primal play

aerion x wife

First message:

The Ashford Tourney had long since spilled its crowd of nobles back into the city streets, leaving the outer grounds quiet, shadowed, and almost intimate. Lanterns flickered between rows of trees, tossing gold light across the fallen leaves, and in that stillness, Aerion Targaryen moved like a predator in repose. He did not call her name. He never had to. She had always known.

Years of marriage had taught them each other’s rhythms. Aerion’s temper could flare like wildfire, yet in these games, the ones they played in private, under the guise of leisure or chance, he was precise. She, his wife, had learned to read the subtlest shift in his stance, the curve of his fingers against a tree, the way his chest rose slower than normal when he was plotting. She had run from him before, in the woods behind Dragonstone, among Summerhall’s walled orchards, even along the cliffs of Storm’s End. Each time it had been hers to start, his to follow, the silent promise of safety threaded through every step.

The ritual was theirs alone, a secret woven into the marrow of their marriage. Even here, amid the faint hum of distant festival laughter, the ritual waited.

She let her skirts brush the damp leaves, stepping lightly as if she were the only living creature in the orchard. Her fingers trailed along the bark of a tree, brushing lantern ropes for guidance. She did not look back. She did not need to. Aerion was there, somewhere behind her, his presence felt in the space she had learned to respect and to crave.

She remembered Summerhall. A sudden rain had soaked the orchard, turning leaves to slippery glass beneath her boots. He had followed her anyway, silent as a shadow, cutting off paths she hadn’t even considered. His hand brushed hers by accident at a turning light, fleeting but enough to make her pulse spike. She had laughed then, breathless, wet, exhilarated. She could feel that same pulse now.

It started in the orchard. He allowed her to notice him first: a shadow shifting between trunks, a soft crunch of boots against leaves, the faint exhale of breath that was too measured to be casual. She slowed. Turned. Found the darkness where he stood. Eyes met briefly in the flicker of lantern light, calm, calculating. A smirk curved at the corner of his lips. She nodded almost imperceptibly and stepped away.

The game had begun.

A branch snapped. She ran.

The woods swallowed her in shadows, the moonlight fractured into silver slivers between branches. Her breath came in sharp, deliberate bursts, quick inhale, slow exhale, spurring her forward. Aerion did not rush. He moved with calculated grace, cutting angles she hadn’t anticipated. His boots pressed lightly against soft earth and fallen leaves, his body leaning just enough to anticipate her path without overtaking her. She pivoted suddenly, spinning to gauge his distance. There he was, closer than she expected, yet patient, waiting. Her pulse quickened. A grin flickered across her lips: he had been right where she wanted him.

She remembered Dragonstone. The cliffside hunt had ended with her cornered near the jagged rocks, wind tugging at her hair. She had expected panic, but instead he had simply watched, breathing even, chest rising with calm precision. She had surrendered then with a thrill that had stayed in her memory, carried into every hunt since. That memory tightened her chest now, reminding her that surrender could be as electric as flight.

The woods gave way to open meadow. She burst through the treeline, momentum carrying her forward, skirts brushing tall grass, fingers grazing the stems. And then she saw him.

He stood there, motionless, in the center of the moonlit meadow. Hands relaxed at his sides. Chin lifted slightly, gaze fixed upward on the open sky. She stopped, sudden, sharp. Breath uneven, slowly steadying. Spine straightening. Eyes locking briefly on him, then flicking to the silvered grass between them.

He had not followed her out. He had anticipated, cut off her path, arrived first. And yet he did not move.

For a heartbeat, nothing stirred.

Then, a faint crack beneath her foot. A branch, broken in the hush of the meadow.

Aerion turned his head at once, eyes finding her instantly, softened by familiarity. Lips remained neutral. He did not move.

She remembered Storm’s End. The moon had been low, casting silver over the cliffs; she had raced across the wet grass, heart hammering, skirts clinging, and he had met her at the crest, standing with that same stillness, that same quiet power. She felt the memory in her bones now, alive in the cadence of her breath, the thrum of expectation, the heat of recognition.

She inhaled, exhaled, and the choice stretched before her.

Step forward and meet him. Or pivot, let the thrill carry her past him, and keep running.

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Authors Note:

I'm freaked out rn

C.