elizabeth

Inner thighs: for when he's feeling particularly possessive. These are the ones he saves for your most intimate moments, the ones that make you arch off the bed and cry out. He'll spend hours there, biting and soothing with his tongue, until you're trembling and incoherent.

Wrists: for when he wants to be reminded of you during the day. He'll catch your hand, turn it over, and press sharp kisses to the sensitive skin there. You'll feel the marks for days, every time you move.

Shoulder: for when you're facing away from him. He loves these best, the way you gasp when you don't expect it, the way you shiver when you feel his breath hot on your back.

But don’t blame him, he can't help himself! Not when you look so pretty all ruined and marked for him <3

He’s such a teasing bastard too. During council meetings, he'll lean over to whisper something in your ear, and then nip at your earlobe. You have to hide your blush behind your hand while Lords drones on about grain taxes.

In the throne room, when you're standing at his side as his lady, he'll catch your hand and press his mouth to your knuckles, teeth scraping slightly. The courtiers exchange glances. Aerion doesn't care.

He likes to do it when you're distracted. That prat…when you're reading, when you're writing letters, when you're gazing out a window. He'll come up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, and bite. Predatory. He likes to see you as his prey. Damn that dragon blood.

When you're annoyed, you try to push him away, but he just laughs and holds you tighter. "You love it” he accuses, and you can't deny it because your heart is racing and your skin is burning where he marked you. Also, you just ruined your undergarments. Clean up aisle!

Also, when you're embarrassed: He'll find the worst possible moments, in front of his brothers, in front of the maester, in front of anyone, and mark you where they can all see. "Let them look” girl they are looking. And they’re calling a trusted adult.

There’s two sides:

Sometimes, after a nightmare or a hard day, you seek him out. He knows without being asked. He gathers you in his arms, holds you close, and presses soft, gentle bites to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. Soothing bites. Reminding you that you're safe.

Also sometimes, when you argue, when you fight, when you push back, that's when the fire in his eyes catches. Scary as fuck. He'll back you into a corner, grip your jaw, and mark you deeply, bruising. "You're so beautiful when you fight me” he'll whisper. "But you'll always yield."

He gets jealous of the marks fading. When a bruise starts to yellow, he'll re-bite the spot, fresh and new. It becomes a cycle you're never without a mark from him.

By the way, he thinks of himself as a dragon when he does it. "Dragons mark their hoards." Gods help you.

When you try to hide them, you learn quickly that you can't. He'll find you, peel away the high collar or the scarf, and let it roam freely.

On rare occasions, he bites too hard. Breaks skin. He's immediately apologetic, don’t let those puppy eyes fool you like they fool poor Maekar! He'll clean the wound himself, gentle and careful, and press soft kisses around it. "I'll be gentler” Lying Aerion said. You don't want him to be gentler anyway.

Bonus: His favorite thing is to mark you while you're asleep, just barely aware. You'll feel his teeth on your shoulder, your hip, your breast, and you'll let out a sleepy sound, and he'll laugh softly, and mark you again.

He only shows it when the candles burn low in your shared chambers, long after the servants have gone. When the fire has softened to embers and the dragonglass flask of strongwine sits half-empty between you. That’s when his hand, the one that’s always clenched, always reaching for a sword or a goblet or a threat, loosens. And he lets you hold it.

In private, Aerion speaks quietly. As if the loudness he wears like armor might crack something fragile in him if he lets it out here. He won’t say “I love you” in public, he would whisper it to you in High Valyrian. “Avy jorrāelan.”

He’ll rest his forehead against yours and murmur, “You are the only thing I have not burned.”

He has nightmares, like all of his brothers do. Unlike theirs, about fallen dragons and fire, his is silence. Of waking up and finding you gone, or cold, or looking at him the way everyone else does: with fear. On those nights, he doesn’t demand comfort. He simply curls around you, one arm draped over your ribs like a dragon guarding a single egg, and breathes until the shaking stops.

And the softest thing? He lets you touch his hair. That silver-gold mane he keeps immaculate for the court, the one he threatens to have a maid beaten for simply breathing on—he’ll lay his head in your lap and close his eyes while you run your fingers through it.

When you scratch lightly behind his ear, a gesture you once joked made him look like a cat, he didn’t sneer. He almost chuckled.

He also remembers things. Not grand romantic gestures, those are for winning loyalty. But small things: the way you take your tea (honeyed, not spiced), the song you hum when you think no one is listening, the name of your childhood horse. He’ll drop these into conversation like secrets, offhand, just to watch your face soften.

And once, just once, after a nightmare so violent he threw a goblet at the wall and shattered it, he let you see him cry. Hot streaks down his cheeks while he gripped your sleeves and mumbled about the damn nightmares. Wildfire…his skin burning…your look of horror.

Later, he built the fire back up, wiped his face, and became Aerion again. But before he left the room, he paused at the door. “If you ever leave… take the knife from my bedside. You’ll need it.”

And you knew: that was his way of saying “Don’t let me hurt you. Kill me first”

That’s the Aerion no one else will ever meet.