate plea. He mapped your mouth like he was learning it for the first time, like he'd forgotten the shape of you in his days apart and needed to memorize it all over again. You let him, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the silver-gold streak that made him yours.
"I dreamed about you," he murmured against your lips. "Every night. You were always just out of reach. I'd wake up reaching for you and you weren't there and I'd—" He shuddered. "I'd lie in your spot and pretend you were still warm."
"Valarr."
"I know. I'm pathetic."
"You're romantic." You kissed the corner of his mouth. "You're devoted. You're the most loving man I've ever known." Another kiss, this one to his cheek. "You're mine."
His arms tightened around you. "Yours. Always yours. Only yours."
You drew back, taking his hand, leading him away from the door and toward the window seat where he'd been sitting when you arrived. The locket still lay on the floor, glinting in the fading light, but neither of you moved to pick it up. You didn't need a painted version of his face. You had the real thing.
You sat together in the window, you tucked against his side, his arm wrapped around you, his face buried in your hair. He kept breathing you in, deep and reverent, as if he couldn't quite believe you were real.
---
The candles had long burned down to nothing, leaving your chambers awash in moonlight and shadow. The city had gone quiet beyond the windows, the distant sounds of guards changing shifts and the occasional bark of a dog the only interruptions to the deep, peaceful silence of the night.
You lay on your side, eyes half-closed, drifting in that warm space between waking and sleep. The sheets were soft beneath you, the pillow perfect beneath your cheek, and behind you—wrapped around you like he might never let go—was Valarr.
You could feel him everywhere. One arm curved beneath your head, pillowing it gently. The other draped across your waist, his hand splayed warm against your stomach. His chest pressed against your back, solid and steady, rising and falling with each breath. His knees tucked behind yours, fitting together like you'd been made to rest just so.
Perfect.
This was perfect.
You were almost asleep when you felt him shift.
It was small at first, a slight adjustment of his hips, a tiny movement of his hand. You dismissed it as him settling, finding comfort, letting sleep take him as it was taking you.
But then he shifted again.
And again.
His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, as if the inches between you were an unbearable distance. His breath hitched against your hair, warm and uneven. His legs moved, tangling with yours, trying to pull you even nearer.
"Valarr?" Your voice was thick with approaching sleep. "Are you alright?"
"Mm." The sound was vague, distracted. "Fine. Go back to sleep."
You should have. You were so tired, so warm, so perfectly comfortable. But there was something in the way he held you—a tension, a need—that kept you hovering on the edge of awareness.
His hand moved.
Just a little. Just the barest slide across your stomach, fingers spreading wide as if he could absorb you through touch alone. His thumb traced a slow circle against the thin fabric of your nightgown, and you felt the gesture all the way through you, a shiver of response that had nothing to do with cold.
"Valarr." This time his name was a question.
"I can't—" He stopped, his voice rough. "I can't get close enough."
You turned your head slightly, trying to see him in the darkness. Moonlight caught the edge of his profile—the silver streak in his hair, the curve of his cheek, the intensity in eyes that should have been closed in sleep.
"What do you mean?"
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he moved.
His arm withdrew from beneath your head, and for a moment you felt the loss like a physical thing. But then his hands were at your shoulders, turning you gently, and you went willingly, rolling to face him in the tangle of sheets and moonlight.
He looked at you like you were everything.
"I need—" He swallowed hard. "I spent four days without you. Four days of nothing. Of empty space where you should be. And now you're here, and I have you, and it's still—" His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones. "It's still not enough. I don't think it will ever be enough. I want to be closer than this. I want—"
He broke off, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut.
"I want to crawl inside you," he whispered. "I want to wrap myself around your bones and live in your heart and never be separate from you again. I know that's insane. I know that's too much. But I spent four days alone and I can't—I can't be far enough away from you ever again. I need to be closer. I need—"
Your heart cracked open.
This man. This ridiculous, beautiful, overwhelming man who loved you so much it hurt him. Who couldn't sleep because the inches between you felt like miles. Who wanted to crawl inside you and never leave.
You kissed him.
It was soft and slow and full of everything you felt—the love, the tenderness, the absolute wonder that someone could want you this much.
"Then come closer," you whispered against his mouth.
His eyes opened, searching your face in the darkness. "What?"
"Come closer." You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. "However close you need to be. I'm yours. All of me is yours. Take what you need."
For a long moment, he simply stared at you, his expression caught between wonder and disbelief. Then something shifted in his eyes—a decision made, a need acknowledged—and he moved.
His hands went to the laces at the neck of your nightgown.
Slowly, carefully, he worked them loose. Not pulling, not rushing—just undoing, one by one, until the fabric gaped open at your throat. Until there was space enough.
"Tell me if it's too much," he breathed. "Tell me if you want me to stop."
"I won't."
He kissed you once—soft, quick, a promise—and then he moved.
His head ducked beneath the fabric, slipping through the opening he'd made. You felt him against your skin, warm and seeking, as he pulled the nightgown over himself like a second layer. His arms slid around your waist beneath the cloth, wrapping around your middle, pulling you flush against him. His body pressed along yours, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, legs tangling together beneath the sheets.
And then his head emerged from the neck of your nightgown.
It was absurd. It was ridiculous. His dark hair was mussed, the silver streak catching moonlight, and he was looking at you from inside your own clothing, his face inches from yours, your breath mingling in the small space you now shared.
But it wasn't absurd. Not really.
It was the most intimate thing you'd ever experienced.
He was inside your clothing. Wrapped around you beneath the fabric, his arms around your waist, his legs intertwined with yours, his heart beating against your heart. You were as close as two people could possibly be without ceasing to be two people.
"Valarr." His name left your lips on a breath, soft and wondering.
"Closer," he murmured, and there was something almost desperate in the word. "I'm closer. I can feel all of you. Every part of you. You're everywhere."
His hands spread across your back beneath the nightgown, palms flat, fingers splayed, as if he could touch every inch of you at once. His face pressed into the curve of your neck, nose tracing along your pulse point, breathing you in with deep, reverent breaths.
"I can feel your heart," he whispered against your skin. "It's beating against mine. They're beating together. Can you feel it?"
You could. Two pulses, separate but synchronized, thrumming through the space where your chests pressed together.
"Yes," you breathed. "I can feel it."
His arms tightened. His legs wrapped more firmly around yours. He curved himself around you like a second skin, like he was trying to pour himself into your very bones.
"I love you," he said, and the words were muffled against your throat, but you heard them anyway. Felt them. They vibrated through your skin and settled somewhere deep inside. "I love you so much. I never want to be apart from you again. Not for a day. Not for an hour. Not for a moment."
"Valarr."
"I know it's not possible. I know you'll have to leave sometimes, and I'll have to leave sometimes, and there will be moments when we're separate no matter how much I hate it. But right now—" He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes in the darkness. "Right now, you're here. Right now, I'm inside your clothes and wrapped around your heart and as close to you as I can possibly be. Right now, you're mine and I'm yours and nothing else exists."
You felt tears prick at your eyes.
Not sad tears. Not even happy tears, exactly. Just—tears of overwhelming muchness. Of being loved so completely, so excessively, so thoroughly that you didn't know what to do with it except feel it. Let it wash over you. Let it fill every empty space you'd ever carried.
"Kiss me," you whispered.
He did.
It was different from before, slower, deeper, more intimate. You kissed in the small space inside your nightgown, your breath warm and shared, your lips moving together like you had all the time in the world. His hands never stopped moving on your back, gentle circles, soft strokes, mapping every inch of skin he could reach.
When you finally broke apart, breathing hard, he rested his forehead against yours.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"For what?"
"For letting me be close. For not thinking I'm insane. For—" He huffed a soft laugh. "For letting me wear your nightgown."
You laughed, the sound muffled by the fabric around you. "You're not wearing it. You're in it. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. Wearing it would be far less romantic."
He smiled, you felt the curve of it against your cheek and pressed another kiss to the corner of your mouth.
"I love you," he said again, and it wasn't repetitive, it was essential. Like breathing. Like heartbeat. Like the only words that mattered.
"I love you too." You wrapped your arms around him beneath the nightgown, holding him as close as he was holding you. "Now try to sleep."
"I don't know if I can. I'm too—" He paused, searching for the word. "Too aware of you. Too full of you. I don't want to waste a moment of this on sleep."
"Then don't sleep. Just rest." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Stay here, inside my clothes, wrapped around me, and just—rest. I'm not going anywhere."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, you felt some of the tension leave his body. His arms loosened just slightly—not releasing you, never releasing you, but relaxing into the hold. His breathing deepened, evening out. His eyes fluttered closed against your skin.
"Closer," he murmured, already half-asleep. "Always want to be closer."
You smiled into the darkness and held him.
You lay like that as the night deepened around you—two people tangled together beneath a single nightgown, wrapped in each other, breathing each other's breath, heart beating against heart, and somewhere in the darkness, the line between where he ended and you began blurred into nothing.
Sometime in the deepest part of the night, you woke to find that Valarr had somehow managed to get even closer. His face was pressed into the curve of your neck, his nose against your pulse point, his breath warm and steady. One hand had found its way beneath your nightgown to rest directly over your heart, palm flat, as if he needed to feel it beating.
The other hand was tangled in your hair.
You didn't move. Didn't dare disturb the perfect peace of this moment. You simply lay there, wrapped in him, and marveled at the miracle of being loved this much.
"Y/N," he breathed in his sleep, the sound barely more than a sigh.
"Shh." You pressed your lips to his hair. "I'm here. I'm right here."
His arms tightened reflexively, pulling you closer even in sleep, and you smiled.
In the morning, the servants would find you like this—tangled together, sharing a nightgown, utterly ridiculous and completely content. There would be gossip. There would be raised eyebrows. Matarys would never let you forget it.
((this is just my opinion and how i visualized Bunny when i read TSH, and if u see more about Oscar Morgan he actually have a bubbly personality and talks alot, these pictures are just from 1 series he's in and doesn't really potray Bunny's appearance in the book))
write a small scene of aerion and his daughter please!!!
sigh... okay (it's very easy to talk me into things)
girl dad!aerion targaryen
Aerion found her near the weirwood stump. She wasn't sitting; she was suspended by her knees from the lower branch of an ancient elm, hanging upside down like a bat in a silk dress.
"I was under the impression," Aerion drawled to the tree roots, crossing his arms over his chest, "that I had fathered a princess. Yet, here hangs a possum."
The branches rustled. A head dropped down into view, gravity turning a curtain of silver-gold hair into a chaotic halo. Her face, flushed pink from the exertion and the blood rushing to her head, broke into a wide, toothy grin that mirrored his own.
"I am spying," a small voice declared.
Aerion raised an eyebrow. "On whom? The worms? They are notoriously dull conversationalists."
His daughter, four years old and possessing enough energy to power a siege engine, flopped down from the branch. She landed in a crouch, displaying a grace that was entirely Targaryen and a disregard for hygiene that was entirely alarming. Her knees were stained grass-green, and she was clutching a pair of stolen silver sewing shears in one fist.
She popped up, dusting off her hands on a dress that Clarice had undoubtedly fought hard to keep clean. She looked like a waif, a wild thing. Her bangs (the ones she had butchered a moon ago in a fit of artistic pique) were growing out in a jagged, uneven slant across her forehead.
"You look dreadful," Aerion told her, stepping closer to flick a twig from her shoulder. "Like a kitten who fell into a haystack."
She scowled, a frighteningly accurate miniature of his own petulant expression. She looked him up and down, eyeing his deep purple doublet and the ruby at his throat.
“And you look like a silly goose," she countered.
Aerion choked back a laugh. He crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet so he was eye-level with the menace.
"Come here," he commanded softly. "Let me see what you are holding. If it is another frog, I am leaving you here for the wolves."
She stepped closer, opening her dirty hand. Resting on her palm was a fat, iridescent beetle. It waved its antennae sluggishly.
Aerion looked down at the insect. His lip curled.
"A beetle," he said flatly.
"He has armor," the girl whispered, her voice filled with wonder. "He is a knight."
Aerion leaned in closer. The smell of grass and milk clung to her. He looked at the bug, then at his daughter’s wide, lilac eyes. They were too soft. Too Arryn.
He locked eyes with his daughter.
"Step on it," he commanded.
She blinked.
"Crush it," Aerion said, a dark, encouraging smile playing on his lips. "We are dragons, little one. We do not marvel at insects. Step on it."
His daughter looked at the beetle, then back at her father. She furrowed her brow, considering the order. Aerion waited, a hunger in his eyes, wanting to see that spark of cruelty, that necessary Targaryen armor that graced him.
She slowly began curling her fingers.
Aerion’s smile widened. Good girl.
Then, she turned her hand over and gently deposited the beetle onto a large green leaf. She patted the leaf with a tender, careful finger.
"No," she said simply. "He is my friend."
Aerion’s smile vanished. He straightened up, looking down at her with a profound, weary disappointment.
"A friend," he scoffed. "He is crunching noise waiting to happen."
"He is not crunching noise," she insisted, wiping her hands on her dress.
"You are soft," Aerion accused, poking her forehead right where the jagged bangs were shortest.
"I am not soft!" She shouted. "I am a dragon!"
She dropped the shears and launched herself at him. She didn't hug him; she tackled his leg, wrapping her arms around his thigh and driving her shoulder into his knee with surprising force.
Aerion didn't budge. He stood like a statue, looking down at the small silver head butting uselessly against his velvet breeches.
"Pathetic," he critiqued, though a playful, amused smile had taken over his features. He rested his hand on her messy head. "Your stance is too narrow. If I were an enemy, I would simply step on you. Like the beetle."
He pushed her back lightly. She flailed, growling like a puppy, and released him, stepping back into a defensive stance, fists raised, eyes blazing.
"You are too tall!" she complained, stomping her foot. "It is cheating!"
She roared, a high-pitched squeak, and charged again.
This time, Aerion caught her. He hooked his hands under her armpits and swung her up into the air. She shrieked with delight, kicking her legs as he held her high above his head.
"You are a terror," Aerion said, looking up at her. She was dirty, disheveled, and entirely too merciful. She was a disaster.
"I am a terror," she agreed happily, looking down at him.
She wrapped her small arms around his neck, nearly choking him in the process, and kicked her heels into his sides.
"Fly, Balerion!" she commanded.
Aerion protested, arguing that he was a prince, not a mule, but he stood up nonetheless, hitching her higher on his back. He felt her small heart beating against his spine, frantic and alive.
"Balerion is dead," Aerion reminded her as they began to walk back toward the Keep. "He died of old age. Which I very much doubt I'll reach if you continue to strangle me."
"Was he the biggest?" She asked, leaning forward so her chin rested on his shoulder, her cheek pressed against his ear.
"The biggest," Aerion confirmed. "His shadow could cover an entire town. And his fire was black. Black as night."
"Like your coat," she noted, petting the velvet.
"Yes. Like my coat."
"And Vhagar?" she asked. "Is she bigger?"
"She was very big too," Aerion said, walking through the rose garden. "But she was old and grumpy."
"Like Grandfather," she giggled.
Aerion let out a short, sharp laugh. "Yes. Exactly like Grandfather."
"I want a dragon," she whispered into his ear. "A pink one. With gold horns."
Aerion shook his head. " A pink dragon would be laughed out of the sky, sweetling. You want a black one. Or a red one."
"No," she insisted, tightening her grip. "Pink. And I will name him Ser beetle."
Aerion didn't argue. He just carried her inside, plotting to feed the beetle to a bird the moment she wasn't looking.
