warnings. dark themes, arranged marriage, fluff, aerion is a warning himself, gentle!reader, aerion's only soft with her, obsessive behaviour, ooc aerion.
gifs cr : @ lady-arryn; @ s_attayee
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he never leaves your side at the wedding.
You still remember your mother’s one wish before the mysterious fever had claimed her life – the same words she had been telling you since you were a child.
"Let love always be your choice, darling. Do not repeat my fate."
She never spoke in long speeches, yet you knew. Your mother was too wise a woman – she never put things plainly. There was no need for it; you've always been a clever girl.
Never marry a lord out of duty. It will eat you alive, until nothing of you remains.
And here you were, from head to toe in your wedding attire, dressed entirely in red – the colour of his house.
At least you didn't break the promise you had given to your mother, did you? He is everything but a lord.
Your husband. The one you were meant for.
A cruel prince who has gone mad – that's what people say about him. A monster who takes pleasure in hurting others.
Aerion Targaryen.
A dragon in human form – his heart is too cold to be tamed, too hot to be approached.
Yet your father didn't care enough to do something about it.
After all, you were truly your mother's daughter.
Turning your head slightly, you studied his profile: pale silver hair that he had run his fingers through countless times, a tense jawline and eyes filled with nothing but irritation.
You couldn't blame him, honestly. The air was thick with the smell of wine, meat, and sweat. Men, treating your wedding feast as just another excuse to get drunk, glance at you with an interest that bordered on the obscene.
"Dragons don't need love," he had said when you first came here. "Don't bother trying. It will make you look pathetic."
But he was there, sitting beside you, even though most of the wedding has already passed, leaving only the drunkards behind. You had expected him to leave as soon as his father had returned to his chambers, but he hadn't.
Instead, Aerion's eyes stayed fixed on someone else.
"I'm going to rip that scum's eyes out right here."
Frowning at his sudden threat, you followed his gaze and noticed an older man with a shaggy beard staring at your cleavage.
Oh.
You let out a soft laugh. "He's not the first."
"He will be the last."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he was mindful of your pleasure on your wedding night.
Aerion's footsteps were loud in your quiet chambers as he slowly entered, still wearing his finery. It seemed you were the only one who needed such preparation.
The wedding night. To consummate the marriage, to fulfill the very reason you had been sent here: into the dragon’s grasp.
You recalled all your aunt’s stories about such nights of pain and impassive husbands. Your heart skipped a beat at the realization that your fate was no different from your mother's – perhaps even worse.
Your father was an honest man. He never loved your mother, nor did he seek to pretend – not for you, and certainly not for his wife.
He wasn't cruel. He never laid a hand on you, never spoke harshly, never punished you for the kind of whims children are prone to. Not once did he force your mother to bear one child after another to secure an heir.
And maybe that was the problem: he felt nothing at all.
Aerion noticed your mood shift – of course he did. He notices everything, you thought. He had taken you to the garden when you could no longer endure your family’s expectations, and after a silent walk, you parted ways to prepare for what was to come that night.
The longer the servants prepared you, the more you felt their sticky, pity-laden gazes. Words never left their lips, but there was no need: you knew exactly what they meant.
“A cruel fate for one so young.”
“You’ve done nothing to deserve this, my princess.”
"May the Gods have mercy upon you."
You smiled softly in response. There were fates far worse than yours.
Lost in thought, you didn't even notice when Aerion came close enough for you to feel his presence. He ran his hand through your hair, slowly combing it with his fingers.
Gently, almost tenderly.
"They're softer than I imagined," he murmured, as if mesmerised.
You froze, his touch somehow soothing you, then slightly leaned towards him, unsure of what to expect.
You slowly turned around to look at him and felt your breath hitch in your throat. His gaze was already roaming over your face, as if he wanted to remember every detail.
He wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you closer until you shared one breath. "You are the dragon's wife now," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm not interested in hurting what's mine."
Then his lips crashed onto yours with such force you’d have fallen if he weren’t holding you so tightly.
There was nothing gentle about it, nothing subtle. He made no attempt to play the part of a good husband. Aerion kissed you like a man certain of what was his. Hungrily, he pulled you in, while you responded at your own pace. You kissed him slowly, as though you had all the time in the world.
He broke the kiss and let his lips wander along the line of your jaw to your neck, lightly grazing your skin with his teeth.
"Aerion," you whispered his name, and he let out a sound that was almost a growl. His teeth sank above your collarbone, his tongue leaving a mark that would remain as proof of your night.
A part of you wondered if he’d allow you to do the same.
You kept your thoughts to yourself. One day, maybe.
A little moan slipped from your lips, making him lift you so effortlessly – as if you had always belonged in his arms – as he guided you towards the bed. You gasped, wrapping your legs around him as he claimed your mouth once more.
"Perhaps this time," you thought, "your aunt was wrong."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he won't let you sleep apart from him.
"Egg isn't feeling well, and I need to be there for him." You were supposed to return to Aegon’s chambers to read him a bedtime story about knights. Yet here you were – Gods knew for how long – in your chambers, arguing with your husband about... about what, actually?
"If he is not feeling well, he can call a fucking maid who'll read him those stupid stories. And you certainly don't need to waste your night on him."
"I can’t bear the thought of him waking up in the middle of the night, Aerion," you stepped closer to him. "Terrified that no one is there."
You stopped in front of him and tried to meet his eyes, but he stared somewhere far off, his jaw tight. You did what you’d learned over the last month, what you knew would soothe him. You leaned against him, laying your head on his chest; his heartbeat is quick under your ear. His hands almost automatically – instinctively – wrapped around your waist and squeezed you lightly.
"He's our brother, our little treasure," your voice is soft – as always – you never raised your voice.
That made him snort. "And I'm your husband."
You blinked.
Then pulled back enough to face him and finally understood what the problem was.
How could you have missed that?
Since that night of the wedding, you’d always slept together. He never let you go to your own chambers.
Your hips burn with a sweet pain; you feel every mark he left on your body, every grip that will surely turn into bruises. You are exhausted; your husband is lying on top of you, his nose tracing your neck. The skin-to-skin contact feels so intimate, it’s almost laughable considering what just happened.
You know, however, that comfort like this is only temporary and you can’t let yourself get used to it. You try to get up, the pain in your hips makes it impossible to think clearly, but that’s a worry for another day.
"Where are you going?" his voice is hoarse, heavy with pleasure and something else you can’t quite recognize yet.
You tilt your head slightly. "To my own bed."
He fixes you with a look that leaves no room for argument. The decision has already been made, and all you can do is accept it.
“You will sleep here.” He pulls you back against him, his arm wrapping around your waist in a possessive hold, your back resting against his chest.
You can't help but smile. He wants you to sleep beside him. Together.
He buries his nose in your hair, deeply breathing in the scent of lavender – the soap used by the servants to wash the princess's hair. His hand rests on your stomach in possessive grip, as if protecting what has yet to exist.
"I thought dragons knew nothing of love," you lean towards him, speaking tenderly, causing him to murmur something under his breath. A sense of calm and something you can't name yet blooms in your chest.
"They don't." His voice is rough, but his grip hasn’t loosened at all. "You are my wife, it’s my duty to sleep with you. Do not be fooled."
But when you wake up, sunlight pours over the bed, and he is still holding you as if you could vanish at any moment – you knew better.
And now, waking beside him – even though you clearly remembered falling asleep by Egg’s bedside – you saw that he was not the monster everyone else believed him to be.
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he spoils you.
Taking off another bracelet engraved with his initials, you found your gaze was drawn to the jewelry box, filled with pieces he has given you - dragon pendants, countless bracelets in black and scarlet. Your eyes then move to the armoire, filled with dresses of the purest silk, tailored just for you by the best.
The books you've only ever mentioned once in your morning talks rested on the shelves, which seemed to appear by some unseen hand whenever you spoke of a new one.
"It is likely the servants," he said, avoiding your gaze. "Or one of my stupid brothers who wants to impress you."
A gentle laugh escaped you as you move towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands clung to you immediately, almost without him realizing.
You swayed lightly. "Maybe."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he comes to you when things get difficult.
It was late at night when you had decided to walk through the garden, enjoying the quiet and breathtaking view that had become so familiar.
You had spent the day guiding Aegon through the history of his ancestors – he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to outdo Aerion – before finally deciding to rest because you had started feeling dizzy.
There had been no time to see your husband; you had simply assumed he was busy with his training.
How wrong you were.
When you entered the chambers, he was already there, standing with his back to you, staring off into the distance.
He didn't acknowledge you when you entered, yet you noticed the signs of recognition. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, as though he was finally letting himself be at ease beside you.
"Husband."
He kept silent.
Instead, he turned and walked toward you slowly. There was none of that teasing sparkle or even a hint of mockery in his eyes—only fatigue and acceptance, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Then, to your surprise, he leaned in and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent that reminded him of home.
"My mother would've loved you," he whispered, a quiet, wry smile in his tone.
No pretense, no show. Sincere.
It was only then that you realized: Egg's sudden urge to learn something new, why it had been so quiet – no servants bustling about, no Daeron pestering you with his philosophical debates.
Their mother. They all needed something to distract them.
You lifted your hands to the back of his head, caressing his hair gently, making him pull you closer. A quiet hum escaped him, followed by a small kiss on your neck. It felt as if you’d melted into him - he held you so tightly as though the slightest distance could carry you away forever.
“I’m sure she was a wonderful woman,” you said, kissing him beneath his ear. “She gave me you, and a few more sisters and brothers besides.”
He smirked but didn't let go for a moment. "Could’ve just stopped at me, my precious wife."
You smiled, not falling for his little act. He tried to play it off as a joke, to hide his weakness - but you wouldn't let him. Not here. Not with you.
“I’m here,” you whispered, leaving small kisses to soothe the tremble he desperately tried to suppress.
His hands roamed across your back, fingers spread wide, his breathing deep and rapid. He clung to you like his life depended on it, and you didn't complain.
You could feel it. He didn't say much, but you knew. He needed you just as much as you needed him.
“You’ll always be here,” he said in a voice so low you’d hardly have heard it unless you were right there. “You’ll never leave me.”
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he cannot stand your tears.
In all the time you’ve spent here, you had never shed a tear. There was no reason to - everything you needed was already yours. People starved, gave their lives for the land; a princess's tears would have seemed ridiculous.
But this time you couldn't keep it in.
It was supposed to be an ordinary day like any other - jousts, a feast honouring the noble guests. Yet everything went wrong when word reached you that Aerion had lost his mind and broken the fingers of an innocent girl.
Your heart ached for the girl who had only been playing and having fun, unaware of how it would all turn out.
He would never hurt you, but that didn’t make it any easier seeing him harm another so calmly.
The door opened and you sensed his heavy steps before you heard them. You didn't give him your usual gentle smile - the one he's used to seeing from you.
"She mocked our family, our very blood," he said. There was a note of irritation in his voice at having to justify his actions so openly to you.
Dragons owed nothing to anyone. They acted, and they took pleasure in the results. Yet here he stood behind you, covered in blood and still proud, unable to bear even the thought that you might be hurting.
You didn't respond.
"This is treason," he continued, unused to your silence.
You were barely holding back your tears - you didn't want him to see them. Not from shame, never. But because crying wouldn't change anything. But what he said next shattered you completely and your gentle heart couldn't take it anymore.
"She's lucky it was just her fingers. I’d have taken her head if I’d told the King."
A quiet sob escaped you, one you couldn't hold back.
It was foolish. You knew the man he was. Even softened by you, dragon blood still ran through him. And you knew why he was frustrated, why that play had offended him so deeply - after all, his bloodline had been insulted, ridiculed.
And yet the image of a young girl of your age appeared before your eyes; her gaze swimming with tears, her hands powerless.
At first, Aerion froze at the sound. You’ve never cried, he thought. You’ve never looked away from him.
Then, as if the realization struck him, he strode across the room and turned you to face him, gently taking you by the elbow.
His eyes wandered across your face, as if he physically needed to ensure you were unharmed. You knew he would behead anyone who even dared think of hurting you.
And for the first time that didn't bring you any comfort.
It didn't scare you either - he had never scared you. He was your husband, the other part of your soul and you would always choose him. You would always stand by his side.
Still, a tiny piece of sorrow remained inside you – a quiet awareness that no one else would ever know just how loving and caring he could be.
He would always be a monster to them.
His eyes didn't leave yours, which were now red and swollen from tears that wouldn't stop falling. You noticed the frown that crossed his face as he realized why you were like this.
He leaned in and kissed your damp, flushed cheeks, letting his lips linger a moment longer than expected.
“Dragons do not pardon traitors, my love,” he said softly, confused as to why you were so concerned about a mere commoner, unworthy of any of your attention. Your normally bright face was covered with such a deep sorrow that his heart ached.
I’ll let her go,” Aerion murmured. “Would that make you feel better?”
You nodded slowly, still unsure whether he would keep his promise, unsure whether your wish alone could tame his temper. “Yes, my love.”
His eyes remained on you, studying your face for the smallest sign of doubt that might hurt you further. When he found none, he nodded and pulled you into his arms.
ㅤㅤㅤ✟ SEED SOWN IN FIRE :
aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !
⋆˚࿔ aerion targaryen x wife! reader ꒰ ✟ ꒱ … after the wedding, you longed for heirs, and Aerion finally answered, taking you night after night until you were fulfilled. — based on this ask.
warnings ⟢ +18 (MDNI) ⋆ smut ⋆ p in v ⋆ breeding ⋆ rough sex ⋆ praise kink ⋆ slight angst ⋆ riding ⋆ multiples creampies ⋆ kneeling/begging ⋆ power imbalance ⋆ obsessive behavior ⋆ dubcon. ⋆ aerion is the biggest warning. ⟢ words count: ~8,7k
notes ⟢ I gotta admit, I was so hyped writing this hehe yeah~ ethel cain references. — please like & reblog if you enjoyed !
⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆ AKOTSK TAGLIST ⋆ TIP JAR ⋆
You married Aerion Targaryen because your parents deemed it fitting. They considered it proper that they should cast the dice to capture a dragon, so that, with its claws, you might enrich the family name. And Aerion was a dragon, of that there was no doubt — not one of the great ones that once ruled the skies of Valyria, but a hungry dragon, with eyes that burned and fangs always bared. On the day he went out to hunt, you offered yourself as sacrifice.
You weren't noble, no. Your family possessed some wealth, gold enough to clothe you well and fill your belly, but they'd no standard, no sworn swords, no tower of stone to call their own. Still, noble blood ran in your veins, though diluted like watered wine. You were descended from cadet branches that had once been Arryn and Tyrell, and your parents, in their ambition, believed this remnant of noble blood would suffice to make you fly. They believed you could give the family an important name, a name feared throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
And you fought for this with the few weapons you had. You drew close to Prince Valarr, the heir's heir, who was as generous and kind as rare (even almost none) boys in Westeros. He had you as a good friend, as a sister that the court had never truly given him — for Matarys was far younger and he couldn't have with her what he had with you — and King Daeron II, the boy's grandsire, permitted you to remain at his side. He saw in you a beneficial influence, someone capable of teaching his grandson the ways of common men, of showing him a world beyond battles and blood.
And then, on one of the days when the sun bathed the Red Keep, you saw him.
He wasn't a dragon of scales and giant teeth, he didn't spew flames nor have wings to cover the sun. But his eyes burned with a fire not of this world, and from him emanated a terror similar to what Balerion once spread across Westeros. He saw you the very instant you saw him, and in that moment, both of you knew something had changed.
Aerion had found his prey.
Some days passed since that first glance. Enough for summer to deepen over King's Landing, for the roses in the gardens to bloom in profusion, and for your mother to lose sleep counting the imaginary coins your marriage would bring.
You came to know each other better at dinners, as was proper at court. He watched you over his goblet of wine, his violet eyes darkened by something you preferred not to discover. You spoke of the unusual heat, the court gossip, the dances planned for the next tourney. But behind the words, there was another conversation — one of carnal interest, made of glances, of the way his fingers brushed yours when passing the bread.
Then, one night when the stars seemed more distant than usual, he led you to his chambers. Aerion could be seductive when it suited him, and you let yourself be carried away by his charm after a few goblets of wine with Valarr.
The door closed behind you, and he drew near, so close you could feel the heat of his body, the smell of ashes and something sweet that always accompanied him.
"Stay this night," he murmured. It wasn't a request.
You stepped back one pace… only one.
"Why would I stay, my prince?"
His eyes narrowed, surprised. Maekar's son wasn't accustomed to being questioned.
"I'm not asking for this," he said, with the calm of one who'd never needed to ask for anything. "It's my will, and my wishes are usually granted."
"Of course, my prince…" you interrupted him, letting the ghost of a smile escape. "What do you think I am? A whore to warm your bed at your convenience?"
"I didn't say that."
"You said it with the way you look at me, as if I were the same as the women you send for when the night grows too long for you."
Aerion frowned, visibly disconcerted. He wasn't used to resistance, much less from someone he desired.
"Then why did you come with me?"
"Because I wished to be desired by a man who doesn't flee from what he feels, or so I thought you were. I want a husband, not a lover who'd have me this night and tomorrow scarcely know my name."
"I'd still remember your name, darling." He laughed, but there was no humour in that sound. "But you must know what you're asking of me, and you must know you've no such claim upon me."
"Well, my prince, I ask for what every woman should have the right to ask for." You held his gaze. "And if you're not man enough to give me that, I'll wait for someone who is. Perhaps your cousin, Valarr, understands the meaning of honour better than one who calls himself a dragon."
Aerion stared at you for a long moment, and for the first time, you saw something beyond the fire in his eyes; as if he were relishing the provocation, as if he now had respect for you, or something close to it.
"You're more dangerous than you appear," he said at last. "Brave… or completely senseless. I've not yet decided which of the two disturbs me more."
He stepped forward. Then another. The space between you closed further, leaving only the warm air of his breath against your neck when he leaned in, smelling you and tucking away a lock of your hair that had come loose after the dance with Matarys.
"Mind your tongue, darling," he whispered in your ear, his fingers trailing down your collarbone to the silver necklace at your throat. A gift from your family.
"Don't call me darling." You retorted, your eyes meeting his.
"Of course, sweetling." He smiled cruelly when your brows drew together in displeasure. "There are men in this realm who lose their heads for less."
"Then you'll have to put mine on the walls as well, my prince," you riposted, lifting your chin as your eyes descended to his lips. "I'd rather face death than live as a shadow of your will."
For an instant, you thought he'd touch you, would pull you to him, or worse, would order you removed from there when his hand slowly closed, as if containing an impulse too difficult to tame. However, he tilted his head, looking at every detail of your face, drawing near your lips, but not touching them, merely leaving the ghost of a kiss there.
"They all want something from me," he said, his lips brushing yours as his violet eyes slowly rose to meet yours. "Power, name, blood, but none of those women would dare speak to me as you do."
"Because none of them believe they're worth more than a whim."
"Men of my house don't survive by being gentle."
"A pity."
The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, but neither was it anger.
"Do you know what happens to women like you?" he asked, drawing back slightly to look at your whole face. The heat of his body made your heart leap in your chest, above your neckline.
"I know what happens to those who kneel," you answered. "And I shan't be one of them."
For a moment, you thought he'd advance, would crush your resistance as he did with everything else. Instead, Aerion brought his hand to your chin, lifting your face with two firm fingers. It wasn't brutal, and, strangely, that unsettled you even more.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You obeyed. His eyes were living fire, but now they held a pure desire, something he rarely allowed himself.
"You ask me to marry you," he said slowly. "Yet you speak to me as if you were already my equal."
"Because I'd only lie with a man who saw me as such."
His fingers tightened for a second longer than necessary. Pride, fury and desire seemed to war within him.
"If I wanted you only for a night," he said, his voice hoarse, "you'd already be in my bed."
"And if I wanted only a night," you retorted, "I wouldn't be here now."
He released your chin slowly, as if the gesture required effort.
"Be careful," he warned. "You're playing with something you don't know how to control."
Aerion turned and walked to the window, as if he needed distance to think.
"The gods are cruel," he murmured. "Just when I thought the whole world belonged to me, a woman appears who dares to deny me…"
"The world may belong to you, but I do not," was all you said.
He stood there, thinking on your words, and didn't look at you again, not even when he walked to the door and left. Something seemed to have disturbed him, perhaps the fact that you weren't what he thought you were, perhaps because he found it would be easier than he intended.
The next morning, he went to speak with your father. He took Maekar as witness to the promise he made to your father, to protect you, to care for you, to make you part of him, and then he asked for your hand in marriage, without Maekar himself expecting it, he knelt and asked your father, and there was only a nod, permitting him to make you truly his. And even if your father didn't permit the union, Aerion would marry you. He hadn't knelt to beg for your hand, but to ask the gods that your father might forgive him if he'd to act otherwise.
The wedding was small by court standards, almost discreet for those accustomed to excess and rumour. Still, it seemed too grand for someone like you who'd never dreamed of setting foot in the halls of the Red Keep without lowering their eyes. You dressed in the colours of your new house: red and black. The heavy fabric flowed over your body, marking more than was usual (because it had been Aerion's demand to eliminate any remnant of purity in you). Upon your hair, the crown of silver flowers rested too delicately for the family you now belonged to, as fragile as the fortune that had led you there.
When they placed you before him, you felt his gaze first before even raising your eyes. Aerion wasn't smiling. He watched you as he'd done that night; as if he were still deciding whether this was a conquest… or whether you were still challenging him. His hands touched yours, there was an instant when the hall seemed to disappear. The touch wasn't tender, nor was it cruel. It was possessive. Warm. A warning that this marriage wouldn't be made of your wills, but of Aerion's.
"You're mine now," he murmured, so low that only you could hear, while the septon intoned the blessings.
"I'm your wife," you answered, also in secret. "There's a difference."
His lips curved into a delicate smile, sufficiently capable of making you respond while he held your face; you admired the dimple in his cheek showing almost imperceptibly, which for a few moments made you forget how cruel he could be, whether touching you or not.
The bedding came with sunset. The ladies led you to the chambers you were to share, and this time the doors closed with the gods' blessing upon the union. Aerion moved towards you with the same confidence as always, but something was different now, you had become his territory, and that dragon had always been fierce in defending what was his. And for a moment you prepared yourself for the touch, for the consummation that every wife must endure after marriage.
You didn't retreat when he closed the distance, but he stopped, making you feel the ghost of his hand lowering the strap of your dress. Aerion halted, and his eyes travelled over your body as if he were grasping you, as if they could touch where he refused to go with his hands, pondering, torturing you slowly.
"Take off the dress," he commanded, wetting his lips.
It wasn't a request.
You obeyed, because that too was your choice, and he knew it. The fabric slipped over your shoulders, your waist, forming a red and black pool at your feet. You stood before him in only your skin, the warm blood rushing to your cheeks and the air seeming to fail you a little more.
Aerion said nothing, took a goblet of wine from the nearest table while leaning against it, sipping and watching you entirely as if appreciating a work of art that finally belonged to him.
"I lied when I said I didn't want you," he murmured, clenching his jaw. "My brother's the one who dreams, but it seems you're the gods' vision sent to torment me."
"Torment?"
"Yes." He set the goblet back on the table and stepped forward. Then another. The distance between you shrank until the heat of his body was almost unbearable. "Because I wanted you in that instant. I wanted to take you right there, before the septon, before my father, before everyone. I wanted to tear that dress off with my teeth and show every one of them that you were mine."
His hand rose, finally. His fingers brushed your shoulder, so light they seemed a question.
"In a short while, you'll forget how we should be," your voice came out hoarse.
"I know, but now…" He traced the path from shoulder to wrist, slowly, studying each of your reactions. "Now I wonder if you know what you've done."
"I married you."
"You gave yourself to me." His fingers tightened on your wrist. "There's a difference."
He pulled your wrist, drawing your body against his. His breath warmed your face, those violet eyes burning into you.
"I'm going to fuck you tonight," he said, and the words were such a shock you lost your breath. "I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name. Until you forget there was a world out there, before me."
"Aerion…"
"No." His free hand covered your mouth, gently, his eyes fixed on yours. "I'm going to fuck you tonight, and tomorrow, and every night after that. Not because the law allows it, not because a septon blessed it, but because I want to and because you want to. Say you want to."
He removed his hand from your mouth, but held your gaze.
"I'm too good for you."
"And that makes me need you even more." He slid his lips along your jaw. "I'll never be gentle enough for you, but tell me you want me too."
"I want to," you whispered.
"You want to what?" he provoked, his mouth so close to yours they almost touched. "Say it. Say exactly what you want. You want me to fuck you? You want me to devour you? You want me to fill you until there's room for nothing else?"
"I want you to fuck me," you repeated, and the words came out firmer than you expected. "I want…"
You hesitated, but his eyes didn't let you escape.
"You want what?"
"I want your child."
Aerion smiled against your neck, that seemed to excite and amuse him because the hand that held your wrist rose to your nape, pulling you into a kiss that wasn't a kiss. His mouth pressed to yours with a hunger that seemed accumulated over years, not weeks. His tongue invaded, took, claimed, and you clung to his shoulders as if you were drowning.
When he drew back, both of you were gasping.
"A child of mine won't be like other children," his voice was torn, unrecognisable. "He'll be… like me."
"You think I'm afraid of that?" you answered, and your hand travelled from his shoulder to his chest, to his womb, to his belt buckle. "It's precisely why I ask."
"My grandsire told me about you before I saw you that day, he said: the boys never tire of her, nor of her sweetness. And I didn't know why, until I saw that 'fuck me' look in your eyes."
He guided you to the bed without ceremony, your back meeting the sheets with a push that drew a smile from you. Aerion hovered over you, his arms on either side of your head, his pupils dilated with desire.
"I'm going to fill you," he promised, his voice a growl. "I'm going to fill you with me, night after night, until there's no doubt in your mind, in the mind of the entire court, that you're mine. That what grows here" His hand descended, fingers spread over your bare womb. "Is mine. Is ours."
"Then do it," you challenged, lifting your hips to meet his. "Show me the dragon you claim to be."
The smile he gave you was the most dangerous thing you'd ever seen.
He leaned in to kiss your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin, while his hands worked to rid himself of what he still wore. And when finally you were skin against skin, warmth against warmth, he paused for an instant.
"Say you're in love with my body," you murmured against his ear. "and that's why you're fucking it."
"Sweetling, if it feels good then it can't be bad," he answered in a half-sigh. "I'm something they all want, but only you can have."
His hand descended slowly, tracing in the air the contour of your neck, your shoulders, descending to the curve of your waist without touching. And each imaginary movement drew from you a shiver that he saw, that he knew he provoked. Aerion stepped back again, one pace, then another, and you stood there, still, feeling the emptiness where his warmth had been before, not understanding.
"But you'll wait," he said, fastening his belt while displaying his abdomen with some scars. "You'll wait and desire and imagine. You'll lie in this bed every night thinking of how it would be and when I finally take you, if ever I do take you, it'll be because I decided it, not because you demanded it."
"You want to fuck me now, Aerion. You want to see me on my knees. You need to consummate this marriage for us to be truly wed," you said, taking a step towards him. "The gods decide these things," you answered, bringing your hand to your womb.
"The gods have nothing to do with it, sweetling."
So he left the chamber and left you alone on your wedding night, as should not have been.
The months that followed were a constant lesson. You learned Aerion's humours as one learns to read the signs of an approaching storm; by the scents in the air, by the tension in his shoulders, by the cruelty that took his eyes when something displeased him. There was sweetness in him, yes, but it was a treacherous sweetness.
There were nights when he sought you with an urgency bordering on desperation, nights when his hands trembled touching you and his mouth whispered things you'd never repeat to anyone. And there were days when he scarce looked at you, building walls so high that not even your love — if that was what you felt — could scale them.
The court watched. The court always watched.
"Be careful of him," his mother, Dyanna Dayne, once advised in a rare moment when you found yourselves alone. "My son has too much fire in his veins."
"I'm his wife," you repeated, as if that explained everything.
She smiled, a sad smile that made you shrink inside.
"Being a dragon's wife is not the same as taming one, child."
You didn't understand then, but you would, in time.
Aerion remained by your side at dinners, at walks through the gardens, at court obligations. His eyes always found yours. He'd draw closer than necessary, his warm breath brushing your nape, his hand hovering over yours as it had once hovered over your body.
"Did you dream of me last night?" he asked one morning, with a smile that knew exactly what it provoked.
You denied it, but the flush on your cheeks betrayed you.
"I dreamed…" he confessed, leaning in to whisper in your ear. "I dreamed I finally touched you. That I heard your moans, that I felt your nails in my back. I woke hard and furious that it was only a dream."
He drew back before you could answer, leaving you with your heart racing and your legs weak. Thus he tortured you. With words, with glances, with the eternally delayed promise of a touch that never came. And you, fool that you were, discovered that desire can be as painful as any wound. Your body burned for him in ways you'd never imagined, and he knew. He knew and delighted in your torment.
"Why do you do this?" you asked one night, when he'd accompanied you to your chamber door and remained there, so close you could feel the warmth of his body, yet so far you could do nothing.
"Because I can," he answered simply. "Because it's the only thing you still don't have of me. You've had my name, you've had my oath, you've had my respect, but my body is still mine. And until it's your choice, not my gift, you won't have it."
The next morning, he left for Lys.
There was no farewell or explanation, only a servant who came for his clothes, a ship that departed the harbour, and you remained in the Red Keep, with your belly empty and your hands trembling because you still hadn't had him, because the marriage was called ill-starred for not having been consummated.
The months that followed were long as winters. The letters you sent went unanswered. The rumours that arrived from Lys spoke of feasts, of women with silver hair and dark eyes, of whole nights awash with wine and forbidden pleasures. And you imagined, and imagined, and each imagining was a knife he drove into your chest without being present.
The court whispered, the ladies looked at you with ill-disguised pity. Your parents wrote increasingly desperate letters, asking after heirs, after assurances, after anything that might justify the sacrifice they'd made in giving you to a dragon.
And you had no answers.
Until, one autumn morning, the news that Maekar had summoned his son back echoed through the corridors. It wasn't a request, but a command. Dragon's blood or no, Aerion was still a son, still a subject, still owed obedience to his father.
And he obeyed.
The ship docked at King's Landing's harbour beneath a grey sky threatening rain. You stood on the quay, because pride forbade you waiting in your chambers like a patient wife. You stood on the quay so he'd see you, so he'd know you hadn't bent, hadn't withered.
When he disembarked, you saw the months in Lys had done him good — or ill, depending on perspective. His face was more lined, his eyes darker, his mouth crueller. He wore silks of vibrant colours, and round his neck hung a golden collar you'd never seen before.
"Wife," he greeted, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "How good to be received by such a fair sight."
"Husband," you answered, and your voice came out as cold as you'd wished. "It's good to have you here."
He drew close, and for the first time in moons, you felt his true warmth, not merely the memory of it. So close you might touch him, if you dared.
"Did you miss me?" he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.
"I missed a husband I never had."
"You've still got a tongue, I see. Good. It'd be a shame if the months had tamed it."
He drew back before you could answer, and offered you his arm with a courtesy so perfect it almost hurt.
"Come, my father awaits me. And afterwards… afterwards we've much to discuss."
You took his arm because there was no choice, and as you walked through the streets of King's Landing, with the people bowing at the prince's passing — not from respect, but from fear — you felt his gaze upon you.
The rumour reached her ears through a trusted handmaiden, a whisper that made her blood boil and freeze all at once. King Maekar, in conversation with his son, had supposedly said that she'd grown weary of the local lands and customs, and would soon be returning home. But it was Aerion's reaction that set the court tongues wagging — the dragon had flown into a rage, bellowing at his father that she belonged to him. Not to another kingdom, not to another life — to him. Maekar, pragmatic and generous as he was, had supposedly just shrugged and reminded his son that she wasn't his. Not until the marriage was consummated. And it wasn't.
Aerion fell silent then, because in that moment, he understood; even married to her, even with her name inscribed beside his in the parchments of the Seven Kingdoms, she still wasn't his. Not the way he wanted. Not completely.
And you? You desired him. You desired him to look at you again like he did that first night, when his eyes burned your skin before any touch. You desired him to touch you, to finally slide his hands where they'd never been, to murmur your name against your neck as the night swallowed the room. You desired him to take you. To claim you.
But Aerion was cruel. He could smell your desire like smoke. He saw the way your body changed when he entered a room, how your breath caught, how that wetness gathered between your legs where no one else could see. And he delighted in it. In your exposed hunger, in the power of keeping you on the edge, in the knowledge that you waited… waited like a virgin wife who was no longer virgin in thought.
He knew you wanted him and so, he waited for you to beg.
When he returned to the chambers, the door closed with a thud that made you startle as you brushed your hair before the window. You felt his gaze before you saw him; he watched the golden robe you wore, slipped over your shoulders and you knew it wasn't yours. You'd taken it from his clothes, from those he'd brought from Lys, and the fabric held not just his scent, but the audacity of your gesture. Provocation or necessity, you no longer knew.
He sat down. The chair creaked as he leaned back, and you stayed there, turned away, your fingers pretending to fuss with your hair. But your eyes, in the window's reflection, devoured his every movement. You saw when he took a grape, deliberately. You saw when he brought it to his lips and bit. And he admired you.
Aerion bit another grape slowly, and you heard the wet sound, imagined his tongue gathering the juice from his own fingers.
"Come here." His voice broke the silence, but it wasn't a request. It never was.
Your fingers stopped in mid-air. The comb slipped, falling on the stone floor with a clink that echoed louder than it should have. You turned, slowly, and he was still there, reclined in the chair as if all the world could wait. His legs slightly apart, his free hand resting on his thigh, his eyes devouring you from head to toe and climbing back up, slower still the second time.
Because the shift you wore was thin. Diaphanous. Almost transparent in the room's half-light, but cruelly revealing where the hearth's light danced over your body. The fabric, a thread of pale silk that barely deserved the name of clothing, clung to you like a second skin, and the orange glow of the flames outlined every curve.
Your breasts, round and full, were warm from the hearth's heat, and the flush spreading across your skin was from desire. Your nipples hardened under his gaze, marking the silk with two dark buds that seemed to beg for — no, demand — his mouth. You saw when his gaze fixed there, when his jaw tightened, when the fingers on his thigh squeezed slightly.
He said nothing. But the hand that had rested idle began a slow, almost distracted movement, his fingers tracing circles on the cloth of his breeches. Beneath the dark fabric, something stirred. Hardened. And he made no effort to hide it, to disguise it — on the contrary, he shifted in the chair, his legs opening a little more, as if offering you the view, as if to say: do you see what you do to me? Do you see what you want?
You swallowed hard. Saliva scratched down your throat, because your mouth was dry, because your whole body was a single point of heat concentrated between your legs. The shift, too thin, hid nothing and you knew he saw. Saw the dark of your nipples, saw the tremor of your breath, saw likely the contour of your hips, your belly, and further down, where the triangle began to show beneath the silk, because the shift was short, because the fabric rode up when you moved, because he had commanded you to come and you had come to him and now you stood there, exposed, offered, devoured.
His eyes travelled down. Slowly. Following the line of your neck, the valley between your breasts, the curve of your waist, the parting of your legs — because you, without realising, had slightly spread your feet, as if your body already knew what your mouth dared not ask.
"I won't ask again," he said, his voice like velvet rasping over goosebumped skin.
You took a step. Then another. The distance between you shrank, and now you could see his eyes up close, their violet almost melted by the darkness of his dilated pupils. You could see his hand, still on his thigh, his fingers so close to the bulge pushing against his breeches.
"Closer."
One more step and you were between his legs now. His breath warmed the silk over your belly, and you could smell him, that strange perfume from Lys still on his clothes, the heat of his body, the almost solid desire that emanated from him like smoke.
Aerion raised his hand and his fingers touched the hem of your shift, brushing the bare skin of your thigh, and you trembled, but he didn't move higher. He stayed there, tracing slow circles on the inside of your thigh, each circle closer, each circle higher, until his fingers were a hair's breadth from where the silk was damp, where the heat seemed most intense.
"You're wet," he said. It wasn't a question.
You closed your eyes. Shame and desire twisted in your chest in a knot so tight it hurt.
"Look at me."
You looked.
"Say it."
"Yes," you whispered. "I am."
He smiled again, but the smile died quickly, replaced by something deeper, darker. His fingers finally moved higher, pushed the silk aside, found the wet heat of your cunt, the soft, open flesh, and you moaned — a small, hoarse sound that seemed to come from somewhere very deep.
He didn't touch you as you expected, just ran one finger, slowly, gathering the moisture, bringing it to his mouth afterwards, his eyes fixed on yours as he tasted.
"Sweet," he murmured. "Mine."
His fingers, still gleaming with your wetness and the saliva from his mouth, closed slowly, as if saving for later the taste his mouth had already known.
"Do you want something?" The question came sweet, almost mocking, and you knew he already knew the answer.
You swallowed hard.
"Yes."
He smiled, not with his whole mouth, just one corner, a half-smile that made your belly clench.
"What do you want?"
Bastard. He knew. He knew and wanted to hear, wanted you to confess, to humiliate yourself in your own need. You wanted him to take you. To fill you. To do what no words on marriage parchments could... mark you inside, fill you with his seed, make you his in a way no king could undo.
"I want you to touch me," you whispered.
He laughed softly, a sound that vibrated in his chest and echoed in your belly.
"I've already touched you... you want more."
It wasn't a question, it was an accusation, a provocation, the taut rope between what you dared ask and what he demanded to hear.
"Yes," the word escaped like a moan. "I want more."
His hand moved then, not to your body, but to his own lap. His fingers slid over his breeches, over the bulge that grew there, hard, hot, almost aggressive beneath the dark cloth. He squeezed, slowly, and you saw his jaw tighten, saw his head tilt back for an instant, his eyes closed.
"Do you see what you do?" he murmured, his eyes opening again, locking onto yours. "Do you see what you do to me, little whore?"
The name pierced you and you shuddered, your hands clenching at your sides, your nipples so hard they hurt against the thin silk.
"I see," you whispered.
"And do you want it?"
"I want to feel it inside me. I want to feel every vein, every pulse, every drop that comes from there. I want you to fuck me until I forget my own name, until I only know how to say yours," you replied, your knuckles white, trying to strip yourself of all dignity.
He stood then — the chair scraped back, pushed away — and suddenly he was before you, his free hand gripping your nape, pulling you close until your face was a handspan from his.
"Is that really what you want? For me to fuck you like a bitch? To mount you until you're completely wrecked, full of me, dripping my seed wherever you walk?"
"Yes," you answered without hesitation, your eyes fixed on his. "I want that and more. I want you to fill me so much I get pregnant the first time. I want to walk through this castle with your seed inside me, with your get in my womb."
His hand tightened on your nape, his fingers digging into your skin.
"Then beg. Beg as you should. Beg like the whore you are, who spends the night soaking the silk for me, who wears my clothes, who burns in my absence."
His hand moved down, found the thin strap of your shift on your shoulder, pushed it down. The silk gave way, slid, freeing one breast, the red, hard nipple meeting the cool air of the room. He looked, lingered, but didn't touch.
His hand moved down, found the thin strap of your shift on your shoulder, pushed it down. The silk gave way, slid, freeing one breast, the red, hard nipple meeting the cool air of the room. He looked, lingered, but didn't touch.
"Beg."
You opened your mouth and the words were there, all of them, dirty and sweet and desperate.
"I want you to fuck me. To claim me. To fill me with your seed until it runs down my legs, until there's no doubt in anyone's mind who I belong to, who possessed me, who made me his."
His eyes burned, burned so much you could almost feel the heat in his pupils.
"I'm going to fuck you against these walls until you can't stand. I'm going to fill you so much you'll dream of my seed. And tomorrow night I'll want you again. And again. And again. Until I'm certain it's done."
"Then do it," you challenged, your hands moving down, finding his breeches, undoing his belt with agile, impatient fingers. "Do it. Fill me. Put your heir in me. Show this whole damn kingdom that I'm yours and you're mine."
He pushed you against the wall — you felt the cold stone on your back, his heat in front — and then his breeches fell and he was naked, hard, enormous, the tip of his cock already wet, brushing your thigh.
"Look," he commanded.
And you looked down. You saw his cock, thick, long, the tip red and glistening, veins pulsing beneath stretched skin. You saw and your mouth watered, your hands moving down, wanting to touch, wanting to feel.
"It's beautiful," you murmured. "It's mine."
His hand found your cunt, his fingers parted your lips, felt the heat, the wetness, the opening that dripped, begging for him, throbbing indecently.
"This is how you beg," Aerion murmured, and finally his mouth descended on your breast.
The shock of wet heat against sensitive skin made your legs weaken. He bit, pulled, sucked with a hunger that seemed to come from somewhere very deep, while his hands tore at the thin silk, pushed away what remained of your shift, left you naked before him, before the hearth, before everything.
When his mouth released your breast, the nipple was red, throbbing, marked by his teeth. He looked, satisfied, and then his hands gripped your hips, pulled you against his body, and you felt his hard cock pressing against your belly.
"I won't be gentle," he warned, whispering in your ear. "I won't be sweet. I'll fuck you until you forget your own name, until you only know how to say mine. I'll fill you so much you'll feel my seed inside you for days. You'll walk through this Keep with your legs apart, dripping, and everyone will know."
You moaned, a loud, lost sound, as his hands turned you, pushed you against the nearest wall. Aerion brought his cock near your cunt and you saw; your whole body responded, a spasm that made more fluids run, that made your cunt open, empty, starving.
"Is this what you want?"
"Yes," you moaned. "Fill me, make me yours, fuck me until I can't walk..."
He lifted one of your legs, aligned his cockhead with your soaked cunt and pushed.
The moan that came from you was primal, animalistic, because he was big, because he filled you, because every inch that entered seemed to open a path to somewhere no one had ever been. He pushed more, more, until his hips met yours, until he was completely inside, so deep you felt your heart beating in your throat, in your eyes, in every pore.
"Deeper," you begged, whimpering. "Fill me completely. I want to feel you in my throat."
He buried himself deeper, his hips flush against yours. You wanted him to move, to fuck you, to fill you, to fulfil every damn word he'd spoken.
"Move," you begged. "Please, Aerion, move, fuck me, I want to feel..."
He moved with a slow, deep thrust that made lights explode behind your eyes. Then another. Then faster, harder, his hips slapping against yours, the wet sound of bodies meeting filling the room along with moans, curses, the filthy words he murmured in your ear.
"You're mine, sweetling. Mine. This cunt is mine, this arse is mine, this womb is mine. And I'll fill it. I'll fill you so much you'll get pregnant tonight, you'll have my child inside you, you'll walk around heavy, full of me, and everyone will know it was you who managed to tame the dragon, and when this one's born, I'll fuck you as many more times just to carry other children, isn't that what you want?"
"Y... yes," you moaned, your eyes rolling back.
The thrusts were fast now, desperate. You felt his cock sinking into your cunt, every inch, every time he buried himself to the hilt and seemed to touch your soul. Your legs faltered, but his hands held you, supported you, fucked you against the wall like you were a doll, like your body's only purpose was to receive that cock, that seed, that essence.
"I'm going to come," he warned, his voice a snarl. "I'm going to come and I want you to feel everything. I want every drop to go inside you, to swim, to find your egg and fertilise it. I want to see your belly grow. I want to see you birth my children. I want you to be the mother of my dragons."
"Yes," you screamed. "Yes, fill me, Aerion, make me yours, give me your seed, I want it all..."
He thrust one last time, deep, so deep it hurt, and then you felt it. You felt the first spurt, hot, thick, jetting inside you as if it would never end. Then another. Another. He trembled all over, roaring against your neck, while his seed spilled, filled, overflowed at the edges where your bodies met.
And you came too. Your whole body a spasm, your nails raking his back, your mouth open in a silent scream as your inner walls clenched, gripped, sucked every drop of that hot seed inside, deeper, to the very place where life began.
When he stopped spurting, he stayed inside you, still hard, still trembling. And you smiled, exhausted, empty, full, as you felt his seed running down your leg and his cock hardening again inside you.
"How long have you waited for this?" he asked, brushing your entrance. "How many moons have you knelt before me?"
"Many," you whispered, pushing back the hair that stuck to your face. "Many moons. Many nights."
"And what do you want, wife? Tell me again."
"I want your child," the words escaped in a single breath, as if you said it all at once. "I want to be the mother of your children, Aerion."
"You will be. I'll plant my heir in your womb and then I'll plant another, and another, until your body can no longer hide what we've done."
His hands found your face, and he grabbed you.
"You want to be the mother of my children? You want everyone at court to see your belly grow and know it was me who filled you?"
"Yes," you answered, and the word was a moan. "Yes, my prince."
Aerion kept moving inside you, prolonging your pleasure, taking you to higher and higher peaks.
"Now," he said when he felt you were ready again. "Now I'll fill you again. I'll give you everything you asked for."
His thrusts grew deeper, more urgent. And when you felt another spurt of his seed inside you, when you felt the heat spread through your entrails, a new orgasm took you, even more intense than the first.
He kept spilling inside you for a long time, each pulse a promise kept. And when he finally quieted, when his weight on you was a blessing instead of a burden, he kissed your forehead with a tenderness you didn't know existed in him.
"This is only the beginning," he murmured, still inside you. "Tonight I'll fill you as many times as I can. And tomorrow we'll do it again. And the day after. Until there's no doubt."
And he kept his word.
That night, he took you more times than you could count. In every position you'd imagined, in every way you'd dreamed. And each time, when he reached his end, he spilled inside you with a moan that echoed your own pleasure.
"I want to see you heavy with my child," he said the fourth time, when he had you on all fours, buried deep inside you. "I want to see your breasts swell, your belly grow. I want to feel your body change because of me."
"You will," you promised, arching back against him. "I'll give you many children. As many as you want."
"All of them," he agreed, quickening his pace. "I'll fill you so many times you'll lose count. You'll be the most fertile wife in the Seven Kingdoms."
His hands found your face, and he slapped you — a sharp, dry crack that made your head turn and your skin sting, but you smiled. His smile widened when he saw the gleam in your eyes, the way you tilted your face back, offering the other cheek.
"You want to be the mother of my dragons?" he repeated, and his hand came again, harder, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the chamber. "You want everyone at court to see your belly swell and know it was me who filled you?"
"Yes," you answered, and the word was a moan, your eyes brimming but fixed on his. "Yes, my prince. I want everyone to know I'm your whore, your wife, the mother of your dragons."
He spat in your face and the warm liquid ran down your cheek, mixing with the tears that had already begun to fall, and you moaned, your hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him closer.
"You're a bitch in heat," he murmured, his voice thick, his hips beginning a slow, deep movement that made his seed spill even more, that soaked the bed beneath you. "A bitch who only wants cock, only wants seed, only wants to be mounted by a dragon until she can't take any more."
"I am," you confessed, your voice breaking between sobs and moans. "Ride me like a dragon, make me drip..."
He spat again, and then his hands found your breasts, squeezing, twisting your nipples until they tore a scream from you — pain and pleasure mingled, confused, you no longer knew where one began and the other ended.
"Quiet!" he ordered, and his hand came again, another slap, and another, and you felt your face sting, the hot tears falling, but you didn't shut up, you didn't want to be silent, you wanted everyone to hear, everyone to know.
"I can't," you whimpered, your voice loud, uncontrolled. "I can't be silent when you fuck me like this, when you're so deep, when you're so big..."
He covered your mouth with his hand, his fingers pressing, almost suffocating, while his thrusts grew stronger, more brutal, the bed banging against the wall in a rhythm that must have been echoing through every corridor.
"You want them to hear?" he snarled in your ear, his hand still covering your mouth. "You want the whole bloody court to hear how the princess moans? How the princess cries? How the princess begs for more cock?"
You nodded, your eyes wide, tears and spit running down your face, and he laughed, a cruel, delighted sound.
"Then scream," he said, removing his hand. "Scream like the whore you are. Scream so everyone hears who you belong to."
And you screamed. When he thrust deep again, when you felt his cock pulse inside your cunt, ready to spurt again, you screamed his name, loud, desperate, a sound that wasn't human, that was pure instinct, pure hunger, pure need.
"Aerion! Aerion, fuck me, fill me, give it to me, give it to me, give—"
The spurt came before you finished the sentence. Hot, violent, jetting as if he were breathing fire inside you. Then another. Another. And you came with him, your body arched, your nails raking his back, your mouth open in a scream that must have woken half the castle.
He kept pumping, each thrust making his seed run, spread, soak your thighs, the sheets, everything. And when he finally stopped, when he lay still inside you, gasping, you felt the hot seed running, dripping, forming a puddle beneath you.
But he didn't pull out. He stayed there, still hard, pulsing inside you.
"More," you whispered, your voice hoarse from screaming. "More, Aerion."
He looked at you and saw your face swollen from crying, the marks from his slaps, the dried spit, your eyes red but bright with desire. And he smiled.
"You'll have it," he promised, and began to move again. "You'll have it until dawn. Until you can't take any more. Until you only know how to say my name."
He took you more times than you could count, in every position you'd imagined, in every way you'd dreamed. On your belly, your face buried in the pillows while he fucked you from behind and pulled your hair, wrenching screams from you that you muffled in the bedclothes. Riding him, his hands on your hips guiding the rhythm, squeezing until they left purple marks. Against the wall, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies slipping with sweat and seed that covered you like a second skin.
Each time, when he reached his end, he spilled himself inside you with a groan that echoed your own pleasure. And each time, you begged for more, wept for more, screamed for more.
"I want to see you heavy with my son," he said, when he had you on all fours, buried deep inside you, one hand tangled in your hair pulling your head back while the other slapped your arse, leaving the skin red and hot. "I want to see your breasts swell, your belly grow."
Aerion smiled, quickening his pace, his thrusts so strong you no longer had strength to hold yourself up — you collapsed onto the bed and he continued, mounted on you, fucking you like an animal. By the seventh time, you could no longer speak, only hoarse moans, silent tears, your body aching but hungry, always hungry. He laid you on your side, lifted your leg and entered again, slow, deep, and you felt every pulse.
"Do you feel it?" he murmured, his mouth at your ear. "Do you feel how hard I still am? How I still have seed to give you?"
You nodded, a sob caught in your throat.
"I'm going to come again," he warned.
"Please," you whispered, your voice thick with want. "Please, my prince, fill me again. Please don't stop. Never stop."
He groaned and thrust deep, one final time, and the seed spilled, hot, abundant, filling you once more, overflowing, running down your legs, mingling with everything already there. And when he finally quietened, when his body settled on yours like a dead weight, you still felt hunger. You still wanted more.
"Tomorrow," you murmured, your eyes closing, consciousness slipping. "Tomorrow I want more."
He laughed, tired, and kissed the nape of your neck.
"Tomorrow," he promised. "And the day after."
The next morning, you woke wrapped in his arms, with his cock still inside you — he'd stayed there all night, as if afraid the child might escape if he parted from you.
"You're still empty," he murmured, moving slowly inside you when he noticed you were awake. "I still need to fill you more."
And he filled you. And filled you. And filled you.
The days that followed were a whirlwind of pleasure and exhaustion. Aerion rarely left you, and when he did, it was only to fetch food or wine, to strengthen you for the next attempt. Your body ached in ways you'd never imagined, but each ache was a reminder of what you were doing, what you were creating.
"You're fuller today," he observed on the third day, his hand resting on your still-flat belly. "Or is it my imagination?"
"It can't be that quick," you laughed, but your heart leaped at the possibility.
"It can. We're dragon's blood… we do everything quicker."
On the fifth night, as he took you against the bedroom wall, your legs locked around his waist and your moans echoing off the stones, something changed. He stopped suddenly, his eyes wide.
"Do you feel it?" he asked, and his voice sounded strange.
"What?"
His hand moved down to your belly, pressing gently.
"There's something different."
You looked down, to where his hand touched, and for the first time you noticed a small protuberance, almost imperceptible, but there. A curve where there'd been flatness before.
"It can't be," you whispered. "It's too soon."
"I told you," he murmured, and there was triumph in his voice. "Dragon's blood."
He withdrew from you carefully and carried you to the bed, laying you on your back. His eyes never left your belly, his hand settling again on that small curve.
"My son," he murmured. "My heir... my seed growing inside you."
"Our son," you corrected, as you had so many moons ago.
This time, he didn't argue. This time, he simply nodded.
"That should have solved the problem," he said with a light laugh, his hand rubbing your belly gently. "Now you already have a child of mine."
You nodded, smiling, exhausted. He'd fucked the life into you trying to put one inside you, and they'd been the best nights of your life — nights that would soon repeat themselves.
