#asoif

I love Maekar so much, "stressed and grumpy mother" coded characters are one of my fav.

The silver-backed brush moved with a steady, hypnotic rhythm through your hair, each long, slow stroke pulling a soft sigh from your lips. Your lady's maid worked with practiced care, her fingers gentle as they untangled the day's knots from the thick, curly mass that fell to your waist. The air in your chambers was warm and still, scented with the beeswax from the candles and the faint, clean smell of fresh linen on your bed. Two other maids moved in quiet tandem, folding away the gown you'd worn for dinner and laying out a simple silk robe for the night. The familiar ritual was a balm to your restless spirit, a lullaby for a body that refused to settle.

You had been counting the days. Fifty-seven. Fifty-seven nights since he had ridden out of the same gate he was due to return through soon. The tour was a necessary duty for Baelor, a display of loyalty and strength, but it had stretched on longer than either of you had anticipated. Each night, you had sat at this very desk, the tip of your quill scratching across parchment, pouring out all the things you could never say in a raven meant for a prince's eyes. All the wicked, wonderful, aching things you wanted to do to him when he returned.

"Almost finished, my lady," your maid murmured, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet room. You closed your eyes, leaning into the touch, letting the sensation ground you. Three days. The phrase was a prayer on your tongue. In three days he would be here, and the hollow ache in your chest would finally be filled.

Then it came. Not at first a sound you could name, but a vibration. A deep, rhythmic thrumming that seemed to rise up through the stone floors. It grew, becoming distinct, undeniable. Hoofbeats. Dozens of them, a thundering drumbeat against the packed earth of the bailey. Your eyes snapped open. Your ladies froze, the brush pausing in your hair. The sound was too cohesive, too purposeful for a mere patrol. This was a procession.

Before anyone could draw breath to speak, a single, clear note cut through the night air. The horn. Long and low, it was the signal for a royal arrival. Your heart leaped into your throat, a wild, frantic bird beating against your ribs.

You were out of the chair before you realized you had moved, the silk robe fluttering around your ankles as you crossed the room in quick strides. You threw open the heavy shutters of the arched window, the cool night air a shock against your heated skin. Below, the bailey was a flurry of motion. Torches cast a frantic, dancing light, turning the familiar courtyard into a chaotic painting of light and shadow. Men on horseback, their banners limp in the still air, were pouring through the main gatehouse. And at their head, a single rider on a massive black destrier, his dark head unmistakable even from this distance.

Three days early.

Your hair was a wild halo around your face, your body clad only in the thin silk robe meant for sleeping, and none of it mattered. The thought didn't even have time to form before you were already moving, turning from the window with a surge of purpose that sent your ladies scurrying.

Addressing your maids, your voice was sharp and clear, all traces of sleepiness gone. "A bath. As hot as the boilers can manage. Now. And warm towels. The sandalwood soap."

You were already at the door, your bare feet silent on the stone flags. "Lyra, to the kitchens. The roast boar, if it's still warm. Bread, cheese, fruit. Whatever is quickest. And a flagon of the good Arbor red."

You didn't look back to see if they were moving; you knew they were. This was your household, your domain, and you ran it with a quiet, unshakable efficiency. You swept out into the torchlit corridor, your mind a whirlwind of commands, your body a vessel for the sudden, overwhelming joy that threatened to spill over. Every command you issued set another wheel in motion, a well-oiled machine springing to life. By the time you reached the heavy, carved oak doors of the hall, the entire keep was humming with a new, urgent energy, all of it focused on one thing. Him.

You pushed through the doors just as he was clearing them from the other side, shrugging off the dust of the road with the very air around him. He stopped dead, and so did you. The Great Hall, vast and echoing, fell away, leaving only the space between you. He was travel-worn, yes. A fine layer of gray dust coated his black riding leathers, his dark hair was longer than when he'd left. But his eyes were fixed on you with the same unwavering intensity they always held. You glided forward.

"My Prince," you said, your voice steady.

"Wife," he replied, his voice a low, familiar rumble that vibrated through your very bones. He closed the distance in two long strides, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking the skin there. He bent his head and kissed you. It was not the chaste, formal kiss of a public reunion, but the deep, possessive kiss of a man who had crossed half a kingdom to come home. It tasted of dust and wind and sheer, unadulterated relief. When he pulled back, you saw that your ladies, who had followed you down, had found something fascinating to examine in the far corners of the hall. You took his gloved hands in yours, working the soft leather off his fingers, and passed them to a hovering servant without a word.

"Come," you said softly, your hand finding his, lacing your fingers together. "You must be exhausted."

Baelor let you lead him, his larger, calloused hand a warm, grounding weight in yours. You walked him through the familiar corridors, your footsteps echoing in companionable silence. He saw you now, in this state of casual undress, and he said nothing. He just looked at you, his gaze lingering on the deep red fabric against your skin, and you felt a flush rise on your chest that had nothing to do with the warmth of the corridor.

"The tour?" you asked, your voice a little too bright. "Was it successful?"

"The travel was fine," he said, his eyes never leaving your face. "The roads were manageable." He paused, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. "I thought of you in the Reach. The roses, you would have loved them. They grow in such wild, beautiful abandon."

"I missed you," you whispered, the simple truth of it a sudden lump in your throat.

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth, then back up, a slow, deliberate perusal. He looked at you, and the air between you grew thick, charged with a current that made your breath catch. "It was a long time to be away from home," he said, his voice low and certain. The words were simple, but they landed with the weight of a vow. You went warm all over, a liquid heat spreading through your veins, pooling low in your belly.

The door to your chambers was open, steam already curling out into the corridor. Inside, the copper bathtub sat, filled with water that shimmered in the firelight. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and hot stone. You led him inside, releasing his hand to help him with his riding coat. Your fingers worked at the heavy laces beneath, your knuckles brushing against the hard plane of his chest. You could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the weariness of the road etched into his very frame. You passed the coat and the dusty tunic that followed to a waiting servant, never breaking the flow of your conversation.

"The lords welcomed you, then?" you asked, as he stood before you in just his breeches, his chest bare and dusted with dark hair.

"Welcoming enough," he said, his eyes on you. "The king will be pleased. It was exactly what it needed to be." Baelor stepped toward the tub, then paused, turning back to you. A small, knowing smile played on his lips. "The ravens you sent," he said, the words easy. "I received every one."

Your heart gave a nervous little flutter. "I only wanted you to have something to read in the evenings," you said carefully.

He laughed, a soft, warm sound. "Did you?" His tone was deceptively pleasant. "And do you consider what you wrote suitable evening reading for a Prince on a royal tour?"

You said nothing, suddenly finding the pattern on the rug intensely interesting.

"Where," he continued, stepping closer, the heat from his body radiating into the space between you, "does a young noble lady learn such things?"

"The books," you blurted out, your cheeks flaming. "My lady — she gave them to me. To pass the time. I was simply —"

He silenced you with a look, his eyes dancing with amusement and something deeper, something far more dangerous. "I intend to remind you to thank her," he said, his voice a low purr. "In fact, I should consider giving patronage to whatever author inspired such sinful thoughts from my sweet little wife." He said it with such complete, genuine warmth that you couldn't decide whether you wanted to hide your face in your hands or burst out laughing.

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "And I intend," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin, "to hold you to every single one of the promises you put to paper."

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "Oh," you whispered back, the word barely audible.

He turned then, and with a smooth, fluid motion, stepped into the tub. He sank into the scalding water without so much as a flinch, a long, low sigh escaping him as the heat enveloped his weary body. He leaned his head back against the rim, his eyes closed, the steam rising around him. You settled onto the low wooden stool behind him, the heat of the fire warming your back. You dipped your hands into the water, then placed them on his shoulders, your fingers finding the tight, knotted muscles there. You began to knead, working with firm, steady pressure, and he let his head fall forward with a groan of pure relief.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the gentle slosh of water as your hands worked their magic. You could feel the tension slowly melting from his body, layer by layer. You pressed your thumbs into a particularly stubborn knot at the base of his neck, and he shuddered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with cold.

"Gods," he breathed, his voice thick with exhaustion and pleasure. "I've dreamed of this."

You smiled, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his damp shoulder. "I'm here now."

He shifted, turning his head just enough to look at you from the corner of his eye. "I missed you."

You stilled your hands, resting them on his shoulders. "I thought of you every day."

He turned fully in the tub, water sloshing over the sides onto the stone floor. The steam rose thick between you, obscuring the world beyond this small, heated circle. His eyes were warm, but they were also entirely, terrifyingly focused. They held a look you recognized, a look that always preceded a storm. He took your face in his wet hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and kissed you slowly, deeply, in a kiss that tasted of promise and the raw, desperate need of two people who had been apart for far too long. When he pulled back, his gaze dropped to the red silk robe you wore, and something in him shifted, settling into a certainty that was both thrilling and terrifying.

"You wrote about this dress," he said, his voice a low growl. "Or one like it. The color. I have been thinking about you in this color for months."

He stood then, water cascading from his body in rivulets. He reached for a towel, but only used it perfunctorily, a quick swipe at his face and chest before letting it drop to the floor. He stood before you, naked and unashamed, his body hard and lean in the firelight, dusted with dark hair that narrowed to a line leading down to the thick, heavy cock that was already rising to attention. He looked at you, and the dominance that was always a part of him, always present just beneath the surface, came roaring to the forefront. The letters had given his natural certainty a particular, razor-sharp edge tonight.

Your breath hitched. You stood, your hands going to the sash of your robe. The silk whispered as you pulled it loose, and the garment pooled at your feet, leaving you bare before him. His eyes roamed over your body, a slow, possessive inventory that made your skin pebble into gooseflesh. He took a step closer, his body heat a palpable force.

"On the bed," he said.

You moved without question, climbing onto the soft furs and linens, your heart hammering against your ribs. He followed, his movements deliberate and unhurried, a predator stalking his prey. He knelt over you, his knees bracketing your hips, his hands planting on either side of your head. He lowered himself, not onto you, but just above you, his body a bracket of heat and muscle that caged you in.

"You wrote," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, "that you wanted me to taste you. That you wanted my mouth on your cunt until you forgot your own name."

A whimper escaped your lips. Your hands, which had been lying limp at your sides, came up to clutch at his shoulders.

"Is that still what you want, wife?" he asked, his voice a dark, velvet tease.

"Gods, yes," you managed.

He smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his lips. "Good."

He began his descent, a slow, torturous journey down your body. He kissed your throat, your collarbone, the hollow between your breasts. His mouth was hot, his tongue a wet, velvet rasp against your skin. He took his time, lavishing attention on every inch of you, his hands stroking and caressing, mapping the curves of your body as if committing them to memory all over again. He lingered on your breasts, his tongue circling your nipples until they were tight, aching points, his teeth grazing them just enough to send a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.

By the time he settled himself between your thighs, you were writhing, a mindless, needy thing. He pushed your legs wider, his hands firm on your inner thighs, holding you open for his gaze. You felt exposed, vulnerable, and more turned on than you had ever been in your life. He looked his fill, his eyes dark with lust, before he lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue was a shock. A wet, hot, perfect shock against your swollen, sensitive flesh. "Baelor!" You cried out, your hips bucking off the bed. He held you down, his grip like iron, and began to lick you in earnest. This was a man fulfilling a promise, a man staking a claim. He licked you with long, broad strokes, from your dripping hole to your throbbing clit, his tongue flat and demanding. He sucked your folds into his mouth, nibbling and licking, driving you insane with a pleasure so intense it was almost pain.

He found your clit then, focusing all his attention on that tiny bundle of nerves. He circled it with the tip of his tongue, then flicked it rapidly, again and again. He sucked it into his mouth, his lips creating a tight seal, and hummed. The vibration was your undoing. Your back arched, a strangled scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated bliss that left you shaking and breathless.

But he didn't stop or even slow down. He rode you through it, his tongue relentless, his mouth demanding, pushing you higher, forcing pleasure upon pleasure until you were a sobbing, incoherent mess. Your hands were fisted in the sheets, your body trembling uncontrollably. Just when you thought you couldn't take another second of it, he pulled back.

He rose up over you, his face glistening with your juices, his eyes burning with a fierce, possessive fire. He positioned himself between your legs, the thick, blunt head of his cock nudging at your soaking wet entrance.

"You also wrote," his voice a low, guttural growl, "that you wanted me to fuck you. Hard. That you wanted to feel me for days after."

With one powerful thrust of his hips, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. You cried out, a sharp sound of pleasure as he stretched you, filled you, completed you. He was so big, so thick, and the sudden, full invasion was overwhelming. He paused for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants.

"Fuck," he groaned. "You're so tight. So wet for me."

"Please," you breathed.

Then he began to move. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping back and forth, his cock pounding into your willing cunt. This was a raw, desperate, hungry claim after weeks of abstinence. The bed creaked in protest, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mingling with your cries and his grunts of exertion. He was making love to you, that was always what it was with him, you felt it in every desperate thrust, in the way his hands gripped your hips, in the way his eyes never left yours. It was a communion, a sacred act of worship.

He shifted his angle, and the head of his cock brushed against that spot deep inside you, the one that made you see stars. You screamed, your nails raking down his back. He did it again, and again, driving into that spot with ruthless precision. You could feel another orgasm building, coiling low in your belly, a tight, hot knot of pressure.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice harsh, demanding.

Your eyes, which had been squeezed shut, fluttered open. His face was a mask of intense concentration, his eyes blazing with a fire that threatened to consume you both. Your vision was blurry with tears of pleasure, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"I want to see you," he said, his voice low and certain, each word a deliberate thrust. "When I put my child in you."

That was it. That was the final, shattering blow. The words, the possessive claim, sent you over the edge into pleasure so profound it was agony. You came apart completely, your body convulsing, a silent scream tearing from your throat as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over you. Your cunt clenched around him, milking his cock, and with a loud, guttural roar, he followed you over the precipice. You felt him pulse inside you, a hot, thick flood of his seed filling you, spilling out, marking you as his.

He collapsed on top of you, his body a heavy, welcome weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You were both panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the room smelling of sex and sandalwood and satisfaction. You lay like that for a long time, your hearts beating a frantic, syncopated rhythm against your ribs.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face. "You wrote quite a lot," he said pleasantly. "And we have only just begun."

You just stared at him, your mind still reeling. He looked back at you, his eyes full of wicked promise. "You're not going anywhere," he said, his tone soft but absolute.

He was methodical and thorough. Patient while working through every promise you had so carefully, so wickedly, put to parchment. He took you from behind, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust, his fingers finding your clit and bringing you to another screaming climax. He had you ride him, his hands on your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples as you set the pace, chasing your own pleasure until you were a quivering, exhausted mess. He even fulfilled the one you had been shyest about, the one that made your cheeks burn to even write about, spreading your ass and licking your tight, forbidden hole until you were begging him for more, then slowly, carefully, working his thick cock into you until you were so full you thought you might break, the pleasure a dark, intense, addictive thing.

You went again and again, the night blurring into a haze of sweat and skin and desperate, gasping pleasure. He was relentless, his stamina seemingly inexhaustible, fueled by the weeks of longing and the explicit, detailed roadmap of your desires you had so thoughtfully provided. He made you come so many times you lost count, your body a pliant, willing instrument for his pleasure, and yours.

It wasn't until the candles had burned down to nothing but sputtering pools of wax, until the fire in the hearth had died to a bed of glowing embers, until the first gray hint of dawn was visible through the window, that he finally relented. He collapsed beside you, utterly spent, his chest heaving. You were a wreck, your body aching in places you didn't know you had, your hair a tangled mess, your skin sticky with sweat, release, and saliva.

You couldn't move or think. You could only lie there and listen to the sound of his breathing, slowly evening out into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep as he held you tight against him.

He was home.

They pitied you.

You saw it in the way court ladies lowered their voices when you passed, in the sideways glances heavy with false sympathy. Such a sweet girl, they whispered behind jewelled fans. Too gentle for him. As if the gods themselves had been cruel, binding you to a man the realm knew only as fury given flesh.

Aerion Targaryen was legendary for his fiery temper and violent nature—a feral dragon with no leash, some called him. 

And to know you—the darling of the realm, the only daughter of Baelor Targaryen—was to mourn what they believed your fate to be. Married to your brute of a cousin, shackled to a monster. They spoke of you in hushed tones, wondering how long it would take before his temper turned fully upon you.

What they did not realize—what no one seemed to remember—was that you had grown up with him.

You knew Aerion’s temper better than most, if not everyone. You had seen it spark in boyhood, had learned the difference between fury born of pride and fury born of pain. You knew how to soothe him, yes—but more importantly, you knew why he burned.

And what they always forgot, in their eagerness to cast you as the lamb, was that you were a Targaryen as well.

Not a meek Tyrell rose to be crushed beneath dragonfire—but blood of the dragon, raised in its heat, fully capable of wielding it yourself.

Yet you played the part of a delicate flower exceedingly well.

Pious. Gentle. The very image of a proper lady. You chose needlework over steel, afternoons in the gardens over the clangour of the training yard with the giggling ladies who chose to admire the men with their bloodied knuckles and sharpened blades. You were content—so it seemed—to sit beneath the sun with pastries and warm tea, fingers weaving flower crowns as birdsong drifted through the air.

After his training, Aerion would often find you beneath the old Weirwood tree, as you rested against its pale bark carved in the grass, flowers gathered in your lap. Armour discarded, skin still warm with exertion, he would wander over and without prompting, he would lower himself beside you before laying his head against your thighs as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your fingers never faltered.

You would place the finished crown upon his silver head, blossoms resting against pale hair, before threading your hand through the short strands at his nape. The fury that followed him everywhere else eased beneath your touch. His breathing slowed. His temper, soothed into something quiet and dangerous only in potential.

“One day,” you murmured softly, voice meant for him alone, “you will wear the conqueror’s crown.”

His eyes lazily opened to meet yours, before softening. Calloused fingers reached up, gentler than any would have believed possible, brushing your cheek as though committing the feel of you to memory.

“One day,” he said vowed, “you will be my queen.”

It was in moments such as these—when no eyes were there to watch—that Aerion allowed his guard to fall. All dragons required their treasure and you were his.

There would never be another worthy of you.

Any lord who expressed their desire to marry you were dealt with swiftly and brutally, often leaving a bloodied mess. 

All the while you said nothing and offered no protest content to let them believe you were fragile as spun glass. A lamb wed, with no choice, to a beast.

At feasts, you were most often seen seated quietly at his side. You listened more than you spoke, offering soft smiles, polite courtesies, and gentle bows of your head when addressed. Your voice was rarely raised above a murmur.

When you and Aerion spoke, it was in low, private tones, words breathed into one another’s ears. Many mistook it for control—for a husband keeping his timid wife close and carefully managed.

They never saw your fingers intertwined beneath the table.

They never noticed the slow stroke of his thumb against your skin, nor the way he leaned ever so slightly toward you, gazing at his most precious treasure with a look few would have believed him capable of—a look of love.

Aerion Targaryen loved you.

For all his many faults, it was the one truth you would never deny. Those who doubted it simply had never seen what happened behind the doors of your chambers.

Tonight, for instance.

Aerion stormed in long after the sun had sunk beneath the horizon. His temper was apparent even in his silence, you could see it through his body with how tight his jaw was clenched and how tense his shoulders were. 

Through the mirror, you watched him.

Your fingers were steady as you removed the last of your jewelry, placing each piece carefully upon the vanity. Behind you, Aerion said nothing at first. He only tore the gloves from his hands and flung them aside with a force that echoed softly against the chamber walls.

You didn’t even flinch and instead calmly rose from your seat, making your way over to him.

“My love,” you said gently. 

His jaw was clenched so tightly you feared his teeth might crack.

“Another lord with too much wine and too little sense,” he snarled at last, the words scraped raw from his throat. “They dance on the line of treason and call it wit.”

His pacing was restless, a predator caged in silk. One hand dragged through his pale hair, fingers flexing as though already imagining a throat beneath them. The firelight caught along his profile, sharpening him into something dangerous and divine all at once.

“They forget themselves,” he continued, voice low and coiled. “They forget who I am.”

You reached him before the fire, your hands warm as they slid over his shoulders. “You needn’t concern yourself with them,” you murmured, thumbs pressing slow circles into the knotted muscle there. “Not when you are blood of the dragon. Leave the sheep to their bleating.”

His breath left him in a slow, heated exhale, tension shifting beneath your touch but not yet gone. “They grow bold,” he muttered. “Too bold. A few cups of wine and they think themselves clever enough to test me.”

Aerion’s hands came to rest at your waist. “Lord Wylde thinks my place is behind my brother,” he said, voice rough with restrained fury. “Spoke of rightful lines and order… as though I am meant to bow my head and be grateful for scraps.”

Your fingers moved from his shoulders to his neck, slow and steady, feeling the frantic pulse beneath warm skin.

“And what did you do?” you asked gently.

A humourless smile touched his mouth. “Nothing… yet.”

He would not—not while his father still watched from the high seat, weighing sons and measuring heirs. Aerion knew the value of restraint in public. A prince must wear composure like armour.

But he never forgot a slight.

“Good,” you whispered, brushing your thumb along his jaw until his gaze lowered fully to you. “Let him think the matter rests. Let him believe he is safe… for now.”

Aerion studied you for a long moment, something dark and knowing passing through his eyes. “Tomorrow,” he said quietly.

You nodded once. “Tomorrow,” you agreed. “He will be on his knees, repenting for his words.”

And tomorrow, someone would learn what it meant to mistake a dragon’s patience for mercy.

His breath shuddered, just once. No one ever noticed how quickly his anger softened for you—how your voice, your touch, could pull him back from the edge where others only ever saw him burn.

You guided him to sit and slipped his cloak from his shoulders, the heavy fabric pooling soundlessly at his feet. Your fingers moved through his pale hair with quiet reverence, as if he were something precious rather than feared.

“They provoke you because they envy you,” you whispered. “Because they know you are stronger.”

His shoulders finally eased beneath your hands. His eyes closed, dark lashes stark against pale skin.

“You always know what to say,” he muttered.

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “That is what wives are for.”

Your fingers traced gently down his neck, soothing the last of the tension from him. “Come,” you murmured, voice warm and low. “Let the water wash the day from you. You’ve carried enough of their filth already.”

You called for the servants and had the bath drawn, ensuring the water was hot enough that any ordinary person would have recoiled from it—but for the two of you, it was just right.

Steam curled thick in the air, scented with oils and crushed herbs steeping in the water. Firelight shimmered across the surface, golden ripples dancing against stone as waves of heat rolled outward.

You dipped your fingers in to test it, nodding faintly in approval.

“Leave us,” you said when one of the servants reached for a cloth to begin tending to him. Your tone was gentle, but firm. You would care for your husband yourself tonight.

They bowed at once and withdrew, the heavy door closing with a muted thud that left only the crackle of the hearth and the soft lap of water against the bath’s edge.

A small smile curved Aerion’s mouth as he watched you through hooded lids. It was always a rare indulgence when you chose to tend to him yourself.

You stepped back to him, fingers moving to the clasps of his tunic. He did not speak, but his eyes never left your face, the earlier storm in them now banked to embers.

“Sit,” you murmured.

He obeyed without hesitation, lowering himself to the edge of the bath as you knelt before him, hands steady as you helped him out of the last of his clothing. There was no shame between you two— only familiarity and trust.

When at last you guided him into the water, he exhaled deeply, tension easing from him in a way no words ever could. The heat embraced him, steam curling around his shoulders as the day’s strain began to melt from his frame.

You slipped out of your nightdress, letting the fabric fall in a soft whisper to the ground, and stepped into the bath under his quiet, appreciative gaze. The water embraced you at once as you moved behind him, settling so his back rested against you.

Your hands moved to his shoulders, dipping a cloth into the water before drawing it slowly over his skin. 

Aerion’s head tipped back slightly, eyes closing as your fingers worked along the tight lines of muscle at his neck. Your lips brushed a feather-light kiss against damp skin, and he hummed low in his throat.

“Careful, wife,” he murmured, voice roughened by heat and the slow unwinding of tension. “You’re making it difficult to remember why I was angry.”

Your smile ghosted against his skin, unseen but felt. “Then let it be forgotten,” you replied softly.

Your hands continued their unhurried path, tending to him with quiet devotion, washing away the day’s dust and the weight of swallowed fury. Aerion’s hand found your thigh beneath the water, his thumb tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin as he relaxed further into your touch.

For a while, there was only the sound of water shifting gently around you and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Then his grip tightened.

In one smooth movement, he turned, drawing you with him, guiding you onto his lap. The water stirred, heat rippling between you as his arms came around your waist.

“My sweet wife,” he murmured, voice low and warm, the earlier storm now long faded. “How gently you care for me.”

You leaned down, your lips finding his.

Where your touch had been gentle, his answer was not. The kiss deepened, hungry and demanding and you only submitted to his need. His hands tightened at your hips as he pressed you down against his length. 

Your mouth dropped open as a shuddering breath escaped your lips while he slowly filled you. Hs lips left yours, trailing warmth along your jaw and down the curve of your neck before finding your nipple. His hot mouth closed around the nub, gently suckling, and you let out a whine as your hips shifted, chasing the pleasure that was offered but not yet enough.

Your body jerked as he bit down gently before soothing the sting with his tongue. “Patience, my heart.”

With his grip preventing your hips from moving, you had no choice but to accept what he gave you. Your core clenched down around his cock, fluttering in need of more friction, but he refused, taking his time, alternating between your breasts as he lavished them with attention.

“Please, Aerion,” you pleaded.

He smirked, one hand moving from your hip and trailing closer to your core, the slow tease earning another desperate whine from you. His fingers finally found your clit, and your lashes fluttered as he began drawing slow circles.

“Is this what you needed, my love?” he murmured, voice low and warm against your skin.

You nodded, breath unsteady, fingers tightening, nails digging into his shoulder and leaving bright red lines against his pale skin. “More… please.”

You leaned forward, lips meeting his, your teeth sinking into his bottom lip and earning a sharp hiss from him. You smirked as you felt his grip tighten, his restraint fraying. You clenched down on him again, and he snapped—grabbing you and hauling you off his lap, turning you and before you could react to the sudden emptiness. He pushed your upper body against the lip of the tub before driving into you roughly.

One hand gathered your hair into his fist, sharply pulling your head back and forcing your spine to arch as he continued his relentless pace.

“Is this what you needed?” he crooned. “To be treated as if you were my whore?” he grunted, hips snapping sharply with each word.

You could only whine, mouth open as your fingers braced tightly against the bath’s edge. The cooling water sloshed over the sides, spilling onto the floor in wide puddles, but neither of you paid it any mind.

Pleasure and pain were offered to you in equal measure, a heady combination that left your mind foggy and focused only on your husband.

His fingers strummed against your clit faster, and you felt yourself tighten against him. He groaned, his thrusts growing sloppier as his control slipped away. His fingers pinched down, and you finally unraveled with a scream, your body shuddering as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

Aerion followed moments later, a breathless grunt falling from his lips as he spent himself deep inside you. He gave a few more thrusts, prolonging the sensation, before finally stilling, his forehead dropping briefly against your back as the last of his strength gave way to the aftermath.

For a long moment, neither of you moved—only the sound of shared breathing and the soft crackle of the fire filled the chamber.

“One of these days,” he murmured hoarsely, still catching his breath “your belly will swell with my child.”

You answered with nothing more than a quiet, breathless hum, too content to form words.

After a few lingering moments, Aerion shifted, withdrawing carefully. A small whimper slipped from your lips at the sudden emptiness. He rose from the bath first, then slipped his arms around you, lifting you with effortless strength from the now-cooled water.

Cradled against his chest, you let your head rest against his shoulder as he carried you across the chamber. Water droplets clung faintly to your skin as he laid you gently upon the bed, the furs soft beneath you. He joined you moments later, pulling you close as the firelight flickered over tangled sheets and tired limbs.

You stayed with him until the fire burned low and his breathing evened, his head resting against your shoulder like a great, slumbering beast temporarily tamed. When you were certain sleep had claimed him, you eased yourself free with careful patience, pulling the furs up around his broad frame.

Then you rose, calmly slipping on a robe to cover yourself. The sweetness drained from your expression as swiftly as a candle snuffed between fingers.

Moving soundlessly, you crossed to the door and slipped into the corridor beyond, where a guard in your service stood watch. He straightened at once and dipping his head.

“Princess.”

“Find Lord Wylde,” you said quietly. “The one who insulted my husband tonight. And send word to our friends in the city,” you continued. “I want to know who he owes money to, who his heir beds in secret, and which of his bannermen grumble behind his back. Anything and everything about his dirty little secrets.”

The guard bowed his head again. “At once, Princess.”

With that, you slipped back into your chambers and moved to your desk. Sitting down, you unfolded a fresh piece of parchment. Your hand was steady as you wrote. Unlike your husband, you were not one to raise your voice or rage.

Your ruthlessness did not require noise.

By morning, Lord Wylde would be given a choice: comply quietly, publicly repent his insults, or watch his name unravel piece by piece until nothing remained but ashes and shame.

You glanced back toward the bed, where Aerion slept peacefully, untroubled.

They believed you endured his temper.

The truth was far more dangerous.

Aerion burned the world when provoked—

but you were the one who decided who would be reduced to ash.

“Good morning.” You whisper, dipping your fingers under the silk sheets to trail through his silver hair. The heat of Aerion’s mouth trailing against the tender skin of your inner thighs was a familiar one; you did not need to open your eyes to know it was your husband. 

“Took you long enough.” The vibration of his voice,  thick with the remnants of sleep and lust, sent a shiver down your spine. His teeth nip against your skin as his wet kisses trail higher. “Feeling lazy today, are we?”

“Shut up.” Your voice comes out breathy as his fingers tighten around your thighs, spreading them a little wider as he worked his teeth, lips and tongue over the already hickey-painted skin, placing fresh dark marks over the faded ones. 

“Feisty this morning, wife.” Aerion’s fingers travel up your thighs, scratching and squeezing as they go before settling on your soft hips. “I’ll make you regret that insolence.”

Before you can even think of a retort, he teasingly ghosts his lips over your already slick-heat, making you gasp. It was only a whisper of a touch, yet it drove you crazy, and the worst, most infuriating part? He knew it.

“Open your eyes,” His silky voice demands as he squeezes your hips. “I want you to look at me.”

Your hips roll instinctively towards the familiar allure of his lips. He would not ask a second time. He never asks a second time. Your eyes flutter open, blinking against the soft morning light…and your breath catches in your throat.

You had seen him like this almost every morning of your marriage, yet the sight never failed to make you squirm. Aerion's usual perfect silver hair was a mess from sleep, his pale cheeks flushed, and his lips were swollen from kisses as he lay between your legs, basking in the golden rays of light. Yet it was his eyes that made your fingers clutch the sheets just a little tighter.  They bore into yours; the usual violet was almost completely blackened with want as he stared up at you, challenging you to look away. You never did. 

“Good.” It was a simple praise, but from Aerion? It made your chest swell. You watched him gaze up at you for a few more achingly long moments. “You look pretty like this.” He whispers, before finally slipping his tongue against your heat in a slow, teasing drag.

“Fuck.” You gasp, hips jerking foward but his grip tightened, forcing you still.

“...Taste pretty too.” Aerion murmurs, drawing his tongue back into his mouth for a moment to savour your taste with a satisfied groan. It was sinful, the sight alone of him dipping his tongue back against you, licking and sucking as he stared up from between your thighs, could undo you.

It did not take long for Aerion to lose interest in teasing; he was not a patient man after all. Your hips struggled against his firm grip, needy and desperate as his lips planted hot, sloppy kisses against your heat. 

“Eyes. On. Me.” He growled, wrapping his lips around that sensitive little bundle of nerves that he just knew drove you crazy. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think; the only thing you could do was bite back a stream of curses that threatened to fall from your lips and try your best to keep your hips still for him.

A familiar ache tightened in your lower stomach, like an ever-burning and desperate heat as he flicked his tongue against you.  You whimper, propping yourself on your elbows as you look down at your husband make a mess of you with his lips. Your breath hitches as he dips his silver head lower, teasing your needy entrance with his hot tongue…before slipping inside. 

Immediately, your head falls back, and a cascade of gasps escapes your lips as you feel him drag inside you, slipping in and out in the most languid way, forcing your hips to chase him. Aerion's thumb pressed against your bundle of nerves again, rubbing in slow circles, guiding your pleasure closer as he fucked you with his tongue. The tension in your lower stomach tightened further, and you could feel your climax begin to build. When your moans of pleasure hit a new volume, and your hips began stuttering against his tongue, he knew you were close.

Just when you were going to come undone, Aerion abruptly withdrew his lips and tongue, pulling a needy whine from your lips as your hips buck, searching for him. A grin danced on your husband's lips, which now glistened with your wetness, as he watched you writhe and jerk in need of his touch. 

“Cruel.” You frustratedly choke out, the ache between your legs making you whimper, desperate to finish. 

“That I am, dear wife.” Aerion slowly licks your slick from his lips with a low hum. “But I did warn you, you would regret your insolence.”

--

“I finished,” said Aegon, swinging his legs off the chair. His face showed little certainty, when he kept glaring at his own notes like they personally offended him.

“Show it to me.”

The bones in your back cracked painfully, as you moved to sit up in the bed. It annoyed you over comprehension – the weakness overtaking you, making you feel like a rugged doll. You imagined being punched till unconsciousness to be a similar experience, except your state dragged on for two days now.

Your insides ached for some movement, for straightening your body, but whenever you tried to stand up your head spun and limbs refused to serve you.

You made yourself as comfortable as you could and waved for the boy to pass you his book and papers. You looked away from the reading after seeing a few sentences, to send him a little smile. Once again he was being harsh in his judgment. The writing wasn’t perfect, it certainly wasn’t passionate or without mistakes, but it was enough for the prince to be proud of himself. You definitely were.

Aegon was a child smart over his years, but that didn’t mean he was fond of doing geography assignments. It was enough that he ran away from his maester, probably when the poor man closed his eyes for a mere moment. You bet he panicked when the little prince was gone, while he was supposed to be doing the writing…

Your heart swelled when you saw his little head peak from the door this morning. “How are you feeling?” He asked quietly. 

The closed drapes and dim light in the room told him everything about your possible headache, and considerable as he was, he didn't wish to make it worse.

You welcomed him inside, but with a warning that he shouldn't come too close. You appreciated the boy’s concern a lot.

It was sweet but heartbreaking, seeing the way he looked at you when he thought you didn’t see –  not a look of a prince, a carefully educated Targaryen, but just a boy who lost his mother far too early. 

Aegon adored you, and if you only didn’t battle the awful sickness, you would gladly gather him in your arms like you often did. He liked to be treated seriously, approached like a reasonable child, but you knew he sometimes needed the assurance, the closeness and promises that everything would be fine. Especially, when he made that sad face, like he was truly concerned for your fate.

You saw it a lot on him today, and you cursed your own condition. It was hard to keep him away, but you knew infecting him would be much worse.

“It is a splendid work, Aegon.”

You didn't mind that he tried to lie to you about his supposed free time. He couldn't fool you, but you didn’t pry, and suggested that he should do his job anyway, just here, by your side. You called the servant to move the hangings a bit, so he could read in proper light.

It seemed like he could always find his way to you. You imagined your tray always full  of sweets had something to do with it – a tray that was prepared just for him, but you wanted him to remain unaware.

When you hummed in recognition while reading, he started to climb up the bed to sit next to you, and it broke your heart to stop him. “Egg, carefully! I won't forgive myself if…”

“I know.” He nodded and obediently stood a few steps back. You smiled at him weakly. “Well, if I caught it too, I could at least keep you company…”

“Oh, yes, and avoid lessons, hm?” You offered.

“Maybe… if I had a bad temperature?”

“You're a smart boy, you mustn’t waste it, my dear,” you reminded, and he only shrugged. “You are finding ways to avoid them anyway, look at you here!”

You were pretty glad of that – not as much as Maekar, though – that except being better than his brothers in books, Aegon could also find his way around the court. He could avoid events, and find events when he wanted. He wasn’t easy to fool, and remained polite while still having a bone of inducibility in him.

“You won't tell anyone?” He asked in hope.

“Of course, I won't tell anyone. Who do you think I am, Egg?”

He answered you with a bright smile and took the checked paper from you.

“Do you think the maester will forgive me? It wasn’t nice to leave him without a word…”

“He will have to. You completed your assignment, after all!”

“Because you forced me,” he pointed out, and you laughed weakly.

“Well, he doesn’t need to know that, yes?”

A soft knock interrupted your peace, and the prince instinctively tucked his papers behind his back. You ordered the person to come inside, and soon your caretaker bowed his head. The maester’s age was not impressive, you would even say that he was a young man, but his skills in healing deserved all praises. You knew his story – he gained most of his knowledge by assisting the people who tended to the king, and was now assigned to other Targaryens.

In these past few days you grew to appreciate his abilities, but they weren’t making him any more approachable. He was not indifferent, not openly rude – your lord husband wouldn’t allow you to keep such a man close – but his remarks were always haughty.

“Your grace,” he said proudly, while putting down his apparatus that – you hoped – he only carried around for the effect, and wasn’t going to use them on you.

Then his eyes twitched, when he noticed the boy standing close to your bed.

“Oh, little prince Aegon! Your maester was looking for you, boy. The poor man is out of his mind worrying,” he muttered in a scolding voice that you didn’t like at all.

Egg merely shrugged his shoulders, not very worried about a man like that. You waved your hand at the maester to let him know he should leave the matter.

“I asked prince Aegon to sit with me, since he was done with his assignment and the maester decided it's a good moment for a nap,” you said barefacedly, betraying signs of made up annoyance.

Aegon looked down to hide the smile when you winked at him. 

“Oh, that is quite unacceptable of him…” he hummed, like any of that truly interested him. You knew it didn’t, but he wasn’t blunt enough to clap his hands and turn to your health just yet.

It wasn’t long, though.

“Are you feeling better, your grace?”

“I’m alive. That would be it,” you mumbled, knowing that he will force you to elaborate anyway.

But he put his attention on Aegon first. He gestured at him like he was not even a common boy, but a dirty little beggar under his feet. Truth be told, if that’s how he treated a prince, you really didn’t want to know how he approached the poorest of sick people. You would pray that they never have to face him…

“Alright, my prince. Leave now, we have no use for your presence.”

Aegon looked at you with confusion on his face. He was not used to being spoken to that way, and even if it didn’t offend him really, it clearly caught him off guard.

“It is alright, Egg. Go and enjoy the rest of your day,” you added quickly, to make sure he won’t make that sad face again, which would make you throw the maester out and sentence him for two days in stocks. “Oh, and apologize to the maester in my name.”

“I will,” Aegon promised, while disappearing from the chamber.

He left heavy silence after him, which clearly remained unnoticed by the maester. He rearranged his things, and looked at the notes about your health again.

“So… the temperature is what worries me, my princess. I will check if  you’re burning again,” he had the decency to warn you, before he stepped closer, and you had the chance to catch his hand.

He opened his eyes in shock, but was calmed by your peaceful face.

“The prince doesn’t deserve harshness like the one you showed him,” you said firmly, despite keeping your composure. It was just a wish, a piece of advice to direct him.

“I… I worried that he will exhaust you, my princess. You should save your strength now, and not waste it on the boy’s nonsenses."

“The prince is far from saying any nonsense, and you must know that I find his company very calming. Thank you for your concern.”

He bowed, as if to sooth your irritation. “It is my job, your grace.”

He made sure to check how you are feeling, made new reports of your state, and mixed some of his herbs.

The whole arrangement was taking awfully long – just like the sickness – and you started to get bored. Being tied to a bed was far from your dreams, and a terrible company of the maester only made it less bearable.

All you wished for now was that your husband would finally find a moment of freedom to come see you. You didn’t know how powerful your unspoken wish was.

“So how is the court?” You broke the silence, tired of only hearing your own stertorous breath. “I hope I didn’t burden the prince too much with the duties I had to leave on him.”

The man looked up from his job, like he was offended that you dared to interrupt him. You could see when he forced himself to remain calm, and turned to the book again.

“My princess, you shouldn't doubt your husband,” he said firmly, with superiority.

It boiled your blood, truly. Not only did he spoke to Aegon like he held very little respect for him, due to his age, but he also now lectured you.

“I don't doubt him, you cunt,” you spat, surprising yourself.

Normally you wouldn’t be so quick to jump into anger, but today your weariness dragged you into this irritable, unstable state. Also, Maekar’s company wasn't a good influence in the matter of keeping your patience on a leash.

You watched the man’s shocked expression with a frown, and in the corner of your eyes you saw the door open again. To your mild entertainment and satisfaction – the maester didn’t, and kept staring at you like you had slapped him.

Just then Maekar grunted, not really sure what he stepped into. All he knew was that he heard your heated remark. He had to fight his own smirk, since he would make him look too approachable. He didn’t want that. Especially with that sorry fucking excuse of a monk nearby, currently by your bed.

The maester rolled his eyes, and made an assumption dangerous for his safety.

“Aegon, I told you not to–”

The words died on his tongue, when he saw the boy’s father instead. He closed the door after him quite firmly, and took a few steps closer. It was funny to watch; he looked like a hunting animal who took pride from circling its surrounded prey. 

“Prince Maekar! I apologize for the mistake…” The maester bowed his head low, but that was not enough for Maekar.

The king’s youngest son nodded, like he only confirmed his thoughts. He didn’t look you in the eyes just yet, and if he intended to play with the maester, you expected he would not do that for a while.

“A mistake is forgivable. Speaking about a prince with no respect, less so.” He stepped closer, until the younger man backed off into a wooden dresser, and gulped visibly. “He might be an unruly child, but to you, he is a grandson of the king.”

“Of course, your grace…”

Suddenly your entertainment was spoiled by a terrible headache hitting you.

“The same goes to my wife. Especially when you are tending to her, do you hear me? Next time I will have your tongue so you don’t bother her with speaking again,” he threatened, obviously far too roughly for the considerably small offence. “And she doesn’t doubt me, you cunt,” he repeated, and you had to roll your eyes, despite the pain.

“The man meant no disrespect, Maekar. Please–” You were interrupted by a violent fit of cough, “please, lower your voice,” you barely managed to choke out.

Your voice suddenly fell small, your throat felt dry, and you turned your head to the side, to hide the tears welling up in your eyes from the lack of proper breathing.

“My prince, if you would allow me…”

Maekar scoffed.

“Why in the seven hells are you asking, you fool? Do your thing!”

He almost pushed the man to your side, and soon a cold hand touched your heated forehead. He forced you to drink some awful medicine and applied ointments on the nape of your neck.

Maekar watched him like a hawk, especially when the maester suggested that washing your face with ice-cold water would help – if not with the temperature, then at least with the headache. You didn’t care much anymore, you just wanted for it to be gone. Soon a small basin was carried inside.

You managed to throw a threatening look at your resentful husband, who kept staring daggers at the young man’s back. With your silent pleading, an ask that he didn’t like at all, he had to give in.

Maekar moved to the window to stare outside, just for a moment, when he heard your piercing scream.

“You–” your voice died in your throat. “You fucking idiot!”

Maekar turned and if only he had his sword on him, his hand would certainly fly to the handle.

But don’t let it fool you: prince Maekar wasn’t any less dangerous unarmed.

He saw that you had jumped out of bed and was now dripping in the cold water that must have been spilled on you as an accident.

The maester’s hands trembled, and with a glare of pure terror aimed at prince Maekar, he sank to his knees.

“Your grace…”

“Don't your grace me!” You continued, your body shaking.

You clutched the bedding, wanting to throw it over your shoulders, but they turned out to be equally wet.

The kneeling man was snatched up as quickly as he fell. He pleaded incoherently when Maekar held him by the collar, grunting his teeth.

It was your unsteady, heavy breath that made Maekar abandon the idea of calling for an executioner to lend him his axe, and turning your personal bedroom into a place of brutal torment.

“You are the luckiest fool in this kingdom today,” he rasped out, and dragged the man to the door. He made sure to make his grasp especially painful. “Don’t you fucking dare to cross my way again, or you will be thrown into wintry Blackwater Bay. Then you will be toasted on a fucking stake, just to drown you ultimately.”

“Y–yes, my prince…”

You could hear the man hit the ground, and you could only imagine he crawled back, as far from the chamber as he could.

Unfortunately your clattering teeth didn’t allow you to hear much. You were too focused on hugging your own arms around you for some heat, and tried to find a dry piece of the bedding to crawl under.

“He was watching you while you were dressed like this?”

Maekar moved behind you, and you could recognize he was clenching his jaw from anger. It was all in his voice, the anger not aimed at you, but the threatened man.

“Was I supposed to wear a high neck and long sleeves?” You rasped out in a desperate scoff.

You had a simple nightgown on you, the neck not very low, neither too see-through. Only now it was all wet… Well, if the maester wished to see more before, your husband was seeing just that right now.

A strong pull turned you around and Maekar threw an arm around your shoulders to hold you close. Without allowing you to move even a bit, he turned to a coffer and looked for something that could warm you.

He flinched from the cold when he snapped the gown clinging to your body off of it, and wrapped the fur around you.

There was one thing worse than a sick princess of a realm, and it was a sick princess and a prince. Still, you didn’t even try pleading for him to stay away. There was no chance to make him change his mind about holding you close at nights, and if he did that, there was no reason why he wouldn’t do it now.

He was an experienced man who faced sicknesses, battles and things far worse. He patiently changed your compresses over and over again when you were burning up, and warmed you with his presence when you shivered. There was always an unspoken promise in his acts, and you knew he would never abandon you; in health or lack of it.

“I'll send for someone competent,” he said quietly, irritation still staining his voice.

“That man was competent,” you reminded, even if it was now hard to believe in.

Maekar giggled a nasty laugh.

“You must be out of your mind, really. He spilled a bucket of water on you!”

“Out of fear for you…”

“That is his one advantage, then: he should be afraid of me.”

He tried to drag your idle body to the bed, but you clung to his neck and made him stop in his tracks. Soon he was sitting in a chair in front of the fireplace, with you curled up on his lap, wrapped in furs. With carefulness that only you knew, he brushed your hair out of your face, and took the wet strands from under the fur, so they don’t irritate the bare skin on your neck.

A big hand kept on your head made you lean even more into him. You smirked weakly when you noticed that your shallow breath on his throat gave him shivers.

“I hate this place,” he grunted, caressing your body. He didn’t even notice, but he started swaying in the chair softly. You didn’t know if it was a habit from his children’s young years, or if he thought it would soothe you too, but it warmed your heart. And warmth was what you needed more than anything that moment.

“The very second the snow melts, we leave for Summerhall. I’m sick of it all…” he kept complaining, and you laughed despite the terrible trembling of your body that you couldn’t stop.

“You are sick of it? Look at me.”

“Fair. You look awful these last few days,” he admitted insolently, earning a weak smack on the shoulder from you. “What? You’re not a specimen of strength now, darling. It would be different if you could listen to me and…”

“Not overwork myself?” You offered, hearing the talk for the numerous times in the past few days.

“Aye,” he grumbled. “I couldn’t catch a fucking moment of peace with you, that’s how busy you were. Now you have to pay.”

“To you?”

“I wish. Maybe when you are less sweaty from burning up,” he joked cruelly, but smirked. “To your own body, I meant.”

You only scoffed, obediently laying your head on his chest.

“I’m counting the days to our leave as well,” you confessed quietly.

Unfortunately, your husband had duties to attend to, and despite your complaints that he was abandoning you again, he didn’t buck.

“You have to lay down,” he ordered, moving you to the bed. Tucking you it, he held your shoulder like you would try to spring up the moment he was gone. “Rest,” he said in a voice almost threatening.

“But–” 

“Do you think I'm an incapable fool, like the man suggested?” His rasp was teasing, of course, but you knew him well enough to be aware of the idea sown in that thick head of his.

“Never. I just don’t want to behead anyone while–”

He interrupted you again, like an annoyed teenage boy who was teased enough to snap. “When you’re not there to tame me?”

You smiled widely. You looked weak, felt even worse, but Maekar never saw a sight more dear to him.

“When I’m not there to watch, I wanted to say.”