Aerion 'Brightflame' Targaryen x Laeya of Lys (Dragon Prince & Pillow House Whore)
laeya of lys is nothing without her dragon prince
aerion targaryen finds himself a lyseni beauty
CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions/descriptions of violence, mild sexual content, obsession, control, aerion in general, pregnancy, strong language
Ten fingers. Ten toes. A head of silver curls. Violet eyes.
Maelor was the epitome of Valyrian perfection, even with mushed fruit on his knuckles. Tiny fingers in his mouth. He squealed with delight. Hands slapping the table. Cheeks tanned and stained with juice. Eyes bright. A cloth reached across the way. Wiped stubbornly at his mouth. He bit at the finger beneath. No pain. He did not possess teeth. Laeya smiled from her place beside him.
“He is growing fast.” She sighed. Almost wistful. But not quite. Moons had passed since his birth. Since she fell into sickness. Days in the birthing bed. Pale as a sheet. Bloodloss. She had been weakened since then. But she was growing too. Stronger. Wiser. In their house filled with warmth. Summer was ebbing. But the heat did not subside. It was always hot in Lys. No winters to truly be had. Not like Westeros. Not like Braavos. It was perpetually sunny in Lys.
“Of course. He is a dragon.” Her husband scoffed. But not out of malice. He regarded her carefully now. Hesitance. Like she was breakable. Fragile. Almost worship. She gave him a son. His first son. He treated her as if she had borne the sun. Stayed by her side for days when she slept fitfully. Held their son with reverence. Care. Like he was precious. He was. Their boy. Their Maelor.
Aerion discarded the napkin he was holding. Pressed the pad of his thumb to the boy’s cheek. He was fueled by love. Possession. Maelor did not occupy the nursery. Aerion was seldom apart from the babe. Laeya. The three shared a bed. The same sheets. Same scent. Laeya would lay on her side. Maelor in her arms. His arms outstretched above him. Aerion would hold his fingers. Curled around them. Protective. Like a dragon guarding his hoard. They rose every few hours. Late in the night. Maelor would shriek and cry. Pleading. Hunger. Laeya would feed him herself. Teat in his mouth. Aerion would lean against the headboard. Arms tight around his wife. His son. He would wipe away the tears from the boy’s cheeks. Hum under his breath. Soft growling. Valyrian words. Phrases she couldn’t understand. Spoke as if the babe could understand. As if the language flowed through his veins. Mayhaps it did. Their noble blood. Dragonfire. Ancient Valyria. The babe would sigh in content at his father’s voice. Lull back to sleep with a full stomach. Held between his parents.
Aerion removed him from his seat. Held the boy on his lap. Back resting against his chest. He had abandoned the leathers. The blacks and crimsons of his house. Laeya dressed in shades of pink. Light and flowing. Soft against baby skin. Aerion donned yellows and reds. Rich fabrics. Brocades. Sigils embroidered in golden thread. Flowing like water. Not stiff and demanding. Maelor cooed in his arms. Aerion smiled. Doughy and warm. The boy softened him. Made him seem more real. True. A good man. A man who did no wrong. No evil. Loyal and dutiful.
“You look similar.” Laeya sighed around the rim of her goblet. Just water. No wines. Not while she was feeding his son. He had demanded it. Lips pressed to her temple. Voice stern. Laeya had obliged. Relishing in the ashes of his former being. She enjoyed him like this. The washing away of his sin. Holding their son, she could almost pretend he was good. As if he hadn’t killed before. Enjoyed the feeling of blood against his skin. Stolen her away out of possession. Not love. She didn’t believe he loved her truly. It didn’t make sense.
“We do.” Aerion confirmed. Palm splayed across the boy’s stomach. Fat and round with milk. And fruits. A new introduction. Sweet against his tiny lips. “He is my son, after all. But he looks like you too. It is a strange feeling.”
She smiled. Smiling was easier as of late. Their son had learned to laugh. To mimic their expressions. His skin was yet to freckle. Laeya enjoyed spending time in the sun. In the courtyard. Seated on a bench amongst the flowers. A maid seated in the grass. Maelor on a silken blanket. Laid on his tummy. He would squeal and bat at his toys. Tiny wooden dragons. Painted cubes. She was not permitted to laze as she once did. Walk the palace on her own. Always a maid accompanying her. Always Aerion nearby. Never outside for long. The heat made the babe’s cheeks pink. Aerion feared heat exhaustion. Feared something gruesome stealing his son away. Stealing Laeya away. She was weaker, so he said. Sickness could come at any moment. She felt it in her bones. The weariness. Exhaustion. She would sit in her jewels and watch her son and reminisce when she herself could roll in the grass.
Aerion shifted in his seat. The boy rested in the crook of his arm. A small yawn. Drooping eyes. It was nearly time for his nap.
“We made this.” He gestured toward the babe. Maelor’s wide eyes followed the movement of his fingers. Rings dazzled in the light. Laeya smiled softly at the babe. “You and I. He has your blood and my blood. He is both of us, together, in one small body.”
His gaze was blazing. He looked down at the babe. Brushed his thumb against his cheek. Down to his chin. He held it there. Like he held Laeya’s. She staggered a breath.
“It is marvelous to think about.” Aerion murmured. Like a wisp of grass brushing against an ankle. Barely heard across the table. “He would not exist without me. Or you. If we never met, he would never be here.”
Laeya tucked her hands against the tabletop. Watched him with careful eyes. He looked at him as if he were a prize. A possession. The continuation of his bloodline. Something of value, clinging tight to his chest. Something that needed protection, blood of his blood, his silver haired babe that sprang from a Lyseni whore with a droplet of Valyrian flowing through her veins.
She would not mistake that for love. She couldn’t mistake that for love.
“I received a letter from my father this morning.”
She met his gaze. His eyes shimmered with mirth. A dangerous emotion coming from the dragon prince. Innocent in any other form. Amusement came with pain. Pain from his own hands. An endless cycle of new servants. Save for her personal maid. The woman who had cared for her personally when she was ill. The only member of their household Aerion trusted with Maelor. Besides themselves.
He never let his sword rest for long. Not in the training yard. Not in the streets. The Second Sons had relinquished him from their company. They couldn’t tame a dragon. Keep him chained up for their every beck and command. He worked on his own time. Alone. Beneath the shroud of night whenever Laeya was deep in her slumbers. Cutting down crooks. Rapists. Whomever else he could find in a dark alley.
“About?” She kept her tone light. Minimal. He was more apt to ramble if she kept things light.
Aerion grinned. Crooked and wide. Excitement. Unfiltered glee. It looked almost strange on him. Made him look too real. Boyish. Sometimes she forgot how young he was. How young she was. They were barely on the cusp of twenty years.
“My dear goodsister is with child again,” His smile flared. Cupped Maelor’s head as he leaned forward. Silver hair falling across his brow. It was longer now. Longer than it had been when they met. Over a year ago. It needed a trim. “And my father has determined that my exile has lasted long enough.”
The air felt as if it were knocked from her lungs. Her knuckles turned white. She squeezed the edge of the table. Stared up at him with wide eyes. Lips tense. Smile strained. Something gripped her. Fear. Quiet joy. Hope. Heartache. She looked to the boy in his arms. Quiet and asleep. To his expectant expression. Gauging her reaction. They had seldom spoke of the after. After he received the raven. The callback to Westeros. Away from Lys. Away from exile. Away from her.
Except it wasn’t just her anymore, but her and him and them. The son they had created. The household they ran. The cuts on their lips. The ring she wore on her left hand. A radiant stone. The color of his eyes. Surrounded by opals. Delicate. Light. Easy to brush through the air. Her chest constricted. Her gaze fell onto it. Her stomach churned in discomfort.
“That is…wonderful, Aerion. I–I am happy for you.”
And then he chuckled. A quiet sort of thing. Nothing more than a puff of air from his lips. Eyes narrowed. Daunting. Taunting. As if he were willing her to react. To fight back. But Laeya knew better. Knew better than to fight. To react first. He was a dragon. She was a cat. Prowling. Watching. She met his gaze once more. Watched the affection ripple off of him like tidal waves. He was easy to read. Wore his heart on his sleeve. Emotions flickered across him like pages in a book. He leaned forward. A hand outstretched across the table. Beckoning. She rested her fingers against his.
“For us.” Aerion corrected sternly. “You’re happy for us. Do you truly think I will simply leave you and my son behind in this dreadful place? You are my wife, and he my heir. You are coming with me.”
Her heart fluttered in her chest. Tightened her grip on his hand. Her jaw slackened.
“I–What?” She asked dumbly. Cringed internally at the twitch at his lips. She hurried into continuing. “To Westeros? Are you sure? You…you want us there?”
He squeezed her hand until the bones cracked beneath skin.
“You are mine, Laeya. You and Maelor both. There is no universe where I would simply leave you behind.”
She hissed as he let go. His thumbs rubbing over pinked skin. Soft. Comforting. As if he hadn’t just hurt her. His gaze bore into her. Like the first day they had met. So long ago. Her mind brushed on the memory briefly.
“Be sure not to forget that.” He confirmed lazily. Returning his attention to the babe. Still sweet and sleeping. Laeya sighed.
She had never left Lys. And before the dragon prince, she never thought she would. Sunlight and salt. Sand and citrus. Silks and stone. It was all she had ever known.
But what Aerion wanted, Aerion got.
