got bored during break time and decided to end my almost 5-6months long no drawing streak with this beautiful man *cracks back* still got it 👌🏻 face card so good picked up the pen again 🤤 can u blame me?
oh my goshhh! i loved the follow up to 7 steps !! 🥹 keep them coming please!🙏 maybe something about the birth, or them being new parents? 🫶
Aerion 'Brightflame' Targaryen x Reader
Summary: A heated argument with him sends you into labor.
Word count: 3k
Took quiet some time but this is for you pookie.
King's Landing smelled exactly as you remembered, salt from Blackwater Bay, smoke from a thousand hearths, fish, sewage, damp stone, and too many people packed too closely together. But beneath it all lingered the sweetness of summer flowers climbing through the terraced gardens, stubbornly blooming above the city's filth as though none of it concerned them.
You had forgotten how overwhelming it was or perhaps distance had simply polished the memory.
The smell hit you the moment the wheelhouse passed through the gates of the Red Keep. Instinctively, you pressed the back of your hand briefly to your nose before deciding that was an undignified gesture for a princess and lowering it again.
Across from you, Aerion glanced up from the letter in his hands. He had been reading the same reports for most of the journey. You suspected this particular letter was on its fourth inspection.
“We can return,” he said, he had been reading and re-reading reports for the last three hours of the journey, as though the words might rearrange themselves into better news if he gave them enough attention.
“We cannot,” you said pleasantly. “You know that.” You shifted against the cushioned seat, or tried to, at nine months along you had, made peace with the fact that your body was no longer entirely your own. The child moved as it liked and your ankles complained regularly. Still, you managed.
The Red Keep rose around you as the wheelhouse came to a stop, and Aerion was already reaching for your arm when the door opened, his hand settled at your elbow, steady and firm.
The days that followed passed in a blur.
Aerion had barely set down his travel cloak before the summons came, Maekar, requesting his presence at the first of what would be many meetings, briefings, discussions that bled from afternoon into evening into the following morning. The rebellion was not yet a rebellion, it was still a rumour with increasingly credible sources, movements of men in the Riverlands, conversations that should not have been had, allegiances tested quietly at the edges, and Maekar intended to deal with the problem before it became a war.
Aerion understood this. He had said so himself, in the brief intervals when he was with you. He understood the urgency; he agreed with his father's decision to act before the situation kept growing.
What he did not seem to understand was how exhausted he looked. You saw it in the mornings first, the dark circles beneath his eyes that had been there when you arrived and deepened with each passing day, staining the skin beneath them to the colour of a bruise. He slept perhaps three hours, perhaps less, and you knew because you felt the absence of him in the bed before you fully woke. By the time you were awake he was already at his writing desk, surrounded by maps and reports, a candle burned to almost nothing beside him.
You saw it in his movements. He was precise by nature, controlled, deliberate, each gesture measured, but under enough exhaustion that precision began to fray. Small things, the way he set down a goblet slightly harder than necessary, the slight tightening around his eyes when someone spoke to him at a volume, he found unnecessary.
His temper had always been a live thing. He had worked, with considerable effort and at considerable cost, to shorten its leash. But a leash under pressure tends to loosen.
You said nothing yet. You watched, and you waited.
You were not present for the council meeting that day. You heard about it afterward, in pieces, from a maid who had it from a steward who had stood outside the doors.
The meeting had begun well, by all accounts.
King Maekar had laid out the intelligence gathered so far, the scale of the rumoured movement, the families implicated, the question of where the rebellion might grow if left unchecked. Several of the older knights had offered assessments, cautious and conservative in the way men became when they had survived enough wars to be suspicious of certainty.
Then Aerion had presented his strategy.
He had prepared thoroughly, you knew this because you had watched him prepare, had seen the maps spread across the table in your chambers at all hours, had woken in the night to find him still working by candlelight, his silver hair loose around his face, his finger tracing routes through the Riverlands with intensity. He had done the work; there was no question of that.
His proposal was bold, decisive, characteristically Aerion. Strike early and disrupt supply routes, force the conspirators into the open before they could unite. But then Ser Duncan the Tall had spoken.
Not loudly, not with any evident desire to undermine, simply in his direct, honest manner. He had identified the flaw. The strategy assumed the rebellion's consolidation point was where intelligence suggested. But intelligence on the ground, Duncan had noted, indicated two separate and apparently uncoordinated movements. Aerion's plan addressed one, but it left the other entirely free to act while attention was directed elsewhere. Worse, it might inadvertently drive the two movements together, forging unity where there had previously been only parallel discontent.
He had offered an alternative, less elegant, but more methodical, requiring patience and a longer timeline. The room had fallen silent, Maekar had considered it and the others followed.
The storm had been building since midday.
You'd watched it from the windows of your chambers as dark clouds crept across the horizon, swallowing the sunlight piece by piece. By the time evening fell there was nothing left of the sky at all, only a low, churning dark pressed against the towers of the Red Keep, and the rain had begun in earnest, wind rattled the shutters hard enough to make them shudder in their frames, and cold drafts slipped beneath the doors.
You had tried to read, after the third time rereading the same page, you gave up.
Nine months pregnant to the day, you had spent the last week adjusting to a new kind of discomfort. The weight of the child seemed lower now, settled deep in your body. Pressure came and went in strange waves, leaving an ache behind that never fully disappeared. The maester assured you it was normal; your body was preparing itself.
That knowledge should have been reassuring, instead, it made everything feel worse. You shifted carefully in your chair and rested a hand on the curve of your stomach. The child moved beneath your palm, slow and heavy.
Aerion had returned from the council chambers in the early evening; he barely moved in over an hour. The flames cast shifting light across his face, catching in his silver hair and painting sharp shadows beneath his cheekbones. He looked carved from stone, one elbow rested against the arm of the chair, fingers curled loosely against his jaw. His eyes remained fixed on the fire.
These days you could read him almost as easily as weather, he had been worse than he had been in a long time. Plans for the rebellion had reached a critical stage. Meetings stretched late into the night. Reports arrived faster than anyone could answer them. Prince Maekar was making decisions Aerion disagreed with, and disagreement sat poorly with him even under ideal circumstances.
You saw it in the tightness around his eyes. In the clipped replies he gave servants who happened to arrive at the wrong moment. In the way his shoulders never seemed to fully relax anymore, as if he expected another problem to appear the instant he looked away.
The problem was that the discipline was running out, you had watched it running out, and had been patient, had given him space, and you had tried in small ways to be steady around him, tried to become one thing in his life that required nothing from him.
“My love,” you said quietly. “What's wrong?”
His gaze stayed on the fire, hard, distant, the flames reflecting in his violet eyes until they seemed almost unreal. You waited and he still said nothing.
“Aerion.”
A thunder cracked, a long, rolling sound that shook the window in its frame, and for the briefest moment, something shifted in his expression, you thought he might answer, a muscle jumped near his temple and he exhaled through his nose.
“Nothing,” he said.
You adjusted yourself in the chair, slow and careful. The movement sent another dull ache through your lower back. One hand settled automatically over your stomach where the pressure had been building all evening. “Don't push me away,” you said. “Talk to me.”
“I said-.”
“I heard what you said.”
Something flashed in his face, the last of the control giving.
“Nothing!”
The word came out sharp and loud and far harsher than anything he had directed at you in a very long time; the rain battered the windows.
You were quiet for a moment.
“I know you're stressed-.”
“You know nothing about stress.” His voice had dropped again, low and venomous. “What would you know about it? You sit here all day, you read and you wait for me to come back and fuck you like a slut every night.”
For a moment neither of you spoke, you looked at him and he was staring at the fire again, jaw tight, breathing fast, and you could see, that he knew. The moment the words had left his mouth, some part of him already knew, the ugly implication behind them.
“You can be an asshole all you want,” you said at last, your voice steady despite the hurt pressing against your ribs. “But I know you don't actually think that about me.”
“Don't act like you know me.” His voice was low, cracking at the edges, just slightly, a fault line beneath the venom. “You don't know what I'm dealing with.”
“Aerion, I'm your wife-.”
“You're carrying my child.” He turned from the fire at last, and his eyes met yours, the fury was still there, so was exhaustion, and underneath both, buried deep enough that most people would have missed it entirely, was fear, raw and desperate. “That doesn't mean I owe you sweetness every second.”
You pushed yourself to your feet.
It was slow, he shifts forward pulled at your lower back, and the familiar ache settled across your hips as you straightened. Still, you rose, because you refused to sit there and let him speak to you like that, you were his wife. You had given him more of yourself than he could possibly understand, and you would not simply absorb his anger because he happened to be carrying too much of his own.
“Aerion.”
You reached for his arm, slowly.
He jerked away, a reflex, already drowning in his own thoughts and he couldn't bear being touched in that moment. He moved his arm and by mistake, a miscalculation, his hand pushed you away.
It didn’t require much force and balance failed you. Your foot slipped on the damp stone. You felt the world tilt, the floor disappearing beneath you. You fell, hard enough on your side to drive the breath from your lungs, enough to send a sharp, frightened sound from your throat before you could stop it, enough to leave you sprawled on the stone floor, one hand pressing flat against stone while the other flew immediately to your stomach.
Then you felt it, the warmth between your thighs, a sudden rush between your thighs, your heart stopped and you lowly looked down, realization hitting you all at once.
You raised your head and Aerion was already staring at you.
He had seen your face, the wide-eyed terror that you could not control, the way your other hand pressed against your belly with a groan that wasn't only pain. You watched the comprehension move through his face. Watched the anger disappear so completely it was as though it had never existed, replaced by something you had never seen on him in all the time you had known him.
Pure horror.
He dropped to his knees beside you so quickly the movement was almost clumsy. His hands hovered helplessly over you, unable to decide where to touch, terrified of making anything worse. His voice when he found it had nothing of the earlier cruelty left in it, was cracked and desperate.
He said your name, coming out in pieces. He said it again, louder, and again.
You felt the world go grey at the edges.
“No.” His voice broke. “No. No, stay with me-.”
He slipped one arm under your shoulders, the other against your back, taking you to the bed with tenderness. He was shaking, you could feel it in his hands, a fine tremor running through the same hands that had wielded swords, reduced to shaking by this one thing, this one moment, this thing he had done without meaning to.
“Guards!”
The shout cracked through the room and through the door and into the corridor beyond, not a command but a plea. The door burst open, weapons were half-drawn before the guards understood what they were seeing. He didn’t even look at them.
“Get the maester.” His voice had gone frighteningly quiet. “Now.”
The room exploded into motion. Voices, footsteps, the fire being stoked higher so that the room blazed with sudden light, linens appearing from somewhere, the sound of running in the corridor beyond. Aerion's hand found yours, cold fingers intertwined with colder ones, he held on tightly and his other hand settled over the curve of your belly. Then he leaned forward until his forehead rested against your temple, words coming out in a whisper, just for you.
“I'm sorry.” His voice fractured on the word. “I'm so sorry.” He said it again, and again. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.” The same desperate prayer, each syllable trembling and broken.
You came back to yourself in fragments. A contraction rolled through you with terrifying force, dragging you upward from darkness and slamming you back into your body. Your breath came back first, sharp and gasping, and then your eyes, unfocused on the ceiling and the blazing light above you, then the awareness of where you were, what was happening, the sound of the maester's voice somewhere at the edge of your hearing giving orders.
And through all of it Aerion's hand, still holding yours, your fingers tightened around his.
Another contraction hit, harder than the first, and your back arched and your fingers dug into his hand with a force you had not known you possessed, and a moan escaped that you couldn't contain. You heard the maester's voice cutting through the chaos, clear and firm.
Aerion caught your hand to his lips, a kiss against your knuckles, soft, and then another on the back of your palm, his breath warm and unsteady there, lingering like a prayer he hadn't finished saying, his forehead dipped toward your hand.
“It's okay,” you whispered.
His head lifted immediately, and his eyes found yours, the disbelief in his face almost hurt to see. You were pale and soaked in sweat, in more pain than you had known existed before tonight, and somehow you were the one comforting him.
“It's not your fault,” The words wavered but held.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “It is,” he said, barely above a breath.
“We can argue about that later.” A weak smile touched your lips. “After.”
Something moved through his expression, something he could not contain and did not try to, for once. He turned his face away for a moment and pressed your hand against his cheek, and you felt him breathe, just breathe, the shaking in his hands had not entirely stopped.
“Push, my lady.” The maester's voice cut through everything. “Now.”
You obeyed.
The sound that came out of you was nothing you recognized as your own voice. It came from somewhere animal and desperate, and your body tensed into it like a bow being drawn past its limits, Aerion stayed beside you, steady as stone, allowing you to crush his hand if you needed to.
“Again! Push!”
You screamed and you pushed harder than the first time.
And then, a cry, small, thin, breaking through the storm and the pain and the chaos of the room like a needle through cloth.
The maester lifted the child, small and red-faced and furious, wailing his outrage at existence. Through your exhaustion you caught sight of silver hair gleaming in the candlelight, that was entirely, unmistakably Aerion’s.
Then the maester's expression changed, only slightly.
“Another.” The room froze. “A second babe my lord, and tangled.”
Aerion's hand went cold around yours; you looked at him, is attention snapped toward the master then toward you. The contractions returning, faster now, harder, your body pressing on before you had been given a moment to simply breathe.
“I can't,” you cried, you had given everything you had, there was nothing left in you to give. “I can't do it-.”
“You can.” The maester's voice, firm but not unkind. He wouldn’t dare to do so in the presence of the brightflame prince.
Aerion bent close, his mouth brushed your ear.
“You can do this.” His voice was rough at the edges, still cracking. “My princess. You are the strongest person in this room. You are the strongest person I have ever met-.” His hand tightened around yours. “You can do this. Do you hear me? You can.”
Somewhere inside yourself, you found one final reserve you didn't know where it had been hiding, didn't know how it still existed.
You pushed, your back lifted from the bed, and Aerion's arm went behind you, an anchor, solid and unwavering, bracing you against the force of yourself.
And then silence, the maester working with swift, silent efficiency, and the room holding its breath around him, and no sound from where the second child should have been. No cry came, no sound. The maester's hands moved, one firm touch, once, twice. He leaned down and breathed into its tiny lungs.
Then, a faint hiccup, so small you almost imagined it. One more breath from the master, one more firm touch against it, and then a cry.
Thin and wavering and furious and entirely, completely, overwhelmingly alive. Your eyes filled instantly, tears spilled before you could stop them. Aerion exhaled hard, pressing a hand over his eyes, a single, private instant, and then it dropped. He looked at the two small faces being cleaned and wrapped in the firelight.
The midwife placed one child carefully in his arms and he looked down. Small, red-faced, silver-haired, tiny fists already protesting the world with remarkable determination. And suddenly every wall he had ever built disappeared, there was nothing left of the prince, there was only a father holding his son.
He leaned toward you, slowly, the child cradled against his chest, and pressed his lips to your forehead, careful and gentle, filled with something too large for words.
You looked at the child in your own arms, your bundle of small, perfect outrage, and felt the child in his being shifted gently closer, until two very small faces were inches apart. Both silver-haired, both absolutely, terrifyingly, entirely real.
“Twins,” you whispered, your voice came out hoarse and ruined but you did not care at all.
Aerion looked at you, his eyes still glassy. “Twins," he said.
“They're perfect,” you said.
He looked down at the small face in his arms.
Then, quietly. “Yes,” he said. “They are.” His thumb brushed the baby's cheek.
Neither of you spoke for a while, your head rested against his shoulder, his arm lay around you. The child in your arms had finally settled, his tiny face relaxed into a peaceful expression, you brushed your thumb over his cheek, his skin was impossibly soft, untouched by wind or sun or the roughness of the world.
You could have stayed like that forever.
“How are we going to call them?” you asked, your voice came out softer than intended, almost swallowed by the crackling fire. The question felt delicate somehow, as though speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile thing had settled over the room.
Aerion was quiet for a moment.
“I have been thinking about it for some time,” he said at last. “I was hoping for your approval.”
You lifted your head enough to look at him and his eyes were on the child in his arms, the first-born.
“Tell me.” you said.
He was quiet for another moment.
“Baelor,” he said. “And Maekar.” He was still watching the child in his arms, and the line of his mouth lifted, too sad to be a full smile. “It is my own immaturity that killed my uncle,” he said with and even voice. “Not my father. It was only my fault.”
He turned slightly, and something in his face stopped the protest before it reached your lips.
“I do not need reassurance,” he said. “Nothing is going to change my mind about that.”
You closed your mouth and he looked back at the child.
“But I thought…” His fingers adjusted the blanket around the baby with surprising care. “Perhaps I could give them another chance. In this new life.” He paused. “To be brothers again.”
The tears came before you could stop them and he turned to look at you then. Whatever reaction he had expected, it clearly was not this, his hand rose, he brushed a tear from your cheek with his thumb, slow and careful.
“Why are you crying, my love?” he asked with genuine confusion.
“Because what you're doing is utterly sweet, Aerion.” Your voice trembled despite yourself. “I'm proud of you.”
For a moment he simply looked at you.
“And of course you have my approval,” you added.
A quiet breath escaped him, a soft laugh, it lingered somewhere close to happiness in his chest. He looked down at the child in his arms, Baelor II. Aerion lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the child's forehead, the touch so light it barely disturbed him.
The child in your own arms stirred, a small, restless shifting, one tiny fist uncurling and recurling against your nightgown, Maekar II. The one who had frightened everyone, the one who had arrived second and nearly not at all, and who seemed, in the brief time you had known him, to have inherited his father's particular talent for making an entrance.
A second chance to be brothers again, in a new life.
the absolute dilemma of wanting to watch the backrooms but also being genuinely terrified of horror/thriller movies. i have never watched scary movies in cinemas bcs i’m a wimp..
the time has come for your prickly prince to prepare for fatherhood! what awaits you as the days tick down to the arrival of your first child?
genre/warnings:
suggestive, fluff, pregnancy, protective!aerion who will burn the masses if they ever do you wrong, quarrels here and there, lots of kissing too bc he is ravenous, attempt at poisoning, hurt/comfort, childbirth, overall very self-indulgent, lannister!reader
notes:
another part of the dragon and the lioness series. fluff, protective aerion and uhhh a sprinkle of drama? yeah that's the plot <3
“Every part of you… is mine to taste, wife...”
Once, the very idea of being the Bright Prince’s wife was unfathomable to you. But now...
You had grown to savor the way Aerion kissed you with shameless greed, and most of all, the rare moments when his sharp features softened for you alone while he held you against him. Even his temperament, dramatics, and the irritated arch of his violet eyes whenever something displeased him had somehow become… lovable in your eyes.
Gods, when had that happened?
When had Aerion Brightflame ceased to be your insufferable husband and become the man whose embrace you sought without thinking?
“Mmh…” You blamed the babe growing within you. Surely that had to be the reason, you thought, as you kissed him back with equal fervor, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt while his arms lowered you to your marital bed.
“Heh,” Aerion chuckled under his breath, watching your screwed-shut eyes as you chased his lips, incredibly wanton to him.
Strange, wasn’t it? The way life could twist bitter enemies into lovers before either of them even realized it themselves.
Your breath hitched as his hands slid beneath your knees, spreading your legs apart. He broke the kiss then, drinking in the sight of you— and you became self-conscious, only then realizing that he had made a quick work of your dress and you had been left in nothing but your lace undergarments.
“Y-You can’t...” You pressed your lips together, instinctively touching the swell of your belly. “That won’t… be good for the babe.”
Aerion’s lips curved with visible amusement.
“Oh?” he drawled, violet eyes glinting as they swept slowly over you. “Then why, pray tell, are you dressed like this, sweet wife?”
He was right, this was your own doing. Why would you have chosen such a racy, provokating thing to wear tonight?
Perhaps because—even if you wouldn’t admit it—a part of you had already suspected the evening would end with his hands on you and that dangerously pleased look in his eyes.
“A lesser man might say you want to tempt him,” Aerion mused, tracing a slow finger along your cheek, his smile still unbearably wicked.
“So you are not tempted?” you questioned boldly, meeting his gaze, despite the furious heat blooming across your face.
“No.” He shook his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed yours, his voice smug and smooth as velvet. “I am, after all, a man blessed with extraordinary restraint.”
He said that, yet the way his sharp violet eyes focusing on your lips and the way his fingers drifted between your legs said otherwise.
Really, what man could resist the sight of his wife beneath him— soft, flushed, thoroughly marked as his with a babe in her belly while pretending innocence with those wide, coy eyes?
Your husband decided you were playing with fire, so you would get burned. Aerion suddenly slipped two fingers inside your underwear, before pushing one into your folds that made you wide-eyed and suck in a sharp breath—
“You just boasted about restraint!”
“And I possess it. I’m just choosing not to neglect my good wife,” he countered, his cruel grin returning as he inserted another finger, making you gasp in process.
Perfect. You were unraveling by the second, and he had barely even begun.
“There are, after all, many ways to pleasure an expecting wife like you... without compromising the babe.”
Such was your marital life now— with your prince bringing you pleasure nights after nights with the same greedy devotion he seemed to reserve only for you.
And somehow, this was merely the beginning of your happily ever after.
Ever since the word got out that you were with child, Aerion had become more protective of you.
Suddenly, servants were reprimanded for allowing sharp objects near your chambers, guards trailed several paces behind you whenever you wandered the gardens alone and healthy meals appeared at exact hours, prepared according to whichever elderly midwife had most recently filled Aerion’s head with warnings.
And once again, you noticed it most that afternoon when you merely tried to descend the stairs.
Your husband had been halfway through a conversation with his steward when he abruptly stopped speaking altogether, violet eyes narrowing upon you as you placed a hand against the railing.
“…What are you doing?”
You turned to him, blinking innocently. “Walking.”
Not that he would admit it or realize it himself though.
The steward wisely lowered his head, pretending sudden fascination with the floor tiles as Aerion strode towards you with an irritated frown.
“You nearly slipped yesterday,” he hissed, sliding an arm around your waist as he carefully guided you down the stairs.
You rolled your eyes, remembering how you stepped on a parchment the night before. “It was a harmless accident— and for the last time, no, I wasn’t slipping!”
Truthfully, beneath your outward annoyance, deep inside, you were sort of delighted. Because truly, who would have imagined that the arrogant dragon prince would express concern in ways that were somehow endearing?
Or more like, inconveniently endearing.
“Huzzah,” you declared with the flattest tone the moment your feet reached the bottom step, folding your arms dramatically as you turned to him. “I have survived the dreadful staircase, lord husband. Thanks to you.”
Aerion leveled you with a scathing look.
. . .
Soon, it was evident before the rest of Summerhall too.
You lifted your chin, eyes flashing with righteous indignation. “You dismissed a maid yesterday because she served me tea that was slightly too hot. Aerion, this has become ridiculous!”
The Bright Prince, however, remained unmoved, believing his actions were perfectly sensible. “She had one job yet failed to perform it properly. It could have scalded you.”
“You also confiscated my riding boots!”
“You are not riding, wife—”
Behind the half-open door of the solar across the hall, two spectators to your marital quarrel were your husband’s brothers. Daeron raised an eyebrow while young Aegon looked moments away from bursting into hysterical laughter.
“You are enjoying this far too much, Egg,” Daeron muttered dryly.
“Can you blame me?” he whispered back. “This is Aerion we are talking about. Aerion!” He gestured dramatically towards the door with both hands. “The same brother who once claimed affection was ‘a weakness designed by the gods to humiliate men’!”
Well, neither Daeron nor Egg had ever imagined they would witness their notorious middle brother reduced to hovering over his wife. This was indeed a sight.
“I have ridden since childhood!”
“And now you are carrying my child, woman—”
Daeron gave up at last, a chuckle escaping him too. “I never thought I would live long enough to see Aerion become a mother hen.”
“A dragon hen,” Egg corrected conspiratorially, as he strained his ears, thoroughly enjoying your marital dispute.
Another moon passed by, and the maester advised you to get more rest from now on as later moons will prove far more taxing on your body.
However, a royal summons arrived from King’s Landing not long after. The King himself intended to host a grand celebration tourney in honor of the birth of your first child—and both you and your husband were commanded to remain at court for the remainder of your confinement.
You were leaving Summerhall behind, but that was the least of your concerns.
Aerion would be entering the lists.
You had known he would before he even said it aloud. Aerion Brightflame would sooner stop breathing than ignore an opportunity to prove himself before the realm. Under ordinary circumstances, you would proudly bestow your favor upon him and watch him ride with your head held high, but—
Your labor pains could begin while he was in the field. He would be absent from the birthing chambers. Worse, he could get injured—
The thought should not have affected you as much as it did. Men rode in tourneys, princes fought for glory, and discomfort in childbed is how women served the realm.
And there was also another matter that occupied your mind—
“The shape sits high,” the midwife in King’s Landing had declared while measuring your belly, now heavier and more pronounced than ever in your seventh moon. “And my lady craves salted meats more than sweets. It should be a boy.”
Everyone seemed most pleased by the possibility. Aerion himself made it clear he favored a son. You, however, found yourself uncertain what to feel.
. . .
“Where is my lady wife?”
Contrary to what most might have assumed, Aerion was not particularly pleased to be back in King’s Landing.
The long journey from Summerhall had exhausted you so thoroughly that you had scarcely risen from bed for several days. Sure, the grand tourney stirred his excitement— his grandsire honoring the birth of his firstborn with such spectacle was a distinction not even his cousin Valarr had received.
But King’s Landing was still where rumors of another Blackfyre uprising drifted through like smoke, and with your confinement only weeks away, Aerion found himself increasingly ill at ease. These days, peace only came when you were somewhere within his sight.
“The Lady Lannister is bathing in the royal spring, my prince.”
The spring behind Aegon’s High Hill had long since become property of the royal family, secluded from common visitors and hidden behind walls of stone and tangled greenery. It was meant to be a place of relaxation— but still not somewhere his heavily pregnant wife should be wandering unattended.
His irritation simmered all the way through the winding path. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees overhead as Aerion pushed past hanging branches with impatient steps. He had half a mind to rebuke you the moment he arrived—
But every thought dissolved into dust the instant he saw you.
You stood waist-deep within the pristine spring waters, your body half-submerged in the cool waters. A white shift covered your breasts, but the generous swell of your stomach was exposed under the sunlight. Layers of skirts floated around you like scattered clouds, preserving your modesty while doing very little to dull the breathtaking sight before him.
The sight of you beneath the open sky, drenched in sunlight and water was ethereal. He was rooted near the edge of the spring, spellbound.
At nights, he had worshipped that divine body of yours with greedy hands and wandering lips, had learned every sigh you tried to hide, had savored the softness of your thighs, and the sleepy way you clung to him.
But, in the light of day, the temptation of you felt almost cruel.
His gaze lowered shamelessly over the curve of your figure, lingering upon your barely concealed breasts first, before trailing lower. Pride unfurled hotly in his chest at the sight of your rounded belly, heavy and almost ripe. You carried his blood there.
Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose, though it did little to calm the sudden heat crawling beneath his skin.
You noticed him then.
Your eyes lifted towards to him, and the moment your face softened at the sight of him, whatever remained of his irritation died completely.
“Well?” you asked with a coy smile, tilting your head slightly. “Are you merely going to stare, husband… or are you going to join me?”
Like some bewitched mortal lured by a river nymph from old Valyrian tales, the Bright Prince descended the stone steps without hesitation. His boots scraped against damp stone as he shrugged off his doublet with careless impatience, dark eyes never once leaving you.
By the time he stepped into the spring, he was clad only in his dress shirt and breeches, the cool water curling around him as he crossed towards you and drew you effortlessly into his embrace from behind.
“Standing there as though the Maiden herself rose from the spring,” Aerion murmured against your ear, lips brushing the damp skin beneath it. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Did you intend to torment me in broad daylight?”
“I needed time to think,” you countered softly, though your breath caught when his wandering hands settled upon your chest beneath the wet fabric.
“To think? About what?”
You bit your lower lip as the waters lapped gently around the two of you. The way your face now marred with a frown made him click his tongue.
“Speak, wife. I dislike that look upon your face.”
“You are going to join the tourney,” you admitted at last, turning to face him. “While I may very well be laboring alone.”
“I shall return victorious,” he vowed, his violet irises blazing with conviction. “I shall place every honor I win before you and our child, just as it should be.”
Yet he could feel how you were unsatisfied with his answer. Aerion sighed quietly before lowering his mouth to your shoulder, brushing a kiss against your damp skin.
“You fret too much. The midwives will attend you day and night. You have nothing to fear— I will make certain of it.”
You pursed your lips, feeling foolish for being sullen knowing his presence would be demanded in the field regardless, but you just couldn’t help it.
Aerion fell silent for a moment, his hold around you tightening almost instinctively beneath the water.
“Look at me,” he commanded suddenly, and you did reluctantly, your lips still puckered in dissatisfaction.
Gods, how sweet could you be?
“Stop filling your little head with nonsense. I will return to you unscathed. Your task is to rest, eat whatever strange cravings seize you, and carry my child safely.”
His thumb traced the line of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t stray from his gaze.
“Aerion—”
“I’m not finished.” His tone sharpened, though the hand cradling your face remained gentle. “I have ridden in tourneys since I was barely tall enough to hold a lance. I have been thrown from horses, split open, battered, and yet I remain standing before you now. And you think some hedge knight or a lordling’s second son could best me?”
A ghost of arrogance curved his lips. “I think not.”
His violet eyes swept over your face then. Gods, you looked painfully sweet like this— so soft with vulnerability.
“You carry blood of the dragon,” he murmured, his palm spreading over the curve of your belly beneath the water. “Do not insult either of us by imagining I would fail to return to you. And if your labor does begin while I am away...”
The thought seemed to sour his expression. “Then you will endure it exactly as I know you will. Know this, I will return to your side the moment I am able.”
You frowned faintly. “That is hardly comforting.”
Aerion snorted, his lips curling into a smirk. “You married the wrong man if you expected sweet comforts from me, wife.”
You let out a soft scoff despite yourself, some of your spirits finally lifting seeing his infuriating confidence.
“There,” he murmured smugly, poking your cheek when you broke into a little smile. “Are you done sulking now?”
“Perhaps not for long,” you countered lightly, throwing him a look. “If my husband fails to comfort me properly, perhaps I ought to find another man willing to do so.”
Aerion’s expression hardened at once, violet eyes narrowing as his grip around your waist tightened beneath the water.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would.”
A dark look crossed his face, then—
He devoured your lips, one powerful arm locked securely around your waist while his other hand tangled in your hair, cradling the back of your head. The cool spring water rippled sharply around you as he deepened the kiss with blatant possessiveness, as though determined to remind you exactly who you belonged to.
When he broke the kiss, you breathlessly clutched his body for support. Breathing heavily against your lips, his voice dropped to a fiercely low growl—
“I wouldn’t let another man touch you while I still draw breath... oh sweet wife of mine.”
“My lady, I trust you are well?”
House Targaryen hosted a grand luncheon several days later within the halls of the Red Keep, gathering notable lords and ladies from across the realm.
You had been navigating the crowd with practiced grace when a warm, familiar voice cut through the ambient noise. Turning, you found yourself facing your cousin-by-law, the Prince Valarr Targaryen.
“Your Grace,” you greeted with a bright smile and slight curtsy. “Yes, I have been well.”
The Young Prince had arrived from Dragonstone with his wife. From where you were, you could see the princess consort mingling with other guests with radiant smile and perfect decorum.
She truly is beautiful, you often thought to yourself. Delicate features, graceful bearings, eyes that seemed almost luminous beneath the candlelight— it was easy to understand why bards wrote songs about her beauty.
Valarr’s gaze dipped towards the unmistakable swell of your stomach, far too prominent now to be concealed beneath your dress.
“Good to see you, really. How far along are you now?”
A wistful smile came to your lips. “Near enough that everyone has begun hovering over me as though I might break apart at any moment.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him. “Still, you are in your most delicate state now. I imagine my cousin can’t stay still as well.”
“Well, one can hardly blame the prince!”
You were still smiling when another voice suddenly joined the conversation. You turned to find Lord Manderly, stout and red-faced from the midday wine, waddled over with an easy grin, goblet in hand.
“With a wife as lovely as you, oh lady—” he slurred, “I imagine Prince Aerion guards you like a dragon atop treasure!”
“You flatter me, my lord,” you answered politely.
Lord Manderly waved a dismissive hand, laughing boisterously. “Not at all, not at all! Though I confess, recalling how the Prince Aerion making quite the spectacle of himself—” he turned to Valarr, “with you, my prince, years ago...”
Ah, that story you once heard in a passing too. The tourney in King’s Landing, in which Valarr and Aerion fought each other in a contest of arms, supposedly, over pride.
Valarr’s expression shifted almost immediately. “My lord—”
But Lord Manderly, either oblivious or too deep in wine to notice, continued on cheerfully enough—
“For a long time, everyone was talking about how the Bright Prince was quite captivated by Her Grace’s beauty! Enough to demand her favor and fight her husband!”
You blinked, realization settled over you with sudden, uncomfortable clarity.
“My lord, if I may.” Valarr cleared his throat, a restrained but cross look on his face. “Words are wind. A tourney floor is full of grand gestures and exaggerated flattery. I assure you, everyone would do well not to concern themselves with such baseless rumors.”
Lord Manderly’s red face drained of color all of a sudden as the weight of his social blunder finally registered.
“Oh Seven— forgive me, my lady!” he said quickly, turning towards you with genuine embarrassment. “A foolish old man’s rambling, is all! My deepest, most sincere apologies— I meant absolutely no disrespect to you, nor to Prince Aerion!”
“Think nothing of it, Lord Manderly,” you replied smoothly, your voice a perfectly crafted mask of composure. “The wine is indeed potent today.”
Relieved to be dismissed, Manderly excused himself with hasty bows, and Valarr quickly steered the conversation back to safer waters before he also excused himself from you.
You appeared to be smiling, but deep inside, you were perturbed.
Your eyes involuntarily scanned the crowded solarium, searching through the sea of silks and velvet until they landed on your husband standing amongst a cluster of knights and courtiers.
And right in that moment, you caught how his gaze followed not you, but the princess consort at the far corner of the hall.
Something inside your chest curled unpleasantly, but you decided not to dwell in it. Whatever might have existed between them once, they meant nothing now, you assured yourself.
So, to distract your wandering thoughts, you reached for the tea the server had offered to you, thinking to calm your nerves—
Until the citrus scent suddenly turned rancid in your senses, so putrid it made your stomach lurch violently that you spit it out and let go of the porcelain cup.
. . .
When a loud crash rang through the solarium, Aerion’s attention snapped instantly toward the disturbance.
And much to his surprise— in the middle of it stood you.
Standing amidst shattered porcelain, you had one hand covered your mouth while the other clutched at your abdomen, your face drained of all color as though you might collapse where you stood.
He immediately dashed towards where you were, nearly sending one poor lord stumbling aside in his haste. The crowd parted instinctively for him as he crossed the hall at frightening speed.
By the time he reached you, his hands were already on you.
“What happened?” he demanded immediately, gripping your arms as his eyes swept frantically over your form.
You swallowed hard against another wave of nausea. “T-The tea…”
“What?”
You shook your head weakly, leaning into him. “It tastes so foul—”
His gaze snapped toward the shattered mess beside your feet. Without hesitation, Aerion crouched and snatched up what remained of the broken cup from the floor. The pungent scent hit almost immediately, and his expression darkened in realization.
Moon tea. He recognized it instantly—it had once been his most reliable safeguard during his years frequenting whorehouse before he wed you. He had forced it into those unkempt women after he was finished with them.
However, even a single sip could have made you miscarry. Someone has intended exactly that.
Aerion surged back to his feet at once, turning towards you so quickly with wild eyes.
“Did you drink any of it?” he demanded harshly. “Did you?”
You shook your head immediately. “No—”
Relief struck him so violently it almost looked painful.
Aerion closed his eyes briefly before gripping the back of your head, pulling you to his embrace. You breathed in his scent, your nausea receded somewhat.
Around the two of you, the solarium had begun to descend into chaos. Voices overlapped in alarm while guards moved swiftly through the hall. Servants looked petrified, several nobles already retreating from the tables entirely as whispers of poison spread like wildfire.
Moon tea. At a royal luncheon. You. When Aerion lifted his head again, the relief in his expression had vanished entirely, and in its place was pure fury.
“Seal the hall,” Aerion ordered sharply, but at first, no one moved quickly enough for his liking. “I said seal the fucking hall!” he roared, his voice cracking through the hall.
Kingsguard immediately surged into motion. Doors slammed shut. Panic rippled through the gathered guests as guards began seizing servants and blocking every exit from the hall.
“No one leaves this place,” Aerion continued, drawing you protectively against his side while his vengeful gaze remained fixed upon the crowd.
“I want every servant, cook, and miserable soul here questioned. One step forward— and I will have your head severed and hung to rot in Flea Bottom for all to see.”
You could feel the hammering of his heart in your ears. His expression still murderous, it was only when he looked back down at you did some fragment of restraint finally return to his face.
“You are certain you swallowed none of it?” he asked again, quieter and softer this time.
You looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy. “I am certain.”
Aerion searched your face carefully, as though trying to convince himself you truly stood unharmed before him.
And in that moment, you found yourself clinging to him instinctively—your steadfast protector amidst the chaos.
The entire castle remained in uproar long after you had been escorted back to your chambers. The server who had handed you that accursed tea was apprehended with ease, and Aerion had gone personally to beat the fear of the gods into him in the dungeons.
Yet another Blackfyre loyalist hidden amongst the castle’s walls like a serpent. No one told you exactly what became of him, but when your prince returned not long after, there had been blood across the cuffs of his tunic that certainly had not belonged to him.
By then, relief and exhaustion had finally overtaken you, dragging you into a light and restless sleep. You awoke sometime later in his arms, to the soft crackling of the fire.
His deep violet eyes were fixed on you, dark shadows under them as if he hadn’t been resting at all.
“You’re not sleeping...?”
“Was about to.”
Though he tried to conceal it, exhaustion lingered plainly across his face. It was rare to see Aerion so bare and vulnerable like this.
The memory came rushing back all at once then. The putrid stench, the panic in the hall, the horrifying realization that someone had wanted you and your child dead before they had even drawn breath—
A tremor ran through you before you could suppress it and your husband engulfed you in his embrace, holding you tightly.
“Cease this at once, wife,” he whispered in your ear, sounding almost irritated despite his obvious and clumsy attempt at comfort. “So long as I draw breath, no one will harm you.”
Your eyes burned. “What did you do to him?”
“What? You expected mercy from me tonight?”
“No.” You shook your head against his chest, your voice small and bitter. “Make him suffer first, and only then do you give him a painful death.”
That actually managed to pull a dark smile from him. “No,” he murmured, his chest rumbling against you. “I will make him rot first. Death is a mercy he has to earn.”
A faint smile tugged at your lips when you pulled away from his hold, though worry still lingered beneath your ribs.
“There.” Aerion brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his violet eyes warmer than you had ever seen before. “Better already.”
How both of you reached this point astonished even you. The mad boy who had terrorized your childhood, your enemy who had become your destined husband— Aerion Brightflame was your greatest bane of existence too.
Yet here you were, trusting him more than anyone else alive in Westeros. You knew his cruelty, but you also knew his loyalty—and you knew, just as surely as he would make anyone who ever came close to harm you rue the day they ever did, he would guard you like a dragon atop treasure.
And because of that, the doubt in your voice was softer than it might have once been when you finally asked:
“…What if the babe is a girl?”
Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately, as though the question itself puzzled him.
“A princess,” you explained, fingers drifting protectively over your stomach. “You value a son and heir above all else. But who could have known the will of the gods?”
Aerion stared at you for a long, unreadable moment, as though carefully weighing your words before at last letting out a scoff.
“Mark my words now, wife, for I will not repeat them. I require that this child, boy or girl, survives.”
You blinked, caught off guard by his words. However, his expression hardened slightly afterwards.
“And the same goes for you. If you don’t, I will never, ever forgive you.”
In that moment, you thought you would willingly give everything of yourself to place this child safely into his arms. You would give him a son too, gods willing.
You reached for your husband then, pulling him down into the purest and sweetest of a kiss.
“Be welcome, noble knights and lords of the realm!”
Commoners and nobles alike buzzed with excitement for the grand tourney, their cheers echoing throughout the stands. High up on the royal dais, King Daeron stood, his voice amplified by the roaring acoustics of the arena as he opened the games with salutations.
“...and this glorious day has been made all the more blessed by joyful news,” the good king proclaimed proudly. “My beloved granddaughter has begun her labors! May the Seven grant fortune to every combatant this day!”
Down on the field, however, the King’s words brought no celebration to the man affected most.
Aerion sat atop his warhorse, motionless. Beneath his dark armor, his chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. While other knights waved jovially at the crowd, his gaze was locked entirely on the opposing end of the lists.
Your pains had started since last night. Through the early hours of midnight, you had endured them in silence, determined to hold yourself together a little longer, yet occasionally curling into him for comfort. By dawn, however, you were in tears, and every hour after that became a new torment for you.
But when it came time to see him off this morning, you had refused to look weak. Sweat clung to your face, and your eyes were glistening, but a fierce light burned right through them. Gripping his armor, you had hissed a command through gritted teeth:
“Win that fucking tourney, and only then are you allowed come back to me, husband.”
“Son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall—”
A violent, dark impatience overtook him.
“Grandson to King Daeron the Good—”
If he had to tear through every knight in the Seven Kingdoms to get back to your side, he would do it. And he would do it quickly.
“Prince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen—”
Lowering his visor with a sharp, echoing snap, Aerion gripped his lance. He would come back as a victor, exalted and feared, and you would give him his child.
Your child too. He knew already they would be sweet, just like you.
“—will choose his first opponent!”
. . .
The air inside your birthing chambers was thick by midday, smelling heavily of copper, sweat, and the sharp scent of crushed lavender oil the maids used to soothe the air.
But there was no soothing the agony ripping through you.
Another of your heartbreaking wails filled the air when another violent contraction hit, seizing your spine and twisting your abdomen with a malice that stole the breath straight from your lungs.
“Push, my lady! You must push!” the midwife urged, her hands busy prodding you beneath the heavy linens. “The child is close, but you cannot lose your strength now!”
Your body felt broken, torn apart from the inside out. Your eyes were rimmed with tears of pain and pure exhaustion, blurring the stone walls of your chambers into a hazy nightmare.
Your prince was out there tearing through the realm’s finest knights just to earn the right to return to your side. He was conquering the field for you. For this child.
And you would not fail him on your own battlefield.
“Again!” the midwife commanded when that familiar, iron grip curling and seizing your womb once more. “Now, my lady!”
But the next wave was the most terrible pain you had ever experienced, and your voice cracked into raw scream as you pushed with every last shred of strength left within your body.
You could feel the crushing pressure, the burning fire, the blinding and unforgiving sensation of your very body being split apart—
The midwife cried, her voice rising in triumph over the distant rumble of the arena:
“I see the head! One more, my lady! Give me everything you have!”
. . .
“The Prince Aerion wins!”
He had done it. The second he threw the other knight off his horse and he yielded, he had ridden his warhorse, torn his helmet off, and marched towards your chambers like a specter of death.
In his frantic rush to end his final foe, he had made one careless mistake though— leaving his guard down just enough for a lance to slice a deep gash down his forearm, and now crimson blood dripped steadily onto the pristine floors with every step towards your chambers.
He had been told that you had tethered between life and death—shivering before falling unconscious the moment the child was born.
“My prince! You cannot go in there!” a maid cried, stepping in front of the heavy oak doors, her hands raised in horror. “You are covered in filth! The lady must be kept clean, the babe—”
“Get a maester to dress my wound,” he spat viciously, making the poor girl recoil. “Now.”
The maester came soon, scrambling to pour a wine over the wound to cleanse it, hastily wrapping a fresh linen binding over the gash. It was a rushed job, done in mere seconds. The white linen instantly bloomed with a fresh patch of red. His attendant quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face and helped him out of his armor as fast he could.
Aerion shoved them away after they were done, turning back to the heavy doors, but the midwives still stood there, hesitant between duty and fear.
His arm burned, exhaustion and blood loss leaving him half-delirious, and they knew better than to deny him his right. Aerion stormed into the chambers, drawing gasps from the wet nurses and your maids. Instinctively, every gaze in the room flickered toward the small bundle wrapped in linen within the cradle beside the hearth.
They expected him to demand his heir. They expected him to look for the son he had so desperately coveted—
But to their surprise, he didn’t even spare a glance at the cradle. Instead, he crossed the room in a few long strides and went straight to where you lay still.
“Wife,” he breathed hoarsely, reaching for you at once. “I am here.”
You were deathly pale. Your eyes fluttered open weakly, as if you were pulling yourself back from a long, deep sleep.
Then, you looked up and smiled at him— so beautiful and tender it nearly broke him.
He gathered you into his arms, engulfing you in a fierce, crushing hug— pressing a hard kiss to the crown of your head. You let out a watery laugh, clutching at him too.
“It is a son,” you told him with pride. “He looks just like you.”
Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle at that. In truth, the idea of a daughter didn’t seem terrible to him at all right now.
In fact, now that the thought had crossed his mind, he found himself wanting a pretty little girl too... one who had your eyes and your smile.
History would fondly remember the romance between the bitterest enemies who found the truest of love, for the realm had borne witness to that auspicious day—
The dragon prince has won his triumph, and so has his lion princess.
tagging @marianntorres2611 @starkleila @huntmewithdogs @pinkfunland @dauntlesshereticleviathan @laylavynna @dabishou @ireneisbored @menacing-pfeffernusse @xxvelvetxxx @icebearcucumber as per request! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <3
content tags: MDNI! fluff, aerion is a bit of a brat and a bastard, it's okay though cuz he gets hit with the wifeguy genetics from his father, mild foreplay and allusions to sex, implied insecure reader, manipulative reader (margaery core but it's for the good of the realm but she genuinely loves him), doomed brothers angst if you squint, poorly betaread (as always), eng is not my first language so TEACH ME PLEASE IM BEGGING.
author's note: This is part of the WYGDFH series, I wrote some of this in the middle of my final lmfao—anyways, this is my first time writing for aerion I lowk don't like it but I do?? didn't think I'd write THIS MUCH for him compared to his dad, speaking of daddy here's his chapter
From one moment he was unshackled, unburdened from the duties of marriage and a wife, the next he was betrothed to some girl — even worse, betrothed to a girl that had no dragon-blood coursing through her veins.
He was adamant in his plans, fully intended to make your life hell, make you rue your very existence.
He was adamant.
Until he met you.
He expected a stammering little wench, but instead found you.
As if spellstruck, he'd forgotten all the words he rehearsed, all the cruel jokes he meant to play on you, all the names he wanted to whisper in your ear when you danced to watch you try and pretend all was well, instead he whispered sweet words that had you shy.
"A dragon does not bend nor break, so what makes you think I am 'softening'?"
Those were the calculated words he responded with when Daeron questioned his change in plans and demeanor, words that had his eldest brother exhale in muted amusement—as if he knew something Aerion did not.
Well… Daeron never knew shit about anything, so…
What's he to know about strategy?
He was simply building you up so he can break you later — yes, that's why, that's why he spent so much time on figuring out what you liked.
Your favorite color. Your favorite type of jewelry. Your favorite gemstone. Your favorite flower.
Anything you liked.
Those were all easy facts to unearth, all he had to do was bribe your stupid brat of a little brother with a short play-time with his glorious draconic black-steel helmet to find that information out—if he wasn't your little brother he would have had him whipped for even daring to ask, hells, he wouldn't even let him ask for anything in return, but a dragon is merciful as much as he was strong-handed.
He had his armorer deep clean his helmet afterwards from your brother's disgusting sweaty head.
But it was worth it in the end, because you smiled the widest he's seen since he laid eyes on you when he presented the bracelets he had all but threatened the jeweler give priority over his other pieces (not that he'd need to be ordered).
"It matches your eyes, my prince." You smiled softly, holding up your wrist as if to compare him with the amethyst-eyed silver dragon coiling around your wrist.
A very dangerous heat rolled over his body in waves, simmering, his heart gnawed at his ribs, he felt sick, like a fever possessed him, but a dragon doesn't fall ill, it had to have been something else.
You adored him, that much was obvious. His plans were moving along nicely, it wouldn't hurt to have a little bit of fun with you now.
It took little convincing before he had you sitting on his lap, your knees on either side of him, looking up at him so sweetly, like he could never hurt you.
He wanted to ruin you.
Teach you that the word 'fuck' wasn't merely a profanity men threw around. Tear down all the walls your parents put up around you to protect you from this indecency he had you in.
And yet…
And yet… he couldn't find it in himself to do it.
Instead, he was soft.
Soft in the way he taught you how to kiss. Gentle in the way pressed his lips against yours, understanding in the way he let you pull away for air when he didn't want to, patient in the way he let you change the angle of your heads as many times as you wanted.
He let you kiss him until his lips were swollen. Then he let you walk away, not going any farther than that, and kept the promise he planned to break.
It was only one afternoon that he learned the truth behind the phantom fever that came and went. Initially he thought you had a spell placed on him out of spite, and when he told Daeron of his suspicions, he gave him a look.
"Well, how's that going to help her?" Daeron laughed, brow raised. "A fever spell he says… sorcery has fallen on sad days."
Aerion simply rolled his eyes and went off to bed.
You were sat on a blanket beneath a tree when he finally found you—well, finally was a dramatic word, he knew you'd be here—it was only that he hadn't seen you since the night before.
Slowly and boredly, you plucked the petals off the flower in your hand, a growing stacks of petals on one side, each different colors, and on your other side was a stack of stems.
That wasn't what got him though—he knew you liked making coloring paint from flower petals—what got him was the way you lit up when you saw him, he was certain your smile willed the clouds away for the sunlight to shine through.
"Aerion!" You called, excited like seeing him was the best thing that's happened to you, he wanted you to say his name like that forever.
He felt his knees go weak.
Aerion understood what the "fever" truly was now.
That was a lie — the truth of it was known to him for a while, within the deepest crevices of his soul, he just couldn't admit it to himself.
His heart was yours to hold, a vulnerability he's willing to gamble on.
After-all – look at you, and the way you smiled and gazed at him so sweetly like you could do nothing but.
And that was what you've done, and kept doing, through your wedding ceremony, through your marriage, and through… well…
He was certain something was wrong.
You grinned and kissed and touched at him the way you've always done, but there was a certain weariness in it.
A weariness in your tired eyes, the skin beneath your eyes sunken like you've missed sleep.
At first he thought it was his fault for tiring you out every night, driving into you relentlessly and filling you up over and over each night. Eager to see you grow heavy with his child, and claim you in one more way to drive the eyes of these lustful mongrels off you.
Now, that he has gone easy on you, it seemed like the problem lied elsewhere.
Still, you remained tired, and you spent less time near him.
He suspected his seed quickened within your womb, but that was quickly disproved by your moon-blood the day he wished to get you examined by a maester. What a pity.
So what was it?
Did you tire of him?
Surely not.
Aerion would burn Westeros to the ground if that happened, mark his words.
He'd hoped it was mere paranoia, you didn't love him less, you still smiled at him the way he liked, you still slept beside him in his own bed, you never left him.
You would never leave him — never.
But here you were, doing just that.
Aerion woke up to a cold emptiness on your side of the bed and a disturbing lack of the limbs that usually wrapped around him much like a soft warm blanket, a haven from the coldness of night.
Your side of the bed was cold—It was cold.
You've been gone a while.
Where could you be that was so urgent you would disturb your sleep and comfort for it?
What was so important that would have you leave your dragon? your prince? your husband? your Aer?
He paced around the room, restless, plagued by his thoughts, the waning light of the candles shroud his mind in further darkness.
He had half a mind to rouse and gather all the servants to look for you, but what little reason he had – had won out. You will have to come back to bed eventually.
He will wait, yes.
You slowly and carefully opened the door, worried that the rickety hinges would squeak that annoying shrill sound and rouse your husband — unaware that he was already awake and watching you, cross-legged and leaning his elbow on the armchair with his temple rested on his hand, his eyes glinting with barely contained amusement despite his worries, it wasn't his fault you looked so adorable taking off your shoes and sneaking about like some scared little kitten.
"My love!" You nearly died right there from the scare.
"Aerion!" You whined with your hand on your beating heart, glaring at your husband who was all to happy about nearly murdering you. "Why are you out of bed?"
Aerion stood slowly and stalked towards you, one prowling step at a time. "Why am I out of bed? Why are you out of bed, when you've been so, so tired these past weeks?"
He took ahold of your hand, pressing his palm against yours and enlacing his fingers through your own. "What has you so busy that you would leave me in the cold dead of night?"
You gazed deep into his expectant eyes, you didn't want to tell him, not yet, so you took his jaw in your free hand and pressed kisses on the other side of his face, that usually had him wrapped around your fingers, and distracted him from whatever held his ire and wrath at the time.
Aerion was torn between pressing his cheek into your hand or your doting lips—instead he groaned and took your face into his hands and joined his lips with yours in a hard and lustful kiss.
It worked, but only for a second.
He pulled away from you in a sudden and quick movement, tragically… just when you felt the outline of something you've grown intimately familiar with against your abdomen.
"Tell me, don't avoid the question again." He ordered, irate.
"Where were you just now?"
You sighed in defeat, you wanted this to be a surprise.
"I will show you tomorrow." You compromised, pressing kisses again to his face, but Aerion pushes your face away, gently, despite his irritation at your relentless attempts in seducing him, at any other time, he would welcome it with elation, but now was not the time.
"No, show me, now." He commanded.
"As you wish, my Aer." You said with small pout at having your surprise be ruined.
You led him through the darkness. The halls of this side of the castle long abandoned, they weren't unfamiliar to him, he just never had the interest of being here, no longer a curious wide-eyed child but a grown prince with better things to do.
Aerion used to stack the furniture in one of these rooms into some kind of "castle" and force Daeron to play some make-believe game, he was Aegon the Conquerer, Daeron was Balerion the Black Dread, his brother couldn't exactly fly, but they made do—the memory had his lips quiver into a grin at the hilarity of it.
You walked him into a dark room and took the torch from his hand.
"Before I show you this, I want you to know that it's unfinished, I didn't want to show you this until your nameday, oh and it's pretty dark here, so don't give your verdict on it yet." You said, slightly nervous, and he began putting two and two together.
You were working on some kind of painting, for him. Impatient to see it, he wrapped his hand over yours on the torch and raised it to the easel behind you, bringing light to the painting rested on it.
It was a portrait of him and you, a masterpiece if he's ever seen one. The colors were so vibrant even in the dark. His features were so drawn so carefully, so identical to his own—is this why you've been holding him down in bed? Why you've traced every line and outline on his face? Why he's woken up countless times to you straddling him and staring so intensely?
The way you've drawn yourself was far inaccurate compared to his own, it lacked the details he loved about you, you've told him how hard self-portraits were to you, saying how the back and forth between the mirror and yourself was boring and arduous, but he knew the truth.
"Aer?" You called, uncomfortable at the way he was staring at the image of you. He hummed in response, taking the torch from your hand and lit the sconces on the walls, lighting up the room.
Aerion held you close to him, curling himself on you with his cheek pressed to yours, holding your head and turning it to the portrait.
"You have no idea how much you've delighted me with this, my love," he whispered lowly against your ear.
"But…" He said nuzzling his cheek against yours again and staring back at the painting. "It would be made much better if you've drawn yourself the way you deserve to be drawn."
You let him pull you before the tall mirror you've been using to draw yourself.
Aerion presses himself to your behind, and you feel his hardened cock against it. He takes his time in undoing the drawstring of your night clothes while pressing kisses to your shoulder.
You throw your head back with a breathy moan when his hand touches at you where you need him most, his other holding you up against him at the buckling of your legs.
"Eyes forward, my love, we will be here until you memorize every maddening detail of yourself."
SUMMARY: Aerion has the opportunity to return to Lys briefly for a supply run. He has missed you desperately—have you missed him the same? Or are you already halfway gone?
WARNINGS: fem!reader. reader comes from Valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described. Dubcon (reader was drinking, but they’ve fucked drunk before). Brief somno. Blood play. Knife play. Aerion POV — probably the most unhinged we've had so far LOL. switch!reader, switch!aerion (as always). Mentions of underage sex. Mentions/implications of child abuse (reader's childhood). Mentions/implications of grooming (reader's childhood). A bit more of reader’s past is divulged and she is meant to be struggling mentally (especially when she was younger) but was constantly forced into high-functioning behavior and had insane expectations/responsibility so it was never really addressed and she kind of just dismisses it as normal (it is not normal).
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Omg I'm sorry this part took me so long </3 This was supposed to be a brief interlude for before he returns to Lys and it is not brief at all LOLLLLL I really enjoyed writing this part because 1) we get a POV of a new character and get to see more of our girl's past, and 2) Aerion is just so fun for me to write IKHDFAHSUFAUH he is so unhinged and the more he accepts that he loves her, the worse it gets. HAHAHAH Anyway, comments and reblogs always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!
READ: STARFALL
Aerion is going fucking insane.
It has been two months since he left Lys with the Second Sons—two months since he left you—and there is no end in sight. From the little news that he is able to gather from his fellow sellswords, who become increasingly incensed with Aerion’s badgering, the Golden Company has brokered a contract with the magisters until a pirates’ den in the Stepstones is duly dealt with. Thus, they have settled in the city for the time being.
Aeiron thinks that it is fucking ridiculous, and if there is a pirates' den to be dealt with, then the magisters should have just contracted the Second Sons to do so. They have a long-standing relationship with the other mercenary company anyway, and in Aerion’s opinion, it is wildly disrespectful for them to turn so quickly to a rival company, but none of the captains seem to share his sentiment, because he is only met with a dismissive shrug when he raises his complaints.
He is sick of it.
It was entertaining enough at first. The first few weeks, he could almost pretend that he hadn’t fled Lys with his tail between his legs because of the Golden Company. It was familiar, something closer to what he had been raised for—steel in hand, blood slicking his face and soaking the ground beneath him, men screaming and dying around him. There was something intoxicating about the way the company veterans looked at him after, eyes wide and a little afraid.
A dragon among mutts. It should have satisfied him—it almost did, for a time. He loves the violence, loves the reputation he has built, and the whispers that follow him through camp. He fights harder than he needs to, stays longer in the thick of it than is wise, and takes risks that make even the captains side-eye him when they think he isn’t looking. He likes the way it felt—how it drowned everything else out.
There was a clarity in it that he had not felt in a long time. No politics or having to watch his tongue, no pretending to be less than what he is. Just violence, clean and honest, and the undeniable truth that no one could stand before the dragon and live to tell the tale. He carved through men twice his size without a second thought and laughed when anyone had the nerve to ask for mercy.
But the unfortunate thing about battle is that it ends, and when it ends, there is nothing left but the quiet, and the quiet is unbearable, because then all he has are his thoughts, and his thoughts are plagued of you. He lies awake more often than not, staring up at the top of his pavilion—he tries to find whores to occupy his time, but even with someone to warm his bed, it is your name he breathes, your face he sees when his eyes slide shut.
He hates it.
What are you doing? What are you thinking? Are you alone? Are you thinking of him? Do you miss him? Do you remember him? Are you with the Blackfyres? Have you grown fond of them the same way you did him? Are you going to accept their deal? Do you think of him? Do you still love him? Do you—
He rolls onto his side with a sharp exhale, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching in his hair as though he might tear it out just to feel something other than this awful ache in his chest.
He hates it. Hates that there are things happening to you and around you, and he is not there to see, to remind you that he exists. He feels sick every time he remembers the way people spoke about you and him, as though he were just a fleeting distraction that would soon be spent. There is a real chance that you moved on the moment he was out of sight and reach, and Aerion just does not know. Will not know until he returns to Lys and either finds you there waiting for him or long gone.
The whore beside him—he doesn’t know her name because he didn’t bother to ask, and isn’t sure why she had the nerve to stay the night instead of fleeing the moment he was done with her—shifts slightly when he moves, murmuring something soft and drowsy as she presses closer to him.
Aerion goes still. For a fleeting moment, in the dim flicker of lamplight, he almost lets himself pretend. The curve of her shoulder beneath his hand, the warmth of her breath against his chest—he could close his eyes again and pretend that it is you. Pretend that when he turns his head, he will find your gaze waiting for him, glittering and knowing and far too amused for his liking.
He almost does. His eyes slide shut, and then—
Return to me, dragon prince. That is an order.
Aerion lets out a vicious hiss, the illusion shattering so violently that it almost makes him dizzy. He cannot be free of you—he will never be free of you.
What are you doing? Who are you with? Are you thinking of him? Does he haunt you the same way you haunt him?
He shoves himself upright, and the woman beside him jolts at the sudden movement. She reaches for him, confused, but Aerion is already on his feet, pacing the length of the pavilion like a caged animal.
“Get out,” he says coldly, hardly sparing her a second look as his temper wanes.
He tugs at his hair as he shakes his head, barely noticing as the woman scrambles to grab her clothes, fleeing his pavilion before she’s fully dressed. His name on your lips, your breath on his skin, the way your fingers feel tangled in his hair, and the warmth of your body sliding against his. Aerion misses you desperately. He feels fucking insane. What is he supposed to do if you are not there when he returns? What is he supposed to do?
He knows what he is supposed to do. He will hunt you down. He will fucking hunt you down until the end of the world, if he has to, because you have no right to leave when you told him to return to you. If you make him out to be the fool, he will hunt you down, and he will kill you, because he would rather you dead than with anyone else.
Furious with himself, he shoves aside the flap of his pavilion and steps out into the night air, chest heaving. The camp is quieter at this hour, though not silent—there’s always someone awake, always the low murmur of voices, the crackle of fire, the distant clatter of steel being cleaned or sharpened. The smell of sweat and blood and smoke hangs heavy in the air. He used to enjoy it, he thinks bitterly, now he finds himself longing for that sickeningly sweet perfume and thick incense, because he knows it’s where he will find you.
“Couldn’t sleep, prince?”
Aerion’s head snaps toward the voice, irritation already spiking before he even registers who it is. One of the captains—lean, dark-haired, perpetually unimpressed—leans back against a post, arms crossed as he watches him.
Navario, Aerion recalls—a Braavosi who has been with the Second Sons for almost a decade now. He’s never crossed paths with him directly until now.
Aerion’s lip curls up in disgust. “If I wanted commentary, I would have asked for it.”
The man huffs a quiet laugh, unbothered. “You’ve been like this for weeks. Thought maybe you’d finally burned yourself out.”
“I am a dragon. I do not burn out,” Aerion says coolly, the words immediate and instinctive. “I am not one of your half-trained mongrels who needs to be dragged off the field before he keels over.”
“Naturally,” Navario drawls. “You know, I hear our lovely lady exile took a liking to you before we departed Lys. Is it true?”
Aerion physically falters, gaze cutting to the side to focus on him, but before he can respond, he notices movement further down the line of tents. Lanterns bob in the dark, a cluster of men moving with purpose rather than the idle drift of camp settling for the night. Steel glints at their sides and packs are slung over their shoulders—a departure?
“What is that?” he asks, already moving before the man answers. “Where are they going? I was not told there would be any departures tonight.”
“Why exactly would you have been made aware?” Navario drawls, and when Aerion shoots him a vicious look, he shrugs carelessly. “If you’re curious, go ask.”
Aerion shoots him a cold look over his shoulder, half-tempted to remain behind and demand to know who exactly he is and why he refers to you so casually—if he’s familiar with you, if he’s heard from you, because you have not sent him a single raven in the two moons he’s been gone. He tries to tell himself it’s because you cannot be caught in communications with him if someone manages to intercept your raven, but he will be seriously incensed if you’ve been in contact with anyone else.
Curiosity gets the best of him, though, so he doesn’t waste another breath on a retort, boots crushing the packed earth as he cuts through the camp to figure out what’s happening.
There’s a ship moored just beyond the shallows, its dark shape rocking gently against the tide, lanternlight catching along the edges of its hull. A smaller boat sits closer in, men already wading through the surf to load it with supplies.
“You,” he snaps, grabbing the nearest man by the arm before he can step into the water. “Where are you going?”
The sellsword startles, twisting to look at him, clearly not expecting to be manhandled. “The fuck—get off—”
“Answer me,” Aerion cuts in, grip tightening just enough to make the point.
The man scowls, but there’s a flicker of recognition when he takes in Aerion’s face—the reputation that’s followed him these past weeks does half the work for him.
“Supply run,” he mutters. “Couple of us are heading back toward Lys, pick up contracts, see what’s shifted. Now let go.”
Lys. The word hits Aerion like a gut punch. He goes very still, throat bobbing as he realizes what this means. If they’re going back to Lys, then—
“Back to Lys,” he echoes.
“Aye,” the man says, jerking his arm free with a sharp tug. “Won’t be long. Just a day trip there, then back here. Why?”
Aerion smiles thinly. “I will be coming with.”
—then he will get to see you again.
—————————
Jaenys Saenor has been called many things: cruel and whorish, vicious and violent, a pretty little knife with too sharp of an edge for someone to hold without bleeding (he took this last one as a compliment, even though Laena certainly didn’t mean it as one; he likes being called pretty, and anyone who complains about sharp edges is too boring to have a place in his life anyway). Men curse his name in one breath and beg for his attention in the next, because he has always known exactly where to press to make it hurt—and how to make them come back for more anyway.
He has never been called helpless, and he has not felt helpless in almost two decades.
Until now, at least.
It is an unwelcome thing. He leans back against the carved stone of the balcony next to your favorite courtesan, wine in hand, gaze fixed not on the city below, but on you, lounging on red velvet cushions, entertaining whores and Blackfyres with empty eyes and careless laughter that rings hollow compared to the laugh he knows so intimately.
“You are staring,” Caelyx murmurs beside him, amused.
Jaenys takes a sip of his wine, but it is not enough to wash away the bitterness in the back of his throat. He asks dryly, “Am I?”
He is. He knows he is.
You are surrounded, as always. Silk and incense and gold, bodies draped across cushions, voices low and indulgent, wine spilling freely and lips brushing bare skin. One boy is at your feet, half-draped across your lap, and there is a girl at your side, fingers tangled lazily in your hair. Haegon Blackfyre, who took a quick liking to you and you have indulged more than the rest, sits on your left, arm draped along the back of the cushions behind you, mouths meeting in slow, lazy kisses.
Jaenys’s lips curl down before he can stop himself, brows furrowing.
“Indeed. Like you want to kill someone,” Caelyx drawls.
“I do enjoy bloodshed,” Jaenys muses absently, trying to figure out what about this situation bothers him so much. He tosses a wink at Caelyx, but a distracted one, and then he returns to studying you. “And I am quite skilled at causing it.”
It is a familiar sight—you have always surrounded yourself with people, even back in Volantis, so he should not be bothered. If you were not with Viserys, then you were with Jaenys and the others, and if not them, then Aenys (though you liked to pretend your affair with the snake-eyed Elephant cunt was a secret), and if not Aenys, then whores. You were always the center of something—Volantis’s own personal sun, Visedor liked to joke—so he is not bothered because of that.
He is bothered because it is different.
The decadence and excess, that has always been you, but the absence beneath it that leaves a poor taste in his mouth. You have never been so—so dull. Like a shell. You have always been loud and bright, so full of life that people naturally gravitated toward you. You never did anything halfway. When you wanted something, you took it whole, burning through it until there was nothing left to take, and you cast it aside without a second thought.
That’s not to say you were never bored; you were frequently bored, but only because you exhausted things too quickly. This is—it’s different. Because however bored you were back home—however frequent and however terrible—you were always hungry for something new to capture your attention.
Now, you do not seem to hunger for anything at all.
There is an absence of fire in the way you move that unsettles him. You let people touch you, let them kiss you, let them press close like it means something, and you give them just enough to keep them there, but there is no bite to it, no indication that you’re enjoying anything happening around you.
It is wrong. It is so terribly wrong that it makes Jaenys’s stomach twist. You have always wanted. Even your boredom had teeth, restless and searching, always reaching for the next thing to sink into and tear apart. You were never empty like this.
Is this how your exile has been? Is this what those Elephant cunts did to you when they cast you out? Stripped you of the fire and brilliance that made you who you are?
“Is this what she’s been like?” Jaenys forces himself to ask, voice quiet. He’s almost afraid to know the answer, gut twisted, chest aching, because this is not you. Not the you he knows, not the you he loves. Caelyx doesn’t immediately answer him, so Jaenys shoots the boy a cutting look, stomach flipping when he sees the soft frown on his face. “Answer me.”
Caelyx’s gaze flits over to him briefly. “For a while,” he finally says simply. “Until the dragon prince showed up, at least.”
That’s even worse, Jaenys thinks miserably, because that means he cannot blame this on the Elephants for casting you out. That means this is his fault—that you were happy, that you had found something to hold on to in spite of the circumstances, and Jaenys had been the one to rip it away. Jaenys is the reason that you are miserable and drifting, hollow in your laughter and quick to find the bottom of a bottle.
It infuriates him to know he has played such a large role in this, but how the hell was he supposed to know you’d gone and acquired a Targaryen prince for yourself? You’d always mocked the dragons back home—their inheritance disputes, their dead dragons, all of it. You were the last person Jaenys ever expected to fall in love with one of the Andal cunts, so he thought this would be an easy way to bring you home.
And it is love, Jaenys knows that. You have only ever drawn your blade on him for Viserys before, and you did it so unhesitatingly for this western prince that, for a brief second, Jaenys wondered if you would actually kill him. Not only that, you gave the cunt your Valyrian steel, not knowing if you’ll ever see him again—Jaenys begged you to let him borrow it for a few hours for the Syranaelia six years ago, and you threatened to throw him from the top of the Black Walls if he ever asked you such a stupid question again.
It is love, and Jaenys might have destroyed it.
A few years ago, before you were exiled, he would have been smug. He loved watching you spurn people in favor of him, loved it even amongst friends. The others were always fine with sharing each other, and he was too, to an extent, but he could never rid himself of that vicious glee he felt whenever he was the one chosen—that’s why he could understand the Targaryen’s apparent disdain for both Jaenys and your favored courtesan that night before he left Lys.
Now, the thought sits heavy and sour in his stomach, because you are his friend, and you lost everything once already, and now you finally found something to hold onto again, and he took that from you too.
Across the room, you tilt your head back, laughing at something Haegon says. Your gaze flicks in Jaenys’s direction, as though you can sense that he’s talking about you, thinking about you, but it is like watching someone else wear your face, because there is nothing behind your eyes or the faint curve of your lips.
Haegon leans in to brush his lips against yours again, and you hold Jaenys’s gaze for a moment longer before redirecting that vacant attention onto the boy next to you.
His teeth grind together.
Jaenys has known you for a very, very long time. He has known you since you were thrown into the 209th Cohort together at the age of four, and he has loved you just as long, and he has never seen you like this before. Not in all the years he has known you—not in your worst moods, when you were all teeth and temper and violence, spilling blood before asking questions; not even in your worst boredom, when you would float about in the public baths for hours, drunk and fully clothed, wasting away until you could think of something to do.
You have always wanted, he thinks again. You have always burned too brightly for the rest of the world to keep up, and it sickens Jaenys to think that you have finally burned out.
That he is the reason you have finally burned out.
When you were all children, he remembers thinking you were the cruelest creature he had ever met. Cruel and radiant; even when you were young, the adults talked about you like you had been born for greatness, and everyone was waiting for you to grow into yourself. He had thought himself unlucky at the time, being thrown into a cohort with you, Aenar, and Naera—the three of you were everything he was not. Brilliant, brutal, and untouchable in ways that made the rest of the cohort orbit around you like lesser stars. Aenar with his strength, Naera with her skill, and you with your sharp mind and that relentless will that made even the elders hesitate when you set your sights on something.
Jaenys had been smaller then, quiet and easy to overlook when placed beside the three of you. He had almost accepted it—a life at the edges, pretty and pleasant and forgettable. He wasn’t meant for the blood and glory the other Tiger heirs were bound for, as much as he longed for it.
Then you set his world on fire. Literally.
Jaenys’s lips twitch faintly at the memory—the 4th moon’s war game in 193. The stables had gone up in flames before he had even realized what you’d done, the scent of burning hay thick in the air, smoke clogging his lungs and stinging eyes as he stumbled out of the building. You stood outside on the garden wall, arms crossed over your chest, eyes meeting his, and you told him to conquer Aenar’s territory for you or die trying, because he and Naera had teamed together to bring an end to your unending win streak, and you refused to accept defeat.
For one long moment, he was trapped in the blaze of you—it was the first time he ever was, and he knew he never wanted to be anywhere else.
All this to say, Jaenys loves you—he has loved you since the moment you set his territory on fire, maybe even before that, too, like many other hapless fools who fell in love with you from afar. You may have laughed in his face when he told you this, but he still means it all the same, and because he loves you and because he knows you, because he has stood in the blaze of you and felt what it was like when you burn, he knows that this is not right. That there is something seriously, seriously wrong, and he needs to figure out how to fix it. He has seen you furious and bored, bloodied and laughing, ruthless and brilliant and cruel in ways that made men fear you and love you all at once, but never empty. Your fire has never burned out, even when it’s been dampened.
Expect now.
He downs another glass just to rid himself of the bitter taste, tongue darting out to lap at the beads of the sweet cherry wine on his lips as he tries to figure out what the hell he should do.
Naera and Aenar would know, Jaenys thinks pitifully—Aenar is always good at knowing how to fix things, and Naera is always good at getting things done. Jaenys has never pretended to be anything but what he is—cunning where others are strong, ruthless where others hesitate. He is good at strategy and tricks and schemes, and he has a taste for violence and cruelty—he is not a fixer.
But there is no clever angle here, no hidden weakness to exploit, no knife he can slip between the ribs of the problem and twist until it resolves itself. There is no war he can plot that will give you back what he has unwittingly taken from you. This is not a game he can outmaneuver.
His shoulders slump as he sighs, unsure what to do.
“Fuck me,” he sighs, putting his goblet of wine down on a nearby table a tad too harshly. Next to him, Caelyx raises his eyebrows, but Jaenys waves him off and makes his way over to you and Haegon Blackfyre.
He flops down on the cushions on your opposite side, slinking an arm around your shoulder to tug you away from Haegon. You let him move you without resistance, and it makes his stomach flip uncomfortably. Jaenys receives a dirty look from the Blackfyre in response, and he tosses him a wink and a smug smile before leaning in to ghost his lips against yours, waving the boy off with his free hand to silently tell him to leave the two of you be.
You hardly kiss him back—it would fool anyone else, the way you move your lips just enough to feign interest, but not him.
He pulls back to look at you, gaze searching yours, and finds nothing waiting for him—not the sharp amusement he’s used to, not the lazy indulgence he typically finds, not even irritation at being interrupted. Just that same distant stare that has been haunting him for two moons.
Jaenys’s smile falters. “Gods,” he murmurs under his breath, thumb brushing along your arm as though he might coax something out of you by touch alone. “You look positively dreadful.”
You blink at him, slow and unfocused, like it takes a moment for you to place who he is at all, and something ugly twists in his chest at that. Then your lips curl up into a sharp smile, but it still doesn’t reach your eyes.
“Do not be cruel because you’re jealous I’m giving Haegon attention,” you say, head tilting to the side, familiar and playful, but off. Enough to fool anyone else, but not him. You lean in to whisper, “You know you’re my favorite.”
Jaenys lets out a soft huff of laughter at that. “Jealous,” he echoes, voice a low drawl, brows lifting as his thumb presses more firmly beneath your jaw, forcing your gaze to stay on him when it starts to drift. “You wound me. We both know that if I were really jealous, he’d already be bleeding on the carpets. I’m good at sharing—when I need to be, that is.”
Something flickers in your eyes at that—disappointment, maybe? And he understands why instantly, because only ten minutes with that volatile little dragon told Jaenys that the boy would quickly and gladly spill blood if someone so much as looked at you the wrong way in his presence.
Ugh, Jaenys thinks, withering a bit.
The dragon boy is troublesome; Jaenys does not like feeling guilty. It is a foreign feeling—he does not know if he’s ever felt guilty before these last two moons, and he resents it. Jaenys has never been the sort to dwell on the consequences of his actions, not when he’s always been so good at staying one step ahead of them by using his sharp tongue and quick mind to free himself of them, but this lingers in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
He rests his thumb over your bottom lip, pressing down enough to get you to part them slightly for him. You raise your eyebrows at him, and he leans in. He continues quietly, thumb dragging idly along your jaw again, “Is that what you want? Someone to snarl and bare their teeth every time another man breathes too close to you.”
Your gaze is flinty now, jaw tightening beneath his fingers as you try to figure out if he is mocking you. For a second, your fire returns, and Jaenys is almost able to bask in the heat of it again. He exhales through his nose, eyes sliding shut briefly before he leans in close enough to press his lips against your ear, his forehead to your temple, speaking low enough so that Haegon cannot overhear what he’s about to say.
“I will fix this,” he says softly.
When he hears you let out a confused huff, he presses his lips to your temple, because Jaenys has known you since the two of you were children, and he has loved you just as long, but as much as he wants you to come home, he is terrified to bring this version of you home. He left Volantis to fix things—to bring you back where you belong, back to something that looks like before everything went wrong—but not like this.
Jaenys has never been afraid of a problem before—not a person or a war, not even when faced with insurmountable odds and an expectation of failure.
But this—this scares him.
This is something that has already sunk its teeth into you, and he does not know if he, or Aenar, or Naera, or Visedor, or even your brother, will ever be enough to pry it out completely. If he brings you home like this, whatever part of you that is lost and drifting now after losing the dragon boy might be killed off entirely, and he cannot bear a world where you are forever longing for something you can never have. He cannot bear a world where you are not—where you are not you. Where you are not radiant and brilliant, and all teeth and knives and cruelty, a sun that burns too hot and drags everyone in too close, but no one ever cared what it cost them if it meant standing close enough to feel your heat.
Jaenys will fix this, even if it means waiting a little longer to get you home. He might be more prone to violence and cruelty than anything beneficent, but he has always been lucky—he was lucky that it was him you turned to during that war game when you were all children, luckier still when everything just fell into his lap after that. He might not know how to fix it right now, but Jaenys is the smartest person he knows, so he will figure it out when Lady Luck inevitably smiles in his direction again, even if it goes against his very nature.
“Avy jorrāelan,” he murmurs against your temple, just for you to hear. “Iksan vaoreznuni. Īlen mērī sylugon naejot mazverdagon ra paktot, se eman mērī vēttan mirre qubykta. Shijetra nyke.”
I love you. I am sorry. I was only trying to make things right, and I’ve only made everything worse. Forgive me.
When you pull back to look at him, Jaenys’s throat bobs when he sees the warmth in your eyes as your lips curl up into a small smile. You say quietly, “Gaomagon daor sagon iā mittys. Konīr iksis daorun naejot shijetra.”
Do not be a fool. There is nothing to forgive.
Jaenys exhales and replies, “Sesīr sīr.”
Even so.
A huff of laughter slips from your lips, this one sounding more real than any of the louder ones he’s heard you let out over the last two moons. “Pār nyke shijetra ao. Māzigon, ivestragī īlva jikagon vīlībagon isse se tistālion se orgoz hen se dārōñe vali arlī.”
Then I forgive you. Come, let us go spar in the market and piss off the magisters again.
Jaenys laughs, rising to his feet and holding his hand out to you.
You take it.
“Mērī lo mazemā se qilōnarion bisa jēda,” he tells you with a sharp smile.
Only if you take the blame this time.
“Deal.”
—————————
Jaenys is a pain in your ass, and five years apart made you forget just how much of one he was.
Luckily for you, he was very quick to remind you the moment the two of you were reunited.
You roll your eyes as he laughs wildly, dodging a strike that nearly takes his ear off; you circle one another in the market, ignoring merchants who are all tossing gold at one another, bets flying for first blood, first to the ground, and first to yield, voices rising in a chaotic chorus around you as steel strikes steel.
“You have gotten slower,” Jaenys mocks, and your eye twitches, irritation swallowing the void that has been steadily consuming you these past two moons. “I noticed it the first time we sparred, but—”
He yelps when you drive your foot hard into his abdomen, sending him stumbling back; a chorus of boos rises from the crowd when he regains his footing before hitting the ground. You give him a taunting raise of your brows, and he lets out a huff of laughter, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as the two of you settle into a familiar routine.
You do not know if it’s a blessing or a curse that Jaenys was the one to slip away from Volantis to come find you. He is somehow both the best and worst person who could’ve found you like this. These… moods didn’t happen often back home because there was no reason for you to really lose yourself in the way you’ve lost yourself without Aerion, but some days you just—you were just tired. Inexplicably so. You were tired and angry and bored, and you would get so wound up about it that you thought it was the end of the world and couldn’t stand anyone near you, so you would find the public baths and float for hours until it passed.
Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t.
Aenar and Naera never pushed, even if they were concerned, if only because they knew better when you were five seconds from self-destruction. They would linger on the edges of the water, not coming in, because you would bristle when anyone came too close to something you considered your territory, but they would wait. They would wait and watch and circle until you came back on your own terms. And you did come back on your own terms—usually, at least. That or Viserys interfered.
Visedor—he only really stepped in when it didn’t pass that first day, when these stretches of boredom and anger and helplessness would last for days at a time, so he would distract you by fucking or fighting or causing trouble and forcing you out for your head long enough to deal with it.
Jaenys is different.
He is not like your brother, because Viserys would pull you out by force, because he could. He was the only one who could. He would find whatever bathhouse you usurped for yourself, glide into the water, and drag you out kicking and screaming if he had to. It was never often that he was the one who had to step in for you, but he always did when necessary—covering for you with your father when you didn’t show up to meetings or training because you were too busy floating in a bath, causing a scene to pull the attention from you when your father started to realize something was wrong, because failure was expected for Viserys, but it was entirely unacceptable for you. If your father ever got wind that something was wrong with you, he would have had you beaten until you learned not to be wrong at all.
But Jaenys—
Jaenys schemes. He schemes, and he pushes, and he calculates, and he always gets what he wants in the long run, and it makes you suspicious.
He is the worst one to be here with you, because he will never let this rest until he figures out how to fix it, and you hate that he sees through all of the facades, and that when all you want is to pretend that everything is okay, he never lets you.
He is the best one to be here with you, because you do not know if you’ll be able to pull yourself out of this on your own this time, and he might be able to put together a scheme to return to you the only person other than your brother who might be able to.
“You’re a cunt,” you tell him, and you mean it. He knows you do, because his smile widens, a laugh bubbling from his lips as your steel clashes again. “I’m gonna bloody up that pretty face of yours, Jae.”
Jaenys winks at you. “Will you kiss me better after?”
“If you actually manage to land a blow, I’ll do a lot more than kiss you,” you purr, leaning back to avoid an arc toward your neck, “but we both know that’s not going to happen.”
Jaenys laughs, smile sharpening. “Careful, I plan to hold you to it.”
You snort, twisting away from the next strike, but the easy rhythm you almost allowed yourself to fall into falters anyway, because for a brief, stupid moment, you can almost pretend that nothing has changed. That you are back in Volantis with your friends, trading blades in the forum until someone runs to your parents to complain about the noise and steel. That there is no exile hanging over your head, no impossible choice waiting for you at the end of this. That Aerion is not somewhere far away and unreachable, on the opposite side of the scale from your brother, your friends, your father, and your promised future.
The thought drains you so quickly that it almost makes you feel dizzy. Your blade catches Jaenys’s with a sharp clang, but the force behind it is gone now, attention drifting eastward for the hundredth time that day.
Jaenys’s smile falters, a heavy expression on his face.
“I want to go home,” you tell him quietly, lashes fluttering as you let out a breath. No one can hear what the two of you are saying over the crowd and steel, and everyone is far too caught up in their own excitement to notice the serious expressions suddenly on your faces. “I really want to go home, Jae.”
“I know,” he says simply, because he does. Because Jaenys has always known you best of your group of friends, because you have always relied on it and dreaded it in equal measure. “But not at this cost.”
Your jaw tightens as he speaks the words you’ve been refusing to say out loud for two moons now. You do not have to agree for him to know your answer—he already knows it well enough, sees it in you every time he looks at you with those irritating, knowing eyes. You miss Aerion so terribly that some mornings it feels difficult for you to breathe without him hogging all of your air. You miss the weight of him beside you at night, miss his voice and terrible temper and the way he looked at you like you were something worth giving up everything for. Some selfish, aching part of you looks at him the same, wants to throw all of this away, potentially your only chance of going home, just so you can have him again.
But how are you supposed to justify that? All of this, for a boy you have not even known for a year, who might already hate you for sending him away. How are you supposed to justify choosing him over your home and family, over the future you have spent your life bleeding for?
Still, you find yourself agreeing, voice mortifyingly weak even to your own ears, “Not at this cost.”
As soon as you speak the words, you feel as though you’ve swallowed poison.
It feels like a betrayal.
A betrayal to Jaenys, who has come all this way with all of these plans for you to finally come home.
A betrayal to your father, who expects you home on the next ship with Jaenys, so you can finally pick up the mantle as the future of the Tiger party, the way you were meant to from the very beginning.
A betrayal to yourself, because you do not even know who you are anymore, because there’s nothing you want more than to go home and reclaim your promised future—except Aerion, and that terrifies you.
A betrayal to Viserys. A betrayal to your brother—your twin brother—who is waiting for you back home, aching for you the same way you do for him. Two halves of the same whole; a single soul cleaved into two at birth, always yearning to return to one another.
There are eight hundred miles between you and him, and you can feel every inch of it. Every time you look east, you try to imagine what he’s doing—playing the harp, drinking wine, lounging in the gardens. Sometimes, you pretend to be there with him, eyes sliding shut as you lie on a marble bench of some magister’s manse, pretending you can hear his music and laugh.
When you were young, you sometimes woke in the middle of the night with the same pull you feel incessantly now. You felt the moment he slipped away from your side, and you would find yourself wandering the halls, confused and half-asleep, only aware that something was wrong and needed to be fixed. Your feet would bring you to Viserys, who was curled in the corner of some hall or tucked away under an orange tree in the gardens, because sleep only brought him nightmares.
You had learned then to always follow it—that pull—to find him, to go to him no matter the cost.
When had you unlearned it?
How had you unlearned it?
It is a betrayal—to you, to him, to everything you have ever known as truth. How are you ever supposed to look your brother in the eye again? Would you ever have the chance to do so, if you give this opportunity up? How can you possibly make this decision if it means you might never see him again?
You barely dodge the jab to your side, lost in thought. Jaenys raises his eyebrows at you, taunting, but you are retreating again already, back into that cold, empty void you were in this morning, where you have been for the last two moons, trying to balance this impossible, impossible decision.
“You really love that dragon boy, don’t you?” Jaenys asks you softly, an unreadable expression on his face as his gaze slips over you.
“What does it matter now?” you ask bitterly, becoming fed up with everything about this. “I will likely never see him again.”
You don’t want to talk about this anymore. You don’t want to think about it. You side-step the next swing of Jaenys’s blade, and you drive your foot hard enough into his side to send him sprawling onto the ground. You lift your blade to point it at his neck. The crowd erupts around the two of you, Lysene coins exchanged en masse as the gambling comes to an end.
“I yield,” Jaenys sighs, head rolling back, silver hair brushing the ground before he holds his hand up, beckoning for you to help him to his feet. You roll your eyes—what a princess, you think, grabbing his forearm to pull him upright. He stands in front of you, so close that your chest brushes his. You tilt your head up slightly to look at him, waiting for him to back up, but he doesn’t. He tells you quietly, “I told you I would fix it, didn’t I?”
“But at what cost, Jae?” You hate that your voice wobbles. You hate feeling weak. “The only opportunity I have to go home? To see all of the others again? Viserys? I lose no matter what happens. I—”
“This won’t be your only opportunity,” Jaenys says so firmly that you falter. He lifts his hand to brush his fingers against your cheek, tilting your face to force you to keep your eyes on him. Before you can spit out a ‘you do not know that,’ Jaenys continues, “Aenys—he has been… talking to your father.”
For a second, you don’t think you heard him correctly.
“What?” you ask, voice riddled with disbelief. “Aenys Vyninar? Aenys as in Triarch Vyninar’s son? Aenys as in bane of my existence and—”
“—and the boy you used to sneak out to fuck when you thought no one was paying attention,” Jaenys finishes lightly, one brow lifting when you scowl and look away. “He’s not happy about your exile either. From what I hear, he’s planning to run for Triarch in the next few years, whether his father approves or not. He will side with your father’s petition to revoke your exile, and you know what that means.”
If two of the three Triarchs approve the petition, then you can come home.
You blink, and a lump suddenly forms in your throat. “He would have to break away from the Elephant party to run against his own father. He would never have the support as an independent—you cannot expect me to believe he would risk his own political future for—”
“Except, he is,” Jaenys interrupts. You let out a shaky breath to steady yourself. “He’s already working at siphoning off votes from the Elephants, framing recent behavior as self-serving and vindictive rather than for the good of Volantis as a whole—”
“He’s trying to pull off a coup, then? He’s going to tear apart the whole Elephant party doing that,” you demand, voice pitching in disbelief. “I don’t—but why?”
Jaenys gives you a half-smile, head tilted slightly to the side. “You know why.”
Your eyes burn.
Idiot boy, you think, remembering all of the days you spent lounging in his bed, trading insults and kisses, all of the twisted games where you would try to get information from each other while the other’s guard was down. Aenys was—you do not know what he was to you. He was not a friend, barely a lover, but he was important to you in a way you loathe to admit.
Clearly, you were the same to him.
You suddenly feel far too close to crying for comfort, considering you’re still in public. Jaenys snakes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him casually under the guise of celebration rather than comfort.
“This was never the only way,” he tells you quietly. “I was just—impatient. I did not want to wait or rely on that Elephant cunt, and I did not realize—” He cuts himself off, looking away. “Let me fix this. I can make this right without you having to give anything up.”
You remember the days when Aerion came down with fever, suddenly. You remember sitting at his bedside and telling him about Volantis in his rare lucid moments. You remember telling him about gardens and fountains, festivals and the azantys shows; you remember telling him that one day, you would like to bring him there to show him your home, and you remember the ache in your chest, the mourning you felt, when you realized you would likely never be able to.
Jaenys ghosts his lips against your forehead, and for the first time in two moons—longer than that, much longer than that—you feel something close to hope.
—————————
Aerion does not know what he expected.
He watches blankly from one of the rooftops over the market as you trade blades with your friend. The two of you dance around one another, laughing, talking, like nothing’s changed, like you do not even care that Aerion is gone, like his absence means nothing to you.
And Aerion is—he is furious. He is furious and embarrassed; he is upset that he has come all this way for someone who does not care, that he had hope, that he has spent two moons haunted by you, that he cannot even escape you in his sleep, and you have probably not even thought of him once since he left.
Aerion dreams of you almost every night. He is loath to admit it, but it is true.
He dreams of the Blackfyres finding out you lied about him, and he dreams of returning to Lys to find your corpse waiting for him, because that is the only fate that awaits you if they learn the truth. He wakes up gasping those nights, fingers clawing at the shitty roll he sleeps on, sick and heaving and pushing himself out of bed to make his way to the officers of the Second Sons to find out if there has been any news from Lys.
Sometimes, he dreams that there has been word from Lys. He dreams that Volantis is going to war. He dreams of returning to Lys to find you gone, of going back to Westeros, where his family is preparing to defend against you and yours. He dreams that the next time he sees you, it’s on the opposite side of the battlefield.
Some of those nights, he dreams of killing you. He dreams of staring down at you, of you on your knees in front of him, his blade pierced through your abdomen. He dreams of blood spilling from your mouth, and he can tell you’re trying to say something to him, but you cannot hold on long enough to finish whatever it is, and he tries to put pressure on the wound he caused, tries to save you, but he cannot, and he feels helpless—so fucking helpless.
And some of them, he dreams of you killing him, and it sickens him that he prefers those. He dreams of your sword cutting through his chest, your hand fisted in his hair as you force him to the ground; he dreams of the long, terrible moment where you almost look triumphant—until you realize what you’ve done, and your expression breaks, eyes widening, lips parting as you fall to your knees at his side.
He wakes up with phantom pain lancing through him, heart hammering in his ribs, choking over his own breath, fingers still twitching in your direction, even if you are no longer there.
His heart hammers now, too—loud and painful, thudding in his ears like a war drum as he stares down at you from the place he first tracked you down during the days you used to make him hunt you. He realizes, dully, that of the realities he dreams of, one has become far more likely than the other, and the only question left is whether it will be you or him to fall at the other’s hand.
Fuck.
He feels like a fucking fool. His nails draw blood from his palms, the gift he brought you weighs heavily in his pocket, and his jaw is so tight that it is painful. He risked capture just to get a chance to see you again, just so he could know that you ache for him as much as he aches for you, only to find—to find you what? Playing around with your friend, laughing, smiling, teasing.
You do not care. You never cared. It was just as he feared—the moment he was out of sight, you forget he exists, while he is tormented by the mere idea of you.
It is sickening and infuriating, and he cannot seem to pull his gaze away. The fight comes to an end with your friend sprawled on the ground and your blade pointed at his neck, and Aerion stays in place on the roof, blood dripping between his fingers onto the tiles, breath ragged.
He should go back to the ship, wait out the rest of the supply run in the cabin he stole from the other sellsword meant to join the trip. He should forget about you. He should, because you forgot about him, and Aerion is not—Aerion is a prince, a dragon. He does not pine, especially not for someone—
Someone he loves.
Someone he loves enough to make him feel uncomfortable in his own skin. It is a foul, humiliating thing. Aerion is a dragon, not some soft-hearted fool sighing after a lost lover like the singers in the songs Daella is fond of, yet the thought of you with another man, the thought of you leaving him, leaves him sick with the urge to tear the world apart with his bare hands.
Only his mother had ever known how to quiet that ugliness in him before it swallowed him whole, and he lost her.
Only you after her—has he lost you, too?
That is why he cannot drag his gaze from where you are standing close enough to your friend that you might be kissing him, though Aerion cannot tell from this distance and angle, and the thought makes something savage twist violently in his chest. That is why his heart feels lodged somewhere in his throat. That is why he cannot move from the rooftop where everything changed—when he had finally found you after days of those wretched hunts of yours, back at the very beginning of this, and you were always just out of reach, until you weren’t, and his gaze met yours from the square where you’re standing now, victorious.
He had seen you, really seen you, and you had seen him.
Look at me, he thinks furiously. Look at me and see me, the same way I saw you.
But you do not.
Your friend steps away from you, and you stand there for a long moment, back to Aerion, staring at gods know what, before you start making your way over to where one of those silver-haired pretenders is standing. His teeth grind.
Look, look, look! Look at me, you wretched woman, I am right here, he almost shouts—enraged and desperate, because all he wants is you. He wants to scream at you for betraying him, wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze until you finally understand what you have done to him; he wants to tell you how badly he’s missed you, and he wants to ask if you’ve missed him the same, but he’s terrified your answer will not be what he wants to hear.
You do not look.
But your friend does.
—————————
Aerion wakes up on the floor.
He blinks once, twice, trying to remember what happened, where he is. Panic thrums through his chest briefly—was he caught? Did the Blackfyres realize he was here? Did one of the Second Sons give him up? Will his father care? Will you care? Will you care?
His fingers press down on the cool marble beneath him, and he winces as he pushes himself into a sitting position, head aching terribly.
He does not seem to be in a cell, he realizes, head still fuzzy, half out of it. He seems to be—
He’s in your chambers.
Aerion blinks again as clarity washes over him. Your ceiling, your bed, your sheets, your sleepwear discarded haphazardly on the floor—he recognizes it all like the back of his own hand. He spent more nights in your room than his own, your warmth curled at his side. He finds himself crawling toward the silk, fisting the soft fabric in confusion, trying to figure out what’s going on.
How did he get here?
Another shooting pain spreads from his temple as he tries to remember, and he hisses through his teeth, half doubling over, tears blurring his eyes. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s lifting your sleepwear to his face, eyes sliding shut as he buries his nose into the soft silk and inhales deeply.
Instantly, the pain is replaced by a mortifyingly intense wave of relief, strong enough to make his shoulders shake as he greedily sinks into the familiar scent of you. Cherry wine and spice; that lavender oil you bought at the market with him the week before you left. It smells so much like you that it runs Aerion ragged, a noise building in the back of his throat that he desperately tries to swallow away.
He’s missed you. He’s missed you. He’s missed you so much, and you just—
“Ah, so we meet again, little prince! Do forgive me for this, but our mutual lover has missed you quite badly these past two moons.”
Aerion blinks once, head aching as an aggravating voice rings through his ears—whose? He recognizes it from somewhere, but he cannot place it.
Mutual lover, he thinks irritably, trying to sort through what they said to figure out who it might be—he would’ve recognized your whore’s voice, and the Blackfyres never would have left him in your room for you to find, he would be strung up and half-dead right now if they had found him, so then who—
Your friend, Aerion realizes instantly, blinking once as he remembers what he had been watching before he had decided to go back to the ship. You had been sparring with him—Jaenys—in the central market, and Aerion had been sitting on the same rooftop you would lounge on, waiting for him to find you in the early days of his exile. He had been waiting for you the same, but—but you hadn’t looked.
Jaenys had looked. Aerion had slid off the back of the rooftop, the way he had come from, to get back to the ship before Jaenys could catch up to him, but he’d hardly made it to the docks when he was thrown hard against the side of a building in a narrow alley. Aerion had drawn his blade, but—
But what?
He can’t remember what happened after. He lets out a frustrated breath, fingers tightening around your sleep clothes before he forces himself to his feet, trying to ignore the shooting pain that spreads from his right temple.
He needs to get out of here before you come back, because he does not want to talk to you. He does not want to talk to you, he does not want to see you, he does not want anything to do with you. You have made your choice, clearly, and he needs to—
He fists the silk tighter, pressing his face back into it, breathing in deep one last time before he looks up to the ceiling.
He counts to three in his head, desperately trying to pull himself back together.
His gaze cuts over to the door, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he reluctantly lets go of your clothes to force himself to move. One foot, then the next—the room sways unpleasantly around him. He has to brace a hand against the wall, hard enough that his nails scrape against the marble.
And then, he pauses.
There, by the fireplace, the black chest he asked you to look after for him, so he wouldn’t return to that poacher Vyrano having stolen and sold it. His throat bobs, breath shaky now as he takes half a step in its direction. He isn’t sure why he suddenly feels so thrown off.
Because you had actually gone for it as you promised?
Because he has never gone so long apart from it?
Because it means you might actually be waiting for him?
Why else would you go after it when he asked? Why else would you keep it safe in your chambers? Why else, why else, why else?
He hates the hope that blooms in his chest. It grows and spreads like a fucking weed that he cannot contain; it festers and pollutes, depriving him of all common sense. It doesn’t make sense, he tells himself logically. Aerion knows what he saw—he knows it. You didn’t care. You were smiling—you must have been, because he heard your laugh, even if it did sound a bit off compared to the one he had grown used to. You were sparring with your friend the way you used to with him. You did not look. He was waiting for you to look, and you did not look. You cannot be waiting for him, because—
Aerion’s gaze cuts to the side when he hears footsteps coming in the direction of your chambers. He barely bites back a curse, gaze flying around the room to find somewhere to hide, eventually deciding to slide behind the folding screen in the corner of the room. He leans back against the wall, watching through the sliver of the screens as you stumble in.
“Fuck off, Jae,” you snap, glaring back at the door as you catch your balance on the pole of your bed. “Close my door and get the hell out.”
Aerion’s breath catches.
You are—
You are right there.
You are right there, less than ten feet away. If he steps out from behind this folding screen and takes three long steps, he would be able to grab your wrist and pull you into his arms—hold you or fuck you or kill you, or all three if he so pleased. There is a lump suddenly in his throat, fingers fisting at his sides, nails digging into his palm deep enough to draw blood.
“Ah, but you promised you would do more than just kiss me if—” Aerion hears your friend pout from the doorframe.
“Why must you test my patience?” you cut him off before he can finish, giving him a sharp but sweet smile. “Get out. You pissed me off, and you didn’t land a blow—as usual.”
Jaenys sighs dramatically. “You never used to condition our love like this, ñuha prūmia. It makes me sad. I miss your bed.”
My heart.
“You were in it last night,” you reply, and Aerion’s teeth grind together. He squeezes his eyes shut, hand darting down to the dagger at his waist, knuckles white around its hilt. It takes all of his self-control to keep in place. “Don’t get greedy, Jae.”
“I’m always greedy when it comes to you,” Jaenys purrs. “C’mon. I was good today, wasn’t I? Let me come in.”
Is this why your friend found him and left him here? To force him to watch while you and he—
Aerion feels apocalyptic. He will not suffer the insult. He will not. He will kill you both if that cunt comes within five feet of you.
His eyes snap back open, focusing on you, and—
—and all of the will to fight leaves him immediately, shoulders slumping, instinctively taking half a step forward, until his chest is almost against the folding screen. He hates the way he longs for you; hates that he cannot even muster the will to remain angry. You’re leaning against your bed, dressed in the same black leathers you were wearing in the market square, but your hair is loose now, and you’re visibly drunk, unsteady on your feet, holding onto the pole for leverage.
You look beautiful, Aerion thinks, furious and yearning and all things in between, because he is sick of how badly he wants to be with you, and he is sick of being apart from you at all. All of the tumultuous emotions that have been tearing him apart the past few days, weeks, months, come back with a roaring vengeance.
Aerion misses you. It is impossible to deny. All he wants is to go back to the days he spent hunting you through Lys, lounging on cushions, and watching magister’s sons and merchant princes make fools of themselves, tangled in your sheets, bodies entwined. It is infuriating, because he has known all along that there would be no going back to a life without you—he has known it since the day he first won one of your wretched games, when you had him laid back on your bed, unraveling beneath your touch. He has known it before that, even, since the first time you made him say it in the cove—iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon.
But it is incontrovertible now—he has had two moons of hard-packed earth and steel, bloodshed and violence and everything he has longed for that he could not have while trapped on this pillowed island. And in those two months, he has ached and raged and longed, forever unsatisfied because hard-packed earth and steel are not enough now that he has had a taste of a life with you.
Nothing is enough if he does not include you.
Wretched woman, he thinks furiously, eyes tracing the length of your neck as you sigh and tip your head back. You have ruined him. You have ruined him in full, and Aerion does not even have the will to hate you properly for it.
“Jae, if you do not get out of my sight in the next five seconds, I’m going to throw you off my balcony,” you say, head tilted to the side as you pull a dagger from your waist to point it lazily at him. “The fuck happened to your face anyway?”
Your lips curl up into a half-smile, and Aerion detests you—he detests watching you smile at someone else, and he detests that there are things happening around you that he does not know, and he detests that he cannot have you as completely as you have him. He never wants you to leave his side; he wants to possess you so fully that all you can think of is him. As long as Aerion lives, you would be his—and he would be yours.
“Don’t worry about it,” your friend drawls, and Aerion’s jaw tightens when he sees him peek into the room, eyes furrowed, and lips curled down in a slight frown as he looks around. He must be looking for Aerion, he realizes, seething. He is purposely trying to antagonize him. A vicious thrill runs through him when he sees that Jaenys’s eye is swollen and his lip is split, a slash deep across his cheekbone. “Whatever, get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow you won’t be such a raging cunt.”
You throw the dagger at him hard, but Jaenys only laughs wildly as he shuts the door, the blade burying in the wood instead.
For a long moment, you only stand there, shoulders hunched inward, frowning slightly. You look so sad, so suddenly that Aerion falters, brows furrowed as you hang your head forward and let out a heavy sigh. He itches to make his way over you; to tell you that he’s here, just to see how you react. Will you be relieved? Will you look at him the same way you did when he left? Or will your eyes slip over him like he’s not even there?
Does Aerion really want to know?
No, he doesn’t.
He takes a step back, away from the folding screen, until his back is against the wall. His eyes slide shut again as he tilts his head back against the marble, fighting the heaviness that weighs on him. You fall asleep quickly when you go back to your chambers after drinking, so he’ll just wait for you to lay down and slip out from the balcony. You’ll wake if he tries to open the door, and—
His attention cuts back to you when he hears you push yourself away from the bed. He tilts his head slightly to the side, peering through the crack to figure out what you’re doing, and he pauses when he sees you making your way over to his chest. His brows furrow suspiciously as he leans forward again; you’re kneeling in front of the fireplace, back to him, and he cannot tell what you’re doing until he sees the glow of the fireplace emanating around you.
What?
Aerion blinks—it’s hot as hell. Aerion’s silks are clinging to him, even with the cool marble behind him. He can feel the sweat beading at his forehead and dripping down his sides. Why are you lighting a fire?
He watches, bewildered, as you prod at the embers with the poker. Firelight spills gold across your skin, and you sit there silently for a long while, staring into the flames before you finally sigh and open up his chest. Aerion blinks again, a second and third time, shaking his head slightly as he tries to figure out what the hell is happening, but he freezes when he sees you lift his dragon egg from the cushions.
The egg gleams in your hands, scales of deep crimson and black, beautiful and lifeless and so familiar that it makes the breath leave his lungs.
Aerion has had it for as long as he can remember—some of his earliest memories are of clutching it clumsily in both arms while his mother laughed softly and told him not to drop it. He remembers dragging blankets beside the great hearths in his chambers at King’s Landing, placing his egg into it, and lying in front of it, watching the flames lick at the scales, begging the fire to breathe life into it. He remembers pressing his ear to it at night, convinced that he could feel warmth instead of the cool stone.
Everyone eventually stopped humoring him—they had all given up. The eggs were decorative stones to the rest of them, but he had never accepted it. He could never bear being parted from it for long. Not when they left King’s Landing for Summerhall, not when he was exiled to Lys. Even when everything else was stripped from him, the egg stayed. He carried it with him from city to city despite the weight of it; still woke up some nights, certain he felt warmth beneath the shell or heard movement from within.
Ridiculous and childish, maybe, but he does not care. It is his dragon. It will hatch for him someday—it has to, he’s seen it, he knows it. And you—
—and you lift it like you know it too, which is ridiculous, because he remembers how you reacted during that argument the two of you had moons ago, remembers the way you looked at him when he implied maybe the right blood wasn’t being spilled to bring life to the stone eggs. When he was too close to admitting out loud that sometimes, in his dreams, he sees himself stepping into the flames with the egg cradled to his chest, that he does not die when he does, but transforms—into what he was always meant to be.
He had caught himself before he did, because the way you looked at him—Aerion is used to people staring at him like he’s half-mad, but he cannot handle it from you. The point is, you do not believe the egg will hatch, and you do not believe that dragons will return.
He supposes he cannot blame you—the Volantene bloodmagickers have been trying for centuries, and they have made no progress, but the Volantene bloodmagickers are not him. They are not Targaryens. It is his family who retained their dragons when all of the other Valyrian dragonlords were lost to the Doom, and thus, it is they who are the true blood of the dragon, much as the Volantene old blood—you and your friends—like to claim otherwise. Only the true blood of the dragon can bring life to what was lost, he knows it, and you do not believe it, but… but you act as if you do. Right now.
Aerion is hardly breathing as he watches you settle the egg on top of the hearth, head tilted to the side as you watch the fire lick the scales, the same way he would back home.
He almost calls out for you—his chest is all tangled, and he feels so uncertain that it almost makes him sick to his stomach. His first instinct is to convince himself that it’s not what he thinks. You’re not doing this for him; you’re doing this for yourself. You’re trying to steal his egg. It was never that you didn’t believe him—it was that you were trying to discourage him, it was that you knew the dragons would come back, but you wanted his dragon for yourself.
It would make more sense, he rationalizes, hand dropping back down to his dagger. It would make more sense than you—than you, what? You doing this for him? You keeping the egg warm and taking care of it the way you think he would, because he’s not here to do it? How does it make sense? You don’t even believe it—he knows you don’t—so then, why?
You reach for the dagger you must have pulled out of the wall when Aerion was trying to calm himself down, and Aerion leans forward even more, until his face is almost pressed up against the crack, trying to figure out—again—what you are doing. His lips part when you press the blade hard against your palm, cutting through the skin there, and Aerion’s body locks up.
He shakes his head again, blinking to clear his vision, trying to make sure he’s actually seeing what he thinks he’s seeing, but—but he is. You let the dagger clatter to the ground as you hold your hand over the egg, and he hears you murmuring something under your breath, “… ānogar… ābrar… dōron…” He cannot make out all of the words, but he understands enough to know what you’re doing.
Blood… life… stone…
Aerion suddenly feels feverish, weak in the knees, sick to his stomach, so confused, so uncertain. He steps back once, twice, three times, until his back hits the wall and he slides down to the floor, pressing his face into his hands.
He does not understand.
Aerion has spent his entire life chasing this—dreaming of dragons, reading old scrolls until his eyes burned, desperately searching for scraps of forgotten knowledge from the Freehold, trying to figure out how he could possibly bring life to stone. He has bled for this obsession before, fought for it, and no one ever took him seriously, not really. At best, they indulged him, but you—
You are sitting on the floor of your chambers with blood dripping down your wrist, murmuring old Valyrian rites over his cradle egg for—for him. Not because you believe that dragons are destined to return to the world, not even because you believe in him when he tells you he has dreamt of it, but because somewhere along the way, you started loving him enough that the distinction no longer mattered to you.
Aerion presses his face harder into his hands. His thoughts feel disjointed, half-feral with confusion and refusal to believe what is right in front of his eyes. He tries to make sense of it, and he cannot, because you should not love him like this. It makes more sense if there’s some underlying self-serving reason. You know too much about him to love him sensibly—you have seen the ugly parts, the obsession and arrogance and cruelty. He has pushed you away and threatened to kill you if you didn’t leave him be, and in the same breath, he promised to hunt you down if you ever left him, because he does not know how to deal with how strongly he feels for you, and it always manifests in the worst ways.
He feels overwhelmed. Aerion always feels overwhelmed, but never like this.
This is not—he does not know what this is. It does not feel like possession, or obsession, or the frantic, poisonous thing he has come to learn is love. It feels—
He squeezes his eyes shut harder, teeth grinding together.
—safe.
The realization is horrifying.
He has spent so long bracing himself for abandonment that he no longer knows what to do with devotion freely given. Every relationship in his life always felt conditional somehow, balanced on the edge of a blade. Useful, until he became too difficult. Wanted, until he became too much—and Aerion has always been too much. Too volatile, too intense, too quick to cruelty. He has been preparing himself for you to leave him since the moment he realized he loved you. Maybe even before that.
He thought that this would finally be it. You would look at the opportunity laid before you—the Blackfyres, your friend, your home suddenly within reach again—and you would decide that he was never worth enough to outweigh it.
And logically, why would he be?
He is a prince without a kingdom, exiled across the Narrow Sea with more scandal than allies to his name. His own father does not want him around; his brother will not even write him. You have known your people your entire life—your brother waits for you back within the Black Walls, your father wants you home, and your friend crossed half the world and planned a war just to bring you back where you belong.
Aerion is just—
Aerion.
A mistake made in exile in comparison; a temporary madness born from loneliness and proximity and all of the ugly things the two of you recognized in one another. He would become nothing more than a strange chapter in your life. A lover from your years of forced humiliation. A dragon prince you once entertained in Lys before returning to your real life across the sea.
He thought that once the choice was finally in front of you, you would take one look at him and realize how absurd this all was. He spent two moons trying to harden himself against the inevitable moment you would decide your home mattered more than he did. He convinced himself of it when he was watching you with your friend from the rooftop, and it felt as though his ribs had been split open.
You would survive it, and Aerion would not. You would grieve him, maybe. Miss him, hopefully, for a while, at least. But you would go back to your brother and your friends and your city, and life would continue on around you until the wound scarred over. Aerion thinks losing you would leave him maimed permanently—he knows it. The past two moons have proved it.
But—you are here. You are waiting for him. You are bleeding over his dragon egg in the middle of the night because he once looked at you with desperate certainty in his eyes and said someday it would hatch. You would not do that if you had already discarded him, if you did not plan to choose him, and Aerion does not know how to cope with it.
You do not even know he is here. That is what ruins him most.
It would be different if you knew he was watching. Aerion could dismiss all of this then. He could tell himself it was another game, another calculated attempt to keep him bound to you until you no longer had use for him. He could be angry then. Anger is easy. Suspicion is easier. Cruelty, easiest of all.
But you think you are alone. You think there is no one here to see the way your shoulders curl inward, the way your lips move around words you do not believe, the way you offer up your blood to the egg in hopes of bringing life to it, not because you believe it will, but because he does.
Something hot stings behind Aerion’s eyes before he realizes, with vague horror, that he is crying.
He wipes viciously at his face immediately, furious at himself, but it does not stop the next tear from slipping free. Or the next.
He presses his hand over his mouth to stifle the noise that builds in his throat, desperately trying to force himself to calm down.
You are wretched. You are a wretched woman. Aerion regrets ever approaching you that day on the rock. He regrets ever indulging your games. He regrets it all, and most of all, he regrets that he cannot truly bring himself to regret anything at all. You have ruined him in full—you really, truly have—and Aerion cannot even bring himself to regret any of it.
He inhales deeply through his nose, tilting his head back against the marble again. He counts—one, two, three—and then pushes himself back to his feet. He forces his eyes dry and his breath steady, and then peeks back through the folding screen to see if you’ve moved over to the bed yet.
You have. Aerion grinds his teeth together as another wave of longing washes over him. You are sprawled haphazardly over the covers—didn’t even bother to change out of your leathers, you rarely do whenever you’ve been drinking.
He should be there with you, he thinks bitterly. At your side, you should be curled into his chest, and he should be toying with your hair, because you are a miserable, wretched wench, but you are beautiful, and the only time he can truly enjoy that is when your mouth is shut with sleep or busied with his cock.
He finds himself moving in your direction before he can stop himself; his feet drag lightly against the marble floors, body drawn to yours, like some pathetic, starved thing, finally catching the scent of food again after two moons of hunger.
Gods—he hates how weak you make him.
Aerion stops at the side of your bed and stares down at you in silence. The firelight and setting sun spill soft gold across your skin; one arm hangs off the mattress, fingers brushing the floor, blood still dripping from where you’d cut your palm open for him. Your breath is slow and heavy with exhaustion and wine, and now that he is closer, he can see the faint circles beneath your eyes.
You look worn thin, now that he sees you up close, and it unsettles him more than anything else today has. He finds himself reaching out before he can stop himself, fingers tracing beneath your eye.
“—our mutual lover has missed you quite badly these past two moons.”
Is it true? He exhales lightly through his nose, gnawing at the inside of his cheek as you instinctively turn your face into his hand. Could it be? You had been laughing in the market square, sparring with your friend like nothing was wrong, but—but the laughter had sounded wrong, hadn’t it? It wasn’t the way you would laugh with him, bright and brilliant, all sharp edges and fire that Aerion wanted to bask in for the rest of his life.
His fingers slip down your face—tracing the slope of your nose to the outline of your lips. His heart jumps when your lips part beneath his touch, breath warm and steady against his skin. He finds himself leaning his head down, lashes fluttering as he ghosts his lips against your cheekbone, lower still, until his mouth hovers just above yours.
He can feel your breath against his lips, can almost taste the cherry wine you’d been drinking, and then he closes the sliver of distance. The contact is brief at first, hesitant in a way that would mortify if anyone else were there to witness it. Aerion is not hesitant. He takes and burns and devours; he does not hesitate, not like this, but—but he cannot help himself. Because he has missed you desperately—have you missed him the same?
His lips brush yours, and you taste the same you did two moons ago—cherry wine and spice, and for the first time in two moons, the unending ache within him is finally put to rest. Everything crashes through his chest so violently that it almost hurts.
His hands slip down to your leathers, fisting the fabric hard as he makes a quiet, broken sound against your mouth before he can stop it. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue easing open your lips so that he can lick the inside of your mouth, no longer hesitant, because he cannot be hesitant now that he’s had a taste of you again. The restraint snaps apart all at once, replaced by two months of hunger and fury and yearning condensed into something mortifyingly desperate and needy.
He has missed you. Have you missed him?
You stir beneath him, but Aerion is undeterred, bowing his head with a shaky exhale, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw, dragging his tongue up the length of your neck. He has spent two moons trying to survive without this—with hard-packed earth beneath him instead of silk sheets, with blood and steel instead of your hands in his hair—and he does not know how he survived it, how he could ever survive a life without you. It is impossible.
Wretched, wretched, wretched woman.
He is ruined. He is ruined.
His fingers work at the strings of your leathers, fumbling as he tries to loosen them—you are stirring now, he can feel it in the way you shift beneath him, and the soft gasps starting to spill from your lips as his teeth graze your clavicle, before he licks up to the hollow of your throat, breath ragged and lashes fluttering as heat clouds all common sense.
He shifts onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he moves to straddle your hips, sliding the fabric down your shoulders so that he can kiss down your chest, between your breasts, mouthing bruises into your skin.
“Wake up, wench,” he murmurs into your skin. He already feels too hot—the fire, the summer night, the feeling of your skin for the first time in two moons. He’s half out of it already, hips jerking, grinding into your thigh, because his cock is straining against his pants, and his abdomen is so tense that he almost feels like he’s in pain. “Wake up!”
“Aerion?” you murmur drowsily, not even awake yet, body twitching beneath his.
His name on your lips chokes the air right out of his lungs. Aerion, Aerion, Aerion—he wants to hear you say it over and over again, wants to hear you cry it, scream it, wants the whole island to know that you are his. You are his, and he is yours—iksā ñuhon, iksan aōhon. None of the bastard pretenders, not even your friend—they cannot make you feel the way he does. Not in a million years. Not until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east; not until the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. It is only you, and only him. That is how it will be for as long as he draws breath.
Your hand lifts from where it’s brushing the ground to slide against his face, and Aerion lets out a low moan, turning his face into your bloody palm, kissing the wound briefly once, before he drags his tongue across the cut. The taste of your blood floods warm and metallic in his mouth, and Aerion groans deep in his throat at the sensation, eyes sliding shut as he laps at the wound, hips still rutting against your thigh.
You bled for him, he thinks, panting into your skin. You bled for him. You bled for him. You bled for him.
The thought is dizzying, all-consuming; for a moment, he chokes because he almost finds himself finishing in his pants just from it. You bled for him. You cut yourself open and spilled your blood for the egg, just because he had looked at you with certainty one night and confessed something no one else has ever taken seriously. You bled for him. You did it for him—you bled for him, for him—what else would you do for him? Would you choose him if he asked? Would you return to Westeros with him? Would you turn your back on your family? How far would you go? What could he ask of you that would make you deny him? Is there anything? You bled for him.
He’s drunk off the thought—off the cherry wine and spice he licked from your lips and the warmth of your body sliding against his for the first time in two moons. No one—nothing—can compare to this. He thinks it might kill him. You might kill him. How dare you? How dare you do this to him? How dare you make him feel this way? How dare—
“Aerion?” you breathe again, more awake this time, and Aerion’s eyes slide open, amethyst slivers landing on your face with his mouth still pressed to your open wound.
You blink once, still sleep-heavy and unfocused, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Your fingers curl into his cheek, nails digging lightly into the skin there. There is a hint of confusion in your eyes, and Aerion is sure he must look mad with your blood smeared across his face, dripping from his lips, but he—he does not care.
He does not care at all—he wants you, all of you, he wants you completely. Wants to possess you, consume you, have you, hold you, fuck you, kill you even, one day, because he loathes to allow anyone to experience something with you, take something from you, that he cannot.
It is unreasonable—he knows it, logically, but he wants it all the same. Aerion wants to crack you open and crawl inside your ribs until there is nowhere you end and he begins. He wants to consume every thought you have ever had, every memory, every ugly and beautiful thing alike, until there is nothing left in the world that belongs solely to you anymore.
He hates that things happen around you that he cannot be around for. Hates that there are parts of you he cannot touch—that he cannot know every thought running through your head at any given moment, that there are twenty-three years of your life that belong to other people and places that he cannot reach. Your brother knows you in ways Aerion never will. Your friends know versions of you that he has never seen. There are pieces of you scattered across Volantis that Aerion will never be able to claw into his own hands, and he hates it so violently that it leaves him full of rage and helplessness all at once.
His thumb drags against your lower lip as he stares down at you, breathing unevenly. Your eyes are clearer now, more awake, and he hates that too, because he can see the moment your thoughts begin moving behind them again—quick and sharp and impossible for him to follow.
What are you thinking?
What did you think while he was gone?
Did you lie awake wanting him the way he wanted you? Did you think of leaving him? Did you stand on your balcony at night and picture Volantis waiting for you across the sea, or did you picture him? Did you think of your brother more than him?
The jealousy that cuts through him is vicious and ugly. His hand drops down to your throat, pressing down lightly on either side of it.
“Are you—” you start to ask, blinking once, twice. Your hand slides against his cheek, against your blood still slick on his skin, thumb running over his lip once.
You do not finish the question. You surge upward, hand sliding behind his head to drag him down, surely staining the silver red, but Aerion does not care, because the moment your lips are on his, all coherent thought slips from his mind.
His breath hitches, and he lets out a moan into your mouth, pressing his body into yours as close as he can. Your thighs part so that his hips can slide between them, and he bites down hard on your lower lip, just so he can feel how you gasp against his lips.
“How—how are you here?” you ask, fully awake now, disbelief lacing the words as his lips slide messily from yours down your jaw again. “Aerion—”
His grip tightens in your hair, cutting you off, and your eyes flash in response, taking it as a challenge. He has missed this—he has missed you. You are the only one who meets him where he needs to be, the only one who understands him, the steel to his fire, the only person in the world who does not bend away from the worst parts of him. Everyone else recoils eventually, but you bite back.
He asks, “How many people did you let touch you while I was gone?”
Your eyes flicker with amusement, and Aerion’s fingers tighten unconsciously in your hair before he forces them to loosen. His mouth drags slowly along your throat again, teeth scraping your skin, relishing in the way you shudder against him, still hazy with sleep, back arching into him until your breasts are flush to his chest.
“Hm?” he presses when you do not immediately respond. The images fester in his mind—Jaenys’s hands on your body, the Blackfyre pretenders draped on the cushions at your side, while he rots in the Disputed Lands, thinking of you every waking second. “How many? Answer me, wench. Did you miss me, or did you just find someone else to fill the space?”
His lips brush your jaw against, softer this time; he feels almost feverish. He licks the line of your jaw, lashes fluttering as you roll your head backward to give him better access to your neck.
“You should not ask questions you do not want the answer to, prince,” you rasp, voice rough with sleep, and Aerion bites down on your neck hard enough to draw blood. You let out a bark of laughter instead of a yelp of pain—he loves it, loves you. “You first. You had whores in your camps. Did they help? Did they make you miss me less?”
You are mocking him, he realizes furiously. Not even a question of if he missed you, because you know he has. Aerion hisses against your skin, baring his teeth even though he knows you cannot see it. He drops his forehead to your shoulder, shivering when he feels your hands slip beneath his tunic and smooth against the warm skin of his back. A pitched noise builds in the back of his throat as he presses his face into your chest, and one of your hands leaves his back to hold the back of his head.
“You are a plague,” he tells you, not for the first time, and certainly not the last. His voice is rough, cracking over the words. “I hated them. Every single one. I kept thinking of you—I would close my eyes, and it was your face. Your voice. Your hands. It was intolerable. You are intolerable.”
He grunts low in his throat, biting down again, this time on the plush skin of your breasts—you pull his hair hard at that, hard enough that his breath hitches and he cannot smother the whine that spills from his lips. He kisses messily back up your neck until his lips hover above yours, and his hand returns to your neck, not squeezing, not yet.
“Tell me,” he says, voice low. “I know you let your friend into your bed. Did you let that Blackfyre cunt too?”
“Are you mad about Jaenys, dragon prince?” you drawl, looking too amused as you roll your head back to look at him. How could he not be? It is not fair. You already live inside him like a sickness. A religion. A second heartbeat. He hates the idea of someone else getting to be with you. “He has been in my bed since we were barely fifteen. You are almost a decade too late to become jealous over it.”
Aerion hisses, volcanic rage flooding him instantly, grip tightening on your throat enough to cut off the air flow. You smile anyway, teeth sharp, delighted, and the jealousy twists into a vicious thrill, pulse pounding. The violence in him, the possessiveness, the cruelty that he spends so much time trying to disguise from everyone else—you look at it and smile, and Aerion feels something in him go warm and molten, the fight draining from him before it can even really take hold. He sinks into you, gaze loosening on your throat so that he can lean in and nose your cheek, letting out a ragged breath.
You like him like this, as he is—not the polished prince he learned to be at court, not even the sharp-tongued exile lounging through Lys pretending indifference to everything around him. This. The ugly thing beneath it all. Blood smeared on his face, violence in his eyes, his hand on your throat. Even two moons apart, and you still want him for what he is.
You are insane, he thinks wildly, panting as he tries to distract himself by dragging open-mouth kisses along your jaw.
More than he is, maybe.
“And the Blackfyre?” he asks again, voice lower this time. “Did you let him touch you, too?”
You tilt your head to the side, eyes glittering in a way that puts him on edge. You ask sweetly, “Which one?”
Aerion stares at you in disbelief, and then you laugh—it is bright and pretty as a bell, not like the hollow one he heard while you were sparring with Jaenys in the market square. You slide your hands up his body to cradle his cheeks, pulling his face from your shoulder to press your lips to his.
He feels your leg circle his waist, and he knows what you’re doing, but he’s too consumed by the way your tongue dances along his to stop it—his back hits the mattress hard, air whooshing from his lungs, and you hover above him, straddling him, rolling your hips against his so slowly that he cannot stop the low moan that spills from his lips.
“You have no right to be mad, prince,” you tease, forearms coming to rest on either side of his head as you hover over him. “You spread your legs in my absence, did you not?”
“I did not spread my legs,” he hisses furiously, face flushing, disliking the way you phrase it. “And it is different. They were whores.”
You hum, rocking your hips again just to see how his breath catches. He glares up at you, silver-gold hair spread messily across your pillows, your blood still streaked across his mouth.
“Jaenys is whorish,” you offer, as though that is supposed to make him feel any better. “I’m sure it counts for something.” You pause, and then add with a sharp smile, “And Haegon Blackfyre certainly fucks like one.”
Aerion stills beneath you, staring up at you in sheer disbelief, and you have the nerve to look inordinately pleased with yourself, eyes bright and smile even wider when you see the way he looks at you.
He hates that he pictures it immediately. Your hands tangled in that pretender’s hair, your mouth smiling against his throat, you tumbling backward into his arms while Aerion sleeps in dirt in the Disputed Lands, dreaming of you every night like a man cursed.
“You vicious fucking creature,” he says softly, the words coming out almost reverent despite the rage wreaking havoc on him internally.
He grabs your hips hard enough to bruise and flips you onto your back in one swift movement. You let out a startled laugh, goading him as he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and snatches the dagger from where it’s sheathed at its side with the other.
He presses the tip beneath your chin, staring down at you, hostility and desire so tangled together that they are nearly indistinguishable. And you—you are undeterred. Your head tilts to the side, gaze lidded as you stare up at him, unbothered by the blood dribbling at the underside of your chin.
He’s missed you, he thinks again desperately. He’s missed this.
No one else speaks to him like this, treats him like this. No one else grabs hold of the ugliest parts of him and drags them into the light without fear. Most people spend their lives trying to soothe him—soothe him, placate him, praise him, survive him. But you—you antagonize him. You provoke him. You want him. You want all of him.
“How did he touch you?” The words scrape out of him harshly because he can not help himself. “Did he kiss you like this?” He drags his mouth hard across your jaw. “Did he hold you down?” The dagger shifts just enough to emphasize the point. “Did he make you feel like I do?”
Aerion can hear his heart thudding in his ears, pulse roaring, knuckles white around the hilt of his dagger. He drags it lazily down the length of your throat, watching the red line beading in its wake as his lips brush your jaw. He lifts his head so that it’s hovering over yours.
“Did you think about me while he touched you?” he presses, voice lower now—crueler and needier, desperate to know the truth of it.
You tilt your head up, neck pressing deep enough into his dagger that it draws blood. Your lips ghost his as you whisper, “The entire time.”
Aerion kisses you again—harder this time. Something savage and triumphant tears through him so suddenly that it nearly hurts. His breath catches hard in his chest, fingers tightening instinctively around your wrists as he presses the blade in deeper with his other hand before he tosses it to the side haphazardly.
You kiss him back just as hard, yanking your wrists out of his grip so that you can hold his face between your hands. Your nails dig crescents into his cheeks, and your legs wind around his waist, and Aerion is—he is not close enough, not nearly, he needs to be closer, inside you, on top of you, beneath you, skin-to-skin, mouth-to-mouth, until there is not even a breath of space between the two of you.
His hands fly down to work at the laces of his pants, and he does not pause when he feels you break your lips from his, not when you tilt his face up to get his attention either.
“How long are you here until?” you murmur, fingers running absently through his hair. Aerion’s lashes flutter at the feeling, and he has to force himself to pay attention. “Hm?”
His gaze flicks over to the balcony, toward the setting sun, lips curling into a frown. “Not long,” he admits. “It is only a day trip for supplies. I need to be back at the dock before the moon rises.”
You look disappointed, and Aerion gives you a questioning look, barely able to bite back a groan of relief when he finally frees his cock. You do not acknowledge the silent request; instead, Aerion finds himself on his back again, with you straddling his hips.
He blinks up at you, flushed and breathless, cock aching as you absently stroke it. His abdomen tenses and spasms as you push his tunic up so you can kiss up from his hip to his sternum. Even as you work him so easily that he fears he might come apart before you’ve even undressed, he can see your mind sharp and calculating, thoughts racing faster than he can follow.
He hates that he cannot hear them.
Finally, you sigh and say more to yourself than to him, “There is not enough time, then.”
He bites back a moan when you squeeze the base of his cock, eyes half-rolling back. “Time for what?” he forces out.
“I had plans for you, dragon prince,” you murmur, almost sounding sulky about it as you shimmy out of your own pants.
His lips part when he sees the wetness smeared against your inner thighs, chokes over air when he watches how you slide your fingers between your folds, gathering the slick on two fingers.
He raises his eyebrows, trying to pretend he’s half as affected as he really is. “Oh?” he drawls, a bit breathless. “And what exactly were your plans, wench?”
You tilt your head to the side and give him a lazy half smile. “You know.”
Aerion inhales so sharply, face flaming as he remembers exactly what you said the last time he was here. Beneath you, held down, stretched open, back arched, inch by inch—his pupils are blown wide as he stares up at you, chest heaving, and when you finally sink down on his cock, warm and wet and tight and so fucking familiar, Aerion’s whole body spasms in an attempt to stop himself from cumming immediately.
You grab his face when he curls inward, choking on air, eyes squeezed shut, and you tilt it up so that he’s looking at you.
“My poor dragon prince,” you mock—his cock twitches hard inside of you at the my, and he at least is able to relish in the way it makes your breath catch briefly. “Were you really going to come untouched from two moons apart?”
Aerion will kill you.
He bares his teeth, but as soon as he does, you roll your hips, and the only thing that spills from his mouth is a noise that’s so pitched that he flushes from his face to his chest.
You look delighted.
“You are wretched,” he gasps as your cunt squeezes his cock. His breath hitches into a whine when you finally start to fuck him in earnest, a slow, steady roll of your hips, taking him in full with each bounce. “Hah—fuck—”
“It’s all I’ve been able to think about,” you tell him, kissing up his throat, bruising and biting so he has something to take with him back to the Disputed Lands. He wishes your teeth would dig deeper, that your lips would press darker bruises—he does not want them to fade, wants the proof of your touch branded on him, and the proof of his on you the same. “I loathe to wait longer, but I want to take you apart properly.”
A vicious thought hits him at once, fingers digging so deeply into your hips that it makes you falter. He asks you, “Have you taken any of them like that since I have been gone? Your friend? Your whore? The Blackfyre?”
You tilt your head to the side, calculating as you slow the roll of your hips to a still, and Aerion’s cock aches, and his abdomen is on fire, thighs so tense that he feels as though they might be sore tomorrow, but he needs to know. The thought of you taking any of them the way you’ve promised to him, the thought of them—the Blackfyre—being able to have you this way when he has not been able to, it enrages him. Any jealousy he felt earlier is dwarfed compared to what he feels now: it is violent and furious and so all-consuming that he cannot breathe. His nails draw blood from your hips, and he cannot stand that look in your eyes as you stare down at him—sharp and curious, too quick for him to follow. He hates it, he hates it—he wants to know every thought in your head. He wants everything that has to do with you—every thought, every feeling, every experience, everything.
“Does the idea of that upset you, prince?” you ask, as though you do not already know the answer.
His hand flies from your hip to your throat, squeezing just hard enough to threaten. “The idea of that makes me want to—”
He cannot even articulate it—the lust for blood, for death, for you. Luckily, he does not need to, because you know. You always know. And you look terribly satisfied as you sit back on his thighs, his cock still buried deep inside of you.
“I have not,” you tell him at last, and the relief hits him so hard that it almost feels like another form of anger. Your arms curl around him—one hand pressing between his shoulder blades to pull him into your chest, and the other slides to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair as you hold him. His arms wind around you, too, biceps flexing, holding you so tight that it must border on painful. “I have been waiting for you.”
Your voice is small at that last part, quiet in a way you rarely are. He does not think you are just talking about fucking anymore, and he feels wrecked, breath ragged as he presses his face into the crook of your neck.
“You have?” he questions, voice equally small, just for a second.
He feels you nod. “Kessa,” you say softly, pressing your lips to his temple. “Tolvie tubis, tolvie jēda, tolvie tȳne.”
Yes. Every day, every hour, every minute.
He squeezes his eyes shut to fight the heat suddenly pressing behind them, letting out a shuddered breath into your skin. His arms tighten around you.
“Avy jorrāelan,” he tells you, hand sliding down the length of your spine, trying to pull you impossibly closer. “Nyke vēdros issare qrīdrughagon hen ao.”
I love you. I hate being apart from you.
You guide his face gently from the crook of your neck. Aerion’s breath hitches when you press your lips back against his, kissing him slow and deep, rolling your hips as you ease his lips open so that you can map the inside of his mouth.
Aerion melts into it instantly. The way you cradle his face as though he’s something precious, the way you kiss him slow and easy as though you have all the time in the world, and the sun is not steadily setting just beyond the balcony. Your fingers comb through his hair as your mouth moves against his, and Aerion lets out a soft moan, lashes fluttering.
The heat in his stomach builds rapidly, despite the slow rolls of your hips, and Aerion cannot even bring himself to feel embarrassed when he realizes how close he already is to finishing. His hands flex helplessly against your back, but his body is too hot, and his eyes are half-knocked back, and his thighs and abdomen are so tense that they ache.
“I—” he starts to say, breath hot against your lips. He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you are—you are beautiful. Lips swollen and parted, sweat beading at your forehead, lashes fluttering with each roll of your hips. You are beautiful, and you are his, and he is yours. “I’m close, I—”
“Me too,” you breathe, and then you kiss him again, like you cannot get enough of him, the same way he cannot get enough of you.
He holds your waist tight, guiding you down, rocking his hips up into you, faster now, a bit rougher as the two of you chase release—it is filthy, the sound of his cock fucking deep into your cunt. He can feel the wetness splattering against his thighs and pelvis with each thrust, the lewdness of your cunt sucking him in deep. It is in such contrast to the chaste kisses the two of you are sharing that it drives him crazy.
Your breath hitches on something that sounds like his name, and Aerion presses his forehead to yours, sharing the same sliver of air as he lets out a low moan. His hips stutter against yours, grip tightening on your waist as he holds you down and cums deep inside of you, spots dotting his vision and body spasming as he grinds his cock up into you, dizzy over the feeling of your walls tightening around him, cum gushing down his length.
You settle against him, panting, not even bothering to pull yourself off his cock as you wind yourself back around him—arms around his shoulders, legs his waist. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, and he buries his into your hair, holding you just as tight.
“They do not plan to leave any time soon,” you say after a moment, voice quiet and subdued, breath fanning hot against his neck as you nose into it. “They keep picking up more contracts.”
Aerion exhales, eyes sliding shut. Of course they are. Bitterness swells thick in his chest; he hates the images that immediately form in his head. Jaenys sprawled carelessly in your bed for another few months, laughing and sparring with you in markets, touching you without hesitation because he has known you your entire life, and Aerion has not. Haegon Blackfyre lounging on cushions with you, silver-haired and smug and more familiar with the shape of your smile than he should ever be.
“Henujagon lēda nyke,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple, and then pressing his nose into the side of your head. He repeats, “Nyke vēdros issare qrīdrughagon hen ao.”
Leave with me. I hate being apart from you.
You let out a heavy sigh. “Ao gīmigon nyke daor,” you say quietly, pulling back slightly so that you can brush your lips against his. Aerion’s eyes flutter shut, lips pressing chastely against yours once, twice, three times. “Jaelan ao naejot gūrogon mirros arlī lēda ao.”
You know that I cannot. I want you to take something back with you.
Aerion makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat, tilting his head to the side. He frowns when you shift enough to reach over to the table near your bed. He lets out a low grunt when you inadvertently grind down on his sensitive cock, fingers flexing at your hips, but you settle back down on his lap before he can hiss at you to quit it.
You’re holding something long and thin in your hand, fine mahogany—it takes Aerion a moment before he recognizes it as a wax seal stamp. His brows furrow as you grab one of his hands and place it in it, forcing him to curl his fingers around it.
“I could not write you without drawing suspicion. If anyone had seen a seal bearing the three-headed dragon… Well, you know what would have happened,” you tell him. The last bits of tension ease from Aerion’s shoulders as you answer the question that’s been haunting him for two moons. “Take my family’s seal. I have a spare. No one will question me receiving a raven that bears it.”
Aerion’s stomach flips violently. For a second, all he can do is stare down at the seal resting in his palm, his thumb tracing the sigil engraved in the stamp, circling the snake that devours its own tail and the skull within it. This is—this is not done. Noble families do not give away family seals to people. Anyone bearing this could write in your name—could command in it, could implicate your household in treason if it fell into the wrong hands. Even carrying it is dangerous—the kind of dangerous that only exists between people who trust one another implicitly.
And you are pressing it into his hand.
You hold his gaze steadily despite the vulnerability creeping around the edges of your expression now. You are trying to pretend this is practical, merely a solution to the problem of ravens and suspicion, but he can see the truth beneath it. You are handing him something precious—something that belongs to your bloodline, and could destroy you and your family if he decided to misuse it.
His fingers curl tighter around the mahogany handle instinctively, and when he lifts his eyes back to yours, he can’t hide the way his throat bobs, how he can hardly hold your gaze.
“You trust me with this?” he asks quietly.
He wants to withdraw. Wants to pull away from you and turn cruel because he does not like how vulnerable he feels. You drugged me, he wants to accuse viciously. You drugged him because you did not trust him to control himself, but you—you trust him with this? Trust him to guard it so it does not fall into the wrong hands? Trust him not to misuse it? How does that make sense at all?
You do not hesitate in your response. “Of course.”
Aerion’s teeth grind, gaze lowering, head falling forward slightly. He catches sight of the fire from the corner of his eye, and he sees the familiar scales of his dragon egg, and Aerion can feel it. He can feel the way his skin starts to crawl, stomach twisting, chest tightening—too much, all at once. It builds, and builds, and builds, and he can feel it on the brink of exploding violently.
“Why?” he asks through his teeth.
Why what? Why do you trust him? Why do you love him? Why are you waiting for him? Why are you actually considering choosing him over your home? Your friends? Your brother?
“Why do I trust you?” you ask dryly, almost sounding amused. “Should I not?”
His hand snatches out to wrap around your hand, and he pointedly presses hard down on the wound there. You do not even flinch, squinting at him slightly, assessing.
“Why?” he asks again pointedly.
Your gaze flicks over his shoulder to where you placed the egg in the hearth, brows furrowing slightly. For a second, you almost look embarrassed, and Aerion almost relishes it because he’s never seen you embarrassed before, but he’s so wound up that he cannot bring himself to fully appreciate it.
“Well, I wasn’t sure how you took care of it,” you start to say, voice clipped. “I—”
“But why?” he hisses. “You do not believe it will hatch, so why would you—”
He does not know how to finish the question, and he feels helpless as his gaze flicks back up toward you, but understanding crosses your face immediately.
“Because you do,” you say so simply the words he has been dreading and yearning for in equal measures.
Because you do, as though it is that simple, as though that alone is enough reason to bleed for his dreams, as impossible as you think they are. Enough reason to justify kneeling before a fire in the middle of the night with his dragon egg cradled in your hands and Valyrian rites on your tongue; enough reason to spill your blood and call upon old magic.
Just because he believes.
Aerion feels something inside him split wide open, and when you curl your arms around his shoulders to tug him close again, he follows without protest, sinking into you, face pressed to your neck, arms wound tight around your waist. Your fingers slide into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in that way that always seems to make the tension in him ease.
He presses closer anyway, breathing you in desperately—wine and lavender and spice and the faint metallic scent of blood still lingering on your skin. The fire crackles softly beside the bed, warming the room until the summer heat feels almost suffocating, but Aerion cannot bring himself to care. He would let himself burn alive if it meant staying here in your arms a little longer.
“You cannot say things like that to me,” he murmurs into your skin.
“But it is true,” you say easily, which ruins him even more, a ragged breath stolen from his lungs as he presses his forehead harder into your skin.
“You make me feel mad,” he admits, voice small. “I do not—I do not understand you. Or this. Or—”
—me.
“You were already mad. You did not need my help with that.”
“I am trying to be serious, you miserable wench,” he hisses, but you laugh—bright and pretty, full of fire and life. “You are wretched. I should have your tongue.”
“Your threats do not frighten me anymore, dragon prince,” you say, fondness lacing the words, and Aerion scowls into your neck as he feels you press your lips to the side of his, and then tug at his earlobe with your teeth. “We both know you are too fond of my tongue to rid me of it.”
“Do not be so vulgar,” he scoffs, but he is smiling, and he knows you feel it, because he feels you laugh.
He feels warm all over—not just from the fire and the summer heat and your body wrapped around his, but from something infinitely worse.
In his pocket, the gift he brought for you weighs heavily.
He feels it every time you shift against him—the ring he bought in Myr when the Second Sons passed through for supplies a few weeks ago, obsidian, ruby-embedded. He had seen it in the market and immediately thought of you, of your sharp smiles and warm skin and the way red jewels look so pretty against your skin. He nearly gutted the merchant for suggesting emerald instead. He imagined slipping it onto your finger himself, pictured it on your hand; he wanted to leave something of his behind with you when he returned to the Disputed Lands.
But now, it feels woefully insufficient. A ring is nothing close to the value of the Valyrian steel you put on his throat, nothing compared to the seal you pressed into his hand, nothing beside the blood drying on your palm from where you cut yourself open for his dream.
Fuck.
“Aerion?” you ask quietly, pulling back slightly to look at him. “What is it?”
This song is so Daeron Targaryen coded you can’t change my mind. Especially Ethel cain’s cover bcs its so haunting 😩 Please give it a listen if you want gut wrenching angst.
life as you know it shatters when your husband loses his memories of you in a freak incident. how will you convince him of your marriage and the love that made it real?
genre/warnings:
suggestive, amnesia, hurt/comfort, light angst, enemies to lovers, crack, quarrels and usage of "wench" (aerion is back to his default personality for plot development i swear), falling in love all over again trope, pregnancy, lannister!reader
notes:
based on this. the amnesia fic is here muehehe :))
You knew Aerion could be a big menace. He was too proud, too vain— with arrogance that was practically boundless. He was not the religious sort too, so the Seven above must keep tally of all his sins.
You had always thought the Gods would humble him eventually. You know, damn it, but—
You never imagined it would come to this. Something as absurd and sudden as him being thrown from his own horse and lie unconscious for three long days.
Those three days had been unbearable. The maester assured you he would wake, that his body was strong, that there was no cause for despair—but his words did little to quiet the worry inside your chest. You had cried anyway and never left his bedside.
So when his fingers twitched in your grasp, it startled you from your half-asleep state, your head snapping up.
“Aerion?” Your voice came out small, fragile with hope as you leaned forward, eyes searching his face as you clutched his hand. “Aerion, can you hear me?”
His lashes fluttered, slow and heavy, before finally lifting to reveal the Targaryen violet eyes. For a heartbeat, you felt relief crash into you so fiercely it nearly hurt.
But the moment his gaze found you, something felt… wrong.
“You—” His voice came in a rasp, eyes narrowed in disgust, and his words struck harder than any blade. “Why are you here?”
“Of course I’m here, you blockhead—” The insult slipped out before you could stop it, but then your breath caught in your throat when he withdrew his hand from your grasp.
“Aren’t you supposed to be far and away in Casterly Rock?” he snapped, his gaze raking over you with open offense. “What are you doing in my chambers, wench?”
The color drained from your face so quickly it left you dizzy. Your erratic heartbeat slammed against your ribs until it was all you could hear. Panic clawed its way up your throat as your entire body shook and your breath came in choked gasps.
He... he doesn’t—
“Maester!” You stumbled back from the bedside, your vision swimming with tears as you threw open the doors and yelled at your handmaiden. “Call for the maester!”
“My princes, my lady, forgive me... It appears from the severity of his fall, His Grace has suffered memory loss.”
Prince Maekar Targaryen stood near the foot of the bed, rigid and expression sharp as iron. Beside him was Daeron, who looked like he couldn’t believe what had befallen his brother, and young Aegon, who tried—and failed—to mask his distaste with poorly hidden curiosity.
Meanwhile you stood next to Egg, still numb.
The center of it all was Aerion. He merely cocked his head to the side even as the maester declared his state. He looked fine, unsettlingly so. Rested against his pillows, still pale but very much alive, his violet eyes were clear, as though nothing had happened to him at all.
“Well,” he huffed, glancing between people in his chamber with visible impatience, “you all look as though I’ve risen from the dead. Do enlighten me—what terribly important events have I missed?” And then his gaze flicked to his sire.
“Father, why are we still in Summerhall? Are you not the crown prince?”
You could have sworn Prince Maekar was this close to curse at him by how his voice coming almost in a hiss. “What nonsense are you spouting, boy?”
“Was Baelor not slain in a Trial of Seven? With Aerys and Rhaegel dead that would make you heir to the throne, would it not?” he asked so easily, as though he hadn’t just spoken something that was blatant treason.
An unbearable silence passed in the room, before Maekar turned sharply towards the maester.
“Tell me, did that fall knock the wits clean out of his head— and left my son a complete cretin?”
Maester Melanquin stiffened at once, clearly caught between honesty and survival. “Y-Your Grace, head injuries of such severity can… disturb the memory in unpredictable ways. It is not uncommon for the afflicted to recall events incorrectly...”
“Fuck me,” Maekar finally cursed, running a hand on his face. “Fuck us all.”
On the bed, Aerion let out a scoff. “This seems more like a nightmare than whatever dream I’ve been pulled from.”
You swallowed, your fingers curling slightly at your side as a dull ache began to throb at your temple. Your husband hit his head, had altered memories, and worst of all—
His gaze then landed on you, and just as quickly his expression soured. “Why is she still here?”
He doesn’t recognize you.
Prince Maekar glanced at you, barely holding on the last strands of his patience.
“She is your wife, Aerion.”
“My what?”
Aerion’s attention snapped back to you. His eyes reassessed you from head to toe, as if he found you deeply questionable.
“You’re telling me that I chose her, out of all people?”
“Enough, boy.” Maekar’s voice dropped a degree.
“Father, you must have forced my hand,” Aerion spat, unconvinced. “Because I refuse to believe I married this dullard willingly.”
You knew this was not the Aerion you had given your heart to—the one who had learned your smiles, who reached for your hand in private, who once looked at you as though you alone could soothe the fire in him.
But knowing that did little to soften the blow. Gods, it still hurts.
Prince Maekar closed his eyes, looking every bit like a man asking for the mercy of the Gods. Your good-brothers Daeron and Egg could only exchange weary sighs before turning toward you with quiet sympathy in their eyes.
Your father-in-law was right, fuck us all indeed.
. . .
You left his chambers before anyone could see your expression crack and falter.
You hadn’t made it far before Maester Melanquin caught up to you in the corridor.
“My lady, you mustn’t take his words to heart,” he began gently. Out of everyone in that room, you had taken the blow worst of all, even if Aerion himself seemed blind to it. “Memory loss of this sort can alter temperament. It is not uncommon for the patient to—”
“I understand,” you cut in softly.
“I would advise rest,” he continued after a moment. “You have endured quite a strain these past days. It is not good for—”
“That will be all, Maester Melanquin.”
You couldn’t hear this now. His eyes widened in realization.
“My lady, you have not informed anyone...?”
“No,” you firmly stressed. “No one else needs to know, yet.”
Even you had only discovered it three days ago—on the very day Aerion had taken his fall. How could you possibly overwhelm everyone with the news that you were with child now?
The maester inclined his head, deeply mournful for you. “As you wish, my lady.”
Aerion was certain this marriage with you was a dreadful one.
He had come to that conclusion within days of waking without half his memories, because every interaction between the two of you felt strained at best.
Yet, as he made his thoughts known to his dimwitted squire, telling him how he must have been a big patron to the most famous brothel in Street of Silk now with a wife like you, the poor lad shook his head vigorously—
“I wouldn’t believe it so, my prince! In fact, you hadn’t visited the brothels ever since your marriage!”
Aerion stared at him as though he had just confessed to treason, and the squire shrunk.
“And everyone knows...” the squire hesitated now, as though fearing for his life, “That you and Lady Lannister shared chambers often too...”
Whenever Aerion looked at you, you didn’t resemble the sort of woman who warmed a husband’s bed willingly. You were composed to the point of irritation, sharp-eyed too, carrying yourself with the dignity of someone fully trained to withstand him.
He was proven right very soon when he sat together with you for the afternoon tea.
. . .
The maester had insisted familiarity could help restore memory. And so, every afternoon for the past five days, you were seated beside him.
“It is still beyond me,” Aerion griped, casting you a distaste frown. “How did I ever end up with you?”
For five miserable days now, the two of you had been enduring each other’s intolerable company. Worse still, neither of you seemed remotely willing to surrender first.
You set your teacup down abruptly, with no grace whatsoever, letting out a sigh.
“Poor, poor you,” you mocked in a saccharine voice. “Here you are— bound to me by gods, law, and unfortunately, the entire realm. What a tragedy for us both.”
Aerion had discovered quickly that you possessed a talent of needling him in the gentlest tone imaginable, while you, in turn, had learned that memory loss did absolutely nothing to diminish his arrogance.
“Why did you even agree to this match?” he asked bluntly one afternoon, studying you with open suspicion. “You hardly seem delighted to be my wife either.”
“Do I seem like I was granted much choice in the matter of my own marriage?” you replied coolly. “I was thrown into this game of thrones just as much as you were. Frankly, had fate been kinder, I might have married some stableboy of my own choosing instead.”
That offended him, rather greatly. Aerion leaned back in his chair with a sharp scoff.
“Ah, I see now,” he drawled coldly, “House Lannister simply could not miss the chance to be a part of the royal family.” His silver-haired head tilted slightly. “And if the dreams plaguing me are any indication, you would have become fortunate enough to sit beside me as queen consort someday.”
Your face scrunched immediately at his sheer audacity.
“If I were a smallfolk living in King’s Landing, in the most unfortunate event that you ever became heir to the Iron Throne, like you said— I would spend every waking day in terror until I finally fled to Essos.”
“You!”
Gods, you are exhausting. He felt as though he were speaking to someone perpetually prepared for battle. Only that your weapon of choice wasn’t swords but words sharpened into tiny little knives.
“You have spent five days insulting me—”
“And you have spent five days asking how you married me,” you spat defiantly. “Surely we both deserve rewards for perseverance.”
You were aggravating, forever meeting his every remark with one of your own—you were every bit the same enemy he remembered from childhood, only now draped in his colors.
Yet somehow... the moment you went strangely pale, his irritation vanished somewhat. A napkin came up to your mouth while your other hand pressed against your abdomen, fingers curling there tightly as though trying to hold yourself together.
“You look dreadful,” he said bluntly.
You shot him a glare over the napkin. “I assure you, husband, I am perfectly—” You cut yourself off suddenly, swallowing, “—fine.”
No, he thought. For the first time in five days, you looked genuinely unwell. “You are not, wench—”
“If you will excuse me,” you cut him, keeping your composure together through sheer force as you rose from your seat, “I believe I should retire.”
And with that, you gathered your skirts and left the solar with dignity, though your pace was far quicker than usual.
Aerion remained seated even as you disappeared through the doorway, his annoyance giving way to an unfamiliar feeling, because for the first time since waking without his memories—
He found himself wanting to follow after you.
. . .
You knew you had not exactly taken the gentle approach with Aerion. He reminded you too much of the insufferable brat who had made your childhood miserable, and you just—for the life of you—could not take all his offensive remarks in silence.
You rushed towards the nearest privies, before dropping beside the close stool, one hand bracing against its rim as you threw up.
Now, you are carrying his child. At the end of the day, the cold truth hit you whenever you wanted to give up on him. You could never, because you had stupidly yearned for his affections, and bore his child.
Despite yourself, another wave rolled through you unpleasantly enough that you emptied your stomach again to the stool.
You are exhausted.
Exhausted from Aerion looking at you like a stranger wearing your husband’s face. Exhausted from fencing with him endlessly just to stop yourself from feeling how deeply wrong all of this truly was.
And worst of all— exhausted from pretending his sharp words did not affect you, because they did and they cut your heart into pieces.
With every fiber of your being, you wanted the man you had fallen in love with back. Stray tears fell from your eyes as you held back a sob, and as dizziness took over you and you staggered on your feet—
“You are fucking ill, woman.”
A strong pair of arms swept you clean off your feet, and you gasped, clutching on the first thing to steady yourself, which happened to be the fabric of his doublet.
Aerion stood tall, already striding towards your chambers, his violet eyes hardened as his lips twisted into a scowl. “You have been ill this entire time and said nothing? Just how foolish could you get?”
You shut your eyes. “Aerion, put me down—”
“You could have told me, you dumb—”
“Stop insulting me, you rat!”
Aerion shot you an angry glare immediately, yet, to your surprise, he fell quiet afterwards.
You didn’t know why he listened this time, and that tender corner of your heart wept with relief, because despite his missing memories, some part of him still recognized you when you were hurt.
Will he come back? You wanted to tell him everything already. You had imagined the moment countless times in your head—how Aerion’s expression would go utterly still at first, before he would go red in the face, hiding his own excitement by putting on a prideful air how you did a good job for bearing his child—
You buried your face against his chest, fingers still clutching weakly at him, and you could feel how he tightened his hold over you.
As though fate itself had finally decided to loosen its grip on the two of you, your relationship began to improve after that day—even if only slightly.
You had managed, through several concealed threats, to force Maester Melanquin into keeping the truth from Aerion. He had looked ready to fire the poor maester on the spot when he told him you only suffered from common cold.
Who would have known he would spare you more concern since then? And on good days too, sometimes, he acted exactly like the man you remembered.
“You used to do this,” you remarked when Aerion’s arm settled at your waist, drawing you closer as the two of you crossed the crowded hall together—the perfect image of a harmonious royal couple before the court. “I suppose old habits die hard.”
“Nearly every lord and lady in this hall does the same thing,” he gruffly retorted, dismissive. “It is called common etiquette, wife.”
You glanced up at him, gaze pure and clear.
“Yes, but I could have simply taken your arm too. Half of ladies in this hall do that.” Your gaze flickered briefly toward the hand resting at your waist. “You hold me out of habit.”
Aerion went quiet at that. Then he cleared his throat abruptly, pointedly refusing to dignify you with any further response as he continued guiding you through the hall.“Tragic.” Without hesitation, he reached across the table and stole the tart from your untouched plate. “You adore these things, but if you insist on wasting it, I shall graciously spare it from abandonment.”
. . .
You were right— he had done it by instinct.
Aerion had not thought before touching you. It just felt right to do it, but if asked why, he also couldn’t produce a nonchalant answer.
By all accounts, you should have been the wife he never wanted. Half his memories were missing, every surviving recollection of you involved glares, mutual irritation, and arguments in the corridors of the Red Keep, yet—
Ever since the two of you parted ways some time ago, his eyes had kept searching for you before he even consciously realized what he was doing.
Aerion concluded he just detested not having control. You irritated him endlessly, yes, but regardless, you were still his wife— so he ought to have a tight leash around you.
No sooner had he reached the lower end of the hall than he spotted his little brother’s absurdly tall knight nearly stumbling over his own feet trying to greet you.
“M-M’lady,” Ser Duncan stammered, bowing abruptly. “M-my apologies... I didn’t see—”
The poor fool turned visibly red beneath your gaze. You, meanwhile, smiled at him brightly.
“Good evening, Ser Duncan. Are you well? You seem nervous.”
“I—well—no, not nervous, m’lady, just—”
You laughed softly at that, and gods, the sound alone seemed enough to make the knight redder still.
“You look… ah… v-very lovely tonight, m’lady.” Ser Duncan visibly swallowed, meeting your eyes reluctantly.
You held back a grin. “Why, thank you, Ser Duncan. That was almost coherent.”
That buffoon of a knight looked utterly stricken, and Aerion clenched his jaw. How dare he stand there blushing at his wife like some moonstruck idiot?
Then Duncan, in all his bumbling idiocy, reached for your hand. The knight bent respectfully, pressing a courteous kiss against your knuckles in proper greeting. It was the sort of harmless gallantry performed a thousand times in court.
Aerion suddenly feel the urge to break the man’s hand. Something hot and ugly surged through him at once, so sharp that his mood soured instantly— but it was when your giggle reached his ears that the feeling worsened tenfold.
Had men always looked at you this way?
Had he always been forced to endure it?
Before either of you realized it, he had took big strides and placed himself next to you.
“If you insist on embarrassing yourself before my wife,” Aerion drawled coldly, “you may as well commit to it properly.”
“Aerion!” You scolded with a frown, before turning to the knight before you. “Don’t mind him, Ser Duncan. You may rise.”
Meanwhile, Aerion’s hand had already settled possessively against the small of your back as he observed how the commoner got back to his feet—only for the prince to realize, with visible irritation, that Duncan stood a full head taller than him—before he continued with complete seriousness:
“Stop breathing directly in her direction. You are enormous.”
“Uh, should I... not breathe?”
“Seven hells, Aerion!” you hissed beneath your breath, mortified.
Aerion clicked his tongue, though the moment you leveled a sharp glare at him, he merely huffed like an irritated twat denied a fight.
Meanwhile, Duncan stood there looking genuinely troubled, seriously considering how his breathing had somehow become offensive. The knight also could not help but wonder how someone as sweet as you had ended up married to someone like him.
“No worries, m’lady. I... I can stand farther away to breathe, then.”
“...”
“I can... right?”
Days slipped by and still, Aerion had yet to regain his memories.
Before you fully realized it, two moons had passed since the accident, and your condition was becoming harder to conceal.
No matter how often you layered silks and draped cloaks around yourself, the slight swell of your abdomen had begun to show, and it wouldn’t be long before you could no longer cover it.
His child in you, the thought alone made your chest ache sometimes. As of now, the ones who were aware of this were the maester and your personal maids. Until when you should keep this from him and the others?
Aerion still made insufferable remarks with alarming consistency, and you still answered half of them with cutting sweetness. But the small blessing was, increasingly, there were moments where he behaved so much like his former self, and that gave you hope.
. . .
The more time he spent with you, the more Aerion found himself settling into your company.
Now he knew the exact expression you made whenever you were cross. He knew when you were genuinely irritated versus when you were merely pretending to be offended for the sake of argument. He knew the way your eyes brightened whenever something delighted you, and how that same light dimmed whenever you were unwell.
And lately...
“You look constantly ill these days,” Aerion remarked as the two of you walked through the gardens of Summerhall. “What precisely ails you? Why do you refuse to improve?”
You shot him a flat look. “You know, most husbands would say their wives look unwell and would find ways to help them get better.”
“Most husbands are compulsive liars. I am pious and honest,” he sneered, his violet eyes crinkling.
You rolled your eyes towards the heavens. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Aerion knew that for a fact that you were rather fond of him. After all, he wasn’t an inexperienced man— what he did not know was what that made him.
Had the man he used to be also been fond of you too? Enough for him to notice if you were feigning good health?
“You are avoiding the question,” he noted with a frown. “What are you hiding? Do you have some illness I don’t know about?”
“No,” you balked, turning to him. “Why are you being annoyingly observant lately? Have you found life dreadfully boring since losing your memories that you find joy in fussing over me?”
“Hah. The prissy little lady I spent half my life quarreling with happens to be my wife. I am obligated to look after her if I intend to play the role of husband properly, am I not?”
You let out an unimpressed, mocking hum. “How noble of you. Thank you for your service.”
“Besides,” he added dismissively, “if I seek excitement, I can find it elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?”
“My whores, for instance.”
His words struck you so abruptly that your steps faltered. Aerion glanced down at you, seemingly satisfied to render you speechless. “Men whore, that’s a fact.”
He had meant it half as a jest, but something in your expression had changed.
“I suddenly feel rather tired,” you continued after a moment, fingers tightening around your cloak. “If you will excuse me, I believe I should retire early.”
Without waiting for permission, you stepped past him, but Aerion instinctively caught your wrist before you could move farther away.
“You haven’t answered me,” he hissed.
You met his eyes, unflinching, “You can’t make me do what I don’t want to, husband. Go and find one of your whores instead and make her do your bidding.”
With that, you wrenched yourself from his grasp and stalked towards your bedchambers, and for a moment, Aerion was still on his tracks.
He wanted to go after you, to demand more explanation because you couldn’t just brazenly leave him, but your words rang in his ears, as if he had heard if before—
Then go find one of your whores instead!
For days afterwards, you avoided him. Far from subtly.
You vanished from chambers moments before he entered them. Afternoon teas in the solar ceased entirely under excuses of exhaustion. Servants informed him you had already retired whenever he asked after you.
Aerion felt his irritation mounting with every passing day. It must be his comment about whores, but why did it offend you so? He hadn’t even planned to go through with it!
Not when whores look so dull compared than you. They don’t have your fiery charm, or the sweetness of your face. Something about you was as hard as an iron, but Aerion sometimes thought it was endearing.
Enough of this. He would have order. If you intended to avoid him like some offended little ghost haunting Summerhall, then he would simply drag answers out of you directly.
But before he reached the doors to your chambers, voices stopped him.
Three maids stood just beyond the corridor archway carrying folded linens, too occupied with their conversation to notice the prince approaching.
“…poor thing’s barely left bed these past days,” the older one whispered sympathetically.
“The lady looked so pale this morning,” another sighed. “I thought she might faint again.”
Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately.
“She only insisted on coming out today because she did not wish to raise suspicion,” the third maid murmured. “Though honestly, I pity her...”
The first maid nodded sadly. “The fourth moon already too… and His Grace still does not even know she is carrying his child.”
Suddenly, a shadow fell over them. The three women froze, and slowly, they turned—
Aerion stood behind them, towering and terrifyingly still, his expression drained of color.
“She is carrying... what?”
You cursed the fact that your body had always been of weak constitution. You never recovered from illness easily, and carrying a child only seemed to worsen every ache and every wave of exhaustion settling into your bones.
Which was why you had hidden yourself away in the library that afternoon, seeking silence and peace amongst dusty shelves and books. But somehow or another—
My whores, for instance.
You pressed a hand tiredly against your eyes. How did you manage to get your heart broken over your enemy-turned-husband again for the nth time?
The Aerion before the accident had once looked you dead in the eyes and promised he would never seek comfort in whores again, but this Aerion did not remember any of that. You should have understood he probably only said that to get a reaction out of you, but still, it wasn’t pleasant to hear at the slightest.
Before you could dwell on it further, the library doors suddenly burst open with enough force to slam loudly against the stone wall and you were startled.
Aerion strode inside at once, breathing raggedly as though he had searched half the castle for you.
“There you are—”
His violet eyes were wild, almost furious, and for one startled moment you could only stare at him in confusion as he crossed the room in long, determined strides.
“How could you?” he demanded, catching your arm in a tight hold. “Hells, you are a madwoman.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“How could you not tell me?” His voice cracked with something between anger and disbelief, though still low. “You are carrying my child and said nothing to me?”
Your stomach dropped instantly. “How did you—”
“Find out?” Aerion barked a sharp laugh. “Apparently the help in this castle knows and the child’s own father does not.”
You stared at him silently for a moment before your expression hardened.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When? After you birthed the damn babe?”
Despite yourself, irritation sparked hotly through your chest.
“Oh, forgive me for not rushing to share the news with the husband who so easily informed me he could return to his whores whenever he pleased,” you snapped, glaring at him. “Had you not been foolish enough to get yourself whacked in the head and lose half your memories, perhaps I would have told you sooner.”
Aerion looked almost stricken for half a heartbeat, and you took your chance to get away from him.
Unfortunately, your skirts caught beneath your heel.
Your breath caught sharply as your footing slid across the polished floor, the world tilting around you while your body lurched dangerously towards the stone fireplace nearby.
But Aerion moved before you could crash into it.
He lunged forward immediately, catching you firmly around the waist and hauling you hard against his chest. The force of it sent both of you stumbling sideways together. Your shoulder collided painfully against the edge of a bookshelf—
And Aerion’s head slammed hard against the heavy wooden corner.
For one terrible heartbeat, his grip around you tightened reflexively, as though making certain you were still safe against him, before his body sagged and the two of you tumbled to the floor.
“Aerion...?”
His eyes lost focus immediately— and before you could properly steady either of you, the prince collapsed against you, unconscious.
In the span of a single day, Summerhall descended into absolute chaos.
First came the panic of its most troublesome prince rendered unconscious after striking his head for the second time. Servants ran through corridors in terror, Maester Melanquin was nearly trampled in the confusion, and somewhere in the midst of it all, Prince Maekar had reportedly declared that if Aerion survived this only to lose his remaining memories, he would personally lock his son inside a tower.
Then came the second revelation— you were with child. The maids whispered excitedly through the halls, and Ser Duncan nearly choked on his beef stew after hearing the news.
Meanwhile, you remained seated beside Aerion’s bed, trying your best to keep it together. Guilt gnawed viciously at your chest, remembering how he shielded you from that fall.
Because even in anger—even confused and not fully himself—his first instinct had still been to save you.
The hours stretched unbearably. You must have prayed to every god known to man by the time the third hour passed, and you were almost asleep when a low groan broke the silence.
Aerion shifted faintly against the pillows, brows furrowing before his violet eyes slowly opened.
For one dreadful heartbeat, you could barely breathe when his gaze settled on you. “Aerion…?”
It took him several seconds, but you would never have expected... his lips curling into a wicked smile.
“Missed me, wife?”
You stared at him in utter shock. Is he...? Has his—
After two and half moons, the familiar cruel glint finally appeared in your husband’s violet eyes that made him look more like gods rather than human. This expression belonged only to your Aerion.
The boy who had once been your greatest torment in childhood, but also the man who had grown fiercely fond of you despite himself. The same man who would spill blood without hesitation for anyone foolish enough to dishonor you.
Aerion blinked at your stunned expression before the corners of his eyes crinkled faintly with amusement.
“What?” he drawled lazily. “Yes, I’ve returned.”
A broken sound escaped your throat before you threw yourself towards him without another thought, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as relief crashed over you so violently it made your entire body tremble.
Aerion let out a quiet grunt from the force of it, but his arms immediately came around you in return, holding you just as tightly against him. And then, in his typical velvety voice, he murmured against your hair:
“And I shall continue making your life a little hell, wife.”
A watery laugh escaped you despite the tears burning your eyes. Gods, he is so, so, so incredibly and fucking insufferable.
As a child of five, you would say marrying Aerion Targaryen would ruin your life entirely, but now... as he held you against his heart—
You found yourself overwhelmingly grateful that it had been him.
He was mystified himself, how could he ever go through days and nights without you near?
Several nights after he regained his memories and you were well enough, his lips finally found yours within the privacy of your marital chambers.
“There you are,” he murmured roughly, sucking off your lips as he balanced you on his lap, enticingly dressed in your sensual nightgown. “Gods, you looked at me these past months as though I had died.”
“You did,” you retorted, clutching his bare shoulder. “You forgot me.”
Aerion kissed you again before you could say another word, slower this time, but no less intense. His thumb brushed beneath your eye gently when a tear slipped free.
“I did not forget you entirely.” He eyed you like a predator to prey, his tone deliciously low. “Some part of me kept finding my way back to you.”
Your fingers curled into his skin as you pulled him into your ravenous kiss, brushing yourself against his crotch.
Aerion made a low sound against your mouth before breaking the kiss and pulling you closer still, carefully this time—as his cool palm settled instinctively against your abdomen, feeling the gentle swell of the child growing within you.
“…You are carrying my son,” he said quietly, as though the reality had only just struck him fully, meeting your eyes.
You huffed softly. “It could very well be a daughter.”
“A son.” Your husband frowned at you and you pursed your lips. “Foolish woman, you should have told me.”
He tilted your face and devoured your lips again, his hands wandering your skin, caressing you, making you sigh and moan—
You wrapped your legs around his waist and melted helplessly into his touch, into the familiar heat of his kisses that you had missed so desperately these past moons.
Before long, he eased you carefully onto the bed beneath him, one hand braced beside your head while the other tilted your chin upward so you could do nothing but look at him.
For a while, he simply stared at you. The candlelight softened the harsh edges of his face, though nothing could truly dull the intensity in those violet eyes as they traced every feature of yours like he was memorizing them anew.
“If I should ever forget you again,” Aerion murmured, thumb brushing slowly across your cheek, “then make me remember. Don’t hide from me and drag me with you if you must. Make me remember you.”
Your chest tightened painfully at the words, though you still lifted your chin at him with stubborn defiance.
“How about you learn not to forget me in the first place?”
Aerion huffed out a soft laugh beneath his breath, forehead lowering briefly against yours.
“My poor wife,” he murmured against the curve of your neck, the teasing rasp of his voice sent heat blooming beneath your skin. “I suppose I shall spend tonight properly atoning for that offense.”
And fortunately for you, Aerion Brightfire was a man who took his words very seriously.
He was prideful beyond reason, occasionally nonsensical, and possessed the temperament of a dragon—but there was no swaying him once he set his mind upon something, which meant that, for the foreseeable future, he would watch over you with a keener eye than most until the day you had his child.
Though that, perhaps, was a story meant for another time.
For now, you were simply content savoring these quiet nights— nights where, at long last, your prince was back in your arms.
tagging @marianntorres2611 @starkleila @huntmewithdogs @pinkfunland @dauntlesshereticleviathan @laylavynna @dabishou @ireneisbored as per request! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <3
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
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