g

a soft sigh left your lips as you shifted, a slight, unconscious wiggle to get closer. the movement was small, but it was enough. you felt it against your thigh-

a thick, insistent heat pressing through the thin fabric of your sleep underclothes. he was already half-hard, a common, comforting morning occurrence.

in his sleep, dunk grumbled, a low, gravelly sound of protest. his arm tightened, pulling you flush against him, his face nuzzling deeper into your hair. he wasn't waking, not really, just reacting on pure instinct.

you lay still for a moment, letting the sleepy haze settle back over you.

then a low hum rumbled in his chest, part question, part contentment.

his hand began to move. it slid down over the curve of your ass. then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your underclothes, tugging them down just enough. he didn't bother with finesse, just a sleepy, determined need.

"…only goin’ to warm myself, yeah?" he murmured quietly.

he shifted you both, a slow, maneuvering roll until you were straddling his hips, your knees bracketing his torso. you were still leaning forward, your chest against his, your face buried in the warm skin of his neck. he guided himself to your entrance, and with a slow, deliberate lift of his hips, he sank into you, inch by thick, perfect inch.

a choked moan escaped you, muffled against his skin. he filled you completely, the angle deep and overwhelming. he stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt, just letting you both adjust to the sensation.

"shhhh…"

his hands came up to rest on your lower back, holding you in place.

then he began to move. it wasn't a frantic pace, but a slow, deep, upward roll of his hips. he was fucking up into you, a lazy, powerful rhythm that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your already sleep-dazed body. each thrust was a slow, deliberate drag, a sweet, torturous build.

you were still mostly asleep, lost in a haze of sensation, but your body knew what to do. you began to move with him, a slow, grinding rock of your hips that met his lazy thrusts.

a soft whimper escaped your lips, and you felt his hand gently push back the stray baby hairs from your forehead, his touch impossibly tender. his voice was a low, rough murmur right next to your ear.

"shh... r'you awake now, sweetgirl? hmm?"

you could only make a small, incoherent sound in response, your mind too foggy with pleasure to form words.

"s'okay, s'okay," he soothed, his hips maintaining that perfect, maddening rhythm. "i've got you..."

his hands roamed your body, tracing the curve of your spine, squeezing the flesh of your hips. he was worshiping you, even in his sleep-addled state. every slow thrust was a declaration, every touch a promise.

"aye, i’ve got you," he whispered, his voice thick with awe. "taking me so good."

the pleasure was building, a slow, coiling heat in your core that was more potent for its languid pace. he was fucking you awake, gently, sweetly, turning your sleepy dreams into a vibrant, breathless reality. you could feel your release approaching, not like a tidal wave, but like the slow, inevitable rising of the tide.

his hand slid from your back to between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with a firm, steady pressure that was the opposite of the rhythm of his hips.

that was all it took.

your orgasm broke over you, a long, shuddering wave of pleasure that left you gasping his name against his neck. your walls clenched around him, and he followed you with a deep, shuddering groan, his hips pressing flush against yours as he found his own release, pumping warm loads of cum inside you.

for a long while, you just lay there, collapsed on his chest, his body still buried deep inside yours. you were both breathing heavily, the room filled with the sounds of your recovery. his hands were stroking your back in long, soothing passes.

you were fully awake now, every nerve ending alight and humming with satisfaction. you felt cherished, loved, utterly and completely his.

"goodmorrow," he finally mumbled, his voice a low, satisfied rumble in his chest.

you laughed, a breathy, happy sound, and lifted your head to look at him. his eyes were soft, a sleepy, loving blue.

"the best morrow."

“Aerion,” you say gently, stepping closer, tone smooth as silk. “Is this truly the best use of your time?”

His gaze sharpens at once.

You once told him privately, that acting like a petulant child in front of his brothers was beneath him.

You had not raised your voice. You had not scolded. You had simply looked disappointed. He has never quite recovered from it.

Now he straightens in his chair.

“I was merely correcting Maekar,” he says coolly.

Maekar exhales slowly through his nose.

“Of course,” you reply. “But correcting someone and baiting them are not the same skill. You are capable of the former.”

There’s a beat.

Baelor watches this exchange like a man witnessing sorcery.

Aerion’s mouth twitches in displeasure. He studies you carefully, as if weighing something.

Then, astonishingly, he stands.

“I find myself suddenly uninterested in this conversation,” he announces.

Maekar closes his eyes briefly in gratitude.

Aerion steps toward you instead, offering his arm with exaggerated courtliness.

“Walk with me.”

You take it.

Behind you, Baelor mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Seven blessings upon Highgarden.”

It becomes a pattern after that.

If Aerion is particularly unbearable, someone sends for you.

If you are already there, Maekar will shift just enough to catch your eye and raise one brow in silent appeal.

Once, Aerion is deliberately prodding Maekar about swordsmanship when Maekar interrupts himself mid-sentence, glances at a passing page, and says flatly:

“Go fetch Lady Tyrell.”

Aerion freezes.

“You would summon my wife like a nursemaid?” he demands.

Maekar meets his eyes.

“Yes.”

Later, in private, he is different. He paces your chambers at first, restless energy simmering beneath his skin.

“They provoke me,” he says, irritated. “They treat me as if I am some unruly boy.”

“You sometimes behave like one. Not because you truly are, but to provoke them,” you reply mildly.

He stops mid-step. Turns. Studies you.

Then, instead of snapping, he crosses the room and drops onto the cushioned bench beside you.

“I do not,” he says, but there is less fire in it.

You arch a brow. He huffs.

After a goblet or two of wine, the sharpness blurs at the edges. His posture relaxes. The anger drains into something warmer, heavier.

He leans closer. Then closer still. Until his forehead rests lightly against your waist where you sit.

It is almost absurdly domestic. If anyone else saw it, they would never believe it. He exhales slowly, arms sliding around you.

“My precious rose,” he murmurs, voice low and slightly slurred. “You are the only one who understands anything.”

Your fingers drift into his hair automatically.

He makes a pleased, low sound at that.

“They are all tedious,” he continues into the fabric of your gown. “They posture. They scold. They misunderstand me entirely.”

“You do give them reasons,” you say gently.

He tilts his head up just enough to look at you, silver hair catching candlelight.

“I do not need to give you reasons,” he says. “You already know.”

“I love you,” he adds suddenly.

It is blunt. Fierce.

Then, because he is Aerion, because he cannot leave sincerity untouched by something unhinged, he adds in a low murmur against your stomach:

“I love the way you feel. And you have the warmest cunt I've ever known.”

You press your palm gently over his mouth before he can spiral further into scandalous detail.

He laughs against your hand. But he does not pull away.

Instead, he nuzzles back into your waist like a spoiled, dangerous creature that has chosen you as its favorite place to rest.

And for a little while, the dragon sleeps.

You never meant to get drunk yourself. You had never allowed yourself. You'd drink a bit and then pretend you were tipsy to stop. But Aerion was away. For once, you didn’t have to measure every word, every breath, every expression.

It had started as one cup of wine, then another, poured a little too generously by a lady-in-waiting who was relieved to see you smile for once. For once, you let yourself loosen.

Your cheeks were warm. Your limbs felt pleasantly heavy. You laughed too loud at something that wasn’t especially funny and had to press your hand to your mouth, startled by your own sound.

It felt dangerous. It felt wonderful. You were halfway through convincing yourself that you deserved it when a servant appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and posture stiff.

“My lady,” he said carefully. “Prince Aerion has returned. He requests your presence in his chambers.”

The warmth in your blood vanished.

Now. Of course it was now.

You considered, just for a moment, sending word that you were unwell. The excuse sat on your tongue, ready.

But you’d already used it up. More than once.

Aerion would not like that pattern.

So you rose, smoothing your skirts, and made your way down the corridors with one hand brushing the stone walls, just in case. You walked slowly, carefully, counting your steps, focusing too hard on placing one foot in front of the other.

Don’t sway. Don’t laugh. Don’t slur.

By the time you reached his door, you had almost convinced yourself you were fine.

Almost.

He was already inside, pacing when you entered. He turned at the sound of the door, eyes snapping to you.

“You’re late,” Aerion said.

“Am I?” you asked, meaning to sound light.

It came out softer than intended.

He narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing, stepping closer.

“Come here.”

You obeyed.

At first, he didn’t notice. Not really. His hands came to your waist, his gaze intent in the familiar way, his attention fixed on what he wanted, not on how steady you were on your feet. He pressed his face to your chest and started tugging at the gown to take it off.

It was only when you spoke again that he paused.

“Aer...” You caught yourself too late. “Aerion.”

The name slid, just a little. He stilled.

Slowly, his eyes lifted to your face, studying you more carefully now.

“You sound strange,” he said. “Have you been drinking?”

“No,” you lied, immediately. Too quickly. Then, after a beat, you added, softer, “Only a little.”

His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“A little,” he repeated. “You choose interesting times to forget yourself, wife.”

You braced for anger.

It didn’t come.

Instead, his grip tightened.

“If you can walk, you can serve your purpose,” Aerion said coolly.

He didn’t send you away.

He took what he came for anyway, uncaring of your flushed face or unsteady breath, the world narrowing to heat and pressure and the familiar, consuming rhythm of being his. He was murmuring something about you not even being able to lift your hips for him as he thrusted into you, but you couldn't find it within yourself to care.

You let yourself go pliant, let the wine blur the edges of it, let the moment carry you through.

By the time it was over, you were boneless, sprawled where he left you, head heavy, thoughts loose and drifting.

He was satisfied enough to stay beside you. That was when he started asking questions, testing ones, as if he realized you'd be easier to toy with in this state.

“Who did you speak to tonight?” Aerion asked, propped on one elbow, eyes intent.

“My ladies,” you said, honestly. “And Lady Fossoway. She complained about her husband again.”

“Did you complain about me?”

You blinked slowly. “No. I said you were…very busy. Important.”

A pause.

“That was wise,” he said.

Another test.

“What did the smallfolk say when you passed the kitchens yesterday?”

“That you’re fearsome,” you answered, faint smile tugging at your mouth. “And that I’m pretty. They like me.”

He huffed softly. “As they should.”

Each answer, by some miracle, landed just right. Not too bold. Not too timid. Not dangerous.

Then he went quiet for a moment.

His fingers traced idly along your arm, slower now, more thoughtful.

“Did you ever dream of this?” Aerion asked suddenly. “When you were a little girl.” His eyes searched your face. “Did you dream of marrying a Targaryen? Of being a dragon’s bride. A princess.”

Normally, you would have known exactly what to say.

Normally, you would have lied beautifully.

But the wine was still warm in your veins. You were tired. You were loose. You were honest in a way you never were with him.

“No,” you said.

He stilled.

“No?” Aerion echoed.

You nodded, very seriously. “I wanted to marry a baker.”

Silence.

A long, baffled silence.

“A…baker,” he repeated slowly.

“Yes,” you said, as if it made perfect sense. “I thought that meant I’d have infinite cakes. Every day. I was very serious about it.”

For a heartbeat, you thought he might be angry.

Instead, he just stared at you.

Then, incredibly, he laughed. Short, sharp, disbelieving.

“A baker,” Aerion said again, shaking his head. “Seven hells. I marry a lady to find out all she wanted is bread.”

You smiled, drowsy and unapologetic. “Cake is very important.”

He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to be offended or entertained.

“…You are a strange woman,” he decided.

But there was amusement in his eyes. Real amusement.

He shook his head once more, then settled back against the pillows, pulling you closer by habit, by claim, by something that resembled affection.

“Sleep,” Aerion ordered, quieter now. “Before you say something that actually gets you in trouble.”

You closed your eyes, smiling faintly to yourself.

For once, drunk enough to tell the truth. For once, lucky enough that the truth was just ridiculous enough to save you.

Homesickness does not suit you.

It lingers in the way you stare too long out the windows toward nothing. In the way your laughter fades too quickly. In how your letters from Highgarden are folded and unfolded until they wrinkle.

Aerion notices. At first, he ignores it. He assumes it will pass. You are his wife. You live in King’s Landing now. That is the way of things.

But then you sigh too often. You grow quieter. You smile less at him. That, more than anything, irritates him.

“You mope,” Aerion says one evening, watching you from across the chamber. “It is tedious.”

You lift your gaze slowly. “I am not moping.”

“You are,” he replies coolly. “You look like a widow at her own funeral.”

You almost laugh at that, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I miss home,” you admit.

The words hang there.

He doesn’t like them.

Home is here. With him. It should be.

But you look smaller when you say it. Softer. Not defiant. Just lonely. It unsettles him in a way he refuses to examine.

“Then go,” he snaps abruptly.

You blink.

“Go to the Reach. Visit your precious roses and your fields and your tedious little songs.”

You stare at him, startled.

“Truly?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes. Go. Be done with this melancholy. I will not have a wife who looks as though she is being slowly poisoned.”

You hesitate. “I would not be long.”

“Good,” he says sharply. “Do not be.”

You promise it will be brief. You kiss him before you leave. He does not realize that the absence will begin the moment the carriage wheels roll out of sight.

The first night without you is…tolerable.

He tells himself so.

The bed is too large, yes, but he stretches across it like a king claiming territory. He tells himself the quiet is welcome. That your soft breathing is not something he has grown used to.

He sleeps poorly.

The second night is worse.

He wakes instinctively, reaching for warmth that is not there. His hand meets empty sheets. He scowls at them like they’ve betrayed him.

By the third night, the irritation has sharpened into something restless and unpleasant.

He prowls his chambers. He snaps at servants. He drinks more than usual. He imagines you laughing in gardens that are not his. Surrounded by people who knew you before him. People who might look at you too long. The thought coils low and ugly in his stomach.

By the fifth night, he is furious. At you. At himself. At the fact that the absence of your body beside him feels like a missing limb.

It is intolerable. So he does what he has done before you.

He goes to Flea Bottom.

The brothel keeper recognizes him instantly. She bows too deeply. Smiles too widely.

“What does my prince desire tonight?”

Aerion does not hesitate.

“A silver-haired girl,” he says coldly. “Valyrian blood. I know you have them.”

She does.

There is always some bastard with pale hair in King’s Landing. A remnant of conquest. A discarded proof of Targaryen appetites.

They bring one to him.

She is pretty enough. Silver hair, wide eyes, trembling hands. She smells heavily of perfume: sweet, cloying, wrong.

He barely looks at her face.

He takes what he wants. Or tries to. Something is off.

Her noises are too loud. Too practiced. Too eager. They grate on his nerves.

“Quiet,” he snaps.

She squeaks and apologizes.

Her hands cling too tightly. Her scent suffocates him.

It is not right. She does not feel right.

He withdraws abruptly, disgusted.

“Out,” he says.

She scurries away.

He sits there, breathing hard, cock aching, irritation rising like bile.

This has never happened before. He is Aerion Targaryen. He does not fail to perform.

He tries again with another girl. Still nothing. He feels nothing but annoyance. He leaves in a foul mood.

The next night, he returns. This time he does not ask for silver hair. He searches. He studies faces in dim candlelight.

Too tall. Too loud. Too bold. Too broken. Too knowing.

He finally finds one newly brought in, quiet, uncertain. From behind, in shadow, she resembles you enough.

She doesn’t know much. That suits him. You hadn’t either.

He positions her carefully, deliberately, as if angles alone might conjure something.

He closes his eyes. His thrusts are shallow. He tries to imagine your scent.

You always smell faintly of flowers, but never like roses. Something subtler. Something that lingers at the back of his throat.

He imagines your voice. Your small gasps. The way you tense, then melt. His pace increases.

But when he opens his eyes, it is not you.

It is a stranger. And again, he cannot finish. There's only frustration. Only a growing, humiliating fury.

He pulls away sharply.

The girl looks confused.

He barely tosses a silver coin to the brothel keeper on his way out.

“Your girls are either too broken in,” he mutters coldly, “or not broken in enough.”

He stalks back through the streets, seething. Because now he understands. It is not about silver hair. It is not about inexperience. It is not about resemblance.

It is you. It is the fact that you are his. That no one else has touched you. That he is the only one who knows the shape of you. The only one who has ever had you. The thought hits him like a blade through pride.

He prefers you.

Not merely because you are his wife. But because you are untouched by anyone but him. Because your body answers to him alone.

The realization is infuriating. And undeniable. He returns to his chambers in a temper. The bed is still too large.

Your pillow still carries the faintest trace of your scent.

He grabs it without thinking. Presses his face into it. Breathes in.

There it is.

Home.

Without allowing himself to examine the desperation of it, he drags the pillow beneath him and finally, finally, finds the release that eluded him all night.

Afterward, he collapses, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling in disbelief. The pillow is stained.

You have done something to him.

You must have.

When you return from the Reach, you look brighter. Healthier.

You greet him warmly, stepping into his arms without hesitation.

He grips you too tightly.

You laugh softly. “I was not gone that long.”

“Long enough,” he mutters darkly.

That night, when the doors close and you begin to speak of Highgarden, of your cousins, of the gardens in bloom...

He cuts you off abruptly.

“You are a witch,” he declares.

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve broken something.”

Your brows knit in confusion. “Broken what?”

He steps closer, eyes sharp, accusatory.

“My cock,” he says bluntly.

You stare at him, completely lost.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You leave for a handful of nights,” he continues, agitated, “and suddenly nothing works properly. It is unnatural.”

You gape at him.

“I do not...”

“You have bewitched me,” he insists. “There is no other explanation. Did you slip something in my wine?”

You try very hard not to laugh.

“I assure you,” you say carefully, “I possess no such powers.”

He narrows his eyes at you, unconvinced.

Then, without another word, he grabs your hand and pulls you toward the bed.

“Aerion...”

“You were gone,” he says, voice low and heated. “You will remedy that.”

You blink at him, still bewildered.

He does not explain. He does not confess. He doesn't tell you where he had been.

He simply drags you down with him, urgency amplified by days of frustration and wounded pride.

And when he finally proves to himself that nothing is broken, when your body responds exactly the way it always has, when he finds exactly what he had been missing, when he groans at the familiar taste of your skin and cums with no difficulty, he exhales in blatant relief.

Afterward, he presses his face into your neck, breathing you in like something sacred.

“You are not permitted to leave again,” he mutters.

He does not tell you where he went. He does not tell you what he failed to do. His pride would not allow him.

He simply holds you closer, possessive and vindicated, as if daring the world to try separating you again.

And the dragon, once deprived of his rose, does not care to sleep alone again.

He is still half-draped over you. Still flushed. Still breathing hard. Still in that dangerous, heightened state where pride and pleasure blur together.

Your fingers drift up into his hair almost absently.

You’ve learned the exact spot at the back of his head, where the tension gathers. The place he pretends not to care about. The place that makes his eyes go half-lidded when you scratch just right.

You rake your nails lightly over his scalp.

“My dragon.”

He inhales sharply.

It is subtle but you feel it. The way his body tightens again against you. The way his grip on your waist falters for half a second before tightening twice as hard. His cock lengthens and twitches against your thigh.

Whores in Flea Bottom say it differently.

They lean into the word 'dragon' like it’s a performance. A crown they’re polishing. Something to inflate him.

You don’t. You emphasize the other word. 'My'.

As if him being a dragon is simply a fact. As if the extraordinary thing is that he belongs to you.

It almost undoes him.

He presses his face into the crook of your neck like he’s trying to hide the reaction, which only makes it more obvious. His hand clenches in the sheets beside your hip. He swears under his breath, breath hot against your skin.

“I was going to punish you,” he says suddenly, as if remembering himself. “For leaving.”

You blink at him mildly.

“You told me to go.”

“That is irrelevant,” he replies flatly.

Of course it is.

He traces his thumb along your jaw, gaze narrowing.

“I thought about taking out my knife,” he continues, voice turning dark, theatrical in the way he sometimes gets when he wants to shock you. “Fuck you with its handle. Bleed you a little. Thought I might teach you not to abandon me again.”

You don’t flinch. You’ve learned better.

Instead, you tilt your head and say sweetly, “How merciful of you to reconsider.”

He stares at you. Then laughs, sudden and bright.

“You are either very brave,” he says, “or very clever.”

“Both,” you reply calmly.

His grin widens.

“Perhaps I am feeling generous,” he decides. “You have returned. You remembered your place.”

You lift your brows slightly at that but say nothing.

He slides his fingers along your lips instead, testing, playful in that sharp-edged way of his.

“Prove your gratitude,” he murmurs.

You know exactly what he wants.

You part your lips without hesitation, gaze steady on his.

He watches you like a hawk. He draws circles your tongue, then pushes his fingers a little too far, testing your composure.

You bite him.

He jerks back with a startled laugh.

“You little rose,” he says, shaking his hand slightly, more amused than hurt. “You dare.”

“You shoved,” you reply, smiling lazily.

He studies your face for a long moment.

Then, suddenly, he smirks.

“Tell me,” Aerion murmurs, brushing his thumb along your lower lip, “have you ever wanted to ride a dragon?”

You blink at him, confused.

“I beg your pardon?”

His grin widens, dangerous, playful.

“Up,” he says, shifting back onto his heels and tugging you gently with him.

You go willingly, though uncertain, heart pounding as he guides you to straddle him. He settles back against the pillows like a king granting audience, hands sliding to your hips.

You freeze there, perched above him, unsure what to do with your hands, your legs, your entire body.

He tilts his head, silver hair spilling across the sheets.

“Is my rose afraid?” he croons mockingly. “You climb into a dragon’s lap and do not know how to sit?”

You flush.

“I don’t...”

“Of course you don’t,” he interrupts softly. “You’ve always lain there so prettily. Letting me do the work.”

He squeezes your hips.

“I’ll teach you,” he murmurs. “My pure little rosebud needs to know how to satisfy her husband.”

Your breath catches.

His hands begin to guide you, slow, purposeful movements, coaxing rather than commanding. At first you move awkwardly, uncertain, stiff with self-consciousness.

He chuckles.

“Relax,” he says. “You’re not made of glass.”

You glare faintly at him. He likes that.

“Better,” he murmurs when you shift again, finding a rhythm. His hands loosen slightly, giving you space.

Something changes then.

For the first time, you are not waiting. Not anticipating. Not lying still and hoping he will notice where you need him most.

You can feel the difference in control, subtle, intoxicating.

You adjust experimentally.

He inhales sharply. His fingers tighten.

“Careful,” he warns, though his voice is thick with approval.

You tilt your chin up just slightly and try again.

This time, he lets you.

You imitate the movements he taught you, then alter them, chasing the sensation that sparks lower in your belly. Testing what pleases you instead of waiting to be granted it.

His gaze darkens.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”

There’s pride there. Possessive and unmistakable.

When you find a rhythm that makes you gasp softly, he laughs low in his throat.

“My proper little whore,” he says, pleased rather than cruel. “Learning so quickly.”

You should bristle at that word.

Instead, heat floods your cheeks, and you move again.

He leans back further, watching you like you’re a performance crafted solely for him. His hands drift to your waist but do not control you, not yet.

It changes something between you. After that night, something shifts in private.

You are no longer content to wait.

He has never been restrained, Aerion’s hands were never idle to begin with, but now, sometimes, you approach him first.

One evening, when he sits reviewing letters, you step between his knees without a word.

He glances up.

“Bold,” he observes.

You don’t answer. You simply climb into his lap.

He watches you settle there, skirts rustling, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

“You’ve grown ambitious,” he murmurs.

“Have I?” you reply softly.

His grin is slow and approving. He does not stop you.

When you move against him, unhurried, he exhales through his nose like a man trying to maintain composure.

“You are drawing this out on purpose,” he accuses.

You give him an innocent look.

He lasts longer than most men would. But not forever.

Eventually, his patience snaps in that familiar way. His hands grip your hips and he lifts you slightly, setting the pace himself, snapping his hips up into you.

“I taught you,” he reminds you darkly. “Do not think you outrank the dragon.”

You laugh softly but don’t retreat. You’ve learned something important: he likes being wanted almost as much as he likes being worshipped. And when you lean in, brush your lips against his ear, and whisper, “My dragon,” in that same tone that makes him shudder, he is utterly, completely yours in that moment, and he doesn’t mind at all.

Full series: Growing Strong, Married Life, Growing Familiar , Deep in the Meadow and Dragon Dreams, Perzys ānogār. Can be read as a oneshots.

a/n: These scenerios wouldn't leave my head hehe. Comment if you want to be added to Aerion or Targaryens taglist.

you fell asleep quickly, exhausted. but in the middle of the night, you shifted, seeking warmth. you curled up on his side, your back to him, your legs tangling with his. as you drifted deeper into sleep, your ass rubbed against his crotch.

he didn't move. he just lay there, frozen.

a low, quiet, guttural groan vibrated through his chest and into your back. he was now massively hard and pressing against you, hot and insistent.

he tried to shift away, to put distance between you, but he was trapped. he got up and started pacing the small room, his bare feet padding around the floorboards. he couldn't sleep. he couldn't think. every time he closed his eyes, he felt you against him. he needed to get this out of his system. he needed to touch himself.

the moonlight filtered through the slats of the shutters, casting long, pale shadows across the bed.

you were asleep, a tangled mess of limbs and sheets, your breath soft and rhythmic against the pillow.

his gaze was fixed on you, a bit weary but still heavy.

the flimsy silk of your nightdress had twisted during the night, the fabric riding up high on your thigh or slipping off one shoulder entirely. an arc of your breast peeked out from the silk, the nipple already hardening in the cool air. you looked so innocent, so trusting in your sleep, completely unaware that you were being devoured by the man lying next to you.

he should have turned away. a proper knight would have averted his eyes, offering his lady privacy and respect. but he wasn't a proper knight tonight. he was a man starving for a taste of what he couldn't have, and the sight of you was driving him mad.

he reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he moved. his rough, calloused fingers hooked into the twisted silk of your dress, and with a slow, deliberate, careful tug, he pulled it aside completely.

your breath hitched in your sleep, but you didn't wake. you just shifted, pressing your cheek into the pillow, giving him even better access. the sight of your soft skin made his throat go dry.

"you're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice a ragged growl in the silence. he ran his hand over your hip, his thumb tracing the curve of your waist, his touch possessive and rough. he squeezed the soft flesh, his eyes drinking in the sight of you.

he needed more. he needed to feel you. he shifted his body, angling himself closer, his hand sliding down to his hard, throbbing cock. he wrapped his fingers around it, the friction sending a jolt of pleasure through his body.

"mngh-" he began to stroke himself, his eyes never leaving your peaceful sleeping face.

the sound of his hand moving up and down his shaft was loud in the quiet room, a wet, slapping sound that echoed in the darkness. he watched the way your chest rose and fell, the way your lips parted in sleep. he wondered what it would feel like to kiss them softly, to hear them say you loved him, to have your perfect lips wrapped around the tip of his cock…

he picked up the pace, his hand moving faster on his cock, his hips bucking against his fist. the pleasure built quickly, a hot coil in his belly. he wanted to come while watching you, to paint his seed across your skin while you slept. "perfect girl…perfect fucking girl…what have you done ’ta me?" he mumbled to himself as quietly as he could.

with a final, guttural moan, he came, his seed spurting onto his huge hand and onto the sheets, right next to your sleeping form. he watched the white seed mix with the sweat on his skin.

he leaned back, his chest heaving, and watched you sleep. he felt so terrible about doing this without you knowing, he felt like such a coward for not telling you how he feels and wants nothing more than to love you in every form.

though rumors sprouted that aerion only became a bachelor because he angered his father, which seemed very plausible. you'd never met your future husband before the ceremony, and he was just as expected.

aerion rarely spared you a glance throughout the ceremony, and even when the two of you were forced to kiss, he pulled away immediately afterward, muttering curses beneath his breath, then he left the altar entirely.

maekar rolled his eyes at his son as he did it, then he glanced at you and nodded at aerion, as if he wanted you to follow. of course, you didn't, and maekar sneered and took your place behind aerion, yelling for the guests to move to the great hall for feasting.

even as your family greeted you during the feast, all you could think about was aerion, sitting beside you, wearing immaculately tailored red-and-black velvet, his fingers spinning marbles, face placid as he watched the guests dance.

you were still in your heavy, dornish wedding dress, sweat accumulating on your brow, your chest rising and falling with every breath as you tried to draw oxygen into your lungs.

"must you breathe like a fucking cow?" aerion spat out, turning to you abruptly as he slammed the marbles down, ignoring the way they rolled and crashed to the ground.

you gave aerion a minuscule glance, hand against your torso, heart speeding into a panicked beat. the last thing you needed in the moment was his childish temper. all eyes were on you, even when it seemed like they were not.

the people expected you to burst, act out, lose your ladyship, and that outcome was approaching faster than you wanted it to. instead, you would've liked your outburst to be in the comfort of your marriage bedchamber, beside aerion—unfortunately.

"my dress is tight, i'm beside a fucking child who is now my husband, and people keep whispering about my fucking breasts, so no, i can't." aerion recoiled at your words, his eyebrows raising, then he shrugged, "that is unfortunate." he glanced down at your breasts in the process, noticing how they were spilling from your corset.

when he was done examining you, he turned forward once more, leaving you to your devices. so, reaching behind yourself, you began pulling at the ties of your dress. by that point, air was whistling in and out of your mouth, and maekar was looking down the table, noticing your frantic movements, though your attempts were poor in there subtly.

"what the fuck is the issue?" maekar spat, tossing a piece of beef at aerion. it hit the prince on the cheek, and he glared at his father, "she can't breathe, and there's no need for you to throw shit!"

"then help her!" aerion rolled his eyes and turned to you, grabbing your arm to twist you in your chair. he began ripping at the laces of your corset, fingers wiggling.

"what a way to be subtle." you ignored his words, inhaling a deep, calming breath, then snatching the bottle of dornish wine off the table and pouring it into your cup.

"everything they say about you is true." you only said it to strike a nerve, and it worked, because aerion turned to you, lips curled into a sneer. "and what do they say about me, wife?"

"don't tell me you don't know, husband?" you matched his stare, noticing the way his hand curled into a fist, muscles working in his arm. aerion cleared his throat to draw your attention, "i care little for what the small folk think of me."

you grinned and shrugged, "it is the highborn too." aerion hummed and shook his head, though you could see his jaw in an ironclad clench. "that woman is whispering about you." he said, pointing lazily at a woman sitting at a table with a few ladies, noticeably highborn.

"women always whisper. you're lucky men immediately throw fists. that is if you can fight?" you rested your chin against your hand, watching aerion lazily, and he chuckled, as if the very thought of him not being able to fight was foolish, "of course i can fight."

"how well can you fight, prince? or are you just trying to impress me?" aerion leaned against the table, licking his lips, "i could show you."

you rolled your eyes, "men that hit their wives are weak." aerion scoffed, "that's not what i meant. i thought they said you were smart."

humming, you turned towards him, "what do you propose to show me you can fight?" aerion pointed at a man resting against the wall. he was watching the people dance, a cup of ale in his hand.

"that one." aerion began standing, but your eyes widened and you grabbed his arm, "you're going to beat that man? he's done nothing!" aerion pulled out of your grip and smirked, "i'm only meaning to prove you wrong." he continued pushing out of his seat, but you grabbed his arm once more.

aerion was strong enough to pull you with him, and before you knew it, you were wrapped around his torso, feet dragging, though he was heavily lifting you.

"this is foolish! how do you mean to prove the people wrong if you constantly show how cruel you are?" you spat it heavily, foot clamping down on his, and aerion winced, arms wrapped around your waist.

"i don't care about that." your only other thought was to wrap your arms around his neck. aerion was tugged down, hand lingering on your hip, and you pushed him further into the crowd, "just dance. it is your wedding day after all."

your lips whispered against aerion's ear, and he let out an annoyed sigh, melting in your grip and grabbing your hand, intending to dance. it was awkward at first, pressed against him so firmly, your dress dragging around you, but then, like unclenching fists, you relaxed.

cheek against aerion's chest, you were squeezing the ever living hells out of his hand. a breath exitted your lips, and your eyes closed, reveling in the steady beat of aerion's heart.

"you mean to distract me, but he's staring." aerion whispered. you glanced up at him, and he was grimacing, eyebrows furrowed as he watched behind you. when you looked, the man was watching.

"most people are watching." aerion glanced around and hummed, realizing that that was entirely true. his face relaxed, and he bit his lip, "they will think we are in love." you chuckled, "then they can speak on that instead of my breasts."

it seemed the crowd was muttering a common word by the time you broke out of your bubble with aerion. consummation.

the entire thought of consummation was something you'd thought about for years leading up to your marriage, and although you weren't necessarily nervous, you could see the gleam of annoyance in aerion's gaze.

he glanced down at you, face blank, then he pulled away entirely. back rigid with evidence of stress. maekar was standing when the two of you returned to the table, and it seemed he'd been losing his irritation throughout your dance with aerion.

"it is time to prepare for consummation." he didn't say much else, and as the crowd opened with knowing gazes, that's when the anxiousness set into your bones. aerion was lingering behind you as you walked and you could feel the heat radiating off of him and the steady burn of his eyes on the back of your head.

the inside of the marriage bedchamber was prepped perfectly for consummation: lit candles, pillows fluffed, sheets folded back, and your chambermaid, mary, waiting for you.

aerion split off to prepare for the consummation while you entered. mary immediately began removing your dress, her fingers quick and nimble. then she bathed you, tied your hair up nicely, applied lotions and oils, and helped you step into a silky shift that was entirely too scandalous.

your fingers couldn't stop shaking as you waited for aerion, and not because of the sex, but because you weren't as inexperienced as they expected you to be. all ladies were meant to lose their virginities during consummation, which then made it easy to prove the binding of the husband and wife and make sure the possibility of children was in the near future.

as you were sitting on the edge of the bed, picking at your nails, the door opened and aerion walked in. he was wearing a simple robe, face pulled into a glower. your chambermaid curtsied, but he didn't pay her any attention, immediately leering off to the decanter on the tea table and pouring a heavy bout of wine into a cup.

once mary left, aerion turned to you, and raised his glass mockingly, "cheers to you, wife." you rolled your eyes, watching him guzzle down the entire cup of wine. "are you meaning to get drunk, aerion?"

he shrugged, pouring another, then coming to sit on the bed. "no one ever said you can't be drunk during the consummation."

you eyed him silently, leaning against the pillows, "are you...a virgin?" aerion glanced at you, lips pulled into a frown, "no, i am not."

"then what is the issue?" aerion placed his cup on the nightstand then sighed, "i just don't want to do it. just like i didn't want to marry you."

"you are stubborn." you said matter-of-factly, climbing beneath the sheets. aerion nodded, "and i don't like being ordered around." aerion glanced at you—at the slopes of your hips and the softness of your belly. "you are...pretty." the flatness in his tone made you laugh, "i am not the problem is what you're saying."

he shook his head absentmindedly, "what will happen if i refuse?" you inhaled deeply, thankful for the large bed because it made it easy to avoid his touch. "your father will be angry. word will spread, people may riot, the council will denounce our marriage, we'll become pariahs, more so than before. they will no longer speak of my breasts, but aerion refusing to fuck his wife."

"that is rediculous." he went beneath the covers too and stared ahead at the fireplace, watching the rise and fall of the flames. "let's get it over with then, yes?" you glanced at him and aerion watched you for a second before he nodded, beginning to undo the ties of his robe while you slipped down the bed, knees raised.

you stared at the canopy of the bed, hearing aerion shuffle around before he entered your vision, hands near your head. he was naked, pale chest covered in dark moles and a white brush of hair leading down to his groin. your eyes stopped there, and slid back up to his face.

aerion's lips were puckered, eyebrows furrowed, and he pointed at your chest, "i need something to—" you rolled your eyes, pulling up your shift to reveal your breasts. aerion was silent for a moment, admiring you, but then he nodded stiffly and leaned back, grabbing your thighs.

"i think—" you shook your head, "don't say anything, please." he scoffed, rubbing his dick against your entrance. you were wet enough for him to slip in, but pressure and pain built, and you let out a moan of pain, eyes closing.

"aren't you supposed to bleed?" aerion's voice was clouded with pleasure as he thrust into you. your pain had subsided into mild satisfaction, but it wasn't nearly what you needed to orgasm.

"aerion—" "women bleed when you take their virginity!" he paused, glaring at you, and you sighed, tugging your shift back down and shoving him off of you, "women don't always bleed!"

"oh fucking please! you aren't a virgin are you?" he watched you, awaiting an answer, and you crossed your arms tenaciously, "no, but does it really matter?"

aerion grabbed your arm, "they need confirmation, wife! without the fucking blood, we're as good as fucking dead." you rolled your eyes at his dramatics, "i can still have babes! the blood is the least of our worries."

aerion threw the covers off of himself and stood, ignoring his stark nakedness. "we can worry about the fucking babes later. now, we need blood. is there a blade here?" aerion rummaged through the drawers and you blushed, watching the clench and squeeze of his ass.

he was harder than a rock and leaking precum, and you felt slightly guilty that you'd given him a boner and he couldn't fulfill it properly.

the prince returned a second later with the stake from the fireplace, clenching it tightly as he raised it to his wrist. "you fucking owe me after this, yeah?" you ignored his words, snatching the stake and raising it to your own wrist, "no, you owe me."

aerion glared at you and took the stake, then shoved you aside, causing you to almost fall off of the bed. then he sliced his wrist, and spilt a few drops onto the sheets. when he thought it was enough, he raised his wrist to his mouth.

your heart spiked when the blood dribbled over his lip, staining his pale skin red. and aerion watched you the entire time. "stop staring." you glanced away and motioned to his dick, "what will you do about that?"

aerion climbed back onto the bed, lips red, "it'll fix itself." you raised your eyebrow, arm brushing his as the two of you lied down, "will it?"

‎ꫂ᭪݁

the next morning, mary came to collect the sheets. you were tired from a night in the same bed as aerion. he was terrible in his sleep; moved constantly, muttered words as he dreamt, and couldn't keep his hands off of you, as if you were his personal stuffed animal.

"do you think they'll suspect?" aerion questioned after getting dressed, and you shrugged, "blood is blood, aerion." you were quite surprised at his anxiety when it came to the consummation. maybe your words of wisdom placed fear into his heart, and rightfully so.

"what will you do today?" you questioned in the hall outside the marriage bedchamber. aerion hummed, hand placed on his head. "terrorize someone. you?"

"sit with my ladies in waiting in the drawing room." aerion stayed by your side as you walked, his hands stuffed within his pockets. "and what do ladies in waiting do?" you shrugged honestly, "we talk and gossip and sew." aerion smacked his lips, "that sounds dull."

"it is very dull."

"then i shall come along and see what ladies speak about." you were surprised at his interest, but you assumed it was his lack of things to do that compelled him to sit with you.

you had three ladies in waiting, vanessa, june, and daisy, who accompanied you from sunspear to kings landing, meant to be your companions. they weren't necessarily your friends, but it gave you women to speak to consistently, and because they were in your service, they were forbidden from spreading gossip.

aerion sat in the far corner, staring out of the window, while you sat at the tea table within the drawing room. you wanted to sneak wine into your tea and perhaps brighten up the day, but instead, you were sewing.

vanessa was to your right, june to your left and daisy across from you. you could see aerion directly behind daisy and he was examining his dagger and speaking to a kingsguard near the door.

"how is married life?" vanessa asked and you shrugged honestly, "it has only been one day. there is little i can say about a man i just met." june nodded in agreement, "i'm sure he's...polite." you chuckled at her attempt to be gentle, "he isn't polite, but he also isn't as cruel as i expected."

the ladies nodded, humming, while you took a sip of your tea, eyes finding aerion. he was stadning now and throwing false punches at the guard, who was looking increasingly panicked, though aerion only seemed to be playing, but then he sat and continued staring out the window.

"and what of the consummation? we only have daisy's story, and it was quite boring." said june, who ignored daisy's scoff. you didn't answer immediately, hand pressing to your belly absentmindedly, and vanessa gasped, "are you already pregnant?"

that drew aerion's eyes, and he glared at you.

"no, no, i'm not pregnant. i was—" june spoke next, "the consummation was well then?" you wanted to snap at them for assuming and interrupting, but all you could focus on was aerion mouthing things at you.

"all hells—say yes!"

"...yes, it was well." none of the women knew you'd had sex before then, and it wasn't something you planned on telling them anyway. "then how was it? sex with the prince i mean." vanessa watched you with excited eyes and you chuckled anxiously.

"it was...nice. hurt a little at first then..." you trailed off, noticing that aerion was watching expectantly, a tiny little smirk on his lips as if he'd actually done something.

"actually, aerion was a little impotent. barely performed." your ladies gasped, each glancing back at aerion as they giggled. the prince's face burst with anger, and he shot out of his seat and approached you, "she's lying. i was fucking perfect."

"then why is there no evidence?" daisy asked, eyebrows raised innocently, and aerion stuttered, mouth agape, "what evidence?"

"love bites? bruises?" aerion glanced at you, then your clean, clear neck and he spat out a curse, snatching daisy's embroidery and pulling the ends of the thread, ruining a couple of hours' worth of work.

you sighed as aerion smirked proudly at her and daisy frowned heavily, head sagging. "that was cruel, husband."

"you know very well what i am." he leaned down to your ear, "and i don't like your fucking lying." the whisper of his breath against your ear made you shiver, and you blushed then turned away entirely. "we will speak of it later."

‎ꫂ᭪݁

a month after the marriage, the targaryen's were hosting a joust in your honor, meant to welcome you to kings landing as the newest member of their family.

you were sitting beneath the royal pavilion, valarr and daeron were to your sides, while maekar and baelor were behind you. and although you and your in laws were cordial, you had no desire to have long conversations with them and neither did they.

aerion was the bridge between the gap, and because he was participating in the joust, there was no one to clue you in on family conversations that almost always referred to incidents that took place before your arrival in king's landing.

though you didn't mind it. besides, it gave you time to watch aerion. for the past month of your marriage, the two of you had slept with miles between you, and not for any particular reason—unless you count the words shared with your ladies-in-waiting.

he was polite to you—brought you meals when you didn't want to eat with the others, requested your baths be warm after the sun set, didn't order you or even touch you unless you asked, which you hadn't.

that was another source of stress for you: the lack of sex. you didn't think it'd be so hard to ask for sex, but you didn't know how to go about it, especially after the consummation. so you didn't say anything at all, though every morning that you saw aerion shirtless, with bed head, the desire grew larger and larger.

aerion was sitting atop his pitch-black horse, speaking to a kingsguard as he awaited the joust to start. you had your veil in your lap, meant to be given to aerion as your favor, to grant him luck within the joust.

it was wrapped around your arm, the main source of your anxiety, mainly because all eyes were on you. attention was something you were used to as a princess, but the smallfolk in king's landing were different. they spoke proudly and bravely, and because of the wedding, you were the source of gossip within the city.

"he will do something stupid." valarr said, leaning towards you. you gave him a nod, grinning, "i've only known him a month, and i'm sure of it." valarr ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "he is...complicated."

humming you turned to him entirely, eyes leaving aerion, "complicated how? i think our versions of complicated are vastly different." valarr shrugged honestly, "he's always been cruel."

"and he hasn't been cruel...to me." valarr watched you for a moment, "you just made my cousin much more complicated." you rolled your eyes politely and sighed, though as soon as you did, there was a man lingering in front of the pavilion.

you glanced down at him, wondering what his purpose was, but he bowed, ignoring the kingsguard as they kept him a safe distance away. "princess targaryen, is it fair if i ask for your favor?" your inlaws paused, and every seemed to take a deep breath.

"what a stupid man." maekar muttered, shaking his head.

you squeezed the armrests of your chair, mouth opening as you shook your head, "ser, that is improper—" aerion was approaching, eyebrows raised as he led his horse behind him.

your heart spiked as your body sagged, glancing away from the entire ordeal as you saw aerion grab the mans shoulder, "why are you speaking to my wife?" he said it oddly calm, face placid, though you could see his foot tapping against the ground anxiously.

the foolish knight turned to aerion and wiped his forehead free of sweat, "i only mean to—"

"ask for my wife's favor? what makes you think i'm not entitled to it?" aerion shoved his horse's lead into a guard's hands, then he placed his hands on his hips, head tilted curiously.

"aerion, the fool meant nothing by it." baelor spat out, annoyed, standing. maekar didn't bother, throwing hard candies into his mouth, eyebrows raised, though there was a sneer on his lips.

"no, no, uncle. how would you react if a fucking man asked for your wife's favor?" aerion glanced at baelor, turning his body towards the pavilion. the knight relaxed entirely and began stepping away, but suddenly, aerion spun around and clocked him directly in the jaw.

you could hear bone colliding with bone as the spectators gasped. baelor sat, hopeless, while maekar was yelling at the kingsguards to grab aerion before he beat the man to death.

blood sprouted from the knight's nose as aerion continued hitting him, and aerion jaw was clenched firmly as he shook off the guards, hands wrapping around the knight's throat.

"not so complicated during these moments." valarr mumbled, and you nodded your head in agreement, finally pushing to your feet and calling aerions name.

"aerion, you can't dirty my veil with blood, so you might as well stop now." the prince froze long enough for the guards to finally get a hold of him, and he glanced at you, palms raised, "too late."

the valyrian steel band around his finger shone in the sunlight and you called his name once more. aerion ordered the guards off of him, then he approached the pavilion, staring up at you, "you expect me to not be fucking pissed? who does that?" aerion ran a hand through his hair, and you nodded placantingly.

"yes, but—" aerion opened his mouth to interrupt you, but you gave him a look, and he sighed, allowing you to continue, "your violence will consume you one day, lest you stop now." aerion reached up and grabbed your hand, giving it a tiny squeeze, before he turned around and grabbed his horse.

you just hoped your words didn't go in one ear and out the other.

that night, you and aerion lied silently in bed. you'd been freshly bathed and oiled, your hair tied away, thumbs twiddling as you stared up at the bed's canopy.

"and what do the people say now? i hope there's no more talk of your breasts." aerion muttered suddenly, and you turned to him, "my ladies say the people think of you just the same as they usually do. enough to forget about my breasts at least."

aerion nodded, licking his lips and sighing, "that man will be fine." you scoffed, "no he won't. you broke his jaw." aerion's eyes squinted, "he will be fine."

you ignored his words and twisted onto your side, deciding you were ready to sleep, but the bed shifted, and aerion was hovering over you, elbow resting against the pillow.

"are you cross with me?"

"you have a ton of questions, and why do you suddenly care what i think?" you matched his gaze with a childish frown on your lips, and aerion chuckled, "i thought husbands cared for their wives thoughts."

you scoffed, "you've got it all wrong aerion. husbands beat their wives and tell them to never speak and use them as sex toys." aerion hummed, "is that what you want? for me to use you each night and bruise you so strategically that no one will know? because it is surely possible."

the thought made your skin buzz with subtle fear, and after a moment, you shook your head, "no."

you still had no clue why aerion had a sense of care over you, and why he wasn't the type to treat his wife like trash, but you were thoroughly grateful, but that wasn't the issue at hand.

"there's something else." he said matter-of-factly, collapsing back onto the bed, though his arm was brushing your spine. the cold sole of your feet pressed against his ankle, and you sighed, "there is something else."

when you didn't clue him in, aerion glared at you, "and what is it?"

you turned to your back, hands resting against your belly. your arm was over the top of aerion's, and each time he picked at his pants, the hair on his arm would rub against you, making you prickly with goosebumps.

"do you have a lover?" he was silent for a moment, then he glanced at you, sneering in confusion, "no i don't have a fucking lover. what are you on about?"

"you don't kiss me, you don't fuck me, you don't even spend time with me." aerion recoiled away from you and stood entirely, "don't tell me you're hurt."

you scoffed, tugging the covers above your head, "i'm not hurt, i'm confused."

"i can not read your mind, wife. if you want kisses and dates and sex, then you must tell me!" he was entirely irritated, and you could tell there was a sense of disappointment in himself because he didn't fulfill your needs to your liking.

you peeked at aerion, and found him leaning against the post of the bed, hand against his head. "do you even want those things?" the miniscule tone of your voice made aerion soften entirely, and he sighed, "yes."

there was a red blush covering his cheeks, and you refused a smile, peeling back the covers to welcome him. aerion took up your offer and stared at the canopy, pale lashes fluttering as he blinked.

"after the consummation, i thought this was just... an arrangement." he muttered, "and each time i tried to please you, you didn't say anything." timidity was never something you thought you'd see with aerion, but it warmed your heart.

"i didn't know how to react."

he shook his head, "that is a poor excuse." you rolled your eyes, twisting onto your side, back to him, "it is the truth, aerion." a few seconds passed, but then he curled around you, legs tangling with yours.

"do you want to have sex now?" he said, and you nodded, "a little, yes." aerion tugged your shift up slowly, then pressed his clothed dick against you, which was unsurprisingly already hard.

"i have thought about you, a lot." the rumble of his voice in your ear was enough to have you gushing, eyes closed as you relaxed.

"when?" aerion pushed through your folds, nails digging into the soft skin of your hip, "in the morning mostly. when you undress in the bathing room. i could see you—fuck—every inch of you." he began pushing into you, lips locked around the skin on your neck, leaving a purple bruise that multiplied as he focused on another inch of you.

you body was buzzing with pleasure, inhaling every scent of aerion—his hair, his sweat, his musk, everything. something about him made your body want to burst like a firework.

he knew exactly what to do too, fingers pinching at your nipples, tongue working at your skin, all the while he thrusted into you, slow at first until he was fully hilted.

the pressure built, but at his first thrust, the pleasure overtook your body entirely. you reached back and fisted aerion's hair, delighting in his rough moans. his front kissed your back each time he pushed into you, and when you grabbed his hand and placed it on your clit, aerion began to flick dutifully.

"your ladies won't know what happened to you." aerion muttered, forehead on the curve of your spine. you chuckled at his words, grabbing his arm and pulling it tighter around your body.

"i'll be pregnant in a fortnight if you continue on like this." you muttered when you felt him tighten and release inside of you, warm with his cum. your thighs were trembling as your orgasm grew, piquing each time he rutted into you.

"what if i want you pregnant?" aerion sucked on your earlobe, smirking when you came, every muscle in your body releasing with a spasm. you inhaled deeply and let out a moan, "you don't want me pregnant, aerion. you want to have fun as long as possible, without the children."

he hummed, nodding, "you know me better than expected." aerion suddenly flipped you onto your belly, hands pressing into your back as he slammed into you.

your ears were ringing, cheek pressed into the pillow, but all you could think to do was moan. "i'll need moon tea." you muttered, and aerion nodded, pushing into you one last time before he came.

his mouth was agape, eyelids squeezed tightly shut, and when he fell on top of you, neither of you bothered to move. "i'll make it myself, yes?"

you found him in your chambers, a book in his lap, a goblet of wine on the table. you didn't say a word. you simply sank to your knees at his feet, a silent, desperate plea.

he looked down at you. "well, well," he murmured, setting his book aside.

"please," you whispered, the word a ragged, desperate sound.

"please what?" he asked, his voice a low, teasing purr.

"please... i need you… husband, please!"

he reached out, his hand tangling in your hair, forcing your head back. "that's better. but you'll have to be more specific than that."

"i need your cock…" you mumble out as best you can without letting the humiliation rush through you.

now, you're on the bed, face down, your ass in the air, and he is fucking you with a brutal, relentless rhythm that has you seeing stars. he's screwing you to the moon and back, just like you wanted, just like you begged for.

his hands are gripping your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh with bruising force, his cock splitting you open, a painful, overwhelming pleasure. he is stealing your breath, making you huff out tiny, high-pitched moans over and over, just how he likes.

"talk to me," he grunts, his voice a low, guttural growl. "i want to hear you. tell me how much you love this."

you can't. you can't form the words. your mind is a blank, a white-hot haze of pure sensation. all you can do is feel. feel him, feel the pleasure, feel the pain. so you say the only thing that comes to mind, the only thing that feels true.

"thank you," you gasp, your voice a choked, breathless whisper.

a low, guttural groan is torn from his chest, a sound of pure triumph. he begins to move faster, harder, more demanding than before. he's fueled by your words, by your gratitude.

"again," he commands, his voice a low, possessive snarl.

"thank you," you sob, your body rocking with the force of his thrusts. "thank you, aerion. oh, gods, thank you, husband."

"that's it," he grunts, his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp, stinging slap that makes you cry out. "thank me for this cock. thank me for this pleasure. thank me for owning you and keeping you safe and fed."

"thank you," you chant, a mindless, desperate mantra. "thank you, thank you, thank you."

he's getting off on it. you can feel it in the way his movements become more erratic, the way his breathing becomes more ragged. he is a god, and you are his worshipper, and your prayers are being answered in the most brutal, beautiful way imaginable.

"come on me," his voice a raw, possessive command. "thank me for it, cream on me."

the orgasm that tears through you is a violent, all-consuming thing. it's a supernova, a blinding white light that erases everything but the feel of him inside you, the sound of his voice, the taste of his name on your lips. you scream his name, a raw, ragged sound that is a prayer, a curse, and a thank you all at once.

he follows you over the edge with a final, brutal thrust, spilling himself deep inside you with a hoarse, triumphant cry. he collapses on top of you, his weight a heavy, possessive blanket, his face buried in your hair, his chest heaving.

"you're welcome," he murmurs, his voice a low, sated purr in your ear.

you lie there for a long time, a tangled, sweaty mess of limbs and sheets, the only sound your ragged breathing before you feel him start to move in and out again slowly, fucking both your cum back into you…

LYONEL:

Period sex: Enthusiastically normal about it because, “If you feel good, I feel good.” He’s the guy who’ll pick you up, throw you over his shoulder, or otherwise drag and carry you to bed laughing. He’s passionate and a little wild about it, lots of growling, hair-pulling, and, “You’re mine, every fucking day of the moon.” He actually loves how horny periods make you; he’ll go for hours if you let him.

Walking in on you masturbating: Flirty chaos. He definitely grins, then immediately tries to make you laugh so you don’t feel embarrassed. “Seven hells, woman. Just look at you.” He’s already stripping while watching, then join in enthusiastically, probably flipping you onto your stomach and taking you from behind while you’re still mid-moan. “That’s it, keep making those noises for me.”

DUNK:

Period sex: Respectful, a bit shy about getting it wrong, and absolutely guided by your comfort. At first he’s all “Are you sure? Won’t it hurt?” but once you reassure him he’s really careful and attentive. He’s surprisingly into the closeness of it, too. Slow and deep thrusts, big hands cradling you like you’re made of something too precious to name. He’ll kiss your forehead the whole time and ask constantly if you’re comfortable. Afterwards he’s the literally best cuddler in Westeros.

Walking in on you masturbating: Turns red all the way to his roots, stammers, backs out like he’s been struck by lightning. Later he brings you water and avoids your eyes until you reassure him it’s fine, and he’s fine, and you don’t mind him watching next time. He’s sweet about it, he just doesn’t want you to feel exposed or judged.

VALARR:

Period sex: At first, he’s ??? But once you get into it he’s all refined and princely, right until he starts getting a little too into it. He’s very gentle at first, almost teasingly slow, drawing it out until you’re begging and squirming. He loves how much more sensitive you are, and uses it to edge you for ages under the guise of “learning”. He’ll whisper sweet, just slightly possessive things in High Valyrian while he fucks you through the cramps, and it’s even better if you don’t understand what he’s saying because you don’t need to, you feel it.

Walking in on you masturbating: Soft embarrassment first, then open curiosity. He’ll make you finish with your own fingers while he watches, then reward you by fucking you slow and passionate. Very controlled, very intense eye contact, very “you belong to me” energy as he nuzzles into your throat.

DAERON:

Period sex: Lazy, horny, and down for anything. “Well if you’re already wet…” type. He’ll probably be a little (or a lot) drunk when he suggests it, but once he’s inside you he’s surprisingly focused. Lazy, deep strokes that feel amazing when you’re bloated and achy. He’ll kiss your neck and murmur, “My favorite time of the moon, truly.” Super tactile and affectionate, has to have his hands all over. The closeness is an escape from his own mind.

Walking in on you masturbating: Big lazy grin, already loosening his clothes. “Starting without me? How unbecoming.” He’ll crawl onto the bed, push your thighs apart, and take over with his mouth first, then fuck you slow and sloppy while still half-drunk and giggling between his moans. He makes it surprisingly fun and filthy at the same time.

getting this in my inbox at 9am changed me.