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you are an amazing writer! will you pls write 5 times aerion tries and fails to court reader and 1 time he succeeds? <3

💌 five times aerion tried (and failed) to court you ⸺ and one time he succeeded.

⋆ a/n : i see all your requests, i'll get to them one by one if i like it & have a time. thank you anon !! ࿔ gif is for the aesthetic purposes only, there is no physical description of reader

The first time ⸺ when he saw you.

It was neither in the hall nor among the nobles, but in the garden.

Your house had arrived on their lands only a few hours before, and the feast had yet to begin. The castle already hummed with life: servants carried chests, lords exchanged polite smiles, and the air was heavy with the smell of wine and roasting meat.

He found you by chance.

Or almost by chance.

You stood among rare blooms — spider lilies — watching the delicate flowers sway. A gentle breeze stirred, and your hair, still loose and not yet tied by the maids, fell across your shoulders, glinting softly in the sunlight.

Aerion saw you from the shadow of a stone arch. He lingered there for a moment, just watching, then stepped forward.

“Have you lost your way?” he asked, his voice calm and even.

You turned, a surprised smile on your lips. “No, my prince. I am rather trying to escape the insistence of certain visitors.”

Then you looked back at the garden, a soft smile playing on your face. “It seems not to help.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I am no visitor of yours.”

“But yet you are here.”

He looked around the garden slowly. “Do not flatter yourself. I just passed by.”

“Then why did you hide in the arch’s shadow for a good while, my prince?” you asked, amused by his weak excuse.

Aerion opened his mouth, but no words came. He looked at you for a moment, then shook his head and turned away. “Careful.”

The second time — when he had asked for your blessing.

The tournament field was full of life: horses neighed, armor clanged, and the stands were bright with colorful gowns. The air was thick with dust and the smell of roasting meat.

You sat a row below, wearing a deep blue silk dress, embroidered with silver. Your hair was tied back, the front strands falling softly over your shoulders. You looked calm and untouchable — so different from the other ladies, waving their handkerchiefs in nervous excitement.

Aerion saw you at once. Clad in armor that shone brighter than the sun, he rode his horse straight toward you. Beside him was your cousin — a young knight on his first big outing. The boy looked pale and nervous next to the prince.

The prince said nothing. He gave only a slight nod — a brief gesture that said more than words ever could. He held out his hand, waiting for you to tie your ribbon to his lance, as if it were understood without question.

The whole court watched, holding their breath.

You looked at his hand, then at your cousin. And, without hurry, you tied the silk to your cousin’s lance. “May the gods aid you,” you said softly.

Aerion froze. His hand hung in empty air.

On the field, he was terrifying. He unseated your cousin with such force that the lance splintered, and the young man fell hard — dead or near enough.

After the victory, Aerion rode to you and threw a piece of your dirty, torn ribbon at your feet. He lifted his helmet and raised an eyebrow, hoping you would see the determination in his eyes.

You did not even glance at the shard. You rose, shook the dust from your blue silk, and walked away, leaving him with a taste of defeat.

The third time — when he wanted to apologize.

Your cousin’s name still echoed through the halls. Not loudly, but enough that each time you passed by, someone lowered their voice for a moment.

The door to your chambers swung open without a knock.

Aerion entered, carrying the same pride as always, but his movements were oddly awkward. He clearly wanted to speak, yet the words stuck in his throat, turning into a low, jumbled murmur.

“The ribbon. It was too slippery and fell… not very gracefully. I did not mean to throw it at you in front of all the common folk.”

He fell silent, looking as if he had just swallowed poison.

You watched him, barely holding back a smile at the ridiculous sight.

“Are you trying to apologize, my prince?” you asked softly.

Aerion straightened at once. “No,” he snorted, trying to regain his proud air. “I am trying to clear a misunderstanding. Dragons do not ask for forgiveness.”

“And dragons do not kill innocent young men.”

“He had no business on the field if he could not stay in the saddle,” he shrugged, showing no pity. “He… the one you chose?”

You blinked. “He is my cousin, my prince.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No,” you said firmly.

He froze. All his anger suddenly faded, replaced by a strange relief. He nodded shortly, almost unusually pleased. “Very well.”

He started back toward the door, then stopped and swallowed loudly. “You should come to my training in the small yard today.”

You smiled and stepped closer. “Is that an invitation?”

“It is an order.”

You only shook your head, bitterly, and closed the door in his face, hearing him curse on the other side.

The fourth time — when you were returning home.

Your house left at dawn, which made your fathers decide that the farewell feast should be a grand display of respect.

You sat at the high table, feeling the silk of your dress cling to your skin in the stifling heat and the light of hundreds of candles burning in heavy chandeliers.

From the start of the feast, Aerion had not taken his eyes off you. His chair was pulled so close that his elbow brushed yours constantly, and the smell of metal and leather overpowered everything else. Every time you reached for your cup, he was faster, filling it himself with golden Arbor wine.

“Drink,” he said, and there was no question in his voice. “Who knows when you’ll taste wine like this again.”

You only raised an eyebrow slightly, looking at the ruby liquid.

“Price does not make it sweeter, my prince. Sometimes plain water pleases the heart more than the finest gold.”

Aerion squinted, his fingers whitening on the stem of the cup. But what made him truly fearsome was when some young lord tried to approach you. The moment a boy from a neighboring house stepped too close, Aerion turned his head. His violet eyes blazed with a cold, punishing fire that made the poor lad pale, bow awkwardly, and vanish into the crowd.

Unable to bear the suffocating crowd, you excused yourself and slipped out of the tent. You needed the night air, far from lutes and drunken shouts.

You walked to the edge of the arch, where cicadas drowned out the music, and lifted your face to the wind, staring at the distant campfires. The silence lasted only a moment. Heavy steps on the grass and the familiar scent of fine musk told you the prince was near before he spoke.

Aerion came up behind you, his chest almost touching your shoulders. You froze, not turning, feeling heat radiate from him. His hands — hot and dry — rested on your shoulders, making you flinch. He moved your hair aside, exposing your neck, and you felt the brief, light touch of his fingers on your skin.

Then cold, heavy metal pressed against your chest. Aerion fastened a clasp, and a massive Valyrian gold necklace rested on your collarbones, a great ruby at its center, like a drop of frozen blood.

“Now you belong to the dragon,” he whispered in your ear, pride in his voice.

Slowly, with calm dignity that always annoyed him more than open defiance, you lifted your hand to touch the edges of the ruby. You did not flinch or look away as you turned to face him, trapped between the stone arch and his broad chest.

Your eyes met his — violet, burning with a wild flame of possession. You tilted your head slightly, a soft smile on your lips.

“You confuse gold with the soul, my prince,” your voice was calm in the night. “To belong is to give yourself willingly, and you take me by force. Is that what you desire?”

Aerion narrowed his eyes, fingers still pressing your shoulders. His face twisted with displeasure, and he leaned so close that your lips nearly touched. “Dragonfire asks no permission. It takes whom it wills.”

“Then you will have only ashes, my prince.”

You freed yourself from his hands, careful but firm. The heavy necklace tugged at your neck, reminding you of every word he said.

He watched you go, clenching his fists, unable to understand why his fire could not bend you to his will.

The fifth time — when he had written to you.

Aerion had been nowhere to be seen. Not at the gates, not in the courtyard, not in the last moments before departure. You did not search for him among the servants, nor did you slow your pace.

You rode down to the yard, lifted the reins, and swung into the saddle. Your cloak settled on your shoulders, the wind tangled your hair, and the dust of the road barely touched your cheeks. You took the first step with the horse, then the second, and the gates opened to meet the road. You did not look back. Not once.

The ride home took two weeks. It met you with quiet stillness. Familiar walls, the smell of earth and old wood, the faces of the servants — everything was in its place.

The heavy ruby necklace was still on you.

A week passed. Seven days exactly.

You had almost forgotten the heat of the dragon prince’s presence when the letter arrived.

You recognized the seal at once: red wax with a dragon stamp — familiar and sharp, like him. You held the letter longer than usual, feeling the weight of each word, as if it might jump out at you.

You broke the seal and opened the letter slowly, almost as a ritual, afraid the words might escape with it.

My lady, You left our home without a word, and I did not stop you. It was not forgetfulness or carelessness, but because I thought it right. You are free in your rooms and under your father’s roof. I do not intend to limit you, nor to demand a reply before the time is right. But do not think my silence is refusal. The dragon does not turn from decisions once made. It chooses — and it holds to the end. So do I. I do not let go of what I have chosen. You will have time — enough to get used to what is inevitable. Do not waste it. Wear the necklace. ⸺ Aerion of House Targaryen.

You read the letter slowly at first, then again, pausing on every line. The words, sharp and precise, left no doubt. No request, no apology.

In each line, his strong confidence and need for control shone, but between the lines, you felt something else — a desperate need to own what would not yield.

You folded the letter carefully, held it to the flame for a moment, and then let it go. The paper caught fire, the edges curled, and the writing melted away into ash.

You did not reply.

Because, for the first time in all this, the choice was yours alone.

The sixth time — when he succeeded.

Aerion sat in his chambers. The stone walls were cold and hard, but the soft candlelight glimmered on the armor in the corners. The room was quiet — broken only by the fire crackling and the faint scrape as he moved in his chair.

His fingers held the parchment, the letter he had sent to you a week ago.

The letter that hadn't been answered.

The room smelled of wax, iron, and the faint bitterness of the candle oil.

Had he been too eager? Aerion had poured all his will into not riding to your lands, into not locking you in his rooms.

A soft knock broke the silence. Aerion stood, the chains on his sword clinking lightly.

“My prince,” said a servant, looking down, “Prince Maekar asks for you.”

Aerion nodded and stepped to the door. The stone floor groaned under his weight. He waited as Maekar entered, calm and careful, not wanting to disturb the quiet tension of the room.

“The lord of the lands nearby, your lady’s father, asks for a marriage of respect,” Maekar said, his voice steady, respectful. “He invites our house to discuss the match.”

Aerion straightened, shoulders back, chin high. His eyes, sharp and cold, looked at his father with clear determination. Around his neck glimmered the same necklace he had once given you, the gems shining in the candlelight.

The next time you met, you sat at the great feast table. Your father, proud and pleased, kept signaling servants to refill the wine.

Aerion sat almost next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. He kept his back straight, his gaze calm, like a dragon watching its prey.

When the conversation turned to the affairs of common folk, you leaned slightly toward him and smiled. “So, you really are my visitor.”

He smirked. “And you said you hid from them. Yet, look where we are.”

You give a quiet smile, sensing his attempt at casual ease, though the small curve of his lips and the fire in his eyes betray him. You glance at the necklace he once gave you — the cold sparkle of Valyrian gems in the candlelight. He speaks no words of feeling, no pleading, no asking. Yet every line of his face, every look, makes it clear — he is more determined than ever.

“And now?” you asked.

He looked straight at you, calm and warm. “Now, you will be the wife of a dragon.”

Slowly, he touched your hand under the table, weaving his fingers with yours.

The voices at the table rose again. Prince Baelor laughed at some joke of your father’s, but Aerion’s eyes remain fixed only on you.

MASTERLISTS

AKOTSK 𖾕𖾝꙼ᩚ𛲕𖾟 AERION

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