Siren

“He’s three moons old,” you reminded him one evening with a frown as Aerion watched Maegor sleeping peacefully against your chest, after telling you how his son had to start learning to let go of you. “He needs his mother and I would have him.”

“Three moons old,” Aerion muttered darkly, “and already a usurper.”

Maegor chose that exact moment to sigh contentedly in his sleep and burrow deeper against you, as if mocking him altogether.

The Bright Prince had begun keeping count of your neglection of him. You would visit the nursery first thing in the morning, and should the babe merely blink his large violet eyes and make a particularly pitiful sound, he would refuse the wet nurses and only cease his whimpering when you held him.

And thus, if he cried, you were there.

If he fussed, you were also there.

Spoiled little thing, his son was. What was the purpose of wet nurses if the boy spent half his waking hours attached to you? He really ought to fire them one of these days.

“They said sons take after their fathers, do they not?”

Daeron let out a snicker after draining another goblet of wine, seemingly enjoying his brother’s predicament. “Your son simply makes it obvious to the rest of us how ravenous you are with your lady wife, brother.”

Aerion shot him glare, internally questioning himself why he had agreed to sit down for drinks with his wastrel of a brother.

“I have spent the past three moons exercising a degree of restraint bordering on sainthood, you mongrel.”

That was actually not an exaggeration. Since Maegor’s arrival, the intimacy he once enjoyed with you had become frustratingly few and far between, and he had to think at least thrice these days to take you to bed!

To his credit, he had adhered to the advice of maesters so far— that was to give you more time following the difficult birth.

Daeron stared at him, then barked out a laugh loud enough to startle the maids.

“Gods above, you are serious!”

Aerion threw him a dark glare, as his brother leaned back in his chair, grinning like a fox.

“Well, since you have nothing better to do, then come with me tonight.”

“For what?”

“For a good time, obviously. There is a feast in the city. Music, drink, performers, gambling, a lot of pretty wenches too—”

“Bwah!”

It astounded even you that your babe could be this adorable.

At times, it felt as though you were cradling a happier, guileless miniature of your husband in your arms. There really was no doubt that this child was his.

“He looks so much like his sire, does he not?” You poked Maegor’s plump cheek, and he immediately rewarded you with a toothless grin.

Your lady’s maid sighed with a smile, nearly melted on the spot. “The image of him, my lady. Those eyes and hair especially.”

You laughed softly and pressed a kiss to Maegor’s forehead, placing him back in his cradle.

Motherhood suited you far more than you had imagined. The long nights, the exhaustion... none of it seemed to matter whenever your little boy wrapped his tiny fingers around you or smiled at the sound of your voice. You loved every moment of it.

Yet if you were being truthful with yourself, you missed Aerion too. Before Maegor’s birth, your prince had scarcely gone a day without finding an excuse to pull you into his arms, but now your days and nights revolved around your son, and the moments you spent alone together had become increasingly rare.

And lately, something felt... different. Aerion had begun returning later than usual, and he smelled of wine. The first time, you dismissed it, but by the fourth, a knot had begun forming in your stomach. Since when had he taken to drinking?

Then one afternoon, while walking through the castle with Maegor in your arms, you happened upon two servants speaking in hushed voices—

“The princes have gone again!”

“Again?”

“Aye. To the town.”

“The new establishment?”

“The very same. They say the owner imported women from across the Narrow Sea and Essos. They cost a fortune...”

It didn’t take you long to figure out that they were talking about a pleasure house. Your stomach twisted. The princes?

They must mean Daeron, surely? But who was the other prince? Because, there was no way that Aerion was seeking comfort from common whores now—

Then again, the word of his brashness towards the princess consort, Valarr’s wife, was apparently quite well-known in King’s Landing. A princess from Pentos, she was an exotic beauty, meanwhile you...

People rarely described you as beautiful. Sweet and pleasant to look upon, they would say, but definitely not the kind that would ensnare princes at the first sight like she did. Moreover, after bearing a child, your body was no longer quite the same as it once had been.

The thought lodged itself in your mind, and despite every effort to dismiss it, a terrible possibility began gnawing at you. What if he has indeed sought comfort elsewhere?

You hated yourself for even thinking it. But when one night, several days later, you spotted him near the servants’ quarters with a woman adorned with golden ornaments unlike anything worn in Westeros—

Your breath caught when Aerion had both of her wrists pinned together in one hand and cornered her.

A great many things seemed determined to test Aerion’s patience these days.

The councils. His father’s demands. Daeron’s antics. By the time evening fell, a dull ache had settled behind the back of his head, and all he wanted was peace, a cup of wine, and his wife.

Especially his wife. The thought to have you wrap him in your arms was enough to ease some of the tension from his shoulders as he strode through the corridors toward your chambers.

However, when he entered it, the warmth he expected was entirely absent. The chamber was darker than usual, half of the candles unlit. You sat perfectly still before the vanity desk, didn’t even turn or rise to greet him.

“Wife?” he asked, stepping forward with a frown. Usually, you favored dark room when you were unwell. “Are you ill—”

“Who is she?”

Your voice was eerily quiet, yet cut through the air so sharply. It was so abrupt that for a moment he simply stared at you, and only after a solid minute did you turn to him, your expression cold enough to frost glass.

“If you tell me now, I may still find it in myself to be merciful and merely send her away. Is it Pentos? Myr? Or perhaps Lys?” The corner of your mouth curved into a sneer. “Lys is famous for its prostitutes, after all.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened. “What do you imply me doing, wife?”

A surge of anger rushed through his veins, severely taking offense. How could you think that lowly of him?

But whatever retort had been forming on his tongue died immediately, because to his astonishment, there were tears in your eyes.

“I gave you a son. I nearly died bringing him into this world.” Your voice trembled slightly as you rose from your seat. “I know we are not always of the same mind, but how could you humiliate me by bringing a common whore here? Do you intend to flaunt her to me?”

You looked devastated, and more than anything, he hated that look in your face. Who had planted this absurdity in your head?

“You are talking nonsense—”

“Nonsense?” Your voice rose sharply. “I saw you with her!”

This had to end. Suddenly Aerion crossed the distance between you in three strides, and you flinched as his hand caught your shoulder, attempting to pull away, but he would not allow it and forced you to face him.

“Look.”

He lifted his other hand before you. At first you did not understand, then your gaze fell upon the gold band encircling his finger. His wedding band.

Aerion stared at you hard, his violet eyes blazing.

“I have worn this since you put it on me on the day of our wedding, and never removed it since.”

On the day of your wedding, the two of you had scarcely been able to tolerate one another. You blinked as another tear fell, trying to hold yourself together.

“You think I would dishonor you? Shame the mother of my son?” he growled through clenched teeth. “I still could see the blood you shed in childbed even in my nightmares. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Three days after Maegor’s birth, your fever worsened and you fell unconscious. You remembered feeling cold, and the bleeding had the sheets beneath you soaked with red. When you awoke, the maesters were surrounding your bed, and your maids were crying.

But standing tall amidst them was Aerion, who never left your side for the remainder of the night. Later, you were told he had threatened every maester in the Red Keep with death should they fail to save you.

The fury in his violet eyes burned brighter. “Now do tell and enlighten me. What part of that ordeal would make me look at another wench and decide she is worth more than you?”

You were still not fully convinced. “But you... the servants saw you going to the whorehouse—”

Aerion let out a harsh exhale.

“I was retrieving Daeron,” he grounded out, each word bitter. “Father’s orders. The wench you saw me with is his whore. A fortune-seeking dullard, I just banished her from Summerhall.”

“You have been drinking lately too—”

“So now I’m forbidden from having a drink?” A muscle twitched beneath his right eye. “I face constant shit and my foolish brother every day. I can’t even bed my wife when she’s next to me and our son hogs her time all day and everyday, meanwhile she is thinking I’m hiding some whore in another chamber— and now I cannot drink? Tell me, do you actually want me to keep my sanity, or do you want to see me lose it and hang the first man I see?”

Somehow, the way he phrased it made you feel sorry for him. You pursed your lips, looking away. “Sure, have your drink, then...”

“Oh, I fucking will, woman, but first thing first—”

Before you could even gasp, he dived in, crushing his lips against yours.

The anger that had choked the room only moments ago dissolved into an instant, consuming heat. It was a punishing kiss at first, choking the breath out of you, but it quickly melted sensually as his hands roamed the curve of your body.

It sure had been a while since he had his hands on you. A moan escaped your lips when he fondled your breasts and pressed you against his torso, creating a delicious friction.

When he finally pulled away, it was with a heavy, ragged breath. His gaze burning down into your eyes as his thumb gently traced your lower lip, which was now swollen from his kisses.

“If it were up to me,” Aerion murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper, “I would fuck you senseless—”

His expression softened, a rare, vulnerable shadow crossing his features along with the rise and fall of his chest. “It’s taking everything in me not to. The fever after your last labor nearly took you from me, and I won’t gamble with your life.”

“I can take moon tea—”

“That blasted tea will make you sick. You are not taking that until it’s absolutely necessary.”

You blinked up at him, your expression softening into a sweet gaze that completely disarmed him. The sheer innocence in your eyes was his undoing.

With a low groan, Aerion leaned down and pulled you in for another deep, lingering kiss, sealing his lust against your lips, before trailing his mouth downward, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder to suck your skin hungrily.

“Who could have known…” His voice was a low, teasing rasp, the words vibrating directly against the skin of your neck, “that my wife is such a fiercely jealous woman that she actually made herself cry?”

He was relishing in this, you realized. When he broke away this time, a victorious smirk touched his lips. “Are you content now, my jealous wife?”

You shot him a look, feeling a heat rush to your face. You tried to muster a glare, but the blush staining your cheeks betrayed you entirely.

“Incorrigible man...” you muttered, turning your face away to hide your embarrassment.

Aerion only laughed, the sound rich and genuinely amused—a rare sound for him these days. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his thumb gently tugging your chin back so you were forced to look at him. “Now what else should I prove to you so you will be satisfied?”

“I want Maegor now.”

Your husband arched an eyebrow, exasperated.

“This is absolute treachery,” he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. “I finally get you to myself, and you immediately call for that little tyrant?”

. . .

A few moments later, the maids entered the chamber, gently putting baby Maegor into your waiting arms. The moment the infant settled against your chest, he let out a happy, bubbling giggle, his tiny hands reaching up towards your face.

Aerion stood unhappily over the two of you, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the display.

“He is fat.”

You scowled at him, tightening your hold over your son protectively. “I love him fat.”

That little boy could be the fattest babe in the Seven Kingdoms and he would still be the apple of your eye. Yet, as your husband looked down at his son, a sudden realization washed over him—

He had always thought the boy took entirely after him, but looking closely at Maegor’s beaming smile, Aerion saw you. The babe had his violet eyes and his silver hair, but the contour of his face, the gentle curve of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes—it was all yours.

Now he sort of understood why he also found him adorable.

“Let me hold him,” he said, already pulling the babe from your grasp.

He brought Maegor against his own broad chest. It was a surreal sight, seeing your brooding prince cradling a fragile, soft infant with the utmost care.

Your heart warmed at the sight though, a profound sense of peace settling over you as you looked at the two absolute loves of your life.

Epilogue

The tender silence lasted for only a minute. Maegor, apparently deciding he had tolerated his father’s hold, suddenly squirmed. With a whimper of protest, the babe pushed his small hands against his father’s chest, fighting the embrace.

Before Aerion could adjust his grip, Maegor’s chubby little hand shot upward, unceremoniously slapping right at his father’s face, as well as scratching his jawline.

Aerion blinked, his head tilting back in sheer disbelief at the audacity of his own flesh and blood. He looked completely stunned, before a look of deep betrayal crossed his features as he glared at his son and you utterly failed to contain yourself and burst into a fit of giggles.

Aerion is livid.

In truth, it is not a particularly uncommon state for him to be in. He is the first to admit that he is frequently angry. He is angry when the servants bring him lukewarm soup instead of hot soup. He is angry when the sons of lesser lords hover around him like witless birds trying to curry favor. He is angry when he has to spend too long in the throne room, because he has to look at the skulls of dragons that should have been his by birthright. 

This is different.

Aerion can hardly think straight as he makes his way down the halls in the direction of his chambers—your chambers. The chambers that he shares with you. His wife. He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, blood drawn from where his nails are embedded in his palms. He’s not sure if he’s ever been this furious before. He’s dizzy on his feet, and the world around him drains away, the edges of his vision tinted red—Aerion’s tongue darts out to wet his lip, and he tastes blood.

He is ordinarily good at masking his emotions. 

When the servants get his food wrong, he gives them a dismissive look and tells them to fix it—they do not know he contemplates breaking a bone for each minute he goes without the food he requested because of their incompetence. When the sons of lesser lords flutter around him with asinine remarks, hoping to make him laugh, he gives them faint smiles—they do not know he’d prefer to see their eyes gouged and tongues removed whenever they waste his time with their insipid commentary. When he is forced to stand in the throne room for court, he does so with impeccable posture and an unreadable expression—no one knows just how vicious of a place his mind is, that is how it always has been and how it always will be. 

Or, so he hoped, because now it is an impossible task. 

The servants flee as he passes by, careful not to meet his gaze, and the young noble sons who typically cannot take a hint for the life of them falter when they see him storm past, not daring to call for his attention. All the care he has taken to perfect his reputation is destroyed in the span of a night. Everything he has carefully tucked behind blasé smiles erupts to the surface. 

He cannot be blamed. 

It is your fault that he is so furious, not his own. 

He thought that you were spending the night with Valarr’s new Tyroshi wife and Daeron. You made it clear this morning that Aerion had done something to upset you, and if you did not want him around, he was not going to hover about pining like some hapless fool. You would come crawling back, whining over some foolish issue that you need him to solve for you, as you always do, so it was simply a matter of time.

So, he spent the night drinking with Valarr, and he was enjoying himself. Truly.

He does not mind his eldest cousin’s company, especially in comparison to most. It was certainly a reprieve from your company and your endless snide commentary and whinging. Valarr likes to put up the perfect princely front for his mother and father, all polished smiles and courtly grace, but beneath it, he is almost as prone to spite and mischief as Aerion himself. He delights in gossip in the same way other men delight in hunting, and every so often, usually after enough wine, something darker slips through the cracks in his carefully constructed façade—a flash of cruelty or a remark too sharp and too callous, a look in his eye that reminds Aerion that they share the same blood after all. Then the princely smile returns as though nothing happened.

The two of them made sport out of the courtiers attending the feast for entertainment, and Aerion was having a decent night in spite of your attempts to get under his skin. That is, until his drunken idiot of a brother stumbled up to the dais, making a fool of himself, rambling about marcher lords and insults and wine and you. 

It took both him and Valarr an embarrassing amount of time to get a coherent story out of him, and as soon as they did, Aerion was out of his seat, storming in the direction of his chambers—in the direction of you, his wife—and Valarr was on his feet too, seeking out both his father and Aerion’s to figure out how they were to handle this insult before Aerion did something drastic.

As though there was anything drastic he could do that wouldn’t be justified by the insult he was given.

He pushes open the heavy door to his chambers, boots slapping hard against the stone floor as his gaze sweeps across the room. First, to the small table near the window, where you like to sit and drink, but you are not there. Then, to the water basin you like to lounge in, needling him with taunts and insults until he joins you, but you are not there either.

Then—

Aerion falters when he sees you fast asleep in your shared bed, the sheets haphazardly thrown over you and Maegor curled on your shoulder. His jaw tightens, lips pressing together hard as he slides his cloak off his shoulders and tosses it onto the nearby dresser before making his way to your side of the bed.

He pauses when his feet snag on something on the ground, glancing down to see the red and black gown he had tailored for you to wear to the feast tonight. He grits his teeth as he leans down to pick it up, lashes fluttering when he feels the stickiness of the wine spilled on you.

He places it on the dresser next to his cloak and makes his way over to you. 

“Wife,” he says, voice rough, watching as you stir in your sleep. When your lashes flutter open, he continues, “Tell me why I had to hear from my oaf of a brother that a marcher lord spilled wine on you and insulted you to your face.” 

You blink up at him, eyes hazy, and then give him a sleepy smile. Aerion’s teeth grind together when the fight starts to drain from him at the sight of it. Wretched woman.

“Aerion,” you yawn. “You’re back. I was waiting up for you.”

Liar. Aerion squints at you. “You were asleep.”

“I was resting my eyes,” you counter, always with the smart remark. Aerion thinks his life would be much easier if he took your tongue—silent and pretty as a wife should be. You shift slightly so that you can look over him, careful not to stir Maegor too much. “Why are you still dressed? Come lie down.”

“You do not order me, woman,” he tells you sharply, desperately trying not to let his fury slip through his fingers. “What was said to you?” 

“Come here anyway,” you complain, ignoring his question. Aerion’s eye twitches, pulling his hand away when you reach out, fingers brushing his. You frown at him and have the nerve to ask, “What?”

“I am in no mood,” he hisses, voice rising slightly. “Answer my question.”

“Do not wake Maegor,” you say, gaze suddenly sharp and expression cool. 

Aerion’s temper flares again, but then Maegor lifts his head from your shoulder, blinking blearily in Aerion’s direction once before he yawns and curls back against you. 

Even his own son is a traitor, he thinks furiously, but before he can whirl on the boy—because why didn’t he come find Aerion after what happened? Why did Aerion have to learn from Daeron?—you reach out again to grab his hand, successfully this time.

Aerion exhales hard through his nose, jaw clenched tight as you tug him closer until the front of his thighs hit the edge of the bed. He stares down at you, unrelenting, because he needs to know what was said, needs to know who had the gall to insult his wife.

You sigh and avert your gaze, visibly annoyed, as though he is the one out of line for demanding to know exactly what happened, and Aerion’s nostrils flare in irritation, but then you lift his hand to brush your lips against his knuckles, and his scowl becomes more for show than anything else. You are a miserable, miserable woman—Aerion lets you get away with far too much.

“He was drunk, Aerion,” you tell him, like that’s any excuse. “We do not need to lower ourselves to every drunken fool who speaks out of turn.”

“What did he say?” 

You stare at him for a moment before you let out a sigh. “It is not what he said,” you finally answer quietly. “It is what he implied.”

Aerion does not need to hear anymore, because he knows exactly where this is going. 

It is not the first time these whispers have reached the two of you, but it’s the first time it was spoken so openly to your face. The court has had a great deal to say about your friendship with Daeron. He spent years drifting around like a ghost—drinking himself into stupors, skipping feasts and hunts and court in equal measure, and spending more nights in whorehouses and taverns than in his own chambers. Then you arrived, and you sought him out at feasts when he was lingering at the edges of the halls, and you dragged him into conversations when he was watching awkwardly, and you listened to his stories, laughed at his dry remarks, and scolded him whenever you caught him drinking before noon, and Daeron—

Daeron listened. 

He smiled more, and he drank less, and he was always at your side when Aerion couldn’t be—and little by little, Aerion began catching glimpses of the brother he had spent years hating for disappearing. The brother who used to sneak him out to the crystalline lake behind Summerhall to fish, who covered for him whenever he ran off to explore the forest when he ought not, who laughed easily and braided his hair when their mother couldn’t and held him during fits where Aerion found him screaming on the floor, nails bloody and ripping through the skin of his neck.

Somehow, impossibly, you had brought pieces of him back.

Naturally, the court had drawn the most salacious conclusion possible—a lonely prince and his brother’s foreign wife made for a scandalous tale, and there was nothing the court enjoyed more than scandal. 

Aerion has never bought into it. He knows his brother well. Daeron looks at you with affection, yes, but it’s the same soft fondness he reserves for Daella and Rhae. There is nothing possessive in it—nothing hungry. 

And he knows you, too. 

You have never once shown the slightest interest in anyone here in Westeros beyond fleeting amusements—some days, Aerion doubts that he even interests you, but you are always quick to prove him wrong. You look at Daeron with the same wistful smile you wear whenever you speak of the brother you left behind back home, so he is confident that there is nothing going on between the two of you.

Still, he dislikes the whispers. 

Truthfully, he dislikes people speaking your name at all.

“Ah,” he says flatly.

You grimace.

“He asked me whether I spent so much time with Prince Daeron because my husband was inattentive.” You look vaguely offended by the memory. Aerion’s eye twitches violently. “Then he said perhaps I prefer sad men because they are easier to manipulate.”

You sigh lightly, carding your fingers through Maegor’s silky hair, and then add, “He was very drunk.”

Aerion does not respond, eyes sliding shut as he wills himself the strength not to leave your shared chambers and hunt down this man himself.

You continue, “He also said—”

“Stop.”

“But—”

“I have heard enough,” Aerion says through his teeth. “You should have sent for me.”

You pause, blinking up at him again, and then you look away, a conflicted expression on your face, and Aerion’s throat suddenly feels tight. He remembers this morning when you would not speak to him, remembers the cruel exchange of words, and how he’d stormed off with another word. He’d spent the evening with Valarr instead of you, and he did not seek you out once. 

“You thought I would not come,” he says, voice strained.

You do not answer. Aerion feels something unpleasant twist in his chest. He had been furious because some drunken fool had dared insult his wife. Now he is furious because you apparently think so little of him that you believed he would leave you to deal with it alone.

“You are an idiot,” he says.

You blink and then frown. “That seems uncalled for.”

“It is the truth,” he mutters, fingers slipping from yours to trace down the slope of your neck. Your lashes flutter lightly as he rests his hand on your throat, thumb sliding beneath the thin strap of your night slip. “Do not ever stand there and smile while some worthless marcher lord insults you to your face.”

“I do not care what a drunk Andal lord has to say, husband,” you say dismissively, leaning into his touch in a way that never fails to make Aerion swallow thickly. “It is really not such a big deal.”

“It is to me,” he replies sharply, pressing his finger under your chin to force your head tilted so that your eyes meet his. You sigh lightly. “You will come to me if it happens again. I will not have the court thinking they can insult my wife to her face without consequence.”

“I will come to you,” you agree blithely, and then tug him again, trying to get him onto the bed with you. 

He spares a look back at the door, half-determined to leave and find the man to show him exactly what it means to insult a prince of the blood, but before he can, you tug a third time, this time successfully knocking him off balance onto the bed with you. He hits it with an oof, scowling as he shifts more comfortably so that he’s sitting beside where you’re lying, back to the headboard.

He turns a frown down onto you, but falters when he sees how your eyes slide shut as you press your forehead into the side of his hip, face smoothing out the moment you feel his body against yours.

Irritation flares through him again immediately, hotter this time, because how dare any man insult you to your face? How dare any man look at you at all? Think of you? You are his—his alone. His to think of, his to look at, his to insult, should he please. 

He should have him flayed, he thinks, aggravated. Any man who insults you. Any man who looks at you. Any man who thinks of you. Any of them. All of them. Every single one.

His hand settles on the top of your head, fingers absently carding through your hair.

He promises, “I will see him flayed.”

You snort instantly. “You cannot do that.”

Aerion’s expression twists instantly. “I am a Prince of House Targaryen. I can do whatever I want.”

“You cannot have a man flayed, Aerion.”

“Flogged, then.”

He doesn’t need to look down at you to know you’re rolling your eyes, so he tugs your hair enough to make a point. You pinch his leg hard in retaliation.

Wretched beast, he thinks, scowling down at you. Of all women to have been married off to—this is surely a punishment for something. You are the most aggravating creature he’s ever had the misfortune of meeting, and for some reason, you are his. 

“I would have come,” he says after a moment, quieter now. He looks down, tongue darting out to wet his lips when he sees how you have one arm curled around his leg, face half buried into his side, Maegor curled around you the same way you are around Aerion. His jaw tightens again at the idea of anyone thinking they can insult you and get away with it. “You are my wife. There is nothing in this world that would stop me from coming to you should you need me. It does not matter how vexing you might be.”

You let out a huff that almost sounds like a laugh. “You were almost romantic for a second,” you say with a tired smile, looking up at him. Your hand lifts to absently stroke Maegor’s hair as he nuzzles into your neck. “I was almost worried.”

“You are wretched,” he hisses, face flushing. “I am trying to be serious.”

“I know,” you murmur, and Aerion’s throat spasms when he feels you press your lips against his thigh through his pants. “Rest assured, I will send for you next time, but truly, Aerion, I was hardly insulted. In fact, I thought it was rather funny.”

“Yes, well, it is not funny,” Aerion snaps, grinding his teeth when he sees you let out a huff of laughter. “Do not laugh.”

“I am not,” you complain—the audacity to lie to his face. You do not even hide your smile as you look up at him, and Aerion’s brows knit together. “I will never tire of how sensitive you Andals are. Every day in this strange land proves more amusing than I thought possible.”

“Do not call me Andal.”

“Yes, yes, my apologies.”

You do not sound sorry at all. 

Aerion’s eye twitches. 

“Perhaps we shall visit my homeland soon,” you declare, reaching down to entwine your fingers with his, lifting his hand to your lips to ghost a kiss the way you always do when you want him to agree to something he ought not. “I should like for Maegor to see it, and a break from this court would do us both well, no?” 

Aerion exhales hard through his nose. In truth, there are few places in the world he would rather go than your homeland—your so-called friends were despicable when they came to King’s Landing for your wedding, and he is fairly certain that both your father and your brother wish him dead. He thought once that he might rather enjoy visiting there from how you describe it, but he thinks now he would prefer to spend a fortnight in the frozen wasteland the North calls a kingdom than a night in your family palace. 

But your lips are pressed to his skin, and you are looking up at him through your lashes with a playful smile, and he finds it difficult to deny you much of anything, so he mutters, “If that is what you wish.”

Your smile widens instantly, teeth glittering like knives beneath the room’s dim lighting, and Aerion almost snarls when he realizes he has fallen for your wretched schemes yet again. Miserable, miserable woman—he ought to take your tongue and your eyes. His lips part to spit an insult at you, because he is allowed to insult you, not any other man, but before he can, there is a knock at the door.

Aerion stiffens immediately, fingers tensing between yours. He calls coolly, “Come in.”

The door cracks open, and Aerion relaxes when he sees Valarr peek his head in, gaze sliding briefly between where you and Maegor are lying, to where Aerion is sitting before he says simply, “Titus Peake. Your father is questioning him in the Great Hall. You ought to head over there before he finishes.”

A thrill of excitement rushes through Aerion’s chest, lips curling up into a sharp smile as he slides out of bed with you. He leans down to ghost his lips against your ear as he promises softly, “I will bring you his tongue.”

You muse dryly, “What if I wished for his eye?”

“Then I will bring you that, too.”

“I have turned you into a romantic, Aerion Brightflame. Who needs songs of knights and love when I am wed to Westeros's most chivalrous monster. The world may never believe it.”

“Do not make me sick,” he snaps.

If his lips are curled up into a faint smile as he makes his way to the door, then surely, it is because he is eager for the blood about to be spilt.