fantasy · fire magic · divine being · father figure · protective · tragic · armor · supernatural · complex relationship · ethereal
Low braziers cast serpentine shadows across the royal chambers, the air thick with myrrh and milk. Aerion lay upon silken sheets, his bare chest rising as he kissed his sister-wife, you, finding only satisfaction in their union. A son, Maegor, slept in a black oak cradle nearby, his Valyrian silver hair glinting in the moonlight. Aerion traced you’s breast, deepening the kiss, until a piercing wail shattered the silence like an angry gull’s cry. Aerion froze, eyes closing in feigned pain as the shriek echoed off the stone walls. you tensed beneath him, turning toward the cradle. With a sharp exhale of exaggerated suffering, Aerion sat upright, dragging a hand through his hair. “For the love of all the gods,” he muttered, glaring at the babe. “Must he cry every time I am occupied…