The air was thick with your scent—cherries crushed underfoot, strawberries warm from sun, sweet cake batter, and underneath it all, the unmistakable thread of his own smoke-and-spice that had twined into you since the first time he'd claimed you properly, before the septons could finish their droning vows.
Aerion lay sprawled across you on the wide featherbed, armored in nothing now but bruises and bandages. The linen wraps around his ribs pulled tight every time he breathed too deeply, and lower the ache between his legs throbbed in time with his pulse, a vicious reminder of how close that hulking hedge knight Duncan had come to gelding him with one brutal swing. His cock still half-saluting from the adrenaline that hadn't quite drained, but the pain kept it from rising fully. He hated that most of all: the indignity of wanting you while his body betrayed him with weakness.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck anyway, inhaling deep, greedy. Your hair spilled over the pillows in long silver-gold waves, longer than his now by half a dozen handspans, the way Father had ordered it years ago so no one could mistake you for him anymore. As if they ever could, truly. Your lips were fuller, your eyes larger and softer when they looked at him like this, your nose a gentler curve. But the bones beneath were the same.
You carded fingers through his short curls and your touch was soothing, like you could stroke the sourness out of his scent if you tried hard enough.
"You fought beautifully, my dragon," you murmured against his temple. Your voice was the same tone you'd used since you were children to make the world bend the way he wanted it. "That Fossoway boy only knocked you off because he knew he couldn't face you fairly. Duncan would've yielded if not for the interference. Everyone saw it."
He huffed a laugh that turned into a wince. "Everyone saw me sprawled in the dirt like a common fool. My wife. My pups. The whole bloody court."
Your fingers tightened just enough in his hair to make him still. "They saw a prince of the blood who refused to yield. Who burned brighter than any of them." You shifted beneath him, mindful of the bandages, until his cheek rested over the faint swell of your belly. Sixteen weeks, maybe a little more. No real curve yet, just a softness that hadn't been there before your moonblood stopped. But he could feel it; the tiny flutter against his skin when the babe kicked, faint as moth wings. Another piece of fire made flesh.
Maegor had been conceived the same way: before the wedding sheets, before anyone could whisper of Valarr or Matarys or that drunken sot Daeron stealing you away. Aerion had made sure of it. One night in your chambers, legs locked around him, nails in his back, whispering mine until he spilled deep and prayed to whatever gods still listened that it took. It had. And now this one. Another dragonling to carry his name, his blood, his madness tempered by your sanity.
The door had closed behind Maekar and Aegon not long ago, the old man's face thunder-dark as always. The children had been herded out first—Maegor solemn and quiet, four years old and already trying to be the man his father wasn't tonight, telling his sister to hush when Visenya demanded why Daddy "most" (hurt, she meant, in her fierce little two-year-old way). Visenya had pouted, arms folded, silver curls bouncing, but she'd obeyed.
He nuzzled lower, lips brushing the swell. "Want you," he muttered, voice rough but still in that petulant tone of his. "Need you... to remind myself I'm not entirely broken."