Married Life
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. A continuation to Growing Strong. Can be read as a oneshot.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, Aerion is a little shit, attempted cheating? Aerion has a crisis, breeding.
a/n: Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded and plays Aerion like a fiddle. Possibly ooc because filthy smut sneaks in.
The first time you realize you have become a diplomatic tool, it is entirely by accident.
Aerion is insufferable that morning.
Truly, insufferable. More than usual.
He has decided, apparently for sport, that everything Maekar says is wrong. Not merely incorrect. Offensive. He contradicts him on troop numbers. On strategy. On whether the sun is properly positioned in the sky.
“It’s drifting south,” Aerion says lazily, sprawled in a chair like a cat daring someone to move him.
“It is not drifting,” Maekar replies through his teeth.
“It is. You simply lack the perception to notice.”
Baelor rubs at his temples like a man on the edge of martyrdom.
You are not even present.
Which is why, ten minutes later, a servant is dispatched.
“Fetch the Tyrell girl.”
By the time you arrive, Aerion is smiling faintly, chin propped on his hand, eyes glittering with deliberate provocation. Maekar stands rigid near the table, jaw tight. Baelor looks like he’s contemplating a vow of silence.
Aerion notices you immediately.
He always does.
His posture changes by a fraction, less languid, more alert.
“You look bored,” he says, as if he had not been the architect of the chaos. “Have they summoned you to admire me?”
Maekar turns his head slightly and gives you a look over his shoulder.
Long-suffering.
A wordless Please.
You suppress a smile.
“Aerion,” you say gently, stepping closer, tone smooth as silk. “Is this truly the best use of your time?”
His gaze sharpens at once.
You once told him privately, that acting like a petulant child in front of his brothers was beneath him.
You had not raised your voice. You had not scolded. You had simply looked disappointed. He has never quite recovered from it.
Now he straightens in his chair.
“I was merely correcting Maekar,” he says coolly.
Maekar exhales slowly through his nose.
“Of course,” you reply. “But correcting someone and baiting them are not the same skill. You are capable of the former.”
There’s a beat.
Baelor watches this exchange like a man witnessing sorcery.
Aerion’s mouth twitches in displeasure. He studies you carefully, as if weighing something.
Then, astonishingly, he stands.
“I find myself suddenly uninterested in this conversation,” he announces.
Maekar closes his eyes briefly in gratitude.
Aerion steps toward you instead, offering his arm with exaggerated courtliness.
“Walk with me.”
You take it.
Behind you, Baelor mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Seven blessings upon Highgarden.”
It becomes a pattern after that.
If Aerion is particularly unbearable, someone sends for you.
If you are already there, Maekar will shift just enough to catch your eye and raise one brow in silent appeal.
Once, Aerion is deliberately prodding Maekar about swordsmanship when Maekar interrupts himself mid-sentence, glances at a passing page, and says flatly:
“Go fetch Lady Tyrell.”
Aerion freezes.
“You would summon my wife like a nursemaid?” he demands.
Maekar meets his eyes.
“Yes.”
Later, in private, he is different. He paces your chambers at first, restless energy simmering beneath his skin.
“They provoke me,” he says, irritated. “They treat me as if I am some unruly boy.”
“You sometimes behave like one. Not because you truly are, but to provoke them,” you reply mildly.
He stops mid-step. Turns. Studies you.
Then, instead of snapping, he crosses the room and drops onto the cushioned bench beside you.
“I do not,” he says, but there is less fire in it.
You arch a brow. He huffs.
After a goblet or two of wine, the sharpness blurs at the edges. His posture relaxes. The anger drains into something warmer, heavier.
He leans closer. Then closer still. Until his forehead rests lightly against your waist where you sit.
It is almost absurdly domestic. If anyone else saw it, they would never believe it. He exhales slowly, arms sliding around you.
“My precious rose,” he murmurs, voice low and slightly slurred. “You are the only one who understands anything.”
Your fingers drift into his hair automatically.
He makes a pleased, low sound at that.
“They are all tedious,” he continues into the fabric of your gown. “They posture. They scold. They misunderstand me entirely.”
“You do give them reasons,” you say gently.
He tilts his head up just enough to look at you, silver hair catching candlelight.
“I do not need to give you reasons,” he says. “You already know.”
“I love you,” he adds suddenly.
It is blunt. Fierce.
Then, because he is Aerion, because he cannot leave sincerity untouched by something unhinged, he adds in a low murmur against your stomach:
“I love the way you feel. And you have the warmest cunt I've ever known.”
You press your palm gently over his mouth before he can spiral further into scandalous detail.
He laughs against your hand. But he does not pull away.
Instead, he nuzzles back into your waist like a spoiled, dangerous creature that has chosen you as its favorite place to rest.
And for a little while, the dragon sleeps.
You never meant to get drunk yourself. You had never allowed yourself. You'd drink a bit and then pretend you were tipsy to stop. But Aerion was away. For once, you didn’t have to measure every word, every breath, every expression.
It had started as one cup of wine, then another, poured a little too generously by a lady-in-waiting who was relieved to see you smile for once. For once, you let yourself loosen.
Your cheeks were warm. Your limbs felt pleasantly heavy. You laughed too loud at something that wasn’t especially funny and had to press your hand to your mouth, startled by your own sound.
It felt dangerous. It felt wonderful. You were halfway through convincing yourself that you deserved it when a servant appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and posture stiff.
“My lady,” he said carefully. “Prince Aerion has returned. He requests your presence in his chambers.”
The warmth in your blood vanished.
Now. Of course it was now.
You considered, just for a moment, sending word that you were unwell. The excuse sat on your tongue, ready.
But you’d already used it up. More than once.
Aerion would not like that pattern.
So you rose, smoothing your skirts, and made your way down the corridors with one hand brushing the stone walls, just in case. You walked slowly, carefully, counting your steps, focusing too hard on placing one foot in front of the other.
Don’t sway. Don’t laugh. Don’t slur.
By the time you reached his door, you had almost convinced yourself you were fine.
Almost.
He was already inside, pacing when you entered. He turned at the sound of the door, eyes snapping to you.
“You’re late,” Aerion said.
“Am I?” you asked, meaning to sound light.
It came out softer than intended.
He narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing, stepping closer.
“Come here.”
You obeyed.
At first, he didn’t notice. Not really. His hands came to your waist, his gaze intent in the familiar way, his attention fixed on what he wanted, not on how steady you were on your feet. He pressed his face to your chest and started tugging at the gown to take it off.
It was only when you spoke again that he paused.
“Aer...” You caught yourself too late. “Aerion.”
The name slid, just a little. He stilled.
Slowly, his eyes lifted to your face, studying you more carefully now.
“You sound strange,” he said. “Have you been drinking?”
“No,” you lied, immediately. Too quickly. Then, after a beat, you added, softer, “Only a little.”
His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“A little,” he repeated. “You choose interesting times to forget yourself, wife.”
You braced for anger.
It didn’t come.
Instead, his grip tightened.
“If you can walk, you can serve your purpose,” Aerion said coolly.
He didn’t send you away.
He took what he came for anyway, uncaring of your flushed face or unsteady breath, the world narrowing to heat and pressure and the familiar, consuming rhythm of being his. He was murmuring something about you not even being able to lift your hips for him as he thrusted into you, but you couldn't find it within yourself to care.
You let yourself go pliant, let the wine blur the edges of it, let the moment carry you through.
By the time it was over, you were boneless, sprawled where he left you, head heavy, thoughts loose and drifting.
He was satisfied enough to stay beside you. That was when he started asking questions, testing ones, as if he realized you'd be easier to toy with in this state.
“Who did you speak to tonight?” Aerion asked, propped on one elbow, eyes intent.
“My ladies,” you said, honestly. “And Lady Fossoway. She complained about her husband again.”
“Did you complain about me?”
You blinked slowly. “No. I said you were…very busy. Important.”
A pause.
“That was wise,” he said.
Another test.
“What did the smallfolk say when you passed the kitchens yesterday?”
“That you’re fearsome,” you answered, faint smile tugging at your mouth. “And that I’m pretty. They like me.”
He huffed softly. “As they should.”
Each answer, by some miracle, landed just right. Not too bold. Not too timid. Not dangerous.
Then he went quiet for a moment.
His fingers traced idly along your arm, slower now, more thoughtful.
“Did you ever dream of this?” Aerion asked suddenly. “When you were a little girl.” His eyes searched your face. “Did you dream of marrying a Targaryen? Of being a dragon’s bride. A princess.”
Normally, you would have known exactly what to say.
Normally, you would have lied beautifully.
But the wine was still warm in your veins. You were tired. You were loose. You were honest in a way you never were with him.
“No,” you said.
He stilled.
“No?” Aerion echoed.
You nodded, very seriously. “I wanted to marry a baker.”
Silence.
A long, baffled silence.
“A…baker,” he repeated slowly.
“Yes,” you said, as if it made perfect sense. “I thought that meant I’d have infinite cakes. Every day. I was very serious about it.”
For a heartbeat, you thought he might be angry.
Instead, he just stared at you.
Then, incredibly, he laughed. Short, sharp, disbelieving.
“A baker,” Aerion said again, shaking his head. “Seven hells. I marry a lady to find out all she wanted is bread.”
You smiled, drowsy and unapologetic. “Cake is very important.”
He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to be offended or entertained.
“…You are a strange woman,” he decided.
But there was amusement in his eyes. Real amusement.
He shook his head once more, then settled back against the pillows, pulling you closer by habit, by claim, by something that resembled affection.
“Sleep,” Aerion ordered, quieter now. “Before you say something that actually gets you in trouble.”
You closed your eyes, smiling faintly to yourself.
For once, drunk enough to tell the truth. For once, lucky enough that the truth was just ridiculous enough to save you.
Homesickness does not suit you.
It lingers in the way you stare too long out the windows toward nothing. In the way your laughter fades too quickly. In how your letters from Highgarden are folded and unfolded until they wrinkle.
Aerion notices. At first, he ignores it. He assumes it will pass. You are his wife. You live in King’s Landing now. That is the way of things.
But then you sigh too often. You grow quieter. You smile less at him. That, more than anything, irritates him.
“You mope,” Aerion says one evening, watching you from across the chamber. “It is tedious.”
You lift your gaze slowly. “I am not moping.”
“You are,” he replies coolly. “You look like a widow at her own funeral.”
You almost laugh at that, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“I miss home,” you admit.
The words hang there.
He doesn’t like them.
Home is here. With him. It should be.
But you look smaller when you say it. Softer. Not defiant. Just lonely. It unsettles him in a way he refuses to examine.
“Then go,” he snaps abruptly.
You blink.
“Go to the Reach. Visit your precious roses and your fields and your tedious little songs.”
You stare at him, startled.
“Truly?”
His jaw tightens. “Yes. Go. Be done with this melancholy. I will not have a wife who looks as though she is being slowly poisoned.”
You hesitate. “I would not be long.”
“Good,” he says sharply. “Do not be.”
You promise it will be brief. You kiss him before you leave. He does not realize that the absence will begin the moment the carriage wheels roll out of sight.
The first night without you is…tolerable.
He tells himself so.
The bed is too large, yes, but he stretches across it like a king claiming territory. He tells himself the quiet is welcome. That your soft breathing is not something he has grown used to.
He sleeps poorly.
The second night is worse.
He wakes instinctively, reaching for warmth that is not there. His hand meets empty sheets. He scowls at them like they’ve betrayed him.
By the third night, the irritation has sharpened into something restless and unpleasant.
He prowls his chambers. He snaps at servants. He drinks more than usual. He imagines you laughing in gardens that are not his. Surrounded by people who knew you before him. People who might look at you too long. The thought coils low and ugly in his stomach.
By the fifth night, he is furious. At you. At himself. At the fact that the absence of your body beside him feels like a missing limb.
It is intolerable. So he does what he has done before you.
He goes to Flea Bottom.
The brothel keeper recognizes him instantly. She bows too deeply. Smiles too widely.
“What does my prince desire tonight?”
Aerion does not hesitate.
“A silver-haired girl,” he says coldly. “Valyrian blood. I know you have them.”
She does.
There is always some bastard with pale hair in King’s Landing. A remnant of conquest. A discarded proof of Targaryen appetites.
They bring one to him.
She is pretty enough. Silver hair, wide eyes, trembling hands. She smells heavily of perfume: sweet, cloying, wrong.
He barely looks at her face.
He takes what he wants. Or tries to. Something is off.
Her noises are too loud. Too practiced. Too eager. They grate on his nerves.
“Quiet,” he snaps.
She squeaks and apologizes.
Her hands cling too tightly. Her scent suffocates him.
It is not right. She does not feel right.
He withdraws abruptly, disgusted.
“Out,” he says.
She scurries away.
He sits there, breathing hard, cock aching, irritation rising like bile.
This has never happened before. He is Aerion Targaryen. He does not fail to perform.
He tries again with another girl. Still nothing. He feels nothing but annoyance. He leaves in a foul mood.
The next night, he returns. This time he does not ask for silver hair. He searches. He studies faces in dim candlelight.
Too tall. Too loud. Too bold. Too broken. Too knowing.
He finally finds one newly brought in, quiet, uncertain. From behind, in shadow, she resembles you enough.
She doesn’t know much. That suits him. You hadn’t either.
He positions her carefully, deliberately, as if angles alone might conjure something.
He closes his eyes. His thrusts are shallow. He tries to imagine your scent.
You always smell faintly of flowers, but never like roses. Something subtler. Something that lingers at the back of his throat.
He imagines your voice. Your small gasps. The way you tense, then melt. His pace increases.
But when he opens his eyes, it is not you.
It is a stranger. And again, he cannot finish. There's only frustration. Only a growing, humiliating fury.
He pulls away sharply.
The girl looks confused.
He barely tosses a silver coin to the brothel keeper on his way out.
“Your girls are either too broken in,” he mutters coldly, “or not broken in enough.”
He stalks back through the streets, seething. Because now he understands. It is not about silver hair. It is not about inexperience. It is not about resemblance.
It is you. It is the fact that you are his. That no one else has touched you. That he is the only one who knows the shape of you. The only one who has ever had you. The thought hits him like a blade through pride.
He prefers you.
Not merely because you are his wife. But because you are untouched by anyone but him. Because your body answers to him alone.
The realization is infuriating. And undeniable. He returns to his chambers in a temper. The bed is still too large.
Your pillow still carries the faintest trace of your scent.
He grabs it without thinking. Presses his face into it. Breathes in.
There it is.
Home.
Without allowing himself to examine the desperation of it, he drags the pillow beneath him and finally, finally, finds the release that eluded him all night.
Afterward, he collapses, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling in disbelief. The pillow is stained.
You have done something to him.
You must have.
When you return from the Reach, you look brighter. Healthier.
You greet him warmly, stepping into his arms without hesitation.
He grips you too tightly.
You laugh softly. “I was not gone that long.”
“Long enough,” he mutters darkly.
That night, when the doors close and you begin to speak of Highgarden, of your cousins, of the gardens in bloom...
He cuts you off abruptly.
“You are a witch,” he declares.
You blink. “What?”
“You’ve broken something.”
Your brows knit in confusion. “Broken what?”
He steps closer, eyes sharp, accusatory.
“My cock,” he says bluntly.
You stare at him, completely lost.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You leave for a handful of nights,” he continues, agitated, “and suddenly nothing works properly. It is unnatural.”
You gape at him.
“I do not...”
“You have bewitched me,” he insists. “There is no other explanation. Did you slip something in my wine?”
You try very hard not to laugh.
“I assure you,” you say carefully, “I possess no such powers.”
He narrows his eyes at you, unconvinced.
Then, without another word, he grabs your hand and pulls you toward the bed.
“Aerion...”
“You were gone,” he says, voice low and heated. “You will remedy that.”
You blink at him, still bewildered.
He does not explain. He does not confess. He doesn't tell you where he had been.
He simply drags you down with him, urgency amplified by days of frustration and wounded pride.
And when he finally proves to himself that nothing is broken, when your body responds exactly the way it always has, when he finds exactly what he had been missing, when he groans at the familiar taste of your skin and cums with no difficulty, he exhales in blatant relief.
Afterward, he presses his face into your neck, breathing you in like something sacred.
“You are not permitted to leave again,” he mutters.
He does not tell you where he went. He does not tell you what he failed to do. His pride would not allow him.
He simply holds you closer, possessive and vindicated, as if daring the world to try separating you again.
And the dragon, once deprived of his rose, does not care to sleep alone again.
He is still half-draped over you. Still flushed. Still breathing hard. Still in that dangerous, heightened state where pride and pleasure blur together.
Your fingers drift up into his hair almost absently.
You’ve learned the exact spot at the back of his head, where the tension gathers. The place he pretends not to care about. The place that makes his eyes go half-lidded when you scratch just right.
You rake your nails lightly over his scalp.
“My dragon.”
He inhales sharply.
It is subtle but you feel it. The way his body tightens again against you. The way his grip on your waist falters for half a second before tightening twice as hard. His cock lengthens and twitches against your thigh.
Whores in Flea Bottom say it differently.
They lean into the word 'dragon' like it’s a performance. A crown they’re polishing. Something to inflate him.
You don’t. You emphasize the other word. 'My'.
As if him being a dragon is simply a fact. As if the extraordinary thing is that he belongs to you.
It almost undoes him.
He presses his face into the crook of your neck like he’s trying to hide the reaction, which only makes it more obvious. His hand clenches in the sheets beside your hip. He swears under his breath, breath hot against your skin.
“I was going to punish you,” he says suddenly, as if remembering himself. “For leaving.”
You blink at him mildly.
“You told me to go.”
“That is irrelevant,” he replies flatly.
Of course it is.
He traces his thumb along your jaw, gaze narrowing.
“I thought about taking out my knife,” he continues, voice turning dark, theatrical in the way he sometimes gets when he wants to shock you. “Fuck you with its handle. Bleed you a little. Thought I might teach you not to abandon me again.”
You don’t flinch. You’ve learned better.
Instead, you tilt your head and say sweetly, “How merciful of you to reconsider.”
He stares at you. Then laughs, sudden and bright.
“You are either very brave,” he says, “or very clever.”
“Both,” you reply calmly.
His grin widens.
“Perhaps I am feeling generous,” he decides. “You have returned. You remembered your place.”
You lift your brows slightly at that but say nothing.
He slides his fingers along your lips instead, testing, playful in that sharp-edged way of his.
“Prove your gratitude,” he murmurs.
You know exactly what he wants.
You part your lips without hesitation, gaze steady on his.
He watches you like a hawk. He draws circles your tongue, then pushes his fingers a little too far, testing your composure.
You bite him.
He jerks back with a startled laugh.
“You little rose,” he says, shaking his hand slightly, more amused than hurt. “You dare.”
“You shoved,” you reply, smiling lazily.
He studies your face for a long moment.
Then, suddenly, he smirks.
“Tell me,” Aerion murmurs, brushing his thumb along your lower lip, “have you ever wanted to ride a dragon?”
You blink at him, confused.
“I beg your pardon?”
His grin widens, dangerous, playful.
“Up,” he says, shifting back onto his heels and tugging you gently with him.
You go willingly, though uncertain, heart pounding as he guides you to straddle him. He settles back against the pillows like a king granting audience, hands sliding to your hips.
You freeze there, perched above him, unsure what to do with your hands, your legs, your entire body.
He tilts his head, silver hair spilling across the sheets.
“Is my rose afraid?” he croons mockingly. “You climb into a dragon’s lap and do not know how to sit?”
You flush.
“I don’t...”
“Of course you don’t,” he interrupts softly. “You’ve always lain there so prettily. Letting me do the work.”
He squeezes your hips.
“I’ll teach you,” he murmurs. “My pure little rosebud needs to know how to satisfy her husband.”
Your breath catches.
His hands begin to guide you, slow, purposeful movements, coaxing rather than commanding. At first you move awkwardly, uncertain, stiff with self-consciousness.
He chuckles.
“Relax,” he says. “You’re not made of glass.”
You glare faintly at him. He likes that.
“Better,” he murmurs when you shift again, finding a rhythm. His hands loosen slightly, giving you space.
Something changes then.
For the first time, you are not waiting. Not anticipating. Not lying still and hoping he will notice where you need him most.
You can feel the difference in control, subtle, intoxicating.
You adjust experimentally.
He inhales sharply. His fingers tighten.
“Careful,” he warns, though his voice is thick with approval.
You tilt your chin up just slightly and try again.
This time, he lets you.
You imitate the movements he taught you, then alter them, chasing the sensation that sparks lower in your belly. Testing what pleases you instead of waiting to be granted it.
His gaze darkens.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”
There’s pride there. Possessive and unmistakable.
When you find a rhythm that makes you gasp softly, he laughs low in his throat.
“My proper little whore,” he says, pleased rather than cruel. “Learning so quickly.”
You should bristle at that word.
Instead, heat floods your cheeks, and you move again.
He leans back further, watching you like you’re a performance crafted solely for him. His hands drift to your waist but do not control you, not yet.
It changes something between you. After that night, something shifts in private.
You are no longer content to wait.
He has never been restrained, Aerion’s hands were never idle to begin with, but now, sometimes, you approach him first.
One evening, when he sits reviewing letters, you step between his knees without a word.
He glances up.
“Bold,” he observes.
You don’t answer. You simply climb into his lap.
He watches you settle there, skirts rustling, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
“You’ve grown ambitious,” he murmurs.
“Have I?” you reply softly.
His grin is slow and approving. He does not stop you.
When you move against him, unhurried, he exhales through his nose like a man trying to maintain composure.
“You are drawing this out on purpose,” he accuses.
You give him an innocent look.
He lasts longer than most men would. But not forever.
Eventually, his patience snaps in that familiar way. His hands grip your hips and he lifts you slightly, setting the pace himself, snapping his hips up into you.
“I taught you,” he reminds you darkly. “Do not think you outrank the dragon.”
You laugh softly but don’t retreat. You’ve learned something important: he likes being wanted almost as much as he likes being worshipped. And when you lean in, brush your lips against his ear, and whisper, “My dragon,” in that same tone that makes him shudder, he is utterly, completely yours in that moment, and he doesn’t mind at all.
Full series: Growing Strong, Married Life, Growing Familiar , Deep in the Meadow and Dragon Dreams, Perzys ānogār. Can be read as a oneshots.
a/n: These scenerios wouldn't leave my head hehe. Comment if you want to be added to Aerion or Targaryens taglist.
Taglist: @briefwinnerpersonaturtle @24k-raptor @icebearcucumber @narcissuspetal @lizbiz011 @happysparklingshadows @h6avenly @ghostedhymn @canvashearts @venusalivesblog @velunis @13-09-01 @sockgoblin @cutecupcakesm @ryiana @13-09-01 @darylandbethfanforever9
