❝ A Dragon’s Rose ❞
pairing ⊹ ࣪ ˖ aerion targaryen x fem!tyrellreader
summary ⊹ ࣪ ˖ you most certainly did not want to get married. not to a targaryen and definitely not to the targaryen who thought himself a dragon.
word count ⊹ ࣪ ˖ around 4.1k words
warnings ⊹ ࣪ ˖ aerion as his own warning, smut but no p in v (assume they’ve already consummated), reader does not hate aerion but is a little snappy, ooc aerion but he is NOT very nice at the beginning, possibly inaccurate descriptions don’t kill me, derogatory terms/remarks, enemies to lovers i think but you don’t know if reader really loves him, a lot of house shaming from aerion, manipulation, cursing
a/n ⊹ ࣪ ˖ wrote this thinking my idea was really smart come to find out i’ve never had an original thought EVER. enjoy!!
Leaving Highgarden had been sorrowful.
Leaving it for a marriage to an entitled prince who was the second son of the fourth son was even more sorrowful. But you were not a complainer, or a grumbler.
You took the disappointment well, and still allowed your chin to jut out snarkily as you resisted the urge to sneer at the sight of King’s Landing.
Albeit, King’s Landing was not a completely different place, not like the unforgiving cold of the North and certainly not like the scorching heat of Dorne. But it wasn’t home and it would unfortunately be, your new home.
For a rose, you lacked the usual qualities, possessing a bittersweet personality rather than relying solely on charm. You were more, forward with your speech and preferred not to dance around your words but that in no way meant you were mean.
By now, you had mastered the act of being calculated and were almost always performing as the perfect, delicate rose. You were very much capable of kindness, but many were undeserving of whatever twisted sort of kindness you had to offer.
“Watch for her jagged edges, child. For she is no sweet and dainty rose to be held.” You heard Prince, or rather Ser, Baelor whisper into his nephew’s rounded ear once at dinner whilst you pretended to be occupied with picking at the bland food served.
Aerion blinked dumbly at you, taking you in.
Once.
Twice.
He grinned, boyishly—somewhat of a smirk—and parted his lips slightly, “I figured, Uncle.”
He grinned in the same warped way a few days later, just as you waltzed carelessly through the halls of The Red Keep. Aerion caught your eye, as forcefully as he could, and shuffled into your pathway.
“I am not sure as to why a plain-faced, brown-haired rose is to be my bride. I would’ve much better preferred to keep the Targaryen blood, what a pity.”
“What a pity indeed, Your Grace. What ever shall we do?”
“You shall keep your spiteful mouth shut. I am not opposed to hitting you, If I must.” Aerion snarled viciously, taking a sharp step forward.
“Yes, My Lord. Of course, Your Grace.” You mocked, expecting no repercussions because how dare he lay a hand on his bride-to-be? Your Father and Grandmother would never allow such an atrocity to occur.
“I assume you are settling in, then?” He clearly did not want to bother with addressing you properly, seeing you as below him rather than anywhere near being equal.
Despite his low claim to the throne, Aerion Targaryen was a prideful little thing.
“It is very different to Highgarden, but beautiful all the same.” You replied, a smile on your lips. His question was rhetorical, a way to poke fun at you, clearly, but you payed Aerion no mind.
He scoffed at this, scrunching his mouth tightly in distaste at your words. “What could your silly little flowery have to offer?”
“Certainly something similar to that of that Iron Throne of yours,” You quipped, “Your Grace.”
“The Iron Throne is worth more than your lineage, flower. Passed down from Targaryen to Targaryen for decades now, hold your tongue,” And, “If you weren’t my betrothed, I would’ve had it cut off by now.” He added, with an almost threatening tone.
“A shame, truly, Your Grace. I’ve always wondered what it’d be like,” You sighed wistfully, collecting your skirts, “Now, if that is all, I would much rather bide my time with your younger siblings. Good day, Your Grace.”
“Do not taunt me, little rose.” He hissed as your shoes clicked loudly, turning the corner at the sight of the end of the hall.
Since your arrival, the young princess, Daella, had taken a strange sort of liking to you. It was almost as if she wanted to be attached to your hip all day, and spouted the silliest things you could only describe as pure nonsense.
As you entered the princess’s chambers, after an unnecessarily long stare-down between you and the guards, she squealed at the sight of you.
“Sister!”
“I am not yet married to your brother, Your Grace. It would be befitting if you refrained from such affections for a small while.” You loured, curtsying politely.
“I refuse, It’s all so unbelievably boring!” She whined back, lightly stomping her polished shoes. “Alright,” You began, “Shall we take a walk in the gardens together? It appears to be quite warm weather.” Offering up your hand, Daella took it warmly and nodded, steering you toward said gardens.
The air was cool, despite the somewhat mellow weather and Daella kept you busy, chattering on about her most recent playtimes and the ‘tedious etiquette lessons’ she was beginning to take.
You hummed, mind drifting elsewhere, most likely to the thought that King’s Landing was not as bad as you had hoped it to be and that the Targaryens weren’t all dragon-deluded like the one you were engaged to and meant to marry in the days that followed.
From what you knew of it, married life was treacherous. And it was likely to be more treacherous with such a difficult husband. The pitying and knowing looks from other Targaryens irked you, it felt as if you were being ridiculed for something you had no say in.
You were lucky, you thought, that Aerion did not seem like the type of husband who stalled at brothels in the evening and frolicked around with beautiful women, too busy to even spare you a glance.
You assumed such acts would be seen as tarnishing the Targaryen house’s reputation to Aerion, and thanked the Gods for his uncontrollable ego.
“He is very much smitten with you, Sister.” Daella said offhandedly as you lightly pulled on her hair after she had pleaded with you to braid it. “Who?” You echoed.
“The Dragon,” She laughed, a twinkly sound, “My elder brother believes a dragon should have a prize. That prize is you, My lady. His pretty little rose.”
“To me, it feels like he’s already discarded me and we have yet to be married. How pathetic I must look.” Once you had finished intertwining each strand of Daella’s flowy hair, she rested her head onto your lap, gently inching closer as she let her eyes close in bliss.
You fought back the urge to smile, not wanting to allow yourself to feel comfortable or at ease in such an alienating place.
You placed a skillfully made daisy crown atop her tiny head, and then leant back to enjoy the embrace of the sun whose rays splayed out across the garden and splattered you with joy.
Busied with basking in the sun, you barely caught the footsteps of Aerion’s stupid shoes approaching, threatening to shatter your content moment. You squeezed Daella closer, receiving a curious eyebrow raise from Aerion who seemed amused by your cautiousness.
“Your Grace. Are you so dispensable that your father does not trust you with any of the usual tasks that are bestowed upon a prince like you?” You drawled out as he stood, arms folded over the other, at the edge of the garden.
“No,” He replied, bordering on defensive, “I am simply observing my wife and my sister. Would you rather I torment you with other activities?” You winced at his crude suggestion, quickly moving to cover a confused Daella’s ears.
“Ah, I see. The prince is rude and lacks manners, who would’ve thought?” Aerion narrowed his eyes in response, waving your comment away with his large hands. “Pay me no mind. As my presence is not wanted, not that I care, I shall overstay my welcome.”
Silence fell over the garden, neither peaceful nor tense. Rather, it was unpleasant and much unwanted.
“Would you like to play with us, Brother?” Daella suggested, in an attempt to ease the awkwardness. But Aerion simply scoffed, “Play? A dragon has no time to indulge in such foolish desires.” He said curtly, spinning on his heel to storm off inside whilst he muttered what you could only assume to be profanities.
A few beats passed before you and Daella erupted into girlish laughter, pleased by Aerion’s overreaction.
If all days were like this, You were beginning to think you could get used to such a life.
All days were in fact, not like the day you spent in the garden.
They were, as Daella would put it, boring.
You had been invited to dinner, again, only to discuss all things marital.
The wedding was to take place a week from now, and the feeling of dread that pooled endlessly at the pit of your stomach did not ease your nerves.
That, and the fact that Aerion seemed incapable of keeping his eyes to himself and not mentioning you every chance he got, even if it was just to spew pointless insults at you.
“It is unfortunate that the Targaryen blood must be diluted and tainted with that of the measly Tyrell’s.” Aerion jeered, dispelling you from your thoughts. He peered directly into your warm, brown eyes as he spoke.
You were unsure of how such a topic of conversation had emerged but you hadn’t been paying attention for a while now.
Maekar glowered at his son, discontent displayed in a singular look, “Silence, boy.”
“Yes, Father.” He muttered scornfully, casting a glance down towards his half-empty plate.
“Well, I think lady Tyrell is quite pretty.” Aegon squeaked out from his seat at the table. You smiled in appreciation, “Thank you, Your Grace. I find Your Grace to be the sweetest child I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.” Aegon blushed profusely at your words, shying away from your gaze as Aerion audibly groaned and rolled his eyes.
Not without making a commotion with his cutlery.
Aerion, you noticed, had a habit of playing the part of an angel whenever his Father was about.
It was pitiful and weak.
But at least he was not prone to alcohol like his drunkard brother, Daeron was. You had heard that dragon dreaming took a visible toll on its owner, which was apparent just looking at the two brothers.
Despite the occasional awkward quiet, the dinner was slightly enjoyable and temporarily relieved your mind of its worries.
A servant waddled in, shakily holding a tray of dessert, presumably to be passed around. Despite his nervousness, the servant swiftly moved around the large table, finally reaching your seat.
As the servant leant over you to place your dessert in front of you, the tray tipped and whatever remained was now splattered on the skirt of your most highly cherished dress instead of inside your mouth.
You shouldn’t have worn it to dinner, of all places.
Before you could even attempt to clean yourself off or get a word out, Aerion spoke. “Congratulations, servant,” He said, sarcastically, “You’ve lost your place here,” He stuffed his mouth, using his other hand to flick away the servant as if the poor man would fly away.
“Your Grace, I—“ The servant trembled, looking around the table for anyone to defend him.
Unfortunately, most knew better than to challenge Aerion Targaryen.
You, on the other hand, did not.
“While we’re at it—Guards? Throw him in the dungeon, I’d like his hands cut off too, since they seem to be utterly useless.” Aerion scarcely glanced at the servant he had practically exiled, appearing to be completely composed in his anger.
“I think not,” You interrupted, “I shall get a new dress, no harm was done.”
“Harm was done. My wife has had her dignity damaged, what would you rather me do?”
“I would rather you do nothing at all, husband.”
“Children,” Maekar urged, agitated, “Cease your incessant squabbling. My ears are fucking ringing.” He cursed, not bothering to maintain any sort of image of himself, not that there were many pleasant things to hear about Prince Maekar.
“The servant shall go and the lady shall receive a new dress.” He finalised. Said servant scuttled away, faltering in his movements but not forgetting to thank you and Prince Maekar for your forgiveness.
You smiled, triumphant and ignored the metaphorical daggers you could feel piercing you from every angle. You didn’t bother looking, you knew they stemmed from Aerion.
The wedding was a long and winded ordeal, extravagant and every bit unnecessary. Of course, Aerion had demanded that a bedding ceremony were to take place despite him later throwing those present out of the room.
You hadn’t been expecting anything special, slightly scared from stories you had heard from other ladies. Surprisingly, Aerion was good at everything.
Today, Aerion was to compete in Ashford Meadow, something about a tourney. In reality, it was an opportunity for him to show off.
You did not want to go, you never bothered yourself with tourneys at home, and preferred to keep that tradition. But being Aerion’s freshly wed wife, you had no choice in the matter.
A fancy carriage you had never seen before, plastered in the Targaryen’s sigil, carried you to Ashford Meadow. You had heard of it many a time, but of course, this was your first time touching its soil.
It was a pretty little place, littered with greenery and tents that encapsulated the very idea of fun. You had heard of a Puppeteer show that you had thought to be worth visiting during your stay.
Of course, You were stuck riding with a moody Aerion who for some odd reason, couldn’t stop leering at you.
You didn’t see much of Aerion that day, and were mostly alone, despite being a lady of House Tyrell. You passed by a peculiarly large man and his bald squire who had labelled himself as ‘Ser Duncan The Tall’, it was a fitting name.
It was an odd encounter and the squire looked quite familiar, but it was difficult for you to get a good look at the young boy’s face with it being covered hastily by a cloak.
By the time you had grown tired of wandering about, the joust was beginning and you were urged to hurry along.
Instead of sitting with your Father-In-Law and apparent Uncle-In-Law, you opted for your new cousin despite protests. Valarr was a sweet boy at heart, a nice contrast to the grumbles and glares you were used to being on the receiving end of with Aerion.
“The tourneys here aren’t quite like the ones in Highgarden. It all seems much more—brutal.” You whispered, swaying closer towards Valarr. He chuckled in response, “Yes, Cousin. They are quite different, in many aspects.”
You nodded idly along to his words, watching as Aerion finally trotted in, wearing dramatically decorated armour that almost made you snicker.
You held it in.
Partly in fear that he would have your head.
He steered his equally as dramatically decorated horse in your direction, addressing the Prince that stood next to you. “Cousin, do not worry. I won’t embarrass you today.” Valarr simply stared back at Aerion and said nothing.
Aerion’s face contorted into one of disgust, most likely anger, at how close you and Valarr were but he let the expression wash away.
That worried you.
You couldn’t tell if there was some sort of tension between the two or not. And you weren’t able to dwell on the thought any further as Aerion finally acknowledged you, “Must I ask you for your favour, Wife?” He looked stormily between you and Valarr, eyes flickering bitterly.
You smiled, not politely, “No, Husband. We wouldn’t want the people of Westeros to see you beg, now would we?”
He turned his head sharply in retaliation, before you sighed, slinking closer to the barriers in order to lean toward your husband.
“A rose. Do not make it a big deal, and I would prefer to not hear any of your clever retorts.” You attached the small garland to the chest of his armour as you tilted unsteadily.
Aerion fought back a grin, pulling his helmet over his face and trotting into his designated place. You stayed quiet and watched as flags raised and shouting ensued, gesturing that the joust had begun.
Both horses cantered forward and targeted the other. It seemed the other knight was doing well, his wooden lance only narrowly missing Aerion.
You secretly hoped he would somehow plummet from his horse.
The sickening crunch of a wooden lance turned your attention back to Aerion, watching in silent horror as his lance impaled his opponent's horse, causing all sorts of further collisions. The poor knight was crushed by his flailing horse and was dying due to fatal injuries to—well, everywhere.
Your face, however, stayed stony despite the atrocity that took place before your eyes. You knew better than to react, people like Aerion enjoyed wild reactions. It gave him a pleasant feeling that surely would blossom into something bordering sinister.
You made a note to never give Aerion your favour again.
Looking ever so pleased with himself, Aerion relished in the screaming and booing that derived from the crowd, his win clearly disrupting their soft hearts.
Ultimately, the joust ended in pure outrage and was not brought up again.
Until that evening when Aerion accused you, of all people, of being unfaithful.
You were simply undressing in your shared chambers, more than ready to slip into your nightgown when your temperamental husband began to insult you and your household for the nth time.
“Whore,” He spat, “If I wanted a whore, I would’ve picked one up at the brothel.”
With your back facing him, you were collected. You continued your movements, but slower. “I see,” You hummed, “Would you prefer such an arrangement, Your Grace?”
He scoffed, “And now you dare to mock me?”
“I would not dare, My Prince.”
Aerion pressed his tongue against his cheek in annoyance, grabbing your wrist to spin you around aggressively, before glowering straight through you.
“You think I haven’t noticed you clinging to my cousin like a desperate slut? Your need disgusts me.” He uttered, now antagonistically cupping your face and harshly squeezing your cheeks into his rough fingertips. His nails pressed uncomfortably into your skin and you winced faintly, letting yourself slip.
“I’ll admit, your cousin is quite handsome but—“
Your ears rang a little, accompanied by a sharp, stinging pain as you registered that Aerion had opened his palm to slap you unfairly across the cheek.
You wouldn’t be surprised if it was bruised.
“If you’d like to stay as my wife, You will not ever pay another man such compliments in my presence.” He deadpanned, tone cold, and in no way polite.
“Yes, My Dragon,” You droned, not bothering to even attempt to sound enthusiastic, “However, It is not my fault my husband barely addresses me.”
Aerion laughed, a hollow sound. Empty and dangerous. “Is that what you want? Attention?”
You nodded as best as you could, fighting from his grasp. “I am lonely, Your Grace—“
“Aerion.” He corrected.
“Yes, Aerion. I am ever so lonely and was not sure how to receive attention from such an—an important person like you.”
“Did you not once ridicule me for strolling the Keep during the day?”
“I was dimwitted then, I did not know what I was blabbering about.”
Aerion cocked his head, assessing your truth. If you had stroked his ego enough, this would work.
And it did.
His grip loosened and instead, Aerion planted his mouth on yours. As forceful as usual, the kiss was not a gentle one, but one that made your stomach churn and your knees buckle slightly all the same.
His tongue nudged yours, asserting his claim over you and grazed over your teeth lightly before he tugged on your lower lip. Betraying your head, you let out an airy moan, much to Aerion’s delight as he further beamed into the kiss.
“What a greedy rose. My very own whore to do with as I please.” You simply crooned, kissing him back and pulling hopelessly on his niveous roots as he spoke through your entwined lips.
His hands wandered, everywhere he touched leaving your body tingling and aching for him, before he settled on resting them on your hips and used them to guide you onto the bed.
Aerion pulled away to rest his forehead against yours as he caught his breath, panting wildly.
“Your mine,” He snarled, “My rose, all mine.”
You nodded frantically, swallowing your heart along with your saliva. “I am yours, Aerion. And you are my brave dragon,” He whimpered, almost breathlessly, at your words and let you caress his tousled hair when he began to claw at your nightgown.
Aerion unbuttoned your gown hastily and peeled it off, groaning excitedly at the sight of your bare breasts he had been eyeing for weeks now.
He rubbed the cheek he had bullied earlier and murmured his apologies, “I will never lay a hand on you again, Wife.”
“It is more than alright, husband. I was wrong, you simply gave me a punishment suited to my misdeed.” You lied, concerning yourself with removing his nightshirt as he did to you.
Aerion straightened his back, suddenly feeling like himself again and slumped forward to suckle on your neck, biting and marking you as you mirrored him.
You watched Aerion tower over you, sighing at the pleasurable feeling of his mouth on your neck. So pleasurable that you almost didn’t notice his finger teasing your entrance before two slipped past, working you open.
Your mouth fell agape as Aerion moved his attention to your breasts, swirling his lengthy tongue briefly around each nipple to distract you from the feeling of his thumb pressing gently against your pearl.
He continued, fingers plunging deeper into your throbbing walls and thumb circling the right spot so eagerly. “Too much, Aerion. It’s too much.” You complained, struggling to find his wrist to grab in protest.
Aerion ignored you, increasing his pace until your thighs shook and you moaned louder than usual, signalling your peak.
But he did not halt then, lapping at your folds until you shook slightly again from the overstimulation.
He grinned toothily at his work, looking down at you as he swiped across the side of his mouth with his thumb. He bent down to press another kiss to your lips, lazily using his hand to spread your legs open again, “I will—I will fill you with my seed, all of it. My pretty little rose will carry my heirs.”
“Are we not done, My Dragon?”
He laughed hollowly again, “I will not stop, even if you beg me.”
In a little more than a week, Aerion had managed to land himself in the centre of trouble and had imprisoned that giant you had passed a week prior.
Apparently, beating a deluded Targaryen was a crime.
Currently, you were tasked with cleaning Aerion’s cuts and grazes from being kicked down.
Honestly, you thought he at least deserved a good beating.
Aerion had become strangely docile since you had last bedded him, and was now situated with his head in your lap. His arms slithered around your sides, wrapping securely around your waist.
“How dare that wretched beast dishonour a dragon in such a way. For a whore, a stupid little whore who had the nerve to disrespect my house and its name. Me, a prince!” He mumbled angrily into your skirts, trying his hardest not to seem weak by stilling when you brushed past a particularly painful spot.
“You must’ve bedded many whores before me, I think it is a little ungrateful to disregard them and their skills.” Aerion halted his movement of circling his finger around your hip bone to scoff, “I did no such thing. Besides, that giant attempted to attack a Targaryen. A true-blooded Targaryen.”
“Yes, how idiotic of him. He will surely be punished for his crimes.” You brushed the sides of his hair with your fingers delicately, fibbing to soothe his ears.
“The dragon will kill him,” Aerion hissed, “And the dragon nought never lose.”
You fought back the urge to wince as you finally finished sanitizing and dressing the last of Aerion’s wounds. You tapped him on the head twice, urging him to sit up and he obliged.
“You are foolish if you are to believe that winning against that giant will be easy. I wish you good luck, either way.” You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, much to your husband’s displeasure.
“That was not a kiss befitting a dragon. When I return, I will claim my reward, my wife.” He mumbled, letting your hair pass through his calloused fingers. He stopped himself abruptly, and frowned.
He seemed appalled with his sudden change in behaviour. Frankly, embarrassed by the fact that you, a thorny rose, had wormed your way into his equally thorny heart.
If it was still in there.
Nonetheless, You knew Aerion enjoyed your affections and that he was now, right underneath your thumb, exactly where you had planned him to be since the beginning.
And so, you sent your husband off into a trial you knew he’d lose, preparing yourself for the temper that would greet you later.
