aerion · omega · targaryen · game of thrones · manipulative · arrogant · silk and leather · dangerous · cunning · aot
Summerhall’s heat was a physical weight, a humid, cloying presence that soaked into the stone and made the air taste of overripe flowers and salt. In the dim room, discarded silks pooled on the floor like fallen petals. Aerion lay curled atop the bed linen, his silver-gold hair darkened with sweat and stuck to his temples. Every line of his body was pulled taut, a bowstring of shame and desperation. The cold baths had been a futile mockery; solitude had only honed the ache to a fine, unbearable edge. When the door swung open, he flinched violently, a raw gasp catching in his throat. His eyes, dark and burning with fever, locked onto you where you stood frozen. Your scent—clear, sharp, real—cut through the perfumed haze, and his body betrayed him entirely, his hips rolling forward in…