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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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
this is how looks all cleaned up...just a little bit of stubble, and he's got baby number three on his hip, cradling her like she's the most precious thing in the world.
he's looking good enough to give him another baby!!! around this time he's a dad who's got his shit together.
GIVE HIM ANOTHER BABY. he's earned it.
also had to mention reader cuts his hair for him, sits him down on a chair from the kitchen with a towel around his neck and everything.
Plot: You both matched on tinder, his chaotic personality asked you on a first date to Couples Therapy then Anger Management.
-•-
The parenting class was held in the function room, a lot more warmer and welcoming than the Anger Management class. Little drawings from young kids scattered the wall beside self help leaflets. You’d hope Aerion would grab a few of those, he needed serious help if this is how he spends his week, maybe you did too since you are willing to join.
There were biscuits.
A kettle.
A circle of hopeful looking couples and one laminated sign that read:
WELCOME, NEW PARENTS!
You stopped dead at the door. “This is a terrible idea.” Aerion looked around. “No…” He smiled. “This is our best one yet.”
“You realise these people are about to tell us about labour.” You grab at him, you knew how babies are made and born, you really hoped they didn’t go into the details of things stretching.
“I watched a documentary.”
“You watched one episode of animal planet.”
“I cried.”
You tapped the side of his shoulder while entering the room before him to find a seat, “It was emotional.” He scoffed behind you.
The instructor, Hannah, welcomed everyone inside. “Come and take a seat!”
You and Aerion squeezed into two chairs, he took your hand and rested it on his lap playing the devoted husband and father. He gave Hannah a small smile.
Hannah beamed. “So! Let’s go around and introduce ourselves.”
A lovely couple smiled. “We’re expecting twins.” The woman is HUGH, you and aerion both looked at each other in surprise that one woman could end up that size from babies.
Applause.
Another couple. “This is our first baby.”
Another couple. “Our baby is 2 months.”
More applause.
Then Hannah looked at you both. “And yourselves?”
Aerion smiled confidently. “I’m Aerion.”
You introduced yourself.
“And how old is your little one?”
Without missing a beat, Aerion answered, “Thirty four.”
The room went silent.
You looked at him. “Thirty? four?”
He frowned. “What?”
“Our baby?” You started, “is thirty four?”
“Oh.” He nodded. “Right.”
He looked back at Hannah.
“Three months.”
Hannah laughed politely. “And what’s your baby’s name?”
Aerion turned to you. “What is our baby’s name?”
You stared at him. “You don’t remember?”
His face filled with guilt. “Oh God…”
“You forgot our own child?” You faked a gasp, if you had pearls you’d be clunching them by now.
“I’ve been under so much pressure.” Aerion overrated a tap, fingers in his short silver hair. He looked at his hands and turned to the room. “I was a brunette last year.”
Several parents looked horrified.
You sighed dramatically. “It’s Kevin.”
A woman whispered to her husband.
“Poor Kevin.” He nodded in agreement.
The class moved on. “Has anyone been struggling with sleep?”
Hands shot up.
“It’s exhausting.”
“I’ve had three hours all week.”
Hannah nodded sympathetically. “And yourselves?”
You sighed. “Kevin sleeps through the night.”
Everyone stared. “You are so lucky!”
Aerion shook his head sadly. “Not really.”
“No?”
“He snores.”
“At three months?”
“He has the lungs of a rugby player.”
One father frowned. “Do babies snore?”
Aerion looked insulted. “Have you met Kevin?”
Next topic.
“Nappy changing.”
Hannah held up a doll. “Who usually changes the nappies?”
You immediately pointed at Aerion. “He does.”
He looked horrified. “I do?”
“You insisted.”
“I thought we took turns.”
“You said nappies build character.”
A woman smiled warmly. “That’s lovely.”
Aerion nodded slowly. “Yes, I definitely said that.”
Hannah handed him the demonstration doll. “Would you mind showing everyone?”
He accepted it confidently while he held it upside down.
The room collectively inhaled.
You gently turned the doll the right way around. “He’s had a long week.”
Later, Hannah asked “What milestones has your baby reached?”
You smiled proudly. “He’s crawling.”
Aerion nodded. “And taxes.”
You closed your eyes. “Aerion.”
“What?”
“Babies don’t do taxes.”
“Our Kevin’s advanced.”
The woman beside you finally asked the question. “How old did you say he was?”
“Three months.”
“And he’s crawling…”
“Yes.”
“Doing taxes.”
Aerion nodded. “He also has a LinkedIn and facebook.”
The room was beginning to suspect something, Hannah decided to ask something simple. “What brand of nappies do you use?”
You answered instantly. “Pampers.”
Aerion answered at exactly the same time. “Huggies.”
You both looked at each other, he narrowed his eyes. “So that’s where all the arguments started, you’ve changed.”
You crossed your arms and turned it face him in the plastic chair. “You used to believe in Pampers? Said they were leak proof.”
“I’ve grown.”
Hannah blinked. “You argued over nappies?”
Aerion scoffed. “We nearly divorced over nappies.”
One of the dads gasped. “You can get through it,” he offered sincerely.
Aerion patted his shoulder. “We’re not trying.”
Then came the practical exercise, each couple was handed one of those weighted baby dolls. “Imagine this is your baby.”
Aerion immediately cradled it. “He’s heavier than I expected.”
You smiled, he looked great holding a baby properly. You thought it was like one of those moments in a movie where a man spots his wife holding a baby and realises something, this was your moment. “He has your forehead.”
Aerion looked at the doll. “Would you still love me if I accidentally dropped him?”
Your eyes widened. “Accidentally?”
“I said if.”
“No.”
“Fair.”
As the session ended, Hannah stopped you both. “You two have such an… unusual dynamic.”
“Thank you,” Aerion said proudly.
She smiled. “So… where’s Kevin today?”
There was a long pause.
You looked at Aerion, aerion looked at you then, without absolute sincerity, he spoke. “Honestly? We forgot him.”
Hannah’s face drained of all colour, before she could reach for her phone, you burst into laughter so hard you doubled over.
Aerion followed a second later.
It took Hannah another ten seconds to realise there was no Kevin. “No baby?” she asked weakly.
“No baby,” you managed between laughs.
“No nappies?”
“No.”
“No sleepless nights?”
“No.”
“You’ve just… come here?”
Aerion nodded. “It was either this or bowling.”
Hannah stared at the pair of you for what felt like an eternity. Then she started laughing too, helpless, head back, tears in her eyes laughing. When she finally caught her breath, she pointed towards the exit. “I’m banning you.”
“Fair,” Aerion admitted.
“But…” She shook her head, still smiling.
“if you two ever do have children…” She looked between you both. “those poor, poor teachers.”
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Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x wife! Reader/ Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader
Word count: 7.8k
Synopsis: When your husband, Aerion, sees you dancing with a former suitor he sees red and goes above and beyond to get his love reciprocated.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, Arryn! Reader, an alternate ending to this oneshot, based around my Where's my Husband series, love triangle, Obsessed! Aerion, Obsession AU, CW dark themes, CW gore and body horror, CW violence and blood. Angst. Reader discretion is advised.
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3rd anniversary celebration 🎉
Aerion is infatuated with you, his Lady wife that he adores. You may not be of Valyrian descent just like him, but you have proved yourself worthy of the prince time and time again. You’ve tamed the dragon, and the dragon granted you his warmth, his undying love for forever and a day. And he thought that you shared the same sentiment, that you love and adore him just like he does for you. That every morning you wake up to him, he’s the first thing on your mind. With a smile on your face, and a thudding heart in your chest like it’s the first time you’ve woken up beside him. Like how he does for you.
Every morning his thoughts are immediately on you, purple eyes flicking to the back of your head as you lay beside him, cheek pressed flush against the goosefeather pillow, mouth slightly agape and chest slowly rising and falling with every breath. Aerion would pull you beside him, turning you around so you would face him. You would groan and find his warmth with your face tucked right on his bare chest. He would always seek you out, his great Arryn love that has managed to cleave his chest open and dig yourself into his heart.
Aerion thought you loved him, that you would die for him just like he would for you. But as he stares at you and the Lord of Storm’s End dancing in the middle of the feast with your hand in his, holding so tightly onto the man’s hand like he is your Lord husband not the prince— Aerion’s fury is palpable across the great hall. His fits shake, jaw tightly wound and nose flaring as his anger turns his blood hotter.
Your face is too close to Lyonel’s lips, his breath mingling with yours, his words rumbling in his chest that you could feel reverberate through your body when you’re chest to chest with him. Aerion watches you fall into step with him, a synergy that he thought you and him only ever have.
“Aerion…” his uncle Rhaegel calls for him from the feast table, right beside him is your Arryn aunt as she fails to hide the fear flickering in her eyes. She knows. “The falcon and the stag found each other again, didn’t they?” Rhaegal, sweet simple uncle Rhaegel has even noticed you and Lyonel, looking as if you two belong in each other’s arms. As if it was supposed to be from the start. “The falcon should soar…” he mumbles, picking at the frayed stitches of his doublet. “Dragon blood does not mix well with birds…the falcon’s talons are too long, too sharp, even for themselves.”
“Rhaegel, my love.” The chair under your aunt scrapes loudly as she vaults from her seat, tugging at her husband’s arm. “Let us not frighten our nephew.”
“I am not frightened, dear aunt.” Aerion spits the words out, fists trembling at his side. His wine goblet long abandoned on the table as he stares daggers at his aunt and uncle.
Words hurled at him don’t usually hit him, he has heard worse in his life being a second son of a fourth son. Nothing to inherit, styled to be a spare, a brother to a drunkard, a son to a dead mother, and a father who only looks at him when he has done him a dishonour despite everything he tries to do to bring honour to their branch of the family. He married you for that reason, you’re from a house that is as ancient as his own, an honourable house that has their own great keep and has borne dozens of great warriors. It was for duty, marrying you, he meant to tolerate you, to share your bed whenever he pleases and leave right after. To visit your chambers when duty calls to try for an heir. But you intrigued him, you talked back, you bit back and drew blood. You tamed a dragon, you who is merely a falcon, but you used your talons on him, you learned how to scratch and bite where he wanted, where he needed. His duty became a want, a want to be with you, to share your warmth. And then it became a need, he needed to be beside you, to be inside you, to hold you, to caress you, to hear your breathless gasps underneath him and to see you smile, and for you to seek him out in every crowded room.
He needs you like how a man needs air.
And yet, your eyes gazes into those dark stormy pools of the stormlord like you need him. Like he is the one you married not the man who stands beside his grandsire’s table like a lovelorn fool. He is a prince of the blood, he is the blood of the dragon, a descendant of great warriors and dragon riders. And his heart breaks for a falcon amidst the feast.
Your tender eyes shine underneath the candle lights, palm brushing along Lyonel’s cheek with longing. Aerion’s feet moves before he could think. His strides are long and quick, a man honed in on the pair in the middle of the dancing crowd as he pushes people out of the way. Some part for him when they see the intense look on his face, most scramble with their heads down the moment they hear his loud footfalls, already familiar with the sound that reverberates through the Red Keep.
“My, you two are awfully close.” Aerion keeps his wits beside him, he is furious, and he wants to unsheathe his dagger and plunge the blade right into Lyonel’s neck. But that would start a war, and he is surrounded by the stag’s bannermen, he would be ripped to shreds by the stormlanders before he could have the pleasure of seeing Lyonel’s blood trickle out of his opened flesh. His hand rests upon the handle of his dagger, brow raised, trying to act casual despite his hot red rage thumping inside his ribcage. His eyes are still locked on the contact between Lyonel’s fingers and your skin and you are awfully aware of that fact. “There are other people around, Baratheon. Comport yourself.”
“Aerion.” You startle, fingers unfurling around Lyonel’s hand that he refuses to completely let go as he still holds onto your fingers. “We’re…” you clear your throat, trying to coax a smile out of you as you feel the heavy tension between the two men that are staring at each other like two hunters between the only doe in the whole godswood. “We’re just dancing. This is—”
“I know who he is, my love. He’s in my keep.” His purple eyes keep glancing at Lyonel’s hand that still grasps onto you. He hasn’t raised his voice, and it’s much more terrifying than a yell from his throat. “And he is holding onto my wife.”
Lyonel has the audacity to smile, a smile that annoys the prince to no end. He has only seen glimpses of the Laughing Storm during the Ashford tourney, but his loud boisterous laugh can always be heard throughout the meadow. Aerion wants to cut out that laugh right from his throat.
“All in good fun, my prince.” Lyonel utters his title with hidden disdain, as his hands let go of you, now put up beside his head in mock surrender. “We were talking about the tourney where we met, did we not, my sweet?”
‘My sweet,’ Aerion would cut a lowly man for that if they had spoken to you in that very same manner, in that same tender tone and sweetened gaze. But Lyonel isn’t some stable boy or a hedge knight, he is a Lord paramount, a warrior just like himself.
You gulp down the lump in your throat, eyes flicking between the two men. “That we did.” Lyonel stands a foot taller than Aerion, but if looks could kill, Lyonel would’ve keeled over by now. Their egos clash like lightning against flames. “We were reconnecting, husband, you need not worry.”
Aerion’s steely gaze doesn’t leave the older man’s face. “Come, my love, you look tired.” His eyes turn to you, snatching your hand, fingers immediately weaving around your own possessively. “You must rest, remember what the maester said, hm?”
The prince could see Lyonel’s head tilt curiously from his words right in his peripheral.
Your brows furrow. “And what exactly did he say?” Chortling, you laugh easily, you are no stranger to Aerion’s teasing, nor his manipulation through his words. You just know that his next words would be vengeful but it would just bounce off of you like a pebble against armour like always.
“That the babe, our babe in your belly,” his palm holds onto your stomach, his warmth ebbing from him, searing hot, trying to burn through your gown. “requires you to sit and lay. Not to galavant around like an unmarried maiden.”
Blinking at him, your brows rise to your hairline, shock marring your face with a chuckle in your throat. “The what—” You expected him to spit venom at you and Lyonel, not this. Not an awful lie that gives you an answer to your indecision. Your husband just made it easier to decide.
“My sincere…congratulations.” Lyonel utters through his clenched teeth, monotone, reined in. His eyes turns to you, immediately softening. Aerion knows that look— pity. “I shall leave you be, princess, you must rest. And…” he steps closer, a thumb right on your wrist as you two share a look that Aerion isn’t privy to but wishes he was. “Remember what I told you, hm?” Taking your hand in his, he presses a kiss on your knuckles as his gaze never leaves yours. “My Lady Arryn.”
“My Lord Baratheon…” you answer breathlessly. Watching him leave and disappear into the crowd, taking the remaining air along with him.
My, the simple word shouldn’t get to the prince, it shouldn’t bash right at his chest and break his ribcage into pieces. But it has, you’ve taken his heart in your fist and threw it on the ground, stomping right on it even when it still sings your name. He should be yours and you should be his. But that word, ‘my Lord Baratheon,’ Aerion thinks you were never his to begin with. That you are a stag’s doe, not a dragon’s wife.
Aerion’s heart is shattered by his feet, he wants to take the sharp shards and cut you and himself so you would know the exact pain of seeing you look at someone else with love. He should be the only recipient of that, not some storm Lord that you happen to chance upon before you met him. He will take you to the grave with him if that’s what it takes.
“Come.” Tugging you away, taking your attention away from Lyonel, he leads you outside and into the dim gardens. Your heels clack against the stone, trying to catch up to his longer strides.
The weirwood tree stands tall before him, the wood is stark white, leaves as red as blood as the carved face bleeds crimson onto its bark. Crickets sing, fireflies light the way and the flowers are in full bloom just the way you like it. He knows you love the godswood for its flowers, and sometimes he would join you in your strolls or he would lay upon your lap as you read beside flower bushes, tucked in between the flowers, looking like the maiden of his dreams. But you seem to have come out of his nightmare as you let go of his hand like he burned you with his touch.
“What is wrong with you, Aerion?” You stand underneath the moonlight in his Targaryen colours, looking at him with disgust, not with love. “You embarrassed me, you embarrassed yourself! I have told you, I am not with child—!”
His blade is suddenly in his hand, the sound of it unsheathing stops you in your tracks as he stares at the dagger.
“Are you going to fucking kill me?” You say it calmly, too calmly, as if you have anticipated it long ago. “Try me, Aerion, you know I could hold out my own.” Dress hitched up to your thigh, you show him your own blade tucked into your garter. “I might get that sparring match I’ve always wanted.”
“Do you think of me so cruel that I would hurt you?” His purple eyes are darker here, not even the moonlight could illuminate it. The lingering adrenaline from a fight he didn’t get to have swirls in his belly like wildfire. “That I could kill you? My own wife?”
“You are capable of it.” You spit out with venom on your tongue. “I’ve seen it, Aerion, the cruelty you hide behind those eyes. The cruelty you hide from your father, from your uncles and grandsire. I saw it,” you nod, teeth bared at him. “I saw it when you dismissed Juniper and Andros, I saw it when you broke that poor stable boy’s arm for looking at me too long. I saw it when you plunged a blade into a merchant’s hand when his palm brushed along my own innocently.” Your tone shakes, but you don’t waver. “I saw it during our coupling, the first one on our wedding night. I do not doubt that you are capable of killing your own wife.”
“I could not,” his voice is awfully tender. “This is for him.” Dagger raised, he points at the great hall through the closed doors. “I will cut him, I shall cut him for how he touched you—”
“Gods be good! We were dancing!” Heaving, you step closer, dress still hitched up in case he strikes. “You would know where the hands would be if you actually danced with me!”
“Would you prefer if I danced with you?” There’s a child-like wonder in his tone, as if he discovered something new. As if dancing with you will fix everything.
“Gods!” Groaning against your hand, you stomp towards the weirwood, hand braced on its trunk as you slouch beside it, eyes tightly closed, repressing the want to stab him in the abdomen. “You are far too late for that, Aerion.”
“No, I’m not.” The dagger dangles in between his fingers by his side, his intense gaze burns a hole through the skirt of your gown. “We’ve been married a year, we could still—”
“What brought this on?” You whirl in his direction, exasperated. “Is this about our conversation before? That I might be barren?” You stop him from answering with a hand up as you continue. “Aerion, if you want a child so badly then annul our marriage. It is obvious that it will not bear fruit, nor will it ever be. Marry someone else, someone who could give you children.”
“But I do not want someone else!” Blade raised, he closes the distance over to you as you take a step back, your back hitting the rough bark of the weirwood. He notices, and he immediately puts his dagger down. “I want you, is that so hard to believe?”
“You do not love like everyone else, Aerion. So yes, it is hard to believe so.”
“And you know how it’s supposed to be? Like how you think the storm bastard loves you, hm?” He steps closer, making you back away further against the tree. “Does he love you, Lady Arryn?” The title is said with disdain. “Do you love him? Is that it? How you know what love looks like. How it should be?”
“We were dancing!”
“So you say! Do not play me for a fool.” His sword calloused palm pushes your shoulder into the wood, nails digging in. “I’ve seen your face while you were with him, and you do not look at me like that, your husband, someone who is supposed to be the object of your love.”
“Does this look like love to you?” The words tumble out of your mouth, filled with cotton that suffocates your throat.
Aerion notices the position, his hand grasping onto your shoulder as if you’re going to fade, nails digging into the silk of your gown, pushing you harshly into the rough wood that will surely leave indents on the skin of your back.
He lets go, guilt marring his sharp features. “I… is it so awful to be with me?” Stepping back, he sheathes the dagger that drips with the red sap of the weirwood tree. He just now noticed that he sliced a part of it open out of his own anger. He’s just glad it wasn’t your flesh as the sap drips onto your fingers, staining your skin crimson.
“I do not love you as you love me, if that is the answer you are looking for.”
You don’t wield a dagger in your hand and yet your words have the same effect of a blade striking him down, cutting his throat.
“I married you because I had no choice in the matter.” Voice softening, the sticky sap coats your hand, crimson dripping from your fingers. You are sure that Aerion has done some transgression against the old gods for what he did. “Just like you had. This is duty, Aerion, I have a duty to you, to my house, to my father. We tried, many times, and it still hasn’t borne fruit. It may never happen.”
“It will. Someday, it will. You will give me a dragon. And you will love me as I love you.” He says determinedly, taking a step forward as you don’t back down this time around, continuing to stare him down. “I could wait, I can wait.”
“You can’t,” you walk closer, a hand reaching for his cheek. “I know you, Aerion, you are impatient.” He leans against your warmth, heat seeking, breathing you in. You smell more like the weirwood than yourself, like the earth he will soon return to if you leave him. “This love of yours will wane, and you will discard me once I am old and withered, once no one else will take me.”
“It won’t.” Shaking his head, he holds onto your waist, trying to keep you from walking away. “It won’t wane.”
Your eyes soften, a small smile appearing on your moonlit face. “If you truly love me annul our marriage. Let me go.”
“So you could marry him?” His once soft purple eyes turn heavy and narrowed.
“Yes.” You answer without delay.
Aerion flinches and pulls away from you. “Then I should kill him.”
“You’ll lose.” You’re so sure of yourself as your hands tucks in front of you, the sap sticking to your reddened palms. “You’re a great fighter, but Lyonel is better. He will kill you.”
“Then I shall kill you instead.”
“You’ll only be proving me right, husband.” You don’t move to retrieve your dagger, staring him down over your nose as you stand there rooted like the weirwood. “I am right here.” Arms raised to your sides, you taunt him underneath the moonlight. “But I’ll maim you before I draw my last breath. I will kick and scream and draw my blade against you and cut off your manhood so you will never have your precious dragon.”
Heaving, teeth grating, Aerion’s whole body trembles with rolling fury. He stares at you with disbelief and hurt, before twisting around and going further into the gardens and out of the walled keep lest he takes his dagger and plunges it right into your heart.
—
Aerion doesn’t know how long he has been walking around the woods, but the grass around him has turned thick and tall, brushing along his hips as he trudges around aimlessly. The dappled moonlight through the tree branches lights his way, and the incessant chirping of crickets irks him. But he’d rather not be back in the castle, moreso in the shared chambers where you would be, where your scent lingers in every crevice of the room.
He is afraid of losing you, of accidentally taking his dagger to your neck and slicing you open. He cannot risk the possibility of harming you, the thought alone turns his insides sour. He is afraid that you are right, that he is capable of killing you. His love for you may not be as pure and saccharine as Lyonel’s love for you, but it is love. His love, so why isn’t that enough for you?
The scent of incense wafts in his nose, akin to the heady scent from the Sept, an earthy smoke that billows a few ways ahead from his right as it wisps into the chilly night air. Aerion’s chest flares with the buried fury, he wants to hurt, to cut something, to cut someone just to let it all out and come back home to you calmly, ready to settle beside your warmth in the shared bed.
His footfalls crunches underneath dry leaves as he crosses the distance, dagger in hand, cutting down the vines in his way. Then he spots it, a tiny cottage no bigger than a carriage, old and dilapidated, lopsided and tilting on its side, threatening to keel over right on the moss covered ground.
The scent is stronger now that he is closer, there is a ring of mushrooms growing around the area, small brown caps all lined in a circle, as if shielding the cottage.
Aerion’s eyes narrows at the door, violence calls for him, whoever is through that door will be the recipient of his fury rather than you or the stormlord.
He steps over the mushrooms and continues to stalk towards the door quietly like a hunter. The door swings open before he could touch it, welcoming him gladly into the threshold.
Aerion enters, dagger clutched near his chest, letting his anger lead him inside.
The walls are covered in dried bundled herbs and animal furs, its scent is potent and lingers in the back of his throat. It’s all old wood, damp and bloated that is barely holding the whole structure. There’s a bubbling iron cauldron in the middle of the room, its contents is bright green, akin to wildfire as it warms the whole cottage. Except for a chair and a shelf littered with various vials, it’s sparsely decorated. Aerion’s nose scrunches with disgust.
“We’ve been expecting you, my prince.” A voice echoes from behind as the door closes with a creak.
Aerion whirls around, chest heaving as he points the sharp end of the dagger at a woman draped in darkness. “You are far too close to the castle, you trespass in our woods, witch.”
She smiles crookedly, the moonlight shining on half of her face. “Or is it you who trespass onto our land, Targaryen?”
Scoffing, the prince smiles, not unlike the smile he gives you, but a wicked one, a dangerous one. “It’s unfortunate that I ran into you, wretch.”
He raises his dagger, striking right at her but he hits nothing but air.
Aerion looks at the clean blade curiously when it's supposed to be coated with thick warm crimson. “What—?”
“You do not want that, Aerion.” For a moment she sounded like you, he expected to see you when he turns around on his heel but he sees the woods witch instead, still cloaked in darkness. “Tell me, you wish for something. I know you do, men always want.”
“I do not want anything.” He utters through clenched teeth.
“Yes, you do. Why do you lie to yourself?”
“If I do, no one in the realm can grant it, except for this.” He throws the dagger right at her, hitting her dead in her chest, right in the heart. Aerion smirks victoriously, but she doesn’t bleed nor keel over, she stands there, as still as a rock. “What in the seven hells—”
“The seven aren’t here.” She mutters, taking the blade from her heart with a squelch of flesh. She twists it around her palm, handing it back to him casually. “Tell me what you want.”
He swallows thickly, staring right at her, never letting his eyes wander away from the witch. “Why aren’t you dead?”
“Why aren’t you in Lys when you should be? Why isn’t the falcon with the stag when they should be together? Why does the hammer still stand tall and breathe when he isn’t supposed to be?”
“Stop speaking in riddles, witch.”
“Take the dagger.” Her words are spoken through different voices, simultaneously uttering it.
His eyes glances at the blade with hidden trepidation. Aerion reaches for his dagger as it dangles from her fingertips above the bubbling cauldron. He takes it, the blade slicing her palm open as blood drips onto the pot, mixing with the emerald waters. She bleeds, Aerion knows that she is human, or at least when she wants to be.
“Who are you?” He asks, dagger in hand, looking at the clean blade when it’s supposed to be bloodied.
“I am no one, but you are someone.” She mumbles, swiping a thumb over her opened palm. “I shall grant you your wish if you grant me mine.”
Aerion scoffs loudly, a laugh from the deepest depths of his chest. “I? I grant you your wish? A prince does not give out charity.”
“It’s an equivalent exchange.” Her tone lilts playfully. “Especially if it means that your wife would love you as you love her.”
Her words give him pause, the crooked smile faltering. “What do you mean?”
“If you give me a drop of your own blood, your king’s blood, I shall grant you the love you deserve.” She steps forward into the light, she looks old and young at the same time, her face shifting with every bubble popping from the cauldron. Her long raven hair drapes around her, the ends brushing along the ground as she moves.
“You are mad.”
“Not as mad as you, Brightflame.” Her hand extends forward, it’s wrinkled and old above the pot. “Just a drop of blood for the love you want. She will be yours, and you will be hers. Most of all, she will give you a dragon. Its wings will be mighty, soaring above the seven kingdoms, conquering the whole realm under your banner.”
He could just picture it, a trueborn prince, a mix of his Targaryen features and yours, a result of his love for you, a great warrior that he can mold into a vision of himself. His son will be as mighty as Aegon the conqueror himself. And then there’s you, your eyes will never wander ever again, your hands will forever hold him tenderly, and you would love him, your husband for forever and a day. Just like how it is supposed to be.
Aerion holds his head up high, chest puffed as he looks at the strange woman over his nose. “What do I need to do?”
“Blood for the old gods.” She smiles wickedly, her fingers stretching, reaching out for his own. “Just a drop will do, a drop and all your wishes will come true.” Aerion places his palm above the woman’s hand. “Won’t that be nice, Aerion?” Your voice can be heard from her lips again, he’s taken aback when he hears it as clear as day. Before he could take his hand away, the witch seizes his wrist, pricks his finger with her nail and lets his blood drip onto the cauldron. It turns blood red immediately. “We thank you for the equivalent exchange.”
Aerion snatches his hand away, staring at the small bead of blood right on his forefinger. “What now? Is it done?”
“No, not yet.” Her tone returns, and she procures a small twig from her pockets. “Say your wish and snap the weirwood in two.”
“What?” He scoffs out a laugh. “I am not an idiot.”
Huffing, she sucks in her teeth. “Take it or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me when you have already given me your blood.”
Aerion licks his lips and takes the twig. “This better work or I will come back here and turn your home into a pile of ashes.”
“It will work.” She sounds certain. “Go to your Lady love before it’s too late.”
“What do you mean?” The wood feels rough against his palm.
Her eyes crinkled in the corners, grinning at him crookedly. “The stag has his sights on your falcon.”
That raging fury finds its way into Aerion’s heart again. “That fucking bastard!” He kicks the door open as he stomps away, the cottage and the scent fading from behind.
When he looks over his shoulder to see it, it’s gone, vanished, as if it was never there. The twig sits heavier in his pocket with every footstep.
—
Aerion could just tell it was you whispering in the corridors. He could always tell with you, from the sound of your footsteps to the smell of your perfume, he knows it’s you.
He lurks behind the corner, listening to you whisper to your handmaiden. He hears a few sparse words, ‘hour’, ‘cannot tarry,’ ‘cloak,’ and that bastard’s name, said in your sweetened tone that he thought was only reserved just for him.
Aerion was thinking of you the whole trek back to the keep. He thought of not breaking the wood in half when he is certain that you still love him, when he’s still the only one in your heart. That maybe, just maybe, he’s just seeing things, that his jealousy was just that, jealousy. That you really were just dancing with him, that you still love your husband with your whole heart. But now as he listens to you plot your escape with the Lord of Storm’s End, he takes the wood from his pocket and holds it with two hands.
“I wish that my wife loves me more than anyone else in the whole realm.” Aerion mutters in the dark, snapping the twig in half.
You’re suddenly silent, the whispering ceases.
“M’lady?” The handmaiden calls you in a hushed tone, asking if you are well.
Aerion could hear you tell her that you are quite alright despite the maid’s protests. The conversation ends when the chamber doors shut with a click.
Footfalls echo from the handmaiden as she leaves with more thoughts than before, and Aerion slips from the darkness, glaring at the girl’s back before heading inside.
He shuts the door closed behind him quietly, and he sees you standing there cloaked in the darkness of the shared chambers, as still as a fallen tree, as quiet as a mouse. The hearth is dead, cold with the entire room freezing.
Aerion says your name as your eyes glimmer. “Are you feeling well?”
He sees the outline of your smile. “Why wouldn’t I be, my love?”
“Aren’t you cold?” His breath hitches in his throat, eyes never leaving your form.
“No, now that you’re here I’m warm.” Your arms open for him. “Come, I need you, husband.”
“Don’t you love Lyonel?” He tests you, jaw tight as his hands flexes at his sides.
A beat passes, a breath, a mere eerie second as you stand there idly.
Aerion watches you closely, like a bug he found underneath a stone.
You step forward, or more like slide your foot on the carpet, sliding one foot next to the other, shuffling closer to him as the sound of scraping feet against fabric echoes in the chamber.
Your bare feet kisses the tip of his boots, and he could finally see your face draped in the dark, your silhouette unmistakable even in the dim light, eyes shining like two diamonds in your eye sockets.
“Why would I love a mere stag when I’ve got a dragon all to myself?”
It worked, or he is truly mad to think that it worked. Mayhaps you snapped back to reality, back to your old self as you cradle his cheek in your palm that still smells like the acrid weirwood sap. The tips of your fingers are still stained red as your thumb traces along his jawline tenderly. Aerion rests against your hold, heart beating rapidly.
“You smell good.” You utter, closing the distance, pressing your nose against the hinge of his jaw and just breathe. You breathe him in, inhaling his scent as your nose grazes his skin. “Gods, you feel good.”
“I need to see you in the light.” He whispers against the shell of your ear, hands cupping your hips in an almost bruising hold. “Do you love me?”
“More than anyone in the whole realm.”
His heart quickens at your confession.
You take his earlobe in between your teeth and nibble, the sensation running through him as he gasps and takes the back of your knees, holding you up as you wrap your legs around him. He carries you over to the plush bed, and drops you off onto the mattress. Your legs are immediately hooked around him, pulling him in between your thighs. The moonlight shines on you, and Aerion sees the love in your eyes, love that is aimed at him, and only him.
Aerion falls atop you, hands braced on the side of your head. “Gods…” it worked.
“Let me give you a dragon, my love. Please let me carry our own prince.” You plead, pawing at his doublet, trying to untie the laces in your trembling fingers.
He seizes your fumbling wrist as he pants over you, eyes blown, lips agape. “Promise me you won’t leave me.”
Your brows furrows, head tilted like you just saw a kitten wandering around the keep, cooing at him as you take his face in your hands. “I will never leave you. You are my great love, Aerion.”
A relieved smile appears on his face. “That is all I needed to hear.”
—
The sun basks around the chamber, illuminating your sleeping face as Aerion draws Valyrian runes on your arm, over the silk of your chemise. You’re wrapped around him, legs over his own, arms embracing him like you’re trying to meld together with your husband. You sleep soundly, eyes moving underneath your eyelids as he watches you with love in his tender eyes.
This is all he wanted.
The birds chirp outside amidst the sound of hooves in the courtyard and of men and women waking up throughout the Red Keep.
His index draws the Valyrian rune for love upon your skin, then a rune for protection and a rune for fertility. You awaken at the last rune, eyes fluttering open, immediately smiling at him.
“Good morrow, husband.” Your knuckles dance along his bare chest, caressing lovingly.
“Wife, you fell asleep whilst I was undressing.” He mirrors your smile.
“My apologies, the night caught up to me I suppose.” Lifting yourself up by your elbows, you move to straddle him, hands braced atop his chest. “But I’m well rested now—” Your face goes completely still. Eyes flicking from his face, to the bed, then over to the rising sun outside the window. “What the fuck!” Flinching, you fall from the bed, frantically getting up, crawling away from him with fear in your eyes. “How— what?!” You scream in horror. Heaving, eyes watering, lips wobbling as you stare at him with confusion. “What did you do to me?!”
“What happened?!” Aerion has his hands up, trying to calm you down. “My love, are you alright?”
“You fucking—” you were about to lunge at him before you went still again, comporting yourself as the smile returns. The look of sheer terror gone in a blink. “Oh, do you want to break fast?”
“What in the seven hells was that?!” Aerion marches over to you, gripping onto your shoulders. “What happened?”
“I’m sorry,” you’re doing that face again, that pitying look, that sorry, frowning look that makes you look less like you. “I thought I was still dreaming. I had a nightmare.” Hand on his cheek, you hold him. “Did I scare you? I’m sorry, oh, I’m so sorry, my love.” Cheek pressed against the crook of his neck, you embrace him tightly.
Aerion’s hands hover over you before returning the embrace. “It’s alright, you were confused, it was just confusion.”
“Forgive me.” You mutter against his skin, right on the hinge of his jaw. “Will you ever forgive me, my prince?”
“Of course, always.” Pecking your temple, he lets his kiss linger.
—
Aerion watches you reject Lyonel right in the courtyard. He’s leaning against the balcony, smirking to himself.
The Baratheon sigil flutters against the wind, the caravan is about to depart for Storm’s End, and their liege Lord is trying to coax you into coming with him. Aerion could only laugh at himself when you slap Lyonel’s hand away with a disgusted grimace. He sees the exact moment you break his heart.
He could only hear snippets of the conversation, Lyonel is confused, asking what happened to you, why all of a sudden you did not want him, why you are suddenly so fixated on the prince rather than on him. Aerion was right, you were trying to leave with the laughing storm, to become his Lady wife instead of a princess. He made the wish just in time, he made the right call.
“I can’t.” You’re shaking your head at Lyonel, turning your back on him. “Goodbye, Lord Baratheon.”
Aerion knows that look on his face, it was the same look he had when he saw you dance with Lyonel, and now he is feeling the same heartbreak he caused himself.
Hitching your dress up, you walk up the steps to the balcony whilst Lyonel turns his attention away from you over to Aerion. His ire, his fury is aimed right at him. He knows, the man knows he has done something to you. Did his love for you run that thick for him to question why you suddenly had a change of heart?
“My love,” you call for him, a hand upon his bicep. “Shall we go?”
“I thought you needed to do something important?” He teases, testing the waters.
“Nothing is important here anymore.” You give him a smile and a peck to his shoulder. “Come, our bed awaits us.”
—
A moon has passed and your love hasn’t waned, not even a little as he always wakes up to you peppering his face with kisses. The wish or what Aerion thinks is a spell is working well in his favour. You have never left his side, even during training at the yard where you’d be sitting atop a crate, watching him train with a sword whilst you smile at him the whole time. And in the shared chambers you never protested when he would lie on your lap with your fingers raking through his hair. It was those slow languid mornings he savoured every minute of.
You are completely spellbound.
Aerion would think that your increased presence would become vexing but it hasn’t, he’s enjoying every minute of your unbridled attention. He relished in it, your kisses, your touch, every saccharine words whispered in his ear as you gasped breathlessly atop him whilst during marital duties that isn’t a duty any longer, it has become a need for you as much as he wanted it too.
He should grant the witch a plot of land for what she has done for him. Especially when it did not take time for the seed to sprout, the maester announced your quickening on a warm sunny day, a day he will never forget. He could still feel the elation he felt from the news, and he could picture in his mind how a smile split your face open, jumping to hold him.
The news brought on great tidings from his family and from the nobles of the court. All except for a certain Lord in the Stormlands, whom he has heard isn’t doing quite well with the news. When he told you of the whispers about Lyonel, your face stilled in that eerie way he hates. A tear slid down your face before returning back to your smiling self, as if nothing happened, the only indication was the tears trapped inside your eyes as you told him that you did not care for him at all.
Gifts were brought to the shared chambers every day, from blankets embroidered with both Arryn and Targaryen sigils, to silver rattles and carved wooden dragons, the babe was already spoiled before he could come out of your womb. Aerion even gifted you a golden necklace with two dragons dancing together on a heart shaped pendant. You hugged him so tightly that you took the air right from his lungs, refusing to let him go that he had to push you away. You did that deep frown right after, walking backwards into the corner of the room unnervingly, heaving angrily at him until he had to placate you sweetly.
You’re always holding onto your stomach, if not there then around Aerion’s arm or hand. The maester examines you every night per the prince’s instructions, and he had said time and time again that you and the babe were fine. But despite that, Aerion has gone increasingly paranoid, that someone is going to take you, that something will happen to the babe. That Lyonel would take you in your sleep and proclaim you his.
You would always calm him down, holding him beside you as you grasp at his hand that rests atop your blossoming stomach. You have told him that you cannot wait to see him, to hold your son in your arms and to find out if he resembles a dragon or more of a falcon. Aerion is the same, he wants to meet the conqueror reborn. But the excitement for you is much more intense, on some days he would see you standing in front of the looking glass, caressing your stomach, eyes unmoving on the reflection.
You were never left alone for too long, there was once that Aerion had to leave for the whole day to attend to some river Lord he did not care for. You pleaded to join him, but in the end he had to placate you with a kiss and a promise to return as quick as possible. When he returned to the chambers, he saw you standing in the same place, still in your nightgown, and smelt like Flea Bottom. You were standing atop your own excrement, and Aerion felt like the wind got knocked out of him when he saw the state you were in. He had to call for the servants and berate them for leaving you like that whilst he scrubbed you in the tub. All they had to say was that you did not want to leave because he had asked you to stay where you were. And that you had screamed at them like you were being cleaved in half.
More moons go by and you grow increasingly odd, especially after your fourth moon of carrying his son. You grew antsy and impatient as your belly ballooned, always citing that you want to meet your son, you are far too eager to meet him. Too intense that it's frightening to see you with a knife. Aerion would calm you, telling you softly that the babe needs time to grow strong. The maester called it a woman’s sickness that most expecting mothers went through, and that it is normal and would soon wane when the child is born. But Aerion knows better, he knows that you sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, screaming and crying at your belly, yelling at him, asking him what he has done to you before your face stills again, smiling, acting like nothing happened.
You never left the room, you always stared at the fire like your insides were freezing. You had your moments, the sudden stillness, the sudden weeping and crying out to be let go when you are free to roam around the keep. As quick as it came, that oddness faded, and you’re back to kissing him and sharing his bed. Those moments outweighed the oddities, especially when you would always go back to loving him, to being his beloved wife.
Aerion is happy, this is all he ever wanted. Or so he keeps telling himself every time you wake with a scream and cursing his name.
On the night of your sixth moon carrying his son, he wakes up to a squelch of tearing flesh and blood. Your side of the bed is empty, your perfume lingering on the pillow.
The room is warm, too warm, scorching hot as he sweats through the blankets. Your name falls from his lips, calling for you in increasing volume and panic.
Then he hears it amidst the roar of the fireplace and cracking wood— a hum, a song that he taught you to sing to the babe in your belly, an old Valyrian lullaby.
“My love?” Flinging the blankets away, he walks closer to you as you sit in front of the fireplace, your silhouette is unmistakable whilst you sway to the song you’re humming. Your thin chemise sticks to your sweaty skin, hair mused. “What—?” He smells it, it wafts in the air like your perfume— blood. Dread gnaws at his insides. Going around the settee, he steps onto a puddle, crimson sticks at the bottom of his bare feet, your own blood flowing from underneath you, pooled around you.
Aerion has never felt fear like this before.
The crooning stops abruptly, body stilling completely. “I couldn’t wait to meet him.”
“What have you done?” His voice trembles around the edges.
Your head turns slowly to him, face illuminated by the flames, arms cradling a bundle of bloody blankets with dragons and falcons soaring together.
“Oh, he’s beautiful, Aerion. Do you want to see him?” You smile weakly, trembling, colour drained. Twisting around on the carpet, tracking blood on the Targaryen fabric, you face him fully.
Aerion flinches away, back hitting the end of your vanity as he sees your belly cleaved open, insides pouring out and your own bloodied dagger laying beside your feet.
His vision blurs, eyes turning to the bundle as your trembling hand moves the blankets away to show him his son. His babe, his boy has scales instead of skin. Eyes completely shut, undeveloped on his face, wings half grown from his back, and a tail protruding from the small of his back, curved around his torso, melted across his scaly chest.
This is not his son.
“Look, he’s got your hair.” Your finger brushes along its head of silver. You laugh, a weak and awful laugh more akin to a death knell.
“What— why did you do that?” Aerion lunges, hands grasping onto your cold shoulders in a bruising hold.
Your tearful eyes look into his purple terrified eyes. “I bore you a dragon.”
Idk if this counts as crack fic or not but basically bc I’m pretty sure Summerhall has loads of cats due to rats, what if every time wife!reader took in another stray - Aerion would name it a dragon from history! So there’s just a whole bunch of cats in Summerhall named as dragons, granted he can’t ride them, but Aerion got his wish of having dragons (cats) in the end!! (Wife!reader loves this)
Cats
This is short but full of crack! I love the idea I did take some inspo from my own cats. Love you and thanks for the request 🥰
Ft a pic of one of my cats from 2020 at the bottom (you’ll see why) obviously out of character Aerion!
“What the fuck is that?” Maekar asks looking at the little beast sat on his chair in the dining hall. You and the children already sat waiting for him and Aerion. Daeron out at a tavern.
“A cat.” Egg answers helpfully, a smile on the boys face. Knowing what his father was actually asking but deciding to be difficult.
“I know it’s a cat what the fuck is it wearing?” Maekar demands, not paying attention to his second son as your husband enters.
“Caraxes there you are.” Aerion say walking over to the cat to pick it up. The cat purring the whole time, rubbing its face up against him. “You weren’t in your usual spot I was worried.”
“What the fuck.”
“Oh father, meet my dragon Caraxes.” Aerion say turning so his father can see that cat in all its glory. Fabric wings included. Maekar having been away for a few weeks visiting Baelor.
“Why is the cat wearing wings?” Maekar asks exasperatedly, just wanting one normal dinner for once. Baelor getting to have normal meals all the time, his children never dressing animals up in costumes or making potions.
“My wife made them.” Aerion reply’s with a smile, loving that you made them for him.
“Again, why is the cat wearing wings.”
“Well I tried them on Meleys and Vhagar but they just kept scratching me so I put them on Caraxes and she loves them.” He explains, knowing he probably should have tried Caraxes first as she’ll put up with anything. Daella once putting one of her doll’s dresses on the cat.
“You’ve broken my son.” Your father by law says looking at you. “He used to be normal.”
“Did he?” You and egg respond back both of you giving Maekar a look. You all knowing Aerion has always been odd.
“Well he used to be less obviously weird.”
-
“Do you know where Vermithor’s gone?” Aerion asks entering the solar, Caraxes following him. Still wearing her wings.
“He’s cuddling Rhae.” You respond knitting a new dragon snug as egg would like one, after finding Aerion’s. Noticing your husband turn around to leave. “Where are you going?”
“To collect my dragon.”
“Aerion no, he’s claimed her. Leave them be.” You say knowing the girl loves that cat, him loving her back as he’s been sneaking into her chambers every night to cuddle her.
“But he’s mine.” Aerion whines still not liking to share every though he’s a grown man.
“You have plenty of dragons she’s allowed one.” You say giving him a look.
“Fine.” He say admitting defeat as he sits next to you. Caraxes jumping into his lap wanting cuddles.
“What the fuck is wrong with my son.” Maekar mumbles to himself as he walks past the solar just having heard your conversation.
-
“Night my love.” Aerion says to you softly while you fall asleep in his arms.
“Night.” You mumble into his chest, seconds away from sleep when he continues talking.
“Night Caraxes, night Silverwing, night Vhagar, night Syrax, night Meleys, night Tessarion, night moondancer, night Sunfrye, night Morning.” He says saying goodnight to all the cats in your chambers, Vermithor with Rhae while seasmoke is sleeping in with Egg. Balarion sleeping beside Maekar’s head, the man denying it if it’s even brought up.
It'd been five months since you told Aerion you couldn't do it anymore and left for the house your grandmother left you. It'd been three months since he stopped coming around asking to "talk about it." And it was still raw. Like sticking a band-aid on an open wound and pretending it didn't still bleed.
You'd promised you'd come; it was Daella's birthday. Maegor had been talking about it for weeks—about the cake, about seeing Papa. You couldn't say no. He was just a month shy of turning two, and he'd asked, in that tiny voice that broke your heart, if Daddy would be there too. You'd said yes. Because it wasn't about you and Aerion anymore. It was about Maegor.
Maekar's backyard was chaos, as always. Kids screaming, adults drinking cheap beer, someone grilling burgers while someone else argued about lawn games. You'd barely stepped out of your car when Maegor was already wiggling in your arms, pointing at the swing set.
"Mama, swing!"
"Yeah, baby, we'll go swing," you murmured, adjusting him on your hip. Your stomach tightened as you scanned the crowd and saw Aerion by the cooler with a cigarette in his mouth. He hadn't seen you yet; he was laughing at something Daeron said, but you knew the second he did, it'd ruin whatever peace you'd managed to scrape together.
You set Maegor down, holding his hand as he dragged you toward the swings. You could feel eyes on you—Maekar, Daella, maybe even Egg. They were good people, but they were loyal to Aerion first and foremost. You didn't blame them. You just hated the pity.
You got Maegor settled on a swing and began pushing him gently while trying to ignore the way your skin prickled. Then you heard the crunch of boots on grass and inhaled the smell of smoke.
"Baby. You came."
"I said I would."
"Still... thanks. For bringin' him."
"Aerion, he's our son. I'm not keeping him from you."
You sounded tired. You were tired. You pushed the swing again, your focus on Maegor, who was giggling and completely oblivious.
Aerion moved to stand closer. He stood just behind you. You could feel the heat of him, the way he always seemed to take up all the air around you. "You look good."
You laughed under your breath and shook your head. "Don't."
"Don't what? Tell you the truth?"
"Just... don't."
He didn't listen, of course. He was never good at that. He just stepped around you to lean against the swing set pole, always watching you with those damn eyes. "You been okay?"
"Peachy. You?"
"I've been better," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh, got my dad to give me more hours at the shop. And I stopped goin' to the bar as much."
"That's good. I'm... I'm glad."
"Baby, can we—"
"Mama! Higher!" Maegor's voice cut through the tension, giving you a moment to finally let out the breath you'd been holding since you heard him approach.
You gave him one more push, then turned to face Aerion. "I'm not doing this here, Aerion. Not today."
He sighed, looking like he wanted to argue but didn't know how without you slapping him or upsetting his son. "Alright. But later—"
"There is no later. There's just Maegor. That's it."
You left him standing there, going to grab Maegor when he started whining about being hungry. The rest of the party went by in a blur. You smiled when you had to, made small talk with Daella, let Maekar hold Maegor while you got a plate of food. Every time you felt Aerion's eyes on you, you ignored it. Because if you didn't, you'd break.
By the time it was dark and Maegor was asleep in his car seat, you were exhausted.
You didn't realize Aerion had followed you to your car until you rounded it to open your door and saw him leaning against the back bumper. "What, Aerion?"
"Just let me talk to you, fuck... Please."
"What is there to talk about? We're not together. We're not getting back together. We have a son together, and that's all."
His jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed with that familiar stubbornness that pushed you away in the first place. "You don't mean that."
"I do," you insisted, even though part of you didn't. "We were awful for each other, Aerion. You know it."
"I know I wasn't perfect, but you—"
"I wasn't either; I get it! But that's not the point. The point is, we broke up for a reason. And I can't keep doing this back-and-forth shit with you. Not when Maegor's involved."
"So that's it? We're just... what? Fuckin' co-parents or whatever you call it, who see each other at birthdays and holidays?"
"Isn't that what you wanted? Your freedom? No 'ball and chain'?"
"Fuck you. You know that's not what I wanted."
"Then what did you want, Aerion? Because I can't do this anymore. I can't keep hoping you'll change and then being disappointed when you don't."
"I'm tryin'. I am. I just need you to give me a chance—"
"I gave you a chance. I gave you a million chances, Aerion. I'm done doing that for you."
You turned to get in the car, but he grabbed your arm, spinning you back around. "Please, baby. Don't do this."
"Don't," you warned. Your voice and your hands were already shaking, and you just wanted to go. "Don't make this harder than it already is. I need to get Maegor home."
He didn't listen. He kissed you. It was desperate, rough, as if he thought he could change your mind if he just kissed you hard enough. And for a second, it almost worked. You could smell the beer on his breath, the smoke in his clothes; you could feel the way he was trembling just a little. For a second, you were back in his trailer, letting him kiss you like he'd die if he didn't. But then you pulled away.
"Stop it."
He didn't, just kissed your jaw, your neck. His hands gripped your waist and stayed there. "I love you, baby. Please. I love you."
"You don't get to say that. Not now."
But his mouth found yours again, and this time you kissed him back. Because you were weak, because you were sad and your frontal lobe hadn't developed enough to fully deny him. The kiss turned messy, needy, his hands started moving up under your shirt, and you knew you were making a mistake.
"Come home," he muttered against your lips. "Just... come home. We'll do better. I'll be better."
You shook your head, even as your fingers tangled in his hair. "I can't."
"Yes, you can."
"Aerion—"
"Please, baby. I swear to God, I'll do whatever you want. Just... don't say no."
"Aerion..."
You didn't finish. Instead, you cradled his face with your hands and kissed him again, softly. He kissed you back like it was the last time he would get to, because it felt like the last time. When you finally broke apart, you didn't say anything. Just got in the car and drove away.
He didn't call that night. Didn't show up at your door, either. But the next morning, there were fresh flowers on your porch, and a new box of crayons for Maegor. And even though you knew it didn't fix anything, it was enough to make you remember the first time he gave you a flower after making you cry about running over a parking curb when he was teaching you to drive.
"I don't know about this shit. But you're real pretty and I feel like an asshole for makin' you cry, so... here," he'd said. "You like yellow, right?"
Because that's the thing about Aerion—he was always trying. And even if it wasn't enough, it was always something.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.
Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.
The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.
Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.
“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”
Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.
But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.
You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.
Now he was here.
You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.
You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.
“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”
You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.
A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”
The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.
His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.
“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”
Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”
“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”
“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”
You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”
“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”
Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.
“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.
“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”
He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”
You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.
You lowered yourself onto his lap.
His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”
“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”
You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”
Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”
His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.
“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”
You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.
“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”
“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.
“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”
His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.
“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”
He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”
His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.
“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”
You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.
“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”
You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”
His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.
He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.
You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.
When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”
You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.
You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.
But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.
His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.
"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."
You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.
"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"
Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.
But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.
"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."
You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.
"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."
Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.
"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."
There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.
"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.
"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."
"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."
"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."
You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.
"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."
His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."
But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.
"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."
"No one would think that," you said.
"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."
He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.
"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."
"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."
He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.
"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."
"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."
"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."
"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."
"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."
You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.
"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."
His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.
"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.
For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."
"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."
"But I am..."
"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."
You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.
"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."
"I did not know you worried."
"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."
He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.
You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.
"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."
You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.
You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.
He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.
When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.
"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."
Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.
"Aerion..."
"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."
He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.
The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.
You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.
"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."
The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.
One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.
You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."
"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.
"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."
Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."
"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."
Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.
Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.
"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."
He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.
You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.
Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.
He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.
His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.
"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."
Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.
"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.
Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.
"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."
You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."
"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."
He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.
"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."
He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.
"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."
"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."
"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."
You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."
But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.
You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.
The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.
When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.
You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.
The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.
Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.
He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.
He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."
He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.
"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."
"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."
"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."
His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.
"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"
You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."
"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."
But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."
"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.
He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.
It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.
"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."
He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."
"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"
He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.
"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."
He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."
Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.
"What is this?"
Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.
"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."
Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."
Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.
"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."
Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."
"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."
Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."
"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."
"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."
"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."
Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.
Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."
He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.
"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."
"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."
"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."
"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."
"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."
"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."
Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."
"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."
"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."
You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.
"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."
"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."
"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."
"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."
His eyes darkened. "Choose?"
"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."
"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
You smiled and said nothing.
He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."
"I would expect nothing less."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.
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