Special!
As promised, I'm delivering a most anticipated special: an AU where Aerion never finds the Tansy, and he stays with Aerea throughout her pregnancy and birth. Enjoy this very unrealistic fluff, and lmk your thoughts!
Ps: expect the fic to drop on AO3 soonish (I'm starting work, so can't publish it just yet 😂)
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Foreword: this one shot is a companion piece to the Cleaved in Two fanfic, where Aerion has a twin sister. Can be read as a standalone.
Content warning: Twincest, pregnancy, birth, Aerion is somewhat soft, codependency, smut, dragon dreams
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1. Two Hatchlings, Become Three
The letter arrived in the morn.
Father read it over in grim silence, the crackle of parchment loud against the otherwise muted scrape of cutlery and smacking lips. They’d served them a simple fare again; scones and porridge, platters of cow cheese, along with pitchers of fresh milk. Mild things that would agree with her sensitive palate.
And yet, the sight of Father's grimace made Aerea lose what little appetite she'd managed to muster.
“What is it?” she'd asked after a beat, when the silence grew too unbearable.
“A message from King's Landing” Maekar announced, the words whistling out of him in one forced breath. “Lady Kiera has given birth.”
Her fork clattered against the plate.
In the seat next to her, Rhae grumbled around a mouthful of sausage.
“Does that mean we’ve got a new King?”
Daeron frowned at her from across the table. “No, we don’t. It just means the boy will be King one day. After grandsire and Valarr.”
“He won’t,” Father cut him off. “The child was stillborn.”
Silence descended upon the table so completely that even the hearthfire seemed to hush.
Rhae, lacking in any tact whatsoever, blinked.
“What’s that mean?”
“It means he was born dead, idiot,” Daella immediately whacked her on the arm. “Now be quiet.”
Her little sister’s eyes widened enormously, and she peered directly at Aerea.
The mouthful of porridge lodged in her throat.
“How?” she demanded.
Father swallowed.
“What do you mean how? There’s no how. The boy was ill in the womb and didn’t survive—"
Flustered, she vaulted to her feet and waddled around the table before anyone could stop her. She snatched the parchment from his hands, ignoring his grumbling. Grandsire’s script stared back at her, neat, thin, trembling faintly with age.
Her gaze caught on the words.
Difficult birth. Malformed. Dead upon arrival.
Her belly flipped.
Father’s hands closed around her own. “This means nothing. You’ll be fine, Maester Melanquin has said it so himself—"
But she was already barreling away.
She rushed from the castle dining room, the sounds of startled voices fading behind her as she stomped through Summerhall’s sunlit corridors. Servants flattened themselves against the walls to avoid her, letting her rush up the steps into her and Aerion’s shared quarters.
The moment the door slammed shut behind her, her mind began to spin in earnest, dread humming beneath her ribs like a living thing.
Dead at birth. Malformed out the womb.
That shouldn’t have happened. Valarr was healthy, as was his wife. When they’d left the Capital, Grand Maester had been raving endlessly about how well Kiera carried the pregnancy.
This had to be some cruel jape. An error. A misunderstanding.
Because if Kiera had managed to have a stillborn…
Aerea paused abruptly, her gaze drifting downward.
Her belly was still today; no movement, no customary pain, or disquieting muscle spasms that made her feel like her innards were being rearranged. Just a great hill rising from an otherwise paltry flatland, all of it concealed beneath the samite maternity gown she’d stolen from Mother’s old wardrobe.
But that didn’t matter; not when Aerion still insisted she would hatch him a dragon.
Not when pregnancy had been wearing her down bit by bit for the last seven agonizing months.
Her symptoms were mild at first. Sporadic sickness in the mornings, a larger appetite. Grand Maester Kelliot had caught it early, long before the signs were even due to start. Aerea prayed they wouldn’t come at all.
She'd chosen not to take the Tansy. Discarded it when no one was looking, decided to give in and return to Summerhall with Father and her siblings, to surrender herself to her fate. Surely, the gods had to reward her restraint.
They did not.
The moment her second moon was nearing it’s close, the siege began. Constant sickness. Fatigue. She'd feel unsteady on her feet all the time, and had taken to avoiding stairs without an escort for fear of losing consciousness and falling down.
Food had become her worst foe and greatest pleasure. She'd crave all manner of strange things; lamprey pies smothered in cranberry sauce, stuffed cod with capers, milk bread dipped in relish, whilst recoiling at the mere whiff of something like simple pork roast or fried eggs. Everything seemed to fray her nerves, and despite her most ardent efforts to exercise restraint, she’d frequently crack and throw fits at the mildest of inconveniences.
Aerion found it all immeasurably funny.
“Good,” he'd grin every time the servants brought to him the news of her latest caprice. “Dragons are fearsome. It’s only right they lash out.”
He'd embraced her as he'd said that, his palms hungrily molding against her middle. And Aerea had shaken him off, called him an arrogant cunt, before utterly unraveling and dragging him to bed.
That part was the worst. The sudden bouts of ardor. Some nights, she felt foul. Swollen and sickly, too wretched to do anything save sink under the covers and let oblivion take her. Other nights, she felt feral. Desperate to be kissed, touched, fucked.
Seven hells, did she want to be fucked.
She’d assail Aerion like a woman starved, sucking on his lips, his tongue, his breath till her lungs felt on the verge of bursting. Her fingers would paw at his clothing, wrench open his laces hard enough to give herself rope burns. She didn’t care. She scarce felt it. All that mattered was forcing him down onto the bed, so she could climb atop him and ride him to oblivion.
She knew it was the quickening. Pregnancy did strange thing to the humors, Melanquin confirmed, increasing, and decreasing libido at will. Whatever it was, it felt godly. Every touch was amplified, every kiss searing. She’d be dripping wet when she'd take him into her, unravel almost to unconsciousness when her pleasure came.
She'd scream sometimes— loudly, as if she were possessed—before collapsing amid the pillows, her slick drenching her thighs along with his seed.
“I should put children in you more often,” Aerion would pant in the silence, utterly spent.
He'd gloat every time she attacked him, gleefully calling her his ‘needy little whore’. Aerea had cracked him so hard across the face once, she'd ended up splitting his lip. Then, she'd demanded he shut up and stick his cock into her, right now, which he obliged, fucking her into a wall till she screamed.
No sooner had she moaned her last than she heard rapping on the door, and Mildrith's concerned voice sounded on the other end.
“Are you alright, Princess?” she'd cooed. “I heard… screaming.”
“Did she now?” Aerion chuckled. His skin was hot against hers, slick with salt and sweat. His tongue dragged all along her neck, halting just at her ear, to give the lobe a little bite. Aerea slapped him off; even as shudders skidded down her spine, and that familiar heat bloomed between her legs yet again.
Gods, it was disgusting how magnificent he looked. Skin flush and glistening, his body firm and honed in muscle. His cock was stirring again, thick and long and veiny, still wet with traces of her arousal.
She wanted it. She wanted him.
“Fine, Mildrith. It was nothing. Disregard it.”
A slow, creeping smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Disregard it? Planning on doing more screaming, my love?”
A curtain of red fell on her eyes. She slapped him again, launching herself at him to tackle him to the ground. He wrestled her into submission easily, forcing her back against the wall to seize her by the neck.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” she panted into his mouth, letting his tongue tangle with her own. “Fuck me… please, love, please, please fuck me…”
He smiled against her lips, his hand curling around her jaw to press her close.
“Konīr iksis ñuha ziry zaldrīzes,”
“There's my she dragon.”
He practically growled the words, before hooking her legs around his waist and tumbling onto the settee.
It was madness. It was fire. The entire keep knew about it. Father had sent Melanquin to her chamber at one point, to make certain all that ‘strenuous activity' wasn’t hurting her child. It was not. Though it had certainly harmed Aerea’s sanity.
But fortunately for her, and unfortunately for Aerion, the hunger didn’t last long. As soon as her third month passed and she began to swell, her passions dimmed.
It began as a slight curve just below her navel, no different than the swelling she'd get when her moon blood was due. Then it was her breasts, slowly budding to near twice their size to the point where she struggled to close her undergarments properly. It was foul.
Father had assured her he'd made accommodations with the seamstresses to tailor Mother's old maternity clothes to fit her changing body. Outwardly, Aerea was thankful for the gesture; inwardly, the sight of her shrinking clothing made her want to die.
“It’s starting to show,” Aerion would purr every time he'd catch her assessing the growth in the mirror. As much as she loathed the changes, he seemed fixated on them. He'd gleefully help her dress in the mornings, letting his hands rest against the bump.
He'd developed a fascination with the way her belly button had inverted, how her backside and plumped. Her nipples drove him mad—the way they'd darkened to a bright, corral pink, as stiff as sprouting buds—and he would oft jest how she needed to wear that color more often, because it suited her.
But most importantly, he'd felt this unbearable urge to smother. Kiss her, hold her close, give her comfort. Every time she felt wretched about anything related to her condition, he'd be there, to let her lean on him and weep herself into calmness.
“Ugh, this is disgusting,” she'd heaved one evening. She'd decided to try getting atop him, couple for a bit if only to distract herself from the wretchedness. That didn’t do much.
The moment he'd slid inside her and she'd started moving, the sickness flared up and she felt the indescribable urge to retch. It was sheer luck she'd managed to get off him and fish out the pan she kept under the bed; elsewise, she might have spewed sick right into his face.
“Dragons are fire made flesh,” he'd whispered at her, immediately straightening to pull her hair back. “It’s inevitable that they would burn.”
His lips pressed into her shoulder, hand once again gripping her middle. Aerea spat a glob of bile.
“Well, I wish you would burn. To see how you like it.”
A laugh, another kiss. “Isn’t it sufficient that I have to endure your violence?”
Aerea sneered. “Not nearly enough, considering you stuck the dragonspawn in me.”
That only made him smile wider.
“Good. I’ve always wanted to live inside you. A piece of myself tucked snugly inside my favorite person.”
He coiled around her from behind, his warmth searing against her back. Despite herself, Aerea leaned in, letting the comforting heat of his embrace settle the shudders racing down her spine.
“It explains why I’m feeling so wretched.”
More laughing, followed by a soft kiss to her temple.
“You like it.”
She almost shrieked at him, demanding to know if he'd missed the incessant vomiting, vertigo and food aversions. She lacked the strength. He'd scrambled to help her up and bundle her in a robe, before leading her to a wash basin so she could clean herself. Then, he called up the servants, to take out the pan, and fetch them more pillows.
And despite her discomfort, Aerea followed him back into bed, to curl in his arms. Yes, she did like it. Not the wretched quickening, or the miseries it brought. Just… the way he’d started acting around her.
All his edges had softened, leaving behind only tender concern. He still behaved the spoiled wretch, constantly gloating about his grand achievement. But at the very least, he did his due diligence to ensure she was comfortable.
He brought her the foods she liked, indulged her unusual caprices. He found her outbursts amusing rather than vexing, and brushed aside every foul thing that would come out of her mouth with ease.
“I’ve had years of enduring your tantrums. This is quite mild in comparison,” he’d smirked at her once. “In fact, I’m rather pleased you’re acting more like your old self.”
Aerea had thrown a pillow at him, before realizing that only proved his assertion right. She was acting the beast. Just a day past, she'd screamed at a servant for the way her garments had smelled; roasted onions and pig fat, the scent of food having burrowed deep into the wool. The girl had been so shaken, she'd fled in tears. Father had chastised her for it. Aerion had laughed, and said the wench was at fault for coming to see her after loitering in the kitchen.
“They all know you can’t stand strong smells,” he'd shrugged and pulled her into a close embrace, his lips brushing against her forehead in a tentative kiss. “It's her doing for not being vigilant and minding the rules.”
Aerea grumbled how he was vile too, before putting it out of her mind.
It was temporary. Something that would doubtlessly go away once the wretched thing came out of her. Until then, she had to focus on enduring, and relying on Aerion's inordinate willingness to help; something which became a necessity as she entered her six moon of pregnancy.
The ballooning became grotesque. Her belly swelled to almost twice its size, the added weight straining her lower back. Her breasts grew in proportion, along with her thighs, hips, backside.
“Here we are. Just as I feared. I’ve become a fucking Father’s day ham,” she'd grumbled as she surveyed herself in the looking glass.
Once again, the seamstresses had had to tailor new undergarments for her, to accommodate her body. They’d all gushed at her over her little blessing, complimenting her on her newly acquired figure.
Aerea couldn’t bring herself to care one bit. Tits that size looked grotesque on her frame. She’d been small and slender all her life, and her stature simply wasn’t made to accommodate not one, but two melon sized sacks on her chest.
A sonorous laugh rang behind her.
“The finest ham in the Seven Kingdoms. Does that mean I get to eat you as well?” Aerion quipped, before stuffing a bite into his mouth. It wasn’t until Aerea whipped around to regard him, did she realize; he was eating actual ham slices. She wanted to scream.
“Oh how clever. No end to your cleverness,” she sneered, making a note to drip poison into his morning wine. Aerion was utterly unfazed.
“Don’t whinge. I told you, it suits you. You look womanly. Tits, arse and all.”
She shot him a look. “Well, as long as you have something lewd to gawk at—”
She staggered, catching herself on the armrest of a nearby chair. A sudden stab of pain cleaved through her middle, twisting her insides into a knot.
“What, what is it?” Aerion had vaulted to his feet in a flash, to scramble to her side.
“Oh I don’t… I think he’s kicking,” she jerked, as she felt another strike. She could feel movement within her, a low, aching pressure just below her navel.
“Is he? Let me feel.”
Aerion’s hands were on her straight away, molding against her middle. He felt her up for what felt like the longest time, his brows furrowed in concentration. He was almost at the point of giving up, when, without warning, the kicking started again. Aerea winced, nails raking against the armrest of her chair. She could almost picture it; a tiny hand, slamming against the walls of her womb, to give its Father greeting.
Aerion seemed positively enraptured.
“Oh there he is,” he murmured, as if in a trance. “Zaldrītsos.”
“Little dragon.”
His lips peeled into an enchanted little smile, his eyes glittering with glee. It was… lovely to see. Tender. It made her feel vile for not being as elated.
“Well,” she tried to jest. “Let’s just pray he doesn’t make this into a habit.”
He did. Frequently. The more she swelled, the worse the kicks got, to the point where she feared he might crack her ribs if he kept pummeling her so ferociously.
Melanquin seemed unfazed.
“Strong movement is a sign of the child’s health and vitality,” he'd informed her during one of their routine examinations. “And the contractions are there to prepare your womb for the strain of birth.”
Her throat closed up. “Yes, of course. The blasted birth.”
She'd not thought much of it. The pregnancy was miserable enough as was, without her fretting over its bloody endpoint. But she couldn’t avoid it forever. By her seventh moon she'd swollen so grotesquely, she was certain that just breathing too deeply would have her going into labor, if only to finally rid herself of the excessive weight.
“Your Mother was much the same,” Father had told her during a shared stroll about the gardens. “She'd balloon rather viciously when she was carrying, and though she had a larger frame than you, it was still difficult for her to manage. Especially when she was carrying two babes, rather than one.”
Bile rose in her throat. “I’d rather not think of that. I don’t think I’ll survive squeezing two out of me.”
The thought of one babe filled her with dread enough, let alone two. This child didn’t need an Aerion for a sibling. It already had Aerion for a Father.
Father's grip on her deepened. “It will be fine. I promise.”
They halted by a daffodil patch, their star shaped petals as yellow as midmorning sunlight. She wished she had Mother’s old botany books. Then mayhaps she'd know what they meant. Most like something foul. It always was with her.
“You don’t know that,” she grumbled, inhaling their scent; bitter. Sweet. Disgustingly sharp. “No one knows that.”
The gods were the ones who decided matters of life and death. And if they judged Valarr was to lose his boy why wouldn’t they do the same with her?
After all, her and Aerion had much more arrogance than Valarr and Kiera.
Grimacing, Aerea paced the length of her chamber, her back aching under the strain. Father came to see her at one point, rapping softly on the door, but she told him she wasn’t in the mood for empty platitudes. To her surprise, he didn’t press, just told her to maintain a calm demeanor for her own sake, before departing.
He did send an enforcer however, to ensure his will was followed. An hour later, her chamber door had creaked open, allowing a figure in black riding leathers to slip inside.
“Fuck the gods, I leave for a few hours and already, you’re sulking,” Aerion announced, stripping his cloak with deft fingers.
“Fuck off, your fault for departing,” she grumbled, turning away from him.
His laugh rang out in the silence. “I left per your request. To fetch you your precious dates.”
Something clattered behind her. Aerea peered over her shoulder, to find him setting a wooden container on her vanity. The inside was stuffed with spiced dates, glistening with thick globs of honey and chopped nuts. Her mouth started watering. She forced herself to look away.
“I don’t want dates. I don’t want food at all.”
Aerion chuckled.
“No, you just want to whine about things that don’t concern us.”
She spun on her heel, to find him plopping lazily down onto their settee, one arm thrown across the cushions as though he didn't have a care in the world.
“Has Father told you?”
“What? That cousin managed to spawn a dead son? Tragic, earnestly.”
Stars burst behind her eyes. “Are you mad? You’re happy about this.”
A smirk curled his lips.
“No. I couldn’t care less about it. Cousin was always a pathetic little weakling. Of course his seed would bring forth naught save failure.”
Her hand lashed out before she could stop herself. The embroidered pillow flew across the room, hitting him directly in the face.
“And what of yours?” she shot back. “An arrogant little monster who thinks himself a dragon? By all rights the gods should curse you the most. And me along with you.”
Aerion caught the pillow against his shoulder before tossing it carelessly aside.
“They won’t.”
“And how do you reckon that?” she demanded. “You said it was going to be a dragon.”
He blinked at her slowly.
“It will,” he began, lifting himself to his feet. “A strong, fearsome dragon that’ll restore glory to this house.”
He crossed the distance between them, hands reaching for her waist. Aerea tried to shove him away, fury rising to heat her cheeks.
“Stop that. You’re mad.”
“No,” he fired back, his voice dropping lower. “You know exactly what I mean. You just refuse to remember.”
“I don’t, I—”
His hand lashed again, fingers seizing her jaw hard enough to cut off the words.
“You do,” he reiterated, baring his teeth. “You’re just fretting over nothing. We’re the blood of the dragon. And from us, only life can spring forth.”
His other hand slid down to her swollen middle, spreading possessively across the taut curve of her belly.
As though summoned by his touch, a sharp kick struck against her ribs, hard enough to make her gasp. Her stomach shifted visibly beneath the folds of her gown, the child moving to answer its father's call.
A smile curled at the edge of Aerion’s mouth.
“See? Little dragon. Strong and fierce and living.”
Aerea forced herself to swallow past the bile rising in her throat. She wanted to protest, to argue, to tell him he sounded insane. But he had already released her jaw and cupped her cheeks instead, peppering her skin with fleeting kisses.
“Come now,” he whispered against her temple. “Stop fretting and get into bed with me. I wasted considerable time fetching you those dates. You might as well eat them.”
Aerea groaned, murmuring a curse under her breath. He was insufferable. Immeasurably cruel.
Still, she followed him.
She allowed him to strip her gown, leave her in nothing save her chemise. Then, she waddled into bed, to devour those stupid dates.
She inhaled the entire box, slapping at him when he attempted to sneak one for himself. Aerion laughed and let her chew, fingers tracing gentle circles into the small of her back.
When she'd stuffed herself to sickness, she collapsed into her pillows, adjusting against them so that her belly had support. Aerion coiled around her, his bare skin pressing against her back to imbue her with warmth.
“Don’t fret,” he cooed into her neck. “It will be well. I know it.”
His lips started stamping her skin, setting small fires wherever they landed.
“You just need to rest, eat well, and limit yourself to only pleasant things.”
A soft breath whistled through her teeth, as his hands traversed her hips, before yanking on her skirt to pull it up.
“And what would those pleasant things be?” she murmured, craning her head to give him a better reach. “Fucking?”
He attacked her cheek straight away, licking the honey smearing the corner of her mouth.
“You know what Melanquin said. Coupling is a good way to help ease your discomfort.”
She chortled, recalling her last examination. The Maester had given her a glowing report. Her pregnancy was progressing well, and all she had to do now was keep herself calm and healthy to prepare for the birth. He'd also recommended coupling as means of alleviating her stress, and preparing her muscles for the upcoming strain of birth.
Aerea had taken one look at him, then at Aerion, smirking just outside their sleeping area and decided the gods were playing a cruel jape on her.
“What did you give him to have him say that?” she grumbled, as he slipped his hand under her chemise. “What sort of healer recommends fucking as a means of treatment?”
Aerion's laugh was like a spill of sugar in her ear. “One trained at the Citadel. I didn’t give him anything. He just gave you his learned recommendation.”
Scoffing, she gripped his wrist, squeezing it in warning.
“Hm, a recommendation that conveniently benefits you and you alone,” she grumbled. “Now I know why they say Maestering is a profession crafted for the benefit of men.”
His teeth snapped, seizing the tip of her ear in a playful bite.
“Come now, tell me you don’t benefit from this too.”
He wiggled free of her grip, crawling between her thighs to coax them apart. His fingers greedily traversed her skin, lingering on her backside, her inner thigh. A soft moan left her lips, that familiar heat blooming right between.
“I hate you…” she managed to rasp, just as he pivoted up.
“No, you don’t,” he breathed, his fingers plunging between her folds.
It was disgusting how gently he touched. Like she was an unopened flower bud, he was trying to coax into blooming. It was exactly what her sensitive flesh needed, the kind of intimacy that bid arousal to slicken her nether lips, desire to warm her blood. She moaned, shifting to give him a better reach. She turned her head, to let his lips claim her own, their tongues tangle.
He hated doing this from behind; where neither of them could see each other's faces, kiss, share breath. But she was too big to lay on her back comfortably, and him embracing her closely was it’s own kind of intimacy. Especially when he pressed his chest against her back, and clamped around her like a trap, as if he intended to fuse into her skin.
It made it easy to forget the discomfort, the swelling, the tightness, the worry. She could just let her legs fall open, and enjoy the touch, get lost in the fog of desire.
“Ñuha byka Arri,” he rasped against her cheek. “Ñuha gevie ziry zaldrīzes.”
“My little Arri. My beautiful she-dragon.”
She chortled, shuddering when his tongue dragged along her pulse point.
“How could you possibly find this beautiful? I’m half a cow…”
He smiled against her skin, his fingers halting their invasion. She whimpered, her cunt mourning the absence of his touch, when his hand pivoted up.
“You’re not. You’re just womanly,” he managed to murmur. His palm felt up her thigh, then her hip, lingering on the roundness, the curve. “All round, and thick, and lovely. Swelling with my seed.”
The way he said that—low, forceful, unbearably possessive—should have left her discomforted. It didn’t. There was comfort in there too, a quiet reassurance that she wasn’t as vile as she felt.
“As long as you're enjoying yourself…”
A pause. He wrenched the strap of her nightgown down, letting her left breast spill free. He immediately attacked, lifting himself to his elbow, to lick at the nipple. Aerea winced, the contact electrifying. Her breasts had swelled to grotesque proportions, her milk already coming through. She'd forbidden the wretch from outright suckling on them for fear she might leak. But Aerion liked being disobedient, and had found a way around the rule by just licking at her nipples to satisfy his perversions.
“And you aren’t?” he panted against her skin, his skin flush and ravenous.
Heat bloomed between her legs, hot and violent.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” she moaned, her breath stuttering in her lungs. “Fuck me…”
The words were like a spell.
“There's my she-dragon,” He rasped, and forced himself to cease his assault on her breast. The moment his laces hissed open, his cock sprang free, already hard and pulsing with barely contained desire.
He slotted his hips against her backside, his hardness pressing against her flesh. Aerea raised her left leg on reflex, letting him slip through, find her entrance.
It hurt. They’d last coupled more than a moon past, and her sensitive flesh made the feel of him breaching that much more intense. She still let her body relax, let her wetness suck him up to the hilt. His hand quickly moved to adjust her leg, prop it against his own before crawling lower to strum her pearl.
“Arri, my Arri,” He whispered into her shoulder, lips stamping her skin with hungry kisses.
Aerea groaned, contracting around his cock. Gods. She'd forgotten how big it was. How good it felt. He drove into her slowly, each thrust filling her with ecstasy, pleasure, contentment. Her back arched on reflex, her hips bunching in a bid to take him deeper.
“Harder, love, harder,” she mewled, grinding into his touch. He complied eagerly, thrusting into her hard and quick, sheathing himself so deep inside her, her toes curled. Aerea moaned, feeling wetness leak out of her to slick her skin. Her heart slammed against her chest, her entire body going taunt.
Moments later, she cried. Her inner walls contracted around him, her hips jerking against his onslaught. The sudden jolt made the child within her stir, thumping restlessly against her navel. The movement seemed to drive Aerion rabid. He drove himself into her hard, a strained grunt leaving his lips. His cock twitched inside her, his body stiffening with the force of his release.
His hand pawed, hungrily gripping her middle to feel up the movement.
“There he is. Little dragon. Life… life we made. Feel it… feel,” he whispered into her back, his voice thick with desire; desire, pride, elation.
Aerea let loose a breath. Yes, she could feel it. The stirrings in her belly, the feel of his seed, dripping to stick to her thighs. The same seed that had sprouted the child growing inside her. A dragon. A dragon in human form.
“Avy jorrāelan. Gaomagon daor zūgagon,” Aerion whispered.
“I love you. Don’t fret.”
He propped himself up onto his elbows, to nudge her to meet his gaze. His skin was flush, his eyes hungry, flames of ardor crackling in their violet depths. It was lovely. It was frightening. He had too much certainty in this. Blind belief that all would go well, that they would get what they’d wanted. What he wanted.
“Nyke gīmigon. Se nyke ao,” she whispered, and resigned herself to stifling her worry.
“I know. And I you.”
* * *
Aerion made it remarkably easy.
Every time she was close to falling into her customary fretting spell, he'd be there to stifle her worries. He'd distract her with mundane amusements, cyvasse games, strolls about the gardens, stories read by the hearthfire. At night, whenever she'd get too fussy, he'd smother her with kisses, pester her with affection till she either grew so aggravated, she completely forgot about her worries, or flustered enough to beg him to fuck her again.
They didn’t couple frequently. Her eight moon saw her ballooning to absurd proportions, her lungs straining under the effort of carrying that much weight. Regardless, Aerion seemed delighted by the change, gleefully pawing at her belly every chance he got. Sometimes, all that touching got him hard, and she'd coax him into pleasuring himself whilst she lay beside him, kissing and caressing him till he finished into his hand. It brought her relief. A sense of comfort. Something that she desperately needed to forget just how uncomfortable she felt.
Trouble was, she could not stave off the discomfort for long.
It started as a slow, building pain. It struck her whilst she was breaking her fast one morning, bidding her to completely forsake the scone Aerion had coaxed her into eating. He'd tried chastising her about it, but Aerea had waved him off weakly, pressing a hand to her middle.
“I can't eat right now. I'm in pain.”
Aerion frowned at her over the table. “Why?”
“I don't know, it just hurts,” she snapped, rising unsteadily from the table to sit herself upon the bed. Her stomach twisted again, harder this time, making her breath catch in her throat. “Give me a moment. It'll pass.”
It didn't.
As the hours ebbed, the pain steadily grew worse, rising in both volume and frequency. What had begun as an ache became a relentless squeezing, invisible hands wringing her insides apart. Every wave left her breathless and trembling by the time it passed, only for another to arrive moments later.
Flustered, Aerion immediately called Melanquin forth so he could examine her.
“When will it go away?” she grumbled through clenched teeth, sprawled against the mattress as the Maester looked between her legs. She was drenched, sweat sticking her hair to her skin in uncomfortable strips.
“Once you give birth,” the Maester exclaimed. He peered above the hem of her skirt, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. “You're in labor, Princess.”
Stars burst behind her eyes.
“No… no, I... I can't be. It's too soon.”
“I should think not.” Melanquin rose, wiping his hands on his apron. “If our calculations are correct, this is exactly the right time. The child is due.”
He paused, his chin dipping into a nod. “Best get ready.”
Aerea tried to protest. Tried to argue how it couldn't be time, how she wasn't ready, how there had to be some mistake. Nobody listened. Father immediately sprang to life, summoning the local midwives to attend her and prepare her birthing bed. Daeron fled to avoid the horror, whilst her sisters went into a frenzy, demanding to know when the babe would come and whether they could watch the birth. Aerion had exiled them all, insisting no one be allowed in the chamber save him, her, and their attendants.
It was disgusting. She felt like she was going to die.
“I can't, I can't,” she'd moaned hours later, doubling over as another rush of agony tore through her.
The pain was searing now, a crushing pressure that flattened her insides into pulp.
“You can,” Aerion insisted, his expression maddeningly flat. He'd been remarkably unbothered by the news, observing her agony in stoic silence. “Steel yourself against the pain and it will be over soon.”
The way he said it made stars burst behind her eyes.
She slapped him hard across the cheek, then slammed both palms into his chest until he staggered backward.
“You vile fuck!” she screamed. “You did this, this is your fault. I hate you, I hate you— oh!”
Her words dissolved into a strangled grunt; another contraction ripped through her middle so violently she nearly folded in half.
“Don't whinge. This is what you were made for. And you'll live through it,” he snapped back, earning himself a pillow hurled directly at his face.
“Get out, get out!” she shrieked, stumbling toward the table to brace herself against it. Her vision swam. The pain persisted, gnawing and clawing at her without mercy.
Aerion didn't leave.
He bore her abuse in silence, occasionally throwing out blasé remarks that made her see red. As loathe as Aerea was to admit it, the anger did wonders to distract her from the agony. To a point.
By the time eight hours had passed, the pain had become all-consuming. Time itself felt slippery, disjointed. She waddled helplessly from one corner of her chamber to the next, searching for relief, any sort of reprieve. Her back ached. Her hips felt split apart. Every few moments another contraction seized her body and wrung a scream from her throat before leaving her trembling and disoriented in its wake.
At one point, she even began weeping, clinging to Aerion's shoulders as though her life depended on it.
He said nothing; merely held onto her, kissed her, licked the salt of tears clinging to her cheeks. He let her claw at him whenever the contractions struck, not uttering a single word of protest even when her nails drew blood.
It was comforting. It was safe.
Especially when he stripped off his tunic and let her press herself against the heat of his bare skin, his warmth a ward against the relentless onslaught.
She didn't know how long she spent writhing. She only knew that by the time Melanquin announced she was ready to push, nightfall had blanketed the world beyond her windows in a dome of starless blackness.
“You might want to leave, my Prince,” Melanquin declared after she was finally coaxed back onto the bed. “Fathers are not customarily permitted to remain in the chamber.”
Panic swept through her, hot and violent.
Aerion craned his head toward the Maester, his jaw visibly gritting. “Magnificent. And which one of you intends to make me leave?”
Melanquin's expression fell. The midwives all paled and exchanged weary looks with one another.
“Aerion, don't make this into a spectacle,” Father materialized at his side, skin flushed and doublet rumpled with worry.
Aerion shook him off with visible irritation, muttering something beneath his breath about how he wasn't leaving.
“No, I...” Aerea sputtered, struggling up onto her elbows. “I want him here, I want... Erri—”
Her words morphed into a strangled cry as another contraction wracked her body.
Her twin immediately shook off Father's grip and scrambled to prop her into his lap. Maekar followed after him, kneeling at the foot of the bed.
“It hurts, Keppa,” she whimpered. “It hurts. I'm going to die, I... stay... stay—”
“You're not,” Maekar insisted, twining his fingers through hers. “Do as the Maester tells you and you'll be alright, sweet girl. You'll be alright.”
He brought her knuckles to his lips to kiss, and she had to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek to stifle a sob.
“Alright, Princess, it's time,” Melanquin declared after one of the midwives passed her a cup of poppy milk. “On the count of three, I need you to push.”
Aerea tried to answer, tried to nod. All she managed was a ragged cry.
“One... two... three... and push!”
She did; and screamed.
Fire erupted through her nether region, white-hot and unbearable, her flesh splitting, melting. The pain swallowed everything. Her vision blackened at the edges. She gripped Father's hand hard enough to bruise, Aerion's arms the only thing keeping her upright.
“And breathe,” voices chanted around her, their faces blurred together into shapeless smears. “Breathe, Princess.”
“I'm dying...” she mumbled, as though underwater. “I'm going to die...”
“You're not.” Aerion's voice brushed against the shell of her ear like velvet. “You'll live. You'll stay with me. Always, always...”
His lips pressed against her cheek, grounding her, giving her comfort. Melanquin barked for her to push again; and the fire returned.
She felt her bones shifting beneath her skin, her flesh stretching and tearing as though she were being butchered.
“A head! I see a head!” someone exclaimed.
Stars burst behind her eyes again.
“Again!” they urged. “Push again!”
And again, she pushed.
Something inside her gave way. Wetness spurted between her thighs, thick with blood. The coppery scent overwhelmed the chamber. The midwives exclaimed, but their voices sounded distant now, muffled beneath the roaring in her ears.
Aerea blinked through tears, vaguely registering Melanquin pulling a bloodied shape from between her legs.
“There he is,” Aerion breathed against her ear, his voice bursting with raw elation. “Little dragon.”
A cry filled the chamber, loud and sonorous.
Aerea inhaled weakly; and slipped under.
* * *
She dreamt of Mother.
She and Dyanna were strolling through the gardens, the scent of spring buds thick upon the air. Her mother was smiling.
“Well done, my love,” she cooed. “You did so well. So well...”
Aerea leaned into her embrace, pressing herself against her bosom for warmth.
“I'm afraid, Mother. I'm afraid,” she whispered into her linens, her perfume clinging to the roof of her mouth.
Dyanna stroked her hair, her voice spilling like honey into Aerea's ears. “There's nothing to fear, love. You're a dragon. And fire cannot harm a dragon.”
Smoke clashed with the sweetness. Mother’s arms vanished.
Aerea jerked, spotting a great fire unfurling in the distance. She heard the clap of leathern wings, saw a vast shadow swallow the gardens whole. She tried to look upward, but there was nothing there.
Only pain.
Only fire.
Only the sensation of flesh sloughing from her bones to make room for wings.
She tried to scream, but no sound came.
Moments later, Aerea Targaryen flew.
She jerked awake amidst her pillows, her body taut with lingering panic. A damp cloth clung to her forehead, the bitter taste of soporifics and poppy milk coating her tongue.
She was in her and Aerion's shared chamber. Above her, the mural of chasing hatchlings unfolded in all its glory, the colors vibrant beneath the morning sun.
She groaned and forced herself onto her elbows. Every inch of her body ached. Her limbs felt heavy and foreign. Between her legs throbbed a deep, bruising soreness that made her stomach turn.
“You're awake.”
The voice made her jerk. She managed to make out a figure swaying near the open window, bathed in golden sunlight.
“Aerion?” she croaked, pressing a hand to her pounding forehead.
“You lost consciousness after the birth,” Aerion rasped. “Nearly made my heart give out. Melanquin had to do considerable maneuvering to get the afterbirth out of you.”
She squinted at him, struggling to focus. He'd redressed himself. Fresh tunic, simple, woolen breeches, his wiry hair combed smooth.
There was something cradled in his arms. Something tiny and pale, pressed snuggly against his cheek.
“Where's Father?”
She recalled it; Maekar had held her hand through the birth. He'd been frightened. Just like her.
“He's gone. Rode off to Summerton to look for a wet nurse,” Aerion explained. “We didn't know how long you'd remain asleep for, and he needed to eat.”
Her body went taut. “He?”
Aerion turned suddenly, revealing the white bundle slung carefully against his shoulder.
He was smiling. Wide and radiant with a kind of joy she'd never seen brighten his expression before.
“I told you he'd be fine,” he declared as he lowered the bundle into view. He paused only to press a kiss against it, blow a soft, tentative breath its way.
Aerea's belly clenched. A soft coo filled the silence, followed by movement; a chubby arm wiggling amidst the blankets.
Pink and healthy. Entirely human. A boy.
“Little dragon,” Aerion murmured, parting the linens to reveal a tiny head of silver hair.
