†

Aerion stood his ground, unflinching as the dragon lowered its massive, horned head. Its golden eyes narrowed, fixed on Aerion in judgement. The dragon opened its mouth, exposing a cavern of jagged teeth, each one the size of a shortsword, glistening with a venomous sheen. Deep within its gullet, something began to glow.

The flames that erupted forth were a corrosive green that hissed and spat as it consumed the very air, washing over Aerion. And you were frozen, a silent spectator in your own personal hell, trapped behind an invisible wall as the green fire ate away at him. You could not hear his agony, but you felt it as if you were connected by an invisible, unbreakable tether. You watched in abject horror as his skin blackened, muscle and fat peeling away like wax beneath a flame, revealing the stark white of bone beneath. Through it all, he did not move.

"Hush, sweetling. Wake. You are dreaming."

Your eyes flew open, and you dragged in a ragged, desperate gasp of air, as if surfacing from a drowning depth. The first thing your tear-blurred vision registered was Aerion's face above yours, his white hair gloriously disheveled, violet eyes dark with concern. He was shaking you gently.

"All is well," his voice a low, soothing rumble that vibrated through you.

You could not answer, your throat too tight with unshed tears and the lingering, phantom echoes of his agony. He shifted, releasing your shoulders only to wrap his arms around your entire body, pulling you close as he lay down behind you, molding his body to yours. You felt his lips press against the curve of your shoulder, a soft, lingering kiss that was meant to comfort but only made you shake harder, the contrast between the dream's horror and his gentle reality too much to bear.

Tears began to stream from your eyes, silent and hot against your cheeks. You squeezed your eyes shut in a desperate attempt to block out the horrific images, but the nightmare played on behind your eyelids. Your eyes snapped open as you took in a sharp, audible inhale, your chest tight with panic. You needed to focus on something tangible, something present and alive. His breath against your neck, his strong arms banded around your waist, the solid, reassuring hardness of his body pressed against yours, all muscle and heat and unmistakable, vibrant life.

Your hands found his where they rested on your stomach, your fingers gripping his wrists tight.

"Do you wish to unburden yourself?" he asked.

You shook your head. The dream was too fresh, too raw, too violently vivid.

"You dreamt of me again." It was not a question so much as a confirmation.

You turned in his arms, a slow, clumsy movement in the tangled sheets, until you were facing him. Your bodies pressed together, chest to chest. In the dim, moonlit gloom of your bedchamber, you could see the complete and unwavering trust in his violet eyes. He always believed your dreams. Aerion, who showed such disdain to the world around him, had never once treated you with anything but care, adoration, and reverence.

The dragon and his dreamer.

Aerion looked at your wide, teary eyes, the way you opened your mouth to speak before closing it again, the slight tremble in your lower lip, and knew. He took your hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing your palm, his eyes closing as if drawing strength, drawing life, from the simple connection of your touch.

"I do not wish to think tonight," you told him, your voice barely a whisper, thick with the remnants of tears. You leaned in, needing the reassurance of his lips against yours, needing to feel connected to him.

He was so incredibly gentle with you, pulling back after a moment, his violet eyes searching yours in the dim light, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "Are you certain?"

"Aye," you breathed, and this time when you kissed him there was more urgency, more need. You did not want gentle; you wanted to be consumed. You wanted to lose yourself in him until the nightmare faded to nothing. "I would have my husband."

Aerion's demeanor shifted subtly, the gentle concern giving way to something more possessive, more dominant. He gathered you into his arms, sitting up in one fluid motion and settling you in his lap, your legs draped over his. The position was intimate, possessive, leaving no space between you. His tongue delved into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, and you met his passion with your own. Your hands tangled in the silk of his hair. He poured all of his love for you — his wife, the mother of his children — into that kiss.

He kissed you until you were breathless, until your body stopped trembling with fear, until he could still the tremor in his own hands. He broke the kiss and lowered his head, resting his forehead against your shoulder as you both struggled to catch your breath. You brought your hand to rest against his face, stroking his cheek with your thumb.

It was a hard thing for a man to accept that he would meet a bitter end. Fire and blood, a fitting death for a dragon, but a hard thing nonetheless. He was afraid, but he understood that his fate was already decided. You were never wrong.

With a soft groan, he laid you both back down upon the bed, adjusting your positions until you were curled against his chest, your head tucked neatly beneath his chin. He stared at the ceiling as his hand moved in slow, soothing circles on your back. You clung to him as you always did after you had that particular dream, as if afraid he might vanish. He placed a soft kiss on the crown of your head, his lips lingering in the sweet-smelling strands of your silver-gold hair.

He rarely got time alone with his own wife. He would, begrudgingly, have to settle for brief moments. He would cradle your cheek and steal a kiss, or you would pass him and give him a quick peck to the jaw or his temple, leaving his skin alight and warm. He would bring you your favorite tea in the evenings, or hover like a dragon watching his treasure as you tended to his son's needs. All the while, little Maegor would watch his parents, wide-eyed and curious.

Aerion had faith that it would change with time. Maegor would grow and become more independent, and soon he would have you to himself again.

At least, that's what he had tried to convince himself, but the gods had odd humor. His boy was the spitting image of him, appearance-wise… and in other ways. The child grew, learned to walk and how to speak in mumbled sentences, but he still clung to his mother like his little life depended on it. His chubby hands would curl around your skirts, his shorter legs hurrying to keep up with you as you made your way through the winding layout of Summerhall. He'd huff and stomp his little feet until you would inevitably relent and pick him up, and then he would curl his fingers around the neckline of your dress, holding tight as though his strength alone could keep him in your arms forever.

“You spoil him,” Aerion said once, when you entered your marital chambers with Maegor on your hip. You sighed, meeting his gaze as he sat lounged on the velvet-lined settee by the hearth.

“Children are meant to be spoiled, husband.”

“Hm,” Aerion hummed, a faint smile wanting to tug at his lips had he not forced it away. He watched you move about the bedchamber, your skirts whispering across bare stone and the rug by the bed. In the warm light that the hearth offered, you looked so… ethereal. The flames flickered across your features, and he found a quiet peace there. Motherhood had suited you well, and you fit into that role as if it were always meant to be. He quite liked that look on you: you, softened from carrying his seed, holding his heir upon your hip.

A bit of heat stirred in his gut. He forced it away.

Aerion rose with the grace of a prince, his footsteps measured across the floor as he approached his wife and child. He reached for your waist, but found his hands stalling as Maegor reached up to touch your face. Fat fingers probed at your cheek, imitating the way he so often saw his father cradle your face. His chubby hand was more clumsy, and sticky with sweet nectar from an orange he ate earlier, but the look in his big lilac eyes was intense as he stared at you.

“Mama, so beautiful.”

Aerion's brow furrowed as he watched you grin at that. “Thank you, sweet boy,” you hummed your thanks, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, just as you would do for your husband when he doted on you. “I love you.”

“Love you too, mama!”

Aerion watched the pair before him, his lips tugging into what could almost be described as a pout. His son loved you, just as he did. He learned the quiet ways of affection, and knew how to steal your heart. When you met your husband's gaze, he forced his expression to harden, though his heart swelled with something he had never felt. Deep, deep affection. The sight of his small family, of his sweet wife and their little boy, warmed a part of him that felt… new. He would not admit it, though. Dragons were made of thicker hides.

“Spoiled little brat.”

“He learned from you.”

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