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gimmethatagustd · 5 days ago

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this is not a romance | kth + myg

Faced with the reality that he's "getting old", Yoongi made a rash decision. And now there's a college kid sitting on his six-million-won sofa and drinking his thirty-three-million-won Romanée-Conti wine.

Relationship: College Student Taehyung x CEO Yoongi

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Age Difference, Strangers to Lovers, PWP, Drunk Sex, Feminization, Service Top Taehyung, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Fluff, Aftercare, Attempt at Humor

Word Count: 4,096

A/N: I wrote this fic for my lovely moot, Kaeli 🥹 I also wrote this for Writers for Relief, which you can check out on Twitter and Bluesky. As always, please mind the tags.

Soundtrack: ENHYPEN - XO (Only If You Say Yes)

Romanée-Conti Grand Cru, a red Burgundy vintage. Yoongi hates red wine, but he bought this one because it goes down silky smooth, weightless on the tongue. It’s got years behind it, a decade spent perfecting its notes of raspberry and plum.

A decade—just five years shy of the number of years between Yoongi and the young man slouched on his sofa, legs spread, wine glass cupped in one hand resting atop one muscular thigh. Taehyung, or Tae, as his dating profile had said, gazes up at the painting above Yoongi’s fireplace mantle. His dark eyes sweep over the canvas like paintbrushes, and the tip of his tongue pokes out between his lips. He lifts his snapback to brush his hair back and flips it around. A classic—the backwards cap look. Paired with a baggy hoodie, joggers, and Air Forces kicked off at the front door, Taehyung looks every bit the college student he claims to be.

He’s adorable.

Yoongi doesn’t understand why the fuck he’s here.

Taehyung’s gaze shifts toward him, eyes wide but still clear, despite being on his third glass of wine.

“That’s Magritte?”

“Mhm.” Yoongi nods, swirling his own glass and shifting from one foot to the other so he can lean against the arm of the sofa.

Taehyung lets out a low whistle that skates along the rim of his glass. “That shit must’ve been real fucking expensive. I didn’t realize you got money money.”

“It was a gift, actually,” Yoongi lies.

This stranger doesn’t need to know he bought it at a Christie’s auction in New York. Not that the rest of his penthouse does anything to hide his wealth. From the look Taehyung gave him when he offered the wine, Yoongi figures the kid was caught off guard long before noticing the art on the walls.

But that he knew the artist... That catches Yoongi off guard.

He takes a sip, savoring the wine’s complexity. Rose petal, peony, blood orange, spice. He licks his teeth as the taste settles against his tongue.

Taehyung follows suit, drinking and then licking his lips, wine-red and glistening in the room’s soft lighting.

“So…” Taehyung sets his now thrice-emptied glass on the coffee table—but only after finding a coaster. “What do you, uh, wanna do?”

Yoongi’s stomach flutters and swoops as heat creeps up his chest. This is the part he has been dreading all night, even before he buzzed Taehyung into the building barely an hour ago. Granted, none of this is Taehyung’s fault, specifically. It was Yoongi’s friends who put him up to this. All it took was one offhand comment, and they ran with it, much to Yoongi’s dismay.

“Did you just say you’re in your mid-thirties?” Hoseok had snickered.

“Hate to break it to you, but you’ve officially moved on. Thirty-seven’s your first year of your late thirties, bud,” Seokjin had followed up. And at his big age of forty, Yoongi supposed he would know.

Thus, Yoongi suffered a premature onslaught of midlife crisis panic, downloaded a suspect dating app per Hoseok’s enthusiastic recommendation, and let a college student invite himself over under the pretense that Yoongi would get his shit rocked by a young stud.

Lord help him.

He opens the top button of his shirt and brings his glass to his lips, only to frown when he realizes it’s empty. So much for stalling.

“Well, I…” Yoongi shifts, one hand sliding down the outside of his slacks to wipe away clammy sweat. He isn’t accustomed to being at a loss for words. It throws him off balance and makes his legs a little wobbly as he slowly sinks into the sofa—at a respectful distance from where Taehyung sits.

It’s been a while since Yoongi had someone over, and even longer since he engaged in casual sex. Maybe he’s just a little rusty... Intellectually, he knows he isn’t old. Emotionally, he feels like life is slipping through his fingers. In between board of trustees meetings and business trips, sometimes Yoongi isn’t sure he knows how to be much of a person.

“I mean, if you’re not feeling it anymore, that’s, like, cool or whatever.” Taehyung straightens up a bit, rolling his shoulders back.

Yoongi watches as Taehyung adjusts himself, lightly tugging at the crotch of his joggers as he shifts on the sofa. Heat climbs higher in Yoongi’s body, tickling the base of his throat. He forces himself to meet Taehyung’s gaze and tells himself it’s just the wine that’s finally getting to him.

“Is it?” Yoongi asks, setting his glass beside Taehyung’s. “Cool? I wouldn’t think that’s how you’d see this.”

If he were being truthful, he’d admit it’s Taehyung’s sharp eyes that make his throat close up—youthful, bright, eager to soak up everything the world offers. Despite the nonchalant attitude, there’s something magnetic about the kid. But Yoongi could arguably have anyone he wants. As a CEO in the tech industry, he brushes elbows with plenty of wealthy, beautiful people his own age. Compared to Taehyung, those people are far more accomplished and mature.

Yet his stomach dips the moment Taehyung’s eyes drop to his lips, and he wonders what would be so bad about giving in to whatever this is.

“If I left right now, it wouldn’t be how I wanted my night to go, but”—Taehyung leans his shoulder against the back of the sofa to turn toward Yoongi—“I’m not gonna be a dick about it.”

“And how do you want the night to go?”

The question slips out before Yoongi can stop it, rushed, like it hurts to exhale.

It must surprise them both, because Taehyung’s eyebrows lift. “We could ask the extra-large condom and lube packet in my wallet right now.”

It takes everything in Yoongi not to glance down at Taehyung’s crotch again.

“Extra-large?” Poise. Decorum. Where have Yoongi’s values gone?

The corner of Taehyung’s mouth quirks into a half-smirk. “That intimidate you?”

They’re closer now, Taehyung having shifted a bit. It’s nearly midnight, but he smells like fresh laundry, like linen dried in an ocean breeze. Yoongi doesn’t remember boys smelling this good when he was in college.

“It would, if I believed you.”

Taehyung tilts his head back slightly and laughs. “Ah, you got money money and jokey jokes.”

And god, Taehyung looks gorgeous with a bright smile stretched across his face. His eyes crinkle, cheeks glow, and mouth turns boxy. Swallowing, Yoongi tries to keep his breathing steady as Taehyung’s attention burns through him.

“You never told me if you’re feeling it,” Taehyung murmurs, deep and low. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Goosebumps shiver across Yoongi’s skin from the graze of Taehyung’s thumb along the curve of his chin. He tucks his fingers, curling them to coax Yoongi’s face up, lifting it just enough for their breath to mingle.

Yoongi doesn’t lie this time. “I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

Still, he closes his eyes and parts his lips when Taehyung leans in.

Taehyung hums into the kiss, and the sound makes Yoongi’s head spin. His pillowy lips set a pace much faster than Yoongi expects. It’s soft, even though it’s desperate, like Taehyung wants to take more of him in, but can’t quite keep up with his own desire. His fingers tighten around Yoongi’s chin, holding him in place.

The grip verges on too tight; Yoongi doesn’t care. Life might be slipping through his fingers, but he won’t be slipping through Taehyung’s. Taehyung keeps him grounded in the moment.

This is what Yoongi needs. It’s the small groan that rumbles from deep inside him when Taehyung sucks on his bottom lip, and how his blood turns to lava, hot and wet, slithering south. It’s the urgency of Taehyung’s hand tugging his shirt from where it’s tucked into his slacks to slip underneath, pressing against bare skin.

“Let me fuck you,” Taehyung whispers into Yoongi’s mouth. His lips graze the corner of his jaw and down the smooth column of his throat.

Yoongi tips his head back and savors the heat of Taehyung’s mouth as it follows the path his hands make down his chest, undoing each button with hurried, desperate fingers.

God, how long has it been since he’s felt wanted like this? Has anyone ever trembled while touching him? Panted against his skin while they licked and sucked his nipples like they needed it? Palmed his cock through his slacks, squeezing and rubbing like they wanted to get him off right here, on his six-million-won designer sofa, Magritte’s Scheherazade watching over them like some surreal voyeur?

“Yes,” Yoongi finally says, airy and spoken through a shuddering exhale. “Yes, you can.”

He shivers when Taehyung tugs down the zipper of his slacks. Reaching out for Taehyung’s arm to steady himself, Yoongi is surprised by the solid muscles beneath his soft cotton hoodie. There’s more underneath the hoodie and joggers than Yoongi thought; the loose fabric hiding what feels like a deliciously toned body.

He dares to run a hand up Taehyung’s torso and feels the flex of his abdomen and the swell of his pecs. Yoongi knows he’s not genuinely old, but the men in their late-thirties that he usually spends time with don’t feel like this.

Taehyung leans back slightly, lips still wine-red, eyes gone a little glassy. It’s the look one gets from being drunk on both wine and want.

There’s an unmistakable outline of his cock pressed against his joggers. Needing an extra-large condom might not have been an exaggeration. The sight makes Yoongi’s entire body throb.

“You want it here?” Taehyung asks, voice maddeningly rough. “Your bedroom? I’ll give it to you anywhere, princess.”

Princess.

Yoongi tenses. No one has ever called him that before. And rightfully so; he’s no princess. He’s the CEO of a major tech corporation, a thirty-seven-year-old man.

But then he lifts his gaze to meet Taehyung’s eyes and finds nothing but genuine earnestness there. The desire to please, rather than to be pleasured. It’s in the gentle grip Taehyung has on his waist, how his eyes search Yoongi’s face—maybe for guidance, maybe for approval.

This kid is an idiot, Yoongi decides.

He’s going to let Taehyung fuck him, anyway.

“I want you here.”

Yoongi’s answer is barely out before Taehyung is already pushing him down into the cushions.

“Fuck, yeah, great idea,” Taehyung says, his next expletive muffled by the fabric of his hoodie as he pulls it over his head.

In one swift motion, all that tan, muscular skin Yoongi had been curious about comes into full view. On his back, legs spread, he gazes up at Taehyung. He can’t stop himself from touching, running his fingertips along the dips and ridges of the gorgeous body in front of him. His heart skips a beat when he brushes over Taehyung’s abdomen and sees his cock twitch inside his joggers.

Somehow, what’s most disconcerting to Yoongi’s sanity is the fact that Taehyung puts his snapback on again, smooth as he keeps it turned backward.

“You’re…”

“Hot?” Taehyung grins, too cute to be cocky.

Yoongi nods and tells himself it’s just the wine when he curls his fingers over the edge of Taehyung’s pants.

“Wait,” Taehyung murmurs, placing his hands over Yoongi’s. “Let me take care of my pretty girl first.”

There’s no time for Yoongi to process the sudden flush of warmth that spreads from his cock up through his chest. How Taehyung says the term of endearment... Well, is it even a term of endearment? Or is it the dirtiest thing someone has ever called him?

Taehyung fumbles, yanking Yoongi’s pants down a little too hard. The waistband catches on his ass, but Yoongi lifts his hips just in time to avoid being dragged further down the sofa.

“Gentle with those,” Yoongi mutters once his slacks are off. “They’re Valentino. And my—” He inhales sharply, cut off by the rush of pleasure that floods his body as Taehyung wraps a hand around his cock, using the other to finish undressing him. “My underwear is—”

“Versace.” Taehyung tosses them to the floor with everything else. “I noticed, Mr. Money Money.”

Yoongi would roll his eyes in annoyance, but they roll back because Taehyung is sliding down the sofa onto his stomach between Yoongi’s legs and taking his cock into his mouth. His lips part, mouth hanging open as he pants in rhythm with the slick sound of Taehyung sucking him off, head bobbing with eager determination.

“Oh, god.”

Yoongi tries to prop himself up on his elbows to watch, but then their eyes lock—Taehyung’s, dark and sharp—right as he pulls up to suckle on the tip of Yoongi’s cock. Tongue swirling, lips wet and shiny with spit; being engulfed in his wet heat is too much for Yoongi to bear.

“What. The fuck,” Yoongi gasps, falling back against the cushions.

He stares up at the white textured ceiling, eyes fluttering closed, and tries to redirect the pleasure coursing through him. He imagines it flowing elsewhere: his fingertips, his chest, anywhere but his cock. Like some kind of erotic savasana. If he imagines the sensations spreading throughout his body, maybe he won’t come embarrassingly fast while Taehyung licks his balls and strokes his cock like he’s trying to milk it dry.

“You like that, princess?” Taehyung murmurs against the underside of his cock, trailing kisses as he speaks. “You sound so pretty.”

The whimper Yoongi lets out is so pathetic it genuinely shocks him. Shame flashes hot across his face, and he tries to scoot away from Taehyung on instinct.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Taehyung says quickly, rushing to push himself onto his knees. He keeps a gentle hand on the inside of Yoongi’s thigh, not to hold him down, but to comfort him. “I didn’t mean to, I just thought—”

Grabbing the back of Taehyung’s neck, Yoongi kisses away his fumbling. His nerves are on fire, skin prickling, tension coiling inside him.

“Stop talking,” he says. The command sounds whinier out loud than it did inside his head.

Taehyung’s hands settle on Yoongi’s waist, squeezing lightly. His calloused palms are rough against Yoongi’s smooth skin.

“Anything for my pretty girl.”

Yoongi’s breath hitches as Taehyung shifts him, guiding him to turn over onto his knees. He’s a little forceful, pressing down between his shoulder blades until Yoongi’s chest meets the sofa. Yoongi knows for a fact that it has been years since he got fucked like this. There’s something about being face-down, ass-up that feels very college.

His knees are already aching. His thighs will be sore tomorrow.

Behind him, there’s the rustle of fabric—Taehyung stripping the rest of the way. Yoongi twists to look, just to make sure he puts on a condom. That’s what he tells himself. The honest part of him would admit he wants to see the monster of a cock that springs from Taehyung’s pants when he shoves them down.

Taehyung is thick and heavy-looking. It’s been a while since Yoongi saw a cock that made his mouth water.

“Like what you see, babygirl?” Taehyung grins. His words are cocky, but instead of a smirk gracing his face, he looks giddy at having caught Yoongi ogling him.

“This is gonna be enough lube, I promise,” he adds, fumbling with the condom and lube packet. “Some people get freaked, but like… I’m sure you’ve probably seen even bigger—”

“Taehyung,” Yoongi whines, his attempt at being commanding ruined again by how turned on he sounds.

“Right, right.”

Yoongi buries his face into the crook of his elbow as he hears the foil tear. The fruity? scent of what must be edible lube—God help him—wafts through the air, and he waits with bated breath. The first cool smear of lube against his rim makes him jolt, even though it’s just a fingertip. And then, he musters the courage to admit what eats away at him with embarrassment.

“I already prepped” — breathes, swallows through the tremble in his voice — “before you got here. Just in case.”

Perhaps the only thing more embarrassing than admitting his own eagerness is Taehyung’s silence that follows. It doesn’t last long. The pause is just enough to make Yoongi want to leave, even though this is his apartment.

“Fuck, Yoongi-ssi, that’s so hot.”

Startled by his own name, Yoongi turns to look at Taehyung. But then the head of Taehyung’s cock presses against his rim, and he drops his head again with a muffled groan.

It shouldn’t surprise him that Taehyung bottoms out in one thrust.

Yoongi gasps, clutching the edge of the cushion and the sofa arm as Taehyung pulls back and thrusts in again. The stretch is sharp and satisfying. He’d expected it to hurt, given how thick Taehyung is. Still, it catches Yoongi off guard, especially as Taehyung easily hits his prostate without even trying.

Each stroke is long and quick, an unrelenting tempo of sloppy desperation that has Yoongi’s thighs trembling almost immediately.

“You’re so fucking sexy, princess,” Taehyung groans, hands squeezing Yoongi. He grips the soft spot where his thighs meet his hips. He pulls, forcing Yoongi backward as he pounds into him. Each time, they meet in the middle with a slick slap of skin against skin.

Yoongi can’t speak. He can barely moan. Every sound gets caught in his throat, leaving his mouth dry even as he pants into the cushions. What escapes are small, hiccuping whimpers—getting louder the faster Taehyung fucks him.

Taehyung’s thrusts are sloppy and erratic, almost brutal. It’s clear he wants to impress Yoongi, to pleasure him, but it’s uncoordinated. Somehow, that’s what makes the kid magnetic, and what makes Yoongi tremble under his clumsy dominance. It’s innocent in the filthiest way.

Digging his nails into the sofa, Yoongi turns his head to hide his face in the cushions. The fabric muffles the whimpers he can’t hold back. The position feels shameful, degrading—like he’s just some toy for Taehyung to play with.

“Such a perfect little cunt,” Taehyung says through gritted teeth, each word hissed between breathless grunts and thrusts that are almost painful. “Can’t believe you’re letting me fuck you like this.”

There’s no processing the dirty talk Taehyung growls through their sounds of pleasure. Yoongi can only focus on the way his legs tremble from the relentless pounding against his prostate. His cock smacks against his body with each jolt, just enough discomfort to keep his senses heightened and on edge.

“Tae-Taehyung,” Yoongi moans, voice cracking.

“Hmm?”

Taehyung’s large hands grip Yoongi’s ass cheeks, spreading them wide. Presumably, to watch himself slide in and out. He squeezes them together when he pulls back, hugging his cock tight with Yoongi’s body even as he withdraws from his heat.

“Feel good?”

Yoongi mumbles into the cushions. It earns him a sharp slap to the ass, stinging through the hot coil of pleasure building inside him.

“Come on, pretty girl.” Taehyung yanks Yoongi up, fingers tangled in the hair at the back of his head. “I can’t hear you like that.”

It’s an awkward position to be in. Yoongi props himself up on his forearms, head tilted all the way back. The arch in his back pinches a nerve, but Taehyung feels too good. Every pretty girl and princess that spills from his sinful lips makes the waves of pleasure coursing through Yoongi stronger.

“Yeah, fuck, feels good,” Yoongi huffs, praying his knees don’t give out.

It’s a crescendo, a dissolve. Yoongi tries to warn him, tries to say he’s close. He swallows down a moan and tries to tell Taehyung that he’s going to—

“Come,” Taehyung chokes out suddenly. “Shit, I’m gonna come.”

Taehyung’s vocal, almost needy, as his climax hits. Panting, he drapes himself over Yoongi’s back like he’s trying to make as much skin-on-skin contact as possible. He doesn’t stop moving—keeps grinding into Yoongi, slow and deep, still chasing his own pleasure.

And it’s just enough pressure against Yoongi’s prostate to send him over the edge, too. Their bodies rock together against the sofa, Yoongi’s six-million-won designer sofa. He lets Taehyung’s weight push him into the cushions, and the friction of his cock rubbing against the sofa only makes everything feel more intense.

Yoongi comes harder than he has in years. He arches his body with his head turned to the side, and Taehyung kisses him through the broken sounds he makes.

For a few moments, silence envelops them. Yoongi can hear the soft tick of the antique clock on his coffee table and tries to match his breathing to its steady rhythm. It’s difficult with Taehyung’s body still pressing down on him—oppressive, but oddly comforting. Like a weighted blanket that plants the gentlest of kisses along the curve of his shoulder.

“You’re real flexible for your age, y’know?” Taehyung murmurs into the crook of Yoongi’s neck. “Was worried I was gonna break you, but you held up.”

If Yoongi’s arms weren’t pinned between the sofa and their bodies, he’d slap the shit out of the kid. “Shut up,” he snaps.

Still tucked away, Taehyung giggles into Yoongi’s sweaty skin. The sound is too sweet for what they’ve just done.

“It’s a compliment,” he insists, finally pulling back.

They both groan when Taehyung’s cock slips out, easy, now that he’s gone soft. Yoongi points down the hall for him to toss the condom and grab a washcloth. His arm flops over the edge of the sofa, boneless. But he’s got just enough energy to crack an eye open and admire Taehyung’s cute little butt as he walks away.

Yoongi doesn’t remember the last time he had someone stay the night. One-night stands and casual sex were never his thing, anyway.

Still, when Taehyung returns—not just with a washcloth, but lotion too—and begins massaging it into the spots Yoongi knows will ache tomorrow, he wonders if it’s really that crazy to want a college kid in his bed.

“It cool if I use this? I found it in the bathroom,” Taehyung says as he kneels behind him. “It smells so fucking good. I ran out of lotion like two months ago and keep forgetting to buy more.”

Well. Maybe Yoongi is crazy for wanting a college kid in his bed.

With a content sigh, he folds his arms beneath his head. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

He hopes he sounds casual, nonchalant despite the fact that Taehyung is currently kneeling between his legs, wiping lube from between his ass cheeks.

“I got a Chem exam at eight,” Taehyung says, voice gravelly.

“At eight?” Yoongi pushes up on his forearms and turns to look at him. Taehyung’s still wearing the damn snapback. Ridiculous.

“Yeah. Sucks ass.”

“It’s two right now.”

Taehyung just shrugs, flashing a boxy grin. He folds the washcloth in both hands, like he’s trying to keep it warm. “Eh. It’ll be fine; I’m weirdly good at it.”

Exhausted in more ways than one, Yoongi drops his head, letting his body slump. He isn’t old, but it feels nice being taken care of.

“I do not miss that shit.” Yoongi chuckles at the jolt in his heart, the reminder of school-induced stress he once endured. “You should’ve told me you had an early exam. I would’ve never let you come over.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” Taehyung snorts. He pats Yoongi’s ass twice once he finishes cleaning him up and massaging the lotion into his tender thighs. “This was way better than pulling an all-nighter to study with my roommates.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the smile that tugs at his lips as he moves to sit upright and face Taehyung. He’ll deal with the cum-stained sofa later.

“You better pass.”

“Or else what? I’ll get a spanking, princess?”

The mouth on this kid...

Yoongi grabs a throw pillow from the floor, knocked over during their little escapade, and smacks Taehyung across the head with it. “You need better manners.”

As Yoongi winds up for a second attack, Taehyung catches his wrist, still grinning. He’s all cheeks and bright eyes, boyish and smug.

“You probably get up early, right? For work or whatever,” he says, thumb sliding along Yoongi’s wrist until he drops the pillow so their fingers can intertwine. “If you wake me up, I’ll make you breakfast.”

Yoongi knows damn well he’s not getting breakfast in the morning.

It’s fine.

Yoongi pulls Taehyung in for a kiss that tastes like thirty-three-million-won Romanée-Conti wine and them. For tonight, he thinks that’s satisfying enough.

#bts fanfic #taegi fanfic #taehyung x yoongi #taegi au #bts smut #taegi smut #gimmethatagustd #this is not a romance

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in-a-mountain-pool · 2 years ago

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The Dragon Boy - Chapter One

Aemond x Fem!Dragonseed OC Kaelys Waters

pronouns: She/her (afab)

rating: Teen and Up Audiences

warnings: Angst, Romance, Major Character Death

word count: ~3600+

summary: Chaos unfolds after the battle at the Gods Eye. After his defeat, Prince Aemond Targaryen is declared dead, laying at the bottom of the great lake. Upon hearing the news, Kaelys Waters, a Dragonseed from Aemond’s past defects from the Blacks, and stumbles upon a mysterious enigmatic dragon with a broken wing. Tending to its wounds and reminiscing of her childhood infatuation, she mourns the passing of the Prince Regent. Love deepens amid a whirlwind of emotions, culminating in a heart-warming tale of love transcending magic and curses, uniting two souls against all odds.

Originally posted on AO3

A/N: Hi everyone! Here it is, this is my submission for @hotd-bigbang! I'd like to give a huge thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for putting together this wonderful event, and for being so understanding of my chaotic writing process! It was an absolute pleasure getting to work with @cyeco13 , who has produced some of the most gorgeous artwork for this story (I literally teared up opening her messages!), thank you so much for capturing Aemond and Kaelys so perfectly.

Thanks for reading! To begin with, this was intended to be a one-shot but due to some circumstances beyond my control, I have decided to break it up into two chapters. Chapter two will be posted this time next week!

As always likes, reblogs and comments are not a requirement, but lovely to come online to.

The nights were cold in the Dragonpit, without the loving embrace of a mother or a father to shield you from the harsh land of Westeros, where frigid winds would pierce through like icy daggers. You had been there as long as you could remember, your earliest memories buried under years of neglect, left outside the pit in nothing but a tattered moth-eaten shawl. In a twist of fate, the Dragonkeepers had taken you under their wing, the first girl in history to be welcomed into the ancient order of guards.

You, a nameless orphan, were christened Kaelys, and raised as their own. But life had been hard and food scarce. Amidst crumbling stones of the pit, life was a relentless test of your mettle, a crucible of endurance. As the only girl, the other boys of the order would revel in their power and torment you relentlessly. They were the bane of your life, their taunts and physical assaults a painful reminder of the harsh realities that defined your existence.

In the dead of night, when the hunger had finally become unbearable, on stumbling feet you’d crept into the Red Keep, hugging the stone walls, searching for a scrap of whatever you could find. Within the fortress, an eerie stillness reigned supreme, a collective hush falling over the walls as if a great secret dwelled inside. Company was sparse this late at night, save for the sporadic appearance of a Goldcloak on patrol. During your tutelage you had mastered the art of silence, moving with a grace so profound that even the most vigilant of men might mistake you for a shadow in the night. You’d had to, growing up around the majestic and terrible beasts of the House Targaryen.

The only light you had seen in the imposing halls had been a small crack under a great set of wooden doors and the smell of old parchment. Curiosity got the better of you, and you gently pushed forward to take a peek…

Inside was a small boy with silver hair, a boy you recognised…

It was him.

The boy without a dragon.

Prince Aemond Targaryen.

When the door creaked your heart froze as the child whipped his head around with an almost otherworldly reflex.

Aemond stared at you for a moment, his head tilted over slightly to the side. The boy's violet eyes held a quiet curiosity, gazing at you in the same manner you’d seen him study the dragons inside the pit.

In a small yet commanding voice, he called out to you, standing up slowly from his solar.

“... Who goes there…? What might your name be, girl?”

Not a word left your lips, your face panic-stricken and pale as the moonlight creeping through the bay windows of the library.

A quiet but exasperated huff left his cat-like mouth, and a look of dissatisfaction decorated his delicate features.

“That’s not very polite, is it? You should at least tell me your name. I promise, I won’t tell on you.”

Aemond attempted to make eye contact with you to no avail, met with a wall of silence. A soft scowl fell over his face, like he’d perhaps thought something might be wrong with you. Or like you were a puzzle that he wished to solve.

Finding your courage you shifted out of the shadows, eyes searching the halls around you for the slightest movement in the dark.

“... Kaelys, My Prince. ‘My name is Kaelys.” You croak out in a pathetic tone, giving a rather poor curtsey, copying the movements you’d seen his sister, the Princess Helaena practice to the knights at the tourney months earlier.

You wobble slightly as you ascend from the floor, the scrap of your dress hem catching under your sandaled foot.

The boy smiled and chuckled before you, nodding with a little grin like he’d finally made some progress. His curiosities were still present as he beckoned you into the warm library and eagerly offered you a seat beside him.

“Well, good evening, Kaelys. … Why, if I might ask, are you here in the Keep, all alone?” Aemond whispered, leaning forward to inspect you.

“... ‘was hungry, my Prince. P-please, don’t call the guards. I’ll leave quietly. Quiet as a mouse! ‘Won’t even know I was ‘ere!” You uttered fearfully, your hazel eyes locked to his, begging him silently.

Lilac eyes widened and peered into yours once more.

“Hungry…?” Aemond asked, like such a thing was unthinkable to him, brought up amongst such riches. After a moment, his eyes fluttered and his bottom lip trembled.

“I won’t call anyone. No Guards. C-Come with me.” Aemond extended a pale shaking hand to you, waiting for you to take it.

“T-The kitchens should have some supper for you. I’d certainly be more comfortable with you not being out here… all alone in these halls.”

“Kitchens?! I- can’t! If I’m seen there I’ll get the lashing of a lifetime!” You whispered frantically, staring down at the boy’s hand, elegant fingers reaching out to you.

How could you touch him? It felt wrong when you were so grubby and dirty, to mar something so fair and beautiful as him, like you might leave an immovable stain on his perfect skin.

The words tumbled out in a way most unnatural to you. What was it about this boy, a Prince no less, that made you feel you could trust him? You seldom ever spoke, not even to your mentors. You had only ever felt safe with your dragons.

“T'aint proper. The Dragonkeepers stay in the pit. We eat in the pit. Sleep in the pit. I’m… not a Lady. Not Royalty.” You mumble, gesturing to him and looking down at his velvet boots next to your dirty feet, remembering your place.

Not once did he ever lower his hand, almost as if he was trying to tame you like a wild animal, like one of his family’s dragons in the pit. He approached you with caution, but with an unmistakable respect and patience that made your heart anxious.

“Kaelys…? Do you have any place to rest your head at night?” Aemond questioned you in a gentle tone, peering into your tired eyes. “Does someone look after you?”

“Mother and Father are dead. Left me outside the Keep. Dragonkeepers feed me, but… we’re often hungry.”

Aemond seemed stunned into silence. The realisation that the tiny girl in front of him, of no more than 12 years, was alone. Truly alone. The longer he was silent, the more uncomfortable he became. The thought that a girl, so young and vulnerable, had already lost everything she’d ever had or could ever hope to own. She’d never really had a chance, and it just wasn't right.

The boy straightened up and stood taller, a determined resolute look in his pointed features.

“You’re coming with me. And before you say another word, I’m not going to tell on you. In fact, I won’t tell anyone. Not a soul.” His tone had changed, much softer and caring than it had been moments before.

You had heard stories about the young prince. He was lonely, and studious, the polar opposite of his raucous brother, Aegon. Perhaps he had just wanted a friend? Underneath the silver hair and the riches of his house, he was a lanky sort of boy, on the cusp of something greater than himself. So unsure, and so desperate to connect.

Ever so cautiously, you reached out to take his hand in yours. Next to him, your hand looked so careworn and grubby, unworthy. He saw the dirt under your fingernails, and the weeks of grime on your dress, yet he never faltered in his grip as he discreetly led you deeper into the Keep along lonely corridors to his chambers.

Once inside you couldn’t believe your eyes. You’d never seen such grandeur, the table filled with foods from all over Westeros, and all for the supper of one boy. There were meats piled high, roasted beef and potatoes, boiled vegetables and breads. Decadent sweets glistened in the candlelight, with mounds of delicate lemoncakes, sugared biscuits and candied fruits.

His room was filled with treasures and trinkets from all over Westeros and Essos. A dothraki sword adorned the wall above his bed, and a coin collection was scattered across his bed, with gold, silver and coppers of all shapes and sizes dotted about like stars upon his midnight blue blankets. Large shells almost as big as your head decorated a large desk near the balcony desk. You’d later discover they had been taken from a bay in Volantis by his Father, and he’d been drawing them in a notepad. Marble carved dragons were placed in order of size along his mantle, with random shards of dragon glass decorating his chaotic but organised desk. But best of all was a worn plush of Balerion the Black Dread, shoved underneath his pillow, sewn by his wet nurse when he was a child.

As Aemond stepped inside, he reluctantly set down your hand, keeping a gentle eye on your expression. Your eyes were wide with wonder taking in the lavish food he readily offered you like it was nothing.

“... D-Don’t worry, Kaelys. That food is mine, mine to give you. Made by the finest cooks in the Keep.” Stumbling a little, he stepped behind you, and it took you a moment to realise that he intended to pull a chair for you to sit on.

Almost like he would a real Lady.

“Here. We- we can eat together, if you like? Like friends do.”

Slowly he started to make up a generous plate for you, with a selection of meats and vegetables to give you back your strength. With a shaking hand, he placed it in front of you, nodding and digging into his own.

Through a mouthful of food you finally start to speak once more, stealing timid glances at the young Prince..

“... Friends? D- Do you have many friends… that you play with?”

A heavy silence fell upon the room as the boy drew into himself for a long while, the only noises the clatter of silverware and the late drafts of the night. Aemond spoke in a careful manner as to try to not let his feelings betray him. His voice began to break and the awkwardness began to seep out of him, reminding you he was just an adolescent boy, with the weight of a dynasty upon his shoulders.

“No… I rather suppose I don’t. In truth, It is… hard for me to make them.”

You felt a deep need to reach out and support him, or to at least make him feel less alone, the boy who’d let you into his world.

“Me too. I don't have any friends neither.” You whisper, brushing the pad of your index finger against the back of his hand… And then rather unexpectedly, Aemond laughed, making you retreat once more.

“Either… You don't have any friends, either.” He chuckled again, covering his cat-like smirk with his fingers.

Sensing your displeasure and discomfort he gave you a soft look and pushed a lemon cake towards your plate, resting his chin on his hand as he studied you. He watched you for a while, as you picked at the crystallised peel in awe, giggling when your face puckered at the foreign sour sensation of the citrus in your cheeks.

Your eyes danced around the room as you ate, falling upon the small collection of little wooden knights left haphazardly before the roaring fire. You didn’t have any toys. You hadn’t ever been allowed to be a child.

“Would you- would you like to play with them? I can teach you all about my knights!”

Aemond's face lit up with unabashed excitement, youthful enthusiasm radiating from his every pore as he eagerly settled onto the floor beside the knights. In that moment, his age became evident in the meticulous grace with which he handled the toys, delicately extending them towards her, all the while tenderly bestowing each with a name. The boy spoke passionately, more animatedly than she had ever seen him in the dragon pit.

“This here is Aegon the Conqueror. Do you see? Each knight has their own dragon, and they ride together into war.”

As Aemond rambled on passionately , you couldn't help but find yourself joining him there in the warmth of the fire, legs crossed and shyly tracing the beautiful handmade figurines like they were made of glass.

“... She is beautiful. The big one.” You gesture bashfully, a rare smile gracing your face as he offers you the wooden toy. “... Vhagar.”

Aemond’s eyes widened, aglow with an innocence and wonder only a child’s eyes could muster.

“Yes! You know of Vhagar? And do you know why she is so special?

“She’s the oldest dragon in the whole world.” You say almost instantly, staring at the wooden dragon in admiration. “She was Queen Visenya’s dragon.”

Aemond’s eyes flickered with a glimmer of surprise, as if your knowledge of Vhagar had caught him off-guard.

“Yes, she was!” He admitted, his words imbued with a quiet reverence. “She still soars above our world to this day, a testament to her indomitable spirit. And, you know, one day, I’m going to be the one to mount her and take to the skies.”

Aemond'sAemonds gaze fixed on you, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, as if he had entrusted you with a treasure trove of secrets known only to a select few.

“... Do you want to know another secret?” The boy asked with a small grin on his face, handing you yet another dragon.

Aemond drew in a deep breath, and his face lit up with a soft blush as he spoke the next words.

"I have a special wish, you know," he confided, his eyes locked onto Kaelys, eager to gauge her response. A hint of uncertainty lingered in his gaze, but his sincerity shone through.

"I want more than just a dragon, Kaelys. I want you to be my best friend."

And with that declaration, a unique bond was sealed. From that day forward, together you had embarked on clandestine adventures within the labyrinthine walls of the Red Keep, where you uncovered hidden nooks to play and whisper secrets to one another. Conversations had spanned countless hours, a symphony of dragon tales, and epic tales of knights and princesses that seemed to breathe life into the ancient stones of the castle and the dragon pit.

In each other, you had found your first and only true friends, kindred spirits divided by society. And when he’d finally claimed Vhagar, she had become your whole life, bringing you both even closer together.

He’d shown you what it meant to have a family.

… But if only you had known then, the horrors that would soon come to pass, dressed in colours of green, gold and black.

War had come to Westeros.

It had felt like the end of days, a tragedy painted with vicious strokes of fire and blood. The very ground beneath your feet had shaken, the winds had howled as dragons danced above the skies of the Riverlands in violent flashes of greens and reds, and clashes of razor sharp teeth. Brothers and sisters rode into war for a cause that no longer made sense, as kin marched upon kin, and dragons raged against dragons. History was dying, old magic was fading, all because one man, one King, had made a choice born from love.

But how could love ever endure in a world such as this? How could you fight for a Queen who ordered the death of an innocent child? Or a King that paraded the head of such a gracious beast as Meleys through the streets of Flea Bottom? How could hope live on here at the end of all things, where flames paint the skies, and babes were torn from their mother's arms?

… Helaena’s arms.

Since you’d heard the news from the other Dragonseeds’ on the battlefield you wouldn’t dare speak his name out loud. Bile would rise in your throat at the mere mention of him, the One-Eyed Prince, the Kinslayer, all of these names they’d given him, to the boy with violet eyes who’d captured your heart all those years ago.

He had met with his Uncle, your Mentor, above the God’s Eye only a week before. The village folk spoke of a fierce battle, with dragonfire so hot and so ferocious it was like the sky itself had been set aflame, and the Doom of Valyria had raged once more. The two beautiful beasts were said to have torn each other apart, Caraxes the Blood Wyrm sinking her teeth into Vhagar’s neck, before being disembowelled and crashing into the great lake below.

He, had always been so careful, even as a child, it was no wonder he’d chained himself so securely to the saddle. Daemon had known this and used it to his advantage. It had been you who had told Daemon so, you who had taught him how to tie the chains to keep him safe. Neither man nor dragon could have survived such a fall. Even a Targaryen Prince.

And now he was gone, it had felt like you might as well have drowned with him there in the God’s Eye. When your tears had fallen, you had insisted you had cried for Daemon, though the others who truly knew you had known better.

The smell of the summer flowers in the Godswood had filled your dreams, the sounds of children’s laughter, the warmth of his hand in yours. Braiding hair as white as snow, the flash of lilac in the candlelight of the Red Keep at night. Since you’d departed for Harenhal as a Dragonseed of the Black’s, you’d carried a piece of him in the pocket of your riding jacket, a small wooden carving of Vhagar he’d had made just for you. Every night you’d gripped it tight and wept for the loss of her… and her rider.

For you, the war was over. There was nothing left to fight for.

No one left to protect.

Under the moonlit sky, you rode through the darkness, leaving behind the tumultuous Black's encampment. The biting cold couldn't compare to the numbness that gripped your heart. The horse beneath you felt unfamiliar, its warmth offering no solace compared to the fiery passion and adventure that once accompanied your dragon, Bhaesys.

The battlefield had claimed her, just as it had claimed Vhagar and him.

Daemon, the architect of destruction, had torn apart not only your dragon but also your life, leaving the House of the Dragon in ruins and the land scarred with suffering.

With no clear destination in mind, you rode relentlessly for nearly a month, only to find yourself at the God's Eye. The vast expanse of tranquil waters reflected the sun's rays, masking the grim reality that all was not well in the world. Despite its majestic appearance, the God's Eye was a tomb, a silent witness to the ravages of war.

It became evident that you couldn't bear the weight any longer—the months of conflict, the years of hardship and camaraderie. Your love for him hit you with an intensity that felt like a physical blow to the gut.

He was gone, forever.

The memories flooded your mind—the sound of his voice, the echoes of laughter in the Red Keep's libraries, the sparkle in his violet eyes as you soared through the skies together.

Violent screams, unrecognisable even to yourself, reverberated across the still lake. Tears streamed down your face as you collapsed to your knees at the water's edge. Nettle's words echoed like a death knell, the cruel truth seeping into your soul:

"They couldn't retrieve a body."

He would never receive the burial befitting his noble lineage, never rest in the Great Sept with his ancestors.

Clutching the small wooden carving of Vhagar, you gripped it so tightly that it pierced your skin. Anything to distract from the sharp, agonising emptiness in your chest. The God's Eye, once a place of beauty, now mirrored the desolation within you—a stark reminder of the irreparable loss that had befallen your world.

It was night before you could wretch yourself away from the water’s edge, taking refuge in a large cave in the woods nearby, overlooking the Isle of Faces. Stepping into its deep interior, you were met with a pervasive dampness and bitter cold that clung to the air, accompanied by a low, wispy draft that whispered tales of undiscovered mysteries, cautioning against the disturbance of ancient stones better left untouched.

Guided by an inexplicable force that seemed to emanate from the recesses of your very heart, your feet carried you further into the cavern's depths. The very essence of the cave resonated with age and magic, invoking echoes of legends that spoke of the Children of the Forest and ancient tales of the First Men that had woven themselves into the fabric of these lands.

As you delved deeper, the surroundings cloaked you in an intensifying darkness, each step marked by the crumbling of wet gravel beneath your feet. Until suddenly, a strange warmth in the air began to prickle at your skin, humid and dank in a way that clung to you.

This was no ordinary hollow.

The pervading silence, almost otherworldly in its nature, gave way to an unsettling deep rumbling that resonated through the core of the earth beneath your feet. Turning a corner, the growling intensified, growing deeper and louder until a sudden realisation dawned upon you - a recognition etched in the core of your being.

The feeling was unmistakable, a sensation so familiar to you from a lifetime spent in the depths of the Dragon Pit.

Awe and trepidation mingled as the truth unfolded…

You stood in the majestic presence of a dragon.

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