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@antheina

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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what type is this
Me to everyone that is spoiling the backroom
I Think... I Miss My Wife... (Aerion's version)
Aerion Targaryen X Reader Summary: In which you're visiting your parents and your husband misses you TW: ooc aerion probably he's whipped and lowkey a victim? he takes you throwing stuff at him as a love language
wc: 7K
GIF di elena-gilbert

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“My brother wasn’t always a monster”
silly little sketches I made weeks ago, but didn't finish and wasn't going to post, but here they are anyway
all those that rise against charles leclerc shall fall
ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜰᴇʟʟ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ | ᴀᴇʀɪᴏɴ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ
─ pairing: Aerion Targaryen x cousin!reader
─ word count: 2.4k
─ content: targcest, fluff, angst, hint of darkness, medieval violence/tournaments,
─ summary: Aerion falls in love with you more and more each summer.
─ a/n: I, for some reason, can’t help but have a soft spot for Aerion. It might be an illness, but I can’t do anything about that. Thank you so much for all your comments, likes, and reblogs. Truly blown away
let's throw attitude with papa

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THE FAVORITE CHILD | BAELOR TARGARYEN
✧ characters: Baelor Targaryen x Daughter!Reader, Valarr x Sister!Reader, Matarys x Sister!Reader
✧ summary: Baelor has never been able to say no to his daughter. Her older brothers choose to take advantage of this fact. Valarr and Matarys are like 12 years old in this.
✧ genre: fluff
✧ warnings: she/her pronouns, children
The afternoon had settled into the kind of golden quiet that only came when lessons were finished and supper was still hours away. She had found her usual spot near the old stone bench, skirts spread around her in the warm grass, her doll propped carefully against her knee. Six years old and entirely content, unbothered by the heat, unbothered by anything at all.
The shadows that fell over her belonged to her brothers.
Old enough to know better, young enough not to care. They stood over her with the particular energy of boys who had a plan and were very pleased with it.
She looked up.
“We need you to ask Father something,” Valarr said.
She tilted her head. “What?”
“We want to go to the tournament next week.” Matarys crouched down to her level, which she had always found more convincing than being talked at from above. “All three of us. You have to be the one to ask him.”
“Why?”
The brothers exchanged a look. Valarr cleared his throat. “Because he likes you best.”
Tournaments held no particular magic for her. She had never once begged to attend one, never pressed her face to the window when the knights rode through the city, never cared much for the noise and the crowds and the dust. But Valarr and Matarys were looking at her the way they always did when they wanted something, that particular hopeful, slightly guilty look, and she loved them more than she disliked crowds.
“What do I say?” she asked.
They told her, carefully and in some detail. Matarys made her repeat it back twice. Their father was not an unreasonable man. It was simply that no one had ever worked out how to say no to her, least of all him. His sons had noticed. They were not subtle about having noticed.
She listened to all of it. Then she picked up her doll, stood, smoothed her skirts, and went inside without another word.
The study was quiet save for the scratch of quill on parchment and the distant sounds of the yard below. Afternoon light fell long and warm across the desk, catching the dust motes that drifted in the still air.
Baelor looked up from his correspondence just in time to see his youngest come through the doorway at something between a walk and a run, cross the room entirely, and climb onto his knee before he had said a single word.
“Hello Papa!” she exclaimed settling in
“Hello my love,” he responded, setting down his quill
She looked up at him with great purpose. “Papa. Valarr and Matarys and I want to go to the tournament.”
He looked at her baffled. “You want to go to a tournament?”
“Yes,” she said, without hesitation.
“It runs three days. The last day goes very late into the night, and it is very loud.”
“I am very brave,” she said.
“You are,” he agreed, because this was simply true.
She looked at him carefully, weighing something. Then, with the air of someone bestowing a considerable honour, “You can come too, Papa. If you want.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” A nod, “I will hold your hand the whole time so you won’t be frightened.”
His expression shifted entirely. This small careful child had arrived with what was clearly her brothers’ agenda and somewhere along the way decided to protect him. At that, the last of his resistance simply gave way.
“That is very kind of you,” he said
She nodded. It was only fair, her expression said.
He glanced toward the door. Two faces disappeared from the gap so quickly they might have been imagined.
“Valarr. Matarys.”
A beat. Then footsteps, nervous and shuffling. The footsteps of two boys who had absolutely not just been crouching at a door. The boys appeared in the doorway, doing their very best to look as though they had simply been passing.
Baelor regarded them over his daughter’s head. They had the grace, at least, to stand up straight.
“We go on the first day only,” he said. “You leave the moment your sister is tired and you do not argue with me about it.” His eyes moved between them, “Understood?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Yes, Father.”
He looked back down at his daughter, who had already returned to her doll, entirely satisfied with the afternoon’s work.
Baelor tucked a strand of hair back from her face and reached for his quill.
“Thank you for the invitation,” he told her.
“You’re welcome, Papa,” she said, content
From down the corridor came the muffled but entirely unmistakable sounds of celebration.
✧ a/n: I am simply trying to create as much Baelor fluff as possible before the pain of this week’s episode. Thank you for the likes, comments, reblogs, and messages. Send me your requests
He Was A Glad Child Once
Aerion Targaryen x Dornish!princess!fem!reader—in which he was a glad child when she was alive and became the monster we all know (and love) after her death, TW: Aerion. Death. Brief mention of wedding night events. Probably it, but I apologize if there is more.
“Aerion was quite the glad child once. He liked fishing,” Daeron says.
“What happened?” Dunk can’t help but be curious, the idea that a monster made of man may once have been a boy, too strange.
“She died.”
***
You were always with Aerion, always there, a Dornish princess given to Baelor to foster, to raise practically as his own, guaranteed in a trade agreement, a way to unite the kingdoms, a daughter for a daughter—Baelor’s given to House Martel.
You were raised as Baelor Targaryen’s daughter, always clothed in red and black, the colours of the dragon even when your skin was Dornish compared to the pallor of the Targaryen’s, your family. You were raised with Valarr as your brother, your friend and confidante, but he was not the one with whom all your days were spent with.
No, that was Aerion. The glad child whom you ran with and explored with, darting through the world with giggles and shouts and laughs. You and he were never far apart, so joined that it you were indivisible from one another. Dyanna and Jena traded times with the two of you, knowing one could not be far from the other.
It was just the way it was. They all thought it was the way it always would be.
But sometimes things happen. Sometimes people die.
***
You are five years old, stumbling after your father on chubby legs through the grass, skirts twining around your legs. You huff and slap the heavy skirts, Baelor turning to smile indulgently at you, holding out his hand. You run to him and take it, small hand in his large one.
“Father,” you say, voice high and lilting sweetly, “where is everyone else?”
“They’re waiting on us, ñuhor nyke precious,” he answers, the High Valyrian words for my precious his name for you.
“Why are they waiting? Can’t they just come to us?” you ask and he lets go of your hands, picking you up at your small waist, placing you on his hip and continuing to walk.
“They could,” he answers, “but it’s best we go to them.” And you sigh but fiddle with the decorations on his clothes, pulling at the strings until he reaches the gardens where he has called your grandsire (but not) and all the other family for your nameday.
A pleasant celebration, quiet, just for you. His daughter of the sun. His precious child whom he would give anything for.
He watches as you run, running past your brother straight for the young form of Aerion, his silver hair shimmering. He watches you and sighs, fear running through him, threading fast within him.
“She’ll be alright, you know,” Jena whispers, her arm coming to rest in his. “She’s strong.” He turns to look at her, his precious wife, mother to their children, both of blood and of heart.
“She’s not the one I worry for,” he replies, turning back to see you wrestle Aerion to the ground, both of you laughing loudly, the silvery peal of children’s joy ringing through the Keep.
“He’ll never harm her,” Jena says. “If anything, he’ll love her so much that he’ll be the one who gets hurt.”
“No,” your father whispers, watching the two of you as Aerion chases you around, your grandsire watching it all with a smile on his face, delight in you, his favorite grandchild—the one of heart and not of blood. “He’ll be the one who gets her hurt. He just he won’t wield the killing blow.”
“You worry too much,” your mother hisses, walking with Baelor towards you, towards the rest of the crowd.
“I worry just enough,” he counters as you let out a childish scream of laughter before yelling “daddy, daddy! Come play with us, Daddy!” And he goes to you. He always will.
Of that, he is sure. You are his daughter and if you call him, he will always go.
He just hopes he’ll always reach you in time.
***
Your death was what tore the Targaryen’s apart, what caused war to be threatened by the Dornish courts, but most of all, it drove Aerion to madness. It drove him to insanity and he became cruel and harsh. He threatened his brothers and claimed to be a dragon in human flesh; claimed that he was a god. Divine.
But he only claimed that after he shattered, watching the blood seep slowly out of you, a babe of one cry to be burned with you as well, the child having taken all of you and still found you lacking. He held you as you died, holding tight to your body and crying, shaking, screaming. It was the first time he had ever scared anyone, but it was the first of many times.
He lost you and they lost him. They lost the glad child that they used to have, his laughter and easy nature taken with you. From your ashes, rose a monster.
A monster that not always was.
***
You are seven, hands plucking at the flowers in the gardens, eyes on the sky where the clouds roll in and go past. You idly twine the flower stalks together, whispering the shapes you see in the clouds, a game you have devised to pass the time, your mother resting not too far from you, always preferring to have you with her. She’s ill.
She’s dying. You’ve heard the whispers between your father and the Maester. You’ve heard the coughs that rattle her body so you stay close. You stay close, delighting in the closeness with her, the woman who has raised you, loved you, nursed you. Done everything except give you life herself.
“My sun,” she calls and you turn with a smile, eager to help her, ease her suffering. You see her pale face smiling a weak and watery smile, “look who’s come to join you.” You look behind her, the shape of Aerion just behind her and you drop the flower stalks you hold, running to him as fast as your small legs will carry you.
“Aerion!” you cry, running to him, hands reaching for his. You don’t have far to reach for soon his hands find yours in moments, warmth leaching between you two. “I didn’t expect you home so soon.”
“Uncle Baelor called me home,” he says, eyes darting from you to the form of your sickening mother, her pale skin and red hair no more gleaming like fire—instead it’s a sickly red, like it’s reminding all of you that she has blood inside her, but barely.
“He’s waiting in the forest for you,” your mother whispers, eyes twinkling as she looks at you, delighting in the way you run to her and hug her, arms wrapping tightly around her ever-slimming body, squeezing tightly as if you wish to give her all your strength.
“We shan’t be long, Mother,” you whisper and all she does is place a kiss to the top of your head, waving you onward, eyes drifting to the clouds, to the heavens. The Gods.
She prays they be merciful on you, but inside her she knows they will not for you are not a spark, but a star. You are a star and someday you will burn too bright too fast and something will cause you to implode.
She only hopes that she goes long before you so that never has to watch you die.
It’s too bad that that was the prayer the gods listened to.
“Father!” you cry, running through the forest floor to where your father stands, regal and noble and royal against the trunk of an old oak, the stream running beside him, wetting the rocks and splashing up, onto your skirts, your child’s hand still locked in Aerion’s. “What are we doing here?”
Baelor watches you, the way you stumble still unsure in your ever-growing, ever-changing form. He watches the way that Aerion watches you, violet eyes never straying from you. He knows that Aerion knows not what he feels, simply that he is nothing without you, but Baelor knows. He knows that Aerion will one day find that he’s in love with you, that he has never not been and it scared Baelor more than it should. It terrifies him because you are a sun, something distant and strong but destined for a fiery explosion.
And he worries it will be Aerion which causes it—that his tight grip on you will starve you of what you need and then there will be no going back.
But that is not today and so he shakes the worries away with a single snap of his head, pulling two rods from behind his back, holding them out to you, his daughter, and Aerion your little shadow. “We’re fishing, my darling,” he answers you, his heart warming at the way you flap your free hand in the air, tugging Aerion after you so hard and fast that he stumbles and nearly falls. Or, he would if you did not have such a firm grip on him. You take the rod from your father’s hand and tug Aerion, pulling him up beside you where he takes the second rod with a sheepish smile, one that is apologetic as if he’s apologising for being beholden to the sun.
It makes Baelor smile.
And he smiles even more when you run to the water, kicking off your slippers, jumping into the water, eternally free, unburdened uninhibited by what should rule you. He doesn’t want you to ever change, but he knows that eventually you will have to. Eventually, the world will come to claim what you have held back from it.
You.
***
You were the precious of the heirs, the favoured child whose smile governed all those who came in contact with it. You were the one whose laugh had the power to stop wars not from the beauty of it, but from the sheer fearlessness. The sheer joy and delight. You had power no one else did because no one else felt the way you did.
You felt so strongly, so powerfully that when you were happy, the world was soaring with you. You felt so strongly that when you were sad, the world was a storm of epic proportions, torrential rain washing over everyone. It was like your soul was tied to the world, to nature. It was like the world bent to the whim of the Daughter of the Sun.
You were a force to be reckoned with, but there were days when you could never get out of bed, when the tears flowed fast and heavy and no Maester could fix what was going on in your soul. No one could seem to bring you out of it.
No one except Aerion that is.
You and he were tied, married at sixteen, happiness for two years. Two years of laughter, of a glad boy and girl, your storms calmed and lessened by the only one strong enough to weather them. He was a glad child, made gladder in your arms.
And without you?
There was no glad child left.
***
You are ten years old, seated in the library, book open in your lap, eyes drifting closed, heavy with sleep, lulled by the presence of your brother and father; mother long buried. She had scarcely lasted a month after that day, the sickness taking her, last words murmured to you, telling you to shine, always.
You stay with your father and brother now, always. You act as their sun, shining for them, hoping to keep them happy and hale even when it taxes you. It taxes you so much, the effort of acting perpetually happy when you would love nothing more than to let the clouds block out the sun, to just give into the storms which brew in your head.
But you don’t.
You can’t. You see the way your father smiles at your energy, your happiness. You see the way your brother comes out of his shell, learning to be a child again. You see the way they all are when you’re happy, like their own happiness hinges on yours and so you let the exhaustion seep into your bones and you push past it.
You push unless you are with Aerion. Because Aerion lets you feel what you need to, he acts as your sun while you are everyone else’s. It’s a simple thing, you always think, to have someone feel like your other half, but that is Aerion. Your other half.
You may just be too young to understand that, but your father is not too young. No. Baelor knows, he sees it in your eyes, the weight you carry for him, for everyone around him. Everyone except Aerion. He sees it between the two of you and he knows. He knows that when it comes time, you will want him and he will want you and that it will be your undoing.
But he is loath to deny you anything.
Even it brings your destruction.
***
You passed during childbirth. Eighteen and weakened, blood flowing and not stopping, Aerion’s body holding yours tightly, ever so tightly. You passed after giving birth to a son. A precious boy whose name was whispered from your dying lips “Doran” for your land. A precious boy who cried once, just once, before falling silent as you fell still. His life tied to yours, his ended with yours.
Aerion had lost everything in one moment, but he was not alone. He may have gone insane, but he was not the only one to lose. Your father, Baelor, lost as well. Baelor Breakspear, heir of the Seven Kingdoms, Hand of the King had lost his daughter. His precious daughter of heart not blood, his sun. His light.
He had come into the room, the Maester’s pained expression and stilted words hitting him deep inside his heart, that bottomless ache made worse when he saw Aerion holding you and crying, begging you to come back, to just please come back. It was made worse when he saw the blood and your closed eyes and the silent babe. All of you gone in one fell swoop.
He never was the same after that. No one was.
But where Aerion wore his insanity as a badge of honour, claiming your death killed his humanity, left him for his divinity, Baelor hid his behind steel and iron. He hid it until he was alone at night, crying for the daughter that the gods had taken from him.
It was why he fought in the Trial of the Seven—he wanted to bring Aerion to an end. Revenge for your death because when he looked at Aerion, he saw nothing but your executioner, the man responsible for your implosion just like he always feared. He could not see the grief or the insanity in Aerion’s haunted violet eyes. No, he saw the brutal, cruel prince who said he was a dragon made flesh, freed by your death. Said with a pride.
He could only see the man your death created. Not the man who died with you.
And when Maeker’s staff smashed into him and when he crumpled, Death looming over him, he did not fear it. No, he welcomed it. He welcomed it because in Death’s embrace, he could finally reunite with you, his precious daughter taken far too soon. The daughter killed by the man who relished in your loss.
The daughter the gods claimed as one of their own.
And when Death loomed so near him, so close, all he could see was you. Whether you were a figure of his memory or not, he did not care for in his dying hour he saw his daughter once again and you were the way he remembered you. Whole and hale and glowing gold as if in death you had become what they had always called you—the sun. As if the sky had claimed you, needing you to light the way.
And in Death, in his dying hours, he forgave Aerion, forgave the glad child that once was but never would be again. The glad child who loved you, who died with you, who left the body that remains with that final shattered scream that echoed through the Red Keep for days.
In Death, your father was able to return to you. To hold you once again, his precious golden sun.
***
You are twelve and things have begun to change.
Your body has betrayed you, blood seeping from you the first of many moon bloods, the sign of womanhood. The sign of a bride. The sign of pawnage, your body saying you are ready to be sold for an alliance.
Your body has grown out and in, breasts starting to form, hips starting to swell outwards, waist nipping in. You are growing and changing and you hate it. You hate this outward sign of adulthood but Aerion hates it most.
He hates it because now other men look at you like he has always done. They look at you like you are worthy of their notice, attention, affections and he wishes that they would turn away from you. He wants to have you to himself, to hold you as his own, but he knows that you are not his. You never have been. And that hurts more than it should.
But for this moment, he has you and no one else. For this moment, you are his, the two of you laying on the grass, the night sky above glimmering with stars.
“My mother loves the night sky,” he whispers, voice quiet yet carrying through the still of the night, eyes not on the sky, but on you. On the way you look cast half in light and half in shadow. The thought of you marrying anyone else hurts him, the reality of it one day will ruin him.
“I know,” you answer, eyes glancing over at him, that brief moment enough to send his heart racing, hand reaching for yours, fingers interlocking, cheeks blushing. “She speaks of it often. She tells me stories of home.”
“Home?” he asks you, heart plunging, the idea of you not viewing the Keep or Dragonstone or any other Targaryen castle as home hurting him, destroying him.
“Dorne,” you answer, turning your head from the sky to look at him, a smile playing on the edges of your lips. “She thinks Father will marry me to someone in Dorne, not a Martell obviously but someone. She thinks it may even be a Dayne in Starfall. She’s going to try and convince him of that so that I can go home. Or…what she says my home is.” You lick your lips, his eyes following it, the feelings in him strange and new.
“Don’t marry a Dornish man,” he beseeches you. “Marry me.”
“It’s not for me to decide, Aerion,” you answer, brow creasing in confusion. “You know that. It will be whatever is advantageous. If at all, Father doesn’t seem too eager to marry me off.”
“If you could choose,” he muses, “would you choose me?” He hopes you will say yes, these feelings still new yet not at all at the same time. He would do anything for you to say yes, because you are the reason he is so glad, so eager. The reason he fights against his father’s restrains.
“Yes,” you answer, smiling at him. “If I could choose, it would be you for you would never cage me. Never stop me from shining the way that I do.”
***
Baelor and Aerion were not the only ones who lost you. Your brother did too. Valarr was your brother, raised as your twin, yet he always came in second in your life. Second to Aerion and he understood. He understood that you two were not cousins—Daeron and Aemon and Aegon were your cousins, Aerion something else. He understood that Aerion was your other half, the one the gods formed for you, but that did not mean that he did not love you. That you did not love him.
He lost you just the same, except for him, the pain continued. The stillbirths of his wife seemed like the continuation of a curse. One of loss and pain and regret.
One caused when he lost you.
He remembers the image of his broken father, crying for his lost daughter, crying as you burned, your son burning with you, Aerion insane. The glad child utterly and irreversibly gone. He remembers his father choking out the words of your death and the way everything seemed to stop. The way the world froze and tilted, spinning on its axis, everything falling all around him. It felt like the world had shattered, like nothing would ever be the same again, yet the world continued on.
It continued on yet part of Valarr was still stuck in that moment, still hearing his father’s cries and Aerion’s screams.
He was like his father, unable to look at Aerion, only seeing your murderer in him, in the pride he spoke of his divinity. Divinity granted to him by your death. Valarr looked at Aerion and saw reflecting in the violet eyes, a murderer’s greatest triumph.
He never could forgive him.
And he never had to for when the sickness stole within the walls, when it claimed him, he did not fear. No, he would join you wherever you and father and mother were. He would join his family, have the completeness, the wholeness that once was. He would be the last of you to die, the one who lasted longer. The one who lived the most. He would join you, complete the circle and find peace at last.
He would find peace in death, in his family’s afterlife with you. He would find peace for he would no longer see your murderer or the reflection of anguish in his Keira’s eyes, the four stillborn births a chasm that the two of them could never seem to cross, each one weighing heavily on them, forcing them apart.
No, he would finally find peace in his death. So, when the sickness claimed he, he willingly went to the next great adventure with the hope that he would join you, his sister sun.
He would finally be able to hug you again.
***
You are fourteen and still cursing your body, the new bounds. The new rules and restrictions that come with being a lady—things like no more running, chasing or wrestling. No more screaming or laughing or crying in public. No.
Now you were to be composed and gentle and kind and sunny all the time.
“Must we have this dinner?” you cry, arms crossed, eyes narrowed on your father. “I don’t want to greet the Martells! I want to…to just…relax.”
“They are your blood,” your father says, expression that of a man pained. “And they want to know you. Is that truly so bad? You visit them for two months each year, darling. Why do you not want them here?”
“She doesn’t want them in her space,” your brother remarks, eyes darting between you and Baelor, mismatched eyes gleaming a gleam that matches the smirk curving his lips.
“Exactly! I love them, but they have no place here in the Keep! This is my…my home and they don’t belong here. They have opinions on my marriage, Father. I’m only four and ten!” You flop dramatically down on the fainting couch that Baelor placed in his solar just for you, his ever so dramatic sun.
“Four and ten and in love with Aerion?” your father asks, eyebrows raised and lips curving up into a smile.
“How’d you know?” you ask, him sitting up from your prone position. Valarr watches the conversation like one watches a tourney, just waiting for someone to land the winning blow.
“You and Aerion are not subtle, my precious. Well,” he amends, “he is not subtle. He’s been begging for a betrothal for two years now. Claims that it’s the only thing that will keep you here, keep you from leaving us. I can’t deny that the boy is proving to be persuasive.”
“Is that why my blood is coming to dinner? To give their opinion on the Martel-Targaryen alliance?”
“Obviously,” Valarr interrupts, rolling his eyes at you and sticking his tongue out, delighting in the small giggle you let out, the way your nose scrunches as you laugh. “They’ve been pushing for you to marry some Dayne, have you shipped off to Starfall. They want you back and we don’t want to give you back.”
“Oh, wonderful,” you snap. “I’m just something to be claimed? An object in a game of tug-of-war! One side that of my blood, the other of my heart! Why don’t I choose?! Why must it be decided for me?” You are met with silence, a look passing between Valarr and Baelor, one that you do not understand, but between the two of them reads as understanding. As victory.
“What do you choose?”
***
Maeker lost both you, his daughter-in-law, and Aerion, his son, in one swoop. One birth. In int, you and all your life was gone. The way you lit up every room that you were in, the way you carried the light of Dorne so like his Dyanna, the way you spoke everything as if it was of greatest importance—all gone. Just gone like your blood, claimed in birth.
But you were not the only one who was mourned. In your labour, Maeker’s son was there, the glad and happy child, his precious third born who always laughed and shirked his duties for fishing in the pond with you. In your labour, the glad child was there, so excited for his babe, the chance to raise a son as lively as the two of you. The glad child was so happy, so excited for the laughter that would ring through the halls with the three of you and Maeker was eager as well. A grandchild made of sun and fire, love and laughter. The Targaryen’s could use the joy.
But after your labour?
After, there was nothing. No you, no laughing grandchild with cheeks of gold and no son. No glad child for the man who stepped from that room was not his son. The man was a monster in flesh, his clothes seeped with your blood, haunted eyes in a grim and grinning face. The delusional beast who spoke with proclamations, claiming the impossible of divine dragon made flesh.
Maeker’s glad and happy son was gone, burned in the pier with you and the babe. From those ashes rose a mad man. A mad man who got his uncle killed, who weakened all the halls.
Who was now completely gone.
Whose body was nothing but ash, burned from the inside out from wildfire, consumed in a moment of desperation that will never make sense to the broken king who stands over his body.
But the broken king does not mourn. No, he mourned the death of his Aerion already—this was just the creature who possessed his skin.
The only thing Maeker let himself hope was that his glad child’s soul had found you again.
Was joined with you for eternity.
***
You are sixteen and clothed in a wedding gown, dancing with your groom, laughing, hands mussing his silver hair, delighting in the mirth in those joyful violet eyes.
“You’re a wild woman!” he cries, lifting you up and twirling you in the air, setting you down upon the ground as gently as he can, ever scared that he will break you. Destroy you like his uncle fears.
“I’m a Martell of blood and a Targaryen of heart,” you answer, “what do you expect?” The smile on your lips sends a wave of warmth washing over Aerion. A wave of gratitude for you did choose him. You chose him over Dorne, over a Dayne and the wishes of your blood. You chose him. You fought for him in your own way.
“I don’t know,” he answers, pulling you closer into an embrace upon the chipped stone floor of the grand hall, other dancers swirling around you, mixes of Martell gold and Targaryen red. “I suppose, just you.”
“Unbowed, unbent, unbroken, perhaps?” you ask him, eyes gleaming with mirth, the saying of your blood passing from the lips that have utterly enchanted Aerion since puberty hit him.
“Exactly,” he answers, laughing with you, the peals of your laughter ringing through the halls, calming those who worry over the union. Aerion continues to dance with you, hands joined, both of you tired and breathless as the festivities begin to die down.
“We’re supposed to go now, aren’t we?” you whisper to him, watching as eyes narrow on the two of you, questions rising at your continued presence.
“I suppose so,” he answers back and he’s helpless to do anything but follow you as you lead from the hall and through the Keep up towards his chambers—yours now too if he has any say (although he doesn’t fool himself, he knows you lead).
He’s helpless to do anything but follow you, following your lead to the room, closing the door behind him at your look. He feels utterly weak at the pupil blown look of your eyes, the way you bite your bottom lip before surging forward and kissing him, hands fisting in his doublet. He feels like this is impossible. Like it’s not his life, but it is and so his arms go around you, his tongue stroking yours, matching you and your pace.
He undresses you when you ask, careful and gentle. Slow and kind. He lets you undress him when you ask and guides you to the bed, his gentle presence now taking the lead as he lays you down, careful and gentle, easing within you with a muffled groan and cry, the joining with you more important than anything else. More than the pleasure which stretches between the two of you.
It’s the closeness that he craves. That he has always craved.
He’s loved you forever, always following after you and hoping you feel the same and as you cry out, his name the cry upon your lips, he wonders why he ever doubted it at all.
You are the same. One soul.
Forever.
***
You were Aerion’s everything from the time you were children. From the time you were born. He used to tell you that the sun and the dragon were born for each other, soulmates. You were always inclined to agree.
He used to follow you around, always laughing when you laughed, smiling when you smiled. But more than that. He was the rock against which you could crash when the waves of your emotions were too high, when the world was too much, too loud. When you needed solitude, he was the cave in which you could hide.
He was yours and everyone knew. They used to call him your shadow and you always corrected them, saying his was your soul, just one half. And halves could never stray too far from each other.
And that was true enough. Every year, for two months, you would go to Dorne, to Sunspear, joined with your blood, the Targaryen borne Martell trading places with you. And in those two months, Aerion was surly and gruff and cruel, threatening anyone who dared upset him.
But everyone excused it for the shadow was missing his girl. And it was true. But why was it acceptable for the child and not the man?
When he lost you, his mind shattered, broke and in the cracks grew the weeds of insanity, of myths and legends. Delusions that could explain why you were taken. Delusions that gave him a reason rather than him having to continue to live knowing it was a cruel act of fate.
No, his delusions excused your death and gave it a purpose. A reason. He needed to believe there was a reason his soul was taken.
But delusions are for children and he no longer was.
***
You are eighteen and you are dying.
You were in labour for hours on hours, pushing and crying and squeezing Aerion’s hand so hard that you broke one finger, the bone snapping and cracking from your pain. And when the pain finally broke, the feeling like that of a fever that has snapped, you thought it was fine, your babe placed in your arms, his lungs giving a hearty cry, but then the pain returned.
It returned and doubled, blood flowing and flowing and flowing and now, here you lay, Aerion’s body twined around yours, his face covered in tears, slurred prayers and pleas leaving his lips as he begs you to stay.
But you cannot stay. You are too weak. You want to stay for him, you always have, but you cannot. You knew the dangers, you knew the fears of your father and you always knew somehow that your death would be messy. That it would hurt and that it would take a hell of a lot of people with you.
That’s the nature of a star after all. Implosions and explosions; fire and burning. Utter destruction. All you can do is hope that Aerion survives the blast.
“I love you,” you whisper, hand reaching and shaking so badly that you fear you won’t be able to touch him, but he guides your hand to his cheek, holding it close to his skin, his face utterly broken and destroyed.
“Don’t go,” he whispers, pleads, breaks. “Please don’t go! Just…just stay with me, darling. Stay with me, love! You can make it! You’re the sun in my sky; I can’t go on without you.”
“Goodbye,” you whisper, swallowing once, eyes fluttering so impossibly heavy, the spectre of your mother and your aunt just behind him, hands outstretched for you, waiting for you to take them. To join them. “I love you more than all the stars within the sky. More than the sun from which I’m made. I’ll see you again.”
And those are your last words, eyes fluttering and body going leaden as you step out from it, hands finding your mother’s and aunt’s stepping out with them. You don’t look back; they tell you don’t. They say it’s best to leave the grieving to their grief and the dead to the next life.
But Aerion shakes your body over and over and over. He shakes you and he screams your name. He cries and presses on your sternum, trying to start your heart, ribs cracking from the force. He yells at the Maester, telling him to fix you. He tears the tapestries from the wall, rends the shelves from the walls, breaking them in pieces. He roars and cries and holds your broken body over and over and over. He holds you until they step in, figures he doesn’t know, can’t recognize. He holds you until they pull him from you, pull him away and kick him from the room.
It doesn’t take long for his mind to crack from the weight of your loss. It doesn’t take long for madness to take root.
For a dragon to grow.
***
Aerion convinced himself that your death was a test, a way for the divine nature of his blood to find him, but the delusions only went so far. When they forced him to remarry, he chose his cousin, claimed the purity of Targaryen blood, but really, he just didn’t want anyone who looked even remotely like you and how much farther could he get than someone of his uncle’s blood?
He didn’t like his wife. In fact, he used to yell at her. Scream at her and hit her. Abuse her in your name.
On their wedding night, he refused to lay with her, claimed she wasn’t his wife. That you were his wife, his divine spark and you were waiting for him. You were waiting for him to become a dragon and he mustn’t sully himself with such a worthless whore.
But eventually he lay with her, just enough to ensure an heir, a continuation. Another dragon. When she went into labour, he hoped that she would die. He contemplated killing her himself, but he didn’t. He knew he needed his son to survive, but he named his son with purpose, choosing the name of violence, a name that you would hate.
He wanted to distance himself as much as possible. And he did. He achieved the distance, the delusion continued to grow and in every loss of every person in his life, it simply grew stronger.
It grew stronger until like everything forged in too much heat, it shattered under pressure. It shattered when he saw a princess of the Martell house, one who looked so much like you. One that was much younger, so young in fact that she looked like a hallucination of you, the youthful version whom he followed on chubby legs through yonder forever.
When he saw her, his hardened steel heart cracked and everything he suppressed came roaring through, burning him up and he didn’t want the feelings. He didn’t want them and it’s driven him to now.
To the wildfire that he pours down his throat, the wildfire which consumes him, burning all the guilt and shame and pain away. Burns it all until nothing is left but a burned corpse of a man who was already half-dead.
A man who finally gets to join you again.
***
“My love?” he asks you, his eyes bewildered focus on you standing in a valley of wildflower.
“Welcome to the next great adventure, darling,” you answer, helping him to his feet, delusions far away, long gone, burned in his corpse, evaporated with his screams. “I’ve been waiting.”
Call me Vhagar

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kate moss by vanina sorrenti.
Virginia Woolf, from her novel titled "The Voyage Out," originally published in 1915