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summary: after your husband is grievously injured in the trial of the seven, you tend to his wounds and, since he's never been particularly fond of you, you decide to use this opportunity to endear him to you. hopefully you didn't bite off more than you can chew...
warnings and tags: 18+, smut, mild angst, aerion's mentioned to be unfaithful, mentions of wounds, inexperienced but not innocent reader, kinda manipulative!reader, female masturbation, handjob, oral sex (male receiving), power exchange, domination/submission, degradation (reader is called a whore), corruption kink if you squint, technically dom!aerion but also some sub!aerion vibes, aerion is his own warning, no use of y/n, no physical description of the reader
Your husband’s body is unnaturally still. Lying on the bed, eyes swollen shut, lip cut open, his chest pure marble marred by purple bruises, he looks more corpse than man. Each time he exhales, he stops moving long enough for the doubt to settle in, before he draws in the next, painful breath. Your fingers itch with the urge to reach for his torso, press your palm against his heart, see for yourself that it is still beating.
You do not indulge them. Instead, stepping closer to the bed, you reach for his forehead.
His lips part when you brush against it, and you’re surprised to find him burning. Everything about him tells you that he should be cold as ice, but you suppose the blood of the dragon does run through his veins. Aerion was scorching hot on your wedding night, too, as he was during his other visits to your chambers since then — though you can count those on one hand.
You reach for a cloth, dip it into a basin of water placed on a nearby dresser, wring it, then press it to his face. A keening, pained sound rises from his throat. It is the most vulnerable you’ve ever heard him, and you think he would kill you for forcing it out of him.
“No one would ask that of you, my lady,” your maid says from the door, where she has stood this whole time. Her tone is flat, but you do not miss the disapproving inflexions in it. “This is for a maester to do, or a servant. Not for a highborn lady.”
It is true, of course, as is true that Aerion was alone when you walked in, a mere guard placed in front of the door. No one tasked to stay by his side or look after him, the prince abandoned like a dying dog.
You could not have ignored the reason why if you tried. The whispers are everywhere. It is his fault if the heir to the throne lies in a casket, his fault if his father is forever branded a kinslayer, his fault that the Targaryen house has fallen a little further still.
You do not think they are wrong.
You are also aware with bone-deep clarity that none of them will have to share his bed following this event. Aerion has never been kind to you — or, to be precise, he has never been taken with you. You know he was displeased to have to marry someone who was not a Targaryen, even more so that you were not someone he could toy with at his leisure, not when his father and his uncle were watching him like a hawk.
You had made sure to take full advantage of that, spending your time strolling through the gardens, weaving or sewing where everyone could see you, where you could not be tormented, retiring to your chambers after him, if you could.
Except now, if the whispers could be trusted, Aerion would be sent to Lys with you in tow, and there would be no one to protect you.
“You can leave,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “I will stay with my lord husband.”
She is well-trained, your maid, but so are you. You know from the slightest twitch at the corner of her lips how much she resents the idea.
“He will fare well enough on his own, my lady. The maesters have seen to that.”
There is harshness on her tongue. You do not cave.
“It would not do for the prince to awake alone, should he be in want of anything. I will stay by his side, as is my duty. Do leave me.”
Her lips thin into a tight line, but she cannot disobey such a direct order. The door closes with a gentle click, and you are left alone with your husband. The man whose life you will share until his passing or yours, whether you like it or not. The man you might still attach to you, to ensure he does not slit your throat in a mad rage in a faraway land where no one will care to look into it.
The man who, though you loathe to admit it, looks so wounded, lost and lonely in the large bed that there is no reluctance in your hand when you dab the wet cloth over his chest, where pearls of sweat have formed.
He does not move much as you keep watch over him, and when he does, it always elicits a pained groan, a ragged breath, a wince. There is not much for you to do, apart from replacing the cloth every now and again, so you turn to embroidering, sitting close by the bed and focusing on your work.
Every time you glance up, you find him as painfully still as he was before. He is a beautiful man, of course, even in this state. In another life, one where whispers of the prince’s madness had not reached your ears ahead of your marriage, you might have been elated to marry him. You’re thankful you did not have to endure such disappointment, at least, though you still had to withstand the bite of humiliation that was your husband’s visible disinterest in you, and the whispers of the whores he preferred taking to bed over you.
Hours go by before Aerion finally stirs. You are on your feet instantly, rushing to his side, but he does not open his eyes — likely could not even if he wanted to. He groans, and the sound comes out pitiful and raspy. You reach for a goblet, pour water into it. With a gentle hand, you tip his head forward, and he drinks from it greedily, teeth scraping against it. When his head falls back on the pillow, you step back — only to freeze when he calls out.
“Father?”
The two syllables, pronounced slurred and hoarse, seem to exhaust him fully, whole body going slack again on the bed.
“I will call for him at once, my prince,” you reply.
The guard obeys your order begrudgingly and without enthusiasm when you relay the prince’s demand, but you may as well not have given it. By the time you sit back down at Aerion’s side, his breathing has evened, and you know he’s fallen back into his slumber.
“He’s awake?” Maekar asks urgently when he walks in.
He startles at the sight of you, bowing his head politely.
“My lady.”
“My prince,” you reply, curtsying. “He woke up briefly and asked for you.”
He nods. His eyes, riveted to his son, are wet, though you do not know if it is out of worry or grief over the loss of his brother.
“You do not have to stay here, my lady,” he says gently.
His meaning is the same as your maid’s was. You do not want to be associated with him. You should be spurning him, making a spectacle of your disapproval. You should save yourself while you still can.
How myopic of him not to realize that that choice was ripped from you in a room you were not in, the moment your hand was given away in marriage.
“I will fulfill my duty and stay at my husband’s side,” you tell him, inclining your head.
The warrior’s eyes are soft on you.
“Thank you,” he says, quiet, broken. “If that is your wish, I will leave him in your hands.”
So you stay. You are here whenever Aerion briefly surfaces, you are here to quench his thirst and clean the sweat that drips from his forehead, you are here to change his bandages and verify that the wounds do not get infected. You do refrain from touching him more often than most, merely letting your fingers trail over his skin as you clean him.
There is a brief, unpleasant conversation with the maester who visits him. He disapproves of your presence, too, but in the jealous way of a man intent on keeping his secrets. He dislikes you, you know immediately, for stepping into his territory. It does not matter that you have read all the treaties you could get your hands on; it does not matter if your work was as close to perfection as it could get. You do not know your place, and he would have you kicked out of the room if not for Prince Maekar’s strict orders.
Your hands deftly finish the bandage around Aerion’s upper thigh. It is the deepest wound on his body, the one that came closest to claiming his life. Perhaps that would have been a better ending for you, but the thought makes you nauseous nonetheless, and you have to focus to keep your fingers from trembling.
You are already on your feet when he groans. He has been waking more frequently during the last day, though never long enough to warrant disturbing his father again. You’re reaching for the water pitcher when you feel a tug on your dress. You turn to discover Aerion’s eyes, glazed and unfocused, on you.
“Why are you here?”
He manages to make the slurred words sound accusatory. You do not step back. Despite his state, you’re worried he might tear your dress. Had he been faster, he would have caught your wrist and he would be holding it tightly enough to hurt right now. Instead, you step closer, close enough for him to reach. He does not let go, still clutching to your skirts with a strength that looks a lot like desperation.
Whether it is because he does not want you to escape or to claw back control, you cannot say.
“Attending to my duties as your wife, my prince,” you answer.
You could reach for the wet cloth again, but you resist the impulse. You worry that your touch would be less than welcome at the moment.
“Since when,” he drawls, “do you care for your duties as my wife?”
There is a sharpness in his eyes, despite the haze of pain that floats inside them. He knows that you did not pursue him, knows that you did not make any efforts to make yourself more available to him.
He would have found it pitiful and laughable, had you done that, and used it to torment you, of course.
Now, instead, you’re the one witnessing his wounded pride, his pathetic attempts at saving face. It would be easy to plunge your fingers into the wound and dig.
You do not do that.
“I will carry your heir. Is this not the least I can do?”
Something dark flashes in his expression, something you do not think you have ever seen him direct at you, and it makes your tongue heavy in your mouth and your throat constrict. You are playing a dangerous game, getting his attention. It is all fine and good now, but the risk is high that you will come to regret it when he is no longer confined to his bed.
Then again, perhaps that would be a better end than getting your throat slit because he wishes to take another Targaryen for a wife.
“Do you wish for me to call your father?”
“Yes, do that. And fetch me some food.”
He orders you around like a servant. You bow your head gracefully.
“Of course, my prince.”
You know he does not miss your choice of words. He is not husband, he is not even my lord, as you would have every right to call him. He is my prince, as any lowborn peasant, any servant would say.
And you see that he it delights him.
The door clicks behind you as you leave. You have no desire to be here for the following conversation with Prince Maekar.
But you do intend to come back to pick up the pieces.
You give Aerion enough time to compose himself and eat before you walk back inside the room. You do not think he would forgive you for seeing an explicit display of weakness, and if grief and shame make him even more erratic than usual, you could see him ending your life tonight, just because he can. You’re walking a tightrope, playing these games, and keeping your balance is of the utmost importance.
He glares at you with bloodshot eyes the second you enter the room, and you bow your head.
“My prince,” you say, “I hope the meal was satisfactory.”
“It suits you,” he shoots back, “playing the servant. No Targaryen would stoop this low.”
His voice drips with disgust. You know how displeased he is that you carry his last name, but you do not flinch. The cruelty in his tone is nothing but the lashing out of a wounded animal. It cannot reach you.
“Is there anything you require of me tonight, my prince?”
Despite his state, despite the pain, his eyes are sharp, sizing you up, trying to understand the game you’re playing — what you wish to gain from it, how far you will go, what he can take from you on your way to your objective, whatever it is.
“Undress,” he orders, his voice dropping lower.
You swallow. Hard. You had expected sex to come into play eventually, of course, just not— not quite this fast. For all you’ve gleaned about playing this game, less through your family’s direct guidance and more through observing how the Targaryens do it, your husband is the only man you’ve ever laid with. Other opportunities had presented themselves,but you simply had not had the stomach to risk your life over it.
“Are you certain, with your injuries?” you ask.
Even you cannot tell if you’re being sincere or trying to stall.
“Is this not a wife’s very first duty to her husband?” Aerion counters mockingly. “Are you going to shirk your responsibilities now?”
You could easily leave. You could even say that you are concerned for him, in his state, and walk out the door.
Instead, standing at the bottom of his bed, you slide your dress off your shoulders and down your body.
Aerion follows your movement with intent focus.
“Keep going,” he says, pointing to your smallclothes with his chin.
You do. Your cheeks are on fire, but there is something more troubling than the embarrassment you feel despite yourself, and that is how much his gaze anchors you. Because even as he is playing cat and mouse, there is nothing he can do at the moment. Everything he will get tonight, you will choose to give him. He can act like that makes you lower than him, but in truth, you wield the power tonight. And he seems transfixed by you.
His tongue comes out to wet his lips as you reveal your shoulders, and his hands tighten in the sheet when the smallclothes fall beneath your breasts. He has never looked at you that way, only sparing you brief, bored glances. Now, you have him captive, even as you are obeying his commands. He is devouring you, eyes trailing over your body, setting your skin aflame everywhere he looks.
You let your fingers graze against your nipples as you trail them down your skin, watch him inhale sharply. Then you move the clothes down your hips, your thighs, and finally step out of them, leaving them on the floor. You can feel heat pooling in your lower belly, but, thankfully, your arousal is not yet obvious. You’re certain he would not have missed a chance to mock you for this as well.
“Does this please you, my prince?”
“You will do,” he replies, betrayed by the hoarseness of his voice. “Though you make for one lousy whore.”
“One only one man can afford,” you answer, and you watch how it delights him, how he bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t smile, how his focus narrows in on you. Closer, tighter, coiling around your body like a snake, so intense he might as well be touching you.
He raises a hand to move it towards his crotch, but stops mid-movement, hissing in pain. You climb onto the bed before he can snap at you, turn his own shame and embarrassment against you.
“Is that not for me to do?” you ask, like you didn’t notice, playing your part as well as you can. Aerion scoffs.
“You want to learn how to be a better whore, don’t you?” he taunts you.
“I want to learn how to best serve my husband.”
You reach for the covers, watching him for any indication that you should stop. But he just stares, head lazily cocked to the side, eyes still drinking in your naked body. His cock is half-hard underneath his breeches, and your heart rate quickens as you pull it free, hand closing gently around the base. You hear him inhale at your touch.
“Get the oil first,” he orders when you begin to move your hand experimentally over dry skin.
There is mockery in his tone, like you should have known better, but also, for the first time, a hint of urgency. You know, the moment you get up from the bed, that he wanted to watch you serve him naked some more. Again, even as you are obeying him, something about the fact that you are in control, giving him what he wants as opposed to him taking it sends a rush of heat through your body.
You find the oil in a drawer. It is expensive, the same kind you use on yourself when you know he will be visiting your chambers — and which, you suppose, he uses himself on those very nights, since he keeps these encounters as brief as possible. You lather it on your hands, then kneel back down by his side to resume your work.
He has grown harder, you find, though you do not comment on it. Your touch is more assured this time, firmer, and though he does not say a word, jaw clenched, jealously keeping any sounds to himself, you feel him react to it. Feel him grow firmer, twitching in your hand when you tighten your grasp, feel as the reddened tip of his cock starts leaking, dripping down your fingers, intermingling with the oil. A quiet hiss escapes him, even if he’s quick to swallow it. You’re a quick learner, figuring out his tells. How he shifts on the bed when your hand gets faster, how a shudder runs through his thigh when you use your thumb to press against the head. Once he is fully hard in your hand, you chance a look at him, and find him beautifully flushed, lips parted in a silent moan,red spreading down from his cheeks to his neck and his torso. Undeniable arousal sparks through you, and you press your legs tightly to provide some friction for yourself.
“Enough,” he rasps, not quite able to disguise the way he is panting, and you obey.
There is a light curve to his fully hard cock, you notice when you remove your hand — you’d only caught glimpses of it before, as he preferred mounting you.
“I will not fuck you tonight. How do you intend on satisfying me, then?”
You don’t dwell on the fact that he could not do it if he tried, nor could you ride him, not with his injuries. You know what answer he wants from you, though, again, that is mostly from whispers you’ve heard around the Keep. The very thought is quite scandalous for a lady.
“My mouth, my prince.”
His lips stretch into a satisfied grin, and despite his black eyes, he almost looks like himself again.
“You truly are a whore. A bad one, judging by your performance so far, but I suppose you can be taught yet.”
His taunts are not nearly as striking when he is still out of breath, but they do not help making you any less nervous. Touching him was one thing, but tasting him?
And Aerion is no help when he sees you hesitate.
“You have your orders, wife. You’re so desperate to serve your husband, you should have obeyed already.”
You don’t look at him, afraid you’ll give yourself away, show him your nervousness so he can cruelly poke at it some more. When you lean forward again, it’s slow and intentional. Your hand wraps around him again, and you start with a press of your mouth against the shaft, a kiss, discovering the feeling of his skin when you dart your tongue out against it. You find it salty, the undeniable taste of him mingling with that of perfumed oil.
You lick alongside his length, cautious, maybe a hint of teasing when he twitches underneath your touch and a low, keening sound rises from his chest. At last, you wrap your lips, cautiously, around the red and leaking tip of his dick, and he draws in a sharp gasp. You’re careful to open your mouth wide, not allow your teeth graze to against it, and let the weight of it settle on your tongue for a moment before you brazenly swirl it around him. It tears a brief, strangled sound from him, and you repeat the experience, more intense, more pressing this time.
You bob your head forward, trying to take more of him in, but you have to come up once the head of his cock presses against your palate. Aerion snorts derisively.
“As much as I would enjoy choking you to death on my cock, your job is not finished here. Consider breathing.”
You take the advice for your second attempt, breathing in through your nose. You manage to take him a little deeper this time, and you hollow your cheeks around him. You’re immediately rewarded by a loud, free moan, one Aerion doesn’t manage to catch in time.
You’re not surprised when his good hand, the left one, comes to bury punishingly in your hair. For a second, the touch is light, fingertips against the nape of your neck that send shivers down your spine. Then it turns hard, nails scraping against your scalp, hand pushing you down before pulling you up, and it’s your turn to be unable to stop yourself from whimpering.
His cock unmistakably jerks when you do. You keep the thought in mind.
“You’re quite the useless whore. I suppose you must have everything taught to you.”
Aerion does his best to keep his tone lazy, nonchalant, but it is easy to know better when he is rock hard and leaking inside your mouth. Still, you must brace yourself when he forces you down on his cock and up against, throat constricting around him with choking sounds, his own groans of pleasure half hidden underneath your high-pitched whimpers. You raise your eyes towards him, wide and pleading, and his face flashes with dark pleasure. You’re absolutely and entirely at his mercy, in a situation you willingly put yourself in, and nothing could thrill him more. He uses you as he pleases, fisting your hair, hips jerking up into your mouth as much as he can in his state.
“Touch yourself,” he pants, breathless, not bothering to disguise it this time. “Make yourself peak with nothing but my cock in your mouth and your own fingers.”
You would never admit it out loud, but you are thankful for the order. Your core has been aching for a while now, your juices dripping down your thighs, and you have no need for the oil that still coats your fingers when you push them inside yourself.
You are, at least, no stranger to solitary pleasures. You have prepared yourself for your husband more than once and, since he had no interest in your pleasure, have ensured your own enjoyment on numerous occasions.
And still, you were not expecting the intensity of the pleasure you feel when you hastily insert two fingers and press them against a familiar, delicious spot. Your arousal — and maybe, dare you admit it, Aerion’s touch, for once focused and intent, if not gentle — heightens everything you’re feeling, tearing a loud, genuine moan from you. From the corner of your eye, you catch your husband throwing his head back as you do, mouth open, jaw slack with pleasure.
You rub your thumb against your clitoris, pleasure rapidly climbing after you denied yourself for so long. Aerion’s hand turns lighter in your hair, even as his hips start moving faster. You keep up your pace, and finally, he spills inside your mouth with a final cry. You keep yourself still, swallowing around the length the best you can as he softens, your hand desperately seeking your own peak. You reach it as he’s pulling you off him, moaning loudly, fulfilled but with a distinct sense of something unfinished. Your body, it seems, is craving him much more than your mind.
For a second, Aerion strokes your hair, hand tracing your jawline as he removes it, the touch almost gentle. His thumb presses to your lips, then against your tongue once you allow it inside. He breathes in slowly when he realizes your mouth is empty.
“I might make something out of you yet,” he drawls. “Now clean me.”
And you do. Naked. A cloth in your hand, dabbing it over his body, washing off the sweat and other fluids. Aerion is quiet during the process, watching you intently, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.
Looking at you like no one ever has before.
“Go wash yourself,” he orders once you’re done, dismissing you like he would a servant. “I don’t want you stinking up the room.”
But his eyes follow you intently as you collect your clothes and dress yourself clumsily, all the way until you’ve walked out the door. And you can’t help but wonder if you’ve managed to sink your teeth into him, as you’d intended, or if you willingly stepped into the dragon’s maw, ready to be swallowed whole.
Alright, I hope you enjoyed this! I’ve been playing with the idea for this specific reader in my mind for a while now so I’m glad I’ve managed to get it out. This is my first piece for Aerion, so I’d love to hear if you enjoyed my characterization (you can also send an ask if you'd like to stay anonymous!). It is very anchored in Finn Bennett’s portrayal and what he said about Aerion’s state of mind by the end of the series. This is the most vulnerable Aerion can get, which, obviously, is why the reader chooses this opportunity to endear herself to him. And Aerion, while knowing that she probably wants something out of this (though he doesn’t realize what she wants is to… survive him), is so desperate for touch/affection/affirmation that he’ll take whatever she has to give, even if really, she’s the one in control here.
My headcanon for the reader in this is that she’s from an important noble house, though not one of the great houses. Based on characterization, she’s probably not from the North, Dorne or the Iron Islands, but anything else is open to interpretation. I’m leaning Vale or Reach, but it’s unlikely that this will come up if I write more for this reader, which I'd love to do if you guys liked this!
Thank you for reading and I would love to know your thoughts! Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated <3
First Aerion fic I’ve actually been able to get into! He’s not sugarcoated or ooc, no shade if that’s your cuppa, he pissed me off in the show so much I can’t see him as anything other than a narcissistic asshole. (Finn Bennett did amazing with that role)
Also reader not being a pushover or head over heels? Love to see it; a woman with smarts and a purpose doing what she can in a situation out of her control.
I can’t get enough of the well and poorly hidden desire coming from each side, very fun, very hot.
I really appreciate you saying that! I find him pretty hard to write, because the line between not making him OOC and not making him an unhinged psycho is paper thin, so it's really nice to know that my efforts pay off! I'm writing part 3 at a snail's pace and it's all his fault T_T
So glad you like the reader too! I'm really enjoying making her a character of in-betweens, clever but untrained, aware of Aerion's shortcomings but craving love/closeness/something other than indifference anyway...
summary: after your husband is grievously injured in the trial of the seven, you tend to his wounds and, since he's never been particularly fond of you, you decide to use this opportunity to endear him to you. hopefully you didn't bite off more than you can chew...
warnings and tags: 18+, smut, mild angst, aerion's mentioned to be unfaithful, mentions of wounds, inexperienced but not innocent reader, kinda manipulative!reader, female masturbation, handjob, oral sex (male receiving), power exchange, domination/submission, degradation (reader is called a whore), corruption kink if you squint, technically dom!aerion but also some sub!aerion vibes, aerion is his own warning, no use of y/n, no physical description of the reader
next
Your husband’s body is unnaturally still. Lying on the bed, eyes swollen shut, lip cut open, his chest pure marble marred by purple bruises, he looks more corpse than man. Each time he exhales, he stops moving long enough for the doubt to settle in, before he draws in the next, painful breath. Your fingers itch with the urge to reach for his torso, press your palm against his heart, see for yourself that it is still beating.
You do not indulge them. Instead, stepping closer to the bed, you reach for his forehead.
His lips part when you brush against it, and you’re surprised to find him burning. Everything about him tells you that he should be cold as ice, but you suppose the blood of the dragon does run through his veins. Aerion was scorching hot on your wedding night, too, as he was during his other visits to your chambers since then — though you can count those on one hand.
You reach for a cloth, dip it into a basin of water placed on a nearby dresser, wring it, then press it to his face. A keening, pained sound rises from his throat. It is the most vulnerable you’ve ever heard him, and you think he would kill you for forcing it out of him.
“No one would ask that of you, my lady,” your maid says from the door, where she has stood this whole time. Her tone is flat, but you do not miss the disapproving inflexions in it. “This is for a maester to do, or a servant. Not for a highborn lady.”
It is true, of course, as is true that Aerion was alone when you walked in, a mere guard placed in front of the door. No one tasked to stay by his side or look after him, the prince abandoned like a dying dog.
You could not have ignored the reason why if you tried. The whispers are everywhere. It is his fault if the heir to the throne lies in a casket, his fault if his father is forever branded a kinslayer, his fault that the Targaryen house has fallen a little further still.
You do not think they are wrong.
You are also aware with bone-deep clarity that none of them will have to share his bed following this event. Aerion has never been kind to you — or, to be precise, he has never been taken with you. You know he was displeased to have to marry someone who was not a Targaryen, even more so that you were not someone he could toy with at his leisure, not when his father and his uncle were watching him like a hawk.
You had made sure to take full advantage of that, spending your time strolling through the gardens, weaving or sewing where everyone could see you, where you could not be tormented, retiring to your chambers after him, if you could.
Except now, if the whispers could be trusted, Aerion would be sent to Lys with you in tow, and there would be no one to protect you.
“You can leave,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “I will stay with my lord husband.”
She is well-trained, your maid, but so are you. You know from the slightest twitch at the corner of her lips how much she resents the idea.
“He will fare well enough on his own, my lady. The maesters have seen to that.”
There is harshness on her tongue. You do not cave.
“It would not do for the prince to awake alone, should he be in want of anything. I will stay by his side, as is my duty. Do leave me.”
Her lips thin into a tight line, but she cannot disobey such a direct order. The door closes with a gentle click, and you are left alone with your husband. The man whose life you will share until his passing or yours, whether you like it or not. The man you might still attach to you, to ensure he does not slit your throat in a mad rage in a faraway land where no one will care to look into it.
The man who, though you loathe to admit it, looks so wounded, lost and lonely in the large bed that there is no reluctance in your hand when you dab the wet cloth over his chest, where pearls of sweat have formed.
He does not move much as you keep watch over him, and when he does, it always elicits a pained groan, a ragged breath, a wince. There is not much for you to do, apart from replacing the cloth every now and again, so you turn to embroidering, sitting close by the bed and focusing on your work.
Every time you glance up, you find him as painfully still as he was before. He is a beautiful man, of course, even in this state. In another life, one where whispers of the prince’s madness had not reached your ears ahead of your marriage, you might have been elated to marry him. You’re thankful you did not have to endure such disappointment, at least, though you still had to withstand the bite of humiliation that was your husband’s visible disinterest in you, and the whispers of the whores he preferred taking to bed over you.
Hours go by before Aerion finally stirs. You are on your feet instantly, rushing to his side, but he does not open his eyes — likely could not even if he wanted to. He groans, and the sound comes out pitiful and raspy. You reach for a goblet, pour water into it. With a gentle hand, you tip his head forward, and he drinks from it greedily, teeth scraping against it. When his head falls back on the pillow, you step back — only to freeze when he calls out.
“Father?”
The two syllables, pronounced slurred and hoarse, seem to exhaust him fully, whole body going slack again on the bed.
“I will call for him at once, my prince,” you reply.
The guard obeys your order begrudgingly and without enthusiasm when you relay the prince’s demand, but you may as well not have given it. By the time you sit back down at Aerion’s side, his breathing has evened, and you know he’s fallen back into his slumber.
“He’s awake?” Maekar asks urgently when he walks in.
He startles at the sight of you, bowing his head politely.
“My lady.”
“My prince,” you reply, curtsying. “He woke up briefly and asked for you.”
He nods. His eyes, riveted to his son, are wet, though you do not know if it is out of worry or grief over the loss of his brother.
“You do not have to stay here, my lady,” he says gently.
His meaning is the same as your maid’s was. You do not want to be associated with him. You should be spurning him, making a spectacle of your disapproval. You should save yourself while you still can.
How myopic of him not to realize that that choice was ripped from you in a room you were not in, the moment your hand was given away in marriage.
“I will fulfill my duty and stay at my husband’s side,” you tell him, inclining your head.
The warrior’s eyes are soft on you.
“Thank you,” he says, quiet, broken. “If that is your wish, I will leave him in your hands.”
So you stay. You are here whenever Aerion briefly surfaces, you are here to quench his thirst and clean the sweat that drips from his forehead, you are here to change his bandages and verify that the wounds do not get infected. You do refrain from touching him more often than most, merely letting your fingers trail over his skin as you clean him.
There is a brief, unpleasant conversation with the maester who visits him. He disapproves of your presence, too, but in the jealous way of a man intent on keeping his secrets. He dislikes you, you know immediately, for stepping into his territory. It does not matter that you have read all the treaties you could get your hands on; it does not matter if your work was as close to perfection as it could get. You do not know your place, and he would have you kicked out of the room if not for Prince Maekar’s strict orders.
Your hands deftly finish the bandage around Aerion’s upper thigh. It is the deepest wound on his body, the one that came closest to claiming his life. Perhaps that would have been a better ending for you, but the thought makes you nauseous nonetheless, and you have to focus to keep your fingers from trembling.
You are already on your feet when he groans. He has been waking more frequently during the last day, though never long enough to warrant disturbing his father again. You’re reaching for the water pitcher when you feel a tug on your dress. You turn to discover Aerion’s eyes, glazed and unfocused, on you.
“Why are you here?”
He manages to make the slurred words sound accusatory. You do not step back. Despite his state, you’re worried he might tear your dress. Had he been faster, he would have caught your wrist and he would be holding it tightly enough to hurt right now. Instead, you step closer, close enough for him to reach. He does not let go, still clutching to your skirts with a strength that looks a lot like desperation.
Whether it is because he does not want you to escape or to claw back control, you cannot say.
“Attending to my duties as your wife, my prince,” you answer.
You could reach for the wet cloth again, but you resist the impulse. You worry that your touch would be less than welcome at the moment.
“Since when,” he drawls, “do you care for your duties as my wife?”
There is a sharpness in his eyes, despite the haze of pain that floats inside them. He knows that you did not pursue him, knows that you did not make any efforts to make yourself more available to him.
He would have found it pitiful and laughable, had you done that, and used it to torment you, of course.
Now, instead, you’re the one witnessing his wounded pride, his pathetic attempts at saving face. It would be easy to plunge your fingers into the wound and dig.
You do not do that.
“I will carry your heir. Is this not the least I can do?”
Something dark flashes in his expression, something you do not think you have ever seen him direct at you, and it makes your tongue heavy in your mouth and your throat constrict. You are playing a dangerous game, getting his attention. It is all fine and good now, but the risk is high that you will come to regret it when he is no longer confined to his bed.
Then again, perhaps that would be a better end than getting your throat slit because he wishes to take another Targaryen for a wife.
“Do you wish for me to call your father?”
“Yes, do that. And fetch me some food.”
He orders you around like a servant. You bow your head gracefully.
“Of course, my prince.”
You know he does not miss your choice of words. He is not husband, he is not even my lord, as you would have every right to call him. He is my prince, as any lowborn peasant, any servant would say.
And you see that he it delights him.
The door clicks behind you as you leave. You have no desire to be here for the following conversation with Prince Maekar.
But you do intend to come back to pick up the pieces.
You give Aerion enough time to compose himself and eat before you walk back inside the room. You do not think he would forgive you for seeing an explicit display of weakness, and if grief and shame make him even more erratic than usual, you could see him ending your life tonight, just because he can. You’re walking a tightrope, playing these games, and keeping your balance is of the utmost importance.
He glares at you with bloodshot eyes the second you enter the room, and you bow your head.
“My prince,” you say, “I hope the meal was satisfactory.”
“It suits you,” he shoots back, “playing the servant. No Targaryen would stoop this low.”
His voice drips with disgust. You know how displeased he is that you carry his last name, but you do not flinch. The cruelty in his tone is nothing but the lashing out of a wounded animal. It cannot reach you.
“Is there anything you require of me tonight, my prince?”
Despite his state, despite the pain, his eyes are sharp, sizing you up, trying to understand the game you’re playing — what you wish to gain from it, how far you will go, what he can take from you on your way to your objective, whatever it is.
“Undress,” he orders, his voice dropping lower.
You swallow. Hard. You had expected sex to come into play eventually, of course, just not— not quite this fast. For all you’ve gleaned about playing this game, less through your family’s direct guidance and more through observing how the Targaryens do it, your husband is the only man you’ve ever laid with. Other opportunities had presented themselves,but you simply had not had the stomach to risk your life over it.
“Are you certain, with your injuries?” you ask.
Even you cannot tell if you’re being sincere or trying to stall.
“Is this not a wife’s very first duty to her husband?” Aerion counters mockingly. “Are you going to shirk your responsibilities now?”
You could easily leave. You could even say that you are concerned for him, in his state, and walk out the door.
Instead, standing at the bottom of his bed, you slide your dress off your shoulders and down your body.
Aerion follows your movement with intent focus.
“Keep going,” he says, pointing to your smallclothes with his chin.
You do. Your cheeks are on fire, but there is something more troubling than the embarrassment you feel despite yourself, and that is how much his gaze anchors you. Because even as he is playing cat and mouse, there is nothing he can do at the moment. Everything he will get tonight, you will choose to give him. He can act like that makes you lower than him, but in truth, you wield the power tonight. And he seems transfixed by you.
His tongue comes out to wet his lips as you reveal your shoulders, and his hands tighten in the sheet when the smallclothes fall beneath your breasts. He has never looked at you that way, only sparing you brief, bored glances. Now, you have him captive, even as you are obeying his commands. He is devouring you, eyes trailing over your body, setting your skin aflame everywhere he looks.
You let your fingers graze against your nipples as you trail them down your skin, watch him inhale sharply. Then you move the clothes down your hips, your thighs, and finally step out of them, leaving them on the floor. You can feel heat pooling in your lower belly, but, thankfully, your arousal is not yet obvious. You’re certain he would not have missed a chance to mock you for this as well.
“Does this please you, my prince?”
“You will do,” he replies, betrayed by the hoarseness of his voice. “Though you make for one lousy whore.”
“One only one man can afford,” you answer, and you watch how it delights him, how he bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t smile, how his focus narrows in on you. Closer, tighter, coiling around your body like a snake, so intense he might as well be touching you.
He raises a hand to move it towards his crotch, but stops mid-movement, hissing in pain. You climb onto the bed before he can snap at you, turn his own shame and embarrassment against you.
“Is that not for me to do?” you ask, like you didn’t notice, playing your part as well as you can. Aerion scoffs.
“You want to learn how to be a better whore, don’t you?” he taunts you.
“I want to learn how to best serve my husband.”
You reach for the covers, watching him for any indication that you should stop. But he just stares, head lazily cocked to the side, eyes still drinking in your naked body. His cock is half-hard underneath his breeches, and your heart rate quickens as you pull it free, hand closing gently around the base. You hear him inhale at your touch.
“Get the oil first,” he orders when you begin to move your hand experimentally over dry skin.
There is mockery in his tone, like you should have known better, but also, for the first time, a hint of urgency. You know, the moment you get up from the bed, that he wanted to watch you serve him naked some more. Again, even as you are obeying him, something about the fact that you are in control, giving him what he wants as opposed to him taking it sends a rush of heat through your body.
You find the oil in a drawer. It is expensive, the same kind you use on yourself when you know he will be visiting your chambers — and which, you suppose, he uses himself on those very nights, since he keeps these encounters as brief as possible. You lather it on your hands, then kneel back down by his side to resume your work.
He has grown harder, you find, though you do not comment on it. Your touch is more assured this time, firmer, and though he does not say a word, jaw clenched, jealously keeping any sounds to himself, you feel him react to it. Feel him grow firmer, twitching in your hand when you tighten your grasp, feel as the reddened tip of his cock starts leaking, dripping down your fingers, intermingling with the oil. A quiet hiss escapes him, even if he’s quick to swallow it. You’re a quick learner, figuring out his tells. How he shifts on the bed when your hand gets faster, how a shudder runs through his thigh when you use your thumb to press against the head. Once he is fully hard in your hand, you chance a look at him, and find him beautifully flushed, lips parted in a silent moan,red spreading down from his cheeks to his neck and his torso. Undeniable arousal sparks through you, and you press your legs tightly to provide some friction for yourself.
“Enough,” he rasps, not quite able to disguise the way he is panting, and you obey.
There is a light curve to his fully hard cock, you notice when you remove your hand — you’d only caught glimpses of it before, as he preferred mounting you.
“I will not fuck you tonight. How do you intend on satisfying me, then?”
You don’t dwell on the fact that he could not do it if he tried, nor could you ride him, not with his injuries. You know what answer he wants from you, though, again, that is mostly from whispers you’ve heard around the Keep. The very thought is quite scandalous for a lady.
“My mouth, my prince.”
His lips stretch into a satisfied grin, and despite his black eyes, he almost looks like himself again.
“You truly are a whore. A bad one, judging by your performance so far, but I suppose you can be taught yet.”
His taunts are not nearly as striking when he is still out of breath, but they do not help making you any less nervous. Touching him was one thing, but tasting him?
And Aerion is no help when he sees you hesitate.
“You have your orders, wife. You’re so desperate to serve your husband, you should have obeyed already.”
You don’t look at him, afraid you’ll give yourself away, show him your nervousness so he can cruelly poke at it some more. When you lean forward again, it’s slow and intentional. Your hand wraps around him again, and you start with a press of your mouth against the shaft, a kiss, discovering the feeling of his skin when you dart your tongue out against it. You find it salty, the undeniable taste of him mingling with that of perfumed oil.
You lick alongside his length, cautious, maybe a hint of teasing when he twitches underneath your touch and a low, keening sound rises from his chest. At last, you wrap your lips, cautiously, around the red and leaking tip of his dick, and he draws in a sharp gasp. You’re careful to open your mouth wide, not allow your teeth graze to against it, and let the weight of it settle on your tongue for a moment before you brazenly swirl it around him. It tears a brief, strangled sound from him, and you repeat the experience, more intense, more pressing this time.
You bob your head forward, trying to take more of him in, but you have to come up once the head of his cock presses against your palate. Aerion snorts derisively.
“As much as I would enjoy choking you to death on my cock, your job is not finished here. Consider breathing.”
You take the advice for your second attempt, breathing in through your nose. You manage to take him a little deeper this time, and you hollow your cheeks around him. You’re immediately rewarded by a loud, free moan, one Aerion doesn’t manage to catch in time.
You’re not surprised when his good hand, the left one, comes to bury punishingly in your hair. For a second, the touch is light, fingertips against the nape of your neck that send shivers down your spine. Then it turns hard, nails scraping against your scalp, hand pushing you down before pulling you up, and it’s your turn to be unable to stop yourself from whimpering.
His cock unmistakably jerks when you do. You keep the thought in mind.
“You’re quite the useless whore. I suppose you must have everything taught to you.”
Aerion does his best to keep his tone lazy, nonchalant, but it is easy to know better when he is rock hard and leaking inside your mouth. Still, you must brace yourself when he forces you down on his cock and up against, throat constricting around him with choking sounds, his own groans of pleasure half hidden underneath your high-pitched whimpers. You raise your eyes towards him, wide and pleading, and his face flashes with dark pleasure. You’re absolutely and entirely at his mercy, in a situation you willingly put yourself in, and nothing could thrill him more. He uses you as he pleases, fisting your hair, hips jerking up into your mouth as much as he can in his state.
“Touch yourself,” he pants, breathless, not bothering to disguise it this time. “Make yourself peak with nothing but my cock in your mouth and your own fingers.”
You would never admit it out loud, but you are thankful for the order. Your core has been aching for a while now, your juices dripping down your thighs, and you have no need for the oil that still coats your fingers when you push them inside yourself.
You are, at least, no stranger to solitary pleasures. You have prepared yourself for your husband more than once and, since he had no interest in your pleasure, have ensured your own enjoyment on numerous occasions.
And still, you were not expecting the intensity of the pleasure you feel when you hastily insert two fingers and press them against a familiar, delicious spot. Your arousal — and maybe, dare you admit it, Aerion’s touch, for once focused and intent, if not gentle — heightens everything you’re feeling, tearing a loud, genuine moan from you. From the corner of your eye, you catch your husband throwing his head back as you do, mouth open, jaw slack with pleasure.
You rub your thumb against your clitoris, pleasure rapidly climbing after you denied yourself for so long. Aerion’s hand turns lighter in your hair, even as his hips start moving faster. You keep up your pace, and finally, he spills inside your mouth with a final cry. You keep yourself still, swallowing around the length the best you can as he softens, your hand desperately seeking your own peak. You reach it as he’s pulling you off him, moaning loudly, fulfilled but with a distinct sense of something unfinished. Your body, it seems, is craving him much more than your mind.
For a second, Aerion strokes your hair, hand tracing your jawline as he removes it, the touch almost gentle. His thumb presses to your lips, then against your tongue once you allow it inside. He breathes in slowly when he realizes your mouth is empty.
“I might make something out of you yet,” he drawls. “Now clean me.”
And you do. Naked. A cloth in your hand, dabbing it over his body, washing off the sweat and other fluids. Aerion is quiet during the process, watching you intently, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.
Looking at you like no one ever has before.
“Go wash yourself,” he orders once you’re done, dismissing you like he would a servant. “I don’t want you stinking up the room.”
But his eyes follow you intently as you collect your clothes and dress yourself clumsily, all the way until you’ve walked out the door. And you can’t help but wonder if you’ve managed to sink your teeth into him, as you’d intended, or if you willingly stepped into the dragon’s maw, ready to be swallowed whole.
next
Alright, I hope you enjoyed this! I’ve been playing with the idea for this specific reader in my mind for a while now so I’m glad I’ve managed to get it out. This is my first piece for Aerion, so I’d love to hear if you enjoyed my characterization (you can also send an ask if you'd like to stay anonymous!). It is very anchored in Finn Bennett’s portrayal and what he said about Aerion’s state of mind by the end of the series. This is the most vulnerable Aerion can get, which, obviously, is why the reader chooses this opportunity to endear herself to him. And Aerion, while knowing that she probably wants something out of this (though he doesn’t realize what she wants is to… survive him), is so desperate for touch/affection/affirmation that he’ll take whatever she has to give, even if really, she’s the one in control here.
My headcanon for the reader in this is that she’s from an important noble house, though not one of the great houses. Based on characterization, she’s probably not from the North, Dorne or the Iron Islands, but anything else is open to interpretation. I’m leaning Vale or Reach, but it’s unlikely that this will come up if I write more for this reader, which I'd love to do if you guys liked this!
Thank you for reading and I would love to know your thoughts! Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated <3
warnings & tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, a little suggestive but nothing explicit, rated T, fem!reader, kissing, mentions of small wounds, dunk is self-depreciating, dunk is oblivious, reader is a woodswitch/healer, reader travels with dunk and egg post trial of seven, no use of y/n, no physical description
"By the old Gods, what happened to you?"
Dunk nearly jumps out of his skin when you walk into the room he's had the coin to rent for the night, for once. Half-naked, he tries to cover his torso with his shirt, like he is some blushing maiden. You cross the room to get to him in a few quick strides, eyes roaming over his body with professional expertise, and he feels silly enough to let it fall down onto the bed.
"It's nothing," he mumbles. "Just a scratch."
"Scratches, surely," you correct, shaking your head. There are a handful of fresh wounds over his arms, chest and face, but they pale in comparison to old scars. Your gaze lingers on the nasty one on his stomach, where Aerion's war lance caught him during the fateful trial.
"Aye," he shrugs. "There was a skirmish in the inn; I put an end to it. 'twas nothing. I've seen far worse."
You frown.
"Is the innkeeper at least giving you free lodgings for your troubles?"
"Couldn't accept it," he mutters, averting his eyes. "Tables and chairs were broken during the fight. She'd lose good money."
He braces himself as he waits for your biting remark. He's seen you do much the same, mind you, for people who couldn't pay the right price for your services, but he knows what you'd say. I only take payment people can afford. It's a gift of yours to know what that is, a gift he, big oaf that he is, does not possess.
You simply sigh.
"You are too kind, Dunk," you say, and the softness in your voice nearly undoes him.
Uncomfortable, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
"Ah, well, I took an oath, did I not? It wouldn't be right to make the smallfolks pay me for fulfilling it."
He'll take coin from lords who want to hire his services, but the innkeeper was an innocent. Not her fault if a bunch of drunken idiots refused to pay her and started trashing the place. He'd just done his duty in lending her a helping hand.
"At least let me take a proper look at you," you say, shaking your head.
Dunk swallows. He has been on the receiving end of your healing hands plenty of times. He isn't certain they truly possess power, but he knows they feel soothing and soft on his skin and he thinks of them more often than he would ever admit to you.
He lets himself fall down onto the bed, which creaks dangerously under his weight. Don't go breaking it now, you lunk. Wouldn't help the innkeeper one bit, that.
"Good."
As always, your hands handle him delicately, as soft as your words can be cutting. He doesn't think anyone has ever touched him like that, like he is precious jewelry in a noble lady's hands. He's told you before that you need not be so careful, that you couldn't break him if you tried. He's sure now that it was a lie. You could break him, you're just more likely to do it with a brush of your fingers than if you tried using strength.
You look at the scratches and new bruises blooming over his skin, brow furrowed, concerned expression on your face. There's an agony to watching you do it, for Dunk, even if he wants to abandon himself to the sensation of your touch over his body. He hates knowing he caused it, hates that he makes you worry. If he trusted himself more, he'd reach out and wipe the line between your eyebrows with his thumb.
"Does this one hurt still?" you ask, tracing the one on his stomach.
Your cold hands feel particularly nice on the tight skin. They also make him even more nervous than usual when they start traveling down his torso, dangerously close to a place he's dreamt you'd touch and woken up all sweaty and shameful afterwards.
"Aye," he admits. "Under the sun, mostly."
He keeps it covered when he can, but with this hot summer and the drought, it's been quite a hassle lately.
"I can think of ointment for that. I'll get it to you."
"Dunno that I could afford it," he grimaces. You use expensive ingredients.
"You're escorting me free of charge, aren't you? It's the least I can do."
"You let Egg sleep in your wagon. That's payment enough."
"Don't be stubborn," you say sternly, and he is stubborn, but somehow he knows this is an argument he won't win.
Not that he usually wins arguments against you. You're clever, that you are, and he loses his words too easily when you're looking at him with your hands balled up into fists on your hips, telling him how he ought to behave.
"What about these?" you continue, taking his hand in yours.
It takes him a second to realize what you're talking about. He opened his knuckles on the face of some particularly virulent drunkard; it barely even registered.
"It doesn't feel good, but it's not that bad. Nothing to be done about it anyway."
He knows you have balms for such things, that lords and ladies buy for ridiculous prices to make the small pains in life easier. He, for one, would never waste them on such things — that was, if he'd been able to afford them in the first place.
You sit down next to him, not letting go of his hand. It's sending pleasant tingles through his entire arm. Lower, his thigh is on fire where yours brushes against it, and that's through your skirts and his pants. He can't imagine what it would feel like if—
No. He cannot allow himself to go there. Not when you're sitting right there. Maybe, maybe, if he truly cannot help himself, he'll let the thoughts replay in his mind, leaning against a tree on a cold, lonely night. Until then, he swallows and hopes he's not blushing too much.
He's still trying to chase the thoughts away when you bring his big hand to your lips and blow on the wounds. Plenty of kids would recognize the gesture right away. Dunk just stares without the faintest idea of what you're doing. It feels nice, being taken care of for once, that's for sure, but—
And then. Then you lean down to press a kiss to his knuckles, and his mind just. Goes blank. Fully. Everything vanishes. He registers the softness of your lips still, because, much to his shame, he cannot help himself — though to be fair, he thinks he would have kicked himself 'til the end of times if he hadn't remembered what it felt like to be kissed by you.
"How about now?" you ask him, and he blinks.
"Uh," he says, "what'd you do that for?"
You give him a smile that makes him wonder if you're mocking him. You're not the type, he doesn't think. You've never even called him dumb, and people usually don't spare him the comment. Just— sometimes he cannot figure you out at all.
"I'm kissing it better," you answer like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He glances down at his hand, just checking to see if it was meant to be magic, but no, the wounds are still there, red and starting to scab.
"Kissin' it better," he repeats.
You tilt your head to the side, playful mischief in your eyes.
"Did it not work? Should I try it again, then?"
Before he can answer, your lips are back on his skin, and they linger this time, three consecutive kisses over his knuckles. He can't help but wonder if this is how ladies feel when lords and knights kiss their hands. He'd certainly never thought such a simple gesture could ever make him feel like this — so lost and at your mercy.
Truth be told, he can hardly feel the wound anymore.
"That did— that feels better," he admits around the knot in his throat.
"Good. I'll keep going then."
He forgets how to breathe when you turn his hand in yours to look at his palm, and follow over his forearm until you land on a small nick, right under the crook of his elbow.
"That's nothing," he's quick to say. "It's not even from the fight, I think it was a branch where Thunder stopped to drink."
It doesn't stop you. Your forehead comes to rest against his bicep for a moment, and he's certain you'll be the death of him. He fists his other hand into the sheets. Get a damn grip, you lunk.
"Now, let me see…"
Your hand trails over his arm, then his shoulder, and everywhere it touches he's set ablaze. He's certain he's blushing, doesn't see how it could be any other way. When it settles on his neck, he's sure you can tell just how his heart is hammering in his chest. He knows the blush must be obvious too, burning his ears and flushing his neck as well. He supposes he's thankful you're not saying anything about it, but he also wishes you'd put him out of his misery once and for all.
"A guy jumped on my back and tried to strangle me," he explains, trying his best to stick to the point. If he loses his words now, he doesn't think he'll ever find them again.
You click your tongue, and he thinks, surely, surely you won't—
But you do. This time, it's your entire body and all its curves and softness that presses against him, with your mouth on his neck, leaving a trail of kisses all over it. You're being soft with it, too, careful not to apply any pressure on it; just feather-light touches and the delicate sounds of your mouth, driving him clean out of his mind.
Against his better judgment, his hand comes to your waist — to hold you or to pull you closer, he's not quite sure himself.
"Ah, th-that— isn't that quite improper?"
He curses himself when your clever mouth stops working his neck and you go still in his arms. They were right to say you're as thick as a castle wall, you lunk. He takes some comfort in the way you've slumped against him, your breasts flush against his chest, even with your clothes in between, your nose tucked under his chin.
With a sigh, you tear yourself from him, and he thinks he lets out a very undignified whine, like that of a kicked dog. You just had to open your mouth, didn't you, Dunk?
"Yes," you say, "quite improper," and this time he's pretty sure you are mocking him, and he can't even fault you for it.
But you go still when you stand up, looking down at his face. You're standing between his legs now, his hand remaining on your waist. Your hand travels to his face, traces his jaw carefully, and a keening sound forms in the back of his throat. He might have managed to hold it back, had your thumb not come to stroke his bottom lip. Someone had punched him there during the fight, he recalls belatedly, the hit barely registering because the man couldn't reach him there comfortably.
"How about this last one?"
You don't wait for an answer before you lean in, mouth closing around his lip, soft and sweet. You taste of mint, he discovers, the paste he's seen you use on your teeth after eating. You kiss him like he's fragile, like he'll shatter if you don't, and despite your best efforts, he thinks that's exactly what happens to him in this moment. He stays very still under you, just basking in the moment.
Until you step away.
"One of these days, ser Duncan," you say, breath suspiciously short, "one of these days, you should join me in my wagon."
Dunk frowns.
"There would never be enough space for the three of us in there."
You look confused, before you let out a quiet laugh.
"That might be true," you sigh, a little crestfallen. "Well then, I will see you at dinner."
You're gone before he can stutter out an answer.
That night, after eating in the inn where a table was still missing, you take his hand in yours again and, authoritatively, you rub one of your most expensive balms gently into his knuckles, before applying just a dot of it to his lip. Then you smile at him like he's hung the moon and, not for the first time, certainly not the last, Dunk thinks you will be the death of him.
Mannn I just love Dunk so much. Had the idea for it because I thought Dunk wouldn't have had anyone to ever kiss his wounds better as a child and I wanted to give him that :') Also he's very self-deprecating because I'm reading the novellas and damn that man is mean to himself. Hope you liked it! Your comments and reblogs are an author's bread and butter, so don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts and to share this piece <3
tags & warnings: travel companion!reader for dunk, wife!reader for the targaryens, fluff, minor injuries, generally pretty sweet except for daeron, full blown angst for daeron: description of burning bodies, alcoholism, suicidal thoughts, homesick!reader for valarr, aerion is a dick, canon typical violence
SER DUNCAN
Dunk being protective is a built-in feature. It comes with being the tallest, largest, strongest man in any room he walks in, as he has since he was sixteen. It's not something he ever comments on, it's just how he is: Dunk takes care of people. He took care of Ser Arlan for years when the old man was nearing his end, he takes care of Egg best he can, and, if you let him, you.
The thing is, you're pretty independent. You've spent as much time on the road as he has, and you know your way around it. Some stuff still comes naturally to him, like standing between you and passing horses; putting his hand on the pommel of his sword when you cross path with other travelers; angling himself to shield you from the rest of the room when you stop in a tavern. It's just— a lot of the time, you won't let him be protective.
You don't want him to intervene if you're having an argument; you insist he stays out of it if someone gets threatening; you hold him back if he gets too defensive when a man questions your honor.
What's worse, nine times out of ten you're right. If he gets involved, things get ugly, because people find him threatening — whatever it was Lyonel said about tall men getting punched more than short ones, it seems to hold true.
And then there's the tenth time.
"Listen," he says urgently, "you need to get inside and lock the doors, alright? Gather what you can as a weapon, defend yourselves best you can if anyone tries to get in."
"You cannot," you hiss through gritted teeth, "seriously think I would leave you to fight alone out there, do you?"
He looks at you in disbelief. You're a fiery thing, he knows that, but you're also smarter than this. The highwaymen outnumber the villagers three to ones. Best bet is to hold out until the local lord's knights get here, but that will take some time still, which they don't have. It's not humble of him, but Dunk's certain he can make a difference out there.
But first, he needs you to be safe.
"Beg your pardon," he mumbles, "you'll yell at me all you want afterwards, but for now…"
He hoists you up on his shoulder without so much as grunting from the effort. You let out a shriek, more of surprise than anything else, and barely try to wiggle out of his grasp before he drops you inside a house — which means he must have really shocked you, which means you'll be very mad at him afterwards.
It's fine. He can take it.
"Egg, I'm countin' on you. You both stay here, alright?"
Then he closes the door with you still gaping at him, before his smartass squire can also find something to retort to him.
The fight is brutal and nasty. Mounted on Thunder, Dunk delivers swift, fatal blows, saving lives wherever he can. It is still a relief when the castle knights arrive, in time for most of the villagers to make it out unscathed.
It's a little while before he sees you again in the chaos that follows. When you approach him, your face is unreadable, and his heart sinks.
"Look, I'm so—"
He's cut short when you wrap your arms around his middle and hug him tight. Your hair comes to tickle his nose, and he goes very still for a few seconds before he dares to close his arms around you, as properly as he can.
"Thank you," you whisper.
"What for?"
"Saving my life and everyone else's out there. I'm sorry I gave you a hard time."
"Oh." He clears his throat, feeling his cheeks start to heat up. "Well, it wasn't much. Did my duty, is all."
"You did great," you say, and his entire body warms up. "I just hate it when there's nothing I can do to help you."
"You help me plenty," he replies, but he thinks you might have just lit a fire he'll never be able to put out inside his chest.
He hunches, wrapping himself around you more, greedily trying to get more of you. You let him, breathing in his scent, enjoying his warmth.
He knows, then and there, that it won't ever matter how mad it makes you.
He will never let anything happen to you.
DAERON
Daeron doesn't think he has a single protective bone in his body. He isn't built that way, or if he once was, it's been methodically driven out of him, little by little, every single time he failed to save someone from a death he'd foreseen, until all that was left was a wreck of man trying to dissolve himself into a pint of ale. Or beer. Or wine. Or anything he could drink that would blur the edges of his mind.
If he'd been protective, he would have fought his father much harder to avoid the wedding. If he'd been protective, he would never have allowed you to be dragged into his mess. But he is apathetic, and lazy, and a coward, and every day that he sees your lips tighten when you watch him drink himself into a deeper hole, every time you wipe his forehead or help him into bed or pick him up drunk out of his mind in a tavern, he hates himself a little more for it.
Truly, it's a good thing he isn't protective.
If he was, he would have thrown himself out of the Red Keep's windows by now.
He wakes up in a cold sweat from one of his recurring dream. It doesn't change much — a dragon spewing green flames, a castle engulfed within seconds, people charred and screaming as they die.
Except. Except this time.
This time you were there. Your body turned black and curled up on itself, mouth open wide in agony, any signs of your identity gone as even your bones turn to ashes.
He doesn't manage to reach the edge of the bed before he vomits all over his sheets, but he doesn't let it slow him down. He wipes his mouth as he drags himself out the bed, grabs the cup of water that is always, without fail, on his nightstand when he wakes up. He has said a million times he doesn't need it, and a million times you've ignored it.
For once, he is thankful for it. He downs it immediately and stumbles out of his room.
The Red Keep is dead quiet as he makes his way through it. He reaches your room and the door slams against the wall when he opens it. You jolt awake while he winces.
"Daeron? W-what's happening?"
Should it sting, that you're this shocked to see your husband? Or does it make sense that you wouldn't be expecting him at this hour? He cannot tell. His mind isn't cooperating, nor is his body, numb with fear.
He stumbles against your bed and all but falls in. You look terrified in the candlelight, eyes searching around for a threat of some kind, but there is none. This candle won't kill you, he thinks distantly, and that's when the futility of his endeavor catches up with him.
What is the point? Is he supposed to start fearing any fires he sees? Is he supposed to lock you up somewhere, far away from his family? Is he supposed to never see you again, never again feel your body under his, never again hear your laughter?
He fears he is much too selfish to ever make such a decision, and he collapses on your bed, out of breath.
You lean over him, eyes wide, trying to understand, and he reaches up to better memorize your face that he just saw melt in front of him.
"Sweet love," he whispers, "I hope I will not be there to watch you die."
Your hand comes up to rest on his, pressing it to your cheek.
"What are you talking about?" you ask softly. "No one is dying tonight."
Not tonight. But some day, certainly, and there is nothing to be done. Any step to avoid it will precipitate it; doing nothing means the same outcome.
It's all meaningless.
He needs a drink.
"What did you see?"
That is his gift to you, he decides, not telling you. He refuses to plague you with paranoia and fears and, even worse, hope. He kisses you with as clear a mind as he ever has, and you let him, fall into his touch with a sigh. He spends the night trying to compel you to memory, your face, your body, your whimpers, your scent. He lets himself drown in you instead of the alcohol, tells himself he will not waste any more time he could have by your side.
On another day, when you cry next to him in the carriage on the ride back to the Red Keep, he knows he is nothing but an incompetent liar, giving you hope one night and throwing it and himself into the gutter the next.
The one thing you truly need protection from is him.
VALARR
Valarr is intensely protective when he is around you, which is much less often than he would like it to be. Were he not a prince, he would stand guard in full armor in front of your chambers. As it stands, he sleeps by your side as often as he can, sword nearby — a ridiculous precaution within the Red Keep, as his cousins mocked him for — and settles for having a Kingsguard there when he is called elsewhere. He wishes he could be your sworn shield, escorting you through King's Landing when you decide to leave on a whim.
Since he cannot do that either most times, busy with lessons and other princely duties, he has settled for having a few guards dedicated to you, always ready to follow you where you wish. It doesn't mean he doesn't feel a longing in his chest when you stop by the library or the training yard to ask him if he wants to come and he must deny you, or that there isn't a vague jealousy that burns inside him before he squashes it, knowing he will not be the one keeping you safe.
Coming from the Free Cities, you find the armed escorts a little excessive, personally, but the Targaryens are no strangers to senseless violence. It is a small, selfish comfort at least, knowing that your husband worries so terribly, even if there is only so much time he can spend by your side.
"Was everything well today?" Valarr asks ser Donnel, finally able to escape a small council his father wanted him to attend but that seemed to last an eternity.
The Kingsguard clears his throat, and Valarr's attention narrows on him like lightning striking a tree.
"What happened? Where is my wife?"
The knight shakes his head.
"Nothing happened, my prince, your wife is quite fine and resting in her chambers. It's just, ah, she seemed rather upset today at the harbor."
"Why?" Valarr's voice is a low, dangerous growl. "Did someone try to attack you? Was someone unkind to her?"
"Not that I saw, my prince, no, but she cried the whole way home."
It doesn't take Valarr long to push open the door to your room. When you look up, cheeks streaked with tears and eyes puffy, he feels his body lunging forward without him having to command it. It's all instinct, his hands that reach to caress your face first, then move down your body looking for an injury.
"Are you hurt?"
You blink at him, then can't help a quiet, crystalline laugh of broken glass.
"I am not injured, husband," you say, grabbing his wrists to stop his fruitless searching.
You sigh, putting your forehead to his, and Valarr lets you, frozen in place, desperate to provide you with whatever it is you need.
"There was a merchant from— home. He sold flowers I had not smelled since I left, flowers that grew in our garden." Another quiet laugh. "I fear even you cannot shield me from homesickness, dearest husband."
That explanation does not satisfy him. He wipes your tears away with the gentlest of hands, a prince undone by your crying.
"If you know their name, I will have them planted in the Red Keep." He presses a kiss to your eyelids, and is relieved to see a smile has made its way on your lips. "Is there anything else you wish for? Fabrics or perfumes? Jewels or—"
You stop him with a finger to his lips, stop to trace their shape. He feels himself melt under your touch.
"It cannot be bought, what I am missing."
Valarr stares at you. He isn't used to problems without solutions, not with the strength of the Targaryen apparatus and the crown's treasure behind him. He knows to use them sparingly, certainly, but he knows that he can solve things. Yet now, he is brought to his knees by your tears and there is nothing he can do to quench them.
"We will visit," he says.
He doesn't think about it before the words slip past his lips, yet he knows the moment they do that he means them. It matters not that he is the heir to the crown; what matters is that his wife is crying, and he will do anything he must to shield her from this pain that ails her.
"I will bring you back home," he promises, an oath whispered into your mouth.
For now, all he can do is hold you, tightly clutching your body to his. One day, he prays quietly into the night, he will become your home.
And you will never have to cry again.
AERION
Aerion's protectiveness is tightly intertwined with ego and possessiveness. In the early days of your marriage, when he'd made his distaste of you clear, he would still not suffer any insult to you that could be read as disrespect towards him. You might not have the blood of the dragon running through your veins, but you bore his last name and shared his bed when he allowed it. When a noble woman mocks your birth to please him, he is swift and cruel; she leaves in tears.
It has nothing to do with you.
When you pique his interest and he discovers the joys of toying with you, protectiveness means mine. You're his to torment, no one else's. He finds it delightful, discovering what makes your eyes spark in anger, what makes your lip quiver, what leads you to hide a smirk behind your hand, as ill-conceived insults tend to. When a drunken lord claims that you must be barren or repulse your husband, after a year of marriage with no children, and your eyes shine with tears, Aerion joins him on the training grounds the next day; he breaks his wrist and shatters his ankle.
His rage, he tells himself, has everything to do with him.
You fall from your horse in Lys, having followed him in exile. He isn't there to see it happen, but he does see you approaching the house, riding in the back of a cart like a peasant. The useless knight he'd tasked with ensuring you wouldn't throw yourself at another man, as he's heard happens often in the Free City, isn't far behind, guiding your horse back into the courtyard.
Aerion is waiting for you on the steps when you arrive, hands behind his back, disdainful expression on his face. You don't need to brace yourself from his ire anymore — you've learned to let it slide of you.
"Did you fall? Surely, you are too old to think clumsiness would be endearing?"
"Believe it or not, husband, I did not throw myself off a horse for your attention," you sigh, tentatively putting a foot to the ground.
He watches critically when you try to stand. You let out a yelp when your second foot touches the floor and immediately lift it up again. Your knight takes a step towards; Aerion holds out a hand.
"Do not touch her."
He sees your jaw tightening. Your eyes focus on him, but you don't glare at him — you know better. You're guarded, worried.
"Will you force me to hop to the maester on one foot, husband?"
He is pleased by the sensible amount of fear in your voice. Good. You know who you are dealing with.
"Why did you fall?"
You draw in a sharp breath. Your pain makes it harder to hide your annoyance.
"There were fire-eaters in town. My horse got scared."
Aerion tuts, stepping closer to you.
"You will need more lessons. You should have known how to control her."
Before you need to bite your tongue to hold back an answer, his hand reaches under your knee while the other comes to encircle your torso. He lifts you up with little effort, and you heave a sigh of relief, holding on to his shoulders.
"Perhaps a horse with a mellower temperament would be more suited to your— abilities, too."
The knight walks towards him, arms outstretched.
"My prince, please, don't burden yourself, I'll—"
"I will cut any finger that you lay on her," Aerion says matter-of-factly. "Do not touch her, and go fetch a maester."
This time, the man knows better than to challenge him.
"You will need a better escort, too," Aerion keeps going, starting to walk you through the house. "One who can anticipate such issues. As for the fire-eaters, I will be magnanimous and only require that they be whipped."
"There really is no need—"
"People break their backs falling from horses. That would be unacceptable."
He holds you tighter than he needs, and you don't know if it's a comfort to you. He keeps blurring the lines, contradicting his words with his actions, switching between soft lips and sharp teeth like it's second nature.
"Thank you," you whisper when he drops you on your bed, and he goes very still, looking at you so intensely you worry you'll melt from the heat of his gaze.
He says nothing.
Later, when he watches the maester manipulates your ankle and nearly breaks the man's arm when you cry out in pain, he has a hard time keeping up the charade.
This might have everything to do with you after all.
listen daeron just makes me so sad i can't seem to write him having a good time. the other ones get to act chivalrous or, if they're aerion, be vaguely nice and act like a dick about it the whole time. meanwhile daeron is just having the worst time of his life, except it is his life. i'm sorry.
on another note, would love to know if these worked for you and if you enjoyed the characterization! i'm also curious what length is better in your opinion for imagines like these. they feel a tad long to me but i'd love to know what you think. also lmk if you'd like a 'daddies edition' with lyonel, baelor and mayyyybe maekar. comments and reblogs are all the remuneration authors get, so if you like my work and want to encourage me, don't hesitate to do either <3 i'll get back to working on guilty as sin now and i'll see you soon!
I actually like how you brung up aerion not liking when other people make fun of his wife and how he's the only one that can which you know that would never fly past me. I would definitely smack him across the face if he ever did 😒
I'm happy you enjoyed it! I think that's one of the way him being territorial would manifest. Aerion is extremely slappable indeed looool it would be very nice to smack him a little 😁
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I try not to fall into the "I never liked their work anyway" ditch when an artist/creator reveals themself to be a terrible person
BUT
a feeling I do have and will stand by is "While I enjoyed their work overall I did have some gripes that I overlooked out of affection and whimsy, but now that my loyalty is gone and my affection tainted there is nothing holding me back from enumerating my many grievances, to which the revelations of the creator's shittiness may or may not provide a new and infuriating context."
it’s simple: when I like an adaptation, everyone complaining about changes to the text is a whiny baby who needs to get over themselves and accept that sometimes you have to change the story to enrich the experience/work within the medium. when I don’t like an adaptation, it’s because nobody else understands the core themes of the original work and would be better off just creating a story independent of what they’re trying to adapt.
can we all hold hands and agree not to call fanworks content. can we all kiss each other's foreheads and agree not to call it "promoting your content". i beg of you i am not a cog in the machine i am not doing this for profit i am not an influencer im just engaging in a hobby helppppp
Inuyasha and Kagome for the character opinion bingo if you don’t mind doing two!
Kagome. :)
Kagome is kind of the most psychologically unique character I've come across among many mediums. I know it's the fandom assumption that she is the easily access reader POV, but tbh that's far from the case from her. That happens a lot with main pov characters but in the end, someone like Luke Skywalker was pretty radically himself and unique, but Kagome wins that one past a lot of characters.
I think my top Kagome moment is her reading Miroku accurately enough to stop him from using his Wind Tunnel on Inuyasha. And taking that kind of risk that she did understand him well enough to do that. There's so much to that, psychologically, that it's incredible for anyone to do. That's one of many examples from her.
Another thing is her behavior in the Feudal Era isn't because she's from the modern world. That is kind of a reductive take on her. I don't think just anyone from the modern world would be that kind to Inuyasha or care about her friends' plight automatically just due to being modern. Or make 'right decisions'. Like big time a lot, a lot. Modernity might make one more or less judgmental, to be realistic about it. The modernity gives her a great challenge to adapt and overcome and she does struggle and do that.
Another part to her is her moral independence. I see her as having a lot of compassion, yes, but she has a discernment that is quite powerful as well. She's someone who does stick her to her own values which make her able to be relate to Inuyasha and even understand Naraku near the end. IDK, she's one of my favorite's by far. So for the bingo:
I have so many head canons about them
I am so normal about them
Does not project onto them like a beast (I like Kagome because she's so different, when writing her, I have to challenge myself a little)
Inuyasha:
Inuyasha is a character I got to know even more by writing them, but his story is kind of the most about determining your own fate, and I like that theme a lot in his character. He had a lot of reasons to hate the world because of how it treated him, and he has his flaws, but he did the hard choice of opening himself back up to caring and taking that risk with people. He has darkness in him, but he chooses to take actions to go towards his own will even when his blood overtakes him, he would go fix his issue with it. He formed his own values even while under the stress of trauma of the world.
Kagome helped him a lot but he himself had to be open to that. And he himself maybe due to his experience has a strong sense of self. Whenever I write him, he is the fair character or the most honest character. And while he is portrayed as emotionally immature (that's just trauma), I think he's smarter than the usual depiction. He had to be to survive, that is part of the survival, but naturally I just see him as insightful.
He is also an example of the risk not paying off, with the trauma of what happened with Naraku and his trick. That was why it was such a devastating one to him and his psychology. And what he was willing to do to achieve love once in the first place, what he'd do to himself to do it. There's that side of him too, a loud side, and it was only through making friendships once more that he could start to heal from it. He's someone who has every reason to move away from connection, and yet has the courage to go forward.
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tags & warnings: travel companion!reader for dunk, wife!reader for the targaryens, fluff, minor injuries, generally pretty sweet except for daeron, full blown angst for daeron: description of burning bodies, alcoholism, suicidal thoughts, homesick!reader for valarr, aerion is a dick, canon typical violence
SER DUNCAN
Dunk being protective is a built-in feature. It comes with being the tallest, largest, strongest man in any room he walks in, as he has since he was sixteen. It's not something he ever comments on, it's just how he is: Dunk takes care of people. He took care of Ser Arlan for years when the old man was nearing his end, he takes care of Egg best he can, and, if you let him, you.
The thing is, you're pretty independent. You've spent as much time on the road as he has, and you know your way around it. Some stuff still comes naturally to him, like standing between you and passing horses; putting his hand on the pommel of his sword when you cross path with other travelers; angling himself to shield you from the rest of the room when you stop in a tavern. It's just— a lot of the time, you won't let him be protective.
You don't want him to intervene if you're having an argument; you insist he stays out of it if someone gets threatening; you hold him back if he gets too defensive when a man questions your honor.
What's worse, nine times out of ten you're right. If he gets involved, things get ugly, because people find him threatening — whatever it was Lyonel said about tall men getting punched more than short ones, it seems to hold true.
And then there's the tenth time.
"Listen," he says urgently, "you need to get inside and lock the doors, alright? Gather what you can as a weapon, defend yourselves best you can if anyone tries to get in."
"You cannot," you hiss through gritted teeth, "seriously think I would leave you to fight alone out there, do you?"
He looks at you in disbelief. You're a fiery thing, he knows that, but you're also smarter than this. The highwaymen outnumber the villagers three to ones. Best bet is to hold out until the local lord's knights get here, but that will take some time still, which they don't have. It's not humble of him, but Dunk's certain he can make a difference out there.
But first, he needs you to be safe.
"Beg your pardon," he mumbles, "you'll yell at me all you want afterwards, but for now…"
He hoists you up on his shoulder without so much as grunting from the effort. You let out a shriek, more of surprise than anything else, and barely try to wiggle out of his grasp before he drops you inside a house — which means he must have really shocked you, which means you'll be very mad at him afterwards.
It's fine. He can take it.
"Egg, I'm countin' on you. You both stay here, alright?"
Then he closes the door with you still gaping at him, before his smartass squire can also find something to retort to him.
The fight is brutal and nasty. Mounted on Thunder, Dunk delivers swift, fatal blows, saving lives wherever he can. It is still a relief when the castle knights arrive, in time for most of the villagers to make it out unscathed.
It's a little while before he sees you again in the chaos that follows. When you approach him, your face is unreadable, and his heart sinks.
"Look, I'm so—"
He's cut short when you wrap your arms around his middle and hug him tight. Your hair comes to tickle his nose, and he goes very still for a few seconds before he dares to close his arms around you, as properly as he can.
"Thank you," you whisper.
"What for?"
"Saving my life and everyone else's out there. I'm sorry I gave you a hard time."
"Oh." He clears his throat, feeling his cheeks start to heat up. "Well, it wasn't much. Did my duty, is all."
"You did great," you say, and his entire body warms up. "I just hate it when there's nothing I can do to help you."
"You help me plenty," he replies, but he thinks you might have just lit a fire he'll never be able to put out inside his chest.
He hunches, wrapping himself around you more, greedily trying to get more of you. You let him, breathing in his scent, enjoying his warmth.
He knows, then and there, that it won't ever matter how mad it makes you.
He will never let anything happen to you.
DAERON
Daeron doesn't think he has a single protective bone in his body. He isn't built that way, or if he once was, it's been methodically driven out of him, little by little, every single time he failed to save someone from a death he'd foreseen, until all that was left was a wreck of man trying to dissolve himself into a pint of ale. Or beer. Or wine. Or anything he could drink that would blur the edges of his mind.
If he'd been protective, he would have fought his father much harder to avoid the wedding. If he'd been protective, he would never have allowed you to be dragged into his mess. But he is apathetic, and lazy, and a coward, and every day that he sees your lips tighten when you watch him drink himself into a deeper hole, every time you wipe his forehead or help him into bed or pick him up drunk out of his mind in a tavern, he hates himself a little more for it.
Truly, it's a good thing he isn't protective.
If he was, he would have thrown himself out of the Red Keep's windows by now.
He wakes up in a cold sweat from one of his recurring dream. It doesn't change much — a dragon spewing green flames, a castle engulfed within seconds, people charred and screaming as they die.
Except. Except this time.
This time you were there. Your body turned black and curled up on itself, mouth open wide in agony, any signs of your identity gone as even your bones turn to ashes.
He doesn't manage to reach the edge of the bed before he vomits all over his sheets, but he doesn't let it slow him down. He wipes his mouth as he drags himself out the bed, grabs the cup of water that is always, without fail, on his nightstand when he wakes up. He has said a million times he doesn't need it, and a million times you've ignored it.
For once, he is thankful for it. He downs it immediately and stumbles out of his room.
The Red Keep is dead quiet as he makes his way through it. He reaches your room and the door slams against the wall when he opens it. You jolt awake while he winces.
"Daeron? W-what's happening?"
Should it sting, that you're this shocked to see your husband? Or does it make sense that you wouldn't be expecting him at this hour? He cannot tell. His mind isn't cooperating, nor is his body, numb with fear.
He stumbles against your bed and all but falls in. You look terrified in the candlelight, eyes searching around for a threat of some kind, but there is none. This candle won't kill you, he thinks distantly, and that's when the futility of his endeavor catches up with him.
What is the point? Is he supposed to start fearing any fires he sees? Is he supposed to lock you up somewhere, far away from his family? Is he supposed to never see you again, never again feel your body under his, never again hear your laughter?
He fears he is much too selfish to ever make such a decision, and he collapses on your bed, out of breath.
You lean over him, eyes wide, trying to understand, and he reaches up to better memorize your face that he just saw melt in front of him.
"Sweet love," he whispers, "I hope I will not be there to watch you die."
Your hand comes up to rest on his, pressing it to your cheek.
"What are you talking about?" you ask softly. "No one is dying tonight."
Not tonight. But some day, certainly, and there is nothing to be done. Any step to avoid it will precipitate it; doing nothing means the same outcome.
It's all meaningless.
He needs a drink.
"What did you see?"
That is his gift to you, he decides, not telling you. He refuses to plague you with paranoia and fears and, even worse, hope. He kisses you with as clear a mind as he ever has, and you let him, fall into his touch with a sigh. He spends the night trying to compel you to memory, your face, your body, your whimpers, your scent. He lets himself drown in you instead of the alcohol, tells himself he will not waste any more time he could have by your side.
On another day, when you cry next to him in the carriage on the ride back to the Red Keep, he knows he is nothing but an incompetent liar, giving you hope one night and throwing it and himself into the gutter the next.
The one thing you truly need protection from is him.
VALARR
Valarr is intensely protective when he is around you, which is much less often than he would like it to be. Were he not a prince, he would stand guard in full armor in front of your chambers. As it stands, he sleeps by your side as often as he can, sword nearby — a ridiculous precaution within the Red Keep, as his cousins mocked him for — and settles for having a Kingsguard there when he is called elsewhere. He wishes he could be your sworn shield, escorting you through King's Landing when you decide to leave on a whim.
Since he cannot do that either most times, busy with lessons and other princely duties, he has settled for having a few guards dedicated to you, always ready to follow you where you wish. It doesn't mean he doesn't feel a longing in his chest when you stop by the library or the training yard to ask him if he wants to come and he must deny you, or that there isn't a vague jealousy that burns inside him before he squashes it, knowing he will not be the one keeping you safe.
Coming from the Free Cities, you find the armed escorts a little excessive, personally, but the Targaryens are no strangers to senseless violence. It is a small, selfish comfort at least, knowing that your husband worries so terribly, even if there is only so much time he can spend by your side.
"Was everything well today?" Valarr asks ser Donnel, finally able to escape a small council his father wanted him to attend but that seemed to last an eternity.
The Kingsguard clears his throat, and Valarr's attention narrows on him like lightning striking a tree.
"What happened? Where is my wife?"
The knight shakes his head.
"Nothing happened, my prince, your wife is quite fine and resting in her chambers. It's just, ah, she seemed rather upset today at the harbor."
"Why?" Valarr's voice is a low, dangerous growl. "Did someone try to attack you? Was someone unkind to her?"
"Not that I saw, my prince, no, but she cried the whole way home."
It doesn't take Valarr long to push open the door to your room. When you look up, cheeks streaked with tears and eyes puffy, he feels his body lunging forward without him having to command it. It's all instinct, his hands that reach to caress your face first, then move down your body looking for an injury.
"Are you hurt?"
You blink at him, then can't help a quiet, crystalline laugh of broken glass.
"I am not injured, husband," you say, grabbing his wrists to stop his fruitless searching.
You sigh, putting your forehead to his, and Valarr lets you, frozen in place, desperate to provide you with whatever it is you need.
"There was a merchant from— home. He sold flowers I had not smelled since I left, flowers that grew in our garden." Another quiet laugh. "I fear even you cannot shield me from homesickness, dearest husband."
That explanation does not satisfy him. He wipes your tears away with the gentlest of hands, a prince undone by your crying.
"If you know their name, I will have them planted in the Red Keep." He presses a kiss to your eyelids, and is relieved to see a smile has made its way on your lips. "Is there anything else you wish for? Fabrics or perfumes? Jewels or—"
You stop him with a finger to his lips, stop to trace their shape. He feels himself melt under your touch.
"It cannot be bought, what I am missing."
Valarr stares at you. He isn't used to problems without solutions, not with the strength of the Targaryen apparatus and the crown's treasure behind him. He knows to use them sparingly, certainly, but he knows that he can solve things. Yet now, he is brought to his knees by your tears and there is nothing he can do to quench them.
"We will visit," he says.
He doesn't think about it before the words slip past his lips, yet he knows the moment they do that he means them. It matters not that he is the heir to the crown; what matters is that his wife is crying, and he will do anything he must to shield her from this pain that ails her.
"I will bring you back home," he promises, an oath whispered into your mouth.
For now, all he can do is hold you, tightly clutching your body to his. One day, he prays quietly into the night, he will become your home.
And you will never have to cry again.
AERION
Aerion's protectiveness is tightly intertwined with ego and possessiveness. In the early days of your marriage, when he'd made his distaste of you clear, he would still not suffer any insult to you that could be read as disrespect towards him. You might not have the blood of the dragon running through your veins, but you bore his last name and shared his bed when he allowed it. When a noble woman mocks your birth to please him, he is swift and cruel; she leaves in tears.
It has nothing to do with you.
When you pique his interest and he discovers the joys of toying with you, protectiveness means mine. You're his to torment, no one else's. He finds it delightful, discovering what makes your eyes spark in anger, what makes your lip quiver, what leads you to hide a smirk behind your hand, as ill-conceived insults tend to. When a drunken lord claims that you must be barren or repulse your husband, after a year of marriage with no children, and your eyes shine with tears, Aerion joins him on the training grounds the next day; he breaks his wrist and shatters his ankle.
His rage, he tells himself, has everything to do with him.
You fall from your horse in Lys, having followed him in exile. He isn't there to see it happen, but he does see you approaching the house, riding in the back of a cart like a peasant. The useless knight he'd tasked with ensuring you wouldn't throw yourself at another man, as he's heard happens often in the Free City, isn't far behind, guiding your horse back into the courtyard.
Aerion is waiting for you on the steps when you arrive, hands behind his back, disdainful expression on his face. You don't need to brace yourself from his ire anymore — you've learned to let it slide of you.
"Did you fall? Surely, you are too old to think clumsiness would be endearing?"
"Believe it or not, husband, I did not throw myself off a horse for your attention," you sigh, tentatively putting a foot to the ground.
He watches critically when you try to stand. You let out a yelp when your second foot touches the floor and immediately lift it up again. Your knight takes a step towards; Aerion holds out a hand.
"Do not touch her."
He sees your jaw tightening. Your eyes focus on him, but you don't glare at him — you know better. You're guarded, worried.
"Will you force me to hop to the maester on one foot, husband?"
He is pleased by the sensible amount of fear in your voice. Good. You know who you are dealing with.
"Why did you fall?"
You draw in a sharp breath. Your pain makes it harder to hide your annoyance.
"There were fire-eaters in town. My horse got scared."
Aerion tuts, stepping closer to you.
"You will need more lessons. You should have known how to control her."
Before you need to bite your tongue to hold back an answer, his hand reaches under your knee while the other comes to encircle your torso. He lifts you up with little effort, and you heave a sigh of relief, holding on to his shoulders.
"Perhaps a horse with a mellower temperament would be more suited to your— abilities, too."
The knight walks towards him, arms outstretched.
"My prince, please, don't burden yourself, I'll—"
"I will cut any finger that you lay on her," Aerion says matter-of-factly. "Do not touch her, and go fetch a maester."
This time, the man knows better than to challenge him.
"You will need a better escort, too," Aerion keeps going, starting to walk you through the house. "One who can anticipate such issues. As for the fire-eaters, I will be magnanimous and only require that they be whipped."
"There really is no need—"
"People break their backs falling from horses. That would be unacceptable."
He holds you tighter than he needs, and you don't know if it's a comfort to you. He keeps blurring the lines, contradicting his words with his actions, switching between soft lips and sharp teeth like it's second nature.
"Thank you," you whisper when he drops you on your bed, and he goes very still, looking at you so intensely you worry you'll melt from the heat of his gaze.
He says nothing.
Later, when he watches the maester manipulates your ankle and nearly breaks the man's arm when you cry out in pain, he has a hard time keeping up the charade.
This might have everything to do with you after all.
listen daeron just makes me so sad i can't seem to write him having a good time. the other ones get to act chivalrous or, if they're aerion, be vaguely nice and act like a dick about it the whole time. meanwhile daeron is just having the worst time of his life, except it is his life. i'm sorry.
on another note, would love to know if these worked for you and if you enjoyed the characterization! i'm also curious what length is better in your opinion for imagines like these. they feel a tad long to me but i'd love to know what you think. also lmk if you'd like a 'daddies edition' with lyonel, baelor and mayyyybe maekar. comments and reblogs are all the remuneration authors get, so if you like my work and want to encourage me, don't hesitate to do either <3 i'll get back to working on guilty as sin now and i'll see you soon!
I’m sorry it took me a long time to answer you I got the notification late at night and fully forgot to answer you in the morning 😭 Adore Kara but don’t know her that well outside from the recent movie, I really want to dig into the comics to find out more about her!
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'A popular fanfic author stopped updating her fic because she said that the stress of being constantly falsely accused of using AI was a witch hunt and it was destroying her mental health to the extent that she needed to take a break from writing, leading to multiple online discussions defending her and debates about AI accusations and how You Can't Really Tell So Leave Her Alone, and then someone realised that there were Claude coding artefacts in her fics and that it was a super pervasive problem in that particular fandom, proven definitively by looking at the source coding of each work on AO3, and she denied it for a bit but then ultimately admitted that oopsie, she had been using genAI all along, and then she deleted all of her fics off AO3 and people got mad because they were being denied access to their favourite fics, even though they now knew definitively that they were genAI slop, and then it turned out that she'd actually stopped updating the fic on AO3 in the first place because she'd been shopping it around to agents and editors as an original work with the serial numbers filed off, and she'd been in conversations with a publisher which ultimately got dropped because she'd lied to them about her AI use' oh cool, so we're in Hell, then
Let me be clear: if you use AI to write fanfic, paticularly if you do so in the hopes of snapping up a tradpub deal off the basis of the popularity of your worthless slop, then you are an absolute grade A ding-dong, and may the vengeful spirits of our beloved Spirk Elders haunt you via the medium of perpetual papercuts forevermore.
That is so extremely valid, and truly I wish that I had not myself plunged into the depths and seen the truth of the Leviathan (a gigantic plastic fish effigy that's broken off a derelict Fish & Chip shop and washed into the Atlantic: a harbinger of doom in its own synthetic tongue)
So many lessons in fandom and life boil down to make your own works for love of the game, don't go looking for ways to be an asshole to people, don't lie when people ask you something that challenges you to be better, and don't fucking cheat.
