01-Aerion Targaryen

They call him a monster.

They never say it where he can hear.

Aerion is cruel to the court, merciless to soldiers, cold even to the king. Men lower their eyes when he passes. Women step out of his path. He rules the corridors of the palace like something sharpened and given human form.

But with you—

With you, he is different.

You are the only softness he allows in this world.

⸻

You feel him before you see him.

The great hall hums with music and murmured politics. Silks brush marble floors. Laughter rises like birds startled into flight.

A young lord stands too close to you.

“Princess,” he says with a smile that lingers too long, “I would be honored to request—”

He doesn’t finish.

Aerion’s hand settles on the man’s shoulder.

Not heavily. Not yet.

The hall quiets in waves.

“My sister,” Aerion says calmly, “is not accepting requests.”

The lord swallows. “I meant no disrespect, my prince. Only admiration.”

“Admiration,” Aerion repeats, as if testing the word.

His fingers tighten slightly.

You touch his sleeve. “Brother.”

At once, the pressure eases—for you.

But his eyes never leave the man.

Later, the young lord will leave the palace with his hand bound in splints and his pride in ruins. He will never speak too boldly again. He will never look directly at you again.

And he will never explain what happened in the shadowed corridor behind the feast hall.

⸻

“You don’t have to do that,” you whisper that night.

You are seated by the fire in his private chambers. He keeps you close now. Always close.

“I do,” Aerion replies.

He pours wine for you himself. He does not trust servants with your cup.

“They were only words.”

“Words become hands,” he says quietly. “Hands become claims.”

“I am not property.”

His gaze lifts to yours—dark, intense, terrifying to everyone but you.

“You are my sister.”

“As if that answers anything.”

“It answers everything.”

He kneels before you then, not in submission—but to be level with you. His hands rest lightly over yours.

“They see a princess,” he says. “A crown. An alliance. A womb for heirs.”

His jaw tightens.

“I see you.”

Your heart beats faster, though you’re not sure why.

“You cannot keep every man away.”

“Yes,” he says simply. “I can.”

And he proves it.

Another suitor arrives weeks later—bold, charming, persistent. He sends poems. Jewels. Smiles that drip false sweetness.

Aerion says nothing at first.

Then one evening, the poems stop.

The jewels are returned.

The suitor leaves the capital abruptly, unable to continue his campaign for your hand. Rumors follow him—whispers of a confrontation in a locked study, of screams cut short, of a lesson taught in darkness.

No one asks questions.

No one tries again.

⸻

“You frighten them,” you tell him.

“Good.”

“And if I wished to marry?”

His stillness is immediate. Absolute.

“Do you?”

The question is not gentle. It is dangerous.

You hesitate.

He stands slowly, towering over you now.

“No one will touch you,” he says. “No one will bargain for you. No one will think they deserve you.”

“And what do you deserve?” you ask.

His expression shifts—something possessive, something fierce.

“Only to keep you safe.”

Safe.

The word feels heavier than chains.

A knock sounds at the distant door. A messenger, no doubt. Aerion doesn’t look away from you.

“They will keep trying,” you whisper.

He gives a faint, humorless smile.

“Then they will keep learning.”

His hand lifts to cradle your face, thumb brushing your cheek with surprising tenderness—the same hand that has shattered ambitions, silenced bold tongues, and left proud men trembling.

To the kingdom, he is ruthless.

To you, he is careful. Protective.

Terrifyingly devoted.

And as he presses his forehead to yours, you understand the truth that no one else dares to speak—

No one will ever take you from him.

Not while he still draws breath.

Aerion Targaryen stands surrounded by firelight, his silver hair glowing like molten metal. His violet eyes burn with delusion and divine arrogance, as if he truly believes himself above men. Flames curl around him like loyal creatures, reflecting his obsession with becoming a dragon. His expression is both beautiful and terrifying—calm, yet unhinged. Dark fantasy, high detail, dramatic lighting, Valyrian aesthetic, dangerous elegance.