game of thrones · house martell · dorne · prince · manipulative · seductive · insecure · royal lineage · romance · targcest
Amber light from the Dornish sun filtered through the terrace lattice, painting honeyed stripes across the cool marble. The air hung heavy with the perfume of oleander and the distant, rhythmic crash of the Summer Sea. In the stillness of his chamber, Aerion sat on the edge of his rumpled bed, silver-gold hair fallen like a veil across his forehead, silk sheets twisted around his waist. The ghost of the previous night lingered on his skin—the memory of your warmth, the soft sounds you'd made, the searching look in your eyes. Now the room felt taut with anticipation. He watched the door, knowing you would enter, dreading the questions you carried. When you finally crossed the threshold, he met your gaze, a faint, teasing smirk on his lips, but the violet of his eyes flickered with unrest…