#brightflame

There were many things about your husband that vexed you.

His tendency for violence, his lisp when tired, and his generally bothersome nature.

Before you had married him, most wished you luck; your own sister telling you that you would be unlike to leave the union alive.

All outside misjudge Aerion. Even the cruelest can be reconciled with proper guidance, and a tight, strangling leash.

Tomorrow your husband would fight for his life and his speck of honour, in a trial so ostentatious you laughed in his face when you heard.

It was supper, now. A quiet ordeal filled with tension.

Baelor and Lord Ashford sat at each head. Maekar at his brother's side, and Valarr at his father's other side. Your brothers by law had scurried off as quick as they had been found, and were not present at the table.

The stern man you called your father in law was at your side; he said that he would injure his son if there was not a barrier. And the two of you oft found common ground in insulting Aerion, who was on your other side, having a conversation with himself.

"A hedge knight questioning the dragon." He scoffed mouth full of smoked venison, tender so that his hurt teeth could digest it. "He should be hung… a show of strength."

The father and the uncle eyed him simultaneously, with equal disapproval. You rolled your eyes.

This was not a night that you wished to deal with his musings. There were stabbing pains on your belly, unable to be aided as your herbalist was so far away, and these impoverished Meadow beggars would have nothing similar to relieve you.

The flickering of fired torches in the dampened stone room mirrored your restless thoughts.

Your husband threw yet another nut of some sort into his mouth, and cracked the hilt of his dagger against the table.

"I suppose it will be fun. Do you not think, wife?" He grinned, reaching a hand to your thigh and squeezing.

The response he got was a plain blink and a strike across the cheek.

A huff left you, your heavy chair squeaking as you sat up and deserted the meal.

Baelor's matching breath of amusement was the last thing you heard before rounding the corner out of the room.

Aerion sat, pouting like a child, his knife clattering onto the weirwood as he raised a hand to rub his reddened cheek.

The truth is that this was not an uncommon thing.

Since your union, you had disciplined him harshly. Even during your betrothal, you accepted nothing but the best.

With the rumours surrounding your future husband, you figured that you would be in a dangerous position, and may as well begin to fight; that being a perpetrator is better than being abused without any revenge to call your own. Yet you learned this to be unnecessary when you got to know him.

Surprising to all; Aerion practically worshipped you. This lady was the only one who opposed him, who truly challenged him, and did not kneel as his feet as everyone else did.

Happiness had grown between you two as a consequence. Any kindness he mustered was stored away for you, any adoration and affection was held in for his wife behind a high wall of cruelty.

But he was still the difficult, arrogant, spoiled flame. There is no cure for being a cunt, not even love.

But there is a cure for attitude; punishment.

After you struck him, the prince stalked to your shared chambers with his silver brows laced together.

The heavy door groaned when he pushed it open and shut it all the same. He eyed the back of your head as you stood in front of a window, the view backed by sounds of crackling wood that was rushed in drying.

The air was smoky and tense.

He could feel your anger. It stirred arousal in him, for he knew what was coming.

The heavy dress that flaunted his house colours had been removed; you didn't wish to represent the humiliation he had caused today.

When you spun to look at him, your chemise floated around your knees. Pert nipples were hard, their colour visible through the thin cotton.

The tone of your voice was nowhere near as kind as the sight of your body. "You are an idiot."

The prince had his eyes set on your figure, knowing his punishment was coming… what a sweet punishment it would be. Your white shift was stained with droplets of red.

The sting of your words was brief but real.

"I know." He replied quietly, mouth slightly opened as his mind distracted himself, remembering the tastes you awarded him with last eve.

A sharp breath left you, and you cocked your head as you walked over. "Did I say that you could look?" You snapped.

Aerion shook his head swiftly, and looked at his feet.

This might seem a meek response from such an outspoken man, but I assure you, it comes with explanation.

Playing commander is a tiring job. Spending each and every day lording over people is exhausting. Your husband did it to keep the power of his house as a spectacle, to show that he was a dragon. Yet after such long hours shouting his flame, he quenched, and relented. Most always in the bedchamber.

"You humiliated yourself as well as your family today. You know that." The words were cold, and cut deep. They were meant to. "Your father is disappointed, as ever."

A chuckle left you as you thought of what it might have looked like, your husband being thrown about like a doll. "Peasants watched you lower yourself."

A loud, dramatic scoff left you, stepping forward so you might poke your finger into his chest.

"Are you proud, Aerion?"

The man before you sniffled. "No." He murmured quietly, far from the dragon he presented himself as.

"Yet you seemed so at supper. Before that knight, before the entire tourney!"

Your commanding tone made his cock stir shamefully in his breeches. He continued to stare down, hearing and feeling your presence approach, and seeing your bare feet as you did.

It was almost impossible to believe that he has been hesitant to submit in the beginning of your marriage, for now he did as you said without question.

The prince stood like a mouse in this chamber, like he was trying to make himself invisible. It aroused you endlessly.

You stepped forward once more so your chests might be flush.

Breasts brushed against chain mail, and hardness pressed against your belly. Lungs inhaled deeply, then you breathed a long, hot breath into his face, and grabbed at his cock roughly.

A strangled whimper left him as you twisted your grip, squeezing so harshly that tears pricked at his eyes.

The twitch of his fingers gave away how much he wished to take hold of you for support, but he held as strong as he could, and let his arms hang at his sides.

"Cry!" You goaded, raising your other hand to give his beaten cheek yet another smack.

Then he obeyed, and let out a quiet sob from the hurt between his legs and the bruises on his ego.

It was genuine, it satisfied you.

At the sob's sound, you pulled back and freed him from such pleasurable pain. Uninterested eyes flickered over him, then you turned away and strolled back to the table holding your cup.

The prince watched you do so with tear-trails on his face, braving your anger as he looked up.

The taste of Arbor Gold only emboldened your tongue. You spun to face him once again, malicious intent in your eyes.

"Take off your clothes." You murmured as you strolled over, taking a sure seat on a chaise that was conveniently right before your husband.

Aerion nodded, so handsome when obeisant.

He made an effort to keep eye contact as he dropped each article, knowing how much you disliked being looked away from.

His scabbard and obnoxious steel shirt clattered together, leaving him bare chested. Deft fingers reached for his breeches, undoing the tie quickly and pushing them down, exposing his pretty, pinking cock. With its poor, desperate veins, framed by silver hair from his bellybutton down.

The gods knew that he needed a redeeming feature, and they did not err when they chose to make it his body.

He hated silence, so you shut your mouth, and instead watched him for a few moments. Delight flashed across your face as he shifted uncomfortably, cock becoming almost tortured in its hardness.

The last drops of wine were swallowed down your throat, the cup was thrown to the side, and you sat on the edge of the chaise.

"Lie down."

Aerion obliged immediately, and walked towards the bed.

"No." You snapped. "On the floor."

Those words sent a shiver through him, glancing back at you for reassurance, his glassy violet eyes blinking.

Your eyebrows raised mockingly. "Are you simple?"

He bristled — of course he isn't! —, sniveled and lay down, feeling the cold stone from his heels to his head.

It felt like years that he lay there, waiting for any sort of demand, or sound, or praise for doing right.

Eventually, you rose from your plush seat, ready to take your other.

You kneeled beside your husband, and swung a leg over him, straddling his face.

He swallowed, mouth watering from the scent of iron so close to him.

It was foolish — he knew — but he did it anyway; taking hold of your thighs with one hand while the other pushed the bothersome hem out of the way, just enough so he might get his head under it.

There was a lazy grin on your face at how hungry he was, and you let him tug you over his face.

Gods, your blood dripped onto his nose. He felt like he was going to spurt cum on his stomach, without even being touched.

Your cunt was so wet, with red covering your thighs and spilling from your entrance. He was starved, utterly. The pads of his fingers dug into your flesh.

It was less like a question and more like a plea. "May I?" He swallowed, shutting his eyes as he chanced pulling you down towards his face. "Please?"

A soft sigh left you, tired of denying yourself, wetness mixed with viscous crimson from how much his obeisance had delighted you. You sat down fully on his face, ever so grateful for his harsh nose.

Aerion groaned at your flavour, immediately lapping at your entrance.

There was nothing he loved more than tasting you. He always found his head between your thighs, and when your moonblood was about, his lips scarcely left yours.

The prince didn't know where to revere first, alternating between sucking your clit and swallowing the metallic liquid from your core.

That earned him a soft moan, and a rock of your hips. He knew he was doing well, and gripped your arse by each globe, holding you against his face.

He was in the seventh heaven down there, utterly blissed out — whether from the taste or the lack of air, we will never know. The stone beneath him ached his hips as they jerked without the prince's awareness or permission.

The tip of his nose nudged your clit, his tongue plunging inside and flicking at your spot desperately, almost trying to suck the blood and wetness from your very insides.

Oh, he was doing too well, making you lean forward and brace yourself on your hands, rolling all of your weight against his face.

He was so talented, it made you finally believe him worthy of a bit of gratification.

"Mm, Aerion." You breathed shakily, feeling the pleasure gather in your belly.

The praise only encouraged him.

The feeling of his nails digging into your arse made your warm, velvety walls clench around his eager tongue.

A loud mewl left you."Gods, my dragon."

Your husband was determined to make you finish, winding the coil inside of you tighter and tighter with every lap. The liquid from your cunt was saccharine, so sweet to him that he would risk losing his loosened tooth.

He kept pulling little moans from you. But when his hand clasped your hip to drag you down, grinding your clit against the bridge of his nose while the tip of his tongue brushed the spot inside of you, you broke.

A flood was released onto his tongue between your ecstatic tongue, your husband only redoubling his efforts with vigour.

The taste of your blood made him amorous and obsessed, like a wolf smelling lamb, he was unable to stop until he had wholly consumed it.

Once your body stopped trembling, you whined in overstimulation, trying desperately to crawl away. But he had you in his tight hold, you had no chance.

Aerion tortured you for half a minute, making tears drip down your face from overwhelm as he fed his hedonistic desires. For when the meal was your cunt, he was always a glutton.

Only when you felt something wet on your lower back did he stop. That something wet was his cum, shot so far from how pent up he was.

You did not even know that a man could do such a thing.

When his strong arms finally lifted you off, there was an indolent grin on his face, which was covered with such an amount of blood that it rather looked as if he had taken a bite out of you.

His breath heaved terribly, having been deprived of oxygen the entire time he was beneath you. The feeling was like laying on a cloud.

Large hands set you down onto his chest, and released your reddened arse and hips, preferring to rub your waist.

After the complete dazzle of ecstasy began to dull, you stared down at him, mouth wide open, breath matching his.

Then you bathed together, as you often did.

What most did not realise was that Aerion was a very clingy man. You were his, it was not as if he would not enjoy you in all aspects.

In bed, he continued to embrace you, his head taking claim over the crook of your neck as he buried it there, holding you against him in a way that did not invite protest.

"I hunger for your blood." He murmured gruffly, lips being tickled by your earring.

"Comforting."

A chuckle rumbled his chest, and he pulled the covers better over you, then resumed his tight hold.

Careful fingers began scratching at his nape, and your eyes shut.

"You know that I love you, Aerion." You whispered softly against his scalp.

It was always something you reminded him of after such a rough session. Sometimes you were so cruel that it may well have left him wondering if you did care about him.

But he never doubted your feelings.

"And I you." He kissed your neck. "My dear, tasty wife."

With that, sleep took you.

Tomorrow was going to be a long and difficult day, but at the very least, you had dusk until dawn to be one another's support.

Your husband was a difficult man, one who was troubled and so oft delusioned.

But he was yours, something you could not help but be thankful for.

Aerion Targaryen m.list 𓆰𓆪

hii this is my first time writing for aerion - based on this ask

lmk what you thought!! i hope you enjoy mls <3

if you have any requests or js wanna thirst then hit my inbox xx

House Targaryen taglist

You can hear him step closer, feel the sudden bent in the atmosphere. “What are you doing?”

“Exploring.” You bite your tongue. “Not that it is any of your business.”

“Anything my good-sister does is my business.” His words, heard separately, would sound sweet. Would sound kind and gentleman-like. But there is the matter of his voice—it is sharp and cutting like a silken blade.

“What are you doing here?”

“Following you,” he says, and there’s a danger in his tone. Something flickering, burning like spice. It tastes of treason.

“Did Valarr send you?” you ask, knowing very well that Aerion is the last person your betrothed would send to look for you. Yet, you wanted to say his name. You wanted the reminder—that you are bound to Valarr Targaryen. And anything that comes out of his cousin’s mouth should regard this fact very carefully.

“My cousin does not even know you are gone.”

Your heart pricks, and you feel foolish. The sentence is intended to hurt you, to disquiet you. Yet the knowledge does not make it better.

“I was… exploring,” you say slowly, still not turning, “I wanted a moment alone.”

“Alone from the good prince?” he says cruelly. 

“Alone from all the noise.”

“Ah, because there is enough noise inside your head.”

You shiver. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look at me.”

The command comes sudden and stark. His cursed voice slithers inside your skin, like a bad word, a malediction. You feel your blood warm as you turn back, unable to disobey. 

Aerion Brightflame stands, leaning against the other pillar of the alleyway. His head is tilted, violet eyes boring into you. And even in the dark, the silver in his head shines. The red from his chainmail shirt sends blisters of spark on his face. The moonlight always does inexplicable things to his complexion. That Valyrian paleness, the light eyes, that sharpness in his face are cut from marble—from something ancient that hasn’t been replicated in another creature quite so alluringly. When you first saw him, you thought he was the most beautiful person alive.

You tell yourself that it was because you were promised to him.

“I know what you mean. I know what you want. Because you were betrothed to me first.”

His words, accusations, burn your skin. “Aerion—”

“Before you betrayed me and went to him.”

“That’s a vile accusation.”

“Vile, is it?” He comes closer, and you still yourself, you don’t back away because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how he affects you still. “Am I vile? Is that why you ran away to precious, golden Valarr?”

“I went to Valarr because I love him.”

He chuckles, it is a dangerous, joyless sound. “You did not love me, then?”

“No,” you lie.

His eyes flash cold. He steps closer and closer until you feel yourself step back, just to delay the gap between you. You feel your heart skid to a stop when your back meets with the stone of the alleyway. You will yourself to stare at him with force. With some of the fire everyone keeps telling you is inside you too.

Aerion reaches his hand to smooth the rough hair fluttering over your forehead. You stay still, not even breathing as he leans down, down, down until his pale nose touches your throat. 

He sniffs, predatory, insane. “You smell the same—cardamon, vanilla. Valarr likes that, does he?”

“Yes,” you hiss out, turning your face.

Aerion’s hand comes to touch your throat, his thumb brushes over your pulse point at the junction of your jaw. “But there’s something else, too. Something my good cousin cannot even fathom.”

“Aerion—let me go…” you breathe out.

“Blood,” he says, and you can feel his tongue lap out, for a fraction of a second. Tasting you. “That tangy, metallic taste of it. Something forbidden. Something rotten.”

You scoff in anger, pushing him back on instinct. “You are unbelievable.”

He leans back, undeterred, as if your hands weigh nothing. “He cannot smell that. He cannot smell you.”

You say nothing. There is nothing to say. Because whatever argument he has concocted inside his maggot-infested head is fallacy. Is nothing. You wish you never loved Aerion, never laughed at his cruel jokes, never touched his hand, never ran with him in the nooks of the Red Keep hiding from everyone else. You wish you never let him kiss you, pressed agaisnt his chest, his hands roaming everywhere in your body before settling on your face. 

You still wake up in sweat at night, feeling his tongue drinking you in—claiming you, maiming you.

“You cut off the finger of Lord Redwyn,” you say, surprised to find your voice calm despite the tremor in your heart.

“He brushed his hand against your skin.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “It was a dance.”

He laughs, and the sound echoes off the stone with razor-sharp intensity. “I do not like sharing…”

“That is insanity—”

“... and they have given you to someone I cannot fight. Cannot kill.”

“This is treason.”

“All my life Valarr was the one I pitied,” he hisses, clutching your wrist so hard it sends a stab of pain through your skin. “The good one, that docile lamb, the one those boring septons praised. He never had the courage to look inside his head, never had the courage to feel the dragon in his blood—a waste of an heir. I thought.” His grip tightens. But you stay still. “Yet he got the only thing I ever wanted without even trying.”

“I am not a thing you can possess,” you bite back, tilting your head to challenge him. “I am a woman and I would not have someone who deemed me any less.”

“Oh you are not a woman,” he hisses. “You are my doom.” The violet of his iris is burning bright, burning through you. “I tried to soften myself for you. I stopped cursing for you. I turned away from brawls whenever I wanted to pick up my knife and slit someone’s throat, I let that demon Egg maim my hand and did nothing. I let those meandering maesters give me potions for sleeping when I wanted to bash their heads and burn their useless hands. I wanted to appear sane for you. And yet the one time I slipped, you left me and went to bed with my dear, green cousin. The only one who I cannot touch. You are a witch, a temptress, a vile seductress. You say I could not possess you? You possess me.”

You want to be mad at him, want to pull him apart with your bare hands. And yet, the pain in his poisonous speech touches a deep, dark part of you. The one that was betrothed to him, the one that thought you could tame him.

“You scared me,” you whisper. “I realised I couldn’t change you.”

He stares at you, his eyes turning softer. For a quirt, forgiving moment, you think you see him again, the way you saw him first time. You were fresh off your ship and your feet barely touched the squalor of King’s Landing. He was there, standing by the royal carriage, head tilted at you in palpable surprise. As if he did not expect you. 

The months after, you saw him, again and again. He was willful, he was cruel. He was forever cursed with the blood of the dragon. You thought you saw inside him, that supple, rotten core of his heart. The seeds of madness swon so deep he could not extricate it without damaging himself. You thought you saw him softer, too. Yet. The lines blurred. More often than not. His softness becomes his cruely. His words become his blade. His kiss at once romantic and bruising.

“I wonder if you could… love me,” he says, there is a tender pang hanging there at the end of it. “Because you seemed the only one who could.”

The word—that cursed word—shakes you. Reverberate inside your head like a coin. Even in this momnet of damning clarity, you cannot tell him the whole truth. You did. “I wanted to love you good. I tried to.”

“And you failed,” he says, and the words are curiously flat. “And you left. Like everyone else.”

You chest pricks, it bleeds. Because that is the truth. You failed, like everyone else—everyone before you. People see him and they touch him and then they leave him in his own little prison. People see the curse and the pain and they decide that he is not worth the trouble. That his malice is both the question and the answer. And he stays there, wallowing in his own darkness, wondering what is wrong with him. Alone.

Without quite thinking what you are doing, you reach out your hand, the one he hasn’t gripped in anger, to touch his hair. It is soft, smooth, silken. It feels like a boy’s hair, it feels dangerously malleable. He feels ruinously malleable at the mouth of the darkened alley.

His breath hitches. There is an almost imperceptible shift in his expression. Almost not there. But you see it, and you feel your heart break clean in two. Because despite everything, the betrayal and the humiliation, Aerion Targaryen still loves you. 

“Why are you lurking the shadows?” he asks.

“I do not know,” you reply truthfully.

“I do. It is because the darkness calls you, too. It is because you liked when you were the only one who could chain me. Because the thought of a suitable life with a doting husband scares you almost as much as the opposite scares you. You want a gentle prince? Or do you want one who burns for you?”

Your voice is lower than a whisper. “You’d burn anyway.”

“I still love you.”

And you love him, too. But not enough to spend the rest of your life trying to soften his blows, trying to save him from ruining himself and others. Valarr, when he found you crying in the royal garden, scratching your wrist where Lord Redwyn had touched—you thought it was the reason of it all, you were the reason of all the violence— knelt in front of you. He touched your hand and soothed the brun of the scratch. You decided to love him, for the moment. And then, you decided to love him forever.

The man in front of you is staring at you in utter infatuation. You look at him and realise that you have never known your heart, not fully. You do not know how much you can bear. Your hand is still in his hair, and you lean in to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. You whisper that you are sorry. That someone brave enough to tame his mind would come. That his heart will not burn. That he will find reason, just not through you.

“They’re sending me off to Lys,” he says. “That far enough for you?”

“I never asked for that.”

“Your betrothed did.”

Surprise hits you with a blunt force. Your breath hitches. When Aerion notices it, he chuckles.

“So he did not tell you.”

“I am sure he plans to.”

“When, I wonder? My ships leaves on the morrow.” He leans in again, resting his mouth on your neck. You feel your knees buckles, without a will of their own. You almost fall over before his hands bracket your waist.

“Aerion.” His name on your lips is both a plea and a warning.

“I know you love him,” his words drench your skin. “Just pretend for a minute. Pretend you are mine.”

You nod, haze covering your senses. You find your hands reaching up to catch his neck, hold him in place. He is right, you love Valarr, and this is only pretend. You have been called a mad child enough in your life to avoid all intensities. You do not want the burn of Aerion’s fire, do not want his passion, do not want to feel the graze of his teeth marking his territory on your skin. You don’t want his madness or his desires because you know he’d ruin you. So you only pretend, you allow yourself to pretend as he holds you, as you pull him close for one last time.

When his teeth close around your skin, it is surprisingly tender. You whimper as he bites you, marks you, ruins you. The night wind flutters your clothes, the smell of the dark alleway is intoxicating, ruinous. But you stay there, you stay his for this moment.

Because for one, strange and sparking moment, it feels disastrously like true love.

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aerion is my doomed noodle, my cursed bunny :)