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Aug 5

What is Owed

Aerion Targaryen x Baratheon!Reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Married to Prince Aerion Targaryen and left untouched for a month, you learn that anticipation can be more terrifying than pain. When he finally returns, he proves that cruelty is not the same as care, and that submission does not always look like surrender.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ arranged marriage, canon-typical violence, power imbalance, possessive behaviour, dark romance, dubiously consensual themes, p in v, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, alcohol, manipulation, toxic dynamics

A/N: i get this guy is evil and cruel but if i'm meant to hate him they cant cast someone hot to play him. He might be a lil ooc, but like its ok dw just focus on the facecard <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 4.9k

You say the words quickly.

You kneel because you are meant to kneel. You answer when prompted because you have practised this since you were old enough to stand straight without swaying. Your voice does not shake.

You learned early that composure is a kind of armour.

Still, the words land strangely.

Husband. Wife.

They echo, hollow and final, like a door closing somewhere behind you.

You do not look at him when they bind your hands together. You can feel the heat of him without needing to see; too close, too solid, it's like standing near a forge. When you finally do lift your gaze, it is because you are expected to, because this part has been explained to you too.

Prince Aerion Targaryen stands beside you in red and black, hair pale as bone in torchlight, mouth set in something that is not quite a smile. His eyes flick down to where your hands are joined, then back to your face, sharp and assessing.

Not hungry. Not yet. He looks curious.

That unsettles you more than hunger would have.

The ceremony ends without flourish. No songs linger in the air. No laughter swells to carry you forward into whatever comes next. There is no bedding, no drunken crowd to shove you toward a marriage bed while women shout advice and men cheer.

Instead, someone says his name.

Quiet, urgent. Aerion turns at once, hearing what the man has to say.

“I ride within the hour,” he says, already stepping away from you. The words are not meant for you, but you hear them all the same. “Tell my father the banners will hold.”

You blink.

Within the hour?

This was not part of what you were told. You were prepared for pain, for humiliation, for the sharp loss of self that comes with becoming someone’s wife in truth rather than in name. You were prepared for blood on sheets and the heavy, suffocating closeness of a stranger who would own you by dawn.

You were not prepared for this, or the way he pauses, just barely, as if remembering you exist.

Aerion looks back at you then. Really looks. His gaze skims your face, the line of your throat, the dark fabric of your house colours swallowed beneath Targaryen red.

Something unreadable passes through his expression, irritation, perhaps? Or calculation.

“We will speak when I return,” he says.

Not I will come to you. Not I will send for you.

Then he is gone, swallowed by motion and command, cloak snapping behind him like a banner.

You are left standing where he put you, hands empty now, heart beating far too loud for a room that has gone very still.

That night, you are escorted to chambers that are unmistakably his.

Everything smells like him, smoke and oil and something sharper beneath, metallic and clean. His things are everywhere, armour set carefully on its stand, sword laid out as if he might reach for it at any moment, books half-open and abandoned. Then there is the bed, vast and untouched, its linens smooth and cold beneath your fingertips once you dare brush them.

You sit on the edge, because you do not know what else to do, and tell yourself this is a mercy.

A delay. A gift of time to steady yourself, to remember how to breathe when fear coils too tightly in your chest. You have endured storms that rattled the walls of Storm’s End and laughed through thunder that sent other children running; you can endure this.

But the nights stretch.

One becomes three. Three becomes seven. A week becomes a month, and the bed remains empty beside you.

You learn the rhythms of his absence.

Each evening you prepare as if he might come. You keep your hair brushed, hands clean, spine straight. Each night you lie awake listening for boots that never sound. You do not ask questions.

You do not seek reassurance. You have not been raised to beg for comfort, and besides, comfort is not what waits for you when he returns.

What waits is consummation.

The word sits heavy in your mind, formal and ominous. It is not desire you fear, not truly. It is the uncertainty. You know his reputation, as everyone does. He's supposed to be cruel and volatile, too enamoured with his own blood and birthright. You have heard how he laughs when others flinch, how his temper burns fast and bright.

You imagine his hands, impatient and unyielding. You imagine pain as a thing to be endured quietly, teeth clenched, but pride intact.

You tell yourself this will be a duty.

Still, sometimes in the dark, your fingers curl into the sheets and do not loosen for a long while.

When the summons finally comes, it is unceremonious.

“He has returned,” a servant says, eyes fixed carefully on the floor. “The prince requests your presence at supper.”

Requests.

You almost laugh at that.

You dress slowly, deliberately. Your hands do not shake, but your stomach tightens all the same. When you leave the chambers, you do not look back at the bed. You have learned better than to tempt fate.

The hall where he waits is smaller than you expect. Intimate. The table is set for two.

Aerion stands when you enter.

He looks intact. Unharmed.

Sharper, if anything, as if battle has honed him rather than dulled his edges. His eyes catch on you immediately, tracking your approach with unnerving focus.

“So,” he says, once you are close enough to hear the quiet amusement in his voice. “My wife.”

The word feels different when he says it.

He gestures for you to sit.

Up close you can see the faint marks battle has left behind. The scratches along his knuckles, a small healing cut at his jaw. He notices your gaze and smiles thinly, as if daring you to ask.

You do not.

“Did you sleep well in my absence?” he asks lightly, as servants begin to pour wine.

You hesitate just long enough to be honest without being foolish. “I slept,” you say.

His smile deepens, just a fraction. “Good. You will need your strength.”

Your breath catches despite yourself. Aerion watches this reaction with open interest, fingers tapping once against the table.

“Hmm,” he murmurs softly, almost to himself. “You will.”

The implications of his word send a shiver down your spine, and slowly, the servants start to withdraw from the room.

One moment there is the soft scrape of plates, the low murmur of movement, and the next, the door closes and the silence is absolute.

The candles burn steadily, the light catching on dark wine in your cup.

Aerion does not reach for his food right away.

He watches you instead.

It is not the obvious kind of staring, not the leering, impatient sort you were taught to expect. His gaze drifts, unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world and intends to use every moment of it.

“You are tense,” he says mildly.

You swallow. “Not particularly, my prince.”

He lifts a brow. “It was not a question.”

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your cup. You force them to loosen, one by one. You are not a girl anymore. You are a married woman, seated across from a Targaryen prince with a reputation sharpened to a blade.

“I am not accustomed to being summoned so suddenly,” you say, choosing your words with care.

Aerion hums, amused. “Liar.”

The word lands harshly.

He finally reaches for his wine, swirling it once before taking a measured sip. His eyes never leave your face.

“You have been expecting this since the moment I left,” he continues. “Since the words were said and the door closed behind me. Every night. Every hour.”

Your throat tightens. You do not deny it. There is no point.

“I imagine you have built quite the story in your head,” he says. “Was I cruel?”

You hesitate. That, too, amuses him.

“Go on,” he urges. “I will not punish you for honesty, I asked, didn't I?”

“I… imagined you would not be gentle,” you say at last.

Aerion laughs.

It is a soft sound, almost pleasant, and it made your blood run cold.

“Gentleness,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “Is that what you value?”

“No,” you say quickly. “But-”

“But you hoped for it anyway,” he finishes. “How very human of you.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you as though you are something newly discovered, something he has not yet decided whether to break apart or keep intact.

“You fear pain,” he says. “That is expected. What surprises me is that you fear humiliation more.”

Your breath stutters. You had not realised how transparent you were.

“I would not shame you,” Aerion says, almost absently. “Not in private.”

That should comfort you.

It doesn’t.

He reaches for his knife then, slicing into the meat on his plate with precise, unhurried movements. The sound is quiet but intimate, the scrape of blade against porcelain loud in the silence between you.

“Eat,” he says. “You've barely touched your food.”

You obey, though you can barely taste it. Each bite feels deliberate, watched. You are acutely aware of your mouth, of the way your lips close around the fork, of how you swallow.

The awareness is maddening.

“You were raised at Storm’s End,” Aerion says after a moment. “Tell me, did the storms frighten you?”

“No,” you answer. This, at least, is easy. “They were constant. You do not fear what you grow up with.”

“Mm.” His gaze sharpens. “And me?”

The question is posed lightly, conversationally, but it is a trap all the same.

You meet his eyes. They are pale, almost bright in the candlelight, and entirely unreadable.

“I am learning,” you say carefully, “what it means to be your wife.”

Aerion’s smile is slow. Dangerous.

“You learn quickly.”

He rises from his seat without warning.

You stiffen at once, every nerve lighting up as he comes around the table. You do not turn to track him; you do not dare. His presence shifts the air behind you, close enough now that you can feel warmth at your back.

He stops just there. Not touching. Not yet.

“You sit as if you expect a blow,” he observes. “Shoulders tight. Breath shallow.”

You hate that he knows.

“Look at me,” he says.

It is not loud. It does not need to be.

You turn.

Up close he is overwhelming, taller than you remembered, broader, his pale hair catching the light like fire turned cold. His expression is thoughtful now, not mocking, not cruel.

“If I wished to frighten you,” Aerion says quietly, “I would have done so already.”

His hand lifts, slow, and his fingers hover near your jaw, not quite touching, as if gauging how much space you need to breathe.

“I am not interested in breaking what is mine,” he continues. “That would be wasteful.”

There it is, that possession you were warned of, stated plainly and without apology.

Your heart hammers. “And if I disappoint you?”

His thumb brushes your chin, just barely, tilting your face up. The touch is controlled, almost careful, and somehow that makes it worse.

“Then I will teach you,” he says. “Disappointment is a correctable flaw.”

He withdraws his hand as suddenly as he offered it, stepping back as though nothing intimate has just passed between you.

“Come,” Aerion says, turning toward the door. “Supper is finished.”

Your pulse roars in your ears as you rise. Your legs feel unsteady, but you force them to move, following him from the room and down the quiet corridor beyond.

Each step feels like a countdown.

When he stops before the doors to his chambers, he turns to face you once more. His gaze flicks over you, your face, your hands, the tension still coiled too tightly in your frame.

Then he pushes the doors open.

The chambers are dim, lit only by the low glow of the hearth and a handful of candles set too far apart to fully chase the shadows from the corners. The bed dominates the room; wide, imposing, draped in pale fabric that looks untouched despite the weeks you’ve spent sleeping alone in it.

Aerion closes the door.

The sound of the latch clicking echoes through the room.

You stand where you are, hands folded too neatly before you, heart thudding hard enough you’re certain he must hear it. He doesn’t rush you. Of course he doesn’t. He takes his time removing his gloves, setting them aside with deliberate care.

“Come here,” he says.

Not unkindly. Not gently either. Simply stated, like a truth.

You cross the room on unsteady legs. He watches the whole way, eyes sharp and intent, tracking every hesitation. When you stop in front of him, close enough now to feel his warmth, he tilts his head slightly.

“You look as though you expect me to tear at you,” he observes. “Does that disappoint you?”

Your breath stutters. “No, my prince.”

A smile flickers across his mouth. “Good. Because I do not rush what is owed to me.”

He cups your face, thumbs pressing lightly beneath your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. There is no heat in his expression, no hunger, no embarrassment, no urgency.

Just possession.

“This is duty,” he says, as if reading your thoughts. “For both of us."

He guides you back toward the bed, one steady step at a time, until the backs of your knees meet the mattress. Only then does he release you.

“Sit.”

You do.

The bed dips beneath your weight. The sheets whisper softly as you brace your hands at your sides, spine straight, chin lifted.

You refuse to cower.

Aerion seems pleased by that.

He steps closer again, standing between your knees, and reaches for the clasp at your collar. His fingers are steady as he undoes it, then the next, and the next after that. He takes his time, watching your face rather than his hands, noting every sharp inhale you fail to hide.

“You have never been with a man,” he says suddenly.

It is not phrased as a question.

“No,” you answer, heat rising to your cheeks despite yourself. “I have not.”

“Of course not,” he murmurs. There is something almost amused in his tone now. “Baratheons guard their daughters well.”

He slides the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall away slowly. There is no shame in his gaze as he looks at you. You are simply there, and he is looking, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

“You tremble,” he notes. “But you do not pull away.”

“I was taught not to,” you say quietly.

That earns you a sharp look. “Unlearn that,” he replies. “I will know if you are afraid. I will know if you lie.”

He presses you back onto the bed then, not roughly, but decisively, guiding you down until the pillows cradle your head and the mattress supports your spine. You stare up at him, pulse racing, as he straightens and begins to undress himself with the same unhurried precision.

There is no modesty in him. He does not look away, does not rush, does not pretend this is anything other than what it is meant to be.

When he leans over you again, bracing one arm beside your head, his presence is overwhelming, close and inescapable.

His free hand smooths over your hair.

When he positions himself between your legs, his hands roam your body, tracing the curves of your hips and waist.

His fingers delve lower, parting your folds to circle your entrance with a tantalising pressure. The sensation is overwhelming, a rush of heat and wetness building you cannot control, and then he brushes against your most sensitive spot. A whimper escapes before you can stop it.

In that moment beneath him, the weight of his gaze, you feel the last of your resistance crumbling.

A dark thrill courses through you, corrupted by the whispers of the court that have haunted your every waking moment, the tales of Aerion's cruelty, his unyielding temper, how he crushes anyone he even slightly dislikes without mercy.

His fingers, still circling you, suddenly press harder. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his power, his breath hot against your neck as he murmurs,

"You'll learn to crave this, wife, just as the dragons crave the sky."

The words slice through you, stirring the ever-existing nervousness that makes your body tense beneath him. You feel his cock nudge your entrance, slick with your own uncontrollable wetness.

You hear the low, predatory growl in his throat, feel the scars on his chest press against your breasts like brands of ownership. He is finally making you his, body and soul, with a possessiveness that borders on ruthlessness, his violet eyes now gleaming with hunger for the first time.

He shifts his weight, muscular thighs pinning yours apart; you will almost certainly bruise.

It's as if he's trying to quell any last flicker of resistance, and you gasp at the raw intrusion as he pushes forward, his hard cock breaching you with a slow, relentless thrust that stretches you to your limits.

The pain is immediate, your walls gripping him desperately, every inch of him filling you until you're certain you can't take any more. But still, he doesn't stop, driving deeper into you in a way that's both careful and harsh, his hands clamping down on your hips to hold you in place.

Your mind races with the rumours of his past conquests, how he's broken others with this same intensity. Tears prick at your eyes, born of fear and the sensation of being utterly claimed. But beneath it all there's a heat building, your body betrays you and arches to meet his movements, your moans escaping unbidden as his cock hits a sensitive spot deep inside.

In the dim torchlight, his face hovers above yours, a mask of arrogant triumph laced with something primal, his silver hair catching the torchlight.

"Mine at last."

He rolls his hips with calculated force, each thrust claiming not just your body, but pushes you towards surrender.

You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, torn between the dread of his cruelty and the fire he's awakening in you.

His hips drive forward with a relentless rhythm, each thrust sending shockwaves through your core, your pussy clenching tightly around him as if trying to hold him captive.

You arch beneath him again, nails biting deeper into the scarred flesh of his shoulders, a mix of pain and pleasure blurring the lines of your resistance.

Aerion's breath comes in hot, ragged bursts against your neck, his silver hair brushing your skin like silken whips. You can feel the sweat-slicked slide of his body over yours, the hard planes of his muscles flexing with every powerful stroke.

"That's it, little wife," he growls, his voice rough, "give in to me. Feel how perfectly you take me."

His words ignite a fresh wave of heat, your body betraying you once more as your hips rise to meet his, the friction against your clit sending sparks of ecstasy that make your toes curl and your moans spill unchecked into the dim chamber.

He shifts slightly, angling his thrusts to find that sensitive spot deep inside you. His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs rolling over your hardened nipples with a possessive squeeze, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

"You're mine now, in every way," he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that strips away your defences, his cock plunging deeper as if to seal the claim.

Before you can think it through, your hands slide to his face, fingers tracing the sharp lines of his jaw.

“I thought it would hurt. I didn’t think I’d feel anything good at all.” The words slip out before you can regret them, drawing a wicked smile from his lips.

Aerion's pace quickens, his thrusts growing more urgent, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the stone walls, mingling with your gasps and the distant roar of the sea outside.

He leans down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue invading with the same dominance as his body.

You can taste the salt of your own tears.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, deeper, the pressure building in your core until it threatens to shatter you, your pussy throbbing with an ache that demands release.

Aerion's rhythm grows more primal, his thrusts deepening as if he seeks to etch himself into the very core of your being. With a sudden, commanding growl, he pulls back just enough to grasp your hips, his strong fingers digging into your flesh. In one fluid motion, he flips you onto your stomach, the cool silk sheets pressing against your heated skin as he manoeuvres you onto all fours. Your knees sink into the mattress as your back arches instinctively under his hands.

The new position exposes you fully to him, you clench around the emptiness he'd left, slick and aching, while his thick cock nudges against your entrance again, the head teasing your folds with a deliberate grind that makes your breath catch.

Behind you now, Aerion's hands roam your curves, one sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his intense violet gaze over your shoulder.

"That's it, my love," he murmurs, tone mocking, "I'm going to fill you so completely, plant my seed deep inside you until you're swollen with my child." He groans, and when he speaks again his voice is a husky whisper.

"Imagine it, your belly rounded with a Targaryen heir, your body marked as mine forever."

You can't deny the way his promise ignites something within you, like a forbidden kind of thrill. His cock plunges back into your depths with a forceful thrust that stretches you anew, each stroke hitting newer, deeper angles that send jolts through your limbs.

The air grows thick with the scent of sweat and arousal. You feel the weight of his body covering yours, his chest pressing into your back as his hands grip your waist to hold you steady.

Aerion's hand slips lower, his fingers delving between your slick folds with expert precision. He circles your swollen clit with an unrelenting pressure as he whispers, "Let go for me, hmm? Your first true surrender, a gift only for your husband."

The words wrap around you, fueling the storm building inside, and you feel the tension coil tighter in your core. The friction of his movements ignite sparks that race through your veins, your moans growing frantic and unrestrained, until finally, the barrier is shattered.

Your body convulses around him, a rush of warmth flooding through you as your inner walls clench rhythmically around him, the whole thing overwhelming in its novelty.

Confusion swirls in your mind, this unfamiliar bliss and disorientation taking over your body. You've never known such a feeling. A raw, shattering peak that left you gasping and pliant beneath him, every nerve alight with a pleasure that bordered on pain.

Aerion slows his thrusts, his eyes gleaming with hunger as he eases himself out just enough to flip you onto your back once more, your legs falling open, boneless under him.

He positions himself above you, his frame blocking out the torchlight, thick cock sliding back into your overstimulated pussy with a single, deep thrust that makes you cry out.

The sensitivity heightens every sensation.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a low rumble, as he begins to move again, his hips driving forward with controlled force. Each stroke is deliberate and deep, allowing him to watch the play of emotions across your face; your wide eyes, flushed cheeks, parted lips.

Your body responds despite the overload, hips bucking to meet his, the slick heat of your arousal once again easing his path.

The overstimulation leaves you trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks from the perfect torment. As his pace quickens his breaths turn to ragged growls.

Suddenly, you feel him swell inside you, his cock pulsing with impending release, and the weight of his gaze pins you in place.

"Take all of me," he whispers against your hair, hands framing your face with surprising tenderness amid the intensity. With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, hot seed spilling deep into you.

The sensation pushes you towards another edge as you clench around him in aftershocks, leaving you utterly spent and adrift in the haze.

He stays there, sprawled over you for a minute before rolling away from you slowly.

Not far, but enough space to breathe again, even though your lungs feel too small for the air they’re meant to hold. The bed shifts beneath his weight, the sheets warm and tangled.

For a moment, you stare at the ceiling.

Your body feels strange; heavy and pliant, aware of itself in a way it never has been before. There is a dull ache, not sharp enough to frighten you, but present enough to remind you of what has been done. What has been completed.

You do not cry.

That, you think, would disappoint him.

Aerion props himself on one elbow, looking down at you with an expression you cannot name. There is no regret there. No softness born of guilt. But neither is there cruelty. His gaze is steady and satisfied, as if he has crossed something off a list and found the result pleasing.

“Breathe,” he says, calm as ever. “You’re holding your breath.”

You obey before you realise you are doing so. Good, he thinks. You can almost feel the approval settle over you like a weight.

He reaches for a cloth from the table beside the bed, movements unhurried, precise. When he touches you again, it is deliberate, careful in a way that feels almost intimate now that the act itself is over.

Not tender, he'd never be tender. But attentive, maybe?

You flinch once despite yourself.

Aerion pauses immediately. His eyes flick to your face, sharp. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

You hesitate, “A little.”

“Hm.” The corner of his mouth flicks upwards. “Of course it does. It should fade, though. Eventually.”

He finishes what he’s doing, then sets the cloth aside. His hand lingers on your thigh, just resting there.

“You did well,” he says.

Not brave. Not obedient. Well, like this was a task you were meant to complete, and you have done it to standard.

Your chest tightens.

“You were afraid,” Aerion continues, voice low. “And you did not fight me. You did not beg. You did not close yourself off.” His thumb presses once, firm, against your skin.

“That is submission,” he says. “Not weakness.”

He shifts again, settling closer, a constant heat at your side. You are acutely aware of how easily you could curl into him now if you allowed yourself to. How natural it would feel.

He notices that too.

A slow, knowing smile curves his mouth. “Careful,” he mutters. “If you start clinging already, I’ll think you enjoyed it.”

Heat floods your face. You turn your head slightly, mortified, and it earns you a quiet laugh. There it is, the teasing.

“You are my wife now,” Aerion says, sobering just as quickly. “In truth, not just in name.”

His hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face back toward him until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. “No one else will touch you,” he continues. “No one else will claim you."

"What you give,” his gaze drops briefly, then returns, “you give to me.”

Your pulse stutters.

“And what do I receive?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

He studies you for a long moment.

“Protection,” Aerion says at last. “Position. My name.”

He releases you and leans back, stretching out beside you like a dragon settling atop its hoard. One arm drapes across your middle, heavy and unmistakably possessive, pinning you in place without effort.

You realise that he has positioned you deliberately; turned slightly toward him, caught beneath his arm, your back pressed to his chest.

It is where you belong now.

“Sleep,” he says.

You hesitate. “My prince-”

“Aerion,” he corrects. “In this room.”

You close your eyes.

Your body relaxes before your mind does, surrendering to the warmth, the weight, the certainty of his presence behind you. Whatever you were before this night you feel slipping away, replaced by something quieter and far more dangerous.

You are Aerion Targaryen's wife.

His chin dips to your hair, breath steady. “Good,” he murmurs, feeling you settle. “You learn quickly.”

And for the first time since the words were spoken a month ago, you understand what it means to belong to a dragon and survive it.

bro ik he's evil but holy shit he's hot too