#and it’s to bring aemond back to earth once and for all

[soyboywenzie]

aemond: my uncle is a challenge i welcome, if he dares face me—

everyone, literally everyone, team green enthusiast and haters, team black enthusiast and haters, rhaenyra stans and antis, aegon stans and antis, alicent stans and antis, daemon stans and antis, team neutrals, team ‘I like pretty people and want to fuck them all’, team ‘yall are missing the point’, helaena lovers, and AEMONDWIVES AND HATERS:

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔗𝔬 𝔗𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔢

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Isolated and weary of your solitary marriage with the prince, you gather enough courage to approach him one night with the declaration that the both of you try to become better acquainted. When you had proposed the idea, you never could have imagined how it would forever alter the dynamic of your union.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 18+ content. Minor's scram. AFAB descriptions, some female implying terms used such as "wife." Fingering, Oral (F!Receiving), naked female and clothed male, some hints of sub Aemond, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink. Not proofread. Probably very poorly translated High Valyrian, blame the internet, not me. Aemond being a little shit, but also a little soft, just to balance it out. Aemond speaking in High Valyrian because it does unspeakable things to me.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 24.8k words. Another unnecessarily long fic because I have no self-control. Reader is a Baratheon. This was honestly just an excuse to write about dragon riding with Aemond. A little bit of Vhagar appreciation because she receives far too much hate.

Life has not been easy as of late. With the threat of war ever-present, looming over the entirety of Westeros like a great storm cloud, thick and heavy with the promise of shrieking winds and a downpour violent enough to rip the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms from the earth and sweep them away in tides of blood. This war could be the end of it all. With dragonflame so readily at the disposal of both opposing sides, there is the possibility of no victors in this battle. All could very well wind up as a victim. Charred corpses to litter the burned lands, scorched black and red from fire and blood like forgotten toys carelessly left discarded and damaged by the children (or the gods) that played with them. 

It is becoming increasingly difficult to nudge it all - the paranoia and worry - back to the distant recesses of your mind. But it clings to you like a stubborn sickness. Making a home in the pit of your stomach like some vile, nauseating thing. It has you hopelessly adrift with no source of salvation to cling to. Especially now that you are in a place that brings you no comfort. Confined within the cold, labyrinthian walls of a castle that you do not truly know beyond the whispers of its name and the faint, watery memory of once dining in the Great Hall as a child while people jovially chattered and feasted on banquet. 

It's all so lost. Being forced to show a polite expression and nod and entertain lords and ladys that hold no true familiarity or warmth to you. Strangers with faces that would smile and stare as though they have known you for years. It is all so restricting. Binding and tight and clinging to your person like the new garments that you have been gifted with upon your arrival to the Red Keep; forced and expected to sport the customary garb and accessories of the Targaryen culture and trends. All wrapped up and pinned up in fine jewelry and embroidered fabrics like a prized broodmare. 

But perhaps then, even "prize mare" is giving yourself far too much praise. Prized pawn is far more fitting of a term. Just some plain, ordinary piece meant to be moved about the board at the whims of the player. Plucked to jump from square to checkered square with little care. You are a simple instrument on a much bigger board; the scope of which, you know is entirely beyond you and your imaginations. 

It makes it all so difficult to not be cross. To push down the anger that prickles at your flesh like hot coals and burns within the chasm of your ribcage. You feel cheated somewhat. Used and played with despite having prepared for this possibility since the moment you had been delivered from the safety of your mother's womb and into the chill of the world. It should be no shock that you have found no comfort. Not in your daily duties and the nugatory responsibilities and diversions you must fill your time with; all of the needlework, entertaining and book reading. It is tedious. Dull. Weak distractions against your harsh reality. That here, so far from home, you are well and truly at your lonesome. Wed to a man who wants little to do with you beyond your expected obligations.  Though you might truly have only yourself to blame for that. Your husband had worn his intentions on his sleeve when he had arrived Storm's End that one tempestuous evening, bearing his true colors to your father and your sisters when he had traded for the Baratheon House's allegiance and loyalty in the exchange for accepting your hand in marriage. He propositioned such terms swiftly. Shockingly so. Sheading little thought to the requirement - it was as easy as breathing for him. All while you stood alongside your sisters, being mindful to keep your spine rigid and head held high while your future was bartered away so easily; swallowing down the unease that stirred in your gut. 

And even with your reservations on the matter, and the buried urge to rush forward and object, you could not help but to study him from your place beside your siblings. You had heard stories of the Targaryen family your entire life. And although you had seen them once before as a young girl, the memories had done little properly illustrate the nearly ethereal grace with which he carried himself with. The first word that had crossed your mind when you first watched him prowl into your family's ancestorial home was simply just:

Stunning. 

For most men you would have used handsome, or dashing. And perhaps those words could be used for the likes of Prince Aemond Targaryen, but there's something about them that does not quite do him the proper justice. He was imposing as soon as he entered the space. Footsteps softly echoing along the stone floors as he approached your father's throne with nothing but pure confidence in his stride. As though you were the guests and not he. And like a moth drawn to a steady open flame your vision had immediately been caught and fastened onto him as though you were placed under spell. 

A simple, harmless fascination, you like to tell yourself. After all, it is not so strange to be captivated by a man who is said to be closer to a god than man; one who rides on the back of a great dragon. And when you first saw him, even with all your uncertainty of his arrival, it was impossible to look away. To try and not to study the countenance of a man you have heard so much about. Tracing the pronounced ridge of his aquiline nose, the keen cut of his jaw, the curved shape of his lips that were set with a slight purse. His features were decidedly sharp, but it suited him well with the assured way he held himself. The scar that marred the left side of his face could do nothing to damage his beauty. A beauty that is so inherently Valyrian. Attributes that mark someone who has blood of the dragon rushing through their veins, smoldering their hair into shades of smoke. And his hair was no different. Spilling down his back like rivulets of pale, silver silk. 

But it was his eye that had caught your attention the most. Even with only one to look, it peered at the world with a focus that was nearly unnerving. Locking onto your father in striking shades of either blue or violet - you could not tell at the time from the distance that had spaced between you. 

And in the moment that you had stood and evaluated him with a sense of wonder and dread, his eye had never flickered over to you. He had hardly spared you a glance. Holding his focus entirely on the Lord before him with the hints of a satisfied smirk nudging at the curled edges of his mouth, even while he held himself so composedly. Like he was truly pleased with the trajectory of the evening. The lack of his attentions on you should have been more than enough to clue you in on the trajectory of your life with the prince. Moreso than the ominous tempest that raged outside the stone walls. Downpours and thunder are no strangers to Storm's End, often ravaging the world beneath with flurries of rain and winds strong enough to lift waves to thrash the against the surface. But that day you had decided that the storm that had blotted out the golden hue of the sun was not simply just a common occurrence, but instead a bad omen. One brought on with the arrival of the prince, set as a warning - a blight on the future of your matrimony that heeded nothing but misery. And you had been right in some regards. 

You knew for certain that as soon as Aemond Targaryen had stepped away from you to stalk after his young nephew with the insistent ravings, flashing a blade with nothing but a crazed scorn in his voice, that you would find no solace within the cradle of your marriage to the prince. And the death of the Velaryon child and his dragon that swiftly followed that night only solidified that assumption. You are married to a mad man. 

One ruled by duty and strategy, but a mad man, nonetheless. 

Even with that in mind you could not help but to long for a connection with the prince. No matter how minuscule or spurious it might be. Your associations with the second born son have been spars at best. Done purely out of obligation at best. Each time you had ever been within each other's presence it had been out of a means to project the image of husband and wife that was expected by the masses and the court. The wedding, the feast you had partaken in, the consummation of your marriage. It was all done with an air of detachment from the prince. He was never rude, or untoward with you, but there was silent boundary that he had sliced between you with his absence and apparent lack of interest in your union. The nights that he would bed you were few and far in between. Done out of the necessity of producing an heir rather than a means to show affection. You could feel it in the clinical way that he touched you. Gentle, firm and somewhat rigid when he would guide you to bend over the foot of the bed with the palm of his hands, lifting up your skirts swiftly as though he is always eager to be done with it and somewhere else. 

You are not a foolish young girl anymore who would listen to your late mother's romantic stories and tales of besotted, star-crossed lovers with a rapt, captivated attention. You now know the nature of marriages. Especially those of highborn society. The expectations of them. They are often done out of the means to strengthen political alliances, not done out of a declaration of love. 

Still, it would be nice to at least know the man that you are set to spend the remainder of your life until the Stranger finally takes you from this mortal realm. The desire for it burned at you, ate at you with teeth that ripped and gnawed at your heart piece by vicious piece until you felt hollow. Not even Queen Alicent, despite her best, though often rare efforts to bring you ease has managed to pull you from the depths of your melancholy.

You wanted more. You were weary of belonging to a stranger. A man who made no attempts for as much simple conversation with you but spent every waking moment strategizing for bloodshed and the success of his house. You knew that if you meant to alter the course of your union with the prince that it is you who must go to him. And the thought of that terrified you greatly. 

You had heard the tales of those who dared to claim dragons that had no desire to be asserted. Those fools' endings were all same. Snapped up between the sharp maws of the great beasts to be swallowed in a gruesome lump of bloodied meat and crushed bone or engulfed in raging flames of bright, molten gold. You had absolutely no desire to become one of those fools. And despite knowing your husband so little, you were able to gather enough, that despite his cunning, he was also undeniably impulsive. Lead by the ferocity and the heat of the dragon blood that coursed throughout his body and burned within his soul like the fire they spit from their throats. If you went to him in the endeavor of drawing him into a connection that he truly did not seek, the only thing you might gain in turn is his ire. 

And so, you had resisted the urge for as long as you could. Settling for the brief interactions you shared during the supper's spent with the family, or the moments when he would meet you within your chambers to do his duty has husband and prince in the hopes of planting his seed and creating his successor. But it all quickly caught up with you. It was not enough, living on the meager crumbs that these encounters provided. Quickly you had decided that you would rather hypothetically get scorched alive by the scorn of your husband than continue to spend your days as a living dead woman, drifting about the cold corridors like a ghost wondering about the life that could have been, had you simply just confronted him. 

It was nearing the night, just little before the hour of the bat, that you found yourself standing outside the doors of his chambers, with soft lilac hues of the twilight slipping through the windows that lined the corridor and painted the floors in dusty shades of lavender. It was purely unbecoming of a young woman to be out so late without an escort, even if she was intending to meet with her husband. It had made the anxiety quivering in your chest even stronger. Fluttering like some wild, frightened creature while your mind swarmed with paranoia and hesitation. Your thoughts had seemed determined to persuade you from your intentions, begging that you turned heel and returned to your quarters before you were noticed. 

Perhaps he was already abed. Deep in slumber and at peace in his rest. Or perhaps he was not even in his chambers at all. Busy with matters beyond yourself. 

It was all almost enough to tear your feet from their place on the floor, but your body seemed eager to betray you, and before you could even notice the movement of your own hand, it was lifted and the sound of your knuckles rapping against the cool wood of the door had rung out within the confines of the hallway. Sharp, loud, and almost violent in your ears. Echoing out like nails being struck into the face of a coffin. 

You nearly flinched, mouth running dry at the realization of what you had just done, and with it the urge to flee had never been so great. Trembling up your spine like a cold breath. You had hoped that he would not answer. That he truly was asleep or vacant from his apartments, but like a twisted jest, the universe had answered your desires, and the sound of his voice slipped from beyond the door. Muffled by the obstruction, but no less commanding. Unable to ignore the call, you had drawn in a deep breath. Steeling yourself and the relentless patter of your heart before you drew the door open and slipped past the threshold with the drag of your skirts whispering ominously as you went. 

The air had seemed to shift when you had entered, and the shadows that clung to the corners and ceiling of the room felt as though it was prepared to swallow you whole, had it not been bayed away by the low flickering the candles that burned about the space like plumes of delicate amber. Your eyes had flitted about the quarters like a startled doe's, desperate to learn the structure of the area as though you might have to flee. Your vision had skipped over the various tomes and documents scattered about the tables; the random objects placed about in meager means of decoration. But you could appreciate them at least, for giving you a small glimpse into the mind of the man you have been bound to. Much like the chessboard left perched atop a tabletop, like a clue to his intelligence and keenness for scheming, and the quills and ink vials and parchment spread along his writing desk. 

But you were only able to distract yourself for so long before your attention had been tugged along as though by an invisible string to focus on the man sitting across the space from where you stood, one of the aforementioned documents held within one of his hands while he watched you steadily. His expression was mostly neutral. But even with how easily he was usually able to school his features, you could see the hint of surprise bleeding into his gaze. The subtle raise of his brow and the confused purse of his lips. You could practically see the question ready at the tip of his tongue, and you loathed the awkwardness that permeated the air. Stifling and prickling like a rash along your skin. 

"Wife," he finally greeted. Though you could still hear the dull bewilderment in the softness of his tone. 

It took you a moment to collect yourself, feebly trying to shake the uncertainty that still clung to you and when you had finally willed yourself to speak, you could only think the gods that your voice did not quiver, even though it was but a few words. "Lord husband," you returned the acknowledgement, nodding your chin slightly in substitute of a curtsy.  You watched closely as he gently placed the document in his hand down flat on the desk, tracing his face and the shadows the spilt across his features from the dim candlelight and the remaining, dull remnants of sunlight that managed to slip in through the windows; the reflection of the fire and sun glinting within the captivating shade of his eye. 

"To what do I owe the honor?" He inquired. 

It had been enough to snap you out of the daze that had clouded over you, jerking you from it so suddenly that you had nearly gasped with the realization that you had been staring. Embarrassment burned at your cheeks, hot and uncomfortable. You cleared your throat, straightening your shoulders in an effort to at least appear confident, but you swore that you had caught the edge of Prince Aemond's mouth twitching up in the semblance of a smile, letting you know that you had not succeeded in your aim. 

"I wished to speak to you." You had answered, clasping your fingers together in front of yourself, and you were now unable to ignore how clammy they had become. 

"So late in the evening?" Came his quick reply, the brow above his good eye perking ever so slightly. And if you did not know any better you would let yourself entertain the idea that it nearly sounded playful, had his face not been so woefully lacking joy. 

"Yes," you said just as fast. You had to ignore the weight of your tongue in your mouth. It suddenly felt too thick. Too clumsy. 

He only hummed in response to your answer. The sound was low and inquisitive, thrumming through the air like warm velvet. And though he had not spoken a word back to you, the singular eye that had he pinned you with bore into you with enough focus to drive you to speak. Forcing the words from your still lungs like a grip that did not exist. Wringing your breath from your body with only the weight of his gaze. "I would like . . . " Your voice died out as quickly as it had risen, snagging within your chest like it had been caught on something. It did not help that your nerves were alight. That your heart was beating wildly, like a skittish animal. But it was mostly just irritating. It had made you feel stupid, the way that your body refused to yield to your own commands. Far too caught within the spell of a primal sort of caution and reluctance to relent to something as easy as talking. 

"You would like to. . ?" Prince Aemond articulated the question slowly, letting it hang between the both of you, as though you were a child. Annoyance had spread throughout your flesh like a wildfire, and for one idiotic moment you contemplated snapping at him. But fortunately, your self-preservation still clung strong and forced you to be mindful of your tongue. 

"This may sound odd," you began, swallowing around the spit that had welled up within your mouth. "But I would like to get to know you better, my prince."  

It sounded completely stupid as soon as you heard it from your own ears, and a part of you had longed to wince but you remained surprisingly unflinching. But Aemond it seemed, had been taken by complete surprise. Even though the slip in his composure was quick and subtle, you caught it. The mild slump of his shoulders, the straightening of his posture, the soft pinch between his brows. All of these minute tells that told you so much, though they were gone just as quickly as they had shown. Melted away and replaced by a composure that must have taken him years to perfect. 

But no matter how small his shock had been, the sight of such a naked, human emotion flickering across his face was enough to break the barrage that sealed your voice. The words seemed to flow from you more freely then in a rush of thoughts and feelings; desperate to finally speak your mind and make peace with yourself, and most importantly him. 

"I hold no delusions over this marriage. I know that our union was a strategic one, brought on by the possibility of a looming war, and the foundations of it are clear." Your sight had flickered back up to his own once more, and the hold of his stare once again threatened to leave you breathless. "I realize that we are not truly lovers, however, I do not think that must mean we are to be strangers also. I wish to know you, husband. I do not expect your affections, or love, but I desire at least the possibility of your attentions. An understanding of each other. And perhaps, if it is willed, a sense of companionship. A comradery." 

He remained horrendously silent from his place across from you. Watching you with a keen eye while the hand that still rested along the desks surface fidgeted, the point of his mid-finger ceaselessly gliding along the back of his thumb. It had made you nervous, the way he watched you. Akin to a predator lurking in the shadows, awaiting its moment to strike for its prey's vulnerable throat. You must have stumbled. Foolishly, like the greedy men in all of those ancient folktales. You slipped within the dark and it was then you knew that the dragon was stirring; throat welling up with fire to burn you down for being so presumptuous. 

"So you are here, in the beginnings of the night, interrupting me in the midst of my duties, because you are lonely?" 

That all that you needed to know that you had truly wandered too close. Assumed and hoped too greatly. Blindly walking into the dragonpit to be burned alight like kindling for a fire. And even with irritation gnawing at you and begging that you speak out in your own defense, you had known that you must tread lightly, even while the prince scorned you like you were a naive girl child chasing after some witless fantasy. He wished to humiliate you it seemed, and even while he was entirely successful in his aim, you would not give him the satisfaction of showing it. But you knew that you had to be tactful. An unchecked rise of your emotions would only serve to go against you. 

"Yes, my prince," you had agreed without wavering. And much like your own, his gaze had shifted. The sardonic edge that it had held changed into something darker. More directed than even before. Studious almost. But no matter how much gravity it had held, it was no longer enough to withhold you from speaking. You kept your voice as light as possible, but the firmness, the fervor behind it was more than apparent, drifting out to fill the silence of his quarters. And with each sentence, you let the courage that you had not allowed before to guide you a step closer to the prince. "Yes, I long to know the man that I am to be tied to until death. Yes, I long to know the father of my future children. Yes, I long to know my husband." And with that you allowed yourself to halt after your final step. Then you were so close to his writing desk that if you had leaned over you could have easily reached out and touched him. But you remained fixed in your place, hands still clasped and shoulders high. "Regardless, if my husband will become a lover or simply an ally." 

He remained silent in his observations. Regarding you closely as though he expected you to suddenly give way underneath his stare and dash out of the room. But you did not. Not even when the chill of apprehension trembled along the expanse of your back, sneaking underneath the fabric of your garments like a cold draft. He shifted back in his seat, muscles coiling underneath the dark leathers of his doublet and for a moment you had considered the idea that he might lunge. That he would strike forward like the instincts of his blood no doubt urged him to do. At the very least, you had suspected cold words. A detached response that would order you to return back to your apartments and to leave him undisturbed of your person until he saw fit. 

"Very well then . . . Wife." His head tilted just the slightest when he addressed you, and the glint of his eye reflecting the light of the many candles seemed to bore into you; notching the words he spoke that much deeper and nourishing the surprise of his agreement. "I will make more of an effort to appease your loneliness, should it bring you ease." 

It was because of that decision - because of that night, that your relationship with the prince had been altered. No longer did he suit to sit along your side at social gatherings, tightlipped and rigid, but now he made somewhat of a strive. Much more than before. Though still quiet, he took more attempts to include you in the conversations that he would bother to indulge in. Typically, unremarkable topics that he would try to join you in on, like snide comment on the lords and ladies or an observation of your gowns. Prince Aemond, you easily concluded, had no idea how to speak to the fairer sex. A characteristic that you might have let yourself see as charming if he were not always so subtly contemptuous and withdrawn. Even with all of the improvements with his communications, his presence itself was still scarce. Constantly torn away by the impending threat of calamity and battle. 

And no matter how much you knew that his absence was entirely necessary for the good of the kingdom, especially after the Battle of Rook's Rest and the unexpected injuries that have left the King bedridden and near death, the prince was sparser than ever, with him assuming the role of Prince Regent in his brother's stead. But like a poison, that bitter, selfish part of you could not help but to be displeased by the near constant lack of his company.  

Today however . . . Today you might actually be regretting his attempts at companionship. 

"You still have not told me the nature of our outing, my prince!" You call to him, trudging after him like a shadow with your skirts bundled and clutched within your palms as you desperately attempt to keep up with his much longer stride uphill. The muscles of your calves have already begun to burn and ache with your body already growing weary of the incline, and the weight of your dress does little to aid you in your climb along the earth, still damp from last night's rain. Realistically, there are only a few paces between you and he, but in your mind, it feels as though there are stretches of land separating you. 

He only offers you the barest look, hardly even glancing over his shoulder at you as his long legs continue to carry him upward. "For someone who is so desperate for my time, I did not expect to hear any complaints," he answers, full of snark even though his tone remains just as steady and soft as always. 

Heat prickles at your cheeks. Though now, with your exertion, it is difficult to ascertain if it is simply from your efforts to trek after him or purely from annoyance. A retort rests heavy on your tongue, but you are unsure if you should bother spending your breath on it. It is tempting. But perhaps later. "It is no complaint; I am simply wondering just where it is that you are taking me. If you wished to go for a walk, perhaps the castle grounds would have sufficed . . . or at the very least, a mention of it would have given me time to at least prepare for more a suitable attire." 

He spares you another glance, managing to look down his nose at you from over his shoulder as he continues his ascent until he reaches the leveled crest of the knoll. Leaving you to chase after him while the damp soil, and soaked grass and wildflowers threaten to slip your traction out from underneath your feet with every step. You have never had the urge to strike the prince before, but here and now, you think that you could if he were only close enough. This time he opts to remain silent. Returning his attentions on what lies ahead of him, and it has a flicker of concern breathing to life inside of you. The paranoid, unfounded thought that he means to kill you tries to sprout. It would explain why he had lured you so far away from the safety of the castle walls, and why he had chosen to leave both of your mounts downhill and unattended to graze. How pathetic it would be, to be slain in the middle of the wood, like a dumb girl lured away by a fae in an old folktale. 

And if the treasonous whispers that dart about the castle are true, that he had been the one to strike down the king above the battlefield of Rook's Rest, then surely, he would have no qualms about killing the likes of you. 

Still, while irritation and caution thrums underneath your flesh, you cannot but help to stare at the expanse of his back as you near the top of the hill, taking in the sight of the confidence in his posture as he all but struts along the earth. The sunlight dances along the pale shade of his hair, bringing to life the faint hint of cream and soft gold that hides within the silver. He is gorgeous out here like this. Relaxed within the peace and confines of nature, while the little birds nestled inside the protection of neighboring trees chatter and trill. For a rare moment like this, touched by sunlight and the air, perfumed with the musk of a storm passed and the fragrance of flowers, it is easy to pretend that he is still not a complete stranger. That the impossible gap that seems to divide you both has grown closer, and he does not look to you as an obligation but as a comfort. 

Another fool's reverie perhaps. But a sweet one that you cannot help but entertain while you raise your muddied skirts to strengthen your stride and widen your steps in the hopes to gain on him. But then blessedly his pace finally begins to slow, giving you the means to finally draw in your straining breaths and lessen the expanse between you, making sure to near him from his right, so's not to walk in his blind spot. He tilts his body just the slightest, angling it so that he is able to give you his focus as you draw near, and you have to try your hardest not to gasp and gulp for air in front of him. You need to give him no more reasons to tease and prod at you. 

The glint of his eye, a color that you have now discovered to be a delicate, yet vibrant shade trapped between a soft blue and a muted purple draws you into his stare as you approach. It seems to hold you captive, grabbing your attention as you come to walk alongside him, no longer huffing and panting, and the ache in your legs begins to subside. 

"You have asked to become familiar with me," he speaks suddenly. Not a question at all, but a statement, and the mention of it has your brows raising just the slightest as you manage a nod. "All I ask of you is that you do not scream or allow yourself to panic." 

The sound of those words alone has ice prickling along your skin and settling within the pit of your chest. And the sensation of your apprehension melding with your bewilderment does little to aid you in properly asking him what he could have possibly meant by such a cryptic statement. The inquiry hangs heavy in your mouth like metal, and your jaw seems to open on its own in the means to ask him to clarify. But then, as though it had been timed, a guttural bellow rings out across the placid atmosphere. Humming so heavily that you feel the weight of it vibrate underneath your feet as though the earth were speaking, shaking a small flock of tiny birds from their perches within forest, forcing them to scatter and flee into the clear sky above. 

The abrupt noise of it has you all but tearing your vision from Prince Aemond's unbothered, observational expression to whatever lies ahead of you. And your eyes nearly bulge from their sockets at the sight of the behemoth that lies only several yards away. How you had managed to miss the sight of such a monumental creature is entirely beyond you. The only excuse you could possibly make is that the beast has flattened itself along the floor of the clearing, leathery wings lazily stretched open, head resting in the miniscule cover of the knee-high wildflowers and grasses that scatter along the hilltop in what might be some sort of attempt of basking itself underneath the suns glow. 

It is a beast that you easily recognize despite never truly having been within its presence. The sheer mass of the creature, and the rich green shade of its skin easily gives it away as the great Vhagar. You have heard of her name from countless stories. Those passed on down from generation to generation to speak of the ferocity and brutality of the battle hardened she-dragon, of how the size of her alone could blot out the sun from her flight. You have even caught glimpses of her in the air before. Often from within the confines of the castle while she soars high above and far from reach. None of those rare moments or stories had done any justice in depicting the true scale of her. 

And while you stand, gawking like a slack jawed idiot at the sight of her, you can only manage but to wonder the dumb, fleeting thought of how the Crown could ever possibly manage to supply enough sheep for her appetite. And then any semblance of awe or shock is twisted into a pure sense of dread and a primal fear. Your mind blanks as you try to form some sort of reason for you being here. Why Prince Aemond could possibly desire for you to meet his dragon, but you are left with naught. Something primordial and blazing sears throughout your veins with urge to run, but you find yourself frozen stock still instead while your lungs struggle to move and catch breath. You feel as though you have passed away on the spot and left your body behind to, trapped within this singular moment. 

It is not until the dragon begins to lift its head up inquisitively that you manage to regain any control of yourself at all. The sight of her lids peeling open to reveal blazing amber eyes are enough to force your lost voice back into the base of your throat. 

"Wha - why have you brought me here, Aemond?"  

The look he gives you is entirely unsympathetic. If anything, it seems to be amused. The corners of his lips threaten to perk in the shadow of an arrogant smile. If your heart did not feel as though it were seconds away from overexerting itself and giving out entirely, you are sure that this time, you would have struck him. You would love to hear the impact of your hand meeting the shape of his cheek and snuffing out the pompous way that he is holding himself, but he steps away from you before you can even think to act, fearlessly striding in the direction of the colossal dragon. 

"You long to know a dragonrider, lady wife," he answers with the cool timbre of his voice trailing after him and to you. "Flight with one with be the best way to make that connection." 

You are certain that your heart has well and truly stopped with that statement. That it turned still and unrooted itself from the cavern in your chest to plummet down below into your gut. And for a moment you wish that you have misheard him. Despite your internal panic, your brain manages to scramble and put the meaning of his words together quite quickly. The urge to refuse or ask him to clarify illudes you. You are far too bewildered. Too trapped within the seize of your own chaotic emotions to properly articulate yourself and your reservations. There's an anger stirring in you as well. Brewing and twisting with everything else, spurred on from the haughty glance he had given you before making his approach towards the beast he is bonded with. 

You try and fail to connect his reasoning. The logic entirely beyond you, but when you look upon his face it becomes quite clear. No matter how brief your eye contact had been, you saw the dare that had been dancing in his eye quite clearly. He was challenging you. He is expecting you to turn on your heel and run from the trial that he has set before you. And that has lit a sense of competition in yourself unlike any that you have ever felt before. 

He is no longer paying you any attention to see you coming to a sudden grip in resolve. Instead, he has drawn his observations to his dragon, who has lifted her head just enough in a proper greeting to accept the way that he runs a hand along the slop of her enormous muzzle, just above those massive, gnarled fangs that poke like her lips like daggers. The span of his fingers seems so small posted along the swell of her snout, like little more than a speck. And yet he stands before her so confidently. Free from the faintest edge of discomfort or fear. Instead, you hear him murmuring soft words to her. Speaking quietly as though she were a babe in need of praise or encouragement and not a battle worn goliath that has lain waste to armies and dragons alike.

The sound of his ancestor's tongue is beautiful as always. In your short time together, you have heard little of the language from the prince, but when you do manage to catch the glimmers of it from him you make sure to listen keenly. It flows past his lips like a rich silk; all but rumbling and sweeping around words that you do not know but find captivating regardless. It makes you wish that you did understand them. 

It is astonishing that no matter how small the prince appears now in comparison to her vast scale, he still holds himself so proudly. His shoulders are set straight, and head tilted high: the posture of royalty. All while he composes himself alongside a monster that could easily open her drooping maw and swallow him whole. 

But of course, she does not. A low grumble trembles forth from the wide set of her chest, reverberating throughout the air in a sound that could nearly be likened to the purr of a contented feline. It is shocking to see the famed - the feared Vhagar in such a light. And to similarly see the prince in such a manner as well. Both of them are calm. Peaceful on this tranquil, balmy evening. Untouched by their shared excitement for battle and bloodshed. 

It's akin to watching a pair of ruthless gods' slumber. 

And it seems to be that, more so than the sense of rivalry that has been kindled, that inspires you to move forward. No matter how uncertain you truly feel. Despite your reservations the odd sweetness of the situation still has you drawing close. All while a frigid kind of fear pools in your stomach. So, you try to focus on the little bits of life around you. The cheerful singing being carried by the birds of the forest, the soothing whisper of the air shifting the leaves, the saccharine scent of the colorful flowers that sway in the grass. It is all so soothing, so delicate. But still, it does little to appease the anxiety coursing throughout you as you grow closer to the beast. 

With each step forward, she seems to rise bigger; the growing proximity between you both only making her true mass even more apparent, as you are confronted with the mind-boggling truth of her scale. There is no safety of the castle walls to save you, the collection of the trees that surround you in a half circle would not serve to shield you should Vhagar decide that your presence is an irritant. Her potent fire would consume the forest and you with it with a single breath. Here and now, you know that you rely entirely on the word of Prince Aemond to keep her violent urges at bay. 

And that both comforts and terrifies you. 

You make your lungs draw in a shaky breath that does little to calm you as you step closer to the she-dragon. But you are certain that there is not a single thing on this earth that could truly bring you serenity as you bear witness to her. Never in your life have you ever stood before a being that has ever made you feel so miniscule. Not even the sight of the stars in the cradle of the night sky, in all of their multitudes and vastness as come close to the trepidation or awe that she has roused in you. You are small. Insignificant in terms of her looming stature. Pitiful in the decades that she has lived and the feats that she has achieved. You know now why the dragons are said to be old gods. You can hardly process that you are now right in front of one. Watching the rise and fall of her ribs as she pulls in massive breaths. The subtle shake of her wilting neck that shifts as she angles her head in your direction to study you with eyes that almost seem to burn with the fire contained within her. 

Her nostrils twitch as you come to stop alongside Prince Aemond; near enough that your shoulders nearly brush, but a part of you craves the dim amount of comfort that he provides. She is trying to smell you no doubt. Trying to take in your scent as means to familiarize herself with the stranger who travels with her rider. 

"You may touch her," Aemond offers. Or orders perhaps. 

It catches you completely off guard, like most things this evening. Regardless of the gentleness of his tone, it is difficult to tell if it is a suggestion or a command. Having what little knowledge you have of the prince in mind it was most likely the latter. Or it is another challenge of his. 

The sharp blue of his eye pierces through you once again like he is waiting for you to cower. But now, the prince's concerns and expectations are second at best when it comes to the interest of Vhagar. The brief flicker of your gaze on her confirms that she is still quite placid in mood. Her eyelids low with the remnants of the slumber that she had been goaded from. But that still does little to calm you. Dragons are unpredictable creatures. Gaining a trust of her this easily would be ignorance. 

"Does she wish me to?" You ask, and you see that twinge of what might be amusement grace Prince Aemond's features once again. 

"She will hardly pay you any mind." That is his assurance. A useless one. Your unease is strong. But your desire to please your husband, to beat this little challenge that he has set for you, and to form some sort of relationship with the prince - no matter how fragile - is stronger. With all the courage you can muster you begin to lift your hand. Slowly and steady in your movements as not to cause the beast any annoyance. You would not want to suggest to her that you feel entitled to touch her. Dragons can be opinionated things after all. 

A low noise rolls from her throat at the sight of your hand raised just above her muzzle, just where Aemond had lain his own earlier. It gives you pause. Old, primeval instincts rising inside of you bid you motionless. To wait and see what her move will be next. If she will calm or open her armored jaws to snap you between them. 

"Lykirī." 

It is Aemond's voice that speaks out. Low yet firm in its inflection as his tongue purrs out the elegant High Valyrian word in a silky drawl. You know not what he said, but it was enough to appease whatever offence you might have committed. She blinks slowly in response and the growl dies down into a soft silence. Still, you now find it difficult to lower your hand. Sensing your hesitance, or perhaps weary of it, Prince Aemond's own is suddenly engulfing the back of it, nearly threading his fingers with yours as he guides your palm downward. The weight of his flesh along yours comes as surprise. You have felt your husband's hands on you before. In much more intimate places, but it is the care with which he directs you with that almost seems foreign. New and delicate.

Currently he wears his gloves, usually seen on his hands whenever he intends to take flight, and you hate how a piece of you longs to feel them bare. To touch the callouses along his palm, made from wielding the grip of swords in combat and clasping the horns of Vhagar's saddle. It is a juxtaposition to the much softer skin of your own. But you do not find the texture of them offensive in the slightest. You could almost relish the sensation of it had they not been covered by soft hide instead. 

He leans his body much closer to yours. So much closer that the light brush of his breath glides over the side of your face and the length of your throat. The scent of him wafts from his body in the musk of leather, the spice of dragon smoke and the crisp fragrance of wind. It makes you wonder if he had flown long before he had come to the castle to retrieve you. It is all so distracting. The press of him along your arm, the mesmeric sound of his voice whispering soothing words in his ancestor's language. 

But reality comes back to you quickly in the weight of the dragon's flesh settling flat underneath your palm; rough and thick. You have heard before that dragons run hot. Heated up by the fire roaring within their chests. Those words have not prepared you for the warmth that radiates from her and the strength of it. Of the coarseness of her flesh. How sturdy it is. Much like the leathers used in creating amour. Though you suppose that the purpose of her skin is the same. 

Her massive nostrils flicker again and her eyes squint as she watches you. Studies you really. As though she is weighing and measuring you of your worth. Which is not a farfetched idea. It is the dragon, after all, who chooses its rider. She must be deciding if you are worthy of standing in her presence. 

The elation that floods you at the feeling of her beneath your hand comes like the scattering of butterflies. A smile threatens to break across your face at the small success. A rush of joy from still being alive after touching one of the most violent war dragons the earth has ever seen. 

"Are you prepared to ride?" 

Aemond's question rips you from your elation like a sudden storm smudging out the bright warmth of the sunlight. The smile that could have been dies out with the happiness that had filled you. It is water doused over embers. And with it the urge to snap at him is back in full force. No, you wished to answer, you are not prepared to ride, because you were not told that you would be expected to until only moments before. But you keep that complaint to yourself. Locked within tightly as not to offend the prince and the dragon whose massive mouth rests directly underneath your open palm. Still, many questions gush up and stir a torrent up within your mind. 

"How am I expected to do such a thing, my prince?" 

The look that crosses his face appears tired. It makes you wonder if you have somehow asked something foolish, but you come up empty on what that could have possibly been. It is a perfectly expected question. A dragon will only choose a single rider at a time. And only those who are blessed with Valyrian blood could have the potential honor of sharing such a bond. An ancient line that you have no direct lineage to. But the stare that the prince is holding you with now is one of exasperation, yet also sardonic. 

"You will sit on the saddle; I thought that much was apparent." His lips have pursed slightly, making his expression a blend of smug and annoyed. He is toying with you once again. It also makes his boundaries quite apparent. There is to be no possibility of a bond between the two of you unless you push when he shoves. If you let your offence get the better of you now while he clearly raises his challenge, then your relationship with him will be reduced to nothing more than his child bearer. A vessel for his future heirs. You shall not yield. Not even while your heart races like that of a rabbit who has been tricked into a corner by the snarling fangs of a hunter. 

You are soft but firm when you remove your hand from its place tucked between Vhagar's flesh and Aemond's palm. Your determination rests easily on your face as you turn to observe the netting of ropes that are draped down the side of her great neck as a means to climb astride her. Never has something seemed so daunting before. Not the day that you were bid to leave the familiarity of your life in Storm's End, nor the moment that you had given yourself over to Prince Aemond in matrimony. They all seem so little now as you allow your hand to grip one of the lines of worn rope. 

"Lykirī, Vhagar." 

A nervous sweat dampens your fingers as you squeeze your grip along the course lines, the frayed edges digging into your soft flesh. The sound of your husband placating the beast rings in your ears like a warning though she has not stirred from her position against the forest floor, even while another rumbling hum echos from her chest. It trembles throughout your arm from being so close to her, rattling up your bones. For a moment you contemplate removing yourself from the makeshift ladder, but the firm, urging glare that Aemond shoots you from his place beside you and the embers of your determination spur you to continue forward. 

"I will be behind you," you hear him promise as you haphazardly lift your skirts to enable yourself to place a foot upon one of the rungs. It is now you who hardly offers him a returned glance as you focus on raising yourself along the ropes. You expect for Vhagar to disturb upon the weight of you heaving yourself along her neck, but she does not. She remains blessedly stationary as you urge your body to move upward to scale the high length of her neck, for your mind to remain quiet and centered through your internal panic. The way that the ladder wobbles unsteadily as you work to lift yourself does little to quell the way that your stomach flips with the growing effects of nausea. 

You could swear that many moons have passed by the time that you have made it to the top of the ladder, where the ropes meet the smooth leather that creates the structure of the massive saddle. The seat of it is far greater than any other you have ever seen; those having been suited for horses and not the great backs of dragons. But even considering the long forward slop of what must be the equivalent of the rise and pommel and how the cantle stretches slightly backward to support the rider's spine during an upward flight, it is more than apparent that the seat is designed for only a single person. Every bit of grace room is only available for the positioning that must be required in flight. The design of it allowing for the rider to lean forward comfortably in the seat or relax backward, if necessary, but offering little more than that. 

If you were both truly meant to ride together it would be an awkward fit. Surely not one safe for something as perilous as flying. 

The urge to question this little goal of his rises up high. But instead of voicing your concerns you opt to follow through with his desires. If the two of you do truly not prove to fit on the seat and it turns into an ill sighted blunder on his part, then at least you will be able to silently bask in the pleasure of seeing his arrogance dim at the realization of it. 

You reach for some of the leather straps that lie between the junction of the rope ladder and the saddle, using your grip to hoist yourself upward again, slipping a foot into one of the rungs to push yourself within the range of saddle's lowest set of horns. Your fingers can only reach the base of the grip from your current height, but it is enough to enable you to hoist yourself towards the cradle of the saddle, though your muscles burn with the labor. Some torturous thought wonders what would happen should you slip and fall from such a height, and you struggle to block it out entirely as you continue your clumsy ascent. Using the hold that the flat of your feet have within the straps to keep yourself secure as you work on exchanging your hold from the lowest grip and onto one the horns belonging to the higher set to haul your body upward, swinging your right leg out to lurch across the seat. 

It strains your arms as you angle yourself, and the length of your skirts threaten to snag on the curve of your knee when your all but throw your body onto the saddle. But by the grace of the gods, you make it. Your chest slightly heaves from your lost breath, and your muddied skirts have pulled and rucked up above your knees in the most unbecoming manner from the stretch of your thighs around the width of the seat. But you hardly have the ability to pay it any mind while your nerves still cause your limbs to quiver, and your body burns with an excess of energy. 

While you collect your breath, clasping onto the horns of the saddle with both hands tightly enough for the edges of the leather bound around them to bite your palms, the sound of the wind's current whispering in your ear tugs you from your anxieties. 

It is then that you finally realize just where you sit. Comfortably astride the largest dragon, looking down on the world from the ridge of her back. You could see above the trees from this point, the stretches of the wood that gave and showed the lush rolling hills that expanded far beyond your sight. It was all so small and yet so vast this high up, once again making you realize the scope of your existence. You can spy glimpses of King's Landing up in the distance. The glimmer of the rooftops and the spires of the Red Keep, almost lightened in a shade of bronze from the cast of the evenings golden light. The sea beyond it glittering in a reflection of the sun, like a flat mound of shifting coins. 

The sudden weight of a hand clasping the grip along the free space just above your own snaps you from your awe. You hardly have time register it as the prince effortlessly swings himself into the saddle, notching a place for himself between your hips and the support of the cantle. His presence forces you to scoot further up along the swell of seat, much higher up than you are meant to be, but the press of his body flat against your own gives you little choice. The angle of it practically has your rump perched against his hips. And when his other arm reaches around your other side to grip the opposite horn of the saddle, you find that you have been completely enclosed in his body. His chest is pinned snug along your back, and you can feel the point of his chin nudge along your shoulder as he looks past you. 

There is something horribly intimate about it all. Something that you did not even think to consider when you agreed to this. But now that you can fully feel the warmth of him seeping through the layers of your garments to slip through your skin, you could not find any other word to call it. If your mind was not already so preoccupied with your anxieties, it would have easily latched onto the fact that your skirts are still indecently rucked around your thighs, improperly showing off the fabric of your stockings. It could have made you fidget or heat up with embarrassment had you the mind to, but you are far too preoccupied with what is to come. With the weight of your husband so near you. So high up here, with the wind stronger than it had been down along the ground, his scent seems to pool around you. It fills your lungs with musk and spice, and your body longs to draw it in like a glutton, but you do not allow yourself to. You manage yourself to maintain the steady inhales that you have been taking thus far. 

"Remain calm," he reminds you. 

As if on cue Vhagar begins to shift. Her giant head lifts from the meadows floor with a low grunt, as though the action alone costs her a great deal of energy, causing the weathered, battle worn flesh along her neck to wobble loosely along her throat. A bout of nervousness prickles in your gut as the motion jostles you forward. On reflex, your grip rightens around the horns, latching onto the pitiful bit of comfort they prove. Anxiety spreads along your fingertips and toes as she digs the wrists of her great wings into the earth to push herself onto her feet. A simple action, but for you it invokes nothing but unease. Her movements continue to nudge you about, all but prodding you backward to the press of Aemond's chest, and now you are actually thankful for how he is seated behind you. Offering a sense of support that you might have fainted without. 

You can feel the subtle shift of her muscles even through the saddle, and it wobbles just the slightest from the quiver caused by her old flesh. It has your unease spiking. And you think that you yourself could fly, fueled by nothing but your own apprehensions. 

There is a noticeable shift in how she holds herself once she balances on her legs. And incline in her spine lifts as she raises her head high, removing her weight from her wings to unfurl them. You can hear the leathery sound of the thin skin unraveling, spreading out wide enough like sails of a colossal ship preparing to leave port. 

You know what is coming, but you naught of how to weather it. All you can do is stare ahead, looking past the expanse of her neck and to the sky above that you will soon be soaring through. He must be able to sense your anxiety. Or perhaps he felt the tension of it in your back, in the rigid set of your shoulders, because he manages to press himself even closer against you. Like he means to cradle you to him. He releases a single hand from its grip long enough to place it along your waist to steady you. Your mind instantly latches onto the sudden pressure and warmth of it. Your body longing to lean into the weight of his palm but you keep yourself motionless as he leans himself close until you feel the brush of his words along your neck when he speaks. 

"Be still, wife." His voice rumbles out all placid and velvet. The sound of it so close to your ear that it has a tremble skipping down your spine. You can only hope that the thick of your combined attire hid it from him, but his hand flexes against your waist; fingertips pressing inward, and you know that he noticed it. But he fortunately makes no open marks of it. "With me as your guide you will be safe. When she begins her ascent, lean forward into it. It will help to keep you balanced." 

And as quickly as it had appeared, his hand is gone from its position on your waist to return its grip on the horn. You crave to have it back on you again. To have the support of it on you once more, even with the phantom sensations of it still live on your skin, though you do not bother to dwell on your foolish desires. You can only focus on the instructions that he had set. The direction of it serving to ground you, even as the saddle underneath shifts just the slightest as her wings expand. Now entirely unfurled. 

The anticipation of it weighed heavy. Murmuring across the air like something electrical as though you were in the midst of a storm and lightning looms ahead. But apart from a few scattered clouds, it was all but clear skies. Vhagar was prepared to soar. Her muscles were coiled, stretched and tense, and were it not for your being astride, you are certain that Aemond would have commanded her to take off much sooner. If that truly is the case, you are thankful. 

His ribs swell slightly along your back, and the command slices through the air, simultaneously exacting and clement: 

"Sōvēs!" 

Wind claps underneath the great stretch of her wings as she lifts them only to bring them down in a powerful downstroke. It snaps her from the ground in a quick lunge, and the sudden rush of being airborne causes your stomach to turn. You scramble to come to terms with the abrupt weightlessness of your body. It is like all of the breath has been snatched from the depths of your chest as Vhagar brandishes her wings in great, long stokes that sound akin to tremendous waves crashing against the surf; sharp and frightening like a whip slicing towards its target. 

A horrid thought enters your mind, whispering vile things, such as what would happen should you fall off. How you surely would not survive a plummet from such a height. It has your hands tightening around the grips of the saddle. Squeezing so harshly that your tender palms sting. But you almost welcome the burn of it. It is a good distraction from the nausea, from the disorientation that comes from rushing far from the earth so quickly. Now she truly begins her climb upward, and you just barely remind yourself of Aemond's previous command; tipping yourself forward to press yourself along the swell of the saddle as she rises. 

Much as he promised, the change in your posture does help to keep your seat firm as she works to bat her wings to scale her flight. Aemond dips down low after you, resting himself over your body to follow his own instructions. Even while Vhagar approaches her ascent at a slant, the incline is still enough to put strain on your arms as your own weight attempts to pull your backward. You can already feel the strain of it in your limbs, searing along your muscles and setting an ache deep near your bones. 

Never had you ever truly put in mind the physical prowess and endurance a dragonrider must have to properly seat their mount until now. It almost makes you feel idiotic that you would not have truly expected the demands that such a thing would imply. Already the wind claws at your face, slicing at your cheeks like it means to maim you, stinging at your eyes enough to prompt tears to pour. It is difficult to draw in a proper breath as the air passes too quickly for your lungs to properly catch, making you fear that you might suffocate. It feels as though your chest could combust. From the debilitated ability to properly breathe or from the confused sense of excitement, you are not entirely sure. 

Your being has been split down the middle. Caught in a strange limbo of an icy terror and a bubbling kind of joy as she continues her ascension, carrying you both high until the forests below become less defined and meld into blotches of rich greens. You cannot tell if the laugh the begs to erupt from you is one of elation or hysterics, but it froths inside of you with a warmth that rivals the heat that radiates from the brilliant sun above. Your lips part in the semblance of a breathless laugh as your eyes dart to take in your surroundings. The earth is so distant now. Reduced to a flat stretch of emerald and hunter, and the gentle rolling slops of hills and valleys that, in some points giveaway to farmlands. You can spot organized rows of green that must be rich vineyards, and there are many quaint little houses and homely settlements that sparsely dot about the scape. 

Being so high up within the heavens makes the rest of the world seem so small. Reduced down to dots and shadows and shades of color. It reminds you vaguely, of the ancient war table that sits within the council chambers of Storm's End; the stubborn, enduring anatomy of Westeros etched into the face of it, mapping out all of its splendor in its factions and landmarks. 

Out of your peripherals you notice Vhagar's wings tilt, moving to level her body out of its angled position, settling so that she is able to coast on the winds. It near instantly releases the strain on your arms, allowing the sting to ebb from your clenched muscles as you will yourself to try and relax, and the harsh cusp at which the biting wind had struck you with finally loses its violent edge. Still quite strong but no longer clawing along the shape of your cheeks and your unprotected eyes like it means to rip at them. 

It is Aemond who straightens himself first, removing his weight from your back to properly sit astride, completely comfortable in his place along his dragon and untouched by a semblance of worry. Even though you cannot see him from his place behind you, you are still able to sense the composure that he holds himself with. He is entirely within his element. At home here on dragonback. The arm that had grasped the grip on the left of you releases, moving past the line of your vision to where he probably allows it to casually hang at his side, now supporting his clasp on the saddle with only a single, sturdy hold. 

It takes you much longer to will yourself back into an upright position; finding solace in the weight of the saddle pressed to your stomach. But is a crutch that you do not wish to exhaust, and so you right yourself until you can once again feel the expanse of Aemond's chest, snug against your own in an unintentional semblance of an embrace. That stubborn little part of you loathes how the other half preens at the sensation of it. Yearning to bask in affections that are not truly there like some lovestruck girl child that elects to ignore the obvious indifferences displayed by the object of her infatuation. It irritates you to no end. Filling you with a conflict that you do not wish to bear but are unable to ignore. Aemond does not love you, that much is clear. The nature of your union, the quiet apathy that he has shown you thus far have been unobtrusive but very telling in this. Even now, as he makes an effort to test the nature of your will and your desire to truly get to know him, hauling you upon the back of his dragon, it seems to hold closer bearings to that of a trial than a well-meaning rendezvous. 

The look that he had given you when he asked if you were primed to take flight was playful, almost in a malicious manner. Like he was expecting and counting on you to decline and flee. It makes you ponder if you have actually managed to surprise the prince by accepting his proposal and clambering astride the beast's saddle. If your decision to stay and meet his little challenge head on has pleased him at all. 

"Geptot, Vhagar!" Aemond commands, shouting to be heard over the roaring winds. Obediently, the great dragon adjusts the massive span of her wings, muscles rippling to rearrange herself on the support of the currents to redirect her glide in the direction of King's Landing and the vast glittering waters of Blackwater Bay that extends beyond. It is still such a shock to see such a tremendous creature acquiesce its will to the instruction of a man. A man that may sustain the blood of the gods, but still a man, nonetheless. 

She could consume the both of you a single snap of her jagged mouth. Your bodies would be a pitiful bite for her jaws. And yet she allows you to take up space along her back. To become a vessel to suspend you along the heavens to soar between the sparse clouds that hang within the azure cradle of the heavens like tufts of a lamb's fleece. Vhagar is a violent beast you know. You have heard the stories of her wars and blood-soaked accolades, the battlefields that she has left soot covered and smoking, littered with the remains of soldiers. She is a violent creature to be sure. Honed and defined by violence, and yet it is here, carted among the tepid winds, that you decide that she is a glorious behemoth. One whose years have been stained with the life's blood of millions, but it does little to tarnish the position she has taken in your eyes. Not necessarily one held by affections, but mostly a sense of respect and awe. 

You are not diluted enough to think that Vhagar holds any sort of esteem for you. Had you not been accompanied by her rider; you would have been lit aflame from so much as approaching her, but that simple truth does little to dissuade you from attempting to show her your appreciations though uncertainty and apprehension still takes root in your gut. Your hand has a slight tremor when you manage to peel your fingers from their tight grip around the horn. A symptom of the energy and searing heat that pumps through your veins at your body's instinctual fears rather than a conscious bewilderment, but you do not let it stop you from leaning forward as much as your reservations will allow to place a soft, unsure pat along her back. Though the size of the saddle is so great that you still only manage to stroke its leathers rather than the rough expanse of her flesh.

You know that there is no possibility that she managed to feel your touch through the thick of the preserved hide of the saddle. And even if the buffer had not been there, your hand probably would have felt like little more than the landing of a fly; bothersome and barely perceivable. But it still does work for you somewhat, to help in seeing her more as more than simply a vengeful, aggressive beast. 

It shocks you, when you allow yourself to gaze downward towards the horizon to see how quickly you are approaching the edge of the city. It has you daring to tilt your head downward to see past her wings to gaze upon the sprawling cluster of the buildings and structures that create the capital; the clay tiles of the many roofs burning in shades like honey and ginger. The rich hues only amplified by the golden tint of the evening sun. Smoke pours from the some of the stacks, puffing from the hearths, the people down below working to prepare tonight's dinners. The streets thread throughout the ancient settlement like tan lines of thread, intertwining and connecting to unify the entirety of the city, bustling with people who, from your high vantage point, look hardly more than little moving dots; completely unbothered by Vhagar's flight above. 

It's breathtaking. Literally, of course, with the winds that continuously rush against you, but also in the sense of how stunning the view of it is. Had you, in some other life, been blessed with the honor of a dragon, you fear that you would never come back down to earth. As the fear in your stomach begins to thaw and ebb, giving way to nothing but a bright awe, you realize that you could spend an eternity within the sky at peace. This may be freedom incarnate. Untied from the earthly responsibilities and troubles that ail you down below. Here, it is simply the wind beneath Vhagar's vast wings. The same winds that tug at your hair as though it means to unravel it from its dressings. A laugh, a true laugh bubbles up from your chest, rising with the brilliant, beaming warmth of joy, and the smile that tugs at your lips this time is irresistible. 

You doubt that the purpose of Prince Aemond spiriting you away on this outing had any intentions of truly extending an olive branch. Not one in the expectations of actually solidifying a bond between the both of you at least. This was meant to be a game of sorts; you are still entirely convinced. But even with that in mind, you are unable to feel anything other than gratitude. For so long you have been confined to the unfamiliar walls of the Red Keep. Forcing smiles upon your face to maintain the proper ladylike appearances for your social standing. Exchanging forged laughs with the men and women of the court, batting your eyes like a dazed fool as you suffocate within the entrapments of your own longings for home. Strangely, it is here, where the harsh breezes threaten to stifle to the flow of air into your lungs that you feel at your lightest since you have been at the Red Keep. He knows naught of what he has given you, and even if he did, you surmise that he probably would not care regardless. 

Despite the possibility of Prince Aemond's reasonings, it does not stop you from turning your head, rotating your shoulders as best as you can to enable the motion as you make to look at him. It knocks you somewhat off-guard to see that he is already watching you. You had also not anticipated the proximity between your faces, with hardly more than a hair's breadth left between your noses which are so close they could touch. If you only twitch forward the press of your mouth could easily brush along the plush of his lips. The urge of it comes with the realization that the prince has never kissed you. Not even whilst you both fulfil the duties of your marriage in the midst of the night. It has all been disconnected. Done with the same automated detachment that one does with their chores. It should serve as a cold dousing of reality. It should make the rise of your emotions die down into a tame hush, but it does not. 

Your chest heaves involuntarily at the weight of his stare - of how near he is. Your thoughts are tempted to unravel. To get the better of you and indulge in the smoky, lewd corners of your mind that you have not allowed yourself to entertain, like a sinner giving into their temptations. 

The intensity that always seems to lurk within his attention is ignited ten-fold by the way that the sunlight glimmers within his eye, twinging the flecks of soft violets and rich blues with glints of golden light; it bathes his face in the same hue, making it seem as though the pale complexion of his skin has been kissed and painted by the sun itself; set alight by the dragon's blood that surges through his veins like liquid fire. The tresses of his hair billowing in streaks of a pallid silver that rivals the moons glow. 

He is beautiful. You are forced to mark it once again. How captivating the prince is. Disarmingly so, much like the stare that he continues to pin you in place with. The weight of it seems to reach into you, brushing along the boundaries of your spirit and binding it with its grasp. You are unable to discern the reasonings of his intensity, of what his thoughts might be. If they lean in your favor, or if you somehow may have unwittingly foundered into his bad graces. Just how you may have possibly stumbled is beyond you, but his tempers and his motives continue to be elusive. Still, the desire to speak honestly still hangs heavy. If anything, his attention only amplifies the need. 

"Thank you." It leaves your lips delicately. Or as softly as one can project while soaring through the skies without their voice being lost to the wind, and you can only hope that he was still able to detect the depths of your sincerity and appreciation. But you are certain that he hears you. You see the recognition of it flicker in his eye. Something else passes through it as well. It is an emotion that is beyond your scope of understanding. One that you have yet to witness upon the typically neutral or sardonic expressions he tends to display.  

His eye flickers downward. As though it is tracing the shape of your lips, attracted by the sound of your voice when you had spoken your gratitude. For a moment, you think that you must have imagined it. But the steady focus of his gaze is unignorable. He is truly trailing the contours of your mouth with his stare like he means to study them. Transfixed with a similar brand of concentration that he displays when he pours himself over his duties. But there is a fervor behind it that you have yet to personally witness; smoldering in his stare so strongly that it nearly pulls you into a trance. A molten heat flows down your spine, settling inside the pit of your gut with a warmth that startles you. The magnitude of the sensation is a shock, pulling a ragged gasp from your chest and like a puppet follows after the tug of its strings, your head snaps back to face the horizon to break whatever strange influence fallen over you both.

Your vision blindly locks on what lies ahead, desperately searching for something to distract yourself from the hazed chaos that clouds your mind. Though it is hard to focus with the near fevered way your skin has begun to warm, your chest rising and falling rapidly underneath the hold of your garments. The eye contact that you had shared was broken, but the effects of it still linger on you. It envelops you tightly, tingling over your skin, whispering along your flesh like fingertips. It has bout of nervousness fluttering inside of you like a cluster of frenzied butterflies, and it melts when it meets the foreign rush of heat that muddles you, twisting into something excited and burning. 

It has you adrift in a torrent. Completely at the mercy of your own emotions and desires - the severity of which, you had been utterly ignorant to. You scan the rippling face of the waters below, and the sight of it has your mind sluggishly realizing that Vhagar has flown you all past the boundaries of the city and the edges of the land to coast above the glittering, shifting face of Blackwater Bay. It is a sight that would have encapsulated the entirety of your observation before. You would have delighted in the way that the cerulean waters underneath the dragon's wings reflect the suns light like diamonds laid out along a rich silk, but it has become increasingly difficult to do so as you have become increasingly hyperaware of the prince. The press of him at your back, the enticing warmth of him latching onto your skin and spreading so potently that you think it may have sunk bone deep. 

Still, you hardly have the ability to prepare yourself for the sensation of Prince Aemond melding himself closely against you until the faintest stretch of space between you has been completely eliminated. His hips nudge tightly along yours, all but nestling your rear even deeper into the cradle of them in a manner that is entirely crude.

A confused question rests heavily in your mouth, but it is all but snuffed out when he tucks his head against your own, hooking his chin over your left shoulder as the hand that he had previously dropped from the horn of his saddle once again raises to take its position back above your own, as though it had never left. It makes your heart beat wildly like the wings of a startled bird, and the enlivened rhythm only quickens when his scent envelopes you with his proximity. It swaddles you in that mouthwatering combination of leather and smoke. The earthy musk and robust spice seem to find a home in your lungs. 

"Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys?" 

The sudden velveteen sound of his voice over the whistle of the wind inspires your body to still. As though drawn under a trance every facet of your being seems to become inert. Quiet in its endeavor to listen to the words that spilled from him. You assume that he must be speaking to Vhagar. Entrusting another command onto her in his ancestors' tongue, but the beast makes no movements to suggest that she has heard him. The tone in which he spoke with was low, but purposeful. As though he were sharing a secret, conversational in its cadence. 

You are almost reluctant to draw the conclusion that he may be talking to you instead. For some reason, the idea of such a thing seems so ludicrous, despite having spoken to him before. In brief moments when your paths cross within the castle or when society demands it for appearances. He had exchanged words with you on the ground previously, just before Vhagar had taken flight, yet it all feels so impossible. Strange from the odd rapport that seeps into the atmosphere around you. The gusts that rush past you in dashing currents are unable to destroy the inviting aura that has dropped around you both. Yet is all still so jarring. Abrupt in a way that is strange and new. And the aspect that he is using High Valyrian has left you especially lost. Hanging onto words that you could not comprehend as though they were the answer to a salvation that you did not know you needed.  

"Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke?" His head tips much lower now. So dangerously close that his lips sweep along the edge of your ear when he murmurs to you. 

"I do not understand." You confess, daring to slant your face towards his. Such a minute movement but it has the point of his nose nudging at your temple, drawing him all that much closer. He hums in the back of his throat. A quiet sound as though he is considering your utterance. It is humiliating how it makes your entire being thrum with something that is suspiciously close to delight. 

"Pāsan ziry gaomas." 

Your brows pinch close in a confused furrow as he continues to use his second tongue. It is almost as though he is teasing you. Like he is prodding at a weakness that you did not realize you had; an animal nipping and digging at a wound to watch its prey jerk in its grasp. He is teasing you. The small clues there all connect and tie together a little too finely when the understanding creeps in on you. 

He knows, your consciousness decides quickly. He must have figured out the infatuation you have with his voice. The allure that it has on you when he especially uses it to articulate the rhythm of that old language. Perhaps he had seen it on your face. In your eyes, the way that your breath snags in your throat or how your muscles seen to tense with anticipation at the sound of it. It could make you embarrassed that you have been so obvious in your attraction to it. So much so that he means to taunt you for it so openly. But here and now, with his form so hot along your own and the desire that burns so steadily in your gut, you are unable to find it within yourself to be irritated or sheepish over the fact. 

"Ēza nyke pendagon " - the curve of his lip glides along your ear, and you swear that you can feel the damp warmth of his tongue trace the sensitive skin - "hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao." 

The shiver that skips itself down your spine is completely involuntary. You can only hope that he will assume it to be caused by the chill of the winds, but you know truly that he would be a complete simpleton to think so, and Prince Aemond is anything but. You are sure, without seeing, that his mouth has lifted into the faintest hints of smirk; the impression of it against your ear. Time stutters when his thumb sweeps down along the knuckles of your right hand. It is such a small motion. A gentle, subtle caress. One that would hardly receive one's attention but is so different from any other gesture he has displayed for you that it has something inside of you melting and turning tender. It is damning for you. 

Some kind of plea smolders on the tip of your tongue like molten honey. A plea for what is entirely beyond you. For him to relent and move away to give you air? But even simply the idea of such a thing has you mourning the loss that has not come. This entire situation is nudging at the boundaries of the dynamic you have built with the prince thus far. It is unexpected. Bizarre even. But also, entirely exhilarating in a way that fills your lungs with excitement and looms over your being with a charged type of anticipation. 

And then, just as quickly as he had invigorated the raw suspension between your bodies, he removes himself away from you to hold his posture straight and his thumb slips from your knuckles to return its grip on the saddle horn. You are suspended in air, but the loss of his warmth feels as though the support of the earth has been abruptly tugged from underneath your feet. Humiliation wells up, and anger. It seems like a jest on his part. A cruel trick for what purpose you are not certain. To stroke his own ego. To make you feel like a fool. 

It is bitter in your mouth. The tart of it induced by your bewilderment. It leaves you woefully unmoored as your body craves his even as he still remains behind you, his thighs and hips embracing your own. The whispering of the ocean-salted wind suddenly sounds like a lonely, warbling cry. But even while in the midst of your internal conflicts, the longing has yet to subside; instead pooling in your belly. A gasp pushes from your chest, and you urge yourself to look upon the waters beneath and the horizon ahead. Marking a mark of the clouds that drift about the golden support of the heavens, counting a flock of waterfowl that fly in cluster above the ocean as a means to collect yourself, though it proves to be futile. 

"Let us return home now, wife - the hour grows late." 

You make no means to return a comment or to refute. You remain silent as you both dread and crave the return back to the Red Keep. You have no desire to bear the facade that you have been masquerading in for so long, but being grounded may also help you in gathering the torrent of your emotions. Still, the flight back to Vhagar's chosen plot of earth outside the edge of the forest arrived quicker than you had anticipated, and the dismount from her saddle had nearly been just as awkward as the ascension. Neither of you had exchanged any words as you found your horses still hitched to the branches that they had been left posted at earlier, cropping at the rich grass near the base of the tree with their teeth. 

The bustling of the streets does little to assist the chaotic nature of your thoughts as you guided your mount through the crowds alongside the prince. A part of you was still briefly able to marvel how you had just seen the same avenues from above only moments before; the people who had once appeared as little specs now parted around you to make way for you and the prince. Some daring to pass the two of you fleeting glances as you went about. 

You receive similar looks once within the interior of the 'Keep. The servants and people of the court pass you curious and disapproving peeks at the muddied edges of your skirts as you carried yourself down the winding, grand hallways. Though you pay them little mind. Instead, you direct yourself to try not to focus on the dull, rhythmic tap of Prince Aemond's footsteps from their place beside you as he trails you like a stubborn shadow. He had proposed that he escort you to your quarters, as is expected of a husband. 

There is a new sort of uncertainty that has been wedged between the two of you. Though it is so very different from the quandary that had been there before. This type has no longer tinged with apprehensions or resistance, but instead it is almost alive. The want that festers inside of you is so strong that it is nearly tangible; a creature with claws that means to creep and snatch and a hunger that demands to be feed. You are not entirely lost. You are informed of the body's desires and the symptoms that often accompany it. But it is rarely something that you have ever experienced yourself apart from the few rare nights that you had built up the courage to explore yourself within the privacy of your own apartments. And never have you ever felt it so fiercely, searing and thrumming throughout your flesh. 

The buzz of your previous flight does little to damp the fervor of it. If anything, it douses a potent fuel upon the embers, daring to set the smoldering cinders aflame. The scent of him is strong at your side. Sharp from the winds and mouthwatering with the crisp, spicy aroma of his natural musk, and it is a temptation that you can only hope that you will be able to resist. Your only solace is that the entrance to your quarters draws near, only a few paces left near the end of the corridor, and you look to the massive looming doors as thirsting man would an oasis. 

"I take it that you enjoyed todays outing, my lady," Aemond says from your side. 

It draws your attention to him like an insect becoming hypnotized by the gentle flickering an unguarded fire. You dare to allow yourself to admire the almost lazy saunter he carries himself with, the composed way that he holds his hands behind the controlled posture of his back. 

"I did. Truly." You answer honestly. Not even the muddled state of your feelings and yearning could keep you from repelling the truth from him. You find yourself twisting softly on the heels of your feet as you both come to stand before the entrance of your apartments, moving to enable yourself to meet his gaze. It suddenly feels too vulnerable. You no longer have the buffer of being shielded from his stare as you stand in a pair at the end of the dimming hall. He watches you keenly. His expression is mild, and it is only his eye that displays a faint hint of curiosity, but it is enough to prompt you in continuing. "I do not wish to burden you with my toils, but finding my place here within the court has been an adjustment. The people here have been kind, yet it is still a somewhat of a challenge to find my footing. " You pause, the air snagging in your throat and you find your fingers winding together in an awkward clasp as you work to navigate yourself and bear the weight of his unflinching observation. "The flight with you and Vhagar, it was a reprieve that I did not expect to be afforded. I know that you have been occupied by the priorities of the kingdom and the burdens of the war; you have little moments available for yourself, I imagine. So I am grateful that you made an effort to extend that time to me." 

It all seems so delicate now. Something vulnerable has wormed through the cracks of your already weakened restraints. And you swear that you see something just as uncertain and raw peek through the detached facade of the prince. Such a pale passing of emotions that had you not been paying so much attention to him; it might have slipped past your observation. It looks odd, but not unbecoming on him. He is typically so relaxed and serene. Unstirred by the influences of his surroundings. It manages to endear and embolden you all at once, and as though they have a mind of their own you find your feet closing the small amount of distance that divides you. The prince's vision is latched onto you as you move near, unwavering and heavy in his watch. 

For once in your uncertain relationship with the prince, it is you who seems to hold the sense of power. As shaky and foreign as it is. But he observes you with the same speculative surprise as a predator that has been taken off guard and is deciding on if its energy should be spent on fighting or evading. You make sure to be gentle in your approach, lest you break the brittle, intimate blanket that has fallen the vacant corridor. You can nearly hear the thump of your own heartbeat inside of your chest, pulsing along the palms of your hands. 

You surprise yourself as you dare to lean forward into his space. The scent of him engulfs you, and the perfume of it is almost dizzying. Clouding over you in a rush of subtle spice, leather and wind. It guides you press your lips upon the high ridge of his cheek. The soft divot of the scar catches underneath your mouth; the gnarled slivers of its subtly raised edges. You make sure to be gentle so's not to possibly aggravate the old, damaged tissue. His skin is warm. Sultry and smooth against your lips. You raise a single hand upward to place your fingertips along the sharp sweep of his jaw as a means to ground yourself. Or perhaps it is just an excuse to touch more of him. You are not entirely certain anymore. 

You can feel his chest swell with a surprised breath, muscles pulling taut underneath the leather of his doublet. You fear that you may have overstepped, and it draws you to break the kiss from his skin, though you find it difficult to pull away. He has made no attempt to tear his face from the light hold of your fingertips. He remains fixed in place. Quiet and motionless. For one horrid moment, you fear that you might have actually been able to disgust him. That you had terribly transgressed and shattered the delicate little relationship that you have only just began to fabricate. 

But when you look to meet his gaze the stare that he is studying you with holds a sort of hunger that you have yet to ever experience, and it is so disorienting to be on the receiving end. It completely eclipses the way that he had watched you with during the flight. You are sure that this is how it feels to be stalked by something dangerous and starved. It mutates with the vulnerability that seeps into his posture, and the combination of it melts into an ardor that is stifling. 

You are not sure how to navigate it. Of what this all could mean for you. For him. It has your blood roaring through your veins. Everything falls into a hush. You are sure that the rest of the castle is still lively with the preparations for supper. Servants are no doubt preoccupied by the nature of their longwinded duties, causing the innerworkings of the Keep to astir as they all go about their own matters. But here, in this quiet corridor, it feels as though you have been tucked away into your own private bubble. Sealed away and safe within its dulcet embrace. 

You can see the want in his eye so clearly. Bright and burning in its quality, but he makes no moves to act upon it. It is so strange to see what appears to be a sort of hesitance in the prince. Someone who is usually so certain of their wants and desires and acts on them unflinchingly. Arrogantly, even. It makes him appear so much more human. For once, in the little amount of time that you have known him, he finally stands close at a base that you could compare yourself. Not a god. But simply a man. A man who experiences reservations and uncertainty just as you do. One made of bone and blood - even if that blood may run hot with dragonfire. He still just a man. One who appears as though he wishes to seek you out. To bask in the comfort of your flesh and consume you where you stand but will not allow himself to. 

You are unsure where this sense of hesitancy could stim from. You have already lain together before in the hopes of producing a child and he had not shied away in any of those occurrences; having taken you with that cold, calculating indifference each time. You have no ability to say what has inspired the felling of that austere approach, but the sudden lack of it rouses a bravery that has long evaded you. Your lips, still hovering closely above his cheek venture to press against his skin once again. Much lower than their previous position along the sharp contours of his face, but now only a few scant breaths from his own lips. 

You pause briefly to surmise his reaction. Gauging the shift in his breathing and the way that he holds himself to see if you may have misread and breached an unsaid boundary, but he makes no move to tear himself from your proximity. But that is not enough. You must hear it from him. 

"Do you wish for me to stop-" 

A surprised yelp is snuffed from your throat when the plush of his mouth claims yours in a kiss that is so passionate that it is nearly ferocious. Your teeth clack together from the rough nature of it. It makes your mind draw a complete blank. All semblance of thought mutes down into a quiet hum as every bit of your being draws down to focus on the entirety of him. So heavy in its attentions that you hardly bear notice when he crowds you against the heavy doors of your chambers. So eager that the back of your skull knocks on the thick, ornate wood. The pain that flares is stinging and sharp, but you can hardly bother to pay it any attention as he presses himself along your body like he may starve without it. 

Once it all finally catches up with you, you find your hands reaching to sweep along him explorative, greedy strokes. Your fingers claw at his doublet, slipping along the buttery leathers in a weak grip before moving to clutch at the nape of his neck to draw him closer to you. It is crazed. Animalistic. A perversion of the sort of chaste affections that a lady should share with her husband, but you can hardly be bothered to care while your body is overcome with relief. It is suddenly as though he has become the air you require to breathe, and you are under the threat of suffocating. 

His hands are just as rapacious as your own. Clutching at your hips, your waist; reaching fingers gripping onto your hair. He is like some feral animal that does not know where to bite first. Desperate for the taste of flesh and blood but unsure of where to start. 

His teeth nip at your lips; tongue swiping, and obediently your jaw softly parts to allow him to lick into your mouth. The moan that leaves you sounds shocking to your own ears but it is impossible to be ashamed when the taste of him seems to set you on fire. You are quickly to reciprocate with equal ardor, but it is clumsy and underskilled on your part. And it dawns on you that this is your first true kiss with your husband, so very far off from the demure, obligated peck that he had given to you on your wedding day. It makes you burn all the hotter. Your eagerness intensifying tenfold as you grip onto him as though he may vanish if you do not. 

An almost wounded sound leaves you when he removes his mouth from your own. Though it is promptly stamped out when he nudges your head to the side with his own to latch the wet heat of his mouth onto the tender flesh of your neck. A contented sigh leaves you and your body seems to lose all of its strength, going lax against the support of the door as your head lulls back to bear your throat to the bite of his teeth and the suction of his tongue. You feel as though you are turning to mush. Going pliant underneath his ministrations; the heat of him has melted you like wax. 

It is the low bubble of chatter that breaks you from the haze that dips over your mind like the beginning effects of alcohol. Your eyes flutter open to gaze over the prince's shoulder, though he has not even so much as slowed the searing kisses along your flesh. Whether that be because he simply does not care or because he has not noticed the sound of carried voices you are not sure, but you cannot keep yourself from trying to peer down the long stretch of the corridor to spy for the origins of the conversation. You see no one but you are certain whoever is speaking is nearby. Their voices carried and projected by the stone no doubt, but they could round the corner at any moment and catch you and the prince in a most unbecoming manner. 

You mourn the very idea of stopping him, but the requirement to keep appearances and your position of the court untainted from untoward gossip prevails. It has you slipping your fingers along the roots that grow from the nape of his neck to tug as gently as you possibly can, urging him to pry his mouth from your flesh but he remains unmoving. Almost stubborn in his exploration of tasting the salt on your skin. 

"Aemond," you call softly. "We must stop; we will be caught." 

That seems to pull him from the fervent spell that had been casted over him. He finally allows himself to be removed from the crook of your neck, righting his posture meet your line of vision with a slight pant in his breath. The passion in his stare has not wavered or diminished at all. If anything, it seems all the fiercer. 

 

"Will you invite me into your chambers?" He inquires against your lips. "Will you have me?" 

The way he stated the question was straight forward. Blunt in what it implied. Unshy in its desire. But there is an unmistakable edge to it that is almost frail. Fragile in its essence. You know now that here the both of you are at a fork in the path. One single decision that may decide the fate of what lies ahead, and the balance of your matrimony. Prince Aemond wears that facade of his. Like no matter what response leaves from you he will be unbothered, but you can see the vulnerability bleeding into his gaze. You hear it in his questions. The hope that you do not turn him away. 

You know then that you will not send him off down the corridor while you tuck yourself away in your chambers alone. Not as elation and peace wraps itself around you and urges you to tug him closer; guiding him towards you as you make to reach behind to grab for the door latch. 

"Yes, I will have you Aemond." You whisper it softly, as though it is something sacred and delicate. 

That is all it takes to earn his mouth back upon you. Just as starved as it had been before. You are not certain which one of manages to pry one of the doors ajar, but as soon as it is open, you find yourself slipping through the entry as you pull him through by his shoulders as you blindly guide each other across the floor of your apartments. You just vaguely register the sound of the door slamming shut behind you both, but you hardly pay it any mind as his hands sweep along your hips with a grip that threatens to smart skin. The heel of your foot nearly trips along the edge of the tapestry rug, and it is Aemond's firm grip that keeps you secure as you attempt to navigate your clumsy journey to the bed. 

Already his fingers slip behind you, eagerly tugging at your skirts like he means to ruck them over your hips, but then he stops himself short and backs away from you so abruptly that for a second you fear that he is having regrets. That he plans to storm out of your quarters and pretend that this has never happened. His eyes trails over you as he steps away, halting himself he is several paces from you to observe your disheveled state. 

"Undress yourself."  

He says it that poised, calm cadence of his, but the order in it is still apparent. For some reason it makes you pause. You have never been completely bare before him. All of the previous times you had been afforded the crutch of your shift, skin always concealed from view. During your bedding ceremony, while the corridor just outside of Prince Aemond's chambers were crowded with the wedding quests, the attendees of the court and the Crowns Sept, all present to make sure the tradition was followed accordingly, you had still clung to the safety that your chemise had provided you. The two of you were hurdling over so many new steps and parameters in your relationship. For some reason, it does not feel obtrusive or jarring. Simply unexpected. Unfamiliar. But exciting still. 

You reach for the silk placket on the front your bodice, carefully unplucking the golden straight pins that your maidens had secured it with just this morning, being mindful to tack them back into the fabric so they do not drop upon the floor and run the risk of jabbing someone underfoot. Your fingers quiver slightly as you begin to unwind the ribbon lacings underneath, tugging them free from their eyes to loosen the grip of your bodice until the rest of the gown slides free of its grip on your body, enabling you are able to slip the sleeves from your arms for the rest of the garment to pool around your feet. 

You still have several layers to go; held within the confines of your kirtle but he is already watching you with an impassion stare akin to starvation. All of the vigor that he had unleashed on you before in the drag on his lips and the nipping of his teeth has been detained and seized onto with a shaky resolve; his weak restraint projected through the near feral look in his eye. It is clear that he wishes to watch you unburden yourself of your clothes. It gives him some kind of pleasure, to observe you exposing more of yourself to him at his whims. And you would like to indulge that lewd desire of his, but you know that the lacings along the back of your kirtle will be difficult to undo on your own. It is rigid in its structure, and combined with how tightly the many levels silk cord that cross up your spine are cinched, it will be a challenge. Often times it is a pain for even the deft fingers of your maids. 

"Would you so kind, lord husband, to assist me?" You do not bother in awaiting his response as you rotate around to present your back to him. The room is silent, save for the quiet rise and fall of the air steadily leaving and returning to your lungs. You do not hear him diminish the space the separates you both. The sound of his boots along the stone floors does not make a single tap or echo for you to gauge his nearness. But then his hands are just on you, settling at the point between your shoulder blades to pluck at the knot of your silk ribbons.   

The warmth of him wafts against you, causing the hairs along the nape of your neck to rise and your skin to pepper with gooseflesh. You crave to lean back into him. To bask in his natural, soothing heat, but you command yourself to remain stationary as he begins to tug at your lacings. Much steadier and slower than you have suspected. It has anticipation building and churning within your gut. Smoldering and settling like hot coals and molten wax beneath your flesh. 

His lips come to sweep along the junction of your neck, feeling as though they are branding you in their exploration. It should be of a concern with how much that thought thrills you. The idea of walking around with the prince's marks clearly presented for the court to see is an indecorous idea - downright craven. And yet it does nothing but make the flames inside roar brighter. 

You feel the moment that he finished in unlacing the kirtle. It slackens considerable on your torso, before he hastily slips the embroidered edge of the neckline from your shoulders; the truth of his avidity managing to peek through such a simple action. And just like that the materials fall from your body, leaving you in nothing but your shift. It shocks you how quickly his hands find a place on your hips. Fingers clasping tightly like he is resisting the urge to tenderize your skin underneath the pressure of his palms. But that twisted little part of you is still present and greedy. It has you pressing the shape of your rear against his pelvis, and you are unable to contain the delighted gasp that leaves you at the hard press of his cock straining underneath his breeches. 

He has not even seen you naked yet and already the evidence of his arousal nudges at you through the thin fabric of your chemise. He groans as you continue to roll your hips against you his. It's a pleased, low noise, that nearly sounds like a purr rumbling from his chest, and it vibrates along your neck as he threatens to sink his teeth just underneath the edge of your jaw. His fingers begin to tug and lift at the skirt of your shift to pile it around your waist. 

You twitch as he exposes you to the tepid draft of the room; nipples hardening beneath the delicate fabric at the chill. Suddenly, one of his hands is placed before you, fingers hovering close to your mouth as though he expects something of you. Your thoughts scramble along. Already pathetically sluggish and scattered from the lust searing at your being.  

"Take them into your mouth and bite, ābrazȳrys," he guides in a firm murmur. 

Obediently, your lip's part, allowing him to guide the tips of his fingers past them. The leathers concealing the nimble length of his digits is smooth along your tongue. Warm and slightly tangy in its flavor on your palate. The weight of them makes your eyes lashes flutter, threatening to slip closed before a distant voice in the recesses of your mind chides you to follow his desire, and eager to please you gently clamp the edges of your teeth down onto the tips of his gloves. He coos in a satisfied manner when he notices the compliant press of your teeth. He tugs his hand free from the casing of its glove, allowing the now empty garments to lie limp in your mouth before he removes it from between your teeth to discard it somewhere along the floor. 

You vaguely watch his hand from your peripherals as it lifts past the scope of your vison, but the low, wet sound in your ears cues you on what he may be doing. He is licking his fingers. Getting them wet. It makes your body thrum with want. The flavor of his gloves is still strong. A temptation that you never would have imagined. He had used your mouth for something that seems so frivolous, and yet it makes you ache. It reminds you of a bit of course chatter that you had heard from one of the ladies of the court.  A horrible gossip who often whispers of the most perverse of topics between lovers. Though you could not help but to have been intrigued when she spoke of pleasing one of her paramours with nothing but her tongue. 

You know what Aemond plans to do with his hands. The anticipation of it bubbles along the atmosphere like water simmers inside a heated pot, threatening to boil over as his fingers slip between your thighs and part your damp heat with little fanfare. Your body seems to sizzle. A delicious buzz licks up your spine as he sweeps a single finger over your cunt to gather the slick that already threatens to smear down the inside of your legs. Collecting it on the pad of his digit to aid him in delivering a slow, torturous circle along your clit. A drawn-out whine rips itself from your chest, and even with his hand buried underneath the fabric of your skirt, working pleasure between your thighs, you cannot help but to think of the possibility of taking him into your own mouth. 

To delight in the weight of his cock filling it up, weighing on your tongue. How it might taste. The expressions he would make. If his eye would express the same vulnerability that he had displayed to you in the hallway, when he asked if you would have him. Would that hint of desperation no longer be masked, but instead boldly shown? Would his face pinch with pleasure, eye clouded with lust as he watched you on your knees before him?

How gorgeous he would look. 

You have to tuck your face into his shoulder as you helplessly rock your hips against the ceaseless strum of his finger, muffling your cry as he suddenly slips one within the entrance of your cunt, forcing it to stretch and give around its width. He brushes it experimentally along your walls, almost like he is prodding or searching for something within you. Distracting you with the press of the heel of his hand on the bud of your nerves, feeding the fires the pit of your belly. He does find what he is in search of with an adept quickness. You feel it as soon as he does. The blind yet tactful pursuit is rewarded when he caresses something devastating buried inside of you. You gasp, breath snagging as you burrow your nose into his neck, choking on his scent while you search for your voice.  

"Aemond, please." It comes out as hardly more than a wanton moan puffed against his skin, and your hips continue to chase after the exquisite heat that he is effortlessly stoking within the cradle of your thighs. "Please, Aemond. I want to taste you. I want you in my mouth." 

You feel the way he hums in consideration more than you hear it. A nonchalant noise, as though you have questioned him about the quality of his day. As though he was not knuckle deep inside of your cunt. "Hmm, such a temptation. Though, if I recall correctly, was it not my wife who ventured into my chambers with revelations of her loneliness? It seems that I have long ignored my husbandly duties. I think it is due time that I rectify that." 

Those words sound so promising. So sweet in its oath. So, it is entirely cruel when he all but rips his finger from the walls of your cunt, leaving you feeling empty and the scorching embers in your gut smoking but unfanned. A question, an insult, or a cry hang on your tongue, but you never get the opportunity to figure out which it is. Aemond grips you by the shoulders and nudges you in the direction of your bedding, giving you little time to orient yourself through the lustful haze that has clouded your mind over. 

"I want you lying down on your back; cunt spread." His instruction rings out sharply. Like a strategized order that would be given in council. "And remove that fucking garment from your body." 

He spat out the sentence as though the cloth is an offence to him. The sight of it alone enough to rouse his ire. So eager to see you bare before him. You have half the mind to try and tease him, but tonight you can hardly be bothered. The weight of the shift is stifling on your dampened skin, and his covetous stare urges you to do his bid. You do not turn to face him as you disrobe. It nudges from your shoulders easily. Dropping free from your body to leave you in nothing more than your silk stockings and garters, and the diamond accessories that dangle from the lobes of your ears. 

You swear that you can feel the line of his vision upon your flesh. Trailing down your spine, tracing the shape of your ribs as they meet the contour of your waist, skirting along the swell of your arse. You do not turn to face him until you place your knees on the cushion of your mattress, plush and filled with down and feathers, offering you enough support to crawl along the stretch of it before turning on your back as he had bidden. The impassioned look in his eye seems to suspend you adrift. It does not make you feel disgustingly ogled or leered at to be so blatantly admired. He studies you as though he is in the presence of something sanctified. Divine. 

You are not sure of how to compose yourself underneath such unabashed devotion. The only thing that seems to give you any sort of stability is the continued ring of his earlier command reverberating in your mind. You cling to it, like someone who is threatened to be swept away in a rough tide. It is almost absentmindedly that your leg's part, offering yourself up to the insatiable stare of your husband in a manner so vulgar. But you cannot deny that there is something titillating about it. How his posture seems to simultaneously go rigid and slack all at once. A restraint in his composure visibly snapping before he stalks across the room towards you like he means to devour you. 

He is upon you before you can hardly blink. Gripping onto the thick of your upper thigh with his gloved, left hand to further pry your legs apart. Stretching them until you can nearly feel the strain of it in the joint of your hip. "Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys." He lifts your opposite up just enough to nose at your knee, ghosting his lips about the breadth of it as his eye locks with your own sight. Something nearly playful dancing in the vivid shade of colors. "Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?"

He continues to sweep his nose along your flesh. Dragging it downward towards your intimacy, where you burn and ache for him the most. You cannot stop yourself from rolling your hips upward, tempted by the warmth of his breath gliding along your skin and the heat of your cunt. It makes you clench around nothing, as though your body is mourning how empty you are without the stretch of his fingers. 

"Aemond, pleas-" 

He hushes you softly. A placating, quiet sound but it cuts through the air with the swift impact of a steady blade. Like an eager soldier you find yourself falling silent. Focused entirely on him as he lay between your thighs with the relaxed composure of a dragon with its prey already secure between it fangs. "Patience," he murmurs. Though he hardly gives you any time exercise such a restraint because his mouth is on you as soon as the word leaves him. The shock and feel of it sears through you, lashing itself across your body akin to charges of lightning crackling across a storm. Nothing could have prepared yourself for such a thing. The wet heat, the suction of his lips, the skilled slip of his tongue. 

Your legs twitch on reflex, threatening to close but the hand that he had clasped around your thigh keeps it secure in place. Still, it does not stop him from glancing up at you from the apex of your legs with an unvoiced reprimand glinting in his eye. A broken cry shudders from your lungs. Sharp breaths nearly hiccupping from you as he licks at your cunt, burrowing the pronounced, attractive swoop of his nose against your clit while his tongue laps at your entrance. You cannot stop yourself as you begin to sway your hips along the press of it. Practically riding his face with the mindless drive of a woman possessed. Your fingers claw along the blankets; nails tearing at the fabric like it might help you weather through the bolts of ecstasy that ravage your body.  

Your head lifts to properly gaze upon him as he continues to drag his tongue over you, groaning softly into your heat as though he were the one experiencing pleasure. You have heard of women satisfying their husbands with the comforts of their mouths but never the opposite. You know now that it is easily something that you could become addicted to. And based on the pleased pinch between his brows and the way that his eye has nearly slipped closed it seems that he has just as much of an appetite for it. 

"Oh, my gods! Aemond- fuck!" 

You can feel the amused chuckle he releases vibrate along your cunt, making the burning coil in your gut wind that much tighter. He parts his lips from you just long enough to speak, slipping a finger within the tight entrance of your heat just as he does so, crooking it against that delicious spot that he had found nestled within you earlier. "Such a filthy mouth you have on you. How unbecoming for someone who holds the title of a princess." He mocks, crudely stroking and curling his finger within the tight warmth of your cunt. You think distantly to scold him. To remind him of who has drawn such untoward responses from you in the first place but then he is guiding a second digit in along the other, making you stretch to accommodate them; causing your mind to blank. "What would they think if they could see you now? Mewling like well-paid whore."  

You are not sure why that awful little comment has warmth drizzling down your spine like drops of warmed honey. You feel yourself flutter around the ceaseless pulse of his fingers, back arching in a means to draw him deeper. He notices as well. Of course he does, ever so observant. It has him humming in that considering way of his. Like he is pleased with his discovery. You expect another witty remark from him but get none. What he chooses to say next is even more damning. 

"I'm going to fuck you with my fingers, and you are going to be a good little wife and peak on my tongue." 

His tone leaves no room for argument - not that you have given him any in this state. Especially not when the sultry drag of his mouth returns to your cunt to join the clever curl of his fingers. The combination of it threatens to make you sob. Your body writhes when he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking at it gently with steady pulses of his tongue. One of your hands blindly reaches to grip his head, threading your finger through the silken tresses of his hair as though it might ground you; keep you from floating away. It is all so overwhelming. Too much and yet too little. And like a starved glutton you find your opposite palm coming to slip along your own torso, sweeping along your feverish skin to explore your breasts. You mindlessly reach to take your nipples between your thumb and fingers, rolling and plucking at it to further stoke the fire in your belly. 

You hear the sound of Aemond's pleased groan, no doubt watching you from his place between your legs as you touch yourself. Already the rapture flooding your veins begins to rise up. Cresting upon you like a wave being tossed within a great tempest. You can practically taste it. Dancing along your tongue like something sweet and hot; burrowing into the cradle of your hips by the euphoric drag of his hand and tongue. 

"Aemond!" You sob. With the intent to warn him or to merely cry you are not sure. Your face pinches as the grip of your pleasure begins to close around you, holding you tight within its vice like it means to wring every ounce of euphoria from you. "Aemond, I'm going to- gods-" 

The glide of his mouth and fingers is almost brutal. Precise and nimble in his intent to hurdle you headfirst into the throes of bliss, and he is certainly achieving that goal. You can feel the muscles within you drawing up tight; fire lashing and curling over you and wearing at your soul. You can hardly speak. Now struggling to get out broken panting breaths and pieces of the prince's name as your release bears down on you. He shows you no mercy in your state, continuing to suckle and lap at your cunt like he means to drink you down. 

It is with a wrecked scream that you reach your peak. The cry that rips from your throat is short and hoarse, and there is no doubt that some unfortunate soul wandering the hall has heard you. Though you are too beyond yourself to care. Sparks bursts inside your flesh, dousing you in a bliss that you have naught ever brought yourself. Like a mindless animal your body continues to ride itself against the press of Aemond's tongue, his nose, his fingers, all of which still work against you to draw out the euphoria that engulfs you. 

It is not until you hiss from the sudden tenderness in your cunt that he wills himself to pull away, giving you a reprieve to lay boneless and spent along the plush of the bed. His breath is raged when he rises from your hips, face smeared with the evidence of your pleasure, his stare is wild. He looks disheveled, hair disordered from when you had gripped it and chest pulling in frantic gulps of breath. He nearly looks just as winded as you. Though you are surely partly to blame with how you had desperately pushed his face into your cunt like some sort of sex-crazed whore. And the patch of leather that conceals his eyes has become slipped from its place. Not enough to display whatever grievous, old wound may rest beneath, but another unintended brush against it may knock it askew completely. 

You do not think when you guide yourself to sit up and lift a hand, thoughtlessly using your thumb to nudge the leather back down to rest securely above his socket. But the realization seems to come to you both unanimously. His own hand coming to grip your offending wrist, keeping it suspended in its place in the air; your fingertips still resting on the structure of the patch. 

 The stare that passes between the both of you is joined by so many varying emotions. Many of them extending from his side: a brief flash of anger, bewilderment, unease. And then, there it is again. That trace of vulnerability that he tries so hard to contain. But it seems to always be there. Lurking underneath the surface like pain disturbing an old wound. And like a shadow, you see that hint of hope again too. It is the only things that keeps you from shifting from him. Of giving him space that you would have otherwise assumed he needs. But now you draw near. Resting on your knees to sit before him. Instead of attempting to withdraw your hand from his clutches, you instead reposition it to cradle the side of his face, maintaining to keep your touch light in case he chooses to remove himself from underneath your hand. 

Few breaths pass, and he makes no moves to do so. He leans closer. It is such a tiny gesture. A barely perceptible movement, but you feel it. The difference in weight against your hand. The glint in his eye pierces into you with a desperation. Like he is expecting you to suddenly come to a realization and flinch away out of fear. Like he is hoping that you do so. 

But you will do no such thing. You shift closer to him, making sure to be careful as not to accidentally prod his eye patch from its place while you clutch his cheek. He observes you closely. As though he is studying you. Searching for a shred of hesitation or disgust so that he may turn you away. The opportunity for him to do that does not come as you lift to seat yourself upon his lap. His chest expands almost shakily as he gazes at you. Eye slightly widened as though he is in a state of awe or disbelief. The sheer unabashed emotion reflecting inside that gorgeous mix of blue and violet could make your heart ache and skip. You long to tell him of how you feel. The breadth of your emotions. Not quite love yet, of course, but it must be the beginnings of it with how tender and passionate it burns, like the birth of a blaze. 

But that may be too much to confess. Perhaps, your actions will have to suffice for now. 

You are certain he gasps when your lips press against his, tongue sweeping along the plush of his mouth like he had done to your earlier, gathering the tart and sweet taste of yourself on your palate. The flavor of your own arousal does not deter you in the slightest. Not the damp of it against your skin as you draw him into a soft exchange of kisses. Much softer than the one that he had inspired in both of your earlier. This somehow seems so much more explorative. Delicate, even with the heat that begins to simmer beneath the surface once more. 

Your fingers once again slip and find purchase in his hair, nails lightly scraping at his scalp as your hips begin to undulate against the bulge that still presses against his breeches. He groans, panting into your mouth while he runs his hands along your nude flesh, reaching down to grip the swell of your arse to aid you in grinding your hips with his. The hard impression of his cock nudging at your cunt through the fabric of his trousers is delicious, even while you are still slightly tender from your previous pleasure, licking a sensitive fire along your skin. Still, it does not stop you as you continue to grind yourself on him, wanton and aching once again. Delight peeks through the drunken haze of your desires as he removes on of his hand from you to slip between your bodies, fingers reaching for the laces of his breeches where he eagerly pulls at tugs at them to draw them loose. 

He groans sharply in relief when he guides himself from the restraint of his trousers. The alleviation must be great, with how long the straining weight of his cock has been tucked behind the material. You hear it in the low hiss that rises from his chest, and it has you humming softly at him, a light reposeful sound as you continue you to exchange a languid, unbroken kiss with him. The both of you unable to tear yourselves from each other, even has the hot length of his cock comes to rest against his stomach, now pinned between the pressure of both of your bodies, burning against your ferverish skin. 

"I need to feel you," he breathes against your lips. "Let me have you." 

You peek your eyes open long enough to consider him, and the longing that burns within the depth of his stare knocks something inside of your soul off guard, shaking the very foundations. Such raw, unprotected emotion. He stares at you as if you are the creator of the heavens, having fashioned the moon and the burning of the stars with only your hands. It makes you unsure of how to stand unwavering, unaffected underneath such a devoted gaze. If only he knew that it is you who wishes to worship him. To pour your affections and adoration onto him like an acolyte offering their deity tokens and praise. 

An understanding seems to pass through the both of you, a wordless communication. He reaches down to grip himself as you post your hands upon his shoulders, your nails burrowing into the leather of the doublet that he has not bothered to shed as a means to braces yourself as you line the head of his cock with the entrance of your heat. There is little fanfare before you begin to lower yourself onto him, splitting yourself on the head of cock as you use your thighs to settle downward. You walls stretch to accommodate his girth, fluttering as he guides you open to find solace in your body. A strained set of words seems to squeeze from his chest, all of them in that beautiful language that you yet to understand. It has a sense of pride flaring. A deep, hedonistic satisfaction welling up to know that you have such a strong, composed man crumbling around the edges from nothing more than the grip of your cunt. 

You place another brief kiss upon his lips, a smile tugging at them when he nearly tries to chase after you, but you distract him by further sinking yourself down around his length until your rump meets his thighs. His mouth drops open in response, eye fluttering at sensation of your walls clenching and flexing around him as though it means to somehow draw him deeper. 

The pressure of him inside of you, carving a space for himself within you almost makes you breathless. It licks itself up your spine like a bolt of lightning, forcing your body to shudder and draw closer to his, subconsciously seeking out the warmth of his skin and mourning when you feel nothing but the dim chill of his leather doublet. 

"Aemond," you beg softly. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own as they begin to lift themself upward to roll back down, working to repeatedly spear yourself on his cock with only desperation and hedonism guiding you. His hands come to grip your waist, spreading his thighs out wider to find a better stance to drive himself up inside of you easier, aided by the slick of your arousal, causing his thrusts to become even more pronounced. The sensation of his girth stretching you out to its shape, veins dragging along your walls has your back curving taut like a bowstring. 

The warmth of his mouth suddenly closes around one of your breasts, tongue lapping at the peak of your nipple as he continues to drive himself inside of you in a devastating rhythm. It has your mind drawing a blank. Going white like a wall of fog as embers and fire sear at the pit of your gut. Your lip's part. Soft gasps panting from your throat as he continues to ravage your body for his pleasure while further tearing you through the depths of yours. It seems to choke through you, forcing you to hiccup and whimper around the insistent pounding of his hips, the weight of his cock dipping inside of you. 

It is disoriented and abrupt when he shoves you onto the flat of your back, knocking what little bit of air was still contained inside of your lungs out and leaving you stunned. You can only lay and take it as your mind scrambles to gain a sense of clarity, while pleasure scalds itself throughout your veins, snuffing your body in a cloud of smoke. His body extends over yours, only supported by his arms posted on either side of your head. His mouth leaves your breast with a subtle nip of his teeth, sparking pleasure with their blunt edges, making you arch your chest to seek out more of it. 

But he ignores the blatant offering, opting to nudge himself up to kneel to better support his weight as he grabs one of your thighs to swing your leg along the perch of his shoulder. It somehow manages to drive him deeper. Effectively punching the air from your chest, the crown of his cock brushing along something inside of you that has your body twisting along the support of the bed. A sob wracks through you and your eyes nearly roll in the back of your skull. You distantly hear yourself whispering his name. Repeating it over and over again with all of the devotion and desperation of a mantra, of a prayer meant for the ears of a god. And here above you now, he certainly looked like one. Pale eye blazing and wild with his lust, hair unkept and freeing from its tie, a sheen of sweat glittering along his pale flesh like flecks of gold and stardust. 

"There she is," he marvels in a coo; pleased and smug in the debauched thing that he has reduced you to. A complete juxtaposition to the longing, vulnerable man that he had been just moments before. "My sweet wife gone dumb and pliant beneath me. Do I satisfy you? Having you like this? Taking my cock so obediently. " You moan in agreement, hips twitching and jerking to further aid him inside of you. Even while it feels like he is deep in your gut, shoving your breath from you with his rhythm, you crave more. "I should keep you like this. Fucked and filled. Would you like that, ābrazȳrys? Stuffed full until it swells your belly with my heir?"

 

It douses you with fire. The comment engulfing you as though you have been guided into the starved clutches of an inferno. The satisfied stare that he pins you with only makes you feel bare and exposed despite the intimate positions that he has had you in already. Like he is piecing you apart and gazing at your soul. Even with the filth that he casually rambles, it does nothing to dampen the tenderness and hunger that seeps into your bones and gnaws at your being. Your body thrums with the delight at being claimed so primally by the prince - by your husband. To walk about the great halls with his babe safely tucked away inside your stomach. The idea of it has you clawing at his back, no doubt leaving marks along the leather, and it is a great regret that it is not his skin that you tear the traces of your nails along. 

"You will truly be so beautiful in such a state. There will be no mistake that you're mine. Mother to my child. My wife." 

The possessiveness that streaked through his words made you arch into him, driving the metal clasps of his doublet into your flesh, causing the skin to sting. You can hardly pay it any mind though. Not while you are hurtling towards your peak. The promise of your release rushing towards you with the intensity a liquid fire. He too is close. You can see it in the furrow between his brows, the pale stutter in his breath which begins to meld into low groans; feel it in the slight falter in his pace. 

"Please, Aemond." You moan, just barely managing to get your tongue to cooperate in forming the plea. His eye locks onto you with the concentration of a hunter, but that softness, his need is beginning to melt it around the edges once again. "I want you to let go. I want to feel you filling me up." 

His hips flounder for a good moment, and it takes him a bit of correcting to regain the fluidity of the brutal stride that he had set, though once he does it is like he had never faltered at all. The almost violent bliss smoldering along your being still engulfs you and nips at you like it means to rip you apart. He swears sharply again. The sound of your wish, both a beg and a command having the most delicious effect on him as he continues to build that euphoria within the base of your stomach, causing the muscles there to clench tight.

"I'm yours. All yours." You assure breathlessly, aiming to appease the proprietorial nature that he has shown you. That is all you can manage before the euphoria finally crests and completely blindsides you within the deluge. You feel outside of yourself as your body writhes, cunt clenching around the deep stretch of his cock as he continues to pound into you, tipping you into something akin to a drunken stupor. It is rapturous. The sheer weight of the pleasure that possesses you and leaves you little more than a vessel that can only lie and try to survive the onslaught. 

Aemond's body shudders over your own, spine curling inward to tuck his face within the crook of your neck as his own peak seizes him. His groan rattles along your throat, followed by a strained fuck as a burst of liquid heat floods inside your stomach, filling you with warmth. His hips jerk shakily, meeting the languid pace of your own as you both work to assist each other in riding out your shared highs. Though it does not take long for either of you to lose your vigor, muscles and bones going lax as you both relent to the weight of your spent bodies. He does not bother in removing himself from the grip of your cunt as he all but collapses on top of you, effectively pinning you to the mattress with his weight. 

You make no effort to move him from you - you find no desire to. The air around you is thick with the scent of sex, still thrumming and alive with the fervor of your shared lust even as it ebbs from your body, replaced with the temptation of sleep. Contentment and exultation pools in your chest, syrupy and thick from the pleasant warmth of his form along yours, and it guides you to glide your fingers through the silken strands of Aemond's hair. He has made no efforts to extract his face from your neck. Perfectly at peace to keep himself tucked against you with his flaccid cock still buried deep, as his breathing levels out into steady puffs against your skin. 

"We cannot sleep, my Prince. The servant girls will be here soon to prepare me for supper." You warn, though he does not stir in the slightest. A hum leaves him. The only confirmation you receive that tells you he has heard you. He almost seems to clutch onto you tighter, as though he longs to burrow into you and meld into one. So desperate for your touch even while he hides so many facets of himself from you. There is no way to truly foresee what the future has in store for you and him. For the welfare of the kingdom. The home of your children. There are many uncertainties. Many stimming from your Aemond himself, the many lethal edges that create his being. But that is fine. You are patient. Tonight has marked a new turning point for you and he, you are certain. You will wait no matter how long you must for him to come to you, and to reveal himself and his truths to you unabashedly. No matter how damaged and bloody and wild those parts of him may be. 

You are certain that you will marvel in the twisted beauty of it regardless. 

"I will get up shortly." He finally replies, tone gentle and rich in your ear. "Let us just lie here for a moment; just you and I." 

Does this truly please you, wife? - Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys? To be here with me? - Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke I believe it does - Pāsan ziry gaomas It has me wonder of all the other ways I could please you - Ēza nyke pendagon hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao

So beautiful and sweet like this, my wife - Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys Do you taste just as sweet? - Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?    

[flowerandblood]

Object of Despair (2/3)

[ dark • Aemond x Arryn • widow female ]

[ warnings: dubcon, oral sex, fingering, hate sex, smut, angst, domination, violence, swearing, humiliation, hard chauvinism ]

[ description: Aemond is forced to marry a widow from House Arryn as part of the alliance and support of his brother in the war against the Black faction. After their wedding night, which went completely differently than he imagined, Aemond tries to return to his daily routine. The female character has a specific eye and hair color. Lots of hate sex, violence and chauvinism. ]

Part 1 − Object of Desire Part 3 − Object of Delight Epilogue

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

Their wedding night was so different from what he had imagined that he was at once horrified, ashamed and intrigued by the person who had been living in the chamber next to his for several days. She wasn't seeking his company or attention, appearing only at suppers spent together with his family.

He knew he could have summoned her to his chamber at any time, and it would have been her duty to come and give him what he wanted, but every time he meant to do so he changed his mind and resigned, frustrated, staring into the light of the fire burning in the fireplace, sitting in front of it on his ornate wooden chair, thinking about that evening.

After what had happened between them it seemed to him that they had both suddenly come down to earth, not knowing what to make of how aggressive and full of rage the rapprochement had been.

He let her go and watched her, breathing unevenly, tying back his breeches, as she immediately covered her buttocks back up with her nightgown − he could see that her whole body was shaking, her lips trembling, her eyes big, her cheeks puffy from the tears that ran down her face.

She calmed down a little after his words and reassurances, but she was still terrified.

She asked him in a breaking, weak, quiet voice if she could now return to her chamber, and although he had originally had no intention of letting her lay in his bed, he felt disappointment at the thought that she had not begged him to let her stay.

Not wanting to show weakness or allow her to think that her presence was something he craved, he allowed her to do so with a nod, and she left without a word, neither bowing to him nor wishing him a good night, quietly opening and closing the door of his chamber behind her.

The next day, during the duel with Criston Cole, he could not concentrate − whenever he caught sight of a shade of blue out of the corner of his eye he involuntarily looked in that direction, thinking it was her in her gown that he remembered so fondly, his heart pounding hard with shame.

He pressed his lips together, turning his head away, snorting, playing with the hilt of his sword in his hand with apparent impatience, seeing some other woman − Cole watched him vigilantly, but not dared to ask either about her or his impressions of her.

Her presence was a taboo for him.

That same day, he walked and spent long hours in the great royal library, despite the fact that he usually instructed his servants to bring thick, old volumes filled with the history of his family and all Essos to his chamber. He hoped to meet her there, to confront her again, this time clearly showing her where she belonged.

To his disappointment, he did not see her until the evening − her blue gown immediately catched his attention, sewn from a soft, lovely fabric it fell heavily over her pleasant, girlish curves, accentuating her figure.

He swallowed hard as he looked at her face and noticed a large red bruise under her eye, which must have been the result of the moment he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head on the table.

She was discussing something in a whisper with Helaena, his sister bent over her with concern, playing with her fingers in a nervous gesture they had all inherited from their mother.

They fell silent when they noticed him − her violet eyes looked up at him, sad, resigned and tired. He thought, feeling a burning embarrassment in his chest, that explaining to her who had the final word on what their marriage would look like was no longer necessary.

Sitting down at the table next to her he knew what awaited him − when his mother walked into the chamber and saw his wife she froze, the smile gone from her face.

She looked at him with pain, with disappointment he could not bear and he closed his eyes, thinking only of the fact that he wanted to sink to the ground.

"Dear sister-in-law, has my brother given you another gift besides, we all pray, his future heir in your womb?" Aegon asked with a sneer. He clenched his teeth, sucking in a deep breath, looking at his brother with grim fury, to which he only smirked, popping a grape into his mouth, biting through it with a loud crunch, amused.

He felt his wife shift beside him − his heart began to beat faster in panic at the thought that she was about to say something to humiliate him, to mock him in front of his entire family to take revenge on him.

"I slipped in the bath, my King." She replied simply, without emotion, regret or anger. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, surprised at the ease with which she lied despite it being obvious that everyone around her had guessed what had really happened.

His brother raised an eyebrow clearly impressed, cocking his head, leaning back in his chair with a loud creak of wood.

"You slipped." He repeated softly and she replied nothing, looking at him calmly.

She and Aegon exchanged glances for a moment − it seemed to him that she feared neither him nor his position.

"I hope no more such unpleasant…accident happens to you, my Lady. Such a pretty face." He hummed, reaching for his cup, but she merely blinked, no grimace passing across her face, as if his words did not bother her at all.

He himself didn't know what he thought of all this, so he decided to go back to his daily routine, pretending that she simply wasn't there, convincing himself that it would be better that way.

He didn't need her, he didn't want her, and her silence and distance were doing him a favour.

He watched her sometimes from afar, seeing her pleasant silhouette glide between the columns as he trained in the courtyard, always headed for the garden, the tree he had read about before she came to King's Landing, and at which he understood the Northerners prayed.

He did not think of it at first, but then he began to notice the gazes of the men and guards fixed on her as she passed them, their smiles, their dreamy gaze as if they were imagining what they would do with her body, the body of his wife, his right and his duty.

It planted a seed of doubt in him − he wondered if perhaps she was meeting her lover there, if he was a source of ridicule in the keep because the servants already knew that she had not been faithful to him, that she had betrayed her crippled husband.

This thought made him furious, but having no proof for his supposition he decided one day to change his plan for the afternoon and watch her through the window − as soon as he caught sight of her figure passing through the cloisters he left his chamber, moving unhurriedly after her.

As he walked between the tall shrubbery, hearing the grass rustling and the birds singing, he tried to focus on other sounds, expecting quiet moans and panting to reach his ears, but heard only his own footsteps traversing the path strewn with small rocks rattling under his feet.

He stopped as he stepped into a small clearing − a large, white weirwood with a disturbing, wrinkled, red face on its trunk looked at him ominously, his wife lying on her back on the grass beneath it, her eyes closed, her dark, loose hair surrounding her head, her hands laid on her stomach.

He stood motionless, wondering if she was waiting for someone, however, she did not open her eyes or look around.

He thought with surprise that she was asleep.

He swallowed loudly, for some reason feeling desire at the sight of her lying silhouette, the fact that someone could see and hear them, that she was his wife, and he could take her here and anywhere else he wished.

He felt how his cock swell in his breeches, his lips tightening into a thin line as the heat spilled in his lower abdomen.

She shuddered and opened her eyes when she heard him move towards her − she lifted herself up on her arm, her lips parted in disbelief, however for some reason she did not rise or try to escape.

He stood, towering over her, feeling his superiority and dominance over her in this position and this situation, his fingers slid down to his breeches, untying them in a calm, nimble manner.

"Come here, wife. I promised you something, didn't I?" He asked, feeling his heart pounding like mad, releasing his aching erection, its pink tip glistening from his precum.

It seemed to him that she was shocked by his insolence, by the fact that he wanted to profane her sacred place, after a moment, however, the expression on her face changed. He parted his lips noticing how she rose slowly, kneeling before him as if to pray, with a light flick of her hand sliding the material of his breeches lower, looking him straight in the eyes.

No fear, no terror, no regret.

He sighed and immediately grabbed her by the hair, wanting to be in control of what was happening when her hand grasped his throbbing, hard cock in her soft palm, squeezing it at the base. He drew in a loud breath as her lips brushed its tip without any hesitation, her pink, shiny tongue licking it encouragingly. He tilted his head back, delighted.

"− fuck − keep going −" He commanded, impatiently pressing her closer to his lower abdomen, watching her with excitement and curiosity, his manhood quivering with desire in her hand, her fingers giving it a calm, assured strokes. He groaned involuntarily when he saw how she slowly slid the fat head of his cock between her lips, the tip of her tongue teasing him lazily.

She sighed as the thrust of his hips slid it deeper into her mouth − he heard her almost choke when it hit the back of her throat, her palate wonderfully wet and warm, her lips clamped down on it, in some natural, subconscious reflex beginning to suck it.

"− that's it − there you go −" He gasped with awe at the perverted sight before him, his fingers entwined in her smooth, soft hair, clenching down on it, controlling himself, however, so as not to cause her too much pain, forcing her head not to escape when his hips with sure deep pushes invaded her throat.

"− did you often satisfy your late husband like this? − it's clear this isn't your first time − little slut −" He exhaled, groaning lowly listening to the loud clicks of her saliva each time his aching cock disappeared again and again deep into her mouth, her hand tightening on it more firmly, making him accelerate his pace.

"− stop − that's enough −" He muttered, having no intention of wasting his seed, wanting to finish inside her, trying to push her away, but he felt her tongue trailing down his length, her free hand clamped down on his buttock, not allowing him to escape − he had to lean against the tree trunk, his other hand holding her hair as his cock thrust into her greedily.

"− f-fuck, fuck, fuckkk −" He hissed out in rage combined with delight and groaned loudly in relief as he felt his semen spill over her palate. He looked down at her, her eyes closed, all around them only the rustle of the leaves, his shaky, loud breaths and the sound of her swallowing, so lewd it sent shivers down his spine.

Slowly she slid it out of her mouth, his cock all slick and glistening from her wetness − her soft, pink tongue licked it for a while longer, teasing and sucking lightly on its tip from which the remnants of his seed still flowed. He stroked her smooth hair, feeling his body still shudder with shivers of pleasure after such intense fulfilment.

"− you look perfect like this −" He gasped softly, his thumb running over her cheek, noticing with some kind of relief that there was hardly a trace left of the bruise from a few days ago.

"− you will spend this night in my chamber − you should try how it tastes sticky with your moisture − don't touch yourself −"

That evening he waited impatiently for her, strangely excited and anxious, pacing around his chamber, absorbed in his thoughts.

He feared that she would humiliate him, show him, by not coming to his summons, that she despised and disrespected him, and then force him to use violence against her again.

He did not want any more accusing glances from his mother directed towards him at the table.

He shuddered as the door to his chamber opened suddenly − he turned over his shoulder and swallowed hard, noticing her figure covered only by her night gown and the cashmere blue shawl thrown over her shoulders − her long dark hair were loose, the look of her violet eyes calm and full of some kind of curiosity.

"− have you touched yourself? −" He asked coolly as the door closed behind her with a loud clatter of wood, turning towards her, walking in her direction with his hands folded behind his back.

"− no −" She replied softly, without any pleasantries or further elaboration, looking straight into his face without a sign of fear or uncertainty.

He intended to regain control of the situation she had taken from him when she decided when he would come and how, all by herself.

Stupid cunt.

"− undress and lie on your stomach −" He commanded in a dispassionate, cool, deep tone, from which her gaze darkened a little, as if clouded, her plump lips parted slightly but no sound came out of them.

She walked past him without a word, heading barefoot towards his bed and climbed onto it, her back turned to him as she sat on his bedding, letting him watch as her fingers slid the fabric of the robe off her shoulders, letting it fall down, revealing her naked, smooth body.

His hands began to undo the clasps of his tunic as she lay on her stomach following his command, her face turned the other way so that he could not see her gaze − the sizzle of the fire in the fireplace all around them, and besides, a complete silence filled with a heavy, stifling tension, a threat of what was about to happen between them.

He felt what he saw in his cock, his manhood expressing painful impatience, throbbing in his breeches at the thought that he intended to come deep inside her that night more than once.

"− did you love that fool? −" He asked indifferently in a voice slightly hoarse with arousal, licking his lips with his tongue in satisfaction to see that her whole body tensed, her fingers clenched on the pillow lying under her head, her back rising in a shuddering breath.

She was silent for a long moment, as if his question had startled her − he watched her vigilantly, pulling his boots off his feet, staying only in his undershirt and breeches as she lay exposed, bare, vulnerable, condemned to him and him alone.

No matter what her answer would be.

She shuddered, as if snapped out of her reverie, as he sat up behind her, his large hand running over and stroking her full, soft buttocks.

"− speak −" He hissed, his hand slapping her bare skin so sharply and quickly that she bounced and squealed. He gave a reassuring stroke to the spot, red and throbbing in the indistinct shape of his hand − involuntarily his lips curved into a teasing smirk as he noticed the moisture glistening between her thighs, her folds pink, throbbing and swollen.

She liked this kind of games, he knew that.

"− I was the furnishings of his household − I loved him as much as his chair, his bed or his table could −" She muttered, and he looked at her, surprised, not knowing himself what he thought of her words. He stared at her face, her gaze fixed on his window, her lower lip trembling as if she was trying not to cry.

He hummed, intrigued, moving forward, placing his hands on either side of her head, his long hair tickling the bare skin of her back and shoulders, making her gasp loudly, her body quivering all over in anticipation and uncertainty, fear and curiosity at what he was about to do.

"− I am, I believe, in his debt − he taught my wife how to suck cock so well −" He whispered quietly with a hint of dark mockery and threat, her lips parted wide in a quiet moan as he slid one of his hands under her stomach, parting her legs with his knee, forcing her to spread them in front of him, his mouth ran over her neck as his fingers sank into her leaking, soft, hot womanhood.

"− but did he fuck you good? − hm? − did he know your weaknesses? − your most sensitive points? −" He murmured, her whole body breathless, her buttocks bucking up towards him and rubbing against his hard cock, moving to the rhythm of his fingers as their tips dug into her tender skin, trailing around her bud, teasing her once in a while, his hand all sticky with her juices.

"− fucking answer me − he fucked you with his fingers 'till you mewled his name? − 'till you begged for his seed? −" He growled, crushing her with the weight of his body, his other hand clamping down on her neck, careful not to overdo it though − she whimpered loudly, writhing beneath him as he quickened his pace, running his fingers over her puffy slit again and again, leaking from her fluids, his fingers invading her fleshy folds with a loud, lewd click, his aching manhood hitting her buttocks.

"− yes − he's gained experience with whores and servants before, just like you −" She hissed out, her breath caught in her throat as his fingers tightened harder around her neck, his two fingers forced their way inside her, stretching her tight, hot, wet walls with sure, deep pushes to which her hips responded greedily with rocking, meeting him halfway.

"− shameless whore − maybe I should care less about your pleasure, hm? − fuck you so that you cry out in pain −" He threatened, and she laughed, struggling to catch air, her lips parted wide, her eyelids clenched.

"− objects do not know fulfilment or disappointment − love or hate − do what you want with me −" She breathed out, her eyes opened, releasing a wave of tears that ran down her cheeks, seeing this he slid his fingers out from inside her and let go of her neck, quickly untying his breeches, for some reason furious at her words, his nostrils twitched dangerously in accelerated breath.

His thumbs spread her folds wide to the sides, allowing the fat head of his cock to force its way inside her with her loud moan of surprise, his one, brutal push was enough for him to thrust deep into her with a sigh of pleasure and satisfaction.

"− listen − that sounds like disappointment to you? − like hatred? −" He sneered, panting loudly, placing his hands on either side of her head again, his knees spreading her thighs wide so that he slid fully into her, bucking his hips, his thrusts violent, sure and deep, each time his thighs slapping against her buttocks with a loud click of her moisture.

"− fuckin' leaking − all thirsty for my cock −" He gasped, feeling her muscles squeeze him tightly in pleasure, his face sinking into her soft, fragrant hair, his hands in some subconscious, natural reflex found her breasts, caressing and kneading them between his fingers, teasing her nipples with his thumbs.

"− ah −" She cried out innocently, girlishly − he stifled a low groan hearing that sound, accelerating his pace, opening her slick cunt wide on his cock again and again with brutal, quick thrusts, his mouth sliding down to her neck, clamping down on her skin, sucking her so painfully hard that she hissed, grabbing him helplessly by the hair.

"− I promise you that when I'm done with you, you won't be able to sit up tomorrow − your stomach and womb full of my seed −" He growled out into her ear, his breath caught in his throat as her hands found his, clenching on his fingers, entwining them together, her hips responding to his thrusts so eagerly that he struggled to restrain himself from coming just yet.

"− don't stop − fill me, please, please, please −" She mewled so loudly and sweetly that he lost control completely; he could feel the sweat trickling down his back from the exertion, one of his hands slid down her stomach, giving her pearl a few encouraging strokes from which her whole body quivered.

"− good girl − say my name −" He muttered with his face pressed against her soft hair, no longer controlling his movements, his hips slamming into her involuntarily, aggressively and quickly, no longer sliding out of her, chasing his own fulfilment, her walls clenched against him greedily, sucking him inside, wet and hot.

"− Aemond, fuck me, fuck me, f-fuck −" She whimpered and that was the end of it, from her lips came sounds of pleasure and relief he had never heard before, sweet, girlish, innocent, vulnerable, he felt her moisture trickle down her thighs, soaking him all over, her core throbbing hard in fulfillment, giving him wonderfull squeeze.

He gasped loudly, letting go at last, coming so hard inside her that it went dark before his eyes, his fingers tightened on her body to make sure she wouldn't escape him, their bodies writhing in convulsions, overwhelmed by how intense the fulfilment was, slapping against each other.

"− oh gods −" He mumbled, stroking her smooth shoulders, breasts, hips, thighs with his large, rough hands − he felt as if the scent of her body, her hair and her moisture had completely overwhelmed him, filling his lungs and his head. He closed his eyes, panting loudly with her, only realising after a moment that the fingers of one of her hands were still entwined with his.

They lay like that for a moment, trying to calm themselves, his lips finding her cheek, neck and shoulder, placing hot, lazy, wet kisses on them. He heard her sigh softly, her words like honey to his ears.

"− I want to taste you now −"

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddessing @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

[evagreen-stories]

Mother’s madness | (Aemond x f!lowborn!reader) (2/?)

Summary: Aemond, troubled by his unfruitful marriage and the stress of the war, takes himself a bedslave when he seizes Harrenhal and gets more attached to her than he ever thought possible. Bringing her to the Red Keep after he needs to leave Harrenhal would not go as he hoped it would, especially after the birth of the babes he sired onto her.

Warnings: mentions of violence, light angst (kinda?), canon typical misogyny, canon typical behaviour, dark!aemond, abusive!aemond, forced relationship, forced impregnantion, canon typical classicism, mentions of assault, stockholm syndrom (kind of), obsessive!aemond, non-canon storyline

Divider @targaryen-dynasty

< part 1 masterlist part 3 >

When Aemond finally arrived back in the Red Keep he paid the staff and advisors waiting for him at the entrance little mind, waving them off dismissively before making his way towards his precious bedslaves chamber. 

He knew you must've given birth by now and he could not wait a moment longer to find out what happened and how you're faring.

Approaching your chamber with a quick step he took note of the unusual sight of the guard standing opposite of the door, not in front of it as usual, though he did not inquire about it. Instead, his hand fell onto the door handle and he pushed down on it, wanting to make his entrance but instead walking into the wooden door, his forehead connecting to it with a thud.

Stunned, he's standing in front of it for a few moments, blankly staring at the dark wood before starting to slowly press down and rattle on the door handle yet again. 

Nothing. It's not budging. Why on earth is this door locked? A sense of panic washed over him as he keeps rattling the door, all worst case scenarios he could think of filling his head at once. 

With hurried steps a maester approached. He had waited at the entrance for him with the others, wanting to inform him about your peculiar behaviour, but struggling to keep up with the younger man's hurried step when he had brushed past him.

“Wait, my prince!” He finally catches up to Aemond as he stands rattling your door with a confused and frustrated expression.

“What do you want?” He snaps, his voice bitter and sharp. “Why is her door locked? Where is the key?” 

“My prince, I need to talk to you about her. It would be best if we go somewhere quiet.” The maester answers, still out of breath.

Aemond felt a chill run down his spine, this could not be good. “Just tell me now. What has happened to her?” His voice was curt, the way it always was when he’s worried. He wanted to know now, not have it dragged out any longer. 

“I believe it's best we discuss this in your chambers, my prince.” 

He gave the maester a look, his fist clenching at his side as his frustration started to grow into anger. “My chambers then.” He gruntled dismayed before turning and walking towards them. The pair soon arrived and Aemond quickly shut the door behind them.

“Just tell me. What's wrong with her? What has happened to my y/n?” 

“My prince, I'm afraid she has developed some sort of hysteria.” The maester says and sighs, sitting down on a nearby chair. “The birth went well for a twin birth, both babes healthy. She seemed normal the first few days but had soon grown paranoid, not letting any of us handle the babes anymore. She has taken to locking herself into her room at all times.”

“And you have allowed this?” Aemond barks. “You've allowed my y/n to go into hysterics? Did she take any medicine you gave her? Are the babes well?” His tone was accusing, as though this had been completely this maesters fault. 

The idea of his precious bed slave going hysterical all alone in her chambers was deeply unsettling to him.

The old man shakes his head. “She allowed treatment of her body after the birth but never took any of the medicine we tried to give her. She only drinks water and tea, but tea only if the it is served dry and she can brew it herself. I assume it's to inspect the leaves. She insists no guards stand in front of the door, seemingly concerned they will grab her. As for the babes, the last time I saw them when I went in to plead with her, they both looked well. Grown plumb over the weeks she seems to be giving enough milk for the two. She washes and changes them herself. She… She eats and cleans herself too, though she does not look well.”

“How long has it been like this? How long has she kept herself locked away?” He asks angrily. He had been away for months, yes, but she never showed any such behaviour herself. Never once did she show the slightest signs of madness or hysteria before. He cursed the war as his frustration and worry grows in him. 

He should've stayed. He never should have left her alone.

“She seemed to be growing agitated almost immediately after the birth and soon took to locking herself in at night. We were still allowed to handle the babes then but she would always stand right behind us and never leaving them out her sight.  A fortnight or so later she started keeping the door locked at all times and denied anyone to touch them.”

“She is denying anyone to touch them? This is madness!” An anxious knot forms in his stomach as he realises the extent this had reached. “Have any servants been in her room at all?”

“She opens the door for servants when they bring food or come to clean her room or run a bath. However, when she does let anyone into her room, she will have both babes tied to her chest and stand in a far back corner away from them while they work.” 

“She is keeping them bound to her chest? Does she know that they can't spend their whole life glued to her body?” Aemonds mind was reeling at this point. He knew she was simple-minded and uneducated but a child, she was not. She knew better, that he was sure of. 

Something else must be going on, some reason for her madness… 

As his mind keeps reeling the maester speaks up. “I'm afraid she is unfit to raise these babes, my prince. I recommend they be taken from her.” He states matter of factly. 

“No.” Aemond states firmly and quickly. This was a suggestion he hadn't expected at all. This man wants to take these infants from their mother and sees no issue with it? That was a cruelty even he wouldn't commit.

“She has only just given birth. You will not take the babes from their mother, especially not when she's proven herself capable to care for them despite going mad. I will deal with this when I have the time. For now just let her be and don't try to touch my children anymore. Is that clear?”

The maester shakes his head, his voice increasingly firm. “My prince, i don't think this is  right. She needs to be separated from them. There is another thing you should know… they are both boys.Your only sons so far, my prince. You cannot allow them in the grasps of a mad woman.”

For the first time in this conversation he seemed lost for words. The news of the babes being boys shook him to the core. It was a dream come true, of course, though he was so focused on the prospect of having any children strong enough to survive he had forbidden himself to hope for even one son, let alone two.

His only sons - his legacy, his blood.

What his wife had failed to provide him within four years of marriage, his bed slave had given him without issue.

The thought of her now gone mad and denying him access to them was outrageous, yet the maesters' continued attempt to separate them was even more infuriating to him.

She was a mere bed slave to him, flesh to make him happy whenever the mood took him, or so he thought. 

Knowing she was the mother of his only sons stirred both happiness and concern in him. Mad or not, she was his. His to use as he see fit, but also his to protect and care for. His responsibility, she and their sons. 

His sons.

His hands clenched at his sides as he approached the older man with quick steps. “You dare defy my orders?” He grabbed the sleeve of his robe and pulled him up to his feet, dragging him out of the room. “She does as I say and so do you. She will care for these children as she would if she were in her right mind, regardless how long it will take her to recover. I will see her right away.” 

The older man struggles to keep up with him, continuously protesting and objecting to his decision, urging him to take his sons away from her for their own protection.

With each of his words Aemonds rage grows in him. 

Could he not shut up? He said himself that the babes are fine. What's the urgency to take them away?

He finally reaches her chamber. “Open the bloody door.” He barks after knocking several times. Trying hard to push his anger back and not snap at her the second this door opens

You flinch when you hear the loud bangs and his shouts outside the door. Frozen in both fear and excitement it takes a few moments before you rush to put down the book you were reading and hurry to the door, one hand on the babes backs as they snuggle to your chest in the fabric tied around your body, the other hand on the wooden door as you lean against it, trying to hear the voice better and convince yourself it was really him. 

“Aemond? Is that you?”

He breathes a sigh of relief when he hears your voice, a faint smile tugging at his lips at the sound of it. It had always been music to his ears, a balm to his otherwise frantic mind.

“Open the door, y/n.” His voice remains firm. He would not have you play games with him right now, despite his happiness of being reunited with you.

You unlock the door and open it slowly, peeking outside. When you see him, a wave of relief washes over you. 

He was the only one able to save you, you were certain. 

The feeling of relief vanishes when you take note of the maester standing not far behind him.

“Not him.” You demand in a shaky voice, staring at the old man and ignoring Aemond completely.

When he sees you for the first time after so long, his heart flutters. You looked awful, yes, dark circles around your eyes, your face pale and sunken, hair dull and tangled. You looked drained, both your body and mind.

The maester tries to interject and walks closer but is immediately stopped and waved off by Aemond.

“No, not him. Just me.” he assures you, his tone now softened by your appearance and apparent fear. He steps inside when you make way for him, watching as you hastily close and lock the door once again.

When you turn around to face him you see him watching you already, analysing you in great detail. His gaze stops on your chest, trying to catch a glimpse of the tiny babes hidden beneath the fabric.

“You… you're back.” You say after long moments of silence.

“Yes, I'm back. Are they well?” Is the first thing on his mind. He steps closer to you. He wants his sons, yes, but he also wants you. Desperately.

You flinch and step back when he approaches, both hand wrapped protectively around your chest and the babes. Your voice is shaky and eyes glazed over as if you will cry any moment.

“Yes, they are. What did they tell you?”

The sound of your voice, the tremble when you answer him, it's enough to make his heart clench with worry. His hands itch with the urge to reach out and hold you, but he holds back, not wanting to scare you off again.

“They said you aren't well. That you lock yourself in this room at all times.That you haven’t allowed anyone to touch the babes. Tell me that is not true.”

“It is. They don't need to. I  do it well enough.” You stammer.

“You're keeping them away from them - from MY sons.” He says slowly, his voice carrying more anger and a threat this time. He steps forward and you step back again, a sharp stab of pain fills his chest when he sees you cowering away from him yet again.

“Why? I have the right as their father to be able to touch my sons. I won't let anyone keep them from me, not even you. Y/n, let me see my sons.”

You can feel your breath hitch in your throat, your jaw clenching. Hesitating for several moments, you eventually walk around him with great distance, over to the bed where the two cradles stand. 

Undoing the fabric carefully you take Aurelius out first and put him in his bassinet before doing the same with Patroclus. You stand next to them, preparing and folding the fabric for the next use. 

Aemond approaches slowly, his eye wide with wonder as his gaze focuses into the small beds and studying the two tiny humans attentively. They're both awake, looking back up at him with wide, curious eyes while sucking their thumbs, both moving in union and mirroring each other's actions as if they were one.

Your own movements are quick and tense, your eyes wide as you watch him approach your sons. He notices it all and feels his heart grow heavy at the sight of you. 

He had imagined this moment often, before he left and while he was gone, wondering how it'd be when he finally reunites with you and seesyour shared children for the first time. 

Never could he ever have imagined it being this way.

He sighs before turning his attention back to your sons, reaching out towards the nearest one and slowly picking him up. 

Your breath hitches at the sight and you clutch the fabric you're still holding onto in your hands, eyeing him like a hawk as he begins to cradle him on his arm. Aemond reaches out to stroke the white fluff on his son's head gently before taking the tiny hand in his.

Aemond seems lost in thought as he gently rocks the babe in his arms, smiling to himself. He's never been a fond or present father but the sight of his son's hand clutching onto his own finger makes him feel a way he hasn't felt before. A sense of pride swells in him as well as many other emotions he cant understand just now.

“What are their names?”

You calm slightly  when you see Aemond handle your son so calmly and smile widely.

“You're holding Aurelius, the elder, the younger is Patroclus.”

He hums as he leans over the crib and looks back and forth between the two, trying to tell them apart but failing to find any differences.

“I think Patroclus should be in his fathers arms, too.” He says out loud as he watches the younger move around and wave his arms excitedly.

You nod and put aside the fabric before reaching into the cradle to pick up the younger, helping to carefully place him onto Aemonds other arm. 

Aemond smiles down at both of them, rocking them gently from side to side. His sons, his blood, his legacy - so innocent and pure. When his gaze falls onto the fabric you had just put aside he asks you, his voice gentle and soft, “Why do you do that? Tie them to your chest?”

“So they're safe.” You answer quickly. “And they are calmer that way, especially when they're awake. They will fuss otherwise.”

“I see…” He replies carefully, nodding along while his gaze keeps wandering back and forth between the two tiny boys. “And… No one is allowed to touch them? Not even wash them, change them? You want to do it all by yourself?” 

“Yes. Aemond-” You begin before stopping yourself and looking around the room nervously. Noticing two open windows you quickly scurry over to close them. 

I need to tell him. I need to tell him now.

Aemonds brows furrow in confusion as he watches you hurry away to close the windows. That doesn't seem like a normal mother, he thought to himself. Why is she still acting so strangely? She should be delighted that he was back.

“What? What is it?”

Once all windows are closed you rush back to him, worry and fear etched all over your face as you stand in front of him, your bodies mere inches apart while your trembling hands move to grab his arms. Leaning in over the two tiny babes watching your every move you whisper to him as if someone else were in the room. 

“You need to help me, Aemond, please. They… they're trying to steal my sons from me.”

A chill runs down his spine at your words. How in the world did you convince yourself of this? Your fear was real, he could tell that much. Despite being safe in the castle you feared for your sons.

That must be what's driving her into madness. 

“No ones trying to steal your sons, y/n. The maesters are just concerned for their well being with you locking them away like this. Y/n, you must-”

“No!” You object. “No, no! Aemond you don't get it!” You're whisper-yelling at him, moving even closer, your eyes brimming with tears as your voice starts to quiver.

“The maesters, they want to steal them! Ever since they saw they are boys they've been scheming to take them from me! They want to steal them and give them to Floris to pass off as hers, I'm sure of it! I've heard them say it!” 

Your voice breaks as you start to plead with him. “Please, Aemond, you can't let that happen! I'm begging you!”

She really had lost her mind, He thinks to himself, taking a step back from you with both babes still in his arms. Shocked by how adamant and crazed you seem he can only shake his head and sigh deeply. You really believed this, he could tell.

Just when he starts speaking and wants to call you mad, his voice suddenly dies in his throat and he goes quiet. 

His mind wanders back to the maester that stands right outside the door at this very moment. The same one that had been adamant his sons be taken from you. The same one that had dared to defy his order and speak against him of all people several times, trying to stop him from seeing his y/n. Could there be truth to this after all? Maybe she wasn't as mad as he thought she was…

He clears his throat, trying to decide on what to do. He needed to get to the root of all this but not before calming you down. 

“No one will take them from you, y/n. I forbid anyone from doing so. I would kill anyone, maester or servant, before I let that happen.” 

You look at him, breathing heavily from the distress in your mind, studying his expression and eye in hopes of seeing the truth in it. 

Eventually, you swallow dryly and shake your head gently, not believing his words.  

“I will not leave that door unlocked, Aemond. I will not let them steal my sons.”

His face falters slightly at your words and behaviour. You seemed mad with the way you acted and spoke but he could tell the madness was fuelled by real fear. 

He sighs in defeat, understanding he won't get anywhere with this. Not now, at least. All he can do for now is try and support you within the little space of your mind that has not been clouded by fear.

“I understand you worry for your son's well-being but no one will take them away. I promise you this. I swear it to you. But… you need to let someone in. You need help, y/n. You can't do this all alone. You need to rest more.”

“No, Aemond.” You shake your head again. “I can only sleep when they sleep and that door is locked. Only when I know they can’t pry them from my sleeping body.”

The sound of your trembling voice filled with fear was like a dagger to his heart. You were clearly terrified and exhausted. He had to resolve this, find something, anything to make you stop fearing. You are the mother of his sons. You deserve his protection. As your protector, he must find a way to protect you even from your own mind.

“You will sleep. You will eat. And you will stop doing this. I need you to be healthy. Our sons need you to be healthy.” He begins, his voice firm but gentle. 

“I will send all masters away. Not one will be allowed in here unless you allow it. I will have two guards at your door at all times. They will be sworn to me and you. They will not let any maester enter without your permission and they will not take orders from anyone but us two. I will also appoint a handmaid to you. Someone I will select carefully, one that can be trusted. She will also be sworn to you and me only. I will instruct her not to take the boys unless you allow it. But you need to let her in and let her help you, let her take care of you. Will you do that for me? For Aurelius, for Patroclus?”

You stare at him for a long while, mouth opening and closing several times, struggling to make a decision. You had prayed for his safe return and his help daily for weeks on end. Now that he was finally here and trying to help you, you know you should accept it. He was right, after all, but the fears in your mind were too strong to just act like nothing happened. 

“Just… just one.” You accept eventually. “Just her. And… and I will still keep that door locked. But I will let her in. Her and you only.”

A small smile forms on Aemonds lips and he sighs in relief. He had won this small battle at least but it couldn't go on forever like this.

He assures you again while he puts the boys back down into their cradles with your help and pulls you into a tight hug despite your protests. 

He holds you close to his chest and strokes your back gently as he repeats the same promises over and over again before eventually letting go of you reluctantly. 

Bidding you goodbye for now he steps out the door, grumbling dismayed when he hears the door shut and lock as soon as he steps out the door frame. 

He turns to leave but the maester that had been waiting all this time wastes no time, following him and speaking to him with the same urgency as before. “See, she is mad! My prince, you must intervene before something happens”

Aemond stops and turns to look at the man, the anger growing in him with every word. He struggles to hold back his accusations, knowing he can't say too much before he gets the chance to investigate further.

“She is not mad, that I can guarantee you. There is nothing wrong with her. You'd do well to start abiding by my orders and leaving her and my sons alone before I have you punished for your insolence.” 

Its now the maesters turn to grow angry at the prince, though he pushes his emotions aside so as not to risk losing his head, but he still can't stop his objections. His status as the Court maester was always enough to make the nobles and royals cling to his every word like gospel but this young, green prince was challenging his expertise without second thought.

“No prince should have a madwoman have his only sons in her grasp. She must not be allowed to keep them. Who knows, she may harm them, and then what? She must be placed in confinement before she hurts someone!” He demands, his tone firm and cold.

Aemond snaps at him now, approaching him with a quick step and raising a warning finger to him. There definitely was much more to this situation than he first thought, he was sure of it now.

“She is not mad! There is no way she would harm her children! She will be allowed in her chamber with her sons and with all the rest and care she deserves. Door locked and all. Am I understood?”

The older man needs to stand down eventually, leaving the matter be for now. 

He follows the prince along as they wander the long hallways towards the council room, following Aemonds initial summoning of the small council to report all that has happened during his time on the battlefield.

He needs to sit through what feels like hours of discussions with his brother, King Aegon, his mother Alicent and all the other members of the small council before he can finally attempt to make sense of his y/n’s paranoia and fear of the maesters.

< part 1 masterlist part 3 >

[painted-flag]

OF FLOWERS AND DEATH - aemond targaryen

Chapter 1: The Laws of Humans and Elves

☾⋆⁺₊✧ dark elf!Aemond Targaryen x f!human!reader series. ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series masterlist. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ word count: 2.9k ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series warnings: 18+ depictions of violence/gore, eventual smut, warfare, sickness/disease, some moments of misogyny, and mentions of alcohol consumption. ☾⋆⁺₊✧notes: a short part to introduce the world and get started. I am super excited to start rolling out the chapters I have been working on. ✧₊⁺⋆☾ on a sun-blessed day, you happen upon a new companion.

The darkness came from the rot of the world. At the very least, that is the superstition. It followed centuries after the wrecking chaos that threatened to crack the very stone of the world and cast all those living down to hell. The earth had been fighting for millennia, with elves and humans slaughtering one another; the Great War. Their reason for fighting had been lost to time. It had not mattered anymore, for the malice held between them was enough to bear rot in the roots of their history. Such chaos and death must anger the gods, for violence was their language - to exact on the land of the living, not for the living to exact upon one another. 

A stalemate happened after each side bore the cost of life beyond that which should be possible. Peace, however fickle, was forged and laid in a treaty between the humans and elves. It was unstable, but so long as it was upheld, the world could know peace. Children could know their parents, families could stick together, cities could rebuild, and meaningless fighting could be put to rest. Meadows and tracts of land grew back and birds chirped once again. The fields, once littered with the corpses of slain kin, bloomed with flowers once again.

It took six centuries before that peace was destroyed. The taint came from an unknown source. Some claim humans started it, others say it was the elves; each wishing to push prejudice against the other. Many say it is the wrath of whichever god or gods they follow. A curse put upon the earth to punish them for their bloodshed. It could be a twisted act to kill them and purify the world, or perhaps bring hell from below and judge them before their deaths. 

The opinions of gods did not matter to you. What mattered - truly - was fighting back against the twisted black darkness that crawled across the land, wilting plants and killing all known life. It tainted water and invaded lands, crawling through the world map like unkempt ivy. You were determined that there was a resolution. This was not some wrath from the gods, but simply a fight against the same darkness humans and elves inflicted against one another. A manifestation of sin. 

That was how you found yourself, each day, kept in your lodgings in an old town by the borders between the human kingdom and the domain of elves. It was a proper place to be, for the taint spread by a half-day ride away, easily accessible for experiments. It was also favourable, for you could not live in your old home deep in the kingdom. You grew up being raised by your father there, had forged the purest of memories. Yet they died with his disappearance. 

Five years he had been gone and since then you had diligently taken over his work after moving. It was a peaceful life, albeit frustrating. With each passing day insecurity seized your body. Your research had been inadequate and experiments even more so. The darkness spread, and fields of flowers, forests of trees, and lakes of plenty suffered further. The landscape around had died where it was touched. You had been failing and no progress had been made. 

It was in the darkest hours of the night you found yourself staring at the roof of your cottage, contemplating the meaning of your existence. Surely, if you were as brilliant as your father, a cure would have been found. The effort you put into it, the pain and tirelessness, could not be for naught. 

In the small hamlet you were in, the land still bore beauty. It was in that sight where you held your inspiration. Those creeping moments of doubt would clash against your hope like saltwater on rock; wearing the stone down through time. The world was worth saving and you would be damned if you sat back and watched it collapse. 

So, like most days, you find yourself working. It was late noon as you approached the edge of the sprawling meadow outside the village. You were on the border of the kingdom between humans and elves, and it was here where you could find a good growing of nettles. It was outside the thick canopy of forest that you found growing on the edge of the meadow close to your home. You had just approached when the sound of faint crying made its way to you. 

The sobs were of a girl and you looked back and forth to see if you could spot the person. It was gentle weeping that spurred you to move. You began to trail along the edge of the forest in search of the source. Your gaze swept over the dark branches of trees, unease settling in your bones.

After a few moments of walking, you looked into the trees to see a woman with her back to you. She was on the ground in a dirtied light green dress. Her hair cascaded down her back, light and silvery, with some of it in a braid crown across her head. Her shoulders shook and from what you could see, she cradled her left forearm in distress. 

You knew it was forbidden, for a human to cross into elvish territory uninvited, but you could not walk away after seeing someone hurt. You looked around for anyone else and saw nothing. A breath caught in your throat as you stepped into the tree line, foot crunching on the branches below. You waited for a moment for the worst to happen; some archer waiting to shoot you or a bunch of guards to descend upon you, but you saw nothing. 

Deeming it safe, you moved forward to the woman. 

“Hello? Are you alright?” You kept your voice at a low volume so as not to startle her. However, your abrupt words shocked her and she turned to you. Tear tracks ran down her reddened cheeks. You were thrown slightly off guard at her appearance. You had heard of the elvish characteristic of perfect beauty, but you had not been witness to it until that very moment. 

Her crystal blue eyes reflected the greenery around her. You could see some blood on her forearm that seeped from the gaps in her hand that cradled the wound. 

“I got lost…” Her voice trailed off for a minute. “And I tripped.” She looked down at her wound and removed her hand. On the top part of her forearm was a sizable cut. The surrounding area had gotten dirty and you knew it had to be cleaned soon. Being a healer, your instincts kicked in. 

You knelt down, but kept your distance to not invade her space, “I can take care of that cut. It needs to be cleaned.” 

She seemed to look at you in a clearer light after wiping away her tears. Her good arm rose to point at your ears, silently acknowledging that they were not shaped in the familiar point of an elf. You reached up and covered them subconsciously with a feeling of inadequacy. 

“Look, I'm a healer in my village. All of my supplies are at home. Would you… would you come with me?” You knew it was a shot-in-the-dark question, but your more nurturing trait took over at seeing someone hurt. You wanted to help her by any means that you could. The shattered relationship between your respective kinds meant nothing to you, for old grudges were nothing but pointless. This was a being that needed help, which you were capable of giving. 

“I don't want to be a burden…” Her voice was light and spacey. She seemed to have an air of lightness to her. An uncommon trait of pure brightness came from her, mixed with the calming feeling of a babbling brook. Her presence mimicked the gentle nature of the environment around her. 

“You aren’t. I promise.” You slowly got up from your crouching position. Your hands were held up to show no ill will. She looked at you for a moment, judging the situation. You could tell otherworldly works were happening in her mind - a keen elf sense of analyzing your character. 

She sniffled, “I’m Helaena.” Her grip tightened on the wound, no doubt experiencing more pain as her adrenaline wore off. 

You offer a friendly smile and introduce yourself. You adjusted the skirt of your dress and nodded towards the direction of the meadow. The rustling of the dark trees had begun to make you wary and uncomfortable. Tales of these woods, and the elves that lurk within are not always kind. You briefly remembered moments around campfires, men trading stories of old. Most of them were lost on you to time, but the stories of the elf king stuck; his sadistic tendencies and inability to refrain from striking down any who so much as bothered him. You by no means wished to be on the receiving end of his wrath, lest you be caught. 

“My home is only a short walk from here.” Your words seem to spur Helaena and she rose to her feet carefully. She kept a few paces away from you when following behind. Once you walked past the edge of the trees and into the tall grass of the meadow, she stopped. Helaena's gaze swept back and forth as if looking for a trap. She took a hesitant step forward and it was like going through a threshold and becoming comfortable with her surroundings. 

Helaena matched your pace as the two of you trekked through the field. You wished to be discreet, for you did not want to know how people would react upon seeing an elf in their territory. You struggled to come up with any conversation starters as social skills were not among your talents. Especially when the woman beside you was an elf, likely leagues ahead in wisdom and experience through age. You felt inadequate next to her beauty. 

Thankfully, your cottage was nestled away from the rest of the town, over a hill that shielded it from curious gazes. It was a single-level home, with enough room for a decent-sized bedroom, kitchen, and living space. The living space was taken over by your study materials. Books stacked with loose pieces of parchment with notes aplenty. Countless vials and tubes full of different substances were neatly organized across two wooden tables. Some of the tubes were over small lit fires, bubbling with substances you were experimenting with.

You gestured for her to sit on a sofa placed in front of the hearth. Her eyes darted to everything around her, especially on the countless plants that littered every inch of available space. Your home was a fusion of messy and organized. Everything had its place, but it was a collection of different items that gave an eclectic feeling. 

You grabbed some supplies for the wound and set them down on the low table by the couch. There was uncertainty that lingered in your mind. In the few minutes you had known Helaena, you could tell she had an aversion towards people; though you could not tell if that was because of your humanness or not. Regardless of the answer, you would respect her wishes.

“Can I sit there?” You pointed to the spot beside her and waited for an answer. She nodded silently and you slowly sat down. When you found yourself on the plush cushion, you looked towards her wound. “May I?” 

Helaena nodded again. She lifted her hand to reveal the wound. It was still bleeding but had slowed down by her putting pressure on it. You took a dish of water and a clean cloth. You rung it out and placed the damp material on the wound, gently wiping the blood away. While you diligently worked, you decided to see if you could break the ice more. Helaena appeared interested in the items around her.

“I’m working on a cure for the taint. That’s why this place is a bit of a mess, sorry for that.” You began, “I also keep insects, so I apologize if any happen to land upon you.” At the word insects, Helaena’s eyes lit up and she sat straighter. 

“What kind?” She asked. You noticed that this was the most relaxed she has been since meeting her. The wound was clean and you assessed that it was not nearly big enough for any stitching. You applied your own poultice to the wound and began to wrap it in a light linen cloth. 

“Whatever I tend to find, really. Butterflies, crickets, beetles, spiders, and dragonflies are the ones that I see the most.” You answered while securing the cloth. You backed up on the couch afterwards, giving her more space. She breathed more at that and you were glad your actions could ease her. 

You got out of the seat and walked towards one of the desks. You grabbed a decent-sized wooden cage. It had two newborn dragonflies that you cultivated recently. You brought it back to where Helanea sat and handed it over to her. A small smile made its way onto her face as she peered in at the little creatures. 

It was an impulse decision, but you made it anyway. 

“You can keep them.” At your words, Helaena looked up at you. She had a hopeful look in her eyes. Her eyes darted between you and the creatures. You nodded in assurance, reinforcing your decision. 

“Think of it as a gift of friendship.” You spoke. Your newfound companion seemed to light up further and you found great pleasure in making her happy. It had been so long since you had spent quality time with anyone. 

“Friends?” Helaena questioned you. She sat the cage on her lap and gave you her full attention. You suddenly got nervous, thinking that perhaps you overstepped. 

“We don’t have to be,” You stuttered out, “It can just be a sign of goodwill.” You wanted to clarify your meaning. You felt awkward having shoved that status upon Helaena and you were anticipating her swift leave of your company. It would not be a surprise, as most often people tended to sway away from you after speaking. You could hardly last a conversation with someone. 

“I would like to be friends,” Helaena told you. Your heart swelled with happiness. She would be the first friend you had in a long while. You knew this would be the only time you would see her, for interactions between humans and elves were limited to the occasional diplomat from each kingdom going to high courts. The rest - common folk - were forbidden from entering one another’s territory. It was a rule drawn to prevent fighting between groups and entering another war that would no doubt kill more than the last, especially with the growing acres of taint spreading indiscriminately and destroying everything in its wake. 

Helaena held the dragonfly cage in her hands and stood up from her seat. She swayed slightly, eyes darting back and forth. 

“I have to go home. My family… they will be looking for me.” You nodded at her words and got out of your seat as well. It was disheartening, for her to leave so soon, but you did not wish to bother her anymore. You moved to the door and opened it. 

“I’ll walk you back.” The two of you walked outside into the warm sunny weather. The sounds of crickets and the breeze through tall grass calmed you. The walk towards the forest was short, and you wanted it to be longer. 

Helaena seemed to look back down at the cage every once in a while and smiled to herself. She cradled it like it was the most precious thing. Parts of her green dress had gotten dirty on the bottom, but the craft of the elves stunned you with their intricate work. 

When you two got to the forest edge, she turned around to face you. 

“Why did you help me?” Helaena’s question caught you off guard. There was no real answer. You had simply saw someone in distress and wished to help them. There was no reason other than the simple will to aid when you could. 

“I just wanted to help. It's what I am good at.” You reassured. It was the whole truth. All your life, you had fumbled at many things; been unsure and made mistakes. However, healing was something you excelled at. It was disheartening that you were yet to find a cure for the taint that spread, but you knew deep down that there was a solution and you had to try. 

“I hope your research goes well.” Helaena addressed. Your heart warmed at her kindness. 

“Thank you. I hope you get better soon.” 

Your meeting and subsequent bond forged was not a common one. Humans and elves having interactions were few, even fewer when they found commonality with one another. You had no doubt, that with more exposure to one another, the kinds could get along. There were great differences in culture, but the truth still came. Your races were living and breathing, inhabited the same world, and forged deep bonds and care for others. That alone was enough, at least to you. 

It was there, standing on each side of the invisible territorial line of the kingdoms, that a human and an elf built a connection of friendship; careless to whether or not it lasted, for the future was uncertain.

Chapter 2: A Modest Proposition Preview

He rose from the throne and manoeuvred down the steps to stand a metre in front of you, each step echoed through the hall. His lone gaze fell ladden on your cheek, heavy and hot with inner ire. Your voice got stuck in your throat and you glanced towards Helaena to ask for any form of help. Aemond held his head high while his stare looked you up and down and released a low hum. In his inspection, you felt as if he could see every action you had ever made, every sin, and went about judging as he saw fit. 

As a judge, jury, and executioner.

Would you all be interested in previews at the end of each chapter?

Thank you for all of the support!

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[wackyharpy]

Merchant's Daughter (Part 1)

God! Aemond x Human•Fem! Reader

Summary: In order to ease the wrath of one of the Gods, the girl among humans is chosen to be gifted to him.

Part 2

To find more stories — masterlist

A/N: I'm inspired by a lot of things, by Greek mythology, by Beauty and the Beast story. Especially credits go to @flowerandblood. Some of her fanfics planted a seed of the idea for this story. I hope, you'll enjoy it! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated :) And English isn't my native.

Warnings ⚠️

Mention of death, typical treatment of women those times, she/her pronouns

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

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Once the world was different. Humans shared it with other supernal beings — children and creatures of Gods who ruled those times. Back then miracles filled the surroundings — here and there ehoes of satires' and nymphs' wild dancing could be heard in the dead of night, taken by the wind from the concealed domicile somewhere in the forests or fields, and brought straight to the towns where mortal people resided.

Fishermen spread legends of beautiful women with colorful fish-tails whose voice could enchant one and become the death of him. Sailors told about orphic castles barely visible in the fogs of the sea.

Humans were always weak and foolish, bonded to their towns and houses, lived their short mortal nugatory lives. They couldn't comprehend the broadness of the world, the depth and beauty of it.

Gods tried to take care of them, their miserable children. They gave them lands, rivers, domestic animals and fish. They taught them how to cultivate fields and grow crops, how to exploit fire. At times, humans got punished for their sins, Gods abhorred misbehavior of their gawky children. Frequently, they didn't even cast a glance at them, being immersed into their divine scandals and disputes. They didn't invite any humans to their heavenly palaces, nor did they marry earthborn men and women. Some Gods and Goddesses might have laid with beautiful representatives of the human race. Still, nothing more.

It was so only until one moment.

The calm day didn't foreshadow anything violent. Until the evening, when the sunset was painted in scarlet. Something terrible happened in the heavenly palaces — one of the Gods blood was spilled. That night the residents of the town near the sea didn't see the moon. Instead, the night sky was pitch black as the abyss of Chaos which the universe emerged from.

The God of Murk and Affliction lost his eye to his nephew — the God of Joy.

But, little Lucerys escaped the wrath of elder Gods and remained unpunished. After all, they couldn't harm him in order not to cripple him or knock all the joy out of him that he shared with mortals — such was his endowment. The issue remained unresolved, and angry Aemond was forced to live with one eye since then.

In a century, he met his nephew again, above the sea. There was no way to escape the God of Murk and Affliction that time. The little God was hopeless. And Aemond put his nephew through tortures, through his revenge which he had been nurturing in his dark heart for many years.

That evening the residents of the town near the sea saw a scarlet sunset once again. And in the hour of the owl, claps of thunder rumbled in the pitch black sky. The storm of madness swept across those lands — the herald of the victory and death simultaneously.

The sudden sadness and fear filled the hearts of people. The God of Joy was dead. His two eyes, cut out of the sockets, turned into two precious stones with yellowish glow. Still, there are gossips that they can be found at the bottom of the deepest sea.

Since then, there was no joy as such on the earth, people no longer took it for granted. If they wanted to be happy, they had to find things that could bring merry into their miserable lives.

But darkness and fear remained, more diseases developed among people, life became tough. Servants of the God of Murk and Affliction began residing together with people, punishing them for their indifference they showed on the day Aemond lost his eye. Nobody stood for him at that time. Everybody thought they would get away with it. Though, the Gods, humans, and other beings are paying off for their negligence now.

Plague, Doom, Pain, Fear, and Sorrow are terrorizing people. They have infiltrated into the towns' walls, they are hiding in the shadows, every now and again preparing to attack a poor mortal soul.

The Gods and supernal creatures are trying to avoid the lands where the God of Murk and Affliction lives, being well aware that they can meet their death in the form of Vhagar — Aemond's monstrous beast, so enormous as a mountain.

Many centuries passed in the town near the sea. One day the Goddess of Wisdom bestowed the place with her presence and shared a piece of advice with people.

Opt a young maiden girl, and gift her to the God of Murk and Affliction. As a mighty man he is, he won't refuse to satisfy his carnal needs with an innocent mortal girl. It may sooth his wrath a little, and he may order his servants to stop terrorizing humans. At least, not frequently. One girl isn't a big price comparing the whole humanity.

And so was it. The government, the judges, and the public presented the most beautiful virginal girls to the heavenly court. The choice fell on the youngest of merchant's daughters — a poor being who was soon to be sent to the remote lands, right into the hands of the ruthless God.

The day her family was preparing her to the long journey, she was silent and pale. It seemed that all liveliness faded away from her eyes. Before going out to the carriage, her mother sat with her in the chamber to conduct a woman talk.

Be obedient. Do what He orders. Be flexible. It doesn't matter that he's a God, still he's a man that isn't deprived of needs that even humans possess. Your feminine power isn't between your legs, first of all it's in your mind. Use your head in the right way, and who knows, perhaps, even the God of Murk and Affliction will fall on his knees in front of you. The doings that a man and a woman perform in the bed chamber aren't always about pain, it may bring a great satisfaction and fulfillment for both of them.

At that time the words of the woman had no sense for the girl. But she only nodded, believing her mother. After all, the merchant's wife was known for her acute mind and wisdom. And beautiful curves of the body that all her daughters inherited.

Then, the girl settled in the carriage, and she with the convoy, consisted of several men, set off to the remote lands.

The journey took long days when they finally reached the dense woods. It seemed that places there were deathlike, shrouded in impenetrable thick fogs.

The carriage stopped and soon its door was opened.

"We've arrived, my lady. We won't go further, we are to leave you here," the servant of her father stretched a hand to her and helped her to get out.

Her nose immediately caught the moist raw scent of dead leaves and moss. The space around was dead silent. The sky was grey and cloudy — no signs of the sun, moon, and stars. Here and there hollers of ravens were heard. Vultures were circling above the trees, probably looking out for a half dead prey.

Shivers ran across her spine, the breath caught in the lungs.

The case with her belongings was stated at her legs. The girl turned to look at the servants of her father. They only gave her a sad smile and nodded, turning the convoy back.

She was left alone in these cursed lands. Abandoned by the whole world.

The girl looked around trying to figure out what to do next, and having no idea where to go, who to search for, she took her case, and just went further into the mist.

She couldn't tell whether she'd been walking for hours, but soon enough she noticed the outlines of the high fence which was visible in the distance. When the girl reached the gates, she stopped and placed the case on the ground. Beyond the large fence, the grim castle stationed itself. She felt that something tugged in her stomach, and stuck in the throat. Fear. Pure terror washed over her body. The sudden feeling of millions of eyes watching her prickled the petite body. But there was no one around her. At least, she thought like that.

All at once, the heavy front doors opened and she saw a tall man going down the stairs, directly on the lane bestrewn with gravel. He must have been the one who was going to meet her.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 10: Blame Everyone But Me For This Mess]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Aemond-induced chaos, death and destruction, witchcraft! 🔮

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “I’ve Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Only 3 chapters left! 🥰💜

“Aemond!” he roars into the cerulean midday sky, knowing it is useless, that fate has already spoken.

All his life, fate has proven Criston Cole wrong. He once believed he could not rise above being born to a steward in the Dornish Marches. He once feared he would never be permitted to join the Kingsguard. He once felt in his twisting, self-loathing guts that he would never love any woman but Rhaenyra. And Criston once knew—without reservation, without complexity—that Alicent’s eldest son would never amount to anything worthwhile, could never be courageous, self-sacrificial, competent, a true king. Each time, fate had a different ending in store.

All around him, Green soldiers are dying in what will be known to history as the Butcher’s Ball. They are being slit open, disemboweled, crushed beneath the hooves of warhorses, stabbed and clubbed and speared. The Northmen have scorpions with them as well, with massive bolts to bring down dragons; but they are unnecessary. There are no dragons on the battlefield today.

Criston pictures Aemond as a boy, always so sullen, always so dutiful. He read and he wrote and he sparred in the castle courtyard until the blisters on his palms burst and bled and then turned to callouses, knots of dead-nerved scar tissue that grew over his wounds but never cured them. Criston did not just believe in Aemond’s abilities, his honor; he was certain of these things, he carried them as interminably as the lines in his palms. Criston knew Aemond and Vhagar would be the saviors of the Greens in this war. He knew Aemond would be here.

But he’s not. He’s just not, and there’s nothing I can do to bring him.

Cregan Stark is cutting through the Greens’ men. He is not a soldier, he is a force of nature, he is a thunderstorm or a famine or a rogue wave, he is winter coming to rip the trees bare and bury the weak in frostbitten earth. Arrows are loosed by the Northmen’s archers, lethal hissing rain. One hits Criston in the shoulder of his sword arm. Another pierces him through the small of his back, severing his spinal cord and dropping him to his knees.

Through the fray, Cregan sees the Kingmaker. He wants him, he wants Criston’s blood on his blade, his hands, his face; and what the Warden of the North wants, he is never denied.

Alicent, Criston thinks, and he remembers her lying in bed after giving birth to Aegon. She was a girl, just a girl, pale, sick, in terrible and unspoken pain, never the same in body, forever darker in mind, alone in a room full of tapestries of her husband’s house as the court celebrated her newborn son. She knew she had been used. She knew this was her life and always would be, a wheel that goes around and around and crushes the same bones until they stop mending, until the misery and desperation becomes so much a part of you that you could almost forget it’s there. It’s your shadow, it’s your religion, it’s a sigil or a ring.

I suppose now I have something to live for, Alicent had said, and Criston sat on the edge of the bed took her small, cold hand in his own. He raised her knuckles to his lips and answered: I swear to you that I will always protect him. That I will never let him die.

Here in the Riverlands as Cregan Stark descends upon him, Criston looks up again and sunlight spills over his face, warm and kind and golden; but the sky is still empty.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the gardens of Dragonstone, on a bench carved out of gloom-grey basalt, you pull Aegon’s legs into your lap and roll up his loose cotton trousers to inspect them: scars that have knit shut the gashes bones once cut through, muscle mass that is slowly building itself back again, good circulation, able to carry him if only for short, hard-fought distances. You have bled twice since Aemond flew back to the Riverlands to seize Harrenhal. Here under flinty autumn skies and pine trees that sway in brisk wind that smells like saltwater and metal, you think that perhaps the earth is done giving things. This is the time for harvests, not blooms. This is the season of endings, long nights full of cold stars, firelight, reaping.

“Stop,” Aegon says gently. He’s clutching a thick wool blanket around his shoulders. He’s always cold now, pale and shivering. His silvery hair hangs in untamed waves around his face adored with only a single small braid that you weave for him each day. “I don’t want you to do it.”

No; he only wants the maesters to see his weakness, his suffering. “I like taking care of you. It’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s how we met, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” Now he smiles. “I have no idea what you saw in me.”

“An exemplary cock, mostly. Better than any in my medical books.”

Aegon laughs, a sound you rarely get to hear anymore. Then he is grave again. His hair blows in the gales that roll in off the ocean; his eyes, a tumultuous blue like waves in a storm, are ringed by shadows. “Angel, listen to me.” He places a hand over yours where it rest on a knot of scar tissue just below his kneecap. “If I don’t…” He pauses, and you think as you look at him: He’s nothing but scars now, he’s nothing but pain that is calloused over but never forgotten. “If I’m not here when the war is over, I want you to know that you’ll still be protected. Aemond knows. Larys knows. You are to be provided for. You will reside only where and with whom you choose to.”

“Why wouldn’t you be here?”

Aegon shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “We should be realistic.”

“You’ll be here. You have to be.”

Aegon stares into a thicket of rose bushes, blood-red petals and twisted thorns. And he says faintly, like something a strong wind could carry away: “I’ll try.”

“We’re winning, Aemond and Criston and Daeron and the Greens’ armies. They might have won already and we’re just waiting to hear the words. Aemond will end the war and then we’ll all be together again in King’s Landing.”

Aegon gives you a wry smirk as you roll back down the legs of his trousers, concealing his roadmap of harm. “A man like Cregan Stark would not be such a disappointment. He would be able to ride into battle. He would not have compelled you to bloody your own hands. He would not be feeble and deformed.”

“It can’t be anyone but you.”

Overhead, half-shrouded in mist, there is an immense reptilian shadow and a rumbling like the earth splitting in two, cracked and forced apart by eruptions of steam, lava, trapped toxic heat. Gingerly, Aegon returns his boots to the earth, stony and barren. He winces and groans before he can bite it back to hide it from you.

“I’ll go,” you tell Aegon, skimming your fingers through his hair and touching your lips to his temple. His wave-blue eyes are watery, grateful. “Stay here. I’ll bring him to you.”

You hurry through corridors and down spiral staircases, watched by dragons of iron and stone with fire burning in their mouths. And of course, there is more than one reason why you want to greet Aemond by yourself. You don’t know what he will say to you; you don’t know if he’s still angry. But when he strides through the entranceway of the castle to meet you—his hair in one long white-blond braid, his black coat billowing around him in the sharp wind—he is not alone.

There is a woman with him.

“…Aemond?” you say, staring at her: hair like onyx, skin like snow. She grins at you beneath eyes that are pools of ink, dark and glassy and with hardly any whites. You do not believe she intends to unnerve you; still, there is a blade-cold shudder that tumbles down the rungs of your spine.

Aemond replies with pride that is hushed, pure: “This is my wife.”

“Your…?” You cannot look away from her. Her gown is black lace with long, dragging sleeves and a train that curls around her like a dragon’s tail. You can see glimpses of her starlight skin through the fabric, her forearms, her waist, her thigh. Isn’t she cold? You are wearing heavy velvet, pine green like Aegon’s banner, and still the impending winter needles at you. “Who…?”

Lord Larys Strong arrives, his cane tapping on the stone floor. When he sees the woman, he jolts to a halt and gawks. “Alys?”

“Hello, brother.” Her voice is deep, smooth, melodic. She speaks the language of ocean currents, roots in dark fertile soil, the revolving of the stars.

You turn to Larys. “Who is this?”

“A bastard daughter of my father,” Larys answers, slow and disbelieving. “Alys Rivers. She…she was at Harrenhal, last I saw her…years ago…”

“And now she is here with me,” Aemond says. “She is precisely where she belongs.”

Silence fills the room, the world, the space that has opened up between you and Aemond. Wife? Bastard? Harrenhal? At last, you manage shakily: “Aegon is in the gardens. He’s waiting for you.”

“Good,” Aemond says. He wears something you have never seen on him before: not just pride but serenity, consolation, contentment. “There is much to discuss.”

As slate-grey wind whistles through rose thorns and cranberry bushes, you and Larys step out into the gardens with your uninvited guests. Aegon’s eyes snag on Alys, widen, and then dart to you. He mouths: Who the fuck is that? You shrug, bewildered.

Aemond says: “Allow me to present my wife, Lady Alys Rivers of Harrenhal.”

“Your wife?!” Aegon exclaims, like he couldn’t possible have heard correctly. “Your wife?!”

“Yes.” Aemond’s arm snakes around Alys’ waist. She folds into him, palm to his chest, lips to his throat, something creeping and boneless like ivy or mist or smoke. “You’ve had two now. I’ve only just found mine.”

“Rivers,” Aegon echoes incredulously. “A bastard from the Riverlands.”

Larys notes: “One of my father’s natural children.”

“A Strong bastard?!” Aegon cackles and looks to Larys. “Where is Daeron presently? Can he be summoned here? He should see this.”

“It is no jest, Your Grace,” Aemond says calmly. “It is a true pairing of souls.”

“And you were not at liberty to give yours. You have to marry Borros Baratheon’s daughter. That was the deal, that’s why he has pledged his army to us.”

“Daeron can do it.”

“Daeron won’t be old enough to marry for years, and that’s not the point! This is a slight, an egregious slight, to reject a Baratheon noblewoman in favor of a…a…what was she, a serving wench? A wetnurse? What happened to your pathological obsession with self-righteous duty? And why aren’t you and Vhagar with Criston?! Is this what you’ve been doing for the past six weeks while I was trapped here, suffering and useless? You’ve been hiding in the crumbling towers of Harrenhal with your so-called wife? What was so fucking crucial that it kept you from the battlefield—?!”

“She carries my son,” Aemond says.

A gasp spills from you before you can silence it; Lord Larys covers his mouth with one hand. Aegon stares numbly at his brother, not warring with envy or spite but raw astonishment. This is an asset to the Greens, it is a detriment, it lifts a burden from his shoulders, it imperils all of you. “You have no way of knowing what it is yet.”

“I know. We know.”

“And why have you flown to Dragonstone?” Aegon demands. “To torment me with your disobedience, to illustrate so vividly how all that relentless, calculated striving has finally cracked your brain in half—?!”

“No.” Aemond glances to you. “Something has happened. And I wanted to be here in person to deliver the news and…express my condolences.”

“Condolences?” you say, fearful, alarmed.

“Lord Larys will not have received word yet,” Aemond continues. “It has only just transpired. But Alys has seen it.”

Aegon shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. “Seen it…?”

“She sees things. The future, the past. Not every detail, but some of them. She’s seen Mother in the Red Keep, a prisoner but still alive. She’s seen Jaehaera safe and well at Storm’s End. The child has a protector, though Alys isn’t sure who.”

“She’s a witch?” Aegon says flatly. “This bastard Strong woman that you have taken to wife is, among all her other deficiencies, a witch?”

And Alys answers in a voice like the night sky, dark but threaded with glimmers of stars, moonshine, comets: “I am a woman who lives between two worlds. Your Angel is much the same, I think.”

Aegon blinks at her, not entranced or awed but fighting the instinct to flinch away.

“There have been riots in King’s Landing,” Aemond says.

“Yes, obviously. Everyone is aware of that. I think the Wildlings north of the Wall have heard.”

Aemond ignores the jab. “The Master of Coin, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, was travelling through the city in a carriage when…” He trails off, uneasy. He glances at you again. His sole remaining eye—river-blue and without any malice—shimmers with grim compassion.

“What?” you say. “What happened?”

Aemond speaks to Aegon in words you cannot comprehend, swift ageless High Valyrian.

Aegon sighs testily. “Slower. Enunciate.”

Aemond tries again. Aegon repeats a certain word, unable to decipher it. Aemond offers him several others, what you can only assume are synonyms.

Aegon’s face goes even paler, the last of the blood draining out of his cheeks. Then he reaches out a hand to you. “Come here,” he beckons softly.

“Why?”

“Angel, come here now.”

“They killed him, didn’t they?” you ask Aemond. Your voice is trembling, icy, choked. He was an architect of Rhaenyra’s war effort, but he was your father first. He was a beast with blood on his hands, but now you are too. “The common people hate Rhaenyra and they hate my family. So they murdered him.”

Alys says: “They did not just murder him.” And she is not taunting you, though she grins like she might be; she has lost pieces of what it means to be human. She is no longer fluent in anything as trite as sympathy or decorum. Her obsidian eyes gleam, polished, glowing. Her long black hair blows in the wind. There are raven feathers in it, you notice now, and twigs, pine needles, earth, sand, ashes. “They bound and tortured him, they sliced off parts of him to keep as relics, they rode on horseback through the streets swinging his severed head and cock as they celebrated an end to all taxes—”

“Will you shut the fuck up?!” Aegon shouts at her. “Angel, please, come here.”

“Your brother was there too,” Aemond says solemnly.

Yes, of course he would be. He was always Father’s favorite. “Clement,” you whimper, pressing a palm to your chest. Your lungs burn as they drink down chill autumn air that cuts like a blade.

“No,” Aemond says. “The other one.”

“What?” No. No, that can’t be true.

“Not Clement,” Aemond insists. “It was the other brother. The burned man.”

No. No no no. I can’t believe it, I won’t believe it.

“Angel,” Aegon pleads, still reaching for you.

“Everett,” Alys says, dreamy, not knowing how cruel it feels, like splinters of glass beneath your skin instead of arteries and muscle, like shattered bones. “He was not difficult for them to catch. He could not run.”

Your words escape in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t believe you.”

Alys offers her hands. They are long, lithe, white like a skeleton’s. “Would you like to see?”

“No.”

“I can show you. Then you will trust what I say.”

“Alys, my love,” Aemond warns.

“No, you’re a liar,” you snarl at her. “You’re not a witch, you’re not some prophet, you’re just a liar and I don’t believe you—!”

And before you can flee she’s crossed the space between you, she’s gripped your wrist with those slender claw-like fingers, she’s pouring her magic into you like poison down a prisoner’s throat. The vision surges into your skull and fills it, sight and sound and scent: Everett screaming as he is dragged from the carriage, the hoard ripping at his clothes and his eyes, dull kitchen knives pulled from pockets, the coppery ether of blood in the air. You can feel the feverish heat of the crowd. You can feel their boiling-over animal rage. You can feel everything, but you can’t stop it.

Beyond the grisly mirage, you can hear yourself shrieking, muffled and distant; and you can hear someone else bellowing for Alys to let you go. Her hand is yanked off of your wrist and you are abruptly back in the gardens of Dragonstone surrounded by indomitable flora that warps and tangles and endures. You are kneeling on the cobblestones, tears flooding from your eyes. Aegon is on the ground with you, his arms circling around your waist. He is calling Alys a bitch, a monster, a demon. He is threatening to feed her to his dragon.

“Forgive me,” Alys says to you, peering down with a vague sort of regret etching lines into her brow. “I did not intend to cause any distress. I only meant to help you understand.”

Aegon seethes at Aemond: “Take your witch back to Harrenhal.”

“No,” you protest; and Aegon studies you, puzzled, as you gaze up at Alys, this half-human phantom that dwells between realms, something like a dark mirror image of an angel. “What else have you seen?” Tell me Aegon lives. Tell me the Greens win and we have a chance at a better world one day. Tell me this was all worth it.

“She has seen Daemon and Caraxes meeting me at the Gods Eye,” Aemond says. “She has seen me taking flight to join them in battle.”

Aegon is stunned. “When?”

“Soon. Three days from now.”

You sob, thinking of Everett; and Autumn too, wherever she is, who will reappear when the war is over searching for home but forever unable to find it. Aegon holds you and you pull yourself into him, arms slung around his neck. His silver hair brushes your face; his scarred right cheek is rough against yours. When you breathe in violent hitches, you inhale rose oil and wine and salt and warmth and misery, you taste the war that built him and now has returned to claim the debt.

“It’s Rhaenyra’s fault,” Aegon whispers, fierce and merciless. “We will kill Daemon and Cregan Stark. We will retake King’s Landing and capture Rhaenyra. And I swear to you that she will burn.”

Aemond is saying: “Do we have permission to stay the night or not? We’ve traveled a long way. My wife is tired, and so is Vhagar. Another flight so soon would tax her.”

“You can swim,” Aegon pitches back.

Lord Larys Strong—ever servile, ever composed—clears his throat, both hands resting on the handle of his cane. “Would anyone care for some soft-shelled crabs?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mist hangs heavy over the castle the next morning, a cool metallic grey like steel; the sun is muted, only a wisp of itself, a memory that is swiftly fading. Alys Rivers stands in the surf fetching seashells and stones that she plinks into a basket. Locks of her long, wild hair dip into the roiling water and emerge sopping and heavy, sticking to her ink-black gown. Aegon is curled up with Sunfyre at the edge of the beach. The dragon breathes with rattling, labored heaves and Aegon pets his golden face, wishing the beast’s wings to knit themselves back together and his own legs to be strong again, murmuring to Sunfyre in some clumsy patchwork of High Valyrian and the Common Tongue to assure him that he’s served his king well.

You and Aemond walk down the windswept beach together, your boots sinking in wet sand and leaving imprints like bruises on flesh. Your gown is a deep, vibrant red like the sigil of the newly decimated House Celtigar; Aemond’s hair is wavy and damp and blows loose in the breeze. You are reminded of the night you shared with him six weeks ago, though you don’t want to be. Neither of you have mentioned that indiscretion. You believe you have silently agreed to forget it. You ask the prince regent: “How many people do you think you’ve burned in the Riverlands?”

“Why do you care? They’re not you. They’re not me.”

“Perhaps each life we take robs something from us as well. It carves a piece of the soul away and leaves it less than it was before.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow, intrigued.

“I am less than I once was,” you explain. “Acts of love feel like violence, violence is mistaken for love. Things that horrified me a year ago are now what give me solace when I dream of them. Vengeance, slaughter, fire and blood. Aegon grows more bitter, more ruthless. And so do you.”

“We will have the luxury of reforming ourselves when the war is won and Aegon is the undisputed king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“If there’s any part of us that remembers who we were supposed to be.”

“I remember exactly who you were.” Aemond grins. “Fawning over Aegon, weaving braids into his hair. Scurrying around with your bandages and vinegar and honey. Always seeking to take his pain away. Always waging your own little war against the agony of mankind.”

“That feels like a different person,” you say, peering out over the ocean.

“We will build monuments to those we’ve lost,” Aemond promises. “Jaehaerys, Maelor, Otto. Your brother and my sister. You say you dream of fire and blood? I often find myself dreaming of Helaena.”

You turn to him, startled. And you recall the warnings her ghost gave Aegon before Baela and Moondancer arrived on Dragonstone: Don’t fall, don’t fall. “Does she say anything?”

“She keeps telling me I’ll lose my left eye.” Aemond smiles wistfully. “And I answer: Helaena, that’s happened already. But when I try to comfort her, when I try to embrace her, she turns away from me and says it’s too late. That I’ve ruined myself.” He walks with his hands linked behind his back, his face thoughtful but not brooding. “I still miss her,” he says. “And I still feel responsible. But things are easier now.”

You follow his eyeline to where Alys is plucking a starfish from the frothing waves and placing it in her basket. And doesn’t it make some strange bit of sense that Aemond’s match would be someone rare, bizarre, gifted in ways that are in equal parts mesmerizing and fearsome? “I’m glad you found someone who eases your burdens.”

“She has suffered tremendously. She knows what it is to be unloved and overlooked. She had to reinvent herself, just like I did. She had to shed her skin and step into a new one that she stitched together herself.”

“Perpetual Resurrection,” you say softly.

“Perpetual Resurrection,” Aemond agrees.

Now Alys is trekking up the beach to join you, her soaked hair whipping in the wind and her basket slung over one arm. From where he sits with Sunfyre, Aegon watches her with narrowed, disapproving eyes. “This belongs to the king,” Alys says to you, opening her hand. In her palm rests the ring of gold wings and jade eyes. “You should return it to him. He does not like me.”

You gasp and take the ring that you last saw before Aegon fell from the sky and shattered his legs, his spirit. “How did you find this?”

“It spoke to me. I spoke to it.” She smiles, more like a leer, though she does not mean it to be. Her eyes—onyx, jet, black moonstone—are bright with amusement. “See? You do not understand. Sometimes it is best not to ask.”

You slip the ring onto one of your fingers for safekeeping until you deliver it to Aegon. From the stone staircase that leads up to the castle’s main entrance, Larys waves Aemond over to him. Aemond kisses the woman he calls his wife farewell—a deep, burning kiss—and then departs. You say to Alys: “How did you become…like this?”

“I surrendered to it. Anyone can, if your life is hell and you are willing to burn it down to the foundations. You go deep into the swamp and then it goes into you. It grows through your skin and into your veins. It tangles up with you, vines climbing your ribcage and spine like ivy on a trellis. It changes you. It makes you greater than you were before. The victim becomes the victor. The weak turn watchful and wise.” She is gazing at where Aemond stands with Larys, exchanging theories and plots. Aemond shakes his head at something Larys says. “I always knew he would find me. The man whose fractured pieces fit with mine. Yet each time I thought I glimpsed him only to realize he wasn’t the one, I would think: How long must I wait? I have buried so many children. Will I ever have more? Will he come to me before it is too late? Is it too late already? But no, he flew to Harrenhal just as my hopes were giving out like a dry well. And Aemond was worth every second, minute, month, year. He was worth the beatings and the contempt, the rapes and the blood. He was worth all of it.”

Alys reaches out to touch your cheek and you recoil; but she is not giving you a revelation this time. She is merely tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a fond, maternal smile. There are mottled plumes of violet and indigo on the side of her throat, you notice only now. Alys catches you staring.

“Aemond can be rough, domineering,” she says with a sly smirk. “You know how he is.”

You know how he is. You know how he is. Horror strikes you like lightning; you imagine what other visions she has swimming in her changed blood. “It was a mistake. Aegon must never learn of it.”

“Of course not. That would kill him.” And you are gutted by a blade of cool serrated treason. Alys does not appear to be aware of it. “If I can ever be of service, please do not hesitate to summon me. I can appear and speak to you briefly, perhaps for five or ten minutes. I will be like a mirage, a ghost. Find a closed door and write my name upon it in blood. Then knock three times and open the door. I will be there.”

“A door? Which door?”

“Any door.”

You contemplate her. “Why would you believe that you owe me loyalty?”

“Because of Aemond,” Alys says simply, without any trace of resentment. “You mean something to him. So you mean something to me.”

He doesn’t crave me anymore. He has his own prize now. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“I never am.” Then Alys glides off to rejoin her husband.

Hours later as you are helping Aegon into bed—he must be carried up and down the castle steps by his guards in a litter, something he considers mortifying—you weave a new braid for him and then pour him a cup of milk of the poppy when his glazed eyes keep listing to the glass bottle of pearlescent relief, deadened nerves, liquid dreams. You crawl into bed beside him, curl up against his scarred chest, listen to the slowing thud of his heartbeat as his arms enfold you and draw you in ever-closer. His dragon ring glints on his hand, returned to its rightful place.

“Your legs?” you ask, kissing the gnarled scar tissue that has grown over his collarbones like climbing roses, like ivy. He can’t really feel your touch there, that’s not why you do it. You do it to show that you aren’t repulsed by his wounds and could never be, could never think of any part of him as something less than wondrous.

“That’s most of it,” Aegon murmurs drowsily. “I’ve started getting this ache in my back too. It won’t go away.”

“What?” You bolt upright in bed. “Show me where.”

He gestures: the curve of his spine, just above his hips. Panicked, you begin pressing lightly over where his kidneys are.

“Here? Aegon? Does that hurt?”

But now he’s realized how frantic you are, how upset. “Oh, no, never mind,” he says, clutching his pillow and feigning being too tired to speak on the subject for even a moment longer. He yawns dramatically. “It’s just a sprained muscle, I think. You know I’m always crawling around now like some kind of vermin. It’s nothing serious. It will heal in time.”

“Aegon—”

“I’m alright.” He grabs your hand and pulls you back down to him, buries his face in your hair, nuzzles and sighs contently as he whispers: “Shh. I’m alright. Stay, stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“You left him!” you hear Aegon yelling from his rooms, and you drop the book you had been reading in the castle library, an anthology of illnesses of the body, the mind, the soul. You sprint through the shadowy corridors towards the noise, the hem of your sapphire gown fluttering around your ankles. You are always dressed in jewel tones these days. You are anything but neutral.

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Larys has pressed himself to one stone wall like he wishes to disappear. Alys is observing with her strange, impassive, void-dark eyes. Aemond is being berated. He does not appear resentful or defiant; no, he is paralyzed. He is haunted, he is damned.

“You left him!” Aegon screams again, and hurls a full wine cup that strikes Aemond in the chest, spewing red through the air like blood spurting from slit veins. The king is standing, but with great effort; he is scrabbling through the drawers of his bedside table for things to throw at his brother. Yet the glass bottle of milk of the poppy remains untouched. “You abandoned him, you betrayed him, you fucking murdered him!”

“Aegon, what’s going on—?!”

“Almost a week ago, Cregan Stark’s army met Criston’s in the Riverlands,” he tells you. He is panting, red-faced, furious as he recounts Lord Larys Strong’s words, the news the Master of Whisperers only now received from one of his innumerable informants.

You stare at Aemond, horrified, already knowing what this means. “And Aemond wasn’t there.”

“He was at Harrenhal!” Aegon roars, tossing one of your medical books at Aemond, a volume on herbology. It strikes the prince in the nose, and blood gushes from his nostrils; ruby droplets freckle his hair. Aemond makes no attempt to defend himself. He is in shock, he is mourning. “He was fucking his witch while our men were being butchered!”

“Criston, he’s…he’s…?”

“He was slain in battle,” Larys informs you quietly.

Aegon staggers to his brother, shoves him roughly, receives no retaliation. “He was the closest thing you had to a father, he worshiped you, he loved you, and you left him to fend for himself after I told you over and over again that you and Vhagar needed to stay with him, and now he’s gone!” There are tears on Aegon’s face, crystalline tracks that bleed down his cheeks and jaw and throat. “You killed him, you killed him!”

“The Stark men?” you ask Larys, not wanting to know but needing to.

“Moderate losses. Now headed south towards Daeron and the Hightower army.”

“You fucking traitor,” Aegon hisses, sobbing, beating his palms against Aemond’s chest again. “Your whole life all you’ve wanted was responsibility and the second someone gives it to you, you throw it away! Why can’t I be the one with a body that works?! Why can’t my dragon be whole again?!”

And at last Aemond finds his voice. It is brittle and almost too hushed to hear. “I’ll make this right. When I defeat Daemon and Caraxes at the Gods Eye, it will be over.”

“It’s already over for Criston!” Aegon explodes. “It’s over for Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor, it’s over for Otto and Everett, it’s over for Sunfyre, we keep losing people and it’s all your fault! You started this war and you’re too much of a goddamn coward to end it!”

“He will end it,” Alys says in that deep placid voice like dusk, dawn, midnight.

“Don’t try that bullshit with me! I don’t want to hear about your delusions, I want him to do his goddamn job! I want him to act like the hero he’s been begging to be seen as since he was five years old! You know why no one wants to write books about him or carve his face into statues? Because he doesn’t fucking deserve it!”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond whispers, his mouth trembling.

“You should be!” Aegon hemorrhages, and then collapses to the floor, moaning with his face in his hands.

You go to him, try to soothe him, grab the wine cup from the floor and fill it with milk of the poppy, tilt it against Aegon’s lips. He gulps the numbness down with helpless, hated need. Aemond and Alys flee for the doorway.

Aegon says, suddenly more calm: “Aemond, wait.”

The prince regent stills and turns back, listening. Aegon, with great difficulty, begins to say something in High Valyrian. Aemond cuts him off. “No, that won’t happen—”

“Please,” Aegon rasps. “Listen to me.” Then he continues. And as he speaks, Aemond’s eye fills with tears, a glistening like ice over lakes in the winter, like gemstones in a crown. You look between them, searching for any clues you can read.

“I understand,” Aemond says at last.

“Good. Now get out.”

Aemond wipes his face with his sleeve and then disappears from the room. You tell Aegon as you rise to your feet: “I’ll be right back.”

Aemond is moving quickly; you don’t catch up with him until he’s passed through the castle entranceway. Down by the ocean waves beneath a blood-red sunset, Vhagar is already landing, leaving cataclysmic imprints in the sand with her claws, trenches and impact craters. From the edge of the beach, Sunfyre watches with dull, wounded interest. Alys is halfway down the staircase. Aemond stops when he hears your footsteps, waiting under the rising full moon and materializing constellations.

You demand: “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Aemond.”

“He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain. He doesn’t understand—”

“Aemond, what did he say?”

The prince regent sighs and looks at you. “He said he doesn’t think he’s going to get better this time.”

I can’t believe that. I can’t survive that. “Why did you have to do it?” Your voice splinters; your throat burns. “He’s right that you started this war. You’re the reason Rhaenyra will never negotiate. You’re the one who made this horror inevitable. Why did you have to kill Luke?”

The dusk is radiant on Aemond’s face like firelight. It is a long time before he speaks. “I never intended to.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “What?”

“I never gave Vhagar the order. She went after Arrax. I tried to stop her.”

It wasn’t murder. It was an accident. And you think of all the times people have told Aemond that everything that’s happened is his fault, and how he has never disagreed with them. “Who knows?”

“You. Alys.”

“No one else?”

“Who would believe me?” Aemond smiles faintly, profoundly sad. “And even if they did, would that make me so much more noble than a kinslayer? A Targaryen who can’t control his own dragon? A man who is reckless, ineffective, unworthy?”

Here in air the color of flames and gore, you tell him, perhaps more kindly than he deserves: “You’re worthy, Aemond.”

“I will end this. I will meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle. Alys saw it.”

“Did she see you win?”

“Are you worried about me?” Aemond teases, grinning crookedly. And he does something that he hasn’t tried in a long time. He swipes for your forearm and you snatch it out of the way just before his fingers can close around it, just before he can catch you. Aemond chuckles. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ll win the war for the Greens. We will return to King’s Landing, we will rebuild, Aegon will heal. He will live for a long, long time.”

“Yes,” you say, wanting so desperately to believe it.

“You know,” Aemond adds as it occurs to him. “If the king does happen to predecease you, in ten years or twenty or thirty…and you find yourself unincumbered…Aegon the Conqueror had two wives. Alys would always be first, but…”

“No, Aemond.”

“Fine,” he says, agreeably enough. He smiles down at you. “I will come back to let you know when it’s done. Then I will fly south to join Daeron in annihilating Cregan Stark’s army. And then we’ll all go home.”

Yes, yes, let that be true. “Good luck,” you tell him, soft like a whisper.

“I don’t need it.”

Aemond descends the staircase, climbs up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, takes flight with Alys into the late-autumn dusk; and you watch them vanish into the crimson horizon until the sky is empty.

[aesteries]

⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ─ ❝sweetling❞ ─ aemond targaryen and original female character. ❝alicent hightower's youngest daughter, haera targaryen, has returned to king's landing after eight long years in old town and aemond finds himself inexplicably drawn to the girl kissed by the moon and with the eyes that seem to only look at him.❞

how could i not love eyes that see me in all my forms as beautiful?

〔incest, innocence and fantasies, fluff and romance, smut, virginity, events of blood and cheese, family rivalry, disabled main character, hints of book!aemond, modified show!timeline and events.〕

words: 4.8k. series' masterlist.

                 CHAPTER 4. 

Aemond Targaryen once cherished the calm serenity of the night, but it had been brutally snatched from his hands, and he alone bore the blame. The silence that usually enveloped him as he took midnight walks around his home had now been replaced by the sound of boots with guards patrolling the corridors that lead to his sisters’ and mother’s chambers, side to side. He could not shake off the uneasy feeling, flashes of his memory weighing him down with each step he took.

Haunting figures were formed by the dancing flames of torches installed on every corner, illuminating the once dimly lit corridors, danger lurking in every corner and waiting to strike. His fingers had found a permanent place around the hilt of his sword, to the point his knuckles would turn white, ready to draw his weapon. The prince found himself surrounded by guards that he once considered allies and now were deemed potential threats, traitors sent by his deranged half-sister.

Helaena’s hands, once so skilled in the art of embroidery, now trembled as she grasped the needle and thread, her tearful eyes fixed on the intricate stitches as if they could bring back the fragments of her shattered life. The worried gazes of their family and servants, with their own mother’s attempts at comfort, were met with silent rejection. Aemond could not help but feel crushed under the responsibility of the wreckage that Helaena had become. The memories of what she had endured still pulsated in the back of his mind—the brutal assault, the helplessness, the numbing fear. It was a miracle that she still took breath and faced her remaining children.

The assassins had come to claim his life; however, they did not find him, so their ruthless fury was then directed towards the helpless—the women and children of the royal family. The weight of guilt crushed him, eating at him like scavenging vultures, leaving nothing but desiccated remains. A thousand daggers stabbed at his conscience with every step he took toward his older sister’s room. He could not help but think that it should have been him and not his nephew. The image of his sisters frozen in horror played endlessly in his mind, a constant reminder of the tragedy that had unfolded.

He had promised to keep Haera away from danger; instead, he had put a target on her head.

Aemond was a monster forged from the fiery depths of the earth, infused with the intense heat of dragon fire, molded in the likeness of The Stranger, the face of death. His brother, Aegon, shared the same cursed fate, the potent blood of the Targaryens pulsing through their veins like rivers of fire. They were destined to wear the crown and sit upon the piercing throne of dragon flame but not their sisters; they were worlds apart, with hearts as soft as silk and souls as gentle as a summer’s kiss, the perfect images of The Maiden.

Yet, on that fateful night, they were in that room—no one to protect them or keep them safe.

Helaena's rise to the throne was overshadowed by her sharp descent into madness. Within days of taking the crown and the life-changing event, she was stolen by debilitating episodes of screaming and harm to herself, forcing the maesters to sedate her for extended periods to calm her down. Meanwhile, Haera's health, which had been the very reason for her return from Oldtown mere months prior, began to deteriorate at an alarming rate, and her condition became so dangerous that they feared her heart might fail at any moment once again, just that this time, Aemond’s love was not enough to save her. The weight of her daughters' hardship was crushing Alicent, who lingered on the brink of a complete breakdown but held herself together for their sake.

And it was all his fault. his fault. his fault. his fault.

He could have cost his family three lives for his mistake of taking one. Losing sleep was nothing; he would not lose another family member for his actions.

Aemond stood in front of Helaena's chambers, two members of the Kingsguard on each side of the door. The sudden stillness of the halls was oppressive, allowing the muffled voices from inside to echo through the air like secrets shared by children. His sister's bedtime routine was a delicate task, one she often insisted on doing alone, but everyone knew that the darkness of night brought her a unique kind of terror, often changing her entire self. Without the support of others, she was lost and helpless, unable to care for the remaining children on her own, and they had become a priority in the family. Aemond's hand reached for the door handle, but a blood-curdling wail from inside paralyzed him, sending shivers down his spine.

The Kingsguard, ever vigilant, avoided eye contact, their gazes drifting away and pretending he was just not standing right in front of them. Aemond knew their thoughts all too well, for they mirrored the accusing voices in his mind.

It was all his fault. his fault. his fault. his fault. his fault. his fault.

These haunting whispers had become his constant companions, echoing through the chambers of his mind like a chorus of self-doubt. His legs, as if driven by their own will, carried him swiftly away from the door, away from his innocent victim on the other side. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the corridor, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence that had preceded them, as he sought to escape the crushing weight of his guilt.

Instead, he approached the next chamber at the end of the hallway, that of his younger sister, who would often refuse sleep in anticipation of his visit. He had been absent from their cherished routine for what seemed to be more than a week due to things he had to take care of, so the longing to reconnect with her had grown within him. As he turned around the pillars that led to her room, he had expected to see the usual pair of guards stationed at the entrance, but to his surprise, the place was empty with no one to watch over his sister.

The panic spread in his chest like wildfire as he pushed open the heavy doors and burst into the room, his heart racing as every worst-case scenario rushed to his mind. The darkness enveloped him, only a few flickers of candles casting ominous shadows on the walls, reminding him of the many nights he’d lain awake thinking about his sister’s safety, and now he could have possibly failed her. A subtle hint of lavender wafted through the air, so faint that it was a sign that she had not been preparing for bed at this hour as he had assumed. He rushed towards the other side of the room where her bed was, amethyst eye searching every inch of the bed, unmade and untouched.

So many different voices echoed in his head, each seeking to be the loudest and disturb him the most as he combed through every nook and cranny of the room, desperate for a glimpse or hint of his beloved. When his search brought nothing, he stormed out of the bedroom, his sword at the ready, primed to demand an answer from the first guard he would encounter.

The labyrinthine halls of the Red Keep seemed to stretch on forever, now even more as he grew desperate, its amount of unused rooms and secret passages a constant threat to the safety of those within its walls. As he sprinted from one corner to the next, his chest felt tight and heavy as his feet pounded out. He could not bring himself to disturb his mother just yet, not until he was certain of the disappearance—he needed to know more. Then, a sudden tug pulled in his chest, like an invisible thread, the strange sensation taking control of his entire being and dragging his feet towards a destination only his heart seemed to know.

He found himself back in the deserted wing, the severe rain pounding against the walls as he found refuge in the hallway. His gaze dropped to the dusty floor, his attention drawn to the faint outline of footsteps on the dirty stone, the inexplicable pull growing stronger. He was convinced she was there; his heart wouldn't lead him to this place if it wasn't certain. The door to the old library, slightly ajar, called for him, the warm glow of the fire spilling out into the dim hallway.

He cautiously entered, his voice ringing in the silent chamber. “Haera?” He was grasping the hilt of his sword, prepared to defend himself and his family in case it wasn’t her who was inside. The licking flames illuminated the rows of abandoned tomes, and the musty smell of the old books wafted up, transporting him back to the many hours they had spent together with the ancient texts.

There was no response; however, something told him to keep searching.

He did not have to wander far to locate her, a familiar, curled-up figure on one of the worn, old couches, shrouded in a white blanket that only partially covered her small frame, with her feet dangling off the edge. The room was a labyrinth, with towering book piles that seemed to be strategically built up to alert her of any uncaring individuals if they approached her too clumsily. She had intentionally set traps, delicate and silent that would trigger panic, to safeguard her slumber. Her face was obscured by the sheet, just as she liked it, but even in the faint, golden glow of the hearth, her singularly pale hair stood out like a beacon, impossible to miss.

As he gazed at her sleeping form, he felt that protectiveness swelling up in his chest—the need to shield her from the dangers that lingered and could disrupt the quietness of her peace. He took calculated steps, carefully stepping around the obstacle course of books that made way towards her. When he reached her side, he lowered himself on his knees with his hand reaching out for the blanket that veiled her face, but he hesitated. Instead, he decided for the gentle sound of his voice, whispering a soft "Sister" to rouse her from her slumber.

The melody of his voice was enough to stir her from her light sleep, and she responded with a low, rasping groan, her palms pressing against her eyes as she worked to shake off the chains of sleep. As she sat up, her eyes snapped open, blazing with a feral intensity that rapidly gave way to a look of confusion. She blinked multiple times, her gaze struggling to focus on the familiar contours of his face, particularly the distinctive eyepatch that usually served as her beacon of recognition. Her heart had sped up to an unbearable pace, suddenly believing to be surrounded in danger as she was pulled from her pleasant dreams. However, her panicked gaze set on the black mark on his face, that distinct shape of his face, and the sweet sound of his deep voice, and all was settled in her heart.

Haera's lips curled into a gentle, sleepy smile as she propped herself up on her forearms, her eyelids still heavy with the memory of sleep. Her fingers dragged through her tangled hair, sweeping it back from her face and shoulders as the white sheet rolled down to pool around her hips. The silk fabric of the nightgown was clinging to her skin, shining under the light of fire from a thin veil of sweat, the gown’s delicate straps slipping precariously down her shoulder, almost a threat to reveal more of her skin. Aemond’s eye avoided her skin, his throat tight as he recalled the beautiful image of her naked body and the curves of her body. Yet, Haera remained oblivious to his discomfort, sitting serenely in front of him, as if her state of undress were a familiar, everyday occurrence between them.

He cleared his throat, hoping his voice would come out without any trouble, even if he felt his mouth drying like the desert. “What are you doing here, my sweet girl?” He tilted his head to the side, studying her reaction, his healthy eye a soft caress. Her features twisted, a secret flashing through her eyes, a slight panic and the preparation of a lie. “I thought I would find you in your chambers, just like we did before.” His tone was laced with curiosity.

This time, she averted her gaze, her teeth pinching the bottom lip as she suddenly found interest in one of the many piles of dusty books surrounding her. The soft sigh that escaped her lips was barely audible, but Aemond's sharp ears picked it up, so attuned to her sounds. "I do not like my bedroom anymore," she whispered, consumed by guilt and fear, thoughts of blood and torture.

Aemond's stomach lurched, the heavy feeling of tides turning within him, his mind racing about why she would suddenly avoid remaining in her bedroom at night. His thoughts flashed back to the countless nights he had spent by her, protecting her from the darkness just hiding outside. The only reason that came to mind was that she was scared—scared of being alone, scared of the shadows that danced on her walls, scared of the whispers in the wind, and scared of the men that had once held a sharp blade against her neck. That cold feeling of guilt washed over him once again, his usual stoic expression softening just for her. His hand twitched, aching to reach out and touch her face's soft skin, reassuring her that he would always be there to protect her, but he held back—he did not think he deserved her anymore. 

She sank into the worn cushions, flushed with shame at her confession, as she looked up at him with eyes that shone just like the jewels she used for her work, clouded with guilt as if she had just shared a dark truth, as if her fear was her fault. Her fingers nervously toyed with the edge of the sheet that covered her. "They have not blocked the passage yet.” She was referring to the hidden door concealed behind the furniture, the secret entrance that led to one of the Red Keep's many tunnels. Aemond's expression darkened as he drew closer, his knee thudding against the cold stone floor. His joints ached from the pressure, but the weight of her anguish rested squarely on his shoulders, and he knew it was his own doing. 

He whispered, “Forgive me, Haera; I have been kept away from you for far too long; I should be here to make you feel safe.” She leaned closer to him in a gesture that comforted him, knowing that she searched for his warmth just as he did hers, the proximity charging with intensity as his heart began to race like a wild stallion, beating like the wings of a dragon taking flight. Her voice was laced with caution, almost as if she feared someone else might be listening in to their conversation. “"Do not apologize; you had duties to attend to.” Her cheeks bloomed with a soft pink, a subtle telling sign of her emotions. “At least you are with me now.” She whispered, dripping with longing.

Unlike him, Haera refused to hold back, and with gentle yet determined movements, she reached out to hold his face in her delicate hands, her fingers tracing the lines of his skin. The touch ignited his fire, washing over him like molten heat that coursed through his veins, as if he had been bathed by Vhagar’s fire. The realization hit him hard: he had been starving for her touch, gentle words, and simply being near her. He struggled to keep his emotions in check, fearing that if he acted on them, he might drive her away. But as their eyes met, he couldn't help but notice the adoration shining back at him, wearing his heart down. His gaze fluttered, entranced by the fondness in her eyes, which seemed to tug at his heartstrings like an old, familiar melody. He began to wonder if she felt the same intoxicating emotions that were suffocating him, rendering him helpless. 

That fortress inside of him, one that he had built over the years, had been breached, attacked even, by her gentle touch. She had slipped through the gaps and made her place in his heart, unlocking a flow of feelings that he never thought capable of possessing, flowing out of him like the angry stream of a river. There was a stark contrast between his former self and who he had become, now on his knees and baring his vulnerable heart in the hands of another. Her thumb grazed the scar that snaked beneath his eyepatch, sending a wave of love through him. In that suspended moment, he felt a promise pass between them—a promise of undying love, loyalty, and protection.The words stumbled out of his mouth, his truth slipping past his lips in a lovesick confession. “You are so beautiful.” 

Haera's eyes sparkled, her body responding to the sincerity in his voice as a shiver danced down her spine. “So are you, brother,” she replied. The air seemed to vibrate with unspoken emotions, the tension between them palpable as they stood suspended in time, their hearts beating.

Her understanding of love was limited to what she could read from her books and the excited whispers of servant ladies who shared their experiences with her, behind the back of the septas, who would have rather kept her in the dark for the rest of her life. They would constantly remind her that such conversations were improper, yet all it did was help her curiosity grow. Haera was convinced that what she felt was far more profound than a fleeting infatuation. Since reuniting with him, her heart had swelled with emotions, and she couldn't imagine spending the rest of her life without him by her side. She had always fantasized about an epic love, the kind that would rival the sweeping romances she read about in her beloved novels. Now, as she gazed into the eyes of the man before her, she knew that her dream of true love was finally within reach.

Aemond's face, warm from her hold, felt empty as he rose from his position on the hard floor before the couch, his heart skipping a beat at the loss of her gentle touch. He carefully moved to her side, his one eye watching her reaction as he settled beside her on the couch, their thighs touching beneath the crumpled white sheet. Haera's breath caught sharply, but she remained still, her hand trapped beneath his large, gentle one.

Haera had started the forbidden dance of their relationship, crossing over that dangerous line that separated proper from not. Now, she knew exactly what the both of them desired, and with a fluid motion, she allowed him to guide her to her proper place, her body shifting to straddle his lap, her legs around his hips. The air was alive with anticipation, heavy with the promise of secrets shared and boundaries pushed. His gaze was intense, his eyelid half-lowered as he drank in the sight of her flushed cheeks, the gentle curve of her nose, and the tender lips that whispered her love for him.

His eye remained fixed on hers, refusing to break that connection they were forming in the intimate moment. He would memorize every inch of her face so he would be able to recall her beauty whenever he needed it. He would not forget the spark in her eyes, the faint blush that painted her skin, or the soft color of her lips.

“What is it, my sweetling?” His voice cut through the silence, his eyes looking for the truth in her clouded eyes, overtaken by her thoughts. As he spoke, her eyes fluttered to his lips as she drank in the shape of his voice; however, as if remembering herself, her focus shifted, and she looked away. Across from them, the fire crackled and spat insults, a rhythmic fight to the tension building between them. She was bothered by something, and he could not handle knowing that she was feeling wronged in some way.

Her voice danced over the crackling of the fireplace, “Floris Baratheon.” The mere mention of that name sent sharp pain in her chest, her eyes drowning with a mix of sadness and longing, overflowing with emotions that she could not name yet. “The one who is to be your wife..." Haera seemed to search for her words, eyes darting around the room and avoiding his gaze. “Is she pretty?” The question was a weight she could not bear, something she knows she should not have asked for the sake of her own feelings, yet she could not help but feel curious. Why had he chosen her? Would he rather bed her instead? Would she take him away forever?

"My Haera," As he spoke, his breath danced across her skin, sending more shivers down her spine. Their faces hovered inches apart, his lips grazing the softness of her cheek as she turned to gaze at the crackling flames, momentarily evading his piercing stare, “She is nothing but a pawn in our game.” Slowly, she returned her attention to him, her mesmerizing eyes locking onto his—those same eyes that had captivated him from the start, burning with an intensity that left him breathless. The air was alive with tension as their lips almost touched, the gentle whisper of their mingling breaths a sensual tease.

“I do not intend on marrying her.” His voice was sharp, almost angered by the question. He swallowed, recognizing the way he had spoken, and forced himself to calm down as he came to wrap his arms around her like a promise. Aemond’s lips hovered over hers, a brush of their mouths. “You are the only one in my heart," he continued, the sincerity of his words evident in the tremble of his voice. His large, rough hands cradled her hips, fingers splayed wide as he kept her in place, as if he feared she might vanish into thin air. And then, a radiant smile spread across her heart-shaped lips, a sight that had the power to unhinge him. He was helpless against the desire that crashed over him, and with a groan, he surrendered to his passion, claiming her lips once more in a hungry, desperate kiss.

As the heat ignited a spark within her, primal energy coursed through her veins, warning of potential chaos as she surrendered to his touch. She felt a rush of heat dancing over her spine when her hips rolled against him unconsciously, the friction delicious against her clothed sex like a slow-burning fire. His grasp on her body tightened, desperate and delirious, exploring the curves at her sides and her back while she entwined her arms around his neck. Aemond’s palm rested over the line of her behind, slowly feeling over the plumpness of her rear and encouraging the move of her hips.

The moment her body had subtly shifted with timid movements, his thoughts had started to sway wildly, the knowledge that she seemed to want him as much as he wanted her, beginning to eat him alive and threatening to break him completely. She would never understand, not quite, just how deep his longing for her went, his devotion, his all-consuming passion. He had committed the ultimate crime for her—to free her from the shackles of another man, all to experience just a moment of her affection. It was at that moment that he knew that he would never stop when it came to her, until he could claim the love she could offer him.

The sounds of their passion, the wet squelching of their mouths, and the sweet moans and groans that rumbled low in their throats were the only things heard in the abandoned library, over the crackling of the fire and the hooting of the owls outside of the windows. Haera’s movements had become intense, now learning what she wanted and how she could obtain it as long as she kept her hips rolling over an unfamiliar hardness in his pants, the burning growing more intense. Aemond felt himself losing control, almost coming undone right there and then.

But then a sudden crack of the creaking door shattered their reality, rudely yanking them from their heated moment. Aemond did not even bother to mask the annoyed growl that escaped his lips, his hand instinctively reaching for the sword that had long been abandoned at his side, eager to cut whoever had dared to interrupt them. The distinctive sound of heavy footsteps echoed throughout the library, announcing the arrival of no other than Ser Criston Cole, concern taking over his features, his gaze sweeping the room before falling on the two Targaryens.

Haera attempted to scramble off her brother’s lap, her eyes wide at the sudden intrusion, but his grip was unyielding and only tightened around her to pull her firmly against his chest, almost as if trying to hide her away from the older man’s sight. Aemond's one eye gleamed with a deadly intensity as he took in Ser Criston's presence, his glare burning with a warning. Ser Criston, on the other hand, seemed unbothered by the scene before him. His eyes accidentally fell on the princess’ partially exposed form; the hem of her nightgown had ridden up in the heated dance of her body, and he immediately swallowed the knot in his throat. If looks could kill, Aemond’s sole eye would have destroyed the man in a second.

"Prince, Princess," he acknowledged with a courteous nod, his voice tinged with relief. "I was informed that you both were out of bed, and I must remind you that, for your own safety, you are expected to remain in your chambers at this hour of night."

Aemond's response was laced with a subtle yet unmistakable hostility. "Princess Haera is perfectly safe in my company, Ser Criston," he said, his tone dripping with a quiet confidence that fanned the flames. "I will be escorting her to her room, ensuring her safety personally.”

Aemond rose first, gently holding her up as he let her feet touch the ground in a wobbly step, his movements fluid as he then extended an arm to Haera. She took it, her slender hand wrapping around his bicep like a whispered promise. As their bodies touched once again, a shiver raced down both their spines, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Haera's stomach churned with wild, untamed energy, a sensation far more potent than the nervous butterflies that often beset her. There was an uncomfortable wet spot between her legs, a feeling unfulfilled. 

She dipped into an awkward curtsy with a tight, polite smile on her lips as Aemond guided her past him and out of the library, not before another threatening look at the older man. He was quick to walk her back to her chambers, successfully avoiding the eyes of the many guards who were now taking over the hallways of the Keep for the safety of the family. They noticed the silence behind Helaena’s door as they passed by and were relieved to find that she had finally surrendered to sleep, while the soft glow under their mother’s door indicated that she remained awake. Haera's exhaustion was starting to creep in, but she savored every moment with Aemond, and what had just happened behind the closed doors had kept her body buzzing for more.

“Are you staying with me until I fall asleep, brother?” She whispered her question, her voice barely audible over the soft hum of the night, but he was attuned to her, and his ears picked up every word.

“If you wish so.” His voice was soft, like a caress, as he voiced the promise that he would stay by her side. Haera’s face lit up, her grip on his arm bordering on desperation as they crossed the threshold into her bedroom, now enveloped in the calming scent of lavender. He allowed himself to rest on the corner of her bed as she climbed in, the heavy covers and many pillows almost swallowing her whole. Underneath the sheets, her hand reached for him, “Why won’t you join me?”

“It is not proper,” he smiled. “Not yet.”

She hummed as a response, burying her face in her pillows. As Haera’s eyes closed shut and her breathing began to calm as she drifted to sleep, he allowed his mind to be taken by thoughts of revenge against Criston, who had dared to disrupt their moment. He wondered just how far they could have gone if they had not been forced to separate. The young prince’s sigh was barely audible, but it held a world of longing.

Their time would come.

Aemond was sure of it.

ᡣ𐭩 ─ author's note ;

finally! it's been cooking for too long. this chapter is actually the original start of the story when it was meant to be a oneshot! i'm not sure if i've mentioned this before, but sweetling was originally helaemond but i don't think freshly traumatised helaena would have been up for a little grinding in the library lol.

the next chapter will be the last one, and it will be written in a way that it can be read as a oneshot, so it will kinda re-iterate some stuff here and there. i wonder if they will finally get to where we want them to go, hmm, since it seems aemond is kinda avoiding it huh. meanwhile, haera wants to eat him whole lol.

i'm thinking about a bonus final chapter where you guys can find out what happens to haera throughout the war and where she ends up after everything, ifykyk, but that is hanging in the air for now. ╰⪼ thank you for reading!

[undertheorangetree]

Under the God's Eye

Chapter Five- The Dinner

Summary- A family dinner results in an unexpected rendezvous.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Titty sucking. Handjob. Vaginal fingering. Cunnilingus. Smut. Alcohol consumption. Allusions to drug abuse. Severe daddy issues. My bitter and intense hatred for Viserys Targaryen coming through in my writing. Discussions of bad childhood/neglectful parenting.

Author's Note- okay I’m done teasing now. Shout out to modern AUs for letting me use modern terms in smut without it sounding weird to me. Find the rest of this filth on AO3 link below!

Series masterlist

divider by firefly-graphics

She watches mildly distraught as Alicent flutters around the kitchen, murmuring to herself as she sets pots and pans on the stovetop, pulling out an absurd amounts of ingredients from the fridge.

"Are you sure you don't need any help?" she asks for what she thinks is the fourth time, hand fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

Alicent looks up at her, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her face with a tired smile. "I'm sure, sweetheart. Don't worry, Rhaenyra should be here within the hour to help me. You're on vacation, go and do something fun. I can handle it."

"I don't mind helping, really. Even if it's only until Rhaenyra gets here."

That earns her nothing but another thankful smile and a shake of her head before Alicent is ignoring her completely, mumbling about where she has left her biggest bowl. A part of her is worried that she's annoying Alicent but she still can't stop herself from asking. She looks frazzled, so much so that it is clear that she is not used to working in the kitchen like this. With her hair tangled in a messy red bun on the top of her head, she has a hard time imagining the Targaryen-Hightower household as a place known for nuclear family dinners. Not with the way Alicent seems absolutely wrought with anxiety.

"Oh, my love," Alicent calls out suddenly and she turns to find Helaena pausing on her way to the stairwell, an expensive looking Russian Blue cradled in her arms. Dreamfyre, she had learned the cat's name was, though she has only ever seen her in pictures on Helaena's phone. She is a reclusive little thing, spending most of her days basking in the sunlight in quieter rooms. Alicent waves Helaena over before jerking her head in her direction. "Take our dear friend here and tell her to enjoy being a guest. She's trying to be too helpful for a holiday."

Helaena huffs a laugh, adjusting her grip on her cat before holding her hand out to her, fingers grabbing at air like a child. "Come on then."

She's pulled out of the kitchen unceremoniously, obediently following behind Helaena, though she can't help but look back at Alicent once more, still feeling guilty.

"I don't know why she doesn't just bring some of the staff with her," Helaena laments as they begin climbing the stairs, still hand in hand. "She insists that she doesn't need them on holiday, but then she plans some big dinner like this and all it does is stress her out."

Out of all of Alicent's children, Helaena is the one she can most see herself befriending. The sweetest, the most down to earth, less obvious when it comes to her family's massive wealth. But it is moments like this where the blatant difference between them is abundantly clear. Her home had never had so much as a maid, much less a whole host of staff. She can do nothing but nod dumbly, agreeing with her as they make their way to the second floor.

"You lost this," Helaena says as she opens Aemond's door, smiling at them both and looking incredibly pleased with her own joke.

"You're so funny," Aemond says, voice completely deadpan, not so much as looking up from the book he has open on his desk. She doesn't have to look at the cover to know it's a textbook as her own copy is still sitting on her bedside table in her apartment.

She grins. "I know."

Helaena leaves and she has no choice but to make herself comfortable on their now shared bed, propping the pillows up against the headboard and sitting back against them. Aemond continues reading and she takes the opportunity to really look at him, uninterrupted by his own piercing gaze. The long sharp planes of his face, the strong jut of his nose, the line of his cheekbones. The ever present tilt of his lips, as if there is some secret or joke he’s struggling to hide. Even from here, she can see the way his eyelashes curl against his eyelids, the light blonde of them near translucent. His hair is the same almost silver blond and, fleetingly, she wonders how much effort he truly puts into it. She has heard the sound of the hairdryer when he locks himself in the bathroom but has never seen any of the products he may or may not be using. Nor has she ever been permitted to enter, the door locked tight since their post shower run in.

But it's his eye that truly catches her attention. She's sat on his sighted side and she can see the brilliant blue of his real eye even from there, admiring the way it catches the afternoon light. Only the dilation of his pupil sets it apart from the prosthetic and she realizes now how pretty they are when he’s not glaring at her or attempting to stare her into submission.

She nearly jumps when he speaks, pulling her harshly out of her thoughts. "You'll meet my father tonight. And Daemon."

Read the rest here

Taglist- @backyardfolklore @docmartinis @watercolorskyy @barbieaemond @bellaisasleep @yentroucnagol @aemondsbabygirl @randomdragonfires @at-a-rax-ia @violetletovi @launotfound @helaenaluvr @solisarium

[amaris-whisperer]

MOONFIRE l Aemond Targaryen x Reader (EP.7)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen and OC

Warnings: Assassination attempt, blood

Episode VlI – “Cost of the Flame” In the wake of blood and betrayal, mercy becomes the most dangerous weapon. --

The hallway should have been empty.

She knew it the moment the shadows shifted—too swift, too deliberate—like a predator stalking in silence. The flickering torchlight cast fractured reflections across the cold stone walls, dancing off steel that gleamed too suddenly. Emberyn’s breath hitched as instinct screamed at her to flee, to call out—anything—before it was too late.

She turned, voice barely caught in her throat, ready to scream, but the blade was already there.

A sharp, wet sound sliced through the night like a cruel whisper of death.

Pain exploded in her side—searing, burning, and then a strange warmth, spreading like wildfire beneath her skin. Her silk gown was drenched before she could even comprehend the injury. The world tilted, the stones beneath her feet seeming to ripple like a mirage.

She stumbled backward, collapsing against the cold stone, gasping, trying desperately to summon Valaeryn with her mind alone. The bond flickered—weak, fragile—like a dying star barely holding its light against the dark. Panic clawed at her chest as her strength faltered.

A merciless hand yanked her hair, wrenching her upright, and the cold steel of the attacker’s blade rose, poised to deliver the final, merciless strike.

And then—

The air shattered.

A roar ripped through the corridor—raw and ferocious, not the thunderous cry of dragons, but a man’s fury unleashed.

Aemond appeared as if born of war itself, descending like a tempest. His sword flashed in a deadly arc, cleaving through one attacker before the man even turned. The second assailant recoiled in shock and pain as Aemond’s other hand seized a fallen torch, flames roaring as he slammed it into the man’s face. The attacker screamed, staggering back before fleeing into the darkness.

Outside, Vhagar’s landing shook the castle with a sound like the end of days—earth trembling beneath monstrous wings. Valeryn also struggled and groaned loudly.

The halls echoed with a cacophony of steel, cries, and chaos. But Aemond’s world narrowed—until all he could see was her.

Crimson soaked her silks. She was crumpled against the wall, barely conscious, breath shallow. The sight shattered something deep inside him, a fracture made of fear and fierce desperation.

He fell to his knees beside her, trembling hands pressed over the wound, trying to stem the flow of life slipping away. “Stay awake,” he hissed, voice raw, almost breaking. “Stay with me, Emberyn. Don’t you dare—” His fingers pressed harder, panic rising in his eyes. She whimpered, a fragile sound like a dying breeze.

His gaze burned with a fury hotter than dragonfire. “Guards!” he roared, voice ringing through the halls like a warhorn. “Now! Bring help!”

The world around them blurred—flames licking the walls, footsteps pounding toward them, distant shouts echoing.

But Aemond’s focus remained unshaken, anchored to her fragile form, willing her to hold on, to fight, to survive.

-- The healer’s hands trembled slightly as he worked, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a storm. Years of skill guided his fingers with careful precision, but the cold steel blade pressed at his throat sharpened every movement, turning each stitch into a knife’s edge.

“If she dies,” Aemond said, voice low and steady, but with an unyielding edge, “you do too.”

The man’s breath caught in his throat, and his face went pale. He swallowed hard, nodding once with a shaky resolve. With renewed urgency, he bent over Emberyn, redoubling his efforts, his hands moving faster, yet no less careful, as he worked to staunch the bleeding and mend torn flesh. Every second was a battle against death.

The chamber was thick with tension. Flickering torchlight cast uneasy shadows on the cold stone walls, mingling with the faint scent of blood and herbs. Emberyn lay pale and still on the bed, her breath shallow but steady. The faint rise and fall of her chest was all that tethered hope to despair.

Outside the bed, the air felt electric with anticipation. The guards stood rigid, their eyes flicking nervously between the healer and Aemond, who remained like a statue, his jaw clenched so tight it seemed it might crack. His hands gripped the hilt of his sword, knuckles white.

Only when the healer finally finished—binding the wound tightly and administering a sedative to ease Emberyn’s pain—did Aemond slowly, deliberately sheath his sword. The metallic scrape echoed sharply in the quiet room, cutting through the heavy silence like a thunderclap. Every man in the room flinched at the sound, as if the very noise carried a warning.

Then came a stillness so profound it swallowed every breath and heartbeat.

One by one, the figures in the room began to retreat. The guards stepped back first, their boots making soft noises on the stone floor. The maids, eyes wide and faces pale, followed silently. Even Lord Derek Rivendale lingered, his presence heavy and conflicted, before he finally moved toward the doorway.

He paused there, uncertain, as if torn between anger and fear. His gaze flickered to Aemond, seeking some sign of truce or reprieve. But Aemond didn’t look at him—not once. His dark eyes remained locked on Emberyn’s fragile form.

With a final clenched jaw, Lord Rivendale turned away, his eyes lowered in quiet defeat. The door swung shut behind him with a weight that seemed to seal the room’s fragile sanctuary.

At last, Aemond exhaled—long and slow—the first breath he’d allowed himself in hours. The tension that had coiled tight in his muscles loosened, if only slightly.

He moved to her bedside, every step deliberate and careful, as if afraid to break the fragile spell. Pulling a chair close to the bed, he sat down with a heavy sigh, the wooden seat creaking under his weight. His hands rested on his knees—still stained dark with blood. Not just hers, but theirs. The blood of the men who had tried to kill her and the blood he had shed to protect her.

His eye never left her face.

Not once.

Every shallow breath she took was a victory, every twitch of a finger a silent promise. He waited, watching, guarding the fragile thread that held her to this world—and to him.

-- The mansion moved around Aemond Targaryen with an almost reverent caution, as if the very stones sensed the fragile balance hanging in the air. Corridors fell quieter, footsteps lighter. Servants glanced furtively toward the prince’s chambers and quickly averted their eyes, unwilling to disturb the storm that raged unseen within. Even Valaeryn, the great dragon who had once ruled the skies here, perched silently on the cliffs overlooking Rhaelyria, her immense shadow stretching over the land without a single protest as Vhagar coiled protectively beneath her.

Inside the mansion’s ancient stone walls, Aemond was a man transformed—no longer the fierce dragonrider known for his fire and fury, but something more restrained, more desperate. He did not leave Emberyn’s room. He barely left her side, as if by proximity alone he could shield her from the darkness clawing at her life.

When food was brought, untouched trays were left by the door. The courtiers’ urgent reports, delivered with hushed urgency, were met with a dismissive wave or a silent glare that sent messengers stumbling back down the halls. The world outside her chamber had shrunk to this narrow, perilous bubble of time and breath.

Only the healer was allowed passage, slipping in and out under Aemond’s watchful, searing gaze—each visit marked by a silent interrogation, every movement scrutinized for signs of progress or failure. The healer’s face remained pale and drawn, the tension in his shoulders betraying the urgency no one dared voice aloud.

Rickon Stark did not come. Not once. His absence echoed louder than any confrontation, a ghost in the shadows that no one could explain. Rumors fluttered through the castle like restless birds—whispers of respect, fear, or calculation—but none dared approach the prince’s chambers to see for themselves.

Lord Rivendale made two attempts to breach the walls around Aemond, but the second time, he was met with a look so cold and unyielding, a silent threat that stripped away all pretense. His face went pale, and he retreated with a low murmur, leaving the prince to his vigil.

And so the days passed.

Emberyn lay wrapped in stillness, unaware of the tempest her fate had unleashed. Her chest rose and fell in slow, even rhythms beneath pale silks, the quiet cadence of life hanging by a thread.

Aemond sat by her side like a beast caged, his patience boundless but taut—every breath she took was counted with a careful reverence. Every slight twitch of her fingers was etched deep into his memory. His dark eyes never wavered from her face, tracing every contour, every line, as if by knowing her so intimately, he could keep the shadows at bay.

He was waiting for something—anything—to break through the fragile barrier of unconsciousness.

Waiting for her to return.

For her to open her eyes and anchor him to the world again.

For Emberyn.

-- She stirred first—a flicker beneath the veil of unconsciousness, a soft groan slipping past cracked lips. The room was dim, dawn barely brushing the frost-laced windows with pale fingers. The heavy silence wrapped around Aemond like a second skin, his figure still as stone beside her bed, watching with bated breath through the fragile curtain of her fluttering lashes.

Then, slowly, her eyelids lifted.

A sharp wince crossed her features, pain flickering across her pale face. She breathed in shallow, uneven gasps, each breath a small victory. Her throat moved as she swallowed carefully, gathering strength for the moment.

And then—her gaze met his.

“Aemond?” Her voice was a hoarse rasp, fragile yet unmistakable.

In an instant, he was on his feet, crossing the room with the quiet swiftness of wind over still water. He dropped to his knees beside her, eyes dark and intense, all the war and worry of the past hours distilled into a single look.

Her hand rose slowly, trembling, as if testing the air. When her fingers brushed his cheek, he made no move to pull away. The roughness of his skin against her delicate touch was grounding—real.

“You stayed,” she whispered, disbelief threading her words.

His jaw tightened, and his hands clenched behind his back in silent restraint, muscles taut like coiled steel. “I had to,” he said softly, every syllable weighted with a fierce devotion. “Anything else would have been treason—against you, against myself.”

She smiled faintly, a breath of warmth in the cold room. “Liar.”

Her fingers moved again, this time reaching for the collar of his tunic, tugging gently. He yielded without hesitation, as if surrendering was the only choice left.

When their lips met, the kiss was not tender or sweet—it was raw and urgent. It tasted of iron and wildfire, a fierce blend of blood and flame. It was not the kiss of lovers lost in softness but of survivors clinging to each other in a world gone to ash.

They kissed like those who had faced death and returned, with nothing left but the language of desperate touch.

Her hands wound into his hair, anchoring herself to him. His arms circled her, a fortress of warmth and silent promises. Time fractured and lost meaning. In that moment, the world outside ceased to exist—the past, the pain, the dangers that lurked beyond these walls all faded into shadows.

Yet even in the intensity of their union, a fragile tension lingered beneath the surface—too much and never enough all at once.

When they finally parted, breathless and trembling, the air between them was charged. Sacred. Scarred.

Burning.

Words failed them, but in their eyes was a silent vow—a fragile promise that this was not an ending, but a beginning.

--

The courtyard was a cavern of shadow and flickering light, the only sounds the crackle of torches and the low, guttural growl of Vhagar circling high above. The dragon’s massive wings stirred the night air, a reminder of the power waiting to be unleashed.

Three men knelt in the center, bound in heavy chains. Their faces were bloodied and bruised, bodies broken by interrogation, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of their crimes. They had confessed. They had named a buyer.

Aemond already knew who stood behind the conspiracy. The poison threading through the halls of Rivendale ran deep.

Above, on the stone balcony, Emberyn stood wrapped in a heavy cloak. The wind tugged fiercely at its edges, but she remained still, her gaze locked on the grim scene below. Her body was weak from recent wounds, but her eyes burned with a steady fire.

Beside her, Lord Rivendale was pale and silent, the lines of worry etched deep into his face. He dared not meet Aemond’s gaze.

The prince stepped forward, his presence commanding the space with a quiet authority that needed no elevation. His voice rolled across the courtyard like thunder, low and steady but impossible to ignore.

“For treason against the crown, the blood of dragons, and the attempted murder of a prince of the realm,” Aemond declared, “the sentence is death by flame.”

He did not shout. He didn’t need to. Only murmured. "Dracarys.."

Vhagar answered. With a beat of monstrous wings, the dragon descended, the heat from her breath scorching the night air. The three men were engulfed in blue-black flames, their screams silenced in moments as they turned to ash before the eyes of all who watched.

But the fire did not stop there. Aemond turned slowly, his gaze sharp as a blade, fixed now on the balcony above.

“I know who gave the order,” he said, his voice cold and steady, “and I know why.”

Lord Rivendale’s face drained of color.

“Your House is spared,” Aemond continued, “because your daughter bled for your sins.”

He let the weight of those words hang between them like a sword suspended by a thread.

Then, with a voice that cut through the tension like ice on fire, he pronounced, “Her betrothal to the Stark boy is over.”

A murmur stirred the gathered lords, and Rickon Stark stepped forward, fury blazing in his eyes.

“You cannot—!” he shouted.

But Lord Rivendale raised a hand, silencing him with practiced authority.

Rickon’s anger flared, raw and unyielding. “You’d let him—”

“I’d let my daughter live,” Lord Rivendale snapped, voice firm and resolute. “I will not risk Aemond Targaryen’s wrath for a marriage that is already ash.”

Rickon recoiled, stunned into silence, every muscle taut with frustration and disbelief.

Aemond’s voice came again, cold and absolute. “I’ve informed you of my intentions,” he said directly to her father, “I do not require your permission.”

His eyes flicked upward—to Emberyn.

She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her single, resolute nod spoke volumes.

Behind her eyes, the fire roared—unbroken, unyielding.

[writingsofwesteros]

When Gold Cloak Daemon brings the princess back in that shameful parade, of course it causes a complete stir. However it is in private among the family of the Princess that the true ripples are felt.

Otto is full of rage. Though it’s unclear how much it’s driven by the Princess or Daemon. Or perhaps how he takes it all as a slight against his house.

Alicent is beside herself. She alternates between screaming, pacing, praying, holding her daughter and crying, holding her daughter and praying, and praying while crying. Not many words can be understood aside from laments about her poor daughter, or her daughter’s virtue. It’s unclear which she laments more. But her curses of Daemon’s name and her anger at the “lechery and madness” of the city he now runs are very clear.

Aemond is stoic. But he’s nearly shaking with rage. His knuckles white with the force of his clenched fists. How DARE his uncle be so BRAZEN and ARROGANT. Flaunting duty and disgracing a Princess of the realm! Shameful! She could be carrying his bastard at this very moment! Or anyone’s! She arrived covered in seed, he no doubt let others take liberties with her. Perhaps half his guards had a go!

Unfortunately he announces that angrily out loud. Making Alicent let out a distraught wail and sink into her chair. His grandsire giving a sharp “Aemond!” In response.

Aegon stands there silently watching them. It gives him some comfort that he isn’t on the receiving end of this mess. For once he’s the good child. He DUTIFULLY brought this information straight to them. He isn’t as fazed now by what he saw. Oddly when he returns to his room later, he finds himself stroking his cock to the image of his uncle rutting on his sister like she was livestock to breed. And hearing such wanton lewd noises escape her lips.

Helaena was merciful. She spirited her sister out of the room during the confusion. Helping to undress her. Bathe her, helping bring her back to her senses and soothe the many aches in her body. She is perhaps the only one not thinking of the shame. But as her sister comes back down to earth, Helaena finds herself oddly curious. Enough to ask questions.

The answers she is vastly unprepared for.

They were raised as princesses. Taught carefully by their mother. Especially after Rhaenyra and her bastard children, Alicent has been strict. Taught them to avoid desires “that could not be righteously fulfilled.” They weren’t ignorant. They became curious eventually. Though finding the information answered some questions, Helaena never expected the details her sister gave.

Of how she snuck into the city and suddenly their uncle had forced her against a wall and was touching and rubbing and pulling at parts of her body that made her weak. Despite her protests, how he gained dominion over her body just as he gained dominion over the city. With practiced, steady, and lethal hands. She tells Helaena the humiliation of being stripped. And then about how it felt to have his cock suddenly forced inside her.

It really felt like he took her virtue from her. Violently. It was larger than she was prepared for in that part of her body. And he seemed to enjoy pushing deep hard and fast. She’s sure she must’ve bled a little on his cock with the amount of aggression he took her with.

She describes how he made her cunt ache, and it felt like he was using her whole body as a hole when he grabbed her and moved her like that. And shamefully she admits… it began to feel good.

That part shocks Helaena. But her sister continues. Shocking her even more with the detail.

How she felt like nothing more than a bitch being mounted and bred. Being watched and knowing every eye was loyal to the man whose cock was breaking her. Feeling the ache in her cunt from the unrelenting thrusts. And it felt good. The burning humiliation made her body tingle. And the painful ache in her cunt felt just as pleasurable soon. That’s the horrid truth. She was taken against her will. By her uncle, Daemon Targaryen, lord of the gold cloaks. In his city in front of his men, he had defiled a princess and she’d never felt a pleasure like that.

His aching cock painfully hitting inside her. The way he clutched her tightly and gave a few more aggressive thrusts at the end to force his seed deeper. It was shameful and horrid and disgusting and she loved it.

For those few days she was no princess. She lived to be used by the Lord Commander. He had no trouble finding her weak spots and purposefully exploiting them to make her see stars. She recounted all the depravities he enacted on her. The shameful things she’d been made to do. She swears she spent so long filled by his cock, that her cunt still aches and clenches as if he’s still inside her.

The princess does cry to her sister. But not out of grief. She cries out of shame. She as been humiliated. She could become mother to a bastard. And she enjoyed every second of it. Has she gone mad?

Helaena is fascinated after that. She wonders to herself how that could work. How pleasures of the flesh could drive one so mad, they’d allow another to possess and rule them body and soul. She’ll dwell on the thoughts for a long time. Wondering to herself.

Viserys, even with his brain addled, is angered at Daemon. He’s the one lecturing him. Demanding answers for what happened. But Daemon feels no fear. He doesn’t even feel shame. He did protect his niece after all! Only he enjoyed her body during those days. The seed spilled on her hardly counts. And he knows she could be carrying his bastard. In fact he hopes she is.

He wants to see his niece. His niece he defiled and so nicely trained and molded to perfectly suit him and his cock. He wants to see her breasts swollen and aching with milk. Her belly heavy with the child the Lord Commander forced into her royal womb. And he wants to taunt her family with that. In his city. His rule. He will have what he damn well pleases. And what he damn well pleases is to fuck his niece while she’s in such a state in front of those brothers of hers. He saw how Aegon’s cock twitched in the pleasure house while he watched her. He knows what went through his mind. And Aemond, for all his duty and honor. He knows his nephew’s weakness for women with child. Those foolish boys can watch their poor sister become a pregnant whore, and know it isn’t for them. Her body belongs to the Lord of the Gold Cloaks. Along with this city.

Not many may know this yet. But Daemon sees it. He knows the power he holds. One day, not even the royals and high lords can deny. Daemon Targaryen is the true ruler of King’s Landing

!!!!!!!!!!

THE HOTTEST!! All the reactions are so spot on as well, Alicent I imagine tries to hide her and maybe even wants to give her to the sept and hide this disgrace.

And Daemon would not even marry her..yet if ever, he'd keep her his mistress

[sugutoad]

matchup trade for @averagetoyakinnie !

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON MATCHUP

Significant Other

I ship you with Aegon Targaryen and Aemond Targaryen. While Aegon is someone you had asked for, Aemond was alway my runner up for you. This is probably because I think you and Aemond would balance one another out - bringing out both the best and worst parts of one another. You seem like a down-to-earth person and I believe that Aemond needs someone like that. Whereas for Aegon, I see some slight potential? While he is more bitter, you see the joy in almost everything and I think that it is a beautiful dynamic to unfold. 

Runner Ups: Daemon Targaryen and Jaecerys Tarageryen 

HEAD CANONS:

While the brother’s don’t necessarily share any feelings towards one another, they are madly in love with you. While Aegon visibly appears jealous when you spend too much time with Aemond instead of him, Aemond somehow hides his jealousy until the two of you are alone

From our previous match up, I mentioned you were from Dorne and Dorne has excellent hair. After a Targeryan married a Martell, curls were introduced to the family. But let us rewrite history! Aemond loves his hair so much and pays a lot of attention to it ( I mean, have you seen it?) When you showed him how to curl his hair, he was literally in heaven! Aegon, on the other hand, still refuses to take a shower….

A lot of the relationship, especially in the beginning, was fighting for your affection. Aemond would take you on his dragon and prove that it’s better, but Aegon would say he is faster. Aegon would buy you something you like and Aemond would buy something even better.

Once while training with Criston, you were walking with Rhaenyra and stood above where they were training (in the place where Viserys was sitting and watching the kids train in ep 6). Aegon would stop training and smile brightly at you, while Aemond takes his distraction to show off and attempt to impress by attacking Aegon. That didn’t work out in favour because you ran to comfort Aegon and had the audacity to scold Aemond (not that he minded hearing you voice at all)

While Aegon spoils you endlessly, it is Aemond who pays for small details about you. You said you like yellow? He will buy yellow flowers for you. You said you like pearls? He will personally get a custom made pearl necklace. 

SFW HEAD CANONS:

Aemond’s love language is acts of service. He wholly believes that you should do things for the people you claim to love. He is always doing small little gestures for you like opening the door for you, buying you anything you like, giving you things that remind him of you etc. 

Aegon, on the contrary, is obsessed with physical touch like you. Alicent loves her kids, but she isn’t really good at expressing, especially towards Aegon; the thief of her childhood days. Small little brushes against his hand or tight hugs are enough for one lifetime according to him. He will literally melt if you let his head lay on you lap as you run your fingers through his head and softly brush his forehead with your lips

Since we know Aemond studies a lot, he definitely tried to learn all the 6 languages that you know. This man tries so hard for you and meanwhile Aegon is just like ‘you should like me as who I am’ 

Jokes aside, if you asked Aegon for the smallest of things, he would literally do it in two seconds. If you asked him to kill one person who did something horrible to you, he would slaughter their whole House for you. 

 Mornings are blissful - a state you almost never want to get up from. You're sandwiched in between the boys who are sprawled all over the place and blanket half off, the sunlight setting a warm glow on everything and Aegon placing small kisses on your back as Aemond holds you close. 

Most people look at Aemond with pity or fear when they see him passing by because of the incident that occurred when he was 10. Well, everyone except you and Aegon. The both of you look at Aemond as if he was still perfect and as an equal (even if Aegon always calls him a twat or an idiot)

NFSW HEAD CANONS:

Not only are they so different when they are having a normal day, even sex with them is so different. It’s very rarely that you would actually have sex with both of them at the same time because both of them want you as their own and only allow themselves to be vulnerable around you,

Aemond is extremely passionate. He would whisper small compliments, his lips brushing slightly over your ear and trailing down your neck. He allows himself to be very very open and vulnerable with you, telling you almost anything on his mind. 

Similar to Daemon, he is absolutely obsessed with the idea of fucking on Vhagars back, but he doubts that she would even let him. He prefers any sort of eye contact between both of you because he wants to see how you feel and how you appear rather than simply words. 

If Aemond is soft and passionate, then Aegon is rough and quick. He, like his uncle, has been in many brothels before with all the finest whores. All he needs in 5 minutes to please you. It’s more of a fun game for him rather than truly enjoying himself. He looks forward to seeing how long it will take for you to finish and everytime he would smile and tell you that you did a good job. 

Neither brothers are really the best with aftercare… Aemond would hold you in his arms for a while in silence or lay his head on your lap, thinking about whatever he did that day. Because he is more vulnerable at the moment, he also reflects about his decisions. Aegon would offer a shoulder massage at best and usually falls asleep. According to him, if you needed soft and passionate sex, you should have gone to Aemond and not him. 

How You Met

Jaxrel held his father’s hand tightly as they entered the throne room. The 10 year old boy had begged his father to take him to King’s Landing a few days ago, but at this moment, he was regretting it. The door opened and almost all eyes were on the father and son duo. Looking up at his father, Jaxrel received an assuring nod from him and that was enough for the young boy. The room was so big! Bowing down to King Viserys, Jaxrel’s eyes wandered around the room, analysing every face there. Queen Alicent stood quietly beside the stairs, her glare almost burning at the back of Jaxrel’s head. Beside her were 3 kids - a girl his age (Heleana), a beautiful boy 3 years older than him (Aegon), a sweet boy a year or two younger than him glued to his mother’s side (Aemond) and a 5 year boy hiding behind his mother’s dress (Daeron). Heleana’s eyes were glued on the floor, muttering random things to herself. Aemond was looking straight at Jaxrel, trying to figure him out as if he was a puzzle in need of solving. Aegon looked bored and tired, his hair dishevelled and eyes half closed, only looking up once at Jaxrel (he raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes - the audacity of him!) Jaxrel and his father were warmly greeted to King’s Landing by Viserys who even gave them rooms for them to stay! While being escorted to their room outside for the hall, Jaxrel looked back to see Aegon looking at him amused again and Aemond awkwardly waving. 

Confession

Over the years, both brothers grew an odd attachment towards Jaxrel. Now at 17 names days old, Jaxrel sat between the two brothers (who were now 20 and 16 respectively) under the weirwood tree. Aegon didn’t quite need to confess because he made it so obvious that he liked Jaxrel. He would randomly kiss him or hug Jaxrel - he didn’t care if others would disapprove of that behaviour. They were all idiots anyway. Glancing to Aemond, who was strangely quiet, Jaxrel cocked his head in confusion. It looked like Aemond wanted to say something, but clearly couldn’t tell Jaxrel because of Aegon’s presence. Jaxrel quickly asked to retrieve a scroll that he ‘forgot’ in the library and Aegon absolutely couldn’t refuse his orders, even if he didn’t trust Aemond being alone with Aegon. Aemond didn’t even wait for Aegon to fully disappear before he confessed. It was short and straight to the point. It would have been meaningless to create a huge scene according to him. By the time Aegon returned, he was utterly confused and upset at the sight of Jaxrel’s arms wrapped around Aemond’s neck, kissing him deeply as if their life depended upon it. 

3 ship tropes:

Sun (Aegon) x Dawn (Jaxrel) x Moon (Aemond)

Two people (Aemond and Jaxrel) gang up to tease the third (Aegon)

‘Who are those idiots? Wait! They're my idiots’ (You) x Idiots (Aegon and Aemond) 

Theme Song:

‘Young and Beautiful’ by Lana DeRay

‘Play with Fire’ by Yacht Money

Favourite Thing About You

Aemond’s favourite thing about you is your endless talent. He never knew that anyone could be so talented in so many fields like you were. As someone who strives to be better than his older siblings by studying, he was incredibly intrigued with how many languages you knew. Aegon’s favourite thing about you is your eyes. The warm hazel that contrasts the cold purple he sees on a daily basis is enough to stop him on his track. He loves the flecks of blue and green against the hazel surface especially. 

Dates

Most dates are made up of sneaking out late at night. During the day, all three of you are busy with the Septas and personal duties, but at night time, all duties are lifted off your shoulders. Aegon knows of all the secret entrances in the palace walls and leads the way to King’s landing. The three of you avoid places that you have been to a lot and can be recognized easily. Aemond and you have hoods over your head while Aegon doesn’t. If anyone truly does catch him and tell his parents, he stopped caring what they thought of him a long time ago anyways. It usually ends off with you and Aemond dragging Aegon, who is absolutely drunk and claims he is perfectly fine, down the streets. When Alicent found out about it, she simply sighed and told Aemond and you that she expected better from the two of you. It was definitely worth it though. 

Wedding - Faith of The Seven Wedding

While it is uncommon for a man to take two wives in the Tarageryen culture, no one has ever taken two husbands. Your wedding with the boys was definitely frowned upon by some, but as long as you were with them, nothing truly mattered. People from all over Westeros came to witness the ceremony with their own eyes. Rooms were filled with gifts and the halls were filled with people and food of all kinds. Though it wasn’t a typical Valyrian wedding, it was still beautiful. The boys wore shades of green and black adorned with golden highlights while you wore a soft yellow. The wedding had many prayers and ceremonies and a male septon officiated the wedding. The wedding was held in a seven sided Sept, a religious building of the Faith. The guests are separated into two sections by the aisle. Before the wedding, there were multiple festivities and grand feasts to honour the three of you. The official wedding lasted a bit longer than an hour. After announcing your vows, the septon took a green ribbon around your hand and Aemond and Aegon’s hand to show the new tighten union between your body and soul. 

Familial and Platonic Relationships 

Rhaenyra Targaryen adores you with all her heart! When you stumbled upon her by accident as a kid, she decided to keep the sweet 10 year old child by her side at all times. She buys you all your clothes and any food you are ever craving. She is your mother figure after you began to live in King’s landing. Even after the two sides split up, she forbade anyone to harm anyone and if they do, they will die from her hands. 10/10 Relationship and probably both of your healthiest ones. 

Ser Criston Cole is assigned as your sworn protector after Aegon becomes King. He was the one who trained both you and all your children. He claims that he doesn’t care much for you, but if you got even a scratch, he would go wild. 

Alicent Hightower thinks you are an excellent choice for her sons. She often fights for your affection against Rhaenyra, but as time goes on, she gives up because she knows that Rhaenyra is like your mother. The two of you don’t really cross paths or talk much at all. 

Otto Hightower was the one who got you to meet the two boys. He knows of your high status so if he gets you with one of his grandsons, he has a higher chance of getting his bloodline on the Iron Throne. 

Viserys I Targaryen is your biggest supporter. He trusts you with almost everything because you are one of his best friend’s sons and married to not one, but both of his elder boys. You remind him a lot of younger Rhaenyra so he keeps you around ever since Rhaenyra left for Dragonstone. As you grew a bit older, he made you his cup barrier like he did with Rhaenyra. 

Helaena Targaryen is your best friend. You are literally the only person who actually understands her and your bond grew stronger after your marriage with her brothers. She taught you how to sew and often makes little things for you. In return, you always sit with her while she rambles about her bugs. 

Children

Reactions: When you announced that you were with child for the first time, everyone was so shocked. Aegon held a party in your honour because of how proud he was. Viserys and Alicent were the proudest grandparents and even Heleana was associating with the family rather than her bugs. You quickly received many gifts from all the Lords and Ladies, especially from Rhaenyra , who always had a soft spot for you. When you announced your last pregnancy, everyone was so used to it and just said ‘congratulations, I guess?’ And has the audacity to continue their day? It’s mainly because they are so used to it now. 

Visenya Targaryen is the eldest child and daughter of Aemond and Jaxrel. She absolutely did not inherit any of the typic Targaryen appearance, but rather Jaxrel’s darker traits (asides some lilac hues in her hazel eyes). Though she is identical to Jaxrel, she acts similar to Aemond instead.  She isn’t the nicest person, often bullying some people and flirting with every man she sees. Her only soft spot is for her family and her cousin/beloved, Baela Tarageryen. 

Kanon Targaryen is the second child and daughter of Aegon and Jaxrel. She is a bundle of lanky energy, almost never settling in one place. Despite being known as a laid back person, she is quick to anger and slow to forgive. But if you don’t get her angry she is a really nice person. She is not afraid to show any skin (it’s not like her parents care much for that factor) and is an amazing dancer.  I absolutely know she is married to someone from House Tyrell or Martell. 

Momoe Targaryen is the third child and daughter of Jaxrel and Aegon. She is the older twin sister of Momo. She is absolutely the cutest person to ever grace the world with the biggest lilac eyes. It baffles Aegon how he can be the father of a child so pure and innocent. She is always studying many languages and only ever talks bad about others in other languages with her twin. She hosts a bunch of tea parties and makes her own clothes and accessories. She is engaged to Jacerys Tarageryen, but only to keep peace between both sides for a time being. 

Momo Targaryen is the fourth child and daughter of Jaxrel and Aegon and she is the youngest twin of Momoe! She is quite similar to her sister in the sense that they are both sweet and silly. She is the daughter almost everyone wants - the perfect lady. She is multi-talented and knows many things: fighting multiple languages, painting, drawing etc. Unlike her elder siblings who are already married, she does not wish to get married at all. 

Alhaitham Targaryen is the eldest of the triplets and is the 5th child of Aemond, Aegon and Jaxrel. While his siblings are chaotic, he is a huge sweetheart who jokes around and is always trying to learn new things. He is always munching on snacks which usually gets a scolding from  his Grandmother.

Nemesis Targaryen is the second sibling of the triplets and is the 6th child of Aemond, Aegon and Jaxrel. He's the most energetic person in the family, even more so then his elder sister. He is always travelling to different countries and playing pranks when he is home. He has a big sweet tooth and steals his older brother’s snack all the time. He is extremely competitive and plays lots of games with his siblings. 

Gemini Targaryen is the third sibling of the triplets and is the 7th child of Aemond, Aegon and Jaxrel. He's also more energetic like his brother and is a very passionate person, adoring even the smallest things in life. He is the life of the party like Jaxrel and a skilled fighter like Aemond. He is incredibly popular because of his looks. He and his siblings are always sneaking out and they got caught by Aegon, who actually sneaked out with him. He is really tall, often banging his head by accident on door frames. 

Family Life:

Family dinners don’t happen often because everyone in the family is always busy doing their own things, but once in a while, they all just sit down together and enjoy each other's company. The triplets are almost never there and when they are, they don’t even eat because they have already stuffed themselves with snacks. 

Gemini is the tallest in the family while Momo is the shortest. They have a really silly relationship. They tease one another, but in a good way and are alway trying to help one another. I feel like they have the strongest relationships among the siblings. Kind of like Benedict and Eloise’s relationship 

Everytime one of them have a new lover, the family analyzes the fuck out of the person to such an extent that it is scary. All of them sit in front of them and ask twenty questions each. Out of the lot, Visenya is the most over protective about her siblings and who they love.

Aemond is such a girl’s dad! He always lets the girls do his hair and rides on Vhagar with them (it usually receives a scolding from Jaxrel) While the parents try to not have favourites, it’s in human nature to prefer something more. Aemond’s favourite is Momoe, Aegon’s favourite is Gemini while Jaxrel’s favourite is Visenya (mainly because she was the first one he ever had and like Cersei said ‘There is no love stronger than the one a mother has for her eldest child’ or something along those lines)

Moonboard:

[aemondslefteyeball]

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi (7)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

[Modern!Aemond x Fem!Reader]

[Warnings: Gore, death, animal attacks, masturbation, creepin']

[Summary: They best pop some broken shot bottles between their fingers]

(Love y'all hoping I'll get two out next week have a good weekend drink water)

Word Count: 4.9k

Chapter 7

Three months after the disappearance, life was back to normal for most. Aemond found himself growing ever more restless as the summer cast a sweltering heat over King’s Landing. Despite how awful he felt, he was starting to handle it better. Helaena wasn’t the I-told-you-so type, but he still couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he continued going after the promised five sessions. He wondered if other people could see the difference in him. Earlier this week he had responded to his secretary when she asked him how his day was instead of grunting. But the torment of not knowing where you are was eating him alive. The scans in Moat Cailin were apparently going slower than expected due to issues with interference or something along those lines. Days blended into each other but that morning he had walked into his Grandfather’s office and requested a long weekend; it was the closest thing to a vacation he had taken after graduating. Otto once again shot him that empathetic glance, and nodded. “Aemond.” His hand had been resting on the doorknob when his Grandfather called out. He turned, half expecting to be lectured. “I would have done the same for your Grandmother.” Otto Hightower was not a man anybody could accuse of being emotional, but there was a deep sorrow in his voice Aemond had never been privy to. He had never really heard much about her, but supposed this was why. Aemond nodded at his Grandfather once more before leaving the room. 

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After the night at the tree, you refused to go back there. It made no matter, Barba wouldn’t push you to do it. Whatever poison had seeped into you had only metastasized, it seemed. The days blurred together and your nights were riddled with serpents twisting in the burrows of the Earth. Finding little comfort in rest, you found yourself at your clearing more often. Tonight you were joined by Barba, who was looking at you excitedly before pulling out her black iPhone. You looked at her questioningly, what could have been months ago all of you agreed to limit phone usage to ten minutes a month unless absolutely necessary. 

“Is it okay if I play something?” Her voice was as soft as always, but you braced yourself for religious music. 

You smiled and nodded, “Yeah go ahead.” Giving her the ‘all go’ gesture, she turned the device on and pulled up her Spotify library. 

Barba gave you a meek look for a second, her icy eyes gauging your expression. “So, Uhm, I have a kinda unconventional music taste?” 

You smiled, figuring that you could stand to listen to music about the Old Gods as long as she was happy. “Oh, I’m fine with anything.” You shrugged, secretly hoping that she wouldn’t play any country music. 

“Are you sure?” Barba raised an eyebrow as she tilted her head towards you. “Like it’s not super common.” Suddenly curious at whatever tree music she was hiding, you just shot her two thumbs up. 

You thanked R’hllor above that it was not country music. It was not Old Gods gospel either. So far it seemed to be some folksy song that had the occasional sound effect. You nodded approvingly, folk music wasn’t your favorite genre but it was pretty good. It also made sense for Barba, though you wondered why she thought folk was so unconventional. As soon as you started to close your eyes and enjoy the singing a scream pulled you out of your thoughts and had you staring between the phone and Barba. She just offered a small smile before the tempo of the song picked up and the growl started again. “Barba what the fuck?” was the only thing that you could even think to say. She just shrugged at you as she turned the volume up and tilted it so you could hear better. You hadn’t heard a lot of metal before, but the song actually sounded pretty nice. You still couldn’t stop staring at Barba in shock though. Who would’ve thought that the quietest, sweetest girl in all her classes listened to this? “Honestly I kinda fuck with it.” You started dancing as best you could to the insanely fast tempo. What the fuck are this guitarist’s fingers made out of? “Heavy metal Barba.” 

“Oh, this is black metal actually.” She corrected, a gleam in her eyes as the two of you clumsily danced to the undanceable song. Barba tilted her head back to scream with the song, you miming guitar. She started laughing then, and the two of you continued until the song was winding down. When Barba stopped giggling, she handed the phone over to you expectantly. 

“This is your ten minutes, listen to what you want.” You moved to hand the phone back to her before she pushed it so it remained in your hand. 

“Seriously I just threw you in the deep end, pick a song.” You scrolled through her library hopefully, searching for the song you had been hoping to find. 

When you clicked on it, Barba’s face lit up in recognition. “Teenage Mary said to Uncle Dave, ‘I sold my soul, must be saved.’” Both of your voices rang through the clearing. “Gonna take a walk down to Union Square.” When the timer sounded the two of you groaned in unison. Barba shut the phone off and put it into her back pocket. 

“What do you think of Aly’s expedition?” Barba sat on the log, you following on the one across the fire from her. 

“It’s dangerous.” You sighed, dangerous didn’t really even begin to cover it. The only mercy at your disposal was the heat. “Sara seems pretty on board with the idea. Floris too. Sabitha won’t let Aly go without her…” You paused for a moment, glancing into the fire. “I think I want to go.” 

Barba stared at you hard for a second before pulling her lips into a hard line. “The Cessna is too dangerous, but this is fine?” 

“There’s safety in numbers, and we know our feet work. Can’t say the same for the ‘ol shitbird.” You weren’t sure if you were ready to tell her about your dream the night prior. Ivestragī se sȳndror mazilībagon ao dāez. A crimson river swept through the valley, white driftwood caught in pink rapids. Se riñar, ñuha riña. A cloud of red smoke was the last thing you remembered before Baela shook you awake that morning. Barba would no doubt tell you how the terror you felt while sleeping was a gift. She snapped you out of your thoughts with a dry laugh. 

“Fine. But if it doesn’t work I’m taking the plane south.” 

“I understand.” 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aemond had bid entirely too much money on the pink monstrosity that sat before him. Regardless, you couldn’t come home to a torn duvet cover without having immediate questions. He inhaled again before he stepped into the bedroom. Vhagar thankfully wasn’t napping in her usual spot, and taking that as a sign Aemond tossed the new one on the bed as best he could. He could just have the maid straighten it later. His task in the room was completed, but he couldn’t wrench himself away from the closest substitute he had to you. He walked across to the other side of the room, looking at your desk. A few textbooks were stacked off to the right, and Aemond flipped through them before moving into an iPad, stapler, and tape. He opened the top drawer, rummaging through it to find basic office supplies. Following that he moved on to the bottom drawer. This too yielded nothing. A few folders were neatly labeled with subjects and an unmarked manila envelope. He flipped through the folders and didn’t find anything of interest. He undid the string on the envelope next, pulling out a few pieces of sketch paper. Aemond lightly brushed his fingertip across the drawing’s lower lip, a rising hunger growing in him. The next one was decidedly more risque. You were playing the piano but with a robe draped around you. Draped was a loose word for it, as the robe seemed to be a formality. Plum silk looked as if it had been poured around your hips, your naked back exposed to him. Aemond took in a sharp breath as he dragged his eye over the soft curve of your waist. From the angle you had been drawn at, he could see the curve of your breast, infuriatingly too little of it however. His eye lingered on the image for a second longer before he took in the next one with a widened eye. Aemond felt a predatory grin slip across his face as a burning jealousy took hold of him.

The paper was promptly set down on the desk before the blonde reached to undo his belt, cock painfully throbbing against his slacks. Upon being freed, it slapped against his buttoned shirt and he let out a groan. Aemond spread the precum down onto the rest of his length, holding a breath in before releasing it with a soft moan as he stroked down to the base. His eye locked down intently on the drawing of you, back arched and face twisted in pleasure while presumably, Emerson was bringing you to your peak. His pace grew more fervent, angrier at the thought of it. You looked blissful, but he knew he could break you down to the point of deliriousness. Aemond would find you when you were playing piano, and you would be as oblivious to his presence as always. He decided he would stand behind you then as he pumped his cock with one hand now, eye tightly shut. He would brush your hair to one side, letting his breath draw goosebumps from you. He would insist you keep playing, while one hand tossed that little skirt aside and snaked into your panties. If you stopped, so would he. The thought drove him wild, and he was bound to escalate it. His breath came out in pants, pace quickening. Aemond would kneel between your legs next, spreading one while taking care to leave the other so your foot could still rest on the pedal. From there he would plant gentle kisses along the tops of your thighs, wondering what your moans would sound like. Finally, he would tear off your panties, relishing in either your submission or annoyance. Aemond knew you would be so good for him after he dragged his tongue up your slit, swirling his tongue around your bud before pressing on it hard enough to make you gasp. His tongue lowered to the hole, pushing his tongue into it while pressing his aquiline nose on your clit. If you behaved he would reward you greatly, though truth be told either path would end in the same result. You would still end up spread on the piano, your skirt tossed up around your hips as he relished the sweet moan on your lips when he finally entered you. When you met his gaze he would start rolling his hips into you. He wondered if you would buck your hips as you approach your peak. He would be unrelenting. Unyielding. He would move his thumb to assault your bud until you started to shake. Aemond needed to feel you clench around him, head tossed back in abandon as you unraveled on his cock. The pace at which he stroked himself increased as he gritted his teeth. Aemond was a jealous man, and he wouldn’t stop until you were unable to remember your own name, let alone your ex’s. A primal groan was released from Aemond’s lips as he finally came, but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough until you were looking him dead in the eye when he came in you. Aemond reached out a hand to lean against the desk, catching his breath before he put his cock away. 

Fuck.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why didn’t you tell them about your dream?” 

You paused for a moment, wondering if it was a rhetorical question. You continued to examine the charred body of the deer with a detached eye. When you met Barba’s icy blue eyes you sighed. “Aly is a brick wall with hair.” Barba leaned back on her heels, nodding for a second. Your gaze flickered back to the stag, curiosity took hold of you. Reaching down, you wrenched a vertebra out of the corpse, holding it up to the light for a moment like a gemstone. “This bone didn’t burn at all.” You examined it for a moment before smiling at Barba and getting up. 

You met Sabitha, Aly, Nettles, and Myrielle at the clearing in front of the cabin. Shooting Aly a small smile, you tugged at the straps of your backpack. “When do we leave?” 

Aly smiled back at you “In an hour.” 

You nodded, taking a knee and unzipping your rucksack, pulling the bone out of it. You had fashioned a piece of twine through it, and approached Sabitha while she was putting her water bottle in her bag. “This is kinda weird, but will you take this?” 

Sab’s eyebrows knit together, running her fingertips across the bone before she looked back up at you. “Sure, but why am I going to be wearing a vertebra on my neck?” 

“Just do it, please. I think it’ll keep you safe.” 

“Like a lucky rabbit's foot?” 

“I had a dream last night.” You weren’t sure why you couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of your mouth. Thankfully Sabitha smiled at you, gesturing at you to continue. “There was, I don’t know. Red smoke and a river of blood. Just please keep it on you, okay?” 

“Yeah, sure. Thanks Y/N.” She pulled you in for a quick hug before you two turned back to the group. 

The group was exchanging hugs, hope on their faces as they saw you guys off. Yelling suddenly rang out as Rhaena bustled out of the cabin. “Wait! Wait for me. I’m coming.” Rhaena panted before she looked at Ser Criston with doe eyes. “Criston, I mean Ser Cole. Please don’t try to talk me out of this, okay?” Her eyes were pleading, Cole looked as if he were a shell of a man. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I just feel like my friends really need me.” Baela’s lips pulled into a tight line across her face and you sucked your breath in through your teeth as quietly as possible. 

“Oh, wow. Well, that’s uh…” Ser Criston looked away for a second, his face suddenly twisted in false disappointment. “You know what? That’s really brave of you, Rhaena.” They both giggled for a moment before he met her gaze again. “I’ll do the best I can without you.” 

“I’ll come back for you, I promise.” Baela physically cringed, and you shrugged at her. She’s your sister.

“Okay.” Rhaena went in for a hug immediately after, and Criston’s mask dropped. He stared at all of you with a long-suffering look. He tentatively patted her on the back, his face scrunched as he did so. Everybody else in the group tried to distract themselves as Rhaena leaned in for a moment longer, sighing dreamily. 

Last hugs were exchanged as the group of you set off into the brush. The mood was cheerful, and the breeze was a relief. You hummed quietly to yourself as you took in your surroundings. Marguerita Passion had to get her fix. She wasn’t well, she was getting sick. Went to sell her soul, she wasn’t high. Didn’t know, thinks she could buy. Dappled sunlight shone through the leaves, and Nettles joked about girl scouts. In the afternoon you found yourself actually starting to bond with Rhaena. She still seemed a little off, but she was interesting. The group of you hung back a little while Aly and Sabitha picked up their pace. Eventually, Aly’s gaze turned back to you, before she turned and gave Sabitha a look. Subtle. You didn’t hear the conversation, but Aly looked grave. Not that anything was new, really. When darkness fell camp was quickly established. “So get this.” Sabitha was animated as she spoke, her face lighting up. “After Bill Pullman falls in love with Sandra, his fucking brother wakes up! It’s a whole ass mess. I mean, this dude actually thinks that Sandy is his fiancee.” She gestured wildly, locking eye contact with everybody. “So just…” Howling rang out in the distance, and all of you froze. You looked in the direction it came from and swallowed. Your heels dug into the dirt. 

Aly rocked back for a moment, looking at the fire. “We’ll be fine. Wolves are scared of humans. Besides, it doesn’t sound like they’re very close.” The nagging feeling still didn’t sit right with you, and you stared at Sabitha for a second, who was rubbing the vertebra. “We can take turns keeping watch, just to be extra safe but I really don’t think we have anything to worry about.” 

“You know who does need to worry?” Sabitha wiggled her eyebrows. “Our girl, Sandy. Because she does not know this man and he’s never seen her before he’s like, ‘Who is this girl?’ And his doctor is like, ‘Well, you must have amnesia because you don’t remember your wife-to-be.” As Sabitha rambled on, the group relaxed. Eventually, your eyes grew heavy, and you last remembered Sabitha moaning about how unfair it is that Natasha Lyonne is straight.

Morning found the group anxious, but ready to carry on. Birds sang and insects chirped as you continued. Later in the morning, Aly heard the sound of rushing water, and the group of you rushed to it excitedly, undoing the lids on your bottles. To your horror, the water was a deep, muddy red. “I don’t think we should drink it,” Rhaena announced, letting the handful of water she had cupped drain back into the river. 

“No shit.” Myrielle sniped. “It smells weird.” The scent of rust hung heavily in the air, with no signs of life in the stream.

“Y/N, what did you tell Sab about your dream?” Your arms crossed over your chest as you took a step back, gaze flitting away. “A river of blood?” Nettles continued. Your eyes were locked onto the water. “And a cloud of smoke.” 

Aly scoffed after Myri had finished, her eyes rolling. “Yeah, and last night I dreamed I went water-skiing with Jaenara Belaerys, so.” Rolling your eyes and shaking your head, you found your friendship with Aly growing ever-thinner. It was okay if she didn’t believe in things, but you were getting sick of her constantly shitting on everybody else. She was out eating dirt last night but you were crazy for what happened at the seance. 

“Mineral deposits can change the color of the water,” Rhaena spoke out. “Like iron, maybe?” 

Sabitha nodded, looking at it again. Aly smiled at her. “I’m sure that’s what it is then. Come on, this has been a fun pit stop but we need to keep moving.” She turned on her heels, clodding away. 

“Um, guys.” Myrielle held the compass up. The dial was spinning all over, never landing in one spot. 

Sabitha stared at it for a second before looking away. “The iron in the water could be messing with it. Especially this much of it. It’ll probably work again when we’re away from the water.” Her tone was hesitant as Sabitha gripped the vertebra that hung from her neck. 

“Seriously?” Aly shot the group a hard stare. 

“I don’t know, maybe we should think about going back?” Myri looked at Nettles hesitantly.

“We just need to get away from here.” Aly grabbed one strap and shifted her weight to her left leg. 

“Wait, let's think about this.” Sabitha blurted out. 

Aly stepped forward, her gaze flat. “Think about what?” 

“I don’t know, this stream? It is a pretty big coincidence that Y/N dreamed about it… we heard wolves last night…” You decided to stay out of it, suddenly regretting your admission to Sabitha. All you wanted to do was try to keep her safe, not start infighting.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.” 

“I’m just saying tha-” 

“What? What are you saying? That the fucking woods are speaking through Y/N? That they don’t want us to leave? Do you know how insane that sounds? The woods don’t give a shit and all this nonsense.” She gestured towards you suddenly as you met her gaze, your nerves being grated ever thinner. “And dreams and omens and whatever the fuck.” Aly gestured to the bone on Sabitha’s neck. “That is. We can survive without a compass. We’ll use the sun to travel south and we can place cairn stones or something under trees. There is a solution for everything.” Aly was going to make an amazing engineer. Absolute disregard for human feelings and a stubborn resolve to fix anything. “An explanation for everything. Now, that said, nobody forced you to come with me. Anybody that wants to go back, by all means.” She spat. “But I’m losing daylight.” You shared wary looks with each other before you looked at the river one last time. Doc Martens rustled leaves as you followed Aly. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He swore he wouldn’t do this again. Aemond cursed Emerson, but he knew that was a deflection and cursed himself afterward. Once he regained full control of himself he put the sketches back into the manila envelope and placed it back in the desk. He let out an audible sigh at the empty room, his gaze landing on the bed again. Some giant moth… thing of yours stared back at him from atop the bed where he had haphazardly thrown it after putting the new duvet on. Closing the bottom drawer to the desk Aemond walked back to the closet door. Pushing it further open, he took a deep breath before rummaging through the hamper once more. He would have the maid wash your clothes, but not all of them. And after three months in the wilderness, you wouldn’t miss a few pairs of panties. This was a turning point, he promised himself. What had been done was already in motion, but he wouldn’t deny it to himself any longer. He was attracted to you and missed your presence in the house. Aemond would talk about it with Dr. Greenwood and make it right. The expiration date on your marriage was a little under a year and a half away, but maybe until then the two of you could come to an understanding with each other. Besides, it wasn’t like Emerson would be here for you when you returned. After Taenys had morphed from emotional support to a vine growing on Emerson she attended fewer briefings before she had stopped coming altogether the past month. The last he had checked, she made her relationship with her public on social media. You deserved better, but in the meantime, he could fuck you hard enough that you would forget about her. He made one last move to the drawer of your nightstand, opening it before grabbing one more item and making his way out of the room. He spent the rest of the day alone. Helaena was at some summer camp with the twins, and the solitude had been weighing heavily on him. He did ask the maid to do your laundry, and he was grateful that she wouldn’t ask questions about the stains on it. Every day felt like a repeat. He was the first person who would be contacted when you were found, but he couldn’t help the compulsion to continue checking Twitter for continued updates. Aemond had always prided himself on his restraint but found that his need for you was becoming an addiction. He reminded himself that he would sort it out with Dr. Greenwood, not that she needed to know everything. Aemond would fix it as he had done his entire life, and things would be better when you returned. At some point he locked himself into his office, diving back into his work for a few hours respite from the storm in his head. When his eyes grew too bleary to continue, he returned to his room. Every step of his routine was just another meaningless thing he did to occupy his time. When he finally finished, he stood at the edge of his king-sized bed observing his bounty. Three pairs of panties, and the journal that had been almost entirely filled. He needed to get to know you if he was going to be of any use when you returned, after all. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You fluffed the blanket before placing it on the ground. Your feet ached from all the walking on shitty terrain, with your mind weighed down by exhaustion. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but we’re one step closer to home. I promise this will all be over soon.” You shook your head as Aly spoke, just wanting to sleep and get fucking help. 

Silence hung in the air for a brief second. “We don’t need another speech, Alysanne. We need to sleep.” Sabitha’s face hardened as she glanced back into the fire. “I’ll take first watch tonight.” 

Aly shook her head, sitting by the tree. “Let me do it. You should all rest. Aly leaned against the trunk of the tree, and your eyes grew bleary as the flickering of the fire faded from your vision. 

Silver hair flashed through the dense brush. You ducked under vines as you followed after the man. The silver hair evoked some feeling of familiarity but you couldn’t quite place it. Jungle grew over pillars of stone, with the man flickering between them. The further he walked, the more intricate the stone became. The jungle seemed to either respect or fear it, as the plant line abruptly ended after you stepped into a clearing. Your boots padded over black cobblestone as you pursued the man, pace quickening. “Wait!” You ran after him, but he always seemed to elude you. He was only walking, but with a strange sort of glide to it. The man finally entered an ominous building. You stopped to stare at it for a second before taking a deep breath and entering. To your surprise– and horror– the man was waiting for you inside. He stood casually across the room, clad in strange, sunset-colored robes. Long silver hair cascaded down part of his ruined face. Flesh melted and sloughed off. The closer you looked at the man, the less human he started to appear. Ēdi naejot gaomagon ziry syt se dārion. His voice was half-gurgled, and you stepped back suddenly. You picked up maybe three words of what he said, but what you did know didn’t sound great. Then it dawned on you. That voice. His eyes were swollen sickeningly far from the socket, and you could see his jaw hanging loose where the sinew melted away. Charred bone crept into a Cheshire grin as the demeanor of the man changed. Kessa sagon. Se riñar emagon vēttan ziry sīr. The melted man continued forward with a predatory grin. Weeping, blackened skin hung off his body like a glove, slowly dripping down his body. You stepped too far back and stumbled back onto the stone. The man was upon you in an instant, doughy fingers digging in as he whispered in Valyrian. You were unsure of exactly what he was doing, but fingers wrenched into your right thigh, muscles tensing as you cried out. His swollen eyes opened briefly, purple and blazing. Suddenly the whispers turned to growls before his eyes closed one last time. Īlē ivestretan

You woke up to the shaking of the wolf’s head. Sabitha yelled as she was pulled away from your side. A scream wrenched from your lips as the canine bit into your leg. You panicked suddenly, bringing your boot to kick at its head before angling your foot so the steel toe collided with the wolf’s temple. It let out a pained whimper and you didn’t give it a moment to recover. You were on it in a second with a rock you had grabbed and promptly bashed it into the creature's head. Grunts of exertion left you as you slammed the rock back into the ruined mess of skull and brains, unable to see from the tears blurring your vision. A hand was suddenly placed on your shoulder, and you choked out a sob as Nettles pulled you back from atop the body. A buzzing sounded in your ears, and your vision started to blur. Your thigh looked like ground beef when you could see it clearly, and Nettles moved to wrap a makeshift tourniquet around it. When it was done, she helped lift you to stand. Left arm wrapped around Nettles’s shoulder, the pair of you walked towards where the rest of the group was gathered. Your gait grew unsteadier, and you were unprepared for the sight of Sabitha on the ground. The lower right half of her face had been torn apart by the wolves, her teeth visible through the holes in her cheeks. Aly kneeled beside her, wailing while holding the vertebra. Streams of blood oozed from Sabitha’s face as you collapsed against Nettles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sabitha :(

Black Metal Barba’s Jam

Taglist: @chainsawsangel

[star-girl69]

I Loved You Like the Sun

a/n: i’m not ready to let go of this fic so i WILL be continuing it into the dance of dragons and i’ll be separating it into two parts. part one should conclude in what i hope to be 5 or less more chapters. i’ll be following the show plot bc that’s easiest for me. so that unfortunately means once i get through what’s happened in the show so far this book will be postponed until the new season comes in 2024 :( also- i heard all of you guys!! y/n will be claiming cannibal later in the series.

and i apologize for the weirdness with her father- after i decided to expand on this series, i decided to leave that conflict out. kinda a messy ending, but i’m eager for daemyra and reader to solidify their own family.

and btw guys it’s still me i just changed my username and stuff 😭

warnings: incest, swearing, violence, kinda sex tbh, mentions of death, tell me if i missed anything!!

Chapter Twelve- Silk Sheets

—-

Jace admits Lady Y/N confuses him.

He knows the facts- he knows that his mother and Daemon clearly feel some affection towards her.

He thinks back to their time in Kings Landing, when he saw Daemon with his hand on Y/N’s thigh and his mothers arm around her chair.

He remembers hearing a scream, muffled, coming from the other wing of their apartments. He remembers the banging on the door, and then the silence before screams of pain. They were unfamiliar. He remembers sneaking out of his bed, past the guards roaming the halls to look for something, he wasn’t sure. He remembers his mother crying, before bringing Lady Y/N into her arms. He remembers her calling the Lady “my Y/N.”

He remembers the special attention, the red dresses, the longing looks.

And he notices.

He notices how his mother and Daemon insert Y/N into their lives, scheduling bonding time with each of the children. He notices how his mother always makes sure Y/N is there.

His siblings are already entranced with her. Lucerys worships the ground she walks on, Baela proclaims Y/N to be her best friend, and Rhaena always draws her attention with soft words and nimble sewing hands. Joffrey and Aegon adore her as well, although they are too young to truly understand what is going on.

Jace does not know how his siblings have surrenders to her web. Does not know how his parents have. Does not know why he feels the webs clinging to his skin.

But now, she only watches him with fire-bright eyes. She does not carry their name. But fire burns in her, and Jace would be a fool not to see it.

He parries and blocks, rallies and ducks. He evades the wooden sword of the non-descript guard, feeling Lady Y/N’s eyes on him.

It is a blur of movement- an empty brain, devoid of thoughts about Aegon and Aemond and the rest of the Hightowers. His ailing grandfather. His poor aunt, who is subjected to a life with Aegon. How the crown already weighs heavy on his mother’s shoulders and she does not even have one yet. How one day that will be his.

He isn’t sure he can imagine it.

Baela at his side, Jace and Rhaena in Driftmark. Joffrey will be with him, of course. He needs a cupbearer if he is to be king. He likes to imagine Aegon will be a fierce warrior.

His grandparents dead. Daemon dead. His mother dead. Uncles bitter about their lack of power.

With a grunt, the knight yields. Jace’s sword at his throat. Lady Y/N claps.

Jace is burning under the spring sun.

—-

You supposed you shouldn’t be surprised how grand Daemon and Rhaenyra’s chambers were- much less the rest of Dragonstone.

Sometimes you forgot they were as powerful as they were, that the commanded the skies and the sea, the earth and the wind. They had thousands of men at their beck and call- to fight for them, to die for them.

Knowing that Daemon and Rhaenyra had all of that power at the word of a raven made you feel better about the letter from your father.

The two had wasted no time in furnishing their room to become yours as well. A bookshelf on the far wall, the comfiest chair next to the fireplace, tapestries of your choosing on the walls. It was more of a home then your room at Chambers Manor ever was.

You let your hand stretch over the silk sheets, blood red. Your hand splays, fingers dig in, making that scratching sound that makes a shiver run down your spine.

You sigh, falling back onto the bed.

What would you think if your father could see you now? You, the youngest of four, just trying to make it by unnoticed by your family. Your mother had passed years ago- one of the reasons you bonded so well with Rhaenyra.

—-

“I miss her.”

It is her mothers birthday.

She demands that you stay with her all day, so unlike her usual sweet asks and subtle coercion (you can’t refuse the feel of her lips). And her harsh tone is nothing like normal.

But she is hurting. You let her boss you around. If it made her feel better, you would rip out your own heart for her. You are already walking around with something inside of you that belongs to her, what difference does it make if it is in your chest or her hands? You never survived on blood. You survived on star power, on something mystical and otherworldly. Something no one else could understand.

Rhaenyra stifles another sob into your hair, as you hold her with tight hands. You urge her to breathe, and she does. Your chest aches.

Rhaenyra is your savior. Your lover. Your everything. She is like dragonfire being blown in your face- leaving you unscathed. She burns bright and hot but as you get closer, you see that she is just a young girl. Motherless. Powerless.

You know that one day she will burn. But today is not that day.

Besides, she is stronger than that. She is more than her loss.

It is a while before her sobs quite down.

“Tell me something. Distract me, my love.”

You sigh, mind scrambling. “Did I ever tell you about my great grandmother?” She shakes her head, and you hum. “Her name was Alyssa. She was a Targaryen, a cousin to Old King Jaehaerys. She had a dragon, you know. Pink, if the stories are to be believed. A ferocious she-dragon named Heartfyre. My grandmother claimed Heartfyre when she was only 12 years old. She said she wasn’t even sure what was happening. She thought the old dragon was going to kill her. But she did not. After my grandmother died, Heartfyre flew off- to Old Valyria, traders on the sea said. No one ever saw her again.”

Your hands tangle in Rhaenyra’s hair.

“That’s sweet,” she murmurs, and you are relieved to hear no remnants of a sob in her voice. “‘M sorry for being so rude today.”

“It’s okay, Rhaenyra. I know. I know.”

She does not cry. She is a princess. She is a Targaryen.

But here, with you, she lets herself fall. It is the sweetest thing.

—-

The door opens with a sharp creek, and voices fill the room. It is what you have been waiting for.

You stand, skirting past Rhaenyra and Daemon in the doorway.

“Y/N, come back!” Rhaenyra calls, and for once, you do not answer her. You grab the letter you received late last night. It is hidden in your bookshelf, in between the cover of your favorite book.

When you turn back around, Rhaenyra is sitting leisurely on the bed. Daemon sets Dark Sister on the side table, fingers carefully tracing down the blade. He handles it with such care and reverence, you admire it.

You pad over to the wordlessly, letter burning in your hands. You do not trust yourself to speak, and Rhaenyra frowns when you hand her the letter. She tugs on your red slip, pulling you next to her on the bed.

“What’s this?”

You sigh, wordless, placing your forehead on her shoulder. You can tell she is concerned, placing a hand on the side of your face. You hear the sound of the wax seal ripping.

You did not dare open it.

Her eyes scan over it quickly, and you hear the sound of Daemon’s holster falling to the floor.

“Your father.” She whispers, and it is a breathless thing.

You nod against her, her hand curls into your hair.

“I won’t let him take you. Not again.”

“What?” Daemon asks, walking over, finally in earshot of your hushed voices.

“Letter.” Rhaenyra whispers. “Y/N’s father.”

“Tell him to fuck off,” Daemon scoffs.

You are too nervous to admonish him, Rhaenyra too busy reading.

“He says you can stay in Dragonstone. That your siblings married better than you. He doesn’t care.”

You let out a breath of relief.

The years of letting him pass you by have paid off.

“Thank the Gods,” you murmur.

“Were you scared, my sweet girl? You must know by now, we will not let anyone take you, hm?”

You pull back from Rhaenyra. Miss her warmth.

“I know, but, still. We are not married.”

“That can be arranged.” You do not need to look at Daemon to know his face is sporting a large smirk.

Rhaenyra sighs from beside you, beginning to take down her intricate hairstyle.

“We won’t do anything until you say so, my love.” She shoots a look to Daemon, and you smile. You fall back onto the bed, on your side, cheek pressing into the silk fabric. Daemon comes into your point of view, but only for a second. He walks past you, to the other side of the bed, bed dipping as he lays down.

It is domestic. It is normal. It is all you have ever wanted.

Daemon winds a hand into your hair, tugging you up. You sit up, and he beckons you over with a lazy grin and a movement of his finger. You come to your knees, and he palms your hips.

“Made for us,” he murmurs.

He pulls you to straddle him in one swift move- and he moans at the sight of your flustered from the lack of warning.

He is drowning in his own lust, in the tightening of his pants. You can feel it below you. Pressing up against you in the most delicious way-

When your hips move, it is a reflex. A desperate chase for more of this feeling.

Daemon and Rhaenyra have not ravaged you like this. No one has. Your husband neglected his duties to you. But you are take by the sudden need to be taken by them, to be full, to feel loved.

“Daemon,” you moan. He grunts, face burying into your neck to leave hard kisses.

You hear the silk sheets rustle from behind you, the press of something warm against your back. Rhaenyra is right behind you, breath fanning the side of your face. Her hands rest on your stomach, a comforting, sure pressure.

“This is what I want to see for the rest of my life. The prettiest girl, a desperate mess for us, yeah?”

You moan at her words, hips moving again. Daemon throws his head back, hands gripping your hips tighter, pushing you down-

When Rhaenyra’s hand travels along your stomach, you grab it, instinctively. You do not know if you are ready.

“We will have you as you are,” she whispers, and you let her hand go. When her warm hand dips under your skirts you shiver with anticipation. With want. With need.

The head of Daemon’s manhood touches his stomach, and you press against the length of it. It must be a painful thing, you think, by any way Daemon grips your hips.

Her hand moves past your small clothes, and Daemon lets out another groan at the press of her hand as well.

Daemon grabs the front of your dress, ripping it in half in a show of raw strength. You shriek in suprise, but he only laughs, dark and promising.

He leans back, admiring.

Your arms come over your chest, but Daemon grabs them with a growl.

“Did you not hear me?” Rhaenyra whispers, hot and breathy in your ear. The tip of her finger circles for the first time in so many years, and you throw your head back onto her shoulder. “I said we will have you as you are.”

And when they have you, you swear you melt into the silk sheets.

—-

taglist:

@wondergal2001 @akiraquote @a-lil-bit-nuts @anginoguera @thatkinkylesgirl1 @stitchattacks @honeypillowsblog @kaloafd @blackhoodlea @softtina @wallace02sblog @tetgod @hotd-fanfic

[storiumemporium]

Aemond Targaryen - Meeting Vhagar

A little filler while I work on something of more substance for our boy! (I promise I'm working on like 3 things for him in a row rn.)

It would be a common misconception to assume that meeting Queen Alicent or even Princess Helaena are the signs of Aemond's unwavering love and trust.

These are his tests.

He is very protective of his sister and his mother, however he also acknowledges that they are women grown and can very well deduce the character of a person without his temperamental assertions.

In fact, outside of his own observations he likes to make when you interact with them- they are his most trusted advisors in affairs of the heart.

His mother is quite pious and political, yes, but she is also fiercely loving of her son, and Aemond trusts that even if it were not of her approval that she would not outright lie about the nature of the person he brings to her.

Helaena has no capacity to lie. She is truth in concentrate. A serum through which all things are revealed.

You simply had to be clever enough- and patient enough- to understand.

No, the sign that you have won Aemond's heart is the day you touch bare hands to the side of Vhagar, the biggest- and oldest- Dragon in Westeros.

Her rumbles shake the earth, and when you stumble it's Aemond's arms that come to encircle you, a joyous smile upon his face.

The sun is gleaming, the sky is cloudless. His hair is sunlight spun to thread. He looks happy, relaxed.

Vhagar was his greatest pride, his joy.

Winning her favor was the first time he'd accomplished something truly extraordinary. The first time no one could deny his worth.

It makes him ecstatic to watch you feel along the grooves, murmuring half to yourself about how many years of history are buried into each well weathered scale. The comparison you make between her and the bark of an old tree.

His heart squeezes and twists when he watches you, brave little you, rest your entire body against her looming side. The marvel shone in your pretty face as her breaths rock you back and forth.

Your mouth parts with glee when you hear the thunderous boom of her heartbeat. Heavy and slow with age.

"Would you like to ride her?"

Your enthusiasm is more intoxicating than the finest wine.

He climbs upon her back first, uttering soft reassurances to his fine old Queen, and as he stares down at you, tiny and excitable as a pup, he knows that this is the time he has to say it.

His grip around your waist is tight, and he laughs loudly when you scream as Vhagar takes her flight. Kisses against your face turn into teeth as his smile widens- listening your shrieks turn from fear to utter delight.

"Aemond! This is amazing!"

You look at him over your shoulder once you've achieved height, eyes blown out and face flushed. You sit astride the most powerful creature alive, her span so massive it could block out the sun.

His mouth meets your ear, puffing warm and soft.

"I love you."

Far above the world, where Aemond bade no laws, where the words and tenants of men were nothing more than a whisper, Aemond found your lips.

[just-some-random-blogger]

I said i would only read one last thing before sleeping and i 😌 will now dream of my husband and his dragon doing looptilooloopoploops in the sky

You were trembling, and you knew your husband could feel the shaking in your hands as you gripped his leather-clad elbow like a vice.

[raises coffee cup] ah yes [motions to art] strong beginning as always. Got me in your head already from the get go. Well done [posh laughter]

“Y/N.”  Aemond soothed, petting your hair with his free hand. “She won’t eat you; this I promise.”

First of all 🤨☝️eat me ok 😫 i believe you my love but also 🤨🫵 youre her rider and aren't u like bonded together which means, judging by the fact you knocked yn up, YOU want to eat her therefore how am i so sure vhagar wont foll- [hit by a truck]

Already you could make out the massive form of the drowsing dragon, curled up on the wide beach.  You balked, jerking Aemond back with you, running a nervous hand along the curve of your abdomen.  Aemond’s gaze was drawn to where you caressed, his face softening to that honeyed expression he only wore in your presence…a sort of reverence.  He turned toward you fully, placing his hands around your baby bump, bowing to place a soft kiss there.  Long silver hair spilled over his shoulders as he straightened, placing his lips to yours, gently tracing your jaw.

When he^^^^ i-

“Vhagar will know you carry my child.  I look forward to her reaction upon seeing you.”  He took your hand encouragingly once more. “There is nothing to fear, my fire.”

I love dragon bonds

“I can…what?”

She like me for real GIT UR HANDS OFF ME BOI NAHHHHHH

“She likes you.”  Aemond whispered, tucking his chin into the crook of your shoulder from where he stood behind you.  He placed a warm kiss to your neck. “Would you like to ride her?”

[inhales deeply] no

He tilted his head at you, a smirk curving his lips. “How many times have you asked me to recount the experience of dragon riding?  How often do you give me cheek for not taking you with me?”  He gestured behind you to where Vhagar watched. “She has met you; she knows you are mine and carry our child within you.  She will be gentle with you, as I desire it.”

NO BUT AEMOND FUCKING INSANE FOR WAITING FOR HER TO GET THAT PREGNANT BEFORE BRINGING HER TO VHAGAR HELLOOOOO???????????

The fervor with which he spoke, the violet fire in his eye, spurred you to action. “Don’t let me fall, Aemond.”  You warned, placing a foot on the first rung of the ladder and hoisting yourself up.

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀 girl i get it the verbal affirmation but 💀💀💀💀💀 if vhagar wanted you to fall im so sorry but not even your one eyed lizard can help 😓😓😓 its a one way ticket to yeetville. Dw aemonds crash landing with you tho 💗💗💗

“Sōvegon!”  Your vocal cords already felt sore, but your shout did the trick.

SCREAMING LAUGHING CRYING 💀💀💀💀💀 AGAIN MY GOSH ROLLING ON THE FLOOR YOUR BABY DADDY DIDN'T EVEN TELL YOU HIS GIDDY UP IS FUCKING DEAF I HATE HIM HELP ME 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

A thrilled laugh, sounding crazed even to your own ears, left your chest as the wind whipped about you.  You felt Aemond’s arms encircle your belly protectively, holding you and your unborn baby tight.  He placed his mouth upon your exposed neck, sucking small kisses down to your shoulder.

🤠🤠🤠🤠 woah there partner. Whats the sucky suck for 🚨🚨🚨 hello???? Its like you WANT to fall do your death. [Smacks him violently] nO BANGING ON DRAGON BACK HISS

You corrected the phrase, and the dragon dipped gently to the left, circling back to where you had started, slowly descending back to earth.  Your heart swelled as Vhagar’s feet impacted with the ground once more, you could tell the large creature made a concerted effort to be gentle.  Aemond’s words proved true, she did have at least some inclination of your delicate state.

VHAGAAAARRRRRRRR

You reached out to touch her skin, stroking it, wondering if she was able to even feel you there. “Kirimvose, Vhagar.”

Assss youu shouuulldddd thank yewwwww 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 my queens bonding.

He gave you a radiant smile, pulling you to him and kissing you, the taste of salt air fresh on his lips.  “And I love you, my fire, my hearth, my home.”  He punctuated each affectionate phrase with a kiss to your face.  You scrunched your nose at him, giggling as he kissed at the ticklish spot under your jaw.

LIZARD MAN SO CORNY GRRR BARK BARK ABRK

hello!! could you write with aemond where he introduces the reader to vhaegar and he takes her riding?

*rubs hands together* alright my lovely Anons, I cooked up something that includes all of the above ^.^

Masterlist here

Aemond x pregnant!reader | I serve you all the fluffs

You were trembling, and you knew your husband could feel the shaking in your hands as you gripped his leather-clad elbow like a vice.

“Y/N.”  Aemond soothed, petting your hair with his free hand. “She won’t eat you; this I promise.”

You were walking together in the predawn light, down the sloping hills outside King’s Landing, where Aemond knew his dragon took up residence, being too big for the Dragon Pit.  Your belly was round with his child, and Aemond had taken great care in leading you along the rugged terrain.

Already you could make out the massive form of the drowsing dragon, curled up on the wide beach.  You balked, jerking Aemond back with you, running a nervous hand along the curve of your abdomen.  Aemond’s gaze was drawn to where you caressed, his face softening to that honeyed expression he only wore in your presence…a sort of reverence.  He turned toward you fully, placing his hands around your baby bump, bowing to place a soft kiss there.  Long silver hair spilled over his shoulders as he straightened, placing his lips to yours, gently tracing your jaw.

“Vhagar will know you carry my child.  I look forward to her reaction upon seeing you.”  He took your hand encouragingly once more. “There is nothing to fear, my fire.”

Upon hearing the familiar nickname your husband had given you, a smile tugged at your lips.  With renewed bravery, and a dose of curiosity, you allowed Aemond to lead you down the hill and onto the sandy beach.

Vhagar marked your approach, raising her head, yellow eyes surveying you and Aemond with interest.

“Rytsas, Vhagar!” Aemond’s commanding voice boomed to greet his dragon. “Bisa iksos issa ābrazȳrys.”

Still supporting your swollen belly with one hand, you leaned into Aemond. “What did you just say?”  Your voice was a hoarse whisper.

“I greeted her and said you are my wife.”  You were very close to the dragon now, craning your neck to look into her eye.  Her hot breath washed over you, blowing your hair away from your face in a rush.

“You can touch her.”

“I can…what?”

Aemond chuckled, lifting your hand still interlocked with his, and guiding you forward slowly until you felt the iron scales of Vhagar’s snout under your fingers. Despite yourself, you reveled in the feeling of the dragon’s hide, stroking along the rigid skin.  It reminded you of tree bark in a way, and you felt Vhagar press gently against you in return.  She made a contented grumble deep in her throat, sounding like a hundred earthquakes, yet a quiet noise for the enormous creature.

“She likes you.”  Aemond whispered, tucking his chin into the crook of your shoulder from where he stood behind you.  He placed a warm kiss to your neck. “Would you like to ride her?”

Your heart stuttered at the thought of mounting such a great beast. “I am quite content with my feet firmly upon the ground, thank you.”

Aemond tugged you to Vhagar’s side, the dragon’s eyes still upon you, and gestured to the rope ladder that led up to a distant saddle you could just make out upon her back.

You turned to your husband incredulously. “You’re going to make your pregnant wife ride the largest dragon in Westeros?”

He tilted his head at you, a smirk curving his lips. “How many times have you asked me to recount the experience of dragon riding?  How often do you give me cheek for not taking you with me?”  He gestured behind you to where Vhagar watched. “She has met you; she knows you are mine and carry our child within you.  She will be gentle with you, as I desire it.”

The fervor with which he spoke, the violet fire in his eye, spurred you to action. “Don’t let me fall, Aemond.”  You warned, placing a foot on the first rung of the ladder and hoisting yourself up.

“Never, my lady.”

Sure enough, Aemond was right beneath you the entire ascent to Vhagar’s back.  It was tough work, made more awkward by your pregnant condition.  Arms shaking, you made it to the saddle and Aemond was quickly at your side, helping you straddle the leather seat.  He tied you securely in place, and slid in behind you, tying the ropes about his own person as well.  You felt his arms come about you firmly, his breath tickled your ear. “Say ‘sōvegon’.  That means ‘fly’ in Valyrian.  ‘Dohaeris’ means ‘serve’, though I doubt you will need to use it.”

You leaned into his warm embrace, shivering slightly in the cool breeze. “How do you get a dragon to breathe fire?”

“Perhaps we will save that for a later date.”  Aemond laughed lightly, squeezing your thighs.

Vhagar’s head was so far distant from where you sat, you wondered if she’d be able to hear you.  Gathering as much air as possible in your lungs, you shouted, “Sōvegon, Vhagar!”  A shifting beneath you, like an island coming out of the sea, caused you to squeal and clutch at Aemond’s hands.

“Once more, tell her to fly.”  He prompted, voice loud in your ear as Vhagar got to her feet, stretching her mile-long wings.

“Sōvegon!”  Your vocal cords already felt sore, but your shout did the trick.

With lumbering steps, and a great flapping of wings, Vhagar gained speed and launched herself into the clear sky.  Birds fled the area in haste as the great dragon soared ever higher, the landscape below growing small beneath you, the Red Keep and surrounding cities looking like mere toys.

A thrilled laugh, sounding crazed even to your own ears, left your chest as the wind whipped about you.  You felt Aemond’s arms encircle your belly protectively, holding you and your unborn baby tight.  He placed his mouth upon your exposed neck, sucking small kisses down to your shoulder.

You had never felt so free, so wild and yet safe, loved in the arms of your Targaryen husband.  You spread your arms wide, mimicking the soaring of the dragon you now rode.  The wind breaking across your body, numbing your skin.  The rising sun reflected its pink light upon the ocean surface, the sparkling water winking up at you, distant waves lapping at golden shores.

You heard Aemond in your ear, voice straining over the rush of wind. “Tell her ‘Gūrogon īlva lenton’.  Take us home.”

You repeated the words, shouting to Vhagar.  Aemond laughed, “Not ‘leyton’, my love, ‘lenton’.

You corrected the phrase, and the dragon dipped gently to the left, circling back to where you had started, slowly descending back to earth.  Your heart swelled as Vhagar’s feet impacted with the ground once more, you could tell the large creature made a concerted effort to be gentle.  Aemond’s words proved true, she did have at least some inclination of your delicate state.

Your husband undid the ties binding you to the dragon saddle, descending before you, offering help when you needed it as you climbed the ladder once more.  Your knees shook upon impact with the sand, Aemond’s hands on your waist steadying you as your balance returned.

“That was…unlike anything I could possibly imagine!”  You beamed up at him. “How do I say ‘thank you’?”

“Kirimvose.”  Aemond released you, lingering behind as you approached Vhagar’s face once more.

You reached out to touch her skin, stroking it, wondering if she was able to even feel you there. “Kirimvose, Vhagar.”

She made the same low rumbling sound, this time softer, in response.  You turned and made your way back to Aemond, who stood observing you with a soft smile upon his face.

“Can we stay for a little while, watch the sunrise?”  You asked, taking his arm and slowly walking together toward where the water lapped at the beach.

“Of course, Y/N.  This day is yours, to do with as you please.”  His low voice was sweet as he stopped to gaze at you, drinking in your every expression, the golden light of morning lighting his handsome face.

“Aemond…how do you say ‘I love you’ in Valyrian?”

“Avy jorrāelan.”

“Avy jorrāelan, my dragon.”  

He gave you a radiant smile, pulling you to him and kissing you, the taste of salt air fresh on his lips.  “And I love you, my fire, my hearth, my home.”  He punctuated each affectionate phrase with a kiss to your face.  You scrunched your nose at him, giggling as he kissed at the ticklish spot under your jaw.

Behind you, Vhagar made another of her contented noises, rumbling the earth beneath your feet.  You and Aemond remained tangled in each other’s arms as the sun rose into the sky, heralding a new day, blessing the small family you had begun with the man who would forever own your heart.