Modern Aerion and cock warming but he's really not patient enough for that? 👀
𑣲⋆｡˚ the blue glow of the tv blanketed the living room, the light flickering the dark living room. you shifted, your shorts riding up to expose your ass even further. you climbed onto Aerion’s lap, back to his chest, eyes still on the screen. you reached down, pulling your loose shorts to the side, guiding his thick cock into you, sinking down in one smooth motion.
Aerion groaned, head snapping back against the couch. his hands clamped onto your hips, fingers digging into your skin. “fuck, baby. you feel so fucking good.” he hissed.
“shhh.” you whispered, leaning back. “just watch the movie.”
he didn’t listen. he never did when following rules came in the way of getting what he wanted. he tried to shift his weight, attempting to flip you over so he could drive into you from behind. you slapped his hands away with a sharp crack.
“i said stay put.” you teased, voice a low purr, “it’s literally just about to get good,” you said, pointing at the tv, which was currently playing some 1970s horror that you had insisted upon the night prior.
“i don’t give a fuck about the movie.” he bucked his hips upward, trying to chase the pleasure he so desperately wanted.
“stop it!” you pushed back against his chest, trying to hold him down like he was some kind of barely-containable animal. “no moving. just let me sit!”
“i’m not a fucking statue, you little slut.” he snapped. “y’cant just put your pussy on me and think i’m not gonna do anything about it.” he tried again with a desperate surge of his hips, but you just clamped your thighs shut, locking him in place.
“god, you’re so impatient, Aerion.”
“m’done waiting.”
“you weren’t even waiting in the first place.”
his hands locked around your waist and hauled you off his lap, slamming you face down into the cushions. the air left your lungs in a sharp huff. he didn’t give you a second to recover, just ripped your shorts down and drove himself back in. he buried himself deep, hitting something inside your cunt that made your head spin.
you whimpered, fingers clawing into the fabric of the couch. Aerion griped your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat while he hammered into you. the sound of skin slapping against skin was louder than the film, and drowned the audio out completely.
“is this… better?” you said between moans, tone teasing.
☆ making out with levi gets him a little more hot and bothered than he wants to admit. and he will not admit it.
☾ this was requested by anonymous!
☆ cw: making out, nothing crazy
☾ a/n: i got high last night just for u anon just to write this <3
levi has your back pressed against the shelves before the door even fully closes. the dustiness of the closet doesn’t matter to him because his mouth is on yours again, quick and hungry. his hand braces beside your head, fingers gripping the wood, while the other holds your waist.
he kisses you like he argues with others, determined to stay in command, and then you tilt your head and kiss him back harder, and he nearly falls apart. damn you, he thinks, feeling the heat climb all the way to his ears.
you pull back to look at him. his face is unmistakably flushed, a bright red spread across his cheeks. his lips are swollen, his pupils wide.
“you look a little off, captain.”
“i look fine,” he argues.
you smile wickedly. “fine? then why are you blushing like that?” you poke his cheek.
“s-shut up.”
he hates that you can do this to him. he hates that one teasing look from you can leave him feeling lightheaded and hot all over. he hates, more than anything, that he wants more of it.
you lean in until your lips nearly touch his again. “make me.”
levi stares at you, then kisses you again with a frustrated sound in his throat, all pent-up embarrassment and want. he’s trying to hard to seem unaffected. it would be convincing if he weren’t practically shaking.
you slide your fingers into his hair, and the reaction is immediate. he inhales sharply against your mouth, then presses closer. oh for fuck’s sake, he thinks. you can definitely tell. he knows you can, and he feels like an idiot.
when you kiss the corner of his mouth, then trail lower to his jaw, he nearly loses what remains of his dignity. “you’re cute like this,” you say.
levi makes a strangled noise that might have passed for a scoff if it wasn’t so out of breath. “cute?”
“mhm.” you press your lips to his, smiling against them when he follows you the moment you start to pull away. “flustered. all clingy and red like a damn tomato.”
“i am not clingy.” he says it while holding your waist with both hands now. he drops his forehead to yours for a moment, trying to collect himself though the effort is pointless. his breath fans warm across your lips. his eyes stay half-lidded, dazed but filled with want.
“this is your fault,” he mutters. “you keep provoking me.”
you brush your nose against his. “and you keep kissing me back.”
levi has no retort. he only stares at you, red to the tips of his ears, and then his expression shifts. “tch. then stop talking.”
he doesn’t bother trying to hide it anymore. he’ll own his flushed face anytime if it means getting to be this close to you.
aerion would do anything for his wife. it was a feared fact, servants and maids shuddered in his presence, for they would be sent on the weirdest and wildest of tasks. you got as you wanted, when you wanted, and aerion was more than happy to bark your requests at the serving people. but the castle near held their breath at the announcement of a soon-to-be babe growing.
aerion's spoilt wife was one problem, but his spoilt pregnant wife? they could only bear a grin and do as the prince ordered.
"oh, aerion." you would sigh. "you must not be so hard on them."
aerion simply laughed, an affectionate thumb swiped across your cheek. "you are too kind, sweet one. they are to serve me— to serve us. you will get as you so desire."
you could not argue with the dragon prince, for it was your needs he was fulfilling. and fulfilling them, he was.
he would follow you around the castle when he could, to your annoyance, at times. you would walk the castle in the eve, hand holding the underside of your belly as you waddled with aerion behind you. his arms outstretched to keep you upright, like you were a fawn finding its legs for the first time.
you would grow weary of sitting by the library window with a book, your legs aching for a walk. so you would traipse along the gardens, though not without your doting husband on your tail.
"i am fine, husband." you breathed, even your sharpest tone did not match aerion at his kindest. "i simply wished to stretch my legs."
"then you must call upon me." he spoke, though not in the venomous tone every other soul received. no, with you he was gentle. it was unheard of when the maids would whisper together about aerion being... kind?
"you are a prince, you have duties," you reminded him, steadfast on your slow pace along the foliage.
"then you request for my guards." he insisted, reaching for your arm. "i will not have you in harm's way."
you halted, turning to your husband and his pleading eyes, his tilted brows begging you to do as he says. though his tongue would never let the words come to fruition.
"this castle is well-guarded, even if someone managed to get through the gatehouse, they would be met with a hundred more guards before they get to me." you explained, reaching for his cheek with your soft touch. a kill switch to his temper, that you had come to use to your advantage. "i am safest with you, though safe regardless."
it calmed his heart. his shoulders settled, his brow softened. you knew how to massage his brain in all the right ways, dry the red from his eyes, and keep him undeniably obsessed.
"i do hope this babe soothes my need for control." he confessed, forehead against yours for a moment of escape. to forget just for a moment that his life existed outside of you.
I need Lady Arryn to know that her husband was never a little monster. I need her to know and see that Aerion was once a cheerful boy who loved going fishing. 🥺🐉🎣
──── Aerion Targaryen┆The Reluctant Bride
author’s note: I miss them your honor. This work contains: drinking, Daeron being drunk and yapping, late night with baby Maegor, lowkey inspired by this post.
Aerion Targaryen x Arryn!reader
It’s been late when you finally decided to return to your bedchambers — the night already fell upon Summerhall hours ago and with it the feast ended, only a few remained by the table, sharing goblets, bottles and stories of past, hidden and kept a secret from those whose ears it shouldn't be reaching.
Aerion returned back to your rooms before Daeron even had a chance to wet his lips with wine — what for him of course was a rare thing, but after everything that happened he still did everything that would not risk another scolding from his father — excusing his early disappearance with a headache or lack of sleep caused by his newborn son's crying.
Lied they were — clear to everyone that were around the prince for the past weeks. It seemed that they were clearer to those who watched him that to Aerion himself. Because the boy — your sweet, sweet Maegor was thank the gods was a calm one, barely fussing, crying only when he was in need of something. Yet in your husband's eyes that was what was so concerning about him, the prince was so sure that there had to be something wrong with the boy, that the bundle he was holding each night — with face hard as stone and eyes filled with anxiety — couldn't be simply perfect.
Going through the halls of the castle your brother’s in law words ringed in your ears like bells that rang in the King’s Landing.
You both were sitting by the table, Daeron nursing his drink after everybody left — the maids were starting to clean off the tables and you stayed out of propriety… or just to not let him drink alone and make an even bigger fool of himself in the eyes of the servants.
He lifted his head slowly — as if it was heavier than usual, with violet eyes followed the servants working before they settled on you. He was tired, you could see it clearly, perhaps not sleeping properly again, not like he should be but neither was you really, not with newborn to stress over, no matter how soft of nature he was.
You saw how his eyes flickered to Aerion’s seat and he sighed quietly, lifting the goblet to his mouth.
“I’ve heard you got a quiet one.” Daeron mumbled without looking at you but still after weeks from Maegor’s birth the rumors of his quietness had been spreading through the Summerhall.
"Yes..." you said and nodded before a gentle, small smile slipped onto your face. "very much unlike his father." you added before taking a sip of your juice from the goblet.
"Oh that's for sure." he huffed quietly and one of the corners of his lips lifted up as in an reluctant smile. "I've heard only think the boy apparently got from my brother is his looks." Daeron added before taking a swing of his drink.
"That is unmistakable." you nodded and smiled bigger at the memory of the curious lavender eyes and snow-looking hair, so soft and sweet smelling that each time you buried your nose in the white strands you couldn't help but wonder how is it possible that the boy smell as such. "His father likeness... yet still the quiet nature... if it stays throughout the years I can only wonder what Aerion will do." you added quietly and looked at your brother in law.
Daeron swallowed before his eyes flickered to the goblet, his fingers wrapping gently around it as he seemed deep in thought. "He wasn't always like this..." he mumbled and shook his head gently, making the dirty-blonde strand of his hair to fall over his face. "Not such a monster like some say... Aerion was a glad child once... long time before even meeting you." he swallowed before his eyebrows lifted in fetched nonchalance. "He liked fishing." he added.
The words — even now when you were walking calmly down the corridor to the shared chambers of yours — shook something deep inside of you.
A glad child once... long time ago.
A thought almost ridiculous. You knew your husband — you knew what a little monster he can be, you saw it in Ashford moons ago and the sight rooted itself in your mind like many different faces of your husband have. A prince that scared servants passing him in the hall, a husband with reluctance showed you affection but was unmistakably loyal even if it was a pain in his eyes, a father that made up excuses to watch over his firstborn to avoid being seen as weak or vulnerable. Yet a glad child... it was not something that pictured itself easily in your mind.
And now, there he was, the same face — a prince, a husband and a father — deep in sleep with his cheek smushed against the fluff pillowed he insisted on having. The white strands of his own hair falling gently over his skin as the blanket enveloped him snuggling, leaving only a bit of his shirtless statue visible.
And there was your boy also — safe in his father's eyes, cheeks round and rosy as he looked around curious, without making a sound. He wriggled gently in Aerion's arms and your gaze fell on the prince's face again.
It was so soft, so angelic all of the sudden as if all the fight and stubbornness melted away with his sleep, leaving only this — mushy face surrounded to sleep.
You've seen it often, very often really, every night to be exact, yet something now, seeing him holding Maegor like a dragon guarding his hatchling moved something in you as you slid under the duvet yourself.
"I took him in." Aerion mumbled without opening his violet eyes, only reacting when he felt the mattress dip under your weight. "He was breathing weirdly... unevenly, I figured it's safer if he sleeps here." he added and his eyebrows scrunched slightly.
"Tis' alright..." you whispered brushing Maegor's hair away as his eyelids fell closed. "Just don't squish him in your sleep." you added before pressing a kiss upon Aerion's brow.
The grimace softened as he nuzzled deeper into pillow and huffed quietly before stilling again — one hand placed securely over sleeping Maegor's tummy.
You placed you own head on the pillow next to his, you eyes flickered over both of them in the dim lighting as you pulled the duvet over yourself and sighed.
Perhaps both of those glad boys will go fishing together once in the future.
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! It was genuinely so sweet to write and so easy too, a quite short piece but oh my it made my heart swell, these are literally my babies having a baby 🥹
✦ HOW THEY'D EAT YOU OUT. ⋆ valarr, daeron, maekar, aerion, aegon ii, aemond, baelor.
ᵎᵎ warnings. afab! reader, sexually explicit content, mdni, unestablished relationship, no y/n, oral sex (f receiving), suffocating, mentions of unconsciousness, overstimulation, mentions of crying, biting, marking, begging, spitting, praising.
ᵎᵎ notes. hold my wine honey i'm feeling inspired. im sorry if its too freaky this is just who i am 🙏 also reqs open, just reminding u in case u wanna go crazy.
⋆ valarr will eat you out like he’s making out with your pussy. his hands keep you pinned to the mattress, spreading your thighs with gentleness, while his lips press against your clit first — a soft, teasing brush. his mismatched eyes gaze up at you, drinking in every reaction on your flushed face. only when he sees that pretty, shy expression does he begin pressing soft kisses to your swollen bud, eventually letting his tongue flick out playfully. he won’t stop until your hips are twitching with desperation and your moans grow louder. only then does he drag one long, slow swipe of his warm tongue over your entrance. he exhales in relief, eyes rolling back as your taste hits his tongue. that’s all it takes for him to dive deeper — pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses between your wet folds, the tip of his tongue slipping inside you for a few sinful seconds before pulling back, only to do it again. and again. until you’re whimpering, gasping his name like the sweetest prayer.
⋆ daeron will eat you out while he’s suffocating between your thighs. you’re sat on his face, knees planted on either side of his head, smothering him completely. there’s nothing he loves more than the burning pressure in his chest from the lack of oxygen, his mind clouding as he edges closer to unconsciousness. just when he starts to fade, you lift your hips enough to let him gasp for air — only for his large hands to yank you right back down with a frustrated whimper. his fingers dig desperately into the soft flesh of your thighs as he pulls your pussy flush against his mouth. his lips latch on hungrily, tongue fucking deep into your clenching, spasming walls, drinking up your juices like they’re the finest wine in the seven kingdoms.
⋆ maekar will eat you out until you’re crying from overstimulation. this is exactly what you get for acting like a brat earlier that day. with lips, teeth, and tongue, he’ll make sure you understand the consequences of your reckless little whims. he’ll pull orgasm after orgasm from you, forcing you to cum on his tongue again and again until you’re breathless, shaking, and your sweet pussy is swollen, dripping, and clenching around nothing. the inside of your thighs will be decorated with red, itchy marks from his rough beard, a reminder of his unrelenting hunger. he pours every ounce of his frustration into you — not just the irritation you earned, but the deep, permanent anger he carries buried inside him. if you try to tug him closer or grind against his face, he’ll nip sharply at your clit in warning, mixing pleasure and pain until you learn your manners. no matter how unruly you act, when his mouth is on your cunt, maekar has the final word.
⋆ aerion will eat you out like it’s his last meal. his hands grip your thighs possessively, nails digging into your plush flesh and leaving perfect crescent-shaped marks. he holds you spread wide open for him, teasing you with slow, taunting licks and sharp little bites everywhere except where you need him most. he ignores your desperate whines and the way you writhe beneath him, letting you suffer until you’re tugging frantically at his pale hair, begging him to put his tongue on you. only when you’ve pleaded enough does he finally oblige. and he is not gentle. aerion devours your pussy with raw hunger — grazing his teeth over your swollen clit to keep you on edge, spreading your folds with his long fingers, and fucking his tongue deep inside you. he doesn’t stop until his chin is dripping with your juices and you’re trembling beneath his mouth.
⋆ aegon will eat you out with lazy arrogance. like, this man knows exactly what he’s doing. he has your pussy memorized by now. every slow flick of his tongue makes you grind your cunt against his parted, wine-stained lips. his eyes never leave yours — those half-lidded violet pools gleaming with mischievous intent. he deliberately stops just to tease you, savoring your frustrated little moans and the sweet sting of your fingers tightening in his hair. that only makes him smile languidly against your pussy. he’ll happily spit on your already soaked hole just to feel you shudder, then flatten his tongue and drag it obscenely over your cunt, gathering every drop of your mixed juices like he has all the time in the world.
⋆ aemond will eat you out like he's a man in a mission. his tongue is merciless as it plugs into you over and over, lost in your taste and too pleased with your moans to even think of stopping. he'll guide your legs to rest over his shoulders as he chase for your pleasure and your words of affirmation, assuring him he's doing great. his long, slender fingers won't stop stroking your hips and waist, never leaving the softness of your warm body. his eye will drift up to yours with that unhinged stare of his, the one that said ‘see? there's no man on the seven kingdoms with this power over you. only me.’
⋆ baelor will eat you out until the only thing you can think about is him. until all you can focus on is the hot press of his tongue sliding between your wet folds, and the way his lips latch around your clit, sucking gently until a shuddering gasp escapes you. his hands stay firm on your waist, only moving when you try to close your legs in overwhelming pleasure. he spreads you wider, making sure every inch of you is open and available for his mouth. whenever he pulls back to press soft, lingering kisses to the inside of your thighs, he murmurs the sweetest praises against your skin — purring about how good you taste and what a well-behaved girl you are for him. he mixes tender affection with raw pleasure so effortlessly it leaves you dizzy.
𝓹airing: aerion brightflame x wife!reader, maegor brightflame x mother!reader
𝓼ummary: you and aerion welcome a second child, a healthy little girl. maegor struggles with the new addition, and the subsequent less attention he receives. he can be just as pouty as his father.
𝔀arnings: fluff and a tiny bit of angst (aerion is mean to maegor), pictures are for aesthetic reasons only as the reader is not physically described, small mentions of childbirth, breastfeeding, not proofread cause i'm lazy & english isn't my first language, can be read as a standalone or follow-up to this fic. 2.4k words.
𝓷otes: this is a bit rushed and i'm not super proud of the ending but i really like this pairing so if anyone has requests for this storyline, please send them!! also big thanks to everyone who voted on the poll to name the baby
A certain stillness had taken over Summerhall. The halls were empty, and the castle itself seemed to be basking in a quiet relief, like the silence that settled after the storm. The birthing chambers smelt of fresh linens, and cloth scrubbed clean of blood. A fire burned lowly in the hearth, offering warmth for the small life that had just entered the world.
Tiny fingers flexed, a delicate hand curled around soft swaddling clothes. A girl, the maester had announced a mere hour ago, when she took her first breaths wailing. Her head of thick silver hair was visible from the cocoon she was wrapped in, the soft little wisps still dampened though the maester had diligently cleaned her of the vernix. The babe slept soundly, her small lips parted and still wet with milk from her first feeding.
“How is the little hatchling?”
Aerion's question pulled you from the peace of your mind, drawing your attention up to your husband. A weary smile pulled at your lips, face still glistening with sweat from the efforts it took to bring new life into the world. “The maester says all is well.”
Aerion only nodded, pleased with your tired reply for now. His brow wrinkled just slightly, and with a touch too tender for a man of such cruel nature, he reached out and touched the newborn's forehead. The babe stirred slightly, a small, humming sound as she shifted in her swaddling clothes and settled again. His forefinger traced her soft hairs, then down the line of her nose. His nose.
“A girl, I hear,” the prince said thoughtfully, withdrawing his hand to admire both mother and child. He had never been a man fond of soft things, but something deep within his chest tightened at the sight of the fragile being in your arms. His expression showed none of his confliction, carefully blank as he tilted his head.
“Does that upset you?” Your voice trembled faintly, eyes searching Aerion's impassive expression. This was different from Maegor's birth. Your husband had taken your firstborn into his arms, declaring him a strong little dragon. Now, there was only silence — thick and dreadfully brittle.
“No.” His reply came low in his throat, a mere mumbled word as though his thoughts were elsewhere. The babe stirred again, her small brow pinching as she blinked her eyes open. Violet irises fluttered up, a silent, innocent gaze meeting his own. Aerion swallowed. “Visenya.”
“What?”
“Her name.”
“Husband, I had hoped we would decide to-”
“Her name is Visenya.”
His tone was firm and unwavering, leaving no room for discussion. Aerion knew his children were strong, fierce dragons just as he was. They deserved names befitting of their lineage and succession. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping along the bone as he met your gaze to await submission. You sighed, but offered a weary nod. Some fights were not worth pursuing, and this was one of them. Visenya was a strong name for a strong girl.
Aerion seemed pleased with your reluctant acceptance, a small smirk tugging at his lips before he forced it away. He looked back down at the small creature in your arms, reaching out to stroke her round cheek. “She has eaten, yes?”
“Mhm,” you hummed, laying further back against the plush pillows that had been stacked behind you, the cushion a well-needed respite from some of the ache in your spine. “I've never met a newborn with such an eagerness to feed. Even her brother was not so hungry when he was born.”
“She already has the greed of a dragon, then,” Aerion said with the faintest curve of his lips. His brief amusement was replaced with a quiet concern when he met your gaze. “You should rest. I know the turmoil of your labors has been taxing. I will see to it that the maester and nursemaids attend to you both. Here, hand her to me.”
With a quiet relief, you handed your husband your new daughter. Visenya stirred lightly, whining at the change of hands, but she settled down in her father's hold. Her small lips parted slightly around noisy breaths, her head cradled reverently in one of Aerion's hands.
It came to pass that Aerion held his greatest treasure in his arms. Not gold. Not a crown. Not a scaled dragon of his own. But her.
He leaned down, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Hello, Visenya.”
Evening had settled over Summerhall, and you had returned to the familiar comfort of your marital chambers from the birthing chambers. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting odd shadows against the walls as the last light of the sun slipped through sheer curtains. It was quiet and warm and serene, and you had once again grown accustomed to the weight of an infant in your arms.
Aerion sat on a velvet-lined settee by the hearth, dressed down to a loose tunic and breeches, a goblet of wine hanging haphazardly from his grip. The arbor gold had scarcely been touched, save for a few idle sips. The prince's attention was aimed towards you as you stood over Visenya's cradle. She was cradled in your arms, her small hands curled around your breast as she nursed eagerly. His gaze couldn't help but follow that loosely-fitted nightgown that slipped from your shoulder, revealing the delicate line of your throat and the curve of your spine as he admired you from behind. The picture before him was one of softness, the warm sunlight painting your figure in an angelic view, your face pulled into a tender look of love as you tended to his daughter.
Aerion exhaled slowly, his chest tightening up once again. He had never been a man prone to tenderness, but the sight of his wife and child did that odd thing it always did. It brought up warmth, like the fire within a dragon's belly.
He set his goblet down with a faint clink, rising to his feet. He approached with slow strides, careful not to disturb the delicate atmosphere that had taken over the chamber. He stopped behind you, peering over your shoulder to watch as Visenya drank hungrily. "Always so demanding, the little hatchling," Aerion murmured, though his eyes never left the baby’s face. He stepped closer, closing the small gap, his presence looming and warm. "She has her father's appetite for what is hers, it seems.”
He reached out, not for his daughter, but to catch a stray curl that had escaped your hairpins, winding the thick strand around his finger. His touch was deliberate, a silent claim. He already envied the ease with which Visenya could command your attention, much like Maegor, yet he found a twisted sort of pride in the way their newborn mirrored his own voracious nature. "Let her have her fill," Aerion commanded softly, his voice dropping to a velvet rasp as he leaned down, his breath ghosting against her ear. He placed a delicate kiss to the shell of it. "And once the little one is sated and dreaming of dragons, perhaps you might find a moment to attend to your husband. He has been quite patient, has he not?”
“Aerion,” you said his name lightly, head tilting just a bit when his lips grazed your ear. “You know we cannot do anything. The maester says it will take my body time to heal after this birth.”
“I am no fool, wife,” he said, the words heavy with a bit of sharpness at the offense he felt. Aerion knew well enough that your body needed rest, and he had not intended to imply otherwise. “Can a man not simply hold what is his? You look beautiful like this, my brave girl. Soft with motherhood, still rounded and mine. Besides, I fear this may be the one night I have until things return to as they were. Tomorrow, Maegor will meet his sibling, and once again, I shan't be able to tear him away from your side. The little wyrm is as clingy as a leech.”
You sighed quietly, a bit of tension leaving your shoulders. It was odd that your husband was not demanding anything more from you, but perhaps that was the reward for all of the hardships it took to bring forth life. A faint smile touched your lips, amused. “Are you asking me to cuddle, Aerion?”
“Cuddle,” he scoffed, repeating the word as though it had personally attacked him. “I am not asking to cuddle, I am asking to hold what is mine.”
Your smile didn't waver, but you knew better than to poke the dragon. “That sounds lovely.”
A faint, hesitant knock on the door broke the gentle moment.
Aerion exhaled lowly, pulling away from you and Visenya with a noise akin to a growl. He reached for the iron-wrought handle on the door. It swung open quietly, his hand firmly gripping the wooden edge. Whatever frustration he had felt now mounted to its peak, glaring at the nursemaid in front of him, and little Maegor holding onto her skirts. “The boy is supposed to be in bed.”
“Y- yes, your grace,” the nursemaid stuttered, avoiding his gaze like the plague. “But the prince insisted that he could not sleep without bidding goodnight to his mother.”
“Our lady needs her rest after childbirth. You know this.”
“Yes, my prince-”
Maegor stepped forward, reached to tug on the loose hem of Aerion's tunic. His lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout, his little brows furrowing as he looked up at his father. “Please, papa,” the boy pleaded, tugging on the red silk in his hands. “I want… I want to see mama!”
Aerion let out a heavy exhale, glancing over his shoulder to share a look with you. You relented, nodding. “Fine, then,” he said grumpily, guiding Maegor by the shoulder to enter the room. He didn't spare a glance at the nursemaid before dismissing her with a flippant wave of his hand. “Begone, wench.”
The door closed.
“You must be quiet, sweet Maegor,” you said gently as the boy approached. He appeared hesitant, his features — which were now beginning to look more and more like his father's with each passing day — were pinched with a quiet worry. He toddled across the bedchamber, violet eyes glued to the small form in your arms. “This is Visenya,” you explained, turning to face Maegor when he stopped by your side. “Your baby sister. Once she is done eating, you may hold her if you wish.”
Baby sister.
Those words lingered in the air, light on your breath but heavy as they landed on Maegor's ears. His frown deepened, his small chin quivering and something close to fear struck your heart. Your son looked seconds away from weeping, but startled at the sound of Aerion's voice.
“It seems you are no longer the one vying for your mother's attention. She won't have much time for us any longer.”
That did it. Something shattered on Maegor's small face, tears beginning to roll down his fat cheeks. He let out a small cry; high-pitched and hoarse in his throat before he turned away from you. For once in the two years of his life, he turned to his father for comfort, his arms wrapping around his leg.
“Aerion!” You hissed his name like a scathing scold, jaw trembling from how tightly it was clenched. Aerion had always been a jealous man, even when it came to your own son. He had always been prone to cruelties, but antagonizing Maegor was not something you would let happen while you sat idly by. “How dare you say such horrid things?”
“It's the truth.”
“No, it is not and you know it!”
Aerion pouted at that, one hand sliding down to rest upon Maegor's silver curls.
“Don't pout, it's unbecoming of a prince who calls himself a dragon,” you quipped, before your gaze landed on Maegor. He looked so pitiful, face hidden against Aerion's breeches. Once Visenya had unlatched, which only took a few seconds more, you settled her into her cradle. She didn't whimper or cry, clearly unperturbed by the chaos that had erupted around her. “Maegor.”
The boy didn't respond at first. He merely whined, sniffling against the fabric of the pants he now clung to. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head to meet your gaze. You smiled gently, approaching him. You offered your hand, a bridge between the distance that had suddenly been put between you. Maegor took it, his chubby hand slotting against your own as his tears began to slow. You guided your son to the shared bed in the center of the room, offering your arm to help him climb up onto the mattress.
Aerion watched from a few strides away, gaze darkened as you gently wiped away Maegor's tears with the sleeves of your nightgown. “Do not listen to your father. He says cruel things because they amuse him, not because they are true,” you urged, pressing a kiss to his forehead. You straightened up, one hand settling onto your son's small shoulder before you turned to adress both him and Aerion.
“My love is not a finite thing. It does not have to be split. All three of you are my family now, and I love you more than anything. You both should know that.” It was a statement mainly directed towards your husband, the last words laced with a hint of anger at his childish whims. “I will always have time for you.”
Aerion felt his cheeks flush with something he would not name. Guilt? Embarrassment? He blinked, avoiding your gaze as shame washed over him like a second skin. There were few who could tame the dragon, but your words made him see reason when his jealousy blinded him. He closed the distance between you, hands sliding down to gently cradle your hips as he stood behind you. “I'm sorry, my love,” he whispered so that only you may hear, ashamed that he had to stoop so low to begin with. He had been frustrated with the interruption, anger coiling in his chest when the quiet moment he had shared with you and Visenya had been shattered. But it was not fair to his son, and your words rang true in his mind. His lips found your neck in a slow kiss, a silent apology. “You just brought our daughter into this world. You should be resting, not dealing with my actions.”
Maegor sniffled, his hands reaching for the front of your gown. His little fists clenched around the soft linen. “Mama, I'm sorry, too,” he whined. He had no need to apologize, but he had watched with wide eyes as Aerion had done so first. You only breathed out a sigh, and ran your fingers through his silver.
“Now, Maegor, would you like to meet your sister?”
After his first experience with your portal pussy, Clark’s become a bit… attached. It rarely sees the inside of your nightstand now; Clark always has it in his briefcase or backpack. And since you’re always wearing the panties, he can always take it out for a little peek at his pretty pussy. Sometimes, he’ll even take it out in the bathroom stalls. Lick a bit, to sate his thirst for it.
It’s a rare time when Clark is at home, and you’re out. You were busy running errands. Clark’s not used to being home alone. Krypto’s not even here.
With a heavy sigh, he plops right back onto the couch, the familiar blue metal disc in his hands. He unscrews the lid.
Your pretty pearl and folds sit inside, perfect. There’s even a bit of wetness from you and Clark’s early morning sex, cum dribbling from your hole.
After that first session, you and Clark had talked more about consent. Any time you were wearing the panties, Clark could do whatever he wanted. So Clark slides the tip of his cock up and down your seam. It’s warm and slippery. Clark notches the head of his cock right into your fluttering hole, and groans as he slides right in.
You immediately feel it in the middle of the grocery store. That perfect stretching sensation, the heft and fullness that came from Clark. You expect him to move, but he just stays there. It appears it’s a cockwarming sesson. So you go about your day as his cock is nestled perfectly inside, a reminder of how much Clark loves his gift.
۶ৎ targaryen men reacting to facially expressive!reader .✦ ݁˖
. — ༄˖°.🧺ྀི.ೃ࿔*:･ — .
ft: baelor, maekar, valarr, daeron, aerion, aemond, aegon ii
cw: fluff, f!reader, established relationship
a/n: tysm for this lovely request @demodemigodness12 !!
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reader is quiet, but her facial expressions tell more than words ever could. raising her eyebrows, rolling her eyes, making faces, giving side eye, etc.
──── ♖ ────
⋆.˚ baelor ‹𝟹
he is intrigued. hooked, if you will. baelor values restraint and composure, but doesn’t really respect mindless meekness. baelor is very observant, he reads your reactions extremely well, quickly learning the meaning behind every brow raise. he understands you without words. you two develop some sort of silent communication. baelor can simply glance at you and already know your opinion on the matter. he loves that. values the connection you have. baelor doesn't say it out loud, but he also finds your reactions cute. he never asks you to shrink into 'politeness', quite the opposite, he rather encourages your openness, watching your reactions with quiet adoration. if something happens during a social gathering, baelor looks for your reaction before anyone else's. when a lord makes a particularly foolish or arrogant comment, he immediately looks in your direction, fighting a smile because of your involuntary eye roll. he is absolutely charmed.
⋆.˚ maekar ‹𝟹
claims it irritates him. always looks disapproving and believes you are doing that on purpose, just for the sake of annoying him. that being said, he is not quite a 'composed' man himself, his attitude slipping in occasionally, especially when he is already fed up and frustrated. maekar will sigh and tsk at your obvious side eyes, but actually says nothing, because secretly he likes that you have a personal opinion and that you aren't afraid to show it. quite often, you unconsciously mirror each other's expressions and reactions. people around you have to witness, maekar pinching the bridge of his nose next to his wife rubbing her temples or him shaking his head slightly with a scoff paired with your open look of disgust. you are the king and queen of making faces, so your guests usually feel double attacked.
⋆.˚ valarr ‹𝟹
usually he is grounded by your reactions, bit nervous maybe, but still deeply admires this trait of yours. he relies on you a lot during feasts or social gatherings, searching for support or approval in your face, carefully watching your expression for any signal. valarr is very attentive, like his father, he learns how to read your emotions and masters this skill thoroughly. there is a sense of belonging in knowing only he gets you properly and can tell whether you are uncomfortable by the tilt of your head. also, a very important thing is that he trusts you deeply and values your opinions as much as his own. he is never ashamed, even if some might say your behaviour is ‘improper’, valarr is simply grateful that you are his and exactly the way you are.
⋆.˚ daeron ‹𝟹
entertained to the max. he thinks it’s very funny. so when he notices how your eyes dart to the obnoxiously loud lady, your lips curving in visible irritation, he can’t help but chuckle in his goblet. daeron finds your expressiveness absolutely wonderful, mesmerising even. just watching you makes him feel alive in a very pleasant and warm way. daeron could spend the whole evening just staring at you, looking absolutely smitten. he will make you smile and laugh on purpose, whispering obscene things to your ear just to see you glare at him. you spend the whole feast exchanging silent glances, followed by giggles and scoffs. daeron genuinely adores the fact that you are not just a love interest, but also his friend.
⋆.˚ aerion ‹𝟹
doesn’t know wether he is fond of it, aroused by it, or deeply frustrated. either way he is obsessed. doesn’t mean he always likes that, but still can’t stop watching you. aerion is easily ragebaited, he can get offended by a simple eye roll, so when he notices you wrinkling your nose at one of his knight tourney stories, gods help you, he sees red. aerion will say nothing, but his eyes are fixed on yours, continuing the story with passionate exaggerations, almost daring you to roll your eyes at him. he is enraged and transfixed. (good luck at after dinner activities) at the same time, he absolutely loves when you do this because of others. aerion loves that you are “bratty and bitchy” as he says, he is very proud. the most satisfied smirk appears on his face, as he watches you looking some lord up and down with barely contained disdain.
⋆.˚ aemond ‹𝟹
finds it very interesting. he can’t stand the boring soulless noble ladies who do nothing but flatter their eyelashes and he absolutely despises flatterers. so aemond finds your honesty attractive, he likes that you have a spine. your spirit, your unique behaviour, the transparency, all that is very alluring to him. aemond is drawn this side of you like a moth to a flame, drinking in every little shift of your lips, every little motion of your brows. he is never irritated by your ’attitude’, even when it is directed at him, it feels refreshing and trustworthy and he values that a lot. aemond is especially drawn in because of the drastic contrast between you two, while he is the epitome of calmness and restraint, you are being basically a storm of visible emotions right beside him. one silent scoff from your lips and he is absolutely weak. aemond sees something enchanting and absolutely irresistible about this.
⋆.˚ aegon ii ‹𝟹
it’s one of his favourite things, honestly. aegon loves anything that takes him out of boredom. he thrives. encorouges such behaviour in every way he can. even comments it out loud, partly with affection, partly with pride. will absolutely shut the noble lord with “can’t you see? my wife looks like she is about to jump out of the window because of your stupid stories.” aegon finds the council meetings and noble feasts bearable only because you are sitting beside him. he beams at your every eye roll or unimpressed frown, glancing around the room at others, daring someone to disapprove. aegon is not only delighted by this, but also eager to show this side of you off whenever possible. to him it’s definitely something to brag about.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.
Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.
The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.
Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.
“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”
Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.
But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.
You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.
Now he was here.
You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.
You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.
“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”
You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.
A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”
The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.
His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.
“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”
Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”
“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”
“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”
You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”
“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”
Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.
“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.
“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”
He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”
You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.
You lowered yourself onto his lap.
His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”
“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”
You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”
Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”
His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.
“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”
You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.
“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”
“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.
“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”
His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.
“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”
He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”
His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.
“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”
You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.
“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”
You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”
His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.
He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.
You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.
When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”
You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.
You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.
But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.
His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.
"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."
You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.
"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"
Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.
But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.
"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."
You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.
"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."
Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.
"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."
There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.
"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.
"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."
"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."
"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."
You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.
"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."
His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."
But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.
"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."
"No one would think that," you said.
"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."
He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.
"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."
"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."
He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.
"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."
"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."
"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."
"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."
"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."
You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.
"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."
His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.
"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.
For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."
"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."
"But I am..."
"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."
You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.
"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."
"I did not know you worried."
"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."
He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.
You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.
"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."
You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.
You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.
He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.
When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.
"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."
Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.
"Aerion..."
"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."
He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.
The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.
You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.
"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."
The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.
One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.
You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."
"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.
"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."
Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."
"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."
Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.
Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.
"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."
He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.
You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.
Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.
He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.
His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.
"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."
Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.
"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.
Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.
"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."
You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."
"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."
He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.
"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."
He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.
"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."
"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."
"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."
You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."
But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.
You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.
The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.
When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.
You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.
The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.
Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.
He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.
He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."
He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.
"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."
"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."
"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."
His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.
"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"
You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."
"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."
But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."
"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.
He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.
It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.
"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."
He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."
"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"
He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.
"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."
He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."
Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.
"What is this?"
Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.
"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."
Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."
Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.
"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."
Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."
"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."
Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."
"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."
"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."
"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."
Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.
Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."
He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.
"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."
"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."
"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."
"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."
"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."
"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."
Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."
"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."
"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."
You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.
"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."
"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."
"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."
"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."
His eyes darkened. "Choose?"
"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."
"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
You smiled and said nothing.
He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."
"I would expect nothing less."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.
alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
aerion targaryen who keeps having nightmares of reader dying and he doesn't know how to deal with it
He demands reader be there with him 24/7 but also afraid to talk to her too because he's scared he's gonna end up crying when he does
And one night, he wakes up and reader isn't there with him but just as he's about to jump out of bed, reader comes back in the room (turns out she was just hungry for a midnight snack) and aerion who loses his temper "Where were you!?" And reader is just confused "I went to the kitchen-"
Annnndddd I want you to come up with the ending!! :33
I’m Scared I’ll Never Sleep Again
Request: aerion targaryen who keeps having nightmares of reader dying and he doesn't know how to deal with it. He demands reader be there with him 24/7 but also afraid to talk to her too because he's scared he's gonna end up crying when he does. And one night, he wakes up and reader isn't there with him but just as he's about to jump out of bed, reader comes back in the room (turns out she was just hungry for a midnight snack) and aerion who loses his temper "Where were you!?" And reader is just confused "I went to the kitchen-" Annnndddd I want you to come up with the ending!! :33
Hi! So sorry it took me so long to get this out. I haven’t written for Aerion before, so this is a bit out of character. But hopefully you still like it! Thank you for the request :)
(Warnings: mentions of death and blood, swearing, i think that’s it? let me know if i missed anything)
—
Although it was true that Daeron was the dragon dreamer of the family, prophetic and misconstrued dreams plagued three of Maekar’s six children. It wasn’t something your husband talked about often, but you knew he understood the weight of them. He’d familiarized himself with the history and legacy of his house from the time he could read. Of course he knew who throughout his ancestry possessed this rare skill.
It wasn’t something Daeron could hide. Plagued the most, he chose to drink, gamble, and lust his way through the nights to avoid them. Aerion, however, was much more reserved about it.
When your marriage was first arranged, neither of you were thrilled. You didn’t want to leave your home in Highgarden, and Aerion had no interest in some simpering girl who couldn’t meet his gaze without trembling. Despite his fondness for women, he preferred having the choice. What fun was it if you didn’t know how to play the game with him?
You were summoned to court shortly after the news of Baelor’s death. Maekar, clinging to what little good he could make of his family after everything that happened, was desperate for a girl that could whip his son into shape. He needed a girl that was strong as well as beautiful, smart as well as dignified. He needed a match for his son that would hopefully finally make a man out of him. After carefully examining the eligible daughters of the Great Houses, you were selected. Within a fortnight of Lord Tyrell receiving the raven, you were on your way to King’s Landing.
Much to his father’s dismay, Aerion was the first to greet you upon your arrival. He didn’t even let Maekar get a word in before he stepped up to the carriage once the door was opened, offering you his hand to help you down. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought the action chivalrous and princely. But you’d heard plenty of tales of the prince before your arrival. You knew this was a calculated move, a test. He was purely waiting to see whether you’d pass or fail.
Without missing a beat, you hiked your skirts up with one hand and gripped his hand tightly with the other. “Did you know you can smell the shit for miles coming into the city?”
You carefully stepped over a pile of mud as he helped you down, letting go of him to smooth out your skirts. Once you were satisfied with your appearance, you looked up to meet him in the eye. He didn’t say a word, but you could see the intrigue in his gaze. He cocked his head to the side, glancing back at Maekar.
“Did you hear that, Father?” he hummed, clearly amused by his father’s usual grimace that was temporarily stunned into a look of confusion. “You can smell the shit for miles.”
You remembered your lessons, curtsying carefully. “My lord. It is an honor to meet you. I thank you for the invitation.”
You spoke like the lady he’d hoped you would be, but Maekar could hear the disgenuine tone in your voice. Either you were even smarter than you looked, or he’d made a grave mistake. Only time would tell.
“The journey was comfortable, I hope?”
More pretty words his own mother had taught him to say. Princes were supposed to care about hospitality and manners, as though they were golden knights among mere men. He’d always found it to be a load of bullshit, but he’d grown accustomed to it over the years. He’d never heard a lady of a noble house speak to him with anything but the carefully crafted words their mothers or septas taught them to say when addressed by a lord. But here you were, swearing upon your first meeting with them. He couldn’t help but begin to like you.
“Highgarden must smell pleasant with all those gardens,” Aerion mused, gaining your attention. “Does the smell of our city offend you, my lady?”
“Aerion—”
“Nonsense, my prince,” you answered sweetly, taking a deep breath of city air. “It suits me just fine. Shit and all.”
Maekar couldn’t help but laugh, trying and failing to stifle it. “Shit and all, my lady?”
“Shit and all.”
—
The following days were spent getting to know your new home and your betrothed. Aerion, ever the little shit, did all he could to bother you. But not once did you let him phase you. Every harsh word, every too tight grip, every whim he wanted you to indulge him on, you endured it. His father was never far, always watching with a scrutinizing stare to see if you’d slip up. He watched for days and days, but you never once faltered. Whatever tests he and his son had for you, you’d passed them with flying colors. He grew surer and surer about his decision to betroth you by the day.
When the day of your wedding finally came, Aerion was enamored with you.
He didn’t want to be, but he couldn’t help himself. He liked you. Your beauty, your wit, your tenacity. He thought he would enjoy making you squirm and wince, but he found himself enjoying the chase more. Your bark was every bit as big as his, and he could only hope your bite was the same.
He used to shudder at the idea of becoming soft for someone. The only woman he ever got that way for was his mother, and she was long gone. He had no intention of ever letting that part of himself surfacing again, yet you brought it out of him as you slowly settled into your marriage.
He was still every bit as harsh and possessive as he was the day he’d met you. But where he used to dig his claws in, he now favored a tight grip. His bite had turned into nothing more than a nip. He was learning to love you how you deserved to be loved, unwilling to settle for anything less.
It was obvious to anyone with eyes — the prince was head over heels for his wife.
Despite his closeness to you, Aerion was a tough nut to crack. He was always fond of jokes and deflection when the moment turned serious. Any time you prodded into his past, he’d gently guide you away with a sharp quip or wandering hand. More often than not, you’d let him. But over time, you slowly wore him down.
It took him weeks into your marriage to even admit that he had strange dreams. You’d pried the information from him the third night in a row you’d found him staring up at the canopies once you started sharing a bed.
“It’s just dreams,” he scoffed once you sat up and looked at him with concern in your gaze. “They don’t mean anything.”
You frowned, reaching up to smooth a hair out of place back down. “You need your rest, Aerion. You annoy me as it is. I will not indulge a husband comparable to a whining child all day tomorrow because he was too stubborn to sleep.”
Aerion stifled a grumble, turning his head to nip at your wrist. He caught it when you tried to pull away, pressing a kiss into your skin instead. You let your wrist go slack in his grip, watching as he guided your hand back into his hair.
“So spoiled,” you whispered, but you were smiling as he relaxed into the pillows once more.
Aerion huffed, closing his eyes. “I am what you made me.”
“Oh, so this is my fault now?”
“It is.”
“It has nothing to do with being a brat all your life before I came along?”
“Shut up, woman.”
“Excuse me?” you asked with a raised brow, pulling your hand away.
“No, no, no, no,” he rushed out, hastily pulling your hand back to his head. “I take it back, I take it back.”
You rolled your eyes, relenting. “Of course you do.”
—
As your marriage progressed, Aerion’s dreams got worse.
They were violent affairs. Before you, he dreamed of dragon fire and burning cities, the stench of death filling his nose. And before you, these dreams didn’t bother him much. Death was an inevitable thing. He would greet death as he greeted life, with a glint in his eye and a sword in his hand. It was no matter to him. The lives he took, or the one that claimed his, it was all inconsequential. It was a fate his ancestors met for centuries before him, and it was a fate his descendants would meet for centuries after him.
As his affection for you grew, his dreams began to shift. What was once vague and out of body became too up close and personal. The faceless men he’d watch be slaughtered suddenly began to morph into you, his beloved wife he’d burn down cities for.
The first time it happened, he was dreaming of your wedding day.
He dreamt of you standing at the altar with him, your beautiful gown flowing behind you. Your hair was done flawlessly, every pin placed with purpose. You smelled of roses and sunlight. Your father had arranged to have oils sent to you to remind you of home. Aerion felt weak in the knees the first time he smelled them on you. You had to pry him off you every time he’d get a whiff in passing and promptly bury his nose in your neck.
He dreamt of your smile, the way your gaze met his as you said the vows countless others had made before you. Up until that point, it was perfect. It was a happy memory.
But then your smile faltered.
You lowered your head slowly, grasping at the fabric banded across your stomach. Aerion watched in confusion until he felt dread spread throughout his chest, watching in horror as blood began to seep through your dress. You clutched helplessly at your stomach, looking to Aerion for help with desperate eyes, but there was nothing he could do. His own hand moved to cover yours, pressing down as hard as he could to stem the bleeding. But it was to no avail. You were bleeding out.
You crashed to your knees, clutching at his shoulders like a scared little child. He could hear himself screaming. It was a carnal and pained sound, a wail like the one his mother used to make when it was time to bring a new little brother or sister into the world. He felt like he was drowning in it.
He clawed and pawed at you, desperately looking around for help from someone, anyone. But help didn’t come. He had no choice but to watch you bleed.
He finally ripped himself from the dream when the light left your eyes, shooting up in the bed with a gasp from breath. His chest heaved as he panicked, blindly reaching over to your side of the bend until he could feel warm skin under his palm.
“Mmm,” you groaned, shifting onto your side as you cracked open an eye. “Aerion? What is it?”
I watched you die, he immediately wanted to say. I couldn’t save you.
But Aerion was full of pride. It pained him to admit vulnerability. He already choked on his love for you as it was. He couldn’t stomach the inevitable look of pity in your eye when he told you the truth. So he took a shaky breath, slowly laying back down.
“I dreamt I was falling,” he murmured, patting your thigh. “Go back to sleep.”
You frowned, throwing a leg over his hip to hold him down. “That’s silly.”
You twisted and turned in his grip until you were pressed flush against him, your limbs intertwined. One hand reached up to thread through his hair, the other resting on his arm. He let out a content purr, like a cat who’d just found a warm lap to sit in.
“There,” you whispered, resting your head on his chest. “I’ve got you. You can’t fall.”
He turned his head until his nose was buried in your hair. “Clever girl.”
—
The dream repeated itself often in various forms, always ending the same way — he couldn’t save you.
Whether it be by his hand or another’s, he’d watched you die now more times than he could stomach. Aerion wasn’t as foolish as some of his ancestors. He knew what the dreams were, and he knew they weren’t to be ignored.
Not when it came to you.
Still, though, he couldn’t talk to you about it. What if you didn’t understand? What if you laughed at him? What if you looked at him like he was crazy? What if—gods forbid—he burst into tears like some sniveling child clutching at his mothers skirts?
Before his mother passed, all of his siblings had nightmares at some point bad enough to send them climbing into her bed. Maekar was absolutely no help when it came to comforting his children.
“It’s not real,” he’d grumble, shifting over in the bed to get whichever child it was off of him. “Don’t be silly.”
Dyanna was kinder. “It was real to them.”
She’d sit with them until they calmed, rubbing their backs and stroking their hair. Then she’d take them back to their room and tuck them into bed, promising them a restful sleep now that they’d chased the bad dreams away. Aerion’s mother had been gone for years now. He hadn’t had anyone to chase the dreams away in quite a long time, and he didn’t want the burden to fall on you.
That didn’t mean he didn’t comfort himself, though.
You’d feel him reach for you in the night, clinging to you even worse than he normally did. He’d hold you close, whispering something you couldn’t quite make out into your skin. If you rolled away from him, he’d drag you back into his chest and lock his arm around your waist. If some part of him wasn’t touching some part of you, you’d get an earful in the morning about it.
As the dreams progressed, the worse about it he got.
One day, he decreed that you couldn’t leave his side unless absolutely necessary. “Where else do you have to be that’s more important than by my side?”
It was ridiculous, but he looked adorable when he pouted. You couldn’t help but goad him on.
“So, I'll never have anything for myself again? I have to follow you around to training, to meetings, to wherever you’re summoned? I can’t spend time in the gardens, or meet with any of the ladies of the court?”
“They’re quite dull, I assure you,” he shrugged, a goblet of wine poised at his lips. “We can go to the gardens if you wish. But not by the little yellows ones. They make my eyes water.”
He’d discovered that after following you in one day. He was sneezing for a week before he figured out that the few you’d plucked and gathered into a vase for your room was causing it. He promptly threw the entire thing out the window.
“You’ll go to the gardens with me?” you asked with a raised brow.
He smirked, and you knew his intent was less than innocent. “We can hide behind the ivy walls and play a little game. See just how quiet my girl can be.”
You laughed, but there was a shred of annoyance in your tone. “I am not a dog to be leashed, Aerion. You can’t command me to be by your side every second of every day.”
“Can’t I?”
You narrowed your eyes at home. “You can if you tell me why.”
“Because I said so?” he mused, narrowly moving out of the way fast enough to avoid your attack on his arm. “Can’t a husband want his wife by his side?”
“Can’t a husband be honest with his wife?” you countered, grinning when he glared.
You reached for him, taking his hand in yours. “When you’re ready to tell the truth, we can open this discussion again. Until then, I’m going to the gardens. You’re free to do as you wish, husband. Do behave yourself.”
You turned and walked away before he could protest. He watched you go with a longing ache in his chest, willing himself to call out to you. But his pride wouldn’t let him. Instead, he let you go.
—
This behavior continued until it all came to a head one night when a dream ripped him from sleep like claws digging into his side, piercing his skin.
He shot up into the dark with a cry, sucking in air like it was the last breath he’d get. His hand fumbled in the dark for any inch of warm skin he could get his hands on, but dread settled in his stomach when all he felt was cold sheets below his palm. His mind was still muddled with sleep, his heart racing in his chest. He’d yet to get his bearings, but he willed his brain to catch up with his body as he frantically reached around for you.
It was the middle of the night — where could you have gone? Has something happened to you? Did someone come in and take you? Did you leave him?
He nearly made himself sick, bile rising in the back of his throat at the thought of any one of those possibilities. He quickly ripped the sheets off his body, clambering to his feet. He stumbled around as he looked around for the clothes he’d kicked off the evening before, finding his shirt at the foot of the bed and his pants across the room on the floor. He could feel tears stinging behind his eyes that he willed not to fall as he moved around in the dark with nothing but a single candle to light the way.
Just as he reached for his shirt, he heard the chamber door creak open with a groan. He immediately lunged for the sword he kept by his bedside, only to stop in his tracks when his wild gaze met your bewildered one. He stared at you in shock for a moment before he finally snapped out of it, his face growing cold.
“Where were you?” he demanded to know, dropping the sword and the shirt he had balled up in his fist.
You gently shut the door behind you, setting down the plate you’d taken from the kitchen on the side table. “I was hungry?”
You cautiously approached your husband as if he was a cornered animal, gently reaching out to brush the tips of your fingers along his arm. “What’s going on?”
“You weren’t here!” he spat, pulling away from you like your touch burned. “Why didn’t you wake me? Why did you leave?”
“Aerion—”
“I told you not to leave my side!”
“Aerion!”
There was clearly a lot more going on here than meets the eye. You gently shushed him, reaching for him again, this time with a firmer grip. You could feel him flinch under your grasp, but you didn’t relent. He fussed and whined like a child until you managed to catch both of his wrists, squeezing them until he finally let his arms go lax.
“There,” you murmured, releasing your grip to slide your hands into his. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”
He was breathing heavily as he clung to your hands, a look of distrust in his eye. You frowned, reaching one hand up to run your thumb along his cheekbone.
“What is it, Aerion?”
He didn’t answer with words, instead pulling you into a bone crushing hug. He would’ve knocked you off your feet if you hadn’t dug your heels into the floor to brace yourself. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, trying your best to sooth him.
“What is it, love?” you asked once he’d calmed down some. “What happened?”
He whispered something into your skin, unwilling to pull away even an inch to speak more clearly.
But you didn’t need to hear him. You’d been seeing the change in him for weeks now. The restless nights, the fidgeting in his sleep. The way he’d refuse to talk about it, always throwing you off the scent. He wasn’t going to talk about it until you forced him to.
“A dream?” you asked.
His silence was enough of an answer.
“Someone hurt you?” you gently prodded, pulling back enough to look into his eyes. “Someone hurt me?”
He winced, a blazing look in his eyes. “Never. I will never let anyone hurt you.”
His voice wobbled as he spoke, and you felt something crack in your chest. You slowly guided him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed, silently asking him to sit. When he did, you promptly tucked yourself into his lap, your eyes level with his. He held you so tight that all you could manage was shallow breaths.
“I’m safe,” you tried to reassure him, speaking softly but surely. “You’re safe. We’re alright.”
Aerion nuzzled his nose into the crook of your shoulder, inhaling deeply. “I told you not to leave.”
You would’ve scolded him if he didn’t sound so pathetic. You cupped his cheeks, squishing them together until his lips puckered into a pout. You could tell he was scowling, but he made no move to pull away. Any touch from you would be welcomed with open arms.
“Stubborn thing,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He scoffed. “And say what? ‘My love, I keep having dreams of you dying horrible deaths where there’s nothing I can do to stop it?’ That’s what you want to hear?”
“That’s a start,” you mused, brushing his hair back with gentle hands.
Aerion rolled his eyes, turning his head to nip at your palm. “You’re a pain.”
You laughed, pinching his cheek. “Takes one to know one.”
Aerion grumbled to himself, pulling you closer. He was always like this. He always had to be touching you, feeling your skin on his. Now you understood why. You let him squeeze the life out of you, running a hand up and down his back.
“You smell like wine,” you murmured into his shoulder. “Have you been drinking?”
“Sometimes it stops the dreams,” he shrugged.
You sighed, pulling back to look at him. “It also makes you restless. You never sleep well, and you always complain about your chest burning. If you want to sleep dreamlessly that bad, we should ask the Grand Maester if he can make you something.”
Aerion didn’t answer you, too busy analyzing every nook and cranny of your face as if it was the last time he’d get to see it. He scowled at the dreaded love and affection he felt for you growing tenfold when he saw the concern in your eyes.
“He’ll just tell me to drink tea. I hate tea. It tastes like grass.”
You hummed, leaning forward until your nose brushed his. “I have a question.”
“I don’t have an answer.”
“Oh, shut up,” you grinned, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Do you have good dreams? Happy ones? Or is it only the nightmares?”
Aerion thought a moment before shaking his head. “I have good ones too.”
“Well? Don’t leave me guessing.”
He let his hands settle on your hips, gently squeezing. “Days at Summerhall. Mother telling me a story. You…the day you arrived.”
“Such a sap,” you mused, patting his cheek.
Aerion groaned, dramatically flopping back onto the bed. He dragged you down with him, refusing to let go until you were pressed flat against him like a weighted blanket. Only then did he let you reach for the covers, letting you shift until you were comfortable. You relaxed into the warmth of him.
“I didn’t even get to eat the bread I took.”
Aerion bit back a grin. “Well, excuse me for wanting to hold my wife. Think you can hold out till morning, you bottomless pit?”
You smacked his arm, earning a laugh. “Bottomless pit? Do you want me to stab you? That can be arranged, husband.”
“I’m sure it could,” he replied, resting his chin on the top of your head. “Sleep.”
You frowned. “What about you? The dreams.”
You could feel him shake his head. “I think you’ve chased them away, love.”
You felt your cheeks warm at his words, hoping he couldn’t feel the heat of the one pressed against his chest. He softened underneath you, the tension in his muscles starting to ease. His breaths got shallower as sleep started to take hold. You spared a glance up at him once you felt his hands loosen their grip on you. You smiled at the look of peace on his face.
You laid back down, closing your eyes to drift off with him.
so it would have to be an occasion. it can't just be they fancied a trip. this is winterfell. the north. barthogan stark's daughter is coming home with a targaryen prince and his blood-red horror in the sky behind her, and the realm will talk. so i think it's barth, actually. barth has been ill. nothing fatal, just the kind of long winter cough that makes a man write his daughter a letter that's three lines longer than usual and signed your father instead of barthogan. and you read it once, fold it twice, and tell aerion you're going north.
he doesn't ask if he can come. he says when do we leave.
caraxes foul about the cold on the flight north, complaining the whole way, that low chesty grumble that means if you weren't on my back i would burn something just to feel warm. aerion is laughing at caraxes, openly, viciously, calling him a soft-bellied southern lizard and asking if his princeling lungs need a warmer climate, baiting him for sport, and caraxes' tail lashes hard enough you have to grip tighter and tell aerion to stop antagonising the dragon, you child, and you can feel aerion grinning against the back of your shoulder.
he likes it, aerion says airily. he's bored. he wants something to be cross about. the complaining only quiets when you lay a gloved hand flat on the red of his neck and lean down and murmur something soothing only caraxes can hear, and aerion goes briefly, dangerously quiet behind you because his dragon has just gone soft for someone who isn't him, and on some animal level he cannot bear it.
show-off, he mutters into your hair, and you smile into the wind.
winterfell sees you coming from miles off. half the household on the walls, the other half pretending not to be. barth on horseback in the wolfswood clearing, paler and thinner through the jaw than you remember but standing, and when you slide down from caraxes and into his arms he holds you so tightly your ribs creak. welcome home, pup. you don't cry, but its a near thing.
aerion slides down after you with the loose-jointed elegance of a prince who's never in his life waited for an invitation, and he comes up just behind your shoulder. not far enough away to be respectful, but not close enough to be openly possessive, just exactly the wrong distance to make your father's jaw tick, and he inclines his head a fraction of a fraction. lord stark. the inflection is perfect. it's the exact polished pitch of a southern prince acknowledging a bannerman. every bit deliberate.
and barth, who is no fool, hears it for what it is and his mouth thins.
prince aerion, barth says dryly. the north is colder than the south. try not to freeze.
aerion gives barth a slow, lazy once-over (the heavy cloak, the silvered hair at the temples, the cough barth swallows down) and says mildly: i'll do my best, my lord. i've heard the cold is what kills men of your years. i'd hate to lose you before we're properly acquainted.
barth's hand flexes once on the reins. you don't move. caraxes, behind you, huffs in a way that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
(you decide, on the spot, that you will be having several words with him later.)
the visit itself lasts ten days.
and aerion is exactly aerion. he eats what's set before him with a faint air of i suppose this will do. he complains about the bread (it's good bread, you've eaten this bread your whole life, he says it's like parchment).
he insults the wine to the steward's face and then drinks three cups of it. he asks the master-at-arms if he can spar in the yard and then actually shows up at dawn, which no targaryen has ever done in living memory, and he wins. he wins and then he leaves the yard whistling, and the master-at-arms comes back to barth's solar an hour later looking like a man who's going to have to significantly revise his opinion against his will. he fights like a wolf, my lord, he says, through actual gritted teeth. and he knows it. barth, reading dispatches, does not look up. yes, barth says. i imagine he does.
aerion you take him down to the crypts on the third day. he walks the long line of stark dead with a torch in his hand and his other hand at the small of your back (lower than is decent, yet you do not move it). he reads the names aloud, drawling, like he's testing them in his mouth for taste. brandon the builder. theon the hungry wolf. the kings of winter with their iron crowns. and then he stops.
he stops in front of your grandfather.
cregan stark. the old wolf. the man who came south after the dance was done and held the iron throne in his fist for a fortnight and used that fortnight to execute every conspirator who had bled his king's house dry. the hour of the wolf. the price the targaryens paid for surviving themselves.
aerion stands in front of that statue for a long time.
then he turns slowly. and he gives you, standing two steps behind him with the torch throwing your shadow long up the wall, a lazy once-over. the kind that starts at your boots and works its way up at his own leisure. neck. mouth. eyes. the kind that says yes, i thought so.
you have his jaw, he concludes.
your stomach flutters.
and his hands, aerion goes on, conversational, drawling, looking back at the statue like he's appraising horseflesh. and his stillness. i wondered where you got it from. he tips his head, considering. i thought it was your father. but no. it's this one. a small, intimate smile. the old wolf. the killer.
aerion, you warn. it comes out lower than you meant it to.
now, now, he says, soft, still looking at cregan. don't pretend i'm being cruel. you know what he was. his thumb strokes once, idly, against the small of your back through the wool. he saved my house, you know. he tilts his head the other way. did you know that? properly?
you know that. of course you know that. you grew up on it. the hour of the wolf, you say.
the hour of the wolf, he agrees. the dance had eaten itself to the bone and there was a child on the throne and half the great houses were circling like crows, and this one — he gestures with the torch at cregan — this one rode south and held the realm together with his fangs and then went home. without taking a thing. without asking for a thing. just because he swore an oath. once. aerion's eyes come back to you. they are bright. every targaryen alive owes their breath to that man. me. my father. my uncle. the lot of us. we are here because a stark decided we should be.
aerion—
and before him, aerion goes on, ignoring you, warming to it now, the petulant prince in him turning theological the way he always does when he's making an argument he wants to win, before him there was torrhen. the king who knelt. who looked at aegon over a field of horse and dragon and made the only intelligent decision any man has ever made in this realm's miserable history. who did not kneel because he was beaten. he wasn't beaten, he had an army of northmen at his back. he knelt because he understood. because he saw the dragon and he knew. ice and fire. the only two things in this world that can hold each other up. everything else dies.
he steps closer. the torch hisses, the dead kings watching you both.
aegon and torrhen, he says, voice low. cregan and young aegon the third. it has always been this. every century or so the realm starts to come apart and a stark and a targaryen find each other and put it back together, and then we forget for a hundred years and do it all again. his eyes drag over you. that same lazy once-over. boots. neck. mouth. and now there's you.
you do not answer.
and now there's me, he says, softer. and you can pretend, sweet wolf, that this is politics. or accident. or appetite. but you and i both know what it is. it's the old pattern. it's been the same pattern since the first dragonlord set foot on dragonstone and looked north. he lifts the torch a little, throws the light up onto cregan's stone face. he knew. ask him.
your throat hurts. you make yourself say it: he's stone, aerion.
your father will be down here too one day, aerion says, going on like you haven't spoken, gesturing now at the empty place where your father's likeness will stand. and so will you. and so will i. because i am not leaving you to lie in the dark alone, sweet wolf. starks and targaryens have always slept side by side when it mattered. i'm not going to be the one who breaks the pattern.
the audacity of it. the blasphemy. a targaryen prince saying he will lie in the stark crypts. saying it like it's already decided. like the only question is the date. and the worst part is that for a single half-breath, standing in front of your grandfather's stone face with this creature at your back, you almost believe he will find a way to stay with you even after death.
you turn and walk out without answering. he follows. he's smiling. you can feel it without looking.
caraxes meanwhile has chosen the godswood as his roost.
he's curled himself around the base of one of the great sentinels and the snow has melted in a ring around him and the maesters are beside themselves and caraxes does not care. caraxes is delighted.
the smallfolk's children sneak in to look at him from behind tree trunks and run away shrieking when he twitches an eye. someone leaves an offering of cured fish at the edge of the clearing and caraxes regards it the way a lord regards a peasant's gift of turnips. insulted, on principle, but i suppose i'll allow it. aerion finds out about the fish and is outraged on his dragon's behalf.
they're offering him fish, sweet wolf. like he's a cat. you have to walk away to laugh.
on the fourth day you find caraxes with his enormous skull lowered into the black pool of the heart-tree well, drinking, and you have one hysterical thought (he is consecrating himself) before you laugh out loud and go to scratch the place behind his jaw.
aerion appears at the treeline a moment later, arms folded, leaning against the white bark of the weirwood, watching the two of you with an expression that's covetous.
he likes it here, aerion says. i can tell. and aerion says, after a long pause, so do i. and the way he says it makes the hair on your neck stand up.
the visit to the hot springs comes several days later.
you take him because he's been losing the cold war with the north for days now and the smug southern composure has been fraying, and you take him into the steam expecting him to gloat about finally being warm and instead he goes pleased.
gods, he breathes. and then, with the helpless honesty he only ever finds in heat, eyes closed, head tipped back against the stone: i could live here.
the leaving is hard in a way you didn't expect.
you stand in the wolfswood clearing with caraxes lowering himself for you and your father watching from horseback and the cold biting your face, and you don't want to go. aerion is watching you. aerion is always watching you. and he doesn't promise you that you'll come back. he says, low, only for you, with that small infuriating smile: don't make that face, sweet wolf. it's only for now. and then, lower, with the casual certainty: we'll be back. you'll see. and one of these years we won't bother leaving. you should be furious. you should be furious. you only swing yourself up onto caraxes and tell your father you love him and tell aerion to fly.
caraxes goes up into the cold blue with a roar that the north will be telling stories about for a generation.
on the way south aerion is quiet against your back, and you know (the way you always know with him) that some private clockwork has clicked. that he's seen winterfell and liked it. and that decisions, with aerion, are not the kind of thing one un-decides.
The townhouse bedroom reeked of sex—thick, musky, and sweet with your dripping arousal. Valarr had you speared open on his massive cock for what felt like hours, your slick pussy stretched obscenely around his veiny, wrist-thick length. He wasn’t fucking you. Not yet. Just keeping you stuffed full, balls-deep, while that evil little Dragon Egg vibrator buzzed mercilessly against your swollen, puffy clit.
“Fuuuuck, listen to that greedy cunt,” Valarr groaned, voice low and filthy. His dark hair was messy, lips parted as he watched your juices coat his heavy balls and drip down the crack of your ass onto the ruined sheets. “You’re soaking me, baby. Making such a nasty fucking mess just from warming my dick.”
The vibrator clicked higher. Your thighs shook violently around his hips, inner walls clamping and fluttering wildly around every thick inch of him. The head of his cock kissed your cervix with every involuntary twitch, stretching you so full you could barely breathe.
“Oh god—Valarr—” you wailed, nails raking down his chest.
He smirked, dark and possessive, grinding the vibrator harder against your throbbing clit. “Yeah? You gonna squirt all over my cock again, you filthy little slut? Come on. Milk me with that sloppy pussy. I want to feel you gush.”
Your first orgasm hit like a freight train. Your cunt spasmed violently, squirting clear fluid around the base of his cock in messy pulses that splattered his abs and thighs. The wet, obscene squelching sounds filled the room as your walls rippled and sucked him deeper. Valarr hissed through his teeth, eyes rolling back slightly, but he held perfectly still, letting your orgasm wring his shaft.
“Fuuuuck yes—that’s it. Good fucking girl. Look at you creaming all over me.” He didn’t stop the vibrator. If anything, he pressed it firmer, circling your oversensitive clit until your eyes crossed.
The second orgasm tore through you immediately after, even harder. Your pussy clenched so tight it almost hurt, rhythmic, milking spasms squeezing his fat cock like a vice. More squirt leaked out, dripping messily down his balls as you sobbed and shook.
“Again,” he growled, free hand gripping your ass hard enough to bruise, spreading your cheeks wider so he could feel everything. “Don’t you fucking stop cumming. I want this cunt ruined. Want it twitching and sore for days.”
Third. Fourth. They blurred together in a haze of overstimulation. Your clit was swollen and pulsing, nerves on fire, but the vibrator kept buzzing relentlessly. Each orgasm made your pussy convulse wildly around him—long, powerful squeezes followed by fluttery aftershocks that had his thick shaft throbbing inside you. Your juices were everywhere: coating his pelvis, running down to soak the sheets, the wet sounds of your cunt absolutely filthy as it gushed and sucked.
Valarr’s breathing grew ragged, his muscular chest heaving. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Shit—baby, your cunt is fucking choking me. So hot and wet and greedy. You’re gonna make me cum just from this, aren’t you? Just from your slutty pussy spasming around my cock like a desperate whore.”
You could only moan brokenly, tears streaming down your face as another orgasm ripped through you. This one was brutal—your whole body seized, pussy clamping down in deep, rhythmic waves that practically sucked the cum from his balls. The sensation was too much.
Valarr’s control finally snapped.
“Fuck—fuck, I’m cumming—” he snarled, voice breaking into a guttural moan. His hips jerked up once, burying himself impossibly deeper as thick, hot ropes of cum erupted inside you. Pulse after heavy pulse, flooding your overstuffed cunt until it leaked out around his shaft in creamy white rivulets mixed with your squirt. He kept the vibrator pressed tight to your clit the entire time, forcing you to keep spasming through his orgasm, drawing out every last drop as your walls milked him dry.
“Take it—all of it, you filthy cumslut,” he panted, grinding up into you as he kept unloading. “Gonna fill this womb so full it’s dripping out of you for hours. That’s my good girl… my perfect little cockwarmer.”
Even after he finished, he left the vibrator on low, making you twitch and whimper around his spent but still-thick cock. His cum squelched obscenely with every flutter of your pussy. Valarr pulled you down against his chest, one hand possessively cupping your mound, fingers spreading your lips around his base so he could feel the messy mix of your combined fluids.
“Stay right here,” he whispered hotly against your ear, nipping your lobe. “I’m not pulling out until you’ve cum a few more times on my cock. I love feeling you lose your fucking mind while I’m still inside you.”
His thumb brushed your clit beside the vibrator, already teasing the next wave.
You were going to be a dripping, ruined, cum-filled mess by the time he was done—and you both knew you fucking loved it.
The overstimulation quickly became unbearable. Wave after relentless wave crashed through you, your cunt clenching and fluttering wildly around his cock as fresh squirt leaked out around his thick shaft.
You were shaking, sobbing into his neck. Valarr drank in every broken sob and twitch, his own breathing growing ragged.
“Enough of this,” he finally growled, voice dark with raw hunger. “I need to fuck you properly.”
He clicked the vibrator off but left it on the bed like a promise. In one fluid, powerful motion, he rolled you both, pulling out with a filthy schlorp that made a heavy glob of his cum splatter onto the sheets. Before you could even whine at the emptiness, he flipped you onto your stomach and shoved your face down into the cum-stained pillow.
“Ass up, baby. Let me see that sloppy, bred cunt.”
You obeyed on instinct, arching your back and pushing your ass high. Valarr knelt behind you, spreading your cheeks wide with both hands. He groaned at the sight—your pussy puffy, gaping slightly, and leaking a steady river of his thick white cum.
“Fuck, look at this pretty mess I made.” He dragged the fat head of his cock through the creamy mix, teasing your clit before slamming back inside with one savage thrust. The prone bone position let him drive impossibly deeper, his heavy body blanketing yours completely, hips flush against your ass as he started pounding you without mercy.
Plap-plap-plap-plap—
The wet, obscene slapping of skin on skin mixed with the constant squelching of his cum being fucked deeper into you. Every brutal thrust punched the air from your lungs, his long, veiny cock rearranging your insides and battering your cervix.
“Valarr—fuck—too much—” you cried out, fingers twisting in the sheets.
“Too much?” He laughed, low and cruel, wrapping one veiny forearm around your throat and pulling your head back so he could growl right into your ear. “This is what you get for making me cum hands-free like a desperate whore. Take this dick, baby. Take every fucking inch while I breed you again.”
His pace was punishing—long, powerful strokes that made your ass ripple with every impact. His balls slapped loudly against your clit, the added sensation sending you spiraling into another orgasm almost immediately. Your pussy convulsed wildly around him, squirting messily around his cock and soaking his thighs.
“Yes—fuck yes, squeeze me just like that,” he snarled, hips snapping harder, grinding deep on every thrust. “Milk my cum out again. This cunt belongs to me. My personal cumdump. My filthy little cockwarmer turned breeding slut.”
He fucked you through it without slowing, the wet sounds growing louder and nastier as more of his load was churned into a frothy white cream coating his shaft. Sweat dripped from his chest onto your back. His free hand reached underneath you, rough fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, mean circles.
Another orgasm tore through you, vision whiting out as your walls fluttered and spasmed uncontrollably. Valarr’s rhythm faltered, his cock swelling even thicker inside you.
“Gonna fill you again—fuck—take it all, baby—”
He buried himself to the hilt and came with a deep, guttural moan, pumping rope after thick rope of hot cum straight into your womb. The sheer volume made your lower belly feel full and bloated, excess seed squirting out around his cock with every lazy grind of his hips.
Valarr didn’t pull out. He stayed collapsed on top of you, heavy and possessive, cock still twitching inside your overflowing pussy. His lips brushed your ear, voice hoarse but tender in that obsessive way only he could manage.
“Such a good girl… taking everything I give you.” He kissed the side of your neck, then nipped it hard enough to mark. “We’re not done. I’m keeping you right here, stuffed and leaking, until I’m ready to fuck you again.”
His hand slid down to press possessively over your lower belly, right where you could feel the warmth of his cum sloshing inside.
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Duncan was in the stables, brushing Thunder, when a cheerful Aerea Targaryen, your youngest daughter with Aerion Targaryen, entered. Duncan should be used to it by now; of all your children, Aerea was the most excited whenever he and Egg passed through King's Landing. He was still amazed at how the girl could spend hours asking him and Egg about their travels, demanding stories. He never imagined that Aerion Targaryen's offspring would hold him in such high esteem.
"Ser Duncan, I've brought apples for the horses!" the princess said, proudly holding up a small sack of red apples. "I told you to stop bowing when you see me," she complained when she saw the knight bow before her. "I'm your friend."
But Duncan would never do that; she was a princess, and he was just a knight. Not only that, but he didn't want to give Aerion Targaryen an excuse to punish him for disrespecting his daughter. He knew the prince didn't like her spending so much time with him and Egg.
“You are, but you’re still a princess,” the knight replies calmly. “Have you finished your lessons?” he asks, to make sure she isn’t getting into trouble and that you or Aerion doesn’t think he’s a bad influence.
“Yes, they were boring,” she replies as she begins to feed Thunder an apple, and before Dunk can inquire further, she speaks again. “Ser Duncan, may I ask you something?” The girl looks at him with her purple eyes full of curiosity.
The knight is immediately intrigued. Princess Aerea wasn't one to ask permission before speaking.
“Yes,” he replies, hoping he won't regret it. If she asked him to teach her how to use a sword, he would have to say no. He didn't want to upset you or Aerion.
“Why did you reject my mother?” Aerea asks, making Duncan stop brushing Thunder immediately.
“What do you mean, I rejected your mother?” he asks instead, confused.
“You rejected my mother when she courted you,” the girl replies, raising an eyebrow, as if she thinks he's playing dumb on purpose.
“Your mother never courted me,” Duncan says, frowning.
“Yes, she did.”
“No, she didn’t,” Duncan insists firmly. “I don’t know where you heard that, Princess, but you shouldn’t pay attention to rumors, much less spread them,” he says seriously.
Aerea can’t help but feel a little offended. She wasn’t a gossip… Well, maybe a little, but not as much as her sisters.
“My mother told me,” Aerea says, raising her chin stubbornly. Her annoyance vanishes when she sees the knight's face transform. The surprise and confusion on his face are so evident that it amuses the princess.
“She told you?” Duncan repeats, his voice a little high-pitched, which entertains Aerea.
“Yes, she said that before marrying my father, she courted you,” she replies instantly. “Didn't you notice?” she asks, amused to see Duncan rethinking his entire life.
“I thought she was just being kind,” he replies, returning to brushing the horse, not wanting the princess to see him embarrassed.
After that, Duncan remained lost in thought, barely speaking, so in the end, Aerea left him alone in the stables because she was bored. But could she blame him? He had just learned that you had been interested in him. He couldn't help but think about the brief moments you had shared in Ashford. He remembered feeling that during the feast in Lyonel Baratheon's tent, you kept looking at him, but he had thought it was because perhaps he was eating in a disorderly way; he never imagined it could be because you were interested in him. Now that he thought about it, it shouldn't have been an accident when your hand brushed against his on the dance floor; he had pulled away. He had been afraid of his clumsiness, of stepping on your toes if you danced too close. You were a lady; he didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of you. Now he felt foolish, especially when he remembered the time you had suggested that perhaps you could accompany him sometime as he traveled the kingdoms. He didn't think you were serious; he thought you were just being nice after he told you about Ser Arlan.
Perhaps in another life, you would have accompanied him and Egg. He could see you riding beside him, making Egg laugh. But firm when necessary, helping him discipline Egg. Duncan would have protected you from any danger, cooked for you, and strived to give you a good life. He could imagine you and him in a cottage, he could imagine Aerea as his daughter, only without those characteristic Targaryen purple eyes. There would be no problem with him teaching her to use a sword.
Duncan is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps. When he looks toward the entrance, he sees you. For a moment, the knight thinks it's a figment of his imagination until you stop looking at him and step inside.
“Aerea told me,” you say simply, no need to explain what you’re talking about. “I’m sorry. My daughter has a big mouth,” you say, stroking Aerion’s horse, just to have something to keep your hand occupied instead of fidgeting. “I hope things aren’t awkward now,” you say, though if Duncan changed his behavior toward you, you’d think he was an idiot. It had been years since Ashford.
“Of course not,” Duncan rushes to reassure you, but pauses for a moment before speaking again. “I’m sorry if I made you feel rejected. I didn’t know.”
You laugh, not realizing that Duncan doesn’t look sorry just because he’s afraid he hurt your feelings, but because this new information has really stirred something within him.
“Oh, Duncan, it was years ago, and besides, it was just a brief infatuation. It’s not like you broke my heart and I’m heartbroken. I’m happy with my life.” You think you’re reassuring him, absolving him of guilt, without realizing you’re making him feel foolish for even imagining what your life together could have been like.
Of course, you’re happy. You’re married to a prince, and despite how cruel Aerion can be to the rest of the world, it was no secret that he practically worshipped the ground you walked on. And Duncan believed you must love Aerion dearly, too, if you hadn’t had so many children with him. Not only that, but every time he and Egg come to visit, you seem to grow closer to Aerion. Duncan is a fool; he shouldn’t dwell so much on the past.
Fossoway!Reader Universe
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notes. dear lord have mercy bcs i'll be the one stealing them from their wives rn
AERION.
The cold glass of the window pressed against your bare skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of Aerion’s body behind you. He held you firmly in place, his grip strong enough to leave bruises by morning — exactly what he wanted. He wanted the world to see that you were no longer the untouched, dutiful bride your betrothal demanded. You had already been ruined. Claimed. Profaned by him.
And he was going to make sure no one could ever take you away.
Goosebumps erupted across your skin as his warm hand slid down your stomach, pulling you harder against him. Your mind and body were at war — half of you desperate to push him away, the other half aching to surrender completely.
“Please… listen to me,” you begged, voice breaking. A choked moan escaped you as his fingers dipped between your thighs, finding you shamefully wet. Your hips arched back against his hand before you could stop yourself. “This isn’t right. I’m getting married soon, and—”
“Shh, shh,” Aerion hushed you, his voice low and dark. Two long fingers parted your slick folds and sank into you with agonizing slowness. “Why do you think I’m doing this now, silly girl?” He curled his fingers inside you, stroking that perfect spot. “If I wait even one more day, I’ll lose you…”
His words trailed off into a low groan as he focused entirely on the wet sound of his fingers pumping in and out of your cunt. He needed you. He always had. But time was running out, and desperation had turned him feral.
You pushed your ass back against the hard line of his cock, and the movement dragged him back to reality with a deep, hungry growl.
“…But if I make you mine tonight,” he rasped, “they won’t be able to tear you away from me.”
His fingers thrust deeper, curling deliciously, and suddenly you stopped caring that your breasts were crushed against the freezing glass. All you could focus on was him.
“What’s the point?” you gasped. “No one will ever know—”
His teeth sank into the side of your neck, a sharp warning that made you whimper. Still, you continued, breathless: “No one will know this ever happened.”
Aerion pulled his fingers out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing. You turned your head, only to meet his intense violet eyes burning into yours — dark and gleaming with a new, wicked idea.
“Oh, but they will know,” he murmured, voice velvet and venom. “I’ll make sure of it.”
His hands gripped your waist, positioning you exactly how he wanted. The thick head of his cock nudged against your soaked entrance for only a heartbeat before he drove into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
A broken cry tore from your throat at the sudden stretch. You were grateful the window was closed — otherwise the entire garden would have heard you — but Aerion didn’t seem to care at all. He fucked you with purpose, deep and relentless, each stroke claiming you more thoroughly than the last.
“I’m going to put a baby in you tonight,” he growled against your ear, punctuating the vow with a particularly hard thrust that stole the breath from both of you. His sharp canines grazed the back of your neck as he smiled. “I’ll stay inside you all night if I have to. Do you hear me? Then you’ll be mine. Truly mine. And no one will dare take you from me.”
MAEKAR.
You weren’t sure how you’d ended up in this position, but after the heated argument about your impending departure and the arranged marriage, you now found yourself straddling Maekar’s lap in his favorite cushioned armchair.
He was still grumbling under his breath, but it was impossible to focus on his words when his thick cock was buried to the hilt inside you and his rough hands gripped your hips with bruising strength, refusing to let you move even an inch.
“And you did not think to tell me you are leaving at morrow,” he growled, the sound pulling you out of your lust-drunk haze. His dark eyes locked onto yours. “What was the lord’s name again?”
You shifted your hips slightly, desperate for friction, but he held you firmly in place. He was clearly determined to punish you. You were his. Had you still not realized it? Did he really need to take you like this — impaled on his cock, helpless in his lap — for it to finally sink into that pretty head of yours?
His fingers dug harder into your flesh, denying every desperate roll of your hips.
“You know what? It does not matter,” he rasped. “His name means nothing. His house means even less. He will not have you.” When your walls clenched tightly around his cock at his words, his voice dropped lower, rougher. “He will not have this.”
Encouraged by your reaction, you squeezed around his length again, trying to memorize the shape of him. Maekar finally gave in — just barely. He lifted his hips in a slow, controlled thrust, guiding you with those powerful hands in one long, torturous stroke.
“Maekar… it was already decided,” you tried to protest, breathy and weak. “The Septon—”
The old prince cut you off with a fierce kiss, his mouth claiming yours until you melted against him. Maybe it was affection. More likely, it was just another way to silence any argument or denial trying to leave your lips.
“Fuck the Septon and whatever vows he wants to spout,” Maekar growled against your mouth, nipping at your lower lip. “I will deal with him at morrow. I would sooner have you bear my name than see you wed to some lord in a forgotten keep.”
DAERON.
Your nightly tea lay forgotten on the bedside table, long gone cold beside the grand bed where you lay beneath Daeron.
He was trembling, skin slick with sweat, as he hovered over you. What had begun with him slipping into your chambers under weak excuses — that he only wanted to talk, to see you one last time before tomorrow — had quickly turned into desperate touches and broken pleas. He couldn’t bear to watch you leave. He couldn’t stand the thought of you belonging to another man.
“You’re mine,” he whispered shakily, bracing his arms on either side of your head so his weight wouldn’t crush you. “You’ve always been mine. Why didn’t you refuse?”
His cock was buried deep inside you, but despite how badly he wanted to make you feel good, his thrusts remained slow and shallow. Exhaustion and sorrow weighed heavily on him, yet his glassy violet eyes never left your face — intense, almost desperate.
“Refuse?” you answered softly, your gentler hands sliding along his ribs in a soothing caress. “Do you think I had any say in the matter? No one even knew you wanted to ask for my hand. Not even me.”
Daeron let out a pained groan at the truth of your words and dropped his forehead to the crook of your neck. His breathing was ragged — the only sign he hadn’t simply fallen asleep on top of you. After a long moment, he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.
“But I knew,” he murmured. “And I did nothing. I never courted you. I never fought for you. Nothing.”
He pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss to your collarbone. After several agonizing seconds, his hips began to move again. It was almost pathetic how the only thing bringing him any satisfaction was the fact that he hadn’t come in the first four seconds, as heartbroken as he was. Embarrassing.
“I'm still here,” you whispered, rolling your hips up to meet his. He inhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. “It’s not too late, Daeron.”
He might finish embarrassingly fast. And he wasn’t going to pull out — whether you wanted it or not. He didn’t have that kind of control right now.
“Do you really think I still have a chance…?” he asked quietly, voice thick with emotion. “To make you stay with me.”
You nodded.
Daeron hated that the only thing of true value he possessed was his name. But if he had to use it — if he had to wield it like a weapon in this desperate moment — he would. For you. For both of you.
His body shuddered, balls tightening as his climax approached.
“Fuck… Alright then.” His voice cracked with raw need. “I’ll take care of it. As soon as I’ve finished with you.”
BAELOR.
The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows across your chambers, but neither of you cared. You were pressed against the edge of the large table, bent forward with Baelor behind you, his broad chest flush against your back. One of his strong hands covered yours on the wooden surface, fingers intertwined, while the other gripped your hip, holding you steady as he thrust into you with slow, deep strokes.
It had started with a quiet conversation that quickly turned desperate. You were to leave in one day. To marry. To be taken away from him. Baelor, ever the dutiful prince, had tried to accept it — until the thought of another man touching you became unbearable.
“You were meant for me,” he murmured against your ear, voice low and rough with restraint. His hips rolled forward, pushing his cock deeper into your soaked heat. “Not some lordling who knows nothing of your heart. Not some political pawn.”
A soft whimper escaped your lips as he hit that perfect spot inside you. Your walls fluttered around him, and Baelor groaned, pressing his forehead to the back of your neck.
“I tried to be honorable,” he continued, breath hot against your skin. “I told myself I would let you go if that was your duty. But I cannot.” His grip on your hip tightened, almost bruising. “I will not.”
He pulled back almost completely before sliding back in with one powerful thrust, drawing a broken moan from you. The table creaked beneath your bodies.
“Say it,” he whispered, voice thick with both love and command. “Tell me you are mine. Tell me you do not want to leave.”
You could barely form words, overwhelmed by the way he filled you, the way his body surrounded yours so completely. “Baelor… I—”
He kissed the side of your neck, then gently bit down, possessive in a way that contrasted with his usual chivalry. “I will speak with the king. With whoever I must.” Another deep thrust made your knees weak. “You will not be given to another. Not while I still draw breath.”
His pace quickened, no longer slow and measured but driven by weeks of suppressed longing. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, along with his low, ragged breaths.
“I will put my child in you tonight if that is what it takes,” he said, voice dropping into something darker, more desperate. “So the realm knows exactly who you belong to. So no one can ever take you from me again.”
He pulled your back flush against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist as he drove into you harder. His lips brushed your temple, almost reverent even as his cock claimed you completely.
“You were always going to be my lady,” Baelor breathed, mismatched eyes burning with fierce determination. “And I will make it so.”
VALARR.
“You must stay with me,” Valarr murmured, his body covering yours as one of his hands gently parted your thighs again. “I’m yours, can’t you see that?”
The head of his cock, slick and glistening with the mess of your previous rounds, slid in and out of you with ease. You were both exhausted, covered in sweat and trembling with fatigue, yet a strange, desperate force kept driving him to fuck you again and again — as if he could rewrite fate with every deep thrust.
“It’s too much, Valarr—” you whimpered, your overstimulated pussy fluttering around his cock each time he pushed back inside.
He stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt, though he didn’t pull out. You could feel the warm, thick evidence of his earlier releases slowly leaking out of you, kept in place only by the thickness of his cock.
“You must not go with him,” he insisted softly, panting against your lips while holding your dazed gaze. “You’re mine. This is proof.” His heterochromatic eyes searched yours. “Because that lord has not touched you, has he?”
You nodded, and a small, relieved smile brightened his face for a brief moment.
“Then it’s decided,” he whispered with quiet reverence. “You’ll stay with me. You will be my wife, and I will be your husband… because that’s what we were always meant to be.”
His mismatched eyes traced every inch of your face with pure adoration. “Gods, you’re so beautiful. I should have told you that moons ago.”
You smiled up at him, your fingers threading gently through the pale strands of his brown hair over his ears. “How improper of you,” you teased softly, “stealing me away from my future husband.”
Valarr hid a small smile against the curve of your neck, pressing tender kisses to your flushed skin — almost apologetic for how roughly his desperation had taken you. You had to be sore and exhausted by now.
“Husband?” He kissed your neck again, slow and sweet. “I am your husband.” Another kiss. “Or I will be, if you’ll have me. Because the ship waiting in the harbor won’t be sailing with you on board. I swear it.”
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