Aerion Targaryen Materialist
The feast glittered like a field of fallen stars.
Gold plate caught the candlelight. Rubies burned at throats. Music wound through the hall in silk-soft ribbons, and wine flowed freely, too freely for lesser men and lesser women.
But not for Aerion Targaryen.
He drank sparingly. Always sparingly. A dragon did not dull his senses among sheep.
He sat at the high table in black velvet bordered in scarlet satin, the three headed dragon blazing across his breast. Firelight adored him. It clung to his silver gold curls and turned his violet eyes molten.
His gaze drifted, lazily, possessively , across the hall.
You had been radiant when the feast began, poised, graceful, every inch a princess worthy of his name. But now your cheeks were delicately flushed, your lashes heavier, your laughter softer and more frequent. The goblet in your hand tilted just a fraction too carelessly as you spoke to a lady beside you.
You rarely surrendered control. You moved through court with elegance and careful intelligence. You understood whispers, politics, glances. You knew when to bow and when not to.
But wine had loosened something.
When you stood from your seat, you swayed, just slightly and steadied yourself on the table.
Aerion was already rising before any servant dared move.
Conversations faltered as he descended from the dais.
“My wife,” he said smoothly, though his tone carried the quiet command of a prince accustomed to obedience.
And the smile that bloomed across your face when you saw him was unguarded. Uncalculated. Entirely yours.
You did not offer your hand.
You walked straight to him.
But tonight they were watching you.
Your fingers curled into the front of his doublet, crushing the embroidered dragon beneath your palm as though you sought to steady yourself or perhaps to claim him.
And then you rose onto your toes.
Not a courtly brush of lips.
Not a restrained gesture meant to please watching nobles.
It was warm. Lingering. Wine sweet and bold.
For the briefest heartbeat, Aerion stilled.
Shock did not show on his face, he was too proud for that but something flickered in his eyes. Something almost boyish in its surprise.
The hall fell utterly silent.
You pulled back only slightly, still close enough that your breath mingled with his.
“You look devastating tonight,” you informed him, voice soft but earnest, as though confiding state secrets.
A muscle in his jaw flexed.
“You have been drinking.”
“Yes,” you agreed cheerfully and kissed him again.
This time at the corner of his mouth.
His hand came to your waist then, firm, possessive, steadying. His fingers spread as though to anchor you to him, as though the entire hall might try to steal you in your softened state.
“You are bold,” he murmured, violet eyes darkening.
“I am married,” you replied, as if that explained everything. “I am allowed.”
A faint ripple of scandalized whispers stirred along the tables.
Aerion’s head turned slowly.
When his gaze returned to you, it had changed.
This was no longer amusement alone.
This was hunger, not merely physical, but territorial. You were his wife. His princess. His flame.
And here you were, flushed and smiling, kissing him as though he were not a prince feared across the realm, but simply your husband.
It disarmed him more thoroughly than any blade ever had.
You reached up again, brushing your lips to his jaw this time, then his cheek, as though testing whether you might continue uninterrupted.
He exhaled softly through his nose.
“I remember perfectly,” you insisted, swaying closer. “You are very handsome. And very tall. And very mine.”
Aerion felt it coil through his chest like smoke.
He tightened his grip slightly, drawing you fully against him. The hall gasped quietly at the boldness of it.
“You would provoke me before half the court?” he asked, low and dangerous.
You tilted your head, studying him with wine-bright curiosity.
“Would you punish me for kissing my husband?”
The innocence of the question nearly undid him.
Aerion leaned down, slowly, deliberately and captured your mouth in a kiss of his own.
Measured so that it could not be called indecent, yet unmistakably intimate.
He felt your fingers curl into his hair, careless, affectionate, entirely without fear.
No one touched him like that.
When he withdrew, your eyes were softer still.
He brushed his thumb over your lower lip, wiping away a faint trace of wine. His voice dropped to something meant only for you.
“If you continue, little flame, I will carry you from this hall and remind you precisely what it means to belong to a dragon.”
You smiled, slow, luminous, unafraid.
The honesty in your tone struck him harder than defiance ever could.
For a fleeting second, the monstrous prince, the cruel knight, the dragon who believed himself above men felt something dangerously close to tenderness.
He turned to the gathered nobles.
“The feast is concluded,” he declared calmly. “My lady requires rest.”
No one breathed too loudly.
As he led you from the hall, your hand slipped into his, your steps slightly uneven. You leaned against him without hesitation, trusting his strength to keep you upright.
In the torchlit corridor beyond the feast, the world grew quieter.
You paused, tugging him gently back toward you.
“One more,” you murmured.
He stared at you for a long moment.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed, low and rich and rare.
“A perilous creature,” he said softly. “Wine has made you fearless.”
You shook your head faintly.
“No,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his chest. “You have.”
And in that narrow corridor, shielded from courtly eyes, Aerion bent to kiss you once more.
Not as a prince proving dominion.
Not as a dragon claiming territory.
But as a husband, fierce, possessive, and quietly undone by the simple truth that his wife wanted him without calculation, without fear, without restraint.
And for that night, at least, the monster did not surface.
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