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applecandy14 · 6 days ago

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Beauty Often Hides… Such Fury P2

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Aemond Targaryen (Regent Post Rooks Rest) Couple - Aemond X Reader Reader - Y/n Baratheon Rating - 18+ (Fingering / nudity / bjs/ orgasms/ eating out) Word Count - 2349

Aemond wrapped his arms around Y/n’s waist, holding his body close to hers. He gently nuzzled his face into her neck, pressing a trail of possessive kisses to her skin as his arms tightened around her waist. His hands gently slid down to grip her ass, and a quiet groan escaped his lips as he held his wife in his arms.

Y/n pushed Aemond away from her, but only for a moment, to lay herself on the bed, her eyes on the stone ceiling, almost avoiding him.

He gently made his way over to the edge of the bed, staring down at her. He gently gripped her leg, running his hand over the skin of her thigh, his fingers gently stroking her. His touch traced up along the inside of her thigh, softly rubbing the bare flesh. He felt the heat and warmth of her skin, and his fingers brushed teasingly closer to her cunt.

She didn't react, avoiding his eyes, remaining hardened. Her eyes were only on the ceiling, keeping herself from trembling.

Aemond smirked at her stone cold reaction, he let out a low chuckle as he gently ran his fingers over her mound, feeling the soft skin, and he watched her face again, but she didn't give any reaction, so his fingers moved closer, gently pressing against her lips, he felt her heat, and he felt his own throb with desire. His fingers began to gently circle her lips, his eyes never leaving her. He gently began to apply pressure, pushing softly against her lips, feeling the slickness. He leaned over her then, his hand still teasing against her lips, and he let out a low chuckle. "Come on, my little Doe, you needn’t be stubborn."

"… I… I have never been touched by a man. Tis unfamiliar is all." She answered clearly a lie,

He withdrew his hand, "I see. Well, I think that has to change. My little Doe needs to be touched. By her husband." he said the words with a low chuckle. "You are a maiden, a very pretty one, a rare thing, and I've been given the honor to change that."

She continued to hold herself, Her expression remained carefully controlled, lips pressed into a thin line as she fought against the urge to break down. Each heartbeat echoed in her ears,

"Come now, my little Doe, don't be scared. I won't do anything that hurts."

She sighed, relaxing her face,

Aemond watched her face and almost grinned when she relaxed her face. It was a start, at least. He began to run his hand over her thigh again, gently drawing it towards her cunt. "There we go, you're supposed to enjoy this," he said, almost mockingly. His finger slipping between her lips,

Y/n softly gasped,

His eyes widened, and he heard her gasp. He gently pressed another finger between them,

She softly choked back a small moan,

Aemond's eyes went wide, and a dark smile appeared at his lips. He gently let his fingers run over her lips, then, suddenly he pushed a finger into her.

She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes tight,

His fingers began to move gently, "Come on, little Doe, you are allowed to make noise."

She gasped again, fighting a moan back.

He pushed a second finger into her, he felt her quiver at the addition. "Come on, little Doe, I want you to moan," he said,

She choked and let loose a moan, her fingers gripping the sheets.

Aemond grinned, a dark smile at his lips as he heard her moan, and it was like music to his ears. "There you go, such a pretty sound…" he continued to move his fingers in her, and he felt her quiver around his fingers.

"Ugh!" She moaned, throwing her head back,

He leaned over her, getting close to her face. "Let the noise loose, little Doe, your husband wants to hear you," he almost growled. His fingers continued to move within her, now thrusting gently. He gently licked at her ear as he moved. he was enjoying this sound, and he wanted more.

"uughhhh!" She screamed, her eyes rolling back as she moaned.

"That's more like it." his movement slowed, his fingers slowed, going from quick hard thrusts to long, slow and purposeful thrusts. His fingers gently curled inside her, as he felt the wetness around the. He was curious as to how much longer he could keep this up, to keep her on the edge of pleasure.

Y/n whined and whimpers in frustration at his slowness, her teeth clenching in frustration.

"I know you want to finish, my little Doe, but I want to play with you some more. I want to hear you beg for it."

"No." She barked.

He stopped completely then, and he let a dark grin spread across his face. "No? You deny your husband?"

"I will not beg." She growled,

"Hmm, so you'd rather be denied than ask for it? Such stubbornness," he said. He pulled his hand away, his fingers leaving her completely, and he let her lay there, denied the orgasm he had brought her to the edge of.

She groaned in frustration, throwing her head back, her face of utter rage baring her teeth.

"Such a pretty face, but still, so stubborn. I could leave you denied; you'd have to please me while denied your own release," Aemond growled,

"I will not beg. You will snap before I will."

"Ah, you underestimate how long I could tease you, how long I could keep you away from the climax you deserve."

"You underestimate how long I have been forced to withdraw my own hand." She smirked. "How many times my hands have been slapped away from myself, told to be a lady and stop touching."

"Oh? So you are familiar with this pain, then. But tell me, has anyone ever brought you to this edge? Have you only been at your own hand?"

"My own."

Aemond's hand moved to the lips of her cunt, and gently traced over them, not giving her the pressure she so desired. "So, you've never had a man bring you to this very edge? So close to the cliff? You've only ever felt yourself?"

She whined, her hips mindlessly squirming,

Aemond took a moment to enjoy the sight, watching his wife squirm and hearing her whine from the lack of pressure. "And yet, you will deny yourself the completion, the climax that you've denied yourself. Instead, you lay here, unable to ask for what you want."

"I will not beg you."

"Then you will be denied, and I shall enjoy it." he withdrew his hand,

She groaned again. "I will last. You will want to fuck your wife at some point"

"That I do, I will want to. But will I beg? Never."

"And nor will I."

"I think I can keep this going until you cave."

"Can you?" She smirked, moving her foot to his leather britches, purposely rubbing his cock,

He felt a jolt at her touch,

She smirked and stroked her bare foot against the leather bulge, rubbing and stroking on as much of him as she could. "Struggling husband?" She smirked,

He smirked at her words, but his eyes were glued to her foot that teased at him, "Not at all, I love a challenge." his words were almost a tease, as she felt his cock grow under the pressure of her foot. He grunted at the continued pressure, the movement of her foot over his clothed and growing cock. He felt her foot tease him, and it was difficult to resist, to focus on her and not his pleasure.

"Beg." She snapped her teeth at him,

"Never," he said simply.

She pulled her foot away and sat up her fingers, slowly unlacing his britches, she purposely looked up at him with big innocent eyes,

He watched her closely, his body tensed up in anticipation,

She pulled out his cock and rubbed her hand over him softly, "Beg."

He let out a low grunt, his words coming out almost as a plea, "Please."

An evil smile crosses her lips. "Oh?"

"Please," he repeated the word, his voice low and pleading, the pleasure of her rubbing him slowly, it made him forget about his need for power, about his need for authority, in that moment, all he could focus on was the feeling of her hand on him.

She chuckled evily and took him into her mouth, wrapping her lips around the hilt of his cock and softly sucking,

He let out a low growl, but he was losing any control he thought he had, his mind going blank with desire for her and for the feeling she gave him. The soft noises he had been making gave way to a more strangled sound; he was lost in her touch, completely at her mercy. His hand went down, gently reaching for her, wanting to touch her. His hand brushed over her face, needing to feel her, to touch her in some way. His breathing was ragged, his mind was completely blank and lost in the overwhelming feeling of her soft mouth and her tongue.

She moved his hands to her hair, allowing him to on her locks.

He pulled slightly, not hard, not to make it painful for her, but enough so that she moved closer to him. His hold on her hair was tight, but still, he did not hurt her; his fingers were tangled in her waves, pulling her closer to him, his breathing ragged. “Fu-fuck.” he cursed,

She sped up her sucking, and moved her head faster, kitten licking his tip of any precum that came flooding out, she knew he was close so kept going no matter how he groaned, moaned or cursed above her.

“Y/n- My doe -” He groaned, his hips bucking and jerking out of his own control,

She kept going, keeping at her pace just a little longer,

And that was enough to take Aemond over the edge, his seed spilling into her mouth. His hips jerked forward, and he moaned loudly.

She pulled back and licked her lips as she looked up at him with a wicked smirk. "Beg. Beg to make love to your wife." She snapped,

"Please…Please…." he said the words breathless and full of need.

"Please what?" She smirked, laying on the bed, braced by her elbows with her legs shut tightly,

"Please…Please, let's make love. I….I need you. Please, let me love you. I want you, I need you." He was practically pleading now,

Y/n smirked. "… On one condition." She smiled, slowly widening her legs.

"Yes, My Doe?"

She hooked her index finger towards him, beckoning him closer..

He tossed off the rest of his clothes before he began to crawl slowly to her, his body moving towards hers,

She grabbed his hair and forced him down to her thigh. "Kiss."

He smirked and moved down to her thigh, his lips pressed against her soft skin. He kissed her thigh, softly, lovingly, his lips moving along her thigh, in a series of tender kisses. His lips moved up her thigh, his eyes looked up at her.

She softly gasped, tugging his hair higher.

His face moving higher, he planted more kisses, working his way up her thigh, moving higher and higher, the kisses becoming more eager as he got closer and closer, moving from her thigh to the top of her cunt, so close, still just out of reach, but so close, his lips parting his tongue, lightly grazing over her skin, his tongue lightly traced the top of her lips, and he felt her body writhe below him,

She softly moaned,

His lips slightly brushed over hers, teasing, testing. His fingers gripped her thighs as he kissed her more His tongue gently licked at her clit, parting her lips, and then gently running over them. He heard a low moan escape her lips, and he felt his name slip from her lips as he continued to pleasure her with his tongue. His lips were soft and wet, moving over her, his tongue finding a rhythm, and he slowly began to increase it, his hands still gripping her thighs.

She moaned his name, throwing her head back the more he worked her leg,s trembling and her hands gripping the sheets, "fingers. Now." She demanded,

He gorlwed at her command, and his fingers began to move over her, gently and slowly running along her wet skin. He listened to the way her breath hitched as he went over her; he watched the way she moved and shifted underneath him. His fingers pressed into her, slowly thrusting in and out as he licked and sucked on her clit getting faster and faster drawing her closer and closer to the peak he denied earlier.

She screamed, her hips bucking against him. Suddenly, it hit her, and she screamed animalisticly, throwing her head back, her hands clawing the covers, as she trembled, squeezing on his fingers, and squirting down his chin. Before she went limp lying on the bed.

He felt her scream and her body trembling as she orgasmed, and he could taste her on his fingers, on his chin. He watched her for a moment as she lay there, panting, his fingers still gently pressing inside of her. He gently pulled away, his fingers leaving her, and he moved up the bed to lay close to her. His arm went around her, and he pulled her close. He buried his face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in.

"What are you doing?" Y/n asked between rushed gasps,

"Holding you," he said simply, his voice sounding different, more honest, more vulnerable than he would normally allow.

"Why?" She asked.

"Does a man need a reason to hold his wife?" he said simply,

"Your wife assumed you'd wish to consummate your Marriage,"

"And I do wish to, but right now, I just want to hold you."

She nodded, slightly surprised, by laid her head on his warm chest.

His breathing slowed; he was enjoying this moment, just being close to her. His fingers slowly stroked through her hair, lightly running over her soft curls. He held her close, simply enjoying the moment, the sound of her soft breathing, the feel of her breathing. For a moment, he was content, and he felt almost at peace.

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applecandy14 · 6 days ago

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Under the devils eye~

Yandere Aemond Targaryen x female reader

Triggers: Yandere behaviour, manipulation, gaslighting, kidnapping

The crackling of the flames is the only noise to be heard in this godforsaken room. You can't remember how long you've been locked in this room. Has it been days, weeks or months? The room, the prince regent put you in was filled with things you used to love in your childhood. Oil paintings of long-dead queens and kings adorn the otherwise blank wall. A green, silky carpet lies on the floor, the bed where you spent your childhood, before everything escalated, still stands there as it once did. The red-black blanket embroidered with the three-headed dragon, your mother's sigil, reminds you of your family. Are they doing well? Do they know you're here? Does your mother even care about you, or are you just another figure in this brutal war?

Thoughts about your family possibly hating you, or worse, seeing you as a traitor, halls in your mind every god damn second. You wanted to end this damn war, after all, far too many good people have already died. But this naive, foolish thought brought you into this helpless situation. Now you are a prisoner of war, a valuable pawn for your uncles. All because you thought that you and your now dead dragon could save the world. What kind of fool am I?!

Your (e/c) eyes gaze into the blazing flames, it is almost like, as if the flames want to tell you a story. But you are not in the condition to perceive it. For days you have refused to eat, let alone speak a single word to your uncle. Why should you? He killed your beloved dragon, (d/n), and then captured you. It would probably have been better if you had died on that dark day, so you could have been with your beloved brother. Finally, united as siblings again. By the seven gods, you miss Lucerys so much. Your poor, little brother, killed by the man who locked you in this empty room. Is this just another game for him? Probably.

But Aemond had always been like that, you just couldn´t believe it, you should have listened to your brothers and your mother...God damn it! When you were still children, you even stood up for Aemond. Another idiotic thing you did. You were against your own brothers, just to scream at them, that they should stop harassing him. At the time, Aemond and you were inseparable. Probably because you both knew the feeling of not being seen by anyone. Constantly standing in the shadows of your brothers and sisters, never being spoken to by anyone... Yes, everything was different back then, better. Who would have thought that everything, what you used to love, shatters into thousands of pieces. It was like a beautiful glass shattering after falling to the ground.

Caught up in your own melachonic thoughts, you don't notice that a certain someone has entered the room. You are still sitting on your bed, your gaze never turning away from the flames. It is almost hypnotizing. The loud creaking of the door being closed pulls you out of your thoughts. The gentle footsteps coming slowly but surely towards you tell you that it wasn't a servant who usually brought you a meal. No, they would have imediatly left your room by now.

Your instinct told you who had entered the room, you didn't need a Maester to put one and one together. "Why? Why are you keeping me as a prisoner here, Aemond?" you sigh out, it's a wonder that you can get a word out. The Targaryen came with every step closer to you and your already fragile form. He reaches out his hand, as he roughly grabs your chin, forcing you to look him into his eye. For a moment, you thought you could see a spark of obsession reflecting in it. His thumb brushing almost careful your cheek, something what almost made you want to throw up. "Because you are meant to be mine, (Y/n)." he whispers, as he continues to speak. "If you would be a good girl for me, and be obedient, I will even let you go outside, with my supervision of course. Wouldn´t want you to escape." A small, evil smirk graces his lips, as he strokes your (h/c) hair, twirling it in his fingers.

The Targaryen gives you a little kiss on your forehead, his smile never leaving his lips. "We have been destined for each other since our childhood. You will learn to love your new life, just as you will learn to love me, (Y/n)." His words sound more like a command than a simple plead, something that shocked you even more. A cold shiver runs through your body, something that makes your whole body covered in goose bumps. "You killed my brother. I will never love you Aemond, you are a monster, nothing more than that! My mother will come and take her throne and then-" But before you can continue to speak, you feel a searing pain on your cheek. You hear the sound of a loud slap, and before you can say anything else - let alone do anything about it - the prince grabs your (h/c) hair. "Your brother was a little brat, he deserved to die. If you don´t learn to hold your tongue, I will take a knife and make sure your pretty face, won´t be that pretty anymore. Do you understand me, (Y/n)?" His voice becomes dangerous, colder, with every single word.

You had hit a sore spot, that was clear, but you didn´t know that he would react so extremly. The pain in your cheek starts to glow, everything in you wants to get away from here as quickly as possible. Even if the chances of escape were very slim, you couldn't stay here any longer. Aemond was a monster, who impris you for his own selfish desires. "I asked you if you understood me. I hate to repeat myself." You immediately nod at his raging words, not daring to say another word. After all, you didn't want to make him angrier than he already is. By the seven gods, how are you supposed to survive this?Satisfied, the prince takes a few steps back, as his eye pierces you. "Now, you´re going to be a good girl and obey...or there will be consequences."

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applecandy14 · 14 days ago

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──𝑎.𝑡. ┆ 𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑠 &. 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑠. ♡ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi .. ♡ ik i promised my baby daddy fic this week, buttt it's nowhere near finished so i'm giving y'all this lil gift instead ⸝⸝ pls enjoy some steamy sexist!aemond 𝑥 florist!reader ໒꒱ིྀ༝ .. tbh, they're sm fun to write about .. ૮ . . ྀིა⁩ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ MDNI, 18+ wc: 7.5k.

⟢ ─ 𝑖.

you first notice him on a rainy thursday afternoon. he steps into the flower shop like he owns it, the heavy door creaking open against the wind, dark coat dripping with raindrops, and sharp eyes scanning the colorful floral arrangements like they've personally offended him. he's tall—too tall—and his presence is like the sound of a thunderclap.

you nearly drop the rose stem in your hands when your gaze meets his. that eye of his, sharp as glass, pale and piercing. the other... a silvery-blue sapphire piece. cold. unblinking. focused entirely on you. you can't help but feel like you're being hunted.

but then he clears his throat. "i need flowers," he says flatly. you blink, stunned for a quiet moment. "o-oh, um... what kind?" his gaze lingers on you too long before he answers. "something respectable. not gaudy. for my mother."

you fumble with the white ribbon in your hands, feeling your cheeks heat up. "roses? white lilies? um, carnations maybe—those mean admiration." his mouth twitches like he's holding back a smile. slowly, he nods in agreement. "fine."

as you begin to prepare the bouquet, you can feel his eyes on you. it's not leering, not exactly—but it's intense. assessing. like he's studying you. you keep your head down and wrap the stems tightly, your fingers shaking a little.

you don't get men like this in the shop. you get cheerful grandpas and boyfriends begging forgiveness. not... men in bespoke suits with slicked-back silver hair and war in their eyes.

when you hand him the finished bouquet, your fingers brush his. you gasp softly. he doesn't flinch. "what's your name?" he asks, low and serious.

shyly, you stammer out your name in a small, meek voice.

"aemond," he says, like a promise. he comes back the next day. and the next. and the next.

at first you think he's just buying flowers for someone—maybe he's seeing someone. maybe he's married. but every time, he just asks you to pick something. you choose, sweetling. his voice is velvet-wrapped steel, and when he says your name, it makes your knees feel like jelly.

you start to notice things, little particular things. he doesn't like when you talk to the delivery guys. he doesn't like when you wear anything even slightly revealing—even the floral sundress you wore last friday made him frown like you'd disappointed him.

and when you mentioned that you live alone above the shop, his whole demeanor changed. "that's not safe," he said, jaw clenched. "you shouldn't live alone. it's dangerous."

you'd laughed nervously. "i-i have pepper spray?" he didn't laugh, only hummed quietly as though he was contemplating something.

you start to feel him everywhere. whenever you're out with your friends, he'll always insist that he walks you back home. you never asked him to, but you've learned early on that he can be fiercely stubborn.

"women shouldn't walk alone at night," he says, like it's the law. "you're too soft for this world." you want to protest—you're not helpless—but when he says it, it doesn't feel cruel. it feels... possessive. protective. like he's already claimed you in his mind as his own.

you've never met anyone quite like him. he talks like he was born in another century. he frowns when you say you don't want children yet. he hates that you work, especially around other men. he gets this dark look when you mention dating apps, as if you've committed a mortal sin.

"you shouldn't be selling your innocence to strangers online," he says one night, voice low as he stands beside you in the flower shop, long after closing. "it's beneath you."

you look away, embarrassed. "i… i-i wasn't. i was just looking..." he tilts your chin up with two long fingers, and your breath catches. "you deserve better, sweet girl."

you think he might kiss you. but he doesn't.

the truth is… you like the way he looks at you. you like feeling small next to him, protected. safe. you like how he opens doors and glares at men who look too long. you like that he always smells like smoke and cedar, like something expensive and ancient. you like how he calls you sweet girl in that gruff voice, like he's barely restraining himself.

you shouldn't. he's older. he's controlling. he's so—but he makes you feel wanted. not in the gross, catcall-on-the-street way. no. it's deeper than that. it's hungry. and when you're with him, when it's just you and him in the little flower shop you work at, you don't feel shy. you feel cherished.

one rainy evening, he corners you in the shop again. everyone's gone. the flowers are sleeping, petals drooping in the dim light. you're closing up, fingers dusted in pollen and soft soil. and suddenly he's there, like always, looming behind you.

"you shouldn't be here alone," he says. "i-i'm fine..." you protested, your voice small and weak. "no. you're not. you're not safe here, sweetheart."

you swallow, feeling your heart flutter. "you keep saying that..." he steps closer. "because it's true. you're too good for this place. for this world." his hand reaches out, brushes a loose curl behind your ear, making your skin erupt with goosebumps. "you need someone to look after you."

you blink up at him, pouting. "and you think that someone's you?" he leans in, his nose brushing yours. "i know it's me, baby." his kiss is slow, like a claiming. not soft, but careful. deliberate. like he's waited weeks for this. maybe his whole life.

your hands tremble as you clutch his coat, letting him press you back against the counter. you've never been kissed like this—like someone's devouring you, but also revering you. like you're precious. breakable. his.

when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. "i don't care if this is too fast," he murmurs. "i want you." you're panting softly. "i-i don't know what i'm doing, aemond…" he chuckles, a soft smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "good. let me teach you, baby."

you know he's not ever going to let you go. and suddenly, you're starting to think that you don't want him to.

days blur. he starts picking you up from the shop in his sleek black car. you stop going out with friends. you delete the dating apps. you quit the little flower shop two weeks later, after he insists that "his woman shouldn't be on her feet all day catering to other men's whims."

you cry a little when you leave. but he kisses your tears away, strokes your cheek, and murmurs, "you don't need to work, sweet girl. let me take care of you."

you don't know where this ends. but when aemond wraps his arm around your waist like you're his prized possession... when he kisses the top of your head and calls you his little flower...

you think you'll let yourself bloom under him. even if it means forgetting the sun.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑖.

you don't remember packing. you don't remember when the decision was made—only that one morning you woke up in aemond's bed, sunlight warming your skin through silk curtains, and your little apartment above the flower shop felt like a dream. a tiny, dusty dream you'd outgrown.

everything smells like him now. dark wood and smoke. leather and cloves. his sheets are the softest thing you've ever touched, but you can't bring yourself to sleep without one of his shirts balled up under your cheek.

you don't recognize this version of yourself—lounging around in pink and pearly white satin, hair pinned back with expensive combs, fresh fruit brought to your bedside each morning—but you don't feel lost. you feel... kept.

it starts simply. he brings you home, tells you to rest, to breathe, to let him provide. you're hesitant at first, shy about the marble kitchen countertops, the velvet armchairs, the antique books stacked beside crystal vases. but he presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, "this is where you belong. my house. my girl."

you don't argue. not when he holds you like that. not when he carries you upstairs like something fragile and holy.

you learn quickly that aemond targaryen does not believe in compromise. "this isn't a shared space," he tells you over breakfast one morning, reading the morning paper while you nibble on toast. "it's mine. you live here now. but this home... it's a man's responsibility. and i take that seriously."

you peek at him over your pink princess mug. "so i'm just... staying?" "no," he says firmly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "you're mine. that's different." your cheeks heat. you try to look away, but he closes the paper and sets it aside. "do you want to leave, sweetheart?"

"no!" you're too quick, too loud. you bite your lip, suddenly sheepish. "i-i just don't want to be a burden to you..."

his expression darkens. "you could never be a burden, baby." he rises from the table, crosses the room in long, silent strides, and cups your jaw in his hand. "i want to care for you. i don't want you working. i don't want you lifting a finger for anyone else. you're here to be soft. safe. loved."

you whisper, "that sounds like a fairytale." "it is," he says, smirking softly. "mine."

you're not allowed to leave the house without him. at first, you think it's just his protective side—his usual overbearing, old-fashioned instincts. you remind yourself that this is how he shows love. he's not cruel. he never raises his voice. but when you try to go to the corner bakery alone, just to stretch your legs, he calls your phone six times before you even get a block away.

"come home," he growls. "now." he's waiting at the door when you return, arms crossed, jaw clenched. "i told you not to go out alone."

"i was just−" sharply, he says your name, cutting you off and making you feel like a little girl who upset her father by disobeying him. you flinch. he steps forward instantly, hands smoothing down your arms. "sweet girl. i'm not angry with you, i'm worried. the world isn't kind to sweet women like you. you're too... fragile."

you swallow, feeling small. "next time," he murmurs, kissing your forehead, "you wait for me. understand?"

you nod, too shy to argue. you can't stand the thought of disappointing him. and, truthfully... you like when he's possessive. it makes your belly flutter. makes you feel wanted.

he starts dressing you. it begins with a silk dress he leaves draped across the bed, pale pink with a lace collar and tiny pearls down the front. "you'll wear this when my mother visits," he says simply. "you'll look like a proper lady."

nervously, you begin to fidget. "i-i don't know how to wear something like that..."

"don't worry, baby. i'll help you." and he does. he buttons every pearl with careful fingers, smooths the fabric down your sides, brushes your hair back like you're his very own porcelain doll.

you melt under his touch. you don't even realize how tightly the dress fits until you're seated beside him on the velvet couch, ankles crossed like he showed you, hands folded politely in your lap.

his mother approves of you, but barely. "she's very quiet," alicent says over tea. "you like them docile, don't you, aemond?"

"she's sweet," he replies. "and mine." he squeezes your hand under the table, and you try to smile. you don't speak again the rest of the evening.

nights are slow. tender. reverent. he takes his time with you. always asking permission, always murmuring soft things as he undresses you like he's unwrapping a gift. my good girl. so innocent, so pure. mine to teach, mine to love.

you never knew your body could feel like this—like it was built for one person only. like your breath, your softness, your trembling thighs... all belonged to him. you sleep in his arms every night, his hand curled around your hip like a lock.

eventually, he starts talking about marriage. "you're already mine," he says one morning, tracing circles on your bare back. "but i want the world to see it. i want them to know you belong to me."

your breath catches. "you... really mean that?" his eye is heavy with emotion when he looks at you. "of course i mean it. you're not meant to be someone's girlfriend, sweetheart. you were born to be a wife."

you whisper, "yours?" "only mine," he purrs.

you nod, and that's all he needs. he doesn't ask. there's no engagement ring, not yet. just a promise wrapped around your ribs like a ribbon, tightening every time he looks at you like you hung the moon.

he starts planning everything. you don't have a say in the venue. or the dress. or the guest list. but you don't want to. not really. it's too overwhelming. and aemond—well, he was born for control. he doesn't raise his voice, but he makes it clear: this wedding will reflect his taste, his name, his legacy.

and you? you're just the precious little bride.

"don't worry that pretty little head, sweet girl," he murmurs, kissing your neck as you curl up beside him on the couch. "i'll handle it all. you just show up and look beautiful for me."

you nod into his chest. you always nod.

one day, you wander into his study. you don't mean to. you're not allowed in there. but the door is ajar, and he's not home, and you're feeling brave.

it smells like him—cologne and wood polish. heavy tomes line the shelves, and a decanter of brandy gleams in the dim light. you run your fingers across the desk, half-expecting it to bite. everything in here is dark and sharp and expensive. masculine. dangerous.

a photo frame catches your eye. it's you. sleeping. your breath catches. there are more—tucked into a small drawer. you, bent over flower buckets. you, sipping tea in the shop. you, walking home with your keys clutched tight in your fist. you, asleep again.

you back away from the desk, heart pounding. you never knew he was watching you before you met. you never knew how long he's wanted you.

the front door opens. heavy steps. "sweetheart?" you shut the study door and run.

that night, you can't sleep. you lay curled in his arms, his breath warm against your neck, and you want to ask: why were you watching me before we met? why did you take those photos?

but you already know the answer. he chose you before you ever knew he existed. and maybe... maybe that's what love is to a man like aemond targaryen. not affection, not courtship. ownership.

the next morning, you find a velvet box on your pillow. inside is a ring—silver and sapphire, sharp and gleaming, impossibly heavy. no note, just a single rose. you understand. this is it. there's no more pretending this is something you can walk away from.

you're his. entirely. and the terrifying part? you want to be.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑖𝑖.

you wake up before the sun. not because of nerves—though your stomach is fluttering like a jar full of swarming butterflies—but because aemond's side of the bed is empty. still warm. you sit up slowly, pulling the silk sheets to your chest, and glance toward the balcony.

the door is open. he's standing there in the pale blue dawn, shirtless, cigarette in hand, his long silver hair brushing the middle of his back in soft waves. he looks like a statue. or a fallen angel. or both.

he doesn't turn around, but you feel him when he senses you. "go back to sleep, baby," he says quietly. "you need rest."

"it's our wedding day," you whisper, voice shy and airy. at that, he finally looks at you. the corner of his mouth lifts. he stubs out the cigarette and returns to the bedroom in a few long strides, kneeling beside the bed and cupping your cheek like you're made of glass.

"my wife," he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip. "you don't know how long i've waited to call you that." you feel the tears prick before you can stop them. happy ones. he kisses them away.

by the time the personal stylists arrive, you're already tucked into the dressing suite, wrapped in a robe the color of fluffy white clouds. everything smells like roses and warm linen, making you feel dizzy.

you sit obediently while they curl your hair, pin baby's breath flowers behind your ear, dust your cheeks with a soft pink shimmer. helaena comes in halfway through—barefoot, giggling, twirling in a chiffon dress—and beams at you like she's keeping a secret.

"he's going to cry," she whispers, hugging you tight. "you should've seen his face when he got the suit back from the tailor. like he was going to war. or heaven."

you giggle nervously. "he hasn't seen me yet." helaena grins. "he won't survive it."

the dress is ivory with vanilla undertones. not white—aemond had insisted. "you're not just a girl anymore," he'd said, touching your waist meaningfully. "you're mine. a woman now. you wear ivory. it's softer."

it fits like a dream. high neckline, long sleeves, lace over satin, pearls stitched into the bodice like stars. you twirl once in the mirror and feel like you've stepped into a fairytale, and you're the main character, the princess.

you hear the guests arrive from the upstairs suite. classical music swells. you smell roses, gardenias, eucalyptus. your flowers. he insisted they use the flower shop you used to work at—your hands, even if they were no longer working hands.

"this is the last time, sweetheart," he'd said, watching you arrange the bridal bouquet weeks ago. "after this, you never lift another finger. you retire."

you'd just smiled. "you're bossy." he'd pulled you into his lap, nuzzling your neck as he presses soft kisses against your skin. "no, sweet girl. i'm your husband."

the chapel is candlelit. not a cathedral, not a courthouse—just the private one on the targaryen estate. old stone, high arches, velvet seats and gold fixtures. traditional, like everything else he touches. every guest wears black. aemond said it was to contrast your softness. so he'd be the storm, and you'd be the light.

you can feel his presence before you see him. you step onto the aisle—your bouquet trembling in your hands—and there he is at the altar, tall and severe in a black three-piece suit, silver hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. that pale eye locked on you like a hunter spotting a doe in the forest. he doesn't blink, he doesn't breathe.

he looks like something ancient and fierce, undone by one girl in ivory lace.

you walk to him like you're dreaming. slow. timid. floating. he takes your hands. he doesn't speak. but his fingers tighten just a little too hard around yours. and you know—he's in agony over how much he loves you.

the vows are old-fashioned. because of course they are. his were written weeks ago. yours were... helped. helaena giggled when she saw them, mumbling something about "ownership kinks," but you don't mind. you like the weight of his rules. the structure of his world.

you promise to obey. to trust. to serve him as a good wife should. he promises to protect. to provide. to love and adore you above all things.

you've never heard him say i love you until this moment. but when he says it, voice trembling, ring sliding onto your dainty little finger like a brand—"i love you, sweetheart. mine, now and always."—you nearly collapse with the sheer force of it.

the kiss is long. too long. you hear a cough from the priest.

aemond ignores it completely, cradling your jaw with both hands and kissing you like he's stamping his name onto your soul. his lips move over yours slowly, thoroughly, reverently. the world fades out. you taste mint and smoke and something possessive.

when he finally pulls away, he doesn't smile. he just stares at you. like you're his crown. his kingdom. his favorite sin.

the reception is a blur. there are candles everywhere. gold-dipped cutlery. a soft string quartet playing vivaldi while people toast and clink champagne glasses and whisper about how stunning you look, how aemond's never smiled like this, how the targaryen heir has finally been tamed.

but no one says it to your face. because aemond never lets go of your waist. not once.

he keeps his hand on you the whole night—through speeches, cake, dancing. even when you sneak away to the restroom, he's outside the door when you return. "too many people looking at you," he mutters, brushing a kiss along your temple. you whisper, "i'm yours." and his whole body relaxes.

you don't remember the drive back to his own personal estate. only his hand between your thighs the whole way home. not doing anything—just resting there. heavy. claiming. every bump in the road sends tingles through your core. he doesn't speak. he just watches you squirm.

once you arrive, he carries you up into the bedroom. not because it's tradition. because he needs to.

you're still in your wedding dress, breath shaky, when he gently sets you down at the foot of the bed. his hands slide into your hair, his mouth finds your throat. "i've waited all day for this," he whispers. "now i take what's mine."

you don't have to say a word. you just let him undress you. slowly. carefully. like he's unwrapping a sacred gift. your dress pools around your feet. he steps back, eye raking over you like he's memorizing you as his wife. you try to cover yourself, shy and bare.

"don't hide from me, baby," he murmurs. obediently, you lower your hands.

his suit jacket hits the floor. then his shirt. his slacks. he undresses like a man unraveling in devotion, not lust. you tremble when he kneels between your legs, pressing kisses up your thighs, whispering your name against your skin like a prayer.

when he enters you, it's slow. it's not your first time with him, but it feels like it is. because nothing's ever felt like this. you cling to him, breathless, broken, whole.

he holds you the entire time. kisses your tears. tells you you're perfect. tells you you're his. tells you he's going to spend the rest of his life making sure you never feel alone again.

he doesn't stop until you're shaking. until you're crying into his shoulder. until you whimper, "i love you, husband." and he replies, "my sweet wife—mine."

you fall asleep in his arms. and for the first time in your life, you don't dream. because this is it. this is the dream. and you are never waking up.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑣.

the private jet is silent except for the sound of tiny cubed ice clinking against crystal.

you sit beside aemond in a plush leather seat, legs tucked beneath you, a silk wrap dress tied loosely around your waist. the windows are tinted. the cabin smells like vanilla and expensive bourbon. his fingers trace idle circles on the bare skin of your thigh.

"do you know where we're going?" he asks, voice low. you shake your head. he smirks. "good."

you pout. "can't i have a hint?" "you'll see when we land, sweet girl." he leans in, brushing your earlobe with his lips. "but i'll tell you this much... you won't be wearing anything but sunburns and my hands for the next week."

your breath catches. he doesn't pull back. "you remember what i said, don't you? this week, i'm going to ruin you."

you nod. slowly. sweetly. doe yes wide and already dazed with lust. smirking softly, he presses a sweet kiss to your temple and pours you another glass of your favorite white wine.

the villa is hidden in the cliffs, perched above a sea so blue it looks unreal. floor-to-ceiling windows. white sand beach. a private infinity pool that reflects the moonlight like spilled diamonds. everything smells like salt and citrus and the sharp spice of aemond's expensive cologne.

he carries you over the threshold like you're his bride from a century ago. you squeal and giggle into his shoulder. "this is too much."

he growls, "you're mine. you get everything." you don't get a tour. he doesn't give you time to unpack. he just lays you on the cool white bedspread, slips off your sandals, and kisses your ankles like they're sacred.

"you've been so patient," he murmurs, dragging his hands up your legs. "soft. obedient. you let me court you the way i wanted. you let me wife you."

you whimper, hips squirming beneath him. "now..." his mouth finds your inner thigh. "you're going to let me claim you." he takes his time. the sun sets. the ocean roars beyond the open balcony.

and aemond targaryen strips you bare like he's been fantasizing about this every day since the moment he laid eyes on you in that little flower shop.

he kisses every inch of you—your shoulders, your belly, the crease where your thigh meets your hip. he holds your wrists down, makes you look at him while he tastes you, while he whispers filth against your flushed skin.

"such a good little wife... letting me see every part of you." "you're so wet, baby. just for me. always for me." "you were made for this. you were made for me."

he doesn't let you come until you're sobbing his name. doesn't take you until you're begging. and when he finally does—his body pressed to yours, his voice ragged in your ear, his cock dragging deep and slow and possessive inside your drooling cunt—he keeps one hand wrapped around your throat and the other gripping your hip like he's branding you.

"you'll leave here so full of me," he groans, fucking into your cunt deeper with every stroke. "every day. every night. my seed dripping down your thighs. my name in your mouth. my ring on your finger." you come so hard you cry.

the days blur together. mornings are slow, lazy, sun-drenched things. you wake up in tangled sheets with aemond's hand between your legs and his lips on your neck, murmuring sleepy praise into your skin. he fucks you before breakfast. sometimes twice. sometimes more.

"you don't eat until i've had my fill of you," he growls against your thigh before diving in and pressing his face against your cunt, eating you out with overwhelming enthusiasm.

you obey. always.

afternoons are heat and sweat and sun. he ties your bikini so tight it's practically useless—just tiny thin strings and teasing little triangles—and makes you sit in his lap while he reads in the shade. one hand always on your ass. always touching. always reminding you who you belong to.

sometimes he fucks you in the pool. sometimes on the white sandy beach. once, right there on the balcony in full view of the ocean. "nobody gets to see this body but me," he snarls. "but i want the world to hear you scream my name." and they do.

nights are candlelit and sinful. he feeds you bites of fruit and chocolate with his fingers. he makes you sit on the floor between his legs with his cock down your throat while he talks business on the phone, fingers lazily curling in your hair, tugging when you get too fidgety and start whining from the ache in your empty cunt.

you've never felt more owned. more worshipped. more ruined.

but he's soft sometimes too. after. when you're shaking and boneless and curled up in his chest. he kisses your forehead and whispers, "my wife. my perfect little wife."

you whisper back, "your good girl." and he holds you like he'll never let you go.

it's late one night when he ties your wrists with silk. not rough. not cold. just... controlled.

you're already wet from the way he looks at you—hair loose, pants slung low on his hips, jaw sharp and twitching as he drinks you in. you're sprawled out on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but a thin gold anklet he bought you in town.

"you trust me?" he asks, voice like smoke. you nod immediately. "y-yes, daddy."

that always makes something dark flare in his good eye. "then you'll take everything i give you. you'll lie here like a good little wife and let me own you."

you whimper when he pushes your legs open and kneels between them. and then his mouth is on you. again. but this time, it's not slow.

it's filthy. messy. loud. he licks like he's starving, fingers digging into your thighs, pulling you apart, eating you like a man lost in devotion. you arch, you whine, you beg—but your wrists stay tied and your body stays open.

he groans against your heat. "such a sweet little thing. married and already this greedy for your husband's mouth." you can't even speak. you're crying when he finally slips two fingers inside you, crooking just right, tongue never stopping, lips slick with you.

"come for me, pretty girl." and you do. hard. your whole body jerks with it. eyes rolling. back lifting. babbling nonsense into the humid air. hands straining against the silk.

he doesn't stop until you scream. later, he unties you gently. kisses your wrists. lays you on his chest while your heart calms down. his fingertips trace lazy shapes into your back.

"was that okay, sweetheart?" he asks softly. you nod against him.

"you make me feel safe." his throat tightens at your words. you feel it beneath your cheek.

"i love you," you whisper. he swallows hard. "you're mine, baby. my wife. my whole damn world."

on the fourth day, he gets even filthier. he makes you ride him in the mirror. you'd been shy about it—whining, stammering, hands covering your face—but aemond only laughed, deep and low and full of amusement, pulling you into his lap. "no hiding, sweet girl. you're my wife now. i want you to see what you do to me."

so you sit, bare thighs spread, his cock buried deep inside you, your bodies tangled together as he tilts your chin up and forces you to watch your reflection.

"you see that?" he growls, moving your hips for you. "that's what a good wife looks like." your eyes fill with tears again. but not from fear. not pain. just overwhelmed sweetness. need. you come four times before he lets himself finally finish inside you.

when he does, it's rough—arms locked tight around you, fucking up into you with a snarl as he floods you, as he fills you. you whimper, weak and ruined, and he bites down on your shoulder. "take all of it. let it stay. that's a good girl…"

you both watch as it drips down your thighs after. you can't stop trembling. he kisses your stomach and says, "someday soon, i'll fill you enough to keep you soft and round with my child."

that night, after a long bath and a long nap, he brings it up again. not while fucking you. just... while holding you. arms wrapped around your waist, the two of you swaying in the moonlight on the balcony of your private villa.

"you ever think about babies?" he murmurs. your breath hitches. "sometimes." he turns you in his arms, lifts you to sit on the marble railing, his body between your legs.

"i do," he says. "a girl, maybe. one who looks like you. or a boy, serious and cold like me, but sweet only for his mama."

your heart lurches. "you want a baby?" "i want you to have my baby," he says simply. "i want to come home and see you barefoot in our kitchen, round with my child. i want to know you're safe while i'm at work. i want people to see you and know i put you there."

your thighs press together, mewling. "a-aemond..." his hand slides up your belly, between your legs, fingertips teasing you through your thin nightgown. "you'd be so perfect," he breathes. "you already are."

the rest of the week, he fucks you like he's trying to make it happen. he doesn't pull out. not once.

sometimes it's slow. sometimes rough. sometimes on the beach, or in the pool, or on the kitchen counter after dinner. he praises you constantly—how soft you are, how tight, how sweet and obedient and perfect. and always, always, "my wife."

by the last night, you're sore in the best way. you're lying in bed, moonlight spilling over your skin, his seed warm between your thighs and your body limp with satisfaction.

he tucks you into his chest, wraps the soft cotton sheets around both of you, and kisses the top of your head. "i'll build you the world, baby," he whispers. "just stay soft for me. stay mine." you curl into him with a sleepy smile. "always, aemond." and you mean it.

⟢ ─ 𝑣.

it starts with nausea. sweet and simple. you think maybe it's the weather, or the new multivitamins, or the fact that aemond keeps feeding you rich breakfasts in bed and making you drink some french coffee you're not used to. you brush it off.

but when it happens again, and again, and you start waking up sweating and shaky at 5 a.m., something inside you shifts. a quiet whisper. a flutter of hope.

the same hope you remember from the villa—the way aemond pressed a kiss to your stomach every night before bed, the way he murmured grow something for me, sweet girl, like you were already blooming his child in your womb.

your hands tremble as you unwrap the test. the morning light streams through the lace curtains. your nightgown hangs loose around you, one of aemond's old shirts over it since you were always so cold in the mornings. the little stick blinks on the sink.

one line. then... two. your vision blurs. your mouth falls open, hand flying to your chest like maybe your heart's trying to leap out of it.

you're pregnant. gods, you're actually pregnant.

you wait for him in the living room. he's due home any minute, sharp and punctual like always. you sit on the velvet couch, barefoot, knees tucked to your chest, the positive test hidden in your hands. there's a single pink peony on the table—cut fresh from the flower shop this morning.

your cheeks burn. your pulse is wild. you hear the lock turn. you stand."aemond?" you call, voice soft, breathless. he steps in, sharp in a navy suit, his tie already loosened, silver hair pulled back, keys in one hand. his eye lands on you instantly.

"hey, baby." his whole body softens. "what is it? you look pale." you swallow. "i-i have something to tell you." his jaw tightens like he's bracing for impact. you move toward him slowly, silently, then press the test into his palm.

he stares at it. then stares at you. then back down. there's a beat of perfect, suspended silence. and then everything breaks.

his breath catches. his mouth parts. the test clatters to the floor as he grabs you, lifts you, spins you around like you weigh nothing.

"you're serious?" his voice is raw. "you're really−?" you nod, giggling deliriously and crying at the same time. "yes, i took three."

he buries his face in your neck. "you're having my baby." your fingers tangle in his hair. "i'm having your baby."

he doesn't let go of you for hours. you lie in bed wrapped in his arms, his hand splayed protectively over your belly like he can already feel it. "you're so small," he murmurs. "how is there already something inside you?"

you giggle. "it's still early. you just planted it." that makes his breath hitch. "my sweet flower girl," he whispers. "blooming for me."

you kiss him. "you said you'd fill me until something stayed." "i meant it." "i know."

he pulls you closer, so gently, like he's scared to press too hard. his hand strokes the soft cotton over your belly. his voice is reverent.

"i'll take care of you both." "you already do," you whisper. "no." he lifts your hand to his lips. "i mean it. from now on, you don't lift a single thing. you don't worry about anything. you don't even think about the flower shop unless it makes you happy. all you do is grow that baby and stay soft for me."

you melt. "i want to buy you a nursery set tomorrow. pink or blue?" "it's too early to tell!" "then both." you laugh, blinking back tears. "you're ridiculous." "i'm in love," he says simply. "and you're carrying my child."

the next few weeks are heaven. aemond spoils you more than ever.

he starts scheduling your doctor's appointments for you, has prenatal vitamins hand-delivered, installs soft carpet in every hallway, and buys a custom cradle hand-carved with dragon wings. he talks to your belly every morning and every night, even though you're not even showing yet.

"be good to her, little dragon," he tells the baby that's blossoming in your womb. "your mama's small and shy, but she's the best thing in the world." you cry constantly. so does he, though he'd never admit it.

he touches your belly like it's made of spun glass, kisses your temple every time you throw up, and starts sleeping with one hand spread protectively over your stomach, murmuring things you barely catch. my flower girl. my sweet wife. you're everything.

one evening, he comes home early. you're curled on the couch in a pale pink dress, a pregnancy book open in your lap, your legs tucked under you.

aemond stares, his eye wide and unblinking. "you're glowing." you giggle. "you say that every day." "because it's true."

he crosses the room in two long strides, kneels between your knees, and lifts your dress without asking. his mouth presses reverently to the barely-there curve of your stomach.

"do you feel anything yet?" he asks. "just butterflies." he smirks. "that's how you make me feel." you giggle softly, breathless and flushed from both your husband and baby hormones.

then his hands slide up your thighs. slow. possessive. warm.

"you still belong to me," he murmurs. "even with our baby inside you." "i always will." he lifts you into his lap and kisses you like it's your wedding night all over again.

the next morning, you go to the flower shop just to smell the gardenias. the girl at the counter blinks when she sees you.

"mrs. targaryen? is everything okay?" you beam, hand on your belly. "everything's perfect."

⟢ ─ 𝑣𝑖, epilogue.

over the next couple of weeks, you continue to go back to the flower shop to smell all the flowers that you miss. the girl at the counter blinks when she sees you. "mrs. targaryen!" she chirps, rushing over. "oh my gosh—your skin is glowing. you look like... like you've been kissed by a thousand angels!"

you feel your cheeks heating up furiously. "just one." she giggles and winks. "he must be doing something right."

you pick a single ivory rose and press it to your chest, breathing it in. you feel the faintest flutter inside your belly. nothing strong. just a whisper. like your little one is already waking up with you, like they're reaching toward the scent too.

you surprise aemond with the rose when he gets home. he walks through the door in his dark green suit, drops his briefcase, and goes utterly still when he sees you waiting barefoot in the kitchen, glowing and soft in a pale sundress with the rose tucked behind your ear.

he crosses to you in three strides and kisses you breathless against the counter. "i missed you, sweet girl," he growls into your mouth. "missed your smell. missed your taste."

you whimper when his hands slide down your hips. "i brought you something," you whisper. he lifts his head, breathing heavy. "oh? you did?" shyly, you nod and slip the rose from your hair, placing it gently into his palm. "i smelled it and thought of you."

he holds it like it's made of gold. then he lifts it to his nose, inhales slowly, and something shifts behind his eye. "this," he says, brushing it along your cheek, "is exactly how your skin smells when you're full of me."

you shiver. his hand moves down to your slowly swelling belly, cradling it like a sacred thing. "i want more of you like this," he murmurs. "more mornings where i wake up to find you glowing and needy. more nights with your thighs wrapped around me, your body already soft and warm and ready for me."

you gasp. "aemond−" "you'll give me more," he says softly, with certainty. "won't you?" you can barely nod. "yes, daddy"

you start showing by the second trimester. not much. just a tiny bump peeking through your little sundresses, just enough for aemond to obsess over. he touches it constantly, possessively.

in the car, at the dinner table, in bed with the covers kicked down and your belly bathed in lamplight. he buys you silk nightgowns and insists you wear nothing else. he whispers to the baby like they can already hear him.

you walk through the garden in the evenings, barefoot and glowing, your ankles a little swollen, your heart fuller than it's ever been. aemond picks flowers for your hair and rubs your back with lavender oil when you get tired and looks at you like you're made of holy things.

one night, you cry because the baby kicks for the first time—and aemond falls to his knees to kiss the spot. "atta girl," he tells your belly, cooing. "you let your mama know you're in there, my brilliant girl."

he looks up at you, fierce and soft. "you're doing so good, baby." you whimper. "i love you." "i love both of you," he breathes.

the nursery is ready before you even ask. painted in warm creams and golds, with soft star lights and dragons carved into the crib.

aemond reads to your belly every night—classic literature, bedtime stories, even poetry when you fall asleep against his chest. he starts getting overprotective.

anyone who talks too loud around you? he glares. anyone who stares at your belly too long in the grocery store? he wraps a possessive arm around your waist and glares even harder. you giggle. "you're scaring people, my love." "i should be," he says calmly. "you're mine. both of you are mine."

one evening, he takes you out to dinner. you wear a pale pink maternity dress, soft curls in your hair, your belly round and full beneath the satin. aemond doesn't take his eye off you once.

after dessert, he tucks you into the backseat of the car, leans over you, and cups your belly with both hands. "you are everything, my sweet wife," he says, voice low, reverent. you kiss his jaw. "we're just getting started."

and then he does something he's never done before. he cries. softly. silently. just one tear trailing down his cheek as he presses his forehead to your bump.

"i never thought i could have this," he whispers. "a wife. a child. a life like this." gently, you stroke his hair, cooing. "you deserve it, aemond." he kisses the baby goodnight. then he kisses you.

you go into labor in the early hours of a quiet spring morning. aemond's calm—commanding but gentle, never leaves your side, holds your hand through every excruciating contraction. "you're so strong, sweetheart… the strongest woman i've ever known," he says into your hair. "you're mine. you can do this." and you do.

hours later, flushed and exhausted, you hold the tiny, wriggling, screaming bundle against your chest, sobbing with joy. aemond stands over you, his eye wide and shining.

you place the baby in his arms. and he breaks.

"my girl, my sweet girl," he whispers, a small sob escaping him as he gazes down at his newborn daughter with a loving look in his eye. "you've given me everything." you rest your head on his shoulder, baby pressed between you, and fall asleep to the sound of your husband's heartbeat and your child's soft breathing.

one week later, he brings home pink roses. he finds you in the nursery, rocking slowly with the baby in your arms, hair messy, doe eyes soft with love for the little girl in your arms.

you look up. he stops and stares. the light hits you just right. your body still hasn't gone back to what it was—but he doesn't care.

you're glowing in a different way now. soft. sleepy. motherly. his.

"you've never looked more beautiful," he whispers. you look away, shy and always so sweet. "i'm a mess." "you're perfect." he insists, his tone soft and full of awe.

he walks over, crouches beside your chair, and tucks a rose into your hair. then he kisses you—slow and sweet. you pull back and whisper, "i'd do it all again."

aemond smiles against your lips, his eye lighting up with mischief. "don't worry, baby. we will."

231 notes · View notes

applecandy14 · 22 days ago

Text

Dark Paradise

You try to adjust to a new life, married and living in a manor. But you quickly realize that not everything is what it seems, including your mysterious and devilishly handsome husband, Michael Langdon.

Warnings: 18+, DUB-CON, violence, murder, demon!Michael, blood kink, pain kink, breeding kink, dacryphilia

Word Count: 4.2k

You’re not sure if you’ll ever get used to the dark corridors where shadows dance in your periphery, or the damp smell that makes you feel like you’re underground. It smells of rotting fruit, a slow and lingering decay, almost like death surrounds you.

As long as it doesn’t reach you.

You’re also not sure if you’ll ever get used to the man that haunts these grounds. This tall, dark manor that sits in the middle of nowhere.

He’s not dead, he’s just your husband.

His appearances to you are scarce, only really seeing him at mealtimes and occasionally passing him in hallways.

He’s elusive, mysterious to you in ways you cannot comprehend. Ever since you arrived at the manor, all you’ve had are questions.

For an unknown reason, you can’t remember your life before this place. All you know is you were married off to a man named Michael Langdon.

Sometimes, you have the strangest dreams with a house that feels like the complete opposite of here. One filled with love and light and white walls, and not this frigidness that wraps around you now.

The days almost feel like they go on forever, blending together as nothing surprising happens.

Until one night, you’re pulled out of a peaceful slumber by a piercing scream.

It takes you a moment to blink away the sleep, wondering if it was real or part of a dream.

It doesn’t take long before another one echoes throughout the manor. It’s shrill, a seemingly female scream.

You clutch the soft sheets under you, your heartbeat loud in your ears.

You think about whether you should lie back down, ignoring it and going back to sleep. But you don’t think you could even if you wanted to.

Perhaps against your better judgement, you leave your bedroom, with only a candle lighting your path through the dark hallways.

Your white nightgown sways as you step between walls covered in paintings. The dim candlelight casts shadows on the faces, giving them a particularly ghoulish look.

You keep walking, hoping to find some sort of sign of what it is that woke you up. You’re not even sure where the scream exactly came from.

Before you can reach Michael’s room, a chill sweeps past you, extinguishing your candle, leaving you shivering in the dark.

A disembodied voice calls out your name in the form of a question.

“What are you doing out of your room?” he asks.

You instantly recognize the voice, and it stops you in your tracks. You swallow as he steps closer to you. Michael is holding a candle, illuminating the glare on his face.

“I thought I heard something. It woke me up,” you say nervously.

“I didn’t hear anything,” he replies, his brow furrowing.

“It sounded like a scream. I thought someone might have gotten hurt.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just have a nightmare?” he asks in an almost mocking manner, a cruel smirk growing on his lips.

“No-.” You sigh, stopping yourself. “No,” you say again, this time quieter.

“Come on. I’ll tuck you in and look under your bed for monsters,” he says, trying to step past you with a teasing grin on his face.

“I know what I heard, Michael.”

He stops, mere inches from your face and he can see the seriousness that settles in your eyes.

It doesn’t stop his own icy blue eyes from growing colder.

His gaze rakes over you before he leans in closer, warm breath fanning over your lips as he says, “you didn’t hear anything, Y/N. Time to go back to bed.”

You think your own breathing has stopped before he leaves you, going back to his bedroom.

That’s when your goosebumps return, Michael taking all warmth with him.

You’ve sat in the library all day, reading by the window as rain hits the glass. You decided that you’ll read every book in this place since you don’t have much else to do. You’re on 28 out of 11,200. Thunder rumbles above you as you turn the page.

Nothing has happened since you heard the scream, helping you to believe that it was either a dream or your sleep-addled imagination. You tried asking your handmaid if she heard anything that night, but she said no, giving you a strange look like you might be going mad.

You quickly shut up about it.

Michael hasn’t brought it up, which you’re somewhat grateful for because if he did, it would probably be to make fun of you some more.

Even if he has been polite enough about it, it’s been difficult to be around him. He’s always had an intense gaze but something about it has changed. It lingers for too long.

You think that’s always been the case. But now you react differently, a heat growing in your cheeks and a fire igniting in the pit of your stomach.

“Are you hiding from me for a reason?”

You practically jump, startled by the deep voice near your ear.

You close your book and look over your shoulder, finding Michael standing behind you. Amusement lights up his face and his hands are clasped together behind him.

“Do you normally spend your time in here?” he asks, eyes scanning the room, finding books from floor to ceiling and a fire raging, keeping you warm.

“Sometimes.”

You stare at him, still confused as to why he’s bothering you. Shouldn’t he be busy with something?

“So why do you seem to be in here more than you used to be?”

He steps over to the chair you’re sitting in, wood creaking underneath him. He looks over your shoulder, reading the title of your leatherbound book.

You swallow, able to smell the rich scent he wears. It’s musky with a dash of sweetness, like a piece of fruit being harvested from the earth.

“Just reading more, I guess,” you finally answer his question.

“Hm, well I wanted to apologize for the other night.” He pauses, like it’s hard to get the words out. “You were obviously shaken, and I could’ve been nicer.”

Even if his apology could be more genuine, at least it’s an apology.

“I also want to give you something,” he says before placing something on a side table near you.

You pull your brows together as you take in the gift.

“A pomegranate?” you ask, moving your gaze to him, eyebrows raised.

He picks the piece of fruit back up, mischief dancing in his eyes. In one motion, he cracks the rouge skin open, revealing hundreds of little seeds.

He gathers exactly four seeds in the palm of his hand, setting the rest of the fruit back down.

Without saying anything, he brings his hand closer to you, offering it as if you have no choice but to accept.

You hesitate for a moment before reaching to grab them from the palm of his large hand.

But when your skin brushes against his, a gasp falls from your lips, an image flashing in front of you.

It’s Michael, but he looks different…wearing different clothes than he wears now, almost like a school uniform.

The pomegranate seeds fall to the floor before you look up at him.

There’s a question in his eyes that almost matches yours. But it’s just a flicker of confusion before it disappears, turning into irritation.

He clasps his hands together again before leaning down to you and saying lowly, “if you make a mess, you must clean it up. Remember that.”

You keep your eyes away from him, not able to look at him. You can faintly hear him walk away, but your mind is too focused on the words that seem to have another meaning to them. A meaning that makes heat swirl inside you.

The sun is out today, but just barely. It peeks slightly behind gray clouds. You’ll take it over nothing, deciding it called for a stroll in the garden.

Except, as you look around, you realize there isn’t much of a garden. The flowers seem to be withering away, drooping without life and leaves almost crumbling to dust.

It must be the lack of sunshine, you think as you frown.

It’s so hard to find beauty in a place like this, instead only finding death and tragedy.

Without intending to, your mind wanders to a certain someone. You suppose not all beauty is lost.

You still have been avoiding Michael to the best of your abilities, still unsure what happened that day in the library.

You’re also unsure of your growing feelings for him. He is your husband, but it’s also true you two never consummated the marriage.

He never wanted to, and at first, you were grateful. But now, as you think of his golden curls and sharp jawline that could have been crafted by the gods themselves, you wonder if it would help ease the tension between you. Maybe it’s what you need to do in order to have a normal conversation with him.

But nothing about him is normal. He might be beautiful, but you can’t ignore the darkness that lies in his eyes and makes up his entire being.

You stop, finding a faded yellow flower sprouting from the ground. You bend down, pulling it up. Standing up, you stare at it in your hand, and you can’t help but wish it was alive.

You sigh, eyes closing, almost in defeat. But when you open them, you can’t believe what you see.

The flower is now a bright yellow, looking like it belongs in a vase full of fresh-cut daffodils.

It’s like the flower was resuscitated right between your fingers, finally getting the oxygen it so desperately needed.

There is no way you did this, so how is this possible?

Dinner is mostly eaten in silence. Some small talk is exchanged but you can tell Michael can barely bare it, gritting his teeth as you ask him how his day was.

Michael enjoys more intellectually stimulating conversation. It just so happens that usually means arguing with you or teasing you about something. So, you’re not very fond of it.

Once the plates are taken away, you think you can finally breathe, ready to take your leave to your room.

Just as you’re getting up, Michael stops you.

“Sit down. You haven’t had your dessert yet.”

“Dessert? We only have that on special occasions,” you retort, sitting back down.

“Well, you didn’t get to finish it the other day.”

You part your lips to question him again, but it’s answered when a maid places a plate in front of you.

A pomegranate split in half sits before you.

Michael seems to be waiting for your reaction when you lock eyes with him.

“What is with you and pomegranates?”

“They’re in season. I just want you try it.”

He leans back in his chair, giving a smile that doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. Instead, you find a glint there instead.

You nervously look down at the fruit, mulling over what he wants you to do.

You blink and you suddenly see that the red fruit has turned into a human heart, bloody and still beating.

You gasp, eyes widening as you push back your chair.

You look back to Michael, wondering if he sees it too. You’re met with a cold stare, his finger impatiently tapping on the table.

You frown, your eyes going back to the plate only to find the pomegranate.

Tears spring to your eyes as you consider the real fact that you’re losing your mind.

You don’t notice Michael getting up to stand next to you, your broken mind too caught up with all the peculiar things happening in the last couple of weeks.

He gently puts his hand on your shoulder, taking you out of the torment you’re putting yourself through.

By the time you turn to look at him, he has a few pomegranate seeds on his fingertips. You can smell the sweetness as he brings them closer to your lips.

“Don’t think about it. Just eat them,” he says as two of his fingers move past your lips and into your mouth.

You hum lowly in your throat as you taste how delicious they are, lips clasping tighter around Michael’s fingers, your tongue swirling around them.

He breaks the seal, removing his fingers before you swallow. He watches your throat move up and down, taking his offering.

You don’t miss the satisfied smirk on his plump lips.

It’s a night of tossing and turning. You’re able to sleep but it’s restless. Thoughts of Michael still lingering hours after he fed you the pomegranate.

When you’re finally able to sleep for more than an hour, you’re woken up by a scream similar to the one that woke you up weeks ago.

You know you heard it. It’s not in your imagination. No matter what Michael wants you to believe.

You don’t even think about it as you leave your bed, practically storming down the hall, deciding to leave behind a lit candle for light.

You pass Michael’s bedroom, getting closer to the faint sounds of cries and screams.

At the end of the hallway lies a singular door painted blood red.

You’ve never dared to go through it because when you arrived at the manor, you were told it is off limits.

Every time you would look at it, the hairs on your neck would stand up, giving you reason enough to never investigate it.

But now, you know you have to, tired of not knowing the truth.

When you step through the doorway, the air feels heavy, like all the light has been sucked out, only leaving a darkness that sits on your chest, making sure you cannot take a breath.

It’s pitch black, stairs going down to seemingly nowhere or possibly the pits of Hell. So, it’s either idiotic or suicidal why you decide to go down them.

Once you go down the stairs, a sweltering heat is the first thing you feel, like fire blistering your skin. It’s so bright down at the bottom of the stairs that it reflects in the irises of your eyes.

Hundreds of candles are lit with a few fires alongside them. The walls seem to be made of the earth, like a cave.

You don’t exactly understand what is going on, crouched at the bottom of the stairs spotting Michael walking toward a man sitting on the ground.

Cries and screams of “no” fall from the man as Michael brings a small knife to the man’s throat.

He slices it open, like a bleeding smile, his cries ceasing.

A sadistic smirk paints Michael’s lips, a satisfied one that is so similar to the one he had when he fed you the pomegranate seeds.

That’s when you notice everyone else. Bodies littered around the room, both alive and dead. Blood seeping from their various wounds. The ones who are alive seem to be chained to the floor or the walls, like they’re being tortured.

You can’t help the strangled cry that leaves your mouth, your stomach churning, thinking of the horror that the man you’re married to has been enacting.

You catch yourself, slapping a hand over your mouth. But it’s too late. He heard you.

Michael meets your gaze, and it only takes you a split second to get up and run back up the stairs.

You rush through the house, finding the front doors that keep you trapped inside this prison from the rest of the world.

You fling them open, running barefoot past the garden into the trees that border the manor.

Except just when you think you’re getting somewhere, you’re entering another door, one that goes right back inside the manor.

You look around with bewilderment, your mind racing to try and figure out what is going on. But you just end up hitting a brick wall, wanting to collapse into tears while nothing makes sense. You feel like the floor is moving, like your world has been tilted.

“Don’t cry, little witch.”

You turn to find Michael at the top of the main staircase, looking at you with a sort of curiosity and feigned sympathy.

“What?” you ask, voice cracking.

He continues down the stairs, stepping closer to you.

“Stay away from me,” you yell, voice still thick with tears. “I’m getting out of here.”

“You can try as long as you want to get away. But you’ll always end up back here.”

His looming figure is blurry as you blink away the tears.

You let him get closer, his thumb wiping your tear-stained cheeks.

“You poor thing.” You hear him mutter like you’re some naïve little lamb that needs to be protected.

“You’re stuck here,” he explains. “Those seeds you ate bound you here forever. With me, little witch,” he adds with a grumbling chuckle.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“You don’t remember,” he observes, tilting his head at you, like you’re his science experiment.

He thinks for a moment before continuing, “I suppose it would be better if you remembered. Then we really can have fun.”

Before you can protest or say anything, everything goes black.

Certain details are still fuzzy when you regain consciousness, but you remember it all.

You were a powerful witch in a coven. You remember your sisters and your Supreme, Cordelia.

You also remember him.

Cordelia made a deal. She knew who Michael really was, so she did anything she could to send him away, lock him up within the gates of Hell.

She had to make a sacrifice, and it just so happened to be you.

She came up with a loophole for you. The problem is that you couldn’t remember what it was when you arrived here.

You look around at your surroundings for the first time, finding yourself inside a circle of lit candles.

You try to move outside of the confines of the circle, but it’s like an invisible barrier is up.

You lie back down in defeat.

There is no fighting him or getting out. You ate the seeds of the pomegranate.

If enough time had passed without you eating them, you could’ve gotten away from here like Cordelia wanted.

Now you’ve sealed your fate. You’ve been promised to The Beast.

It’s not long before a door creaks open. The man you’ll be forced to spend eternity with, walks through the door.

“I imagine that was an enlightening nap,” he says, fighting off a mocking grin.

You swallow, keeping your eyes anywhere but on him.

“I was right that it would be better if you remember. I can feel the hatred coming off you. I like that more than indifference.”

He pauses, his eyes raking over your body, like he’s hungry and you’re his next meal.

“Of course, other feelings haven’t changed. You know, it was so hard not to say anything that day in the library when I could smell how wet you were.”

You finally turn to look at him, eyes widening at his casual vulgarity.

“Or any of the other times you were clenching your thighs together. And all because of me,” he adds, eyes full of mirth.

“You’re lying,” you argue, but you can’t deny how warm your cheeks are getting.

“Am I?” he challenges. “It really wouldn’t matter. You’re mine to do as I please with.”

You try to hide the waves of heat you feel, but you can’t successfully hide anything from him.

“What would your Supreme think if she knew how easily you gave into me? If she knew how much of a whore, you are?”

He walks around you in circles like you’re prey that he’s just playing with until he’s ready to feast.

It’s dizzying.

“Maybe I couldn’t stop Cordelia from trapping me here, but I knew I wasn’t going to let you go. Her silly plan with the pomegranates,” he laughs. “I was going to pull you down to the depths of Hell with me. Which is where you’ll be for the rest of eternity.”

You shake your head, wanting him to stop taunting you.

“You’re a monster, Michael,” you harshly say. “I’m sure you feel more at home here.”

He just gives you a humorless laugh, something cruel settling in his eyes.

“Cordelia doesn’t care about you. Her hatred for me outweighed whatever love she had for you. She’s probably forgotten all about you.”

You try to pretend that his words don’t claw at your chest.

“But if I’m going to have my little witch by my side,” he continues. “She can’t be an insolent one.”

You instantly regret hurling any insults at him.

“I think it’s time you learn how things are going to work around here.”

He steps inside the circle, barely giving you time to move out of his way.

“On your knees. Now,” he says, his voice sounding gravelly.

You scramble to kneel at his second command.

“Tell me, little witch. Who’s your God?”

You look up at him, confusion in your eyes.

“What?”

The palm of his hand meets your cheek, moving your head to the side. A slight sting burns your skin.

“Let’s try that again. Who is your God?”

You just shake your head, trying not to let the tears fall from your eyes.

His palm slaps your other cheek, the same biting feeling spreading through your face.

“We can keep doing this until you get it right.”

At least when Michael walked the earth, he had many people to subject his torture too. Now, he just has you. And any other sorry soul that might cross his path, you think. The image of crimson pouring from that man’s neck is still burned into your mind.

“You, Michael. You’re my God,” you defeatedly say.

“And how should you worship your God?”

You catch his gaze, unsure how to answer.

All he does is move his hand to undo his pants, unzipping them until you get what he means.

Your eyelashes flutter as you move your face closer to his cock.

He’s already hard, so you give a small lick to his tip, tasting the salty evidence of his arousal.

He watches you start to put his cock into your mouth and down your throat.

A groan falls from his lips as you begin to fuck him with your throat, spit spilling out of your mouth as you choke on his size.

He puts a hand to the back of your head, helping you to take almost all of him. You can feel your own arousal coating your inner thighs.

“I knew you were good for something,” he says as you gag a little.

He surprises you by pulling you off him, letting you fall onto your ass while your drool hits your chin.

He’s quick to grab you, pinning you to the floor as he puts his weight on top of you.

“I want you to feel me cum inside you.”

He doesn’t waste any time before he rips your white nightgown off you, seeing your naked body for the first time.

His own clothes come off and you hate that even if you know how much of a monster he is, all you can think about is him fucking you.

His hands have your wrists underneath them, pushed into the cold hard floor. You can’t move if you wanted to, but you don’t think you would anyway.

All you do is blink, and his face has changed. His skin is paler with cracks running through it, almost like cement. And his eyes have gone black, no light or emotion to be seen, just darkness, an overwhelming evil you’ve never seen or felt before.

It frightens you. His body is colder as he pushes inside you, a growl coming from deep in his throat.

He doesn’t care to wait for you to adjust, he’s rough in his thrusts, setting a pace that already leaves you gasping for air.

“Michael,” you cry out. “It hurts.”

You know you sound pathetic which is almost worse than how full you feel, your cunt stretching to accommodate the size of him.

“Good,” is all he says.

He licks and bites at your breasts, playing with your nipples between his fingers. It’s both pain and pleasure and it drives you insane. You can feel him deep inside you, the tip of his cock hitting that soft spot nestled in you.

You wrap your legs around him, your walls clenching around him.

He kisses your cheeks, wet with tears from the pain you have felt. He just licks it up, finding your pain to be delicious.

His lips drag against your throat, teeth nipping at the delicate skin.

He whispers, “I can’t wait to see you swollen with my baby. Evidence of how you belong to me.”

You can feel your pussy squeeze him at the thought, the coil in your stomach getting tighter and tighter.

He captures your lips in a sloppy kiss as he moves his hand down to rub your aching bundle of nerves.

It’s enough for the coil to snap. It’s only moments later when you feel him twitch inside you, coating your walls with his cum. He bites down on your shoulder, and you cry out in pain as he laps up the blood that seeps from the wound, soothing it with his tongue.

He’s breathless as he collapses on top of you, his skin going back to its usual color.

Your mind isn’t clouded with pleasure anymore, but you bring a hand to the curls on his head anyway.

He moves his head slightly to look at you, a smirk forming on his lips.

“If only Cordelia could see you now.”

951 notes · View notes

applecandy14 · 22 days ago

Text

Captured Angel

Michael Langdon x F!Angel!Reader

Contains: vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, elements of coercion, implied loss of virginity, blasphemy, hierophilia

“Good, you’re awake.”

A chill ran down your spine. You had awakened in an unfamiliar room. Your head ached, your wings hung limp, and your limbs were heavy. The air was soaked to the last thread in malice. It made you nauseous. Gritting your teeth, you dragged yourself up, your mind aflame with a single thought – you had to get out. You looked around, but before you could spot a way of escape, you felt a presence. Dark... Darker than the blackest night. Your heart froze in your chest, a taste of iron suddenly coating your tongue. Though you had not seen his face, you could recognize him anywhere. Seven heads. Ten horns. His honeyed voice left a cold, oily trace on your very soul as he spoke. You drew a deep breath, and spun around, to meet a pair of piercing blue eyes.

His lips crooked into a smirk. Holding your gaze, he moved towards you. You drew back.

“Get away from me, filthy Beast...” you snarled.

Deep down, you loathed yourself for the instinctive reaction. You were a soldier. You had a duty to stand your ground, and instead, you cowered. He promptly crossed the gap between you two.

“Ah-ah!” he scolded, clasping your chin “That’s not very nice, now, is it?..”

You grimaced. Michael Langdon. How ironic, for Satan’s son to bear your General’s name. The one who cast him out... You hoped it hurt the Evil One greatly. Michael caressed your cheek. You winced, and pushed his hand away. Sneering, he grabbed you by the throat.

“Why am I here?” you hissed through gritted teeth.

He glanced down at your heaving chest.

“You’re my captive” he purred “Isn’t it obvious?”

You swallowed. Struggling would only worsen your chances, you knew as much. His gaze darkened with hunger as he watched you – like a wolf, salivating at a wounded deer. Your guts had coiled into a tight knot, a sickly sweet taste coating your mouth.

“Why didn’t your bootlickers kill me?” you asked, not quite certain if you wished to know the answer.

A chuckle escaped his lips. The Antichrist’s lecherous expression made your blood boil. How dare the abomination touch an angel of the Lord, you thought. A strange sensation was budding between your legs, but you pointedly ignored it, just as you ignored the feeling of unease clawing at the back of your skull.

“That would’ve been a waste...” Michael tilted his head “They thought a gift would please me. They weren’t wrong...”

You snarled, attempting to pull away.

“Get your putrid hands off me!”

He tightened his grip on your neck.

“Hush” he coaxed in a mockingly gentle voice “I’m not going to hurt you, angel.”

“Vile creature...” you spat.

He pulled you closer. You bared your teeth, as your face almost crashed into his. Though you did not need air, the pressure on your throat was beginning to make you dizzy. Every nerve in your body screamed to fight - your muscles had tensed, prepared for combat. You might have broken away. Escaped this unholy place. You should have at least tried... But, perhaps because of the mist gathering over your mind, your legs trembled underneath you. You found yourself staring at his mouth. His breath brushed against your skin, warm and silken. Your pulse leapt into a frenzy.

Michael snuck his other hand under your clothes. The captors had stripped you of your armour, and taken away your sword, leaving only your linen tunic to cover you. His fingertips caressed your thigh, slowly creeping upwards. You held your breath as you felt him part the soft folds of your skin.

You had never been fondled like this before. Carnal pleasure was forbidden for your kind. You should be disgusted, you understood as much. Still, the electric-like impulse roused by his touch paralyzed you, preventing you from breaking his arm.

He stroked your entrance. You stifled a gasp, your intimate muscles tightened in anticipation. Your hole was beginning to well with slick. Taking your lack of resistance for a welcome, he slipped two fingers inside you. The feeling of his skin against your sensitive membrane made your head spin, and you barely held back from bucking your hips into his hand.

He let go of your neck, only to wrap his arm around your waist. Keeping you steady, he spread his fingers wider, straining you until it hurt. You shuddered. He massaged the velvety walls of your flesh, driving you to the edge of madness. Aware of how much satisfaction hearing your cries would give him, you clenched your jaw. His skin grazed against a certain knot of nerves, and you nearly sunk to the ground as your legs buckled from the bolt of stimulation. Still, somehow, you did not make a sound.

It only made Michael more determined. He fixated on your sweet spot, leaving you to desperately clutch the lapels of his jacket. His mouth lingered but a thread away from yours - you felt his heartbeat echo against your rib cage. He narrowed his eyes, and pressed his thumb to your clit. Overwhelmed, you drew a sharp breath.

“Enjoying yourself, aren’t you?..” he teased “What is it, my dear? What do you want, hm?”

He pushed a third finger into your dripping slit. You whined in pleasure muddled with despair.

“Speak up, angel” he demanded.

Virtue be damned. Something tameless had infected you. Caught in the furor of sin, you eagerly cast your innocence aflame.

“I...” you stammered “I want... I need you to ravish me...”

Michael threw you onto the bed, and climbed on top of you. Laying flat on your back, your wings sprawled open, you looked up at him, your eyes sweetly half-lidded. His knee shoved between your thighs, he ripped the front of your tunic open. You sighed as cold air brushed against your nipples. He placed his hands on your breasts, savouring the softness of your bare skin. His eyes aflame with lust, he took a moment to admire your flushed, helpless body. Biting your bottom lip, you pushed your chest into his touch. He grabbed you by the throat again.

“You’re mine” he snarled “Mine alone...”

Against your better judgement, you nodded. Your gaze wandered down to his crotch, causing your mouth to immediately water. Michael’s lips crooked into a sleazy smirk. He unbuckled his pants, and slipped his underwear down. Your eyes widened as his hard cock sprung free. Large, but not obscenely so. You pulled the skirt of your tunic up, leaving your aching cunt at his mercy.

He pinned you down under his full weight. You wrapped your arms around him, savouring the feel of luxurious fabric under your fingers. Like an animal in heat, you craved to feel him inside. His eyes locked with yours, Michael clasped your leg, and positioned himself more comfortably. You blindly caught hold of his member, helping guide it into your hole.

Your heart skipped a beat – you let out a moan as your membranes clamped around him. Hardly giving you a moment to adjust, he began to move. The sudden strain roused a twinge, but it soon was obscured by shattering pleasure. No longer holding back your mewls and whimpers, you sank your nails into his back. Should the expensive suit get ruined, it will be his fault.

Michael groaned, his teeth bared in primal satisfaction. Your response only encouraged him, and he quickly picked up the pace. Each thrust sent a shattering wave of pleasure through your fevered nerves. You wrapped your legs around his waist, welcoming them. He traced the tip of his tongue over your neck. You hissed as his long hair tickled you, overwhelming your senses even more. He purred, and nipped at your jaw.

“Kiss me” you demanded.

He obeyed, leaning down to press his mouth against yours. You parted your lips for him, and allowed your tongues to battle for dominance.

“Say my name” he ordered, upon pulling away.

“I can’t...” you gasped in horror.

“Your general isn’t here...” he growled “It’s just you and me...” he pressed his face to your temple “Say my name, sweetheart. Show the Beast how much you’re enjoying your downfall.”

He pulled his cock almost all the was out, then slammed it back in, roughly grazing your sweet spot. Your cried out, and sank your fingers into his hair. You didn’t want to think about her. You loathed to imagine her disappointment in you. But his presence eclipsed her face. Drowned it in the storm of ecstasy ravaging you.

“Michael!”

“Good girl” he praised with a grin.

Shock after shock of ecstasy tore through your body, setting every cell of it aflame. Your forehead was laced in sweat. Your muscles quivered from the tension. You were close. Very close. Turned feral by the pleasure, he grabbed you by the wrists, thrusting into you with merciless force.

“Michael...” you moaned.

You couldn’t stand it anymore. You arched your back, trembling and convulsing as a scream escaped your throat. Michael threw his head back with a snarl. You had grown painfully tight around him, prompting him to reach his own release. You felt him spill inside you – it was the strangest, most pleasant sensation you had ever experienced.

You collapsed into the pillows, limp and gasping for breath. He slumped down on top of you. For a moment, you allowed yourself to soak in the glowing haze of bliss. But, just when he had crept off of you, and was about to pull you into his arms, you leapt up. Using his surprise for your advantage, you climbed onto him – this time, you were the one to pin him down. You caught his gaze, and drew a dagger from underneath your ruined tunic. Afraid to molest their master’s gift, the devil worshippers had missed it.

“You will find the men who captured me, crucify them, and bleed them like pigs” you growled, pressing the blade against his throat “Do you understand me, Antichrist?”

A drop of blood sept from under the metal, glowing against his milky skin in a warning.

“Yes” he murmured, as his eyes blazed with adoration.

514 notes · View notes

applecandy14 · 22 days ago

Text

To Wed A Dragon

summary | Viserys I Targaryen, being geopolitical genius he is, arranges a marriage between his dangerously serpentine second son Aemond and a wildling of pure First Men blood: the elusive Omega daughter Daemon left rotting in Runestone. It’s all bread and circuses and targcest.

pairing | alpha!!aemond targaryen x omega!!reader with implied social anxiety

parts | 1 2 3

tags | TW!!! OMEGAVERSE!!! not proofread. slowburn (sort of). very chopped english. consists of aemond’s journals. yes, this man journals and draws in margins while giggling and kicking his feet. I accidentally OOCed him so hard I made him a teenage girl. we all kinda forget that he’s technically in his late teens and his frontal lobe is still developing that’s where all dumb decisions are coming from

wordcount | 2,5k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

7th Moon of 127 AC.

I have been promised a wife.

No, not offered - that would imply a choice of any kind, a market stall romance, where I pick a ripe fruit and bite until I get to the sweet pulp, or simply refuse. I was assigned to her as one might be assigned a steward, a bannerman, a new dagger for ceremonial guttings.

And not just anyone, but the current Lady Royce.

The only daughter of Daemon Targaryen and the late Rhea Royce. The Vale's very own afterthought. They put it as unsullied, unspoiled. Apparently, undefeated in the art of vanishing into walls. She has spent her entire life in the Vale, which is to say she has lived as a shadow among shadows. I was told she is ‘clever’ and very ‘fond of reading’ which is what they always say about women who have read too many books to be safely married off.

Other than that, there are no reliable sources of information about my future wife. She has made no public appearances outside Vale. There are no scandalous rumors, no bards’ songs written about her, and not even a small locket portrait.

Nothing. This should be concerning, but instead I find it invigorating. Mystery is the one luxury my station rarely affords. Everything else—titles, dragons, destinies—I inherited or conquered. But this?

This is a locked door. A dark corridor. A question without an answer.

I would’ve been offended but this. But truly—what is nobility if not the art of being unapproachable?

Aegon called it a “divine punishment.” Almost wept while five fingers deep in his goblet. Said I was being shipped off to “fuck a deer in the mountains” as though he hadn't bedded worse in Flea Bottom and paid for that.

As if he understands.

A wife unseen is a strategy untold. She might be a beast or beauty. Insipid or shrewd. Unbearable or invisible. She might very well despise me—and so what of it?

Let her tremble behind stone. I will come. I will look upon her. And I will know how to shape her.

______________________________________________________________

10th Moon of 127 AC.

I have met her.

Lady [name] Royce—named like some tragic mythic heroine who throws herself into rivers over men who aren’t worth the drowning—exists.

She has limbs. A face. Breath. She arrived to the Keep three days later than she was supposed to, swaddled in the gray wool like mourning incarnate with unremarkable bronze brooch with the ornaments of her house, with exactly four retainers, two books, and one expression—inconvenienced disdain.

I reached for her hand to plant a chaste kiss at the back of her palm under the watchful eye of the court, but she recoiled. Openly. As if I had poison on my lips.

And curtsied. Too low. Then, as if it would suffice for the proper greeting, she curtsied again, until her skirts dragged on the ground.

And immediately walked away, no, fled – as if she’s caught a stomach bug. No ‘hello’, no ‘My prince’, she’s just run away with a face of someone preparing to be run over by a cart but hoping it’s a fast one, while her handmaids followed her.

During her first day in the Keep I safely assumed she was:

Unfriendly: She barely looked at me, and when she did, her expression resembled that of someone inspecting spoiled meat. A rather tragic display of poor manners and poorer breeding.

Haughty: She kept her chin raised and her answers curt. When I asked whether she fancied poetry, she responded with: “Not when it rhymes.” Barbarism.

Possibly slow-witted: Her replies to the simple questions always come late, like a letter lost in the post. When I asked if she’d had a good journey, she said: “There was a dead stag on the road. The crows had eaten its eyes.” What in the Seven hells was I supposed to do with that?

Actually—and this I came to realize by the second day—She isn't stupid or arrogant. She's anxious. =Pathologically so. The kind of anxiety that makes you forget how to sit like a human.

She is always clutching her sleeves. Always two seconds late in responding, like it takes her tremendous effort to collect thoughts nervously scattering across her skull. She flinches when addressed directly. She chews the inside of her cheek so often I suspect she may one day bite it off entirely

She annoys the fuck out of me.

And yet—

There is something bewitching in how terribly bad she is at all of this. Like a creature raised underground, suddenly dragged into torchlight, blinking like it’s about to be punished for existing

And I am to marry this... conundrum.

Not even a wild thing. Wild things fight. She doesn’t even seem to think she’s supposed to be real, let alone have some claws.

There’s something irritatingly compelling about it.

I’ve seen men get severely maimed with more grace than she handled a compliment.

She is not what I wanted. She is not what I imagined.

But what I gain is all that matters: Runestone. A keep of my own. Vassals. Land. All mine to command.

A proving ground. A canvas.

If my lady prefers living as a shadow among shadows instead of handling the most basic of human interactions, which is less than a bare minimum for the lady of her station, then I’ll gladly take the burden of ruling in her stead.

This marriage is not a joining of hearts, but of worth. I will become Lord Consort of the Vale’s oldest house and let Daemon spit venom over it.

Let the Lord of Fealbottom rot in Rhaenyra’s little soap kingdom while I, the second son, the maimed, the marked, the maligned—rule.

[margin sketch]

A hastily drawn caricature of Lady [Name] Royce:

Big owl eyes. Tiny, shivering mouth. Hands raised in eternal half-apology. Speech bubble reads: “Um-m”

Labeled: “Lady [Name] of House Sorry.” ____________________________________________________

10th Moon, Continued — Post-Dinner Entry, written by candlelight and righteous indignation

Tonight was our first shared meal. A private dinner. Intimate, ceremonial, profoundly awkward. Mother insisted we “get to know each other in peace,” which in practice meant a room stuffed with tapestries depicting obscene amount of naked people and exactly two servants who might as well have been executioners for all the tension in the air.

The table stretched between us like a battlefield. She took the other end, as though the space between us could be colonized by silence.

And yet—I could feel her watching me.

Not like a maiden watches her betrothed with shy interest, nor like a courtier observes a prize to be won.

No. It was far stranger.

She glared.

Unblinking. Grim. Purposeful.

Not coquettish or bashful. Not hateful. Just... a stare with weight. Like she was trying to solve me with her eyes and growing very disappointed at the result.

She did not touch the roast. Only picked at a barley cake with tragic resignation.

When asked about the Vale’s northern passes, she said, “They’re cold,” and refused to elaborate.

When asked if she had ridden a dragon before, she said, “No. I don’t like heights or animals who can potentially swallow people.”

When I told a rather clever anecdote about the dying words of a Qohor philosopher, she snorted.

(Not laughed. Snorted. Like a stable boy who’d just heard a fart joke.)

At one point, I attempted civility. I leaned slightly forward and said, in my most gracious tone:

“You keep glaring at me. Do I offend your sensibilities?”

She blinked slowly, as if just now realizing she had a face and it was doing something.

“Oh. Sorry. I wasn’t really thinking.”

What a maddening sentence. She was thinking. I could see the cogs turning, rusted and bristling. But what she meant was: I didn’t realize I was looking at you like you’re a centipede with two legs and blindfold.

An academic approach to the topic of glaring.

In lesser men, like Aegon, the intensity of her stare might’ve provoked fear or flight. But I am a dragon in a man’s skin. I do not run from a pair of eyes that might blink too rarely.

Still, it is worth noting that she never looked at the servants. Never glanced around the room. She stared at her plate. Her sleeves. Me. As if attention, once given, must be locked in place like a punishment.

I suspect—this is a theory—she is not afraid of people. She is afraid of being seen.

The idea that someone might observe her, interpret her, assign her value. That is the horror.

And that is fascinating.

[margin sketch]

Lady [name], hunched over a plate. Above her: thought bubble that reads “Can’t believe I’m being perceived again.”

Caption: “The Hostage Dines.” ____________________________________________________

11th Moon of 127 AC, in the still hours when even the gods avert their eyes. With a lot of ink stains and deliberate (?) misspells.

Let us address something.

I had hoped. I had, despite all reason, assumed that Daemon’s bloodline—despite its tendency to act like spilled wine on a very stained tablecloth—would leave some visible trace in her.

I imagined silver hair. Violet eyes. High cheekbones and that half-feral Targaryen toothy smirk that says: yes, my family tree looks like a wheel and I’m proud of that.

Instead—

Well, she is not ugly. Lady [name] Royce is—by the standards of men who notice such things—comely. That is the word I choose because it is aggressively neutral. A word with all the erotic tension of day-old porridge. She is not beautiful, not as Aegon defines it (bosomy and all giggles and blushes), nor is she striking like Rhaenyra was at her height, all molten gaze and battlefield charisma.

No.

Instead—

Earthy. Common.

That breed of plain-featured beauty. Broad of brow and warm of eye. That particular kind of non-Valyrian softness that makes people think they’re being comforted when they’re being lied to.

It’s not her fault, of course. She did not choose to be born looking like this. But this is offensive.

I should be marrying a Targaryen goddess. A silver-haired priestess of flame. Not some rustic scribbler’s daughter who looks like she gets nosebleeds when overwhelmed.

I can already see the court’s laughter, though it simmers behind tight lips.

“The one with the eye and the temper? He wed the girl with the library tan and the commoner eyes.”

Do they think I’ll breed heirs with that blood? Do they think my sons will come out brown-haired and morally grounded?

I REFUSE.

If she does not carry my look, then at least she must carry my will. I will Targaryen her by force of proximity. Let her birth children whose dragonblood will run hot, not earthbound Roycelings who get nosebleeds when the bathwater is above lukewarm.

This is not what I wanted.

I had envisioned myself with a Valyrian bride to mirror me—a pale mirror, a prophecy’s consort. Someone who looked like she could breathe fire if you slighted her. Not a girl who apologizes to bread when she doesn’t finish it.

And yet—

I keep looking at her.

Why?

What game is this, where the prize repels you but still draws your gaze?

Is it that she defies me? Or worse: refuses to be impressed?

No matter.

I am Targaryen. She will conform. Or she will vanish into my shadow, and history will remember only me.

[margin sketch]

A tiny baby with his eye-patch and a mop of fluffy brown hair. The baby is saying: “Why don’t I have a dragon, Papa?”

Caption: “A legacy.” ____________________________________________________

12th Moon of 127 AC, the day of our official engagement — marked by ritual, pageantry, and something that I did not, could not, prepare for.

Today, the engagement rite was held.

In the Old Way, by scent, not just ceremony—Targaryen blood honors both gods and our ancient ways. This was not the wedding, no. But the marking—the exchange of scent to seal intention. It is binding in the eyes of dragonkind. A public declaration of private futures.

There was no music or septons. Viserys was wheeled in for the optics. I, Aemond, took my place beside the girl I will wed.

She wore black and brown. Of course she did. The Royce colors. Iron and bronze. And she looked… still. That’s the word. Still like a storm caught in wax. Hair plaited back, hands tucked into her sleeves.

The ritual was simple.

She leaned toward me first.

AND THEN—

The scent hit.

Maple. And something… else.

Something I cannot name.

Warm. Wet. Red, but not angry red.

Something like—

Like the throb before a wound breaks. Like blood still inside the body, waiting.

No. That’s wrong. Not blood. Not war.

Like want, made into vapor. The slow bloom of hunger where it ought not be. Sweet without being cloying. Ancient. Animal.

It hit the back of my throat and I staggered slightly—not visibly (never that)—but enough that I could feel my knees note the offense.

And my eye—

The pupil blew wide. I felt that.

Like a child’s.

Like a beast’s.

I did not speak for five full seconds.

My mouth may have opened. I refuse to confirm.

She looked at me—looked, not glanced, not fled—and there was a question in her face. Not smugness. Not curiosity. Some kind of half-formed panic. Like she had given too much away on accident.

But still,

It is tradition, after the Omega offers their scent, for the Alpha to reciprocate.

I leaned in, closer than I’d allowed myself to be near her since the very beginning. I saw the gentle slope of her nose. The twitch of her left eye, like a rabbit scenting predator.

I don’t know how I smelled to her.

I do not care.

I Do. Not.

But she swallowed, slow and hard, and her hands gripped the hem of her sleeves until the fabric strained.

Good.

Let her feel it, too.

Courtship begins now. Daily presence. Shared meals. Ritual observation. We are to be seen together. We are to be seen.

She left before the rest. Of course she did. Like a frightened bird who’d perched too long on the wrong windowsill.

But the scent lingers.

Gods.

It’s in my hair. My sleeves. My mouth. I want to name it. Categorize it. Find a metaphor.

I cannot, for all my experience and vocabulary. It is not wine. Not fire. Not snow or rain or steel.

It is her.

And worse—

I think I want it again.

[margin sketch]

A sketch of [name] Royce with her face deliberately oversimplified like a caricature, with swirly lines around her.

The title “The Smell???”

198 notes · View notes

applecandy14 · 22 days ago

Text

hidden tapestries

Aemond Targaryen / female Lady!reader

Warnings: lewd paintings, kissing, making out, groping, oral (receiving), PiV sex, loss of virginity (reader is a noble lady so a virgin), praise (!!!), unprotected (this is fiction, use protection), MDNI

Summary: during a visit to the Red Keep, you and Aemond sneak off together to a closed off section of the castle. There, you two find very interesting tapestries... which heighten tensions.

Note: not proofread,,,, again,,,, maybe one day

3.9K

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Your carriage arrived at the Red Keep, coming to halt before the grand doors. Your father exited first, then your mother. You held onto the knight’s hand as he helped you down, before you joined your parents. You had been looking forward to this visit to the Red Keep for weeks now, and now you were finally here; for a week, no less!

You entered the grand entryway, bowing politely before the royal family. You were every inch the lady, but your eyes were automatically drawn to him.

Prince Aemond.

He stood upright, his posture that of a true prince.

“My lady,” he greeted with a polite bow of his own, his voice tinged with a bit more warmth than it had when he greeted your parents. “Prince Aemond,” you replied, careful to not sound too fond as well.

You and Aemond had grown closer to each other over the years. When you met him, he had been bitter and resentful, already missing his eye. But you had been intrigued; having found him in the library one day. He was reading a book on Ancient Valyria, and after almost half an hour of begging, he agreed to read it to you.

From there on, you grew closer and closer, the bond between you shifting from friendship to something more, something less proper.

He’d taken your first kiss when you were just fifteen, having snuck away together when there was a tourney being held. He’d taken you with him to a hidden alcove, his heart pounding when he backed you up against the stone wall. And then, before you could even mutter something, he’d boldly pressed his lips against yours. It was short, but it was enough for your heart to pound so hard you thought you might need the maester.

From there on, any visits were filled with both of you sneaking away and kissing, and…

Aemond had thought about going all the way with you. It would be wrong, of course. You were a highly respected lady of a great house. He wouldnt take your innocence, it was a border he simply refused to cross.

That doesn't mean he hadn't thought about it. And dreamt about it, and stroked himself to the thought of you underneath him, writhing and moaning and-

“Our servants shall show you to your bedchambers,” he heard his mother’s voice, shaking him out of his thoughts. He looked back at you, seeing you nod politely.

It didn't take long for you to find him. He was alone in his study, reading through letters and missives. “Good afternoon,” you said softly, sweetly. Aemond looked up at you, his lone eye meeting yours.

“My lady,” he breathed, “please, come in.” You saw him stand up from his chair, gathering the parchment and placing it in a neat pile on the corner of his desk. “How are you faring so far?” he asked you, “enjoying your stay in the Red Keep?”

You saw the smile on his face, and you couldn't help but smile as well. “It has been nice,” you tell him, slowly walking towards him, “a bit boring, maybe…”

Aemond gasped, faking hurt. “Boring? You wound me, my lady.”

You smiled at his teasing.

When you stood in front of him, he gently grabbed your hand and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. “I suppose I shall have to remedy that, no?”

His hand didn't let go of yours, instead pulling you closer to him. One of his hands rested on your waist, a touch that made a shiver go down your spine.

“I have missed you,” he whispered, your own hands resting on his chest. “Writing letters… it simply isn't enough. I wish to hold you, and kiss you…” he admitted, resting his forehead against yours.

“I know,” you replied, tilting your face up to look at him. “Did you notice I sprayed perfume on one?” Aemond laughed softly and nodded. “Aye, I did.”

He boldly pulled you closer by your waist, his lips hovering above yours. “I also read them all. Multiple times.” You were silent for a moment, feeling the heat of his body. “You did?” you whispered, earning a hum in return.

“I did,” he murmured, before leaning in for a kiss. After all those moons apart, that first kiss felt like you were floating. His lips were soft, yet eager. He parted from the kiss after a moment, brushing a finger over your lower lip.

“Do tell, my lady,” he said while you were still reeling from the kiss, “is there anything you wish to do during your visit? Go sightseeing, perhaps? Or a flight on Vhagar’s back?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I do not wish to be anywhere near that beast.”

Aemond faked offense, pulling his hands away from your waist. “Vhagar is a most formidable dragon,” he started, making you wave your hands. “Yes, yes, old and strong and all that. I've heard this speech before.”

Aemond grinned at your audacity, leaning back against his desk. “Very well,” he said, “tell me what you would like to do, then.”

You watched him for a moment, straightening out your dress. “A tour,” you decided.

“A tour?”

“Of the west wing.”

That made Aemond pause. After his father had fallen ill, his quite religious mother had taken over in his stead. And with that, she had completely changed the interior of the castle. The once scandalous tapestries that hung on the walls had been removed… and were now stored in the west wing.

If you were to see those…

“Are you certain? Perhaps i could show you more of the gardens instead-”

“No,” you said, crossing your arms. “I wish to see the west wing. I have never seen it before.”

“And for good reason-”

“Please,” you whispered, stepping closer to him again. “Imagine what secrets are stored there. Unexplored chambers and dusty tombs…”

Aemond was silent for a long moment. He knows he shouldn't, but seeing you now, begging him so sweetly… He decided those tapestries would be a worry for him later. A couple hours from now, probably.

“Fine,” he said finally, quietly, “but we’ll have to be discreet. And you’ll have to be quiet, because i know how loud you can be-”

“I’m not-!” you huffed in reply, before covering your mouth. “I’ll be silent,” you whispered, “like a mouse--no, like a-a tiny ant-”

Aemond sighed, scratching the back of his head. This was a terrible idea.

They both snuck off to the narrow staircase that led to the west wing, nearly getting caught twice. Aemond hated to admit it, but it was exciting sneaking around like this.

“Go,” he hissed when you were taking too long walking up the stairs. You huffed, wanting to complain that your dress was too heavy, but decided against it at the last second. You reached the top of the stairs, seeing the dusty hallways in front of you. They looked quite similar to the rest of the hallways, but the walls here were… busier. There was more art, more decorations, more furniture.

Aemond reached the top of the stairs behind you, barely suppressing a desperate sigh when he saw the state of the corridors. There were definitely far more tapestries and murals here than he had remembered.

“This way,” he said, quickly grabbing your hand and pulling you into a different chamber where he prayed there would be no lewd paintings. And lucky he was. He had pulled you into a small chamber, with a bunch of books and a dusty desk in the middle.

“Oh, look-” you said as you walked over to the desk, “look at all these old books…” you slid your fingers over the spines, grabbing a thick one with a dragon on the spine. “Is this also old Valyrian?” you asked Aemond, walking back over to where he was standing. Aemond stepped closer, his eye scanning the ancient words on the front. “Yes,” he said softly, his fingers touching the book. “It is.”

He grabbed the book you handed him, opening the old pages. It was filled with ancient history, names of people long gone and forgotten. You stepped closer to him, close enough so that he could smell the scent of your hair. He straightened himself, doing his best to focus on the book instead. “How curious,” you murmured, “what does it say?”

As Aemond started translating the words for you, you moved around the chamber again. You looked through other books, skimmed over letters, until you found something covered by a linen sheet. Aemond was too focused on reading, and couldn't stop you from pulling the sheet away, revealing a tapestry.

And what a tapestry it was.

You gasped softly, looking at the woven scene. Two men, two women, seemingly tangled together. They were nude, and touching, and… you felt your cheeks heat up. Whatever was this? Who would create such a… brazen scene? And more importantly, why was it here, in the Red Keep?

Aemond finished reading the passage, looking back at you. And then he fell silent. He watched the way you couldn't look away, the way your cheeks had turned red.

“Ah…” he said softly, closing the book and setting it down before walking over to you. “I see you have found some of the… old art of the Red Keep, my lady.”

It was a sinful scene, Aemond knew. Men penetrating women, women sucking off the men… if he hadn't grown up around such scenes hanging in the hallways and bedchambers, he probably would have been shocked, too.

“I…” you stammered, “I didn't mean to…” but there was no way to talk yourself out of this one. Aemond smiled softly, stepping closer to you until his front was pressed against your back. “Didn't mean to what, my lady?” he asked teasingly, “Didn't mean to reveal such a… lewd artwork?”

You flushed an even darker red, swallowing heavily. “I-I had no idea…” you stammered. But Aemond just tutted. “No? But I think you did, my lady. How wanton of you.”

“I didn’t-” you retaliated weakly, feeling Aemond’s hands now rest on your waist. He just hummed in your ear, still looking at the painting.

“Tell me,” he said softly, “what do you think of the painting? Does it… channel certain emotions?” You couldn’t reply, feeling your body heat up in a way it never had before. Not even when he had stolen kisses from you, not even when his tongue had parted your lips for the first time. This was new. More intense. Addicting.

“I… I do not know,” you said quietly, and he luckily didn’t ask more. Because he knew.

“I always thought I looked quite similar to…” he moved closer, his hands moving towards a certain man, “this woven person. Then again, it might just be the hair.”

You let out a shaky breath, looking towards the character Aemond had pointed to. You could see what he meant. It was a muscular figure with long, white hair. All he was missing was the eyepatch.

“I suppose,” you breathed out, not trusting yourself to say more. Your eyes moved from the man to the woman, seeing the way she was being penetrated. You let out a shaky breath, even more aware of Aemond’s strong torso pressed against your back.

Finally, after ages, Aemond pulled back. He intertwined his fingers with yours, pulling you with him. “Come,” he said, “allow me to show you my favourite one.”

Together they re-entered the dusty corridor, and he guided her towards a hidden chamber with his favourite painting. It was even more provocative than the painting with the foursome you had already seen, and his heart was already pounding with the prospect of showing you this one.

He entered an even smaller chamber, where the grand tapestry hung. He came to a halt in front of it, squeezing your hand. “This… this is my favourite one,” he said quietly.

You looked at the tapestry, seeing an impossibly more intimate scene in front of you. There were just two people displayed, a man and a woman. The man knelt before the naked woman, his face pressed against her most intimate place. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy, her hand in his hair. The man was just as nude, his hands on her thighs as he ate her out, his hair wild from her hands.

Your face was a bright red, never having seen anything as depraved at this. You felt hot--too hot. Your heart was pounding, and your hands clamming up a bit.

“Well?” Aemond asked you, moving to stand behind you again, his large hands finding your waist again. “Do you love it as much as I do?”

And he did love it. Standing in front of the painting with the lady he adored so, it was not difficult to imagine them in the place of the characters in the painting. He’d love to kneel before you, sliding your dress up and eating your wet cunny. But he was holding himself back.

“It’s truly something,” you whisper after a long silence, “it makes me feel things I have never felt before.”

Aemond had to hold back a groan. Fuck, he was certain you were soaked, your pretty innocent eyes unable to look away from the painting.

“Mm..” he groaned softly, his hands moving higher on your waist until they were resting just under your breasts. “Do you wonder what it would be like?” he asked you softly, unable to stop himself from pressing his now hard cock against your backside. “Me… kneeling before you…”

Your breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping you. Aemond let out a shaky laugh, your reaction telling him everything. “Oh… you do, don't you?”

His hands finally slid up further, cupping your breasts. “Sweet, sweet lady…” he whispered, making you whimper again. “I can tell you want it, want me… on my knees…”

He tilted your face up with his hand, making you look up at him. And oh, what a sight you were. Flushed cheeks, parted lips, lidded eyes…

He leaned in, kissing you deeply. You turned in his arms, your hands tugging at his tunic, wanting him even closer. “Aemond-” you whined softly, the prince placing one hand on your breast, the other sliding up into your hair.

“My lady,” he groaned softly, sliding his tongue between your lips. He could feel you melting against him, leaning more eagerly into his touch. He groaned, squeezing your breasts more firmly, making you moan and arch into his touch. He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down to your throat.

“You taste so sweet,” he managed to breathe out, “I could just eat you whole…”

You whimpered again, looking down at him. “You have imagined this?” you gasped softly, seeing a wicked smile form on his lips. “This and much more, my lady,” he said lowly, pressing his hips harder against you.

He knew he should reel himself back in, to not claim your innocence. But the way you were looking at him, your pupils so dilated…

He pressed a final hard kiss to your lips, before kneeling boldly before you. Your breath hitched as you stared down at him, seeing the way his breeches strained against his heavy arousal.

“Please,” he whispered, “I’ll make you feel good. Just like the painting.”

You swallowed heavily, feeling your smallclothes drenched. You needed him, you realised. To fill the void inside of you, to make you feel things you had never felt before.

“I trust you,” you whimpered, “I-I want you, Aemond-”

Aemond groaned, his hands moving towards the hem of your dress. You leaned back, leaning heavily against the brick wall as he revealed inch after inch of your stocking clad legs. His hands were warm and strong as they slid up your calves, towards your thighs…

“Hold them up for me,” he ordered gently, and you listened, holding your skirts tightly in your hands.

Your thighs were trembling as his hands slid over them, reaching the top of your stockings. With a smooth motion, he slid both of them down your legs, gently removing your boots as well. Your feet, now bare on the plush carpet, made you shiver. He pressed a kiss against the inside of your thigh, something that nearly made your knees buckle. He smiled softly, looking back up at you.

“Swooning for me already?” he teased, before pressing more kisses against your inner thighs. You were whimpering, holding your skirts up for him like a good girl.

“Please,” you panted out, not even knowing what you were begging for, but being impatient all the same. And as much as he wanted to tease you more, he was growing more needy himself.

His fingers hooked into your smallclothes, tugging the soaked fabric down, and revealing the curls at the apex of your thighs. He gently tapped your legs, having you step out of the offending garment.

And then you were bare for him, making him groan softly.

“You’re so wet for me,” he groaned softly, pressing another kiss to the inside of your thigh. You swallowed heavily, your hips bucking forwards, craving his touch.

Unable to resist any longer, Aemond moved forwards, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your dripping core. You gasped loudly, pressing your hips against his mouth. Aemond complied eagerly, licking your wet folds before moving up to suck on your clit. He could feel your knees buckle again, so he held your waist tightly, helping you stay upright.

“Oh, Gods-!” you mewled out, feeling his tongue move away from your clit, sliding inside of your pussy. The pleasure was so immense, so new, you could feel a knot forming in your lower stomach. Keeping your skirts gathered in one hand, you moved the other down to slide into his long hair.

“Don’t stop-” you moaned out, “please don't stop-!”

Aemond growled low in his throat, one of his hands moving up to slide a digit inside of you. You let out an even louder moan, your walls fluttering around his finger. “Fuck-!” you moaned out, your head falling back against the stone wall. He started sucking on your clit again, his mouth and finger working in tandem to bring you over the edge.

“Let go for me, sweet lady,” Aemond panted out before resuming his ministrations. You tasted so good, so sweet, he couldn't get enough. His cock was straining in his breeches, precum staining the fabric, but that could wait. He could hear your moans rising in pitch, your breathing growing quicker until finally--you shattered.

Your back arched violently, the knot in your lower stomach unraveling as stars exposed behind your eyes. All you could do was moan his name and press his face hard against your mound.

After some time, you had to shove him away, the pleasure becoming too much. Aemond leaned back on his heels, looking up at you with a drenched mouth and a satisfied expression. He brought his drenched fingers up to his lips, sucking them clean.

“By the Gods,” you whispered softly, dropping your skirts back down. “That was… wonderful.”

Aemond stood back up, pressing a kiss against your lips, letting you taste your own arousal on his tongue. “You are wonderful,” he replied softly, resting his forehead against yours. “I have never seen anything as beautiful as you coming undone.”

You smiled softly, your breathing still a bit heavy.

Aemond pressed another kiss to your lips, his hips pressing insistently against your body. “I can make you feel even better,” he whispered, his hands moving towards the laces of your gown, slowly undoing them. “Make you cum even harder.”

You gasped softly, the fabric of your gown loosening before pooling on the floor around your feet.

“Don’t you want that?” he said softly, tilting your chin up so you were looking at him. “Do you trust me?”

You swallow heavily, before nodding. “Yes,” you whisper, and that was all he needed to hear.

He picked you up easily, your bare legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you over to a dusty chaise. He laid you down gently, taking a moment to take in the debauched sight of you. Completely naked, your inner thighs still stained from your earlier release. You looked like utter sin, and it made his cock throb in his breeches.

He stared at you as he undressed, removing his tunic first, then his boots, and lastly his breeches. You watched as he slowly bared himself, seeing the wet stain at the front of his smallclothes.

“Watch, my lady,” he ordered gently again, and you obeyed, watching as he stepped out of his smallclothes, his cock springing forth. It was hard and thick, the tip leaking precum. Your thighs parted further almost on instinct.

Aemond smiled at that, walking closer to you, before crawling over you on the chaise. He positioned himself between your legs, the tip of his cock pressing against your core.

“Tell me you want this…” he murmured softly, feeling your breath hitch. “I do-” you whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck. You kiss him deeply, your tongue moving eagerly against his. “I want you-” you whine again, making Aemond groan and move forward, his cock sliding into your tight, wet heat. You were gripping him so tight, he knew he wouldn't be able to last long.

You gasped and whimpered at the intrusion, the feeling stinging. Aemond looked down at you, before kissing you deeply. “You’re doing so good for me,” he whispered, “taking my cock so well--ah, fuck-” he groaned, his head burying in the crook of your neck.

He pressed in further, sliding his cock into you, inch by inch. When he was finally completely buried inside of you, he let out a long, low groan.

“Sweet merciful Gods,” he panted out, your fingers now digging into his strong shoulders. He gave you a moment to adjust, before he started up a slow, steady rhythm. He pulled back until just the tip of his cock remained inside her, before surging forward to fill her again, setting a deep, sensual pace. He kissed you deeply, sliding his tongue against yours in a way that turned you on even more. He held himself up on one arm, using the other one to grope your breast, his fingers pinching the nipple.

“Oh, Gods, Aemond!” you moaned, your fingernails raking over his back.

“That’s it,” he praised, “taking my cock so fucking well-”

He sped up his thrusts until he was fucking into you, the sound of your wet cunny taking him in filling up the chamber. His hand that was squeezing your breast moved down your body, his fingers rubbing hard against your clit in a way that nearly made you scream. Your hips moved up against his, something that made him smirk.

“Oh, Gods, I’m gonna-” you whined out, “I-I’m gonna-!” and before you could finish your sentence, you shattered around him. Your pussy clenched tightly around his cock, making him groan before slamming one more time into you, then cumming deep inside of you.

He could feel your back arch, and he held you close as you slowly came down from your second climax.

After a moment, he dropped himself on top of you, utterly exhausted. With a lot of effort, he moved off of you, lying down next to you on the chaise.

“That was amazing,” he panted out. You whimpered softly, curling up against him. Aemond held you close, his hand moving up and down the curve of you back.

“You are perfect,” he whispered, leaning down for a soft, sweet kiss. “You did so well, my love. Took my cock so well.”

You blushed a bit, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Aemond laughed softly, holding you even closer.

“I think we’re gonna have a lot of fun this week.”

You nodded in agreement.

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applecandy14 · 22 days ago

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Aemond Targaryen x Fem! reader

Warning: death, violence, incest, profanity, dead Dove, do not eat (I hope I'm using the tag correctly, correct me if I am not)

You had never truly owned anything in your life.

No lands, no castles, no weapons, no horses. Not even your own name belonged to you by right. The jewels that once adorned your neck and the dresses that covered your body were never really yours; they were gifts—rewards for obedience or concessions hard-won after proving your worth time and again.

The only things you could ever truly claim as your own were your willpower and your mind—your only constant allies in a world that seemed determined to break you. Thanks to them, you survived even after death cast its shadow over your entire family. A tragic end, yes, but not an unexpected one—at least not for those who knew the long, slow decline of your house since the death of your great-great-grandfather.

Being the youngest of your mother’s children was already a disadvantage. Being a girl only made matters worse. From the moment you could take your first steps, your fate was carefully shaped by others: you were to become the perfect doll, a delicate and obedient image. You were raised to embody sweetness, grace, and silence—the ideal little princess, granddaughter of the King, conceived as a symbol of reconciliation on the complex political chessboard of the court.

Your very existence was meant to soothe the storm between the heir to the throne and the queen. Your hand in marriage would be the offering to seal peace between two raging fires—a promise of balance upheld by your ability to smile, stay quiet, and obey.

Aemond was always kind to you. Or at least, that’s how it seemed in your childhood, especially compared to your uncle Aegon, who used to tug your hair when the nurses or their mothers weren’t looking, or would simply leave you behind without a second thought when you and your siblings played in the hall.

Perhaps you and Aemond forged that particular bond because you shared something deeper than blood: the condition of being outsiders. While the others shone with a light that seemed destined from the cradle, the two of you walked in the shadow of duty—watching, learning, and surviving in silence.

Aemond would sit with you to read, to study, to ponder things others deemed boring or unnecessary. His outbursts were fearsome when he didn’t understand something and you, with a patience forged by affection, corrected him. Still, he was the only one who stayed. The only one who played with you, who talked to you, who sought you out when everyone else forgot you.

You remember his firm hand closing around your wrist, pulling you through the halls of the Red Keep while you stifled your laughter, trying not to make a sound. He would take you to the kitchens, where you’d steal sweets before fleeing with whispers and flushed cheeks, giddy with excitement. He’d also drag you to the throne room, where you played dangerously close to the edges of the Iron Throne, as if you both knew your fates were somehow tied to that monstrous seat of steel.

It was Aemond who offered to help you feed your dragon when your brothers weren’t around, who listened to your silences, who saw your tears when no one else noticed... and who, unintentionally, could also be the one to cause them.

In his company, you learned that affection could be a double-edged blade, that tenderness sometimes wore the mask of clumsiness, that the truest love could hurt more than rejection. Aemond was never perfect—but he was yours. Your friend. Your accomplice. The only one who never asked you to be anything but yourself, even when the rest of the world demanded otherwise.

The news of your betrothal to Aemond didn’t come as a surprise.

It was, in truth, a predictable move. Neither you nor Aemond were particularly valuable pieces on the grand chessboard of power, but neither were you insignificant enough to be left aside. A marriage between the two of you was a strategic maneuver—a discreet bridge between two factions whose tensions grew with each passing day. A convenient bond, insignificant enough not to raise alarm, yet useful enough to allow the eyes and ears of one side to slip, unnoticed, into the territory of the other.

While Aemond trained in the courtyard, repeating his exercises with the same stoic discipline that shaped his daily routine—as if each strike of his sword could, on its own, grant him purpose—you received the news that, whispered with a veneer of courtesy, sealed your fate. Those cold, red stone walls would become your permanent home after the wedding.

Far from your mother. Far from your brothers.

That day, the weather seemed to echo the news with cruel precision. The sky, overcast and gray, stretched over King’s Landing like a slab of stone. The air was thick and sticky with humidity, clinging to your skin like a reminder of the inevitable. It smelled of confinement, of rusted iron and broken promises.

Queen Alicent, with that seemingly measured but empty kindness, had spoken briefly with you that morning. She used gentle words, carefully chosen phrases about duty, loyalty, and the need to preserve the stability of the realm. Then she left you in the hands of the septa.

That was when the conversation took on a harsher tone.

Your role within the marriage was explained to you without illusions. It wasn’t about love, nor shared dreams, but about duty. Obedience. Fertility. Decorum. You were to be the balm for a prince’s fury—a prince who had never known tenderness—the devoted wife who would support his ambition with a smile. A useful womb for a cause that was never yours to begin with.

“You will be wed,” the septa began, her voice firm and unadorned as she seated herself across from you. She placed a cup of wine beside you with care, the red liquid trembling slightly with the movement. You nodded in silence, not lifting your gaze, your fingers fumbling with the delicate golden embroidery of your gown, as if you could somehow hide among the stitches.

“Do you know what marriage means?” she asked with a trace of condescension. You nodded again, without conviction, unable to meet her eyes.

With deliberate slowness, she stacked two books on the oak table between you, closing the space with a dull thud. Then she leaned forward. Her voice, once gentle, took on a deeper, more direct tone.

“Do you know what you must do when you marry a prince?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes remained fixed on your skirt’s embroidery, as if you could find something entertaining in the threads if you stared hard enough.

The septa sighed, visibly exasperated.

“Listen to me, princess. Your mother has asked me to be very specific with you,” she said, more sternly now, folding her hands on the table. “This will not be an ordinary marriage. You are about to become the wife of the queen’s son, the rider of Vhagar—a man who was not raised to deal with silly little girls.”

She paused, letting the weight of her words linger in the air.

“Your husband will be Prince Aemond. He is no common man. He has fire in his blood and steel in his heart. He does not seek sweetness, but he expects obedience. As a wife, you must learn to please him—not only at the table or in the castle halls, but in his bed.”

Her words fell like lead into the silence.

“You must be submissive, but not useless. He will want a companion who does not hinder him, who knows when to speak and when to be silent. You must understand his silences, accept his absences, endure his wrath if it comes, and never challenge him in public.”

She straightened and opened one of the books before you. The illustrations were ancient, delicate—and yet explicit in their purpose.

“Here, you will learn the essentials of the conjugal arts. Do not expect passion. Do not expect tenderness. But you must fulfill your part. You must know how to receive him, how to please him, how to ensure he returns to you when others try to pull him away.”

You felt as though you didn’t belong to that moment, as if everything was happening around you, not to you. But the septa’s words were clear, irreversible.

“And more importantly,” she added, “you must give him children. Healthy heirs, with white hair and violet eyes. That will be your greatest contribution to the realm… and the only way to secure your place in this nest of vipers.”

There was a heavy silence.

The septa closed the book softly, as though sealing a vow.

The wedding was arranged in less than three months. It was a discreet ceremony by royal standards, yet still opulent—just enough to meet the expectations of the House of the Dragon. Every detail was carefully chosen to reflect the power and purity of Targaryen blood.

They dressed you like a queen. The gown, made of red silk woven with threads of gold, fit your silhouette with perfect precision, and the jewels adorning your neck and wrists gleamed as though the sun itself had settled on you. The veil, long and sheer, fell over your shoulders like a second skin, and your lips, carefully painted, trembled slightly each time someone uttered your new title.

You sat beside Aemond after the first dance and did not rise again. Your role was already fulfilled: smile, nod, raise your cup. He, as expected, remained reserved. He did not seek your hand nor your words, nor did he offer his own. The image you both projected was flawless—cold and solemn, like two marble statues bound by duty.

The septa’s words returned to you like a timely echo: “Drink until you no longer recognize where you are, but not so much that you faint or vomit.” And you followed her advice. The wine soothed your nerves with a deceptive sweetness, wrapping you in a haze of weightlessness that made everything seem farther away, more bearable.

When the bedding ceremony arrived, your legs were barely aware of the weight of the gown they dragged behind. The applause was a distant wave, and the murmurs of the guests a sea of shapeless sound. You let yourself be guided by the handmaidens, your head held high but your will fast asleep.

The marriage chamber was spacious, quiet, and adorned in scarlet and gold. The sheets were new, soft, and smelled of flowers you could not name. Aemond said nothing as he closed the door behind him. His movements were meticulous, unhurried, as if each gesture were part of a long-rehearsed routine.

You did not resist. You did not protest. The carefully measured intoxication allowed you to forget your pride, to ignore the humiliation of standing naked before someone who did not love you, of offering your body as a bridge between two sides locked in a silent war.

There were no sweet words, no ceremonial caresses. Only the weight of his body over yours, the rough brush of his breath, the burden of duty made flesh. It wasn’t violent, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was exactly what was expected.

You remember only one thing clearly before the haze of the wine claimed you completely: the warm, sharp sensation of fullness in your belly, and his long silver hair tickling your cheek as he leaned over you. Then, darkness enveloped you, and you let it carry you away.

The next morning was a punishment in itself.

Your body woke with a dull ache you couldn’t quite place. Every muscle felt numb, as if it no longer belonged to you. Your mouth was dry, coated with the bitter aftertaste of the previous night’s wine, and as soon as you tried to stand, your stomach betrayed you. You vomited once, twice, three times, your body hunched over the bronze basin while the handmaidens waited in silence for the tremors to leave your limbs.

Aemond was gone.

Not in the bed, not in the adjacent room, not waiting in a corner with a compassionate look or a word of comfort. There was no trace of him.

And that absence—so eloquent in its coldness—told you more than any promise spoken in the vows the day before.

In the days that followed, you came to understand the essential truth: Aemond would not be a warm husband. He would not be a companion. His role was clear, defined, almost mechanical. The moments you shared were silent, tense, and when he spoke, his words were usually sharp—daggers thrown with surgical precision.

They weren’t open arguments, but constant, quiet fractures: a disdainful remark about your lineage, a veiled jab at your lack of influence, a whispered criticism of your upbringing or your posture. The wounds didn’t always bleed, but they hurt.

And yet, his interest in your body seemed unshakable.

There was no sweetness in his touch. No shared desire, not even passion. Only need. Domination. A contained urgency that, once released, left you hollow and alone beneath the sheets, as if your existence had been split between marital duty and daily humiliation. Aemond was not openly cruel, but he knew exactly how to make you feel used, small, dispensable. And he did it with a disturbing calm.

"Look at you," Aemond spat coldly, his voice low and cutting like the edge of a dagger. "You can't even breathe with decorum."

His body loomed over yours, an oppressive shadow against the cold stone of the corridor. The contact was not affectionate, but it was passionate; a display of power, a silent assertion of dominance. The icy marble of the wall pressed into your back as he leaned in, closing the already scant space between you. Your chest rose and fell with difficulty, searching for air, searching for words.

You tried to speak.

But your voice was quickly silenced—his hand closed over your mouth, dry, firm, unyielding.

"Silence," he ordered, in a tone so low it barely rose above the murmur of the wind slipping through the windows.

His gaze—that single eye of ice—showed no remorse, only calculation. Control. As if every gesture, every word, had been meticulously crafted to remind you which of the two dictated the rules of this marriage.

"What would they think if someone saw us in such an indecent scene... outside the privacy of the bedchamber?" he added, his voice laced with a veiled threat, his lips barely grazing your ear.

It wasn’t a question. It was a warning.

Your fingers clutched the edge of your dress, gripping the fabric as if it could hold back the tremor beginning to take over your body. You didn’t cry. You didn’t complain. But the silence you offered wasn’t out of submission—it was strategy. Because deep down, you knew that yielding without resistance was, for now, the only way to endure it.

As expected, the main purpose of that union was not love or harmony, but offspring. The promise of an heir to secure the future of Targaryen blood and reinforce the fragile bridge between two warring sides.

From the moment the maester confirmed your condition, your body ceased to belong to you. The gazes became more invasive, the commands stricter, the whispers more persistent. Suddenly, everything you did or didn’t do was reduced to one function: to carry.

Aemond said very little upon hearing the news. He simply looked at you for a few seconds with that impenetrable expression he always wore when he wanted to keep you at a distance. Then he returned to his books, to his training, to his silences. The pregnancy didn’t bring him closer to you. If anything, it made him even more distant, as if now that you had fulfilled your role, you were nothing more than a useful vessel.

In the months that followed, your body changed, and with it came endless discomforts. The discomfort of a belly that grew rapidly, of a back that found no rest, of meals that returned in waves of nausea, and of nights where sleep refused to come. The handmaidens whispered among themselves, the septa prayed with you with her cold hands, and you thought only of surviving one more day. You felt watched, examined, assessed. Even the maesters took your pulses as if you were breeding stock.

The sense of vulnerability was constant. You no longer belonged to yourself.

And when the day of the birth finally arrived, there was no romance, no joy. Only raw pain, the dampness of soaked sheets, the scream that tore from your throat, and the blood that stained the stone floor. What should have been a glorious moment was simply... exhausting. Invasive. Brutal.

You don’t clearly remember the moment you first heard him cry—only the weight of a maester pressing down on your belly, the septa’s voice urging you to push, and the sudden emptiness when the child was finally pulled from you.

That night, as you lay in clean sheets with a broken body and dry eyes, you realized something.

You had done something right.

Not something orderly, not something imposed, not something expected of you.

No. This time, you had done it. You, and you alone.

Aerion.

He was your son.

Yours, entirely yours.

You had felt his first heartbeat deep within your womb, had borne the weight of his life pressing upon yours for countless moons, had bled and screamed and pushed to bring him into the world. He was beautiful—more than you would ever dare to say aloud. Sturdy, with smooth, warm skin like that of a newborn lamb, and strands of pale hair that shimmered like moon-silk in the morning light. When his eyes first opened, they looked at you as if he had always been waiting for you.

Aerion was your creation.

Not Aemond’s. Not the queen’s. Not the realm’s.

Yours.

From the moment you first held him in your arms, something inside you changed permanently. You were no longer just a forced wife, nor a disposable political piece. You were a mother. And through him, for the first time, you felt alive.

You became fierce. Attentive. Intolerant of even the smallest mistake concerning him.

You would snatch him from the arms of handmaidens if they held him too loosely.

You gave the maesters strict instructions on which remedies he could or couldn’t be given when he cried.

You allowed no drafts, no raised voices, no cold hands near his cradle.

Even Aemond—who needed only a word to make you yield—seemed to recognize that new tension in you. Something unexpected had awakened in him as well: a quiet devotion to the child. He would stroke the boy’s hair with awkward fingers, linger silently in the doorway to watch him sleep, and rarely argued when you asked him not to lift Aerion while he was resting. Though he never shared tenderness with you, he seemed to respect — perhaps even fear — the fury that motherhood had awoken in you.

You were both guardians of the child. But you were more than that—you were a she-wolf with her cub. And no one dared to challenge you.

Until they did.

One afternoon, in the septon’s gardens, as you strolled with Aerion wrapped in his hand-knitted woolen cloak, you heard the syrupy, sickly-sweet voice of Lady Merel Florent—a court lady and a favorite of the queen for her obedience and loyalty. She was holding a child with an absurdly oversized head, cradling him as though he were a trophy earned by her womb.

"Sometimes nature rewards beauty… and forgets judgment," she murmured with soft laughter as she passed by, glancing sideways at Aerion. "A pity that some children are born with so little future… as delicate and empty as their mothers."

You didn’t think twice.

"It’s not my fault that my Aerion wasn’t born with a big, empty head like your baby, Lady Merel," you said in a tone so sharp and calm that even the leaves seemed to stop rustling for a moment.

Silence fell instantly. The laughter died. The color drained from her face.

You said nothing more. You rose with the sleeping child resting against your chest and returned inside without looking back.

That night, when you returned to your chambers, Aemond was already waiting. Sitting by the window, his profile bathed in the torchlight from the courtyard below. He didn’t need to raise his voice.

"Does it fulfill you, humiliating a lady in front of half the court?" he asked, not looking at you directly.

You knew he wasn’t there by choice. The queen had sent him—there was no doubt. That lady and her child mattered to him as much as the carvings on the pillars in the great hall. But you had dared to speak. To laugh at someone in public. And what he couldn’t allow was for people to believe he couldn’t keep you in check.

You didn’t answer.

You turned your back to him, walking toward the bed with deliberately slow steps. Your fingers moved to the ties that held your dress at the sides. You wanted it to be clear that you were tired. That you had no interest in entertaining a discussion driven by a man’s wounded pride. That he wasn’t important enough to deserve even a reply.

"I asked you a question. Answer me," he repeated, this time stepping closer. His steps were heavy, determined. The creak of his boots on the stone floor filled the room.

"Answer me!" he snapped, grabbing your wrist tightly, stopping the motion of your hands.

You raised your face to him, furious—without fear, without pleading.

"Let me go! Don’t act like you care! Don’t pretend to be the offended husband when all you do is ignore me until you find something to punish!" you spat the words, your face flushed with rage, your voice trembling—but steady.

Aemond didn’t move.

His fingers still gripped your wrist, tighter than necessary, and his eye—usually cold, measured—locked onto yours with an unfamiliar, almost dangerous intensity.

“You never care about anything I do,” you added in a broken whisper, heavy with exhaustion. A truth spoken on the verge of tears, less out of anger and more from years of accumulated indifference.

Then it happened.

There was no warning.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t shout.

His hand, swift and almost automatic, cut through the air and struck your cheek with a sharp, clear smack that seemed to silence the entire room.

The blow turned your face to the side. For a moment, time stopped; the burning spread across your skin like a flame, more from disbelief than from the pain itself.

He had never done that.

Never.

Not Aemond.

You stared at him, mouth agape, still tearless, as if your mind was still trying to process what had just happened. He, for his part, said nothing. No apology, no word of warning. He only lowered his hand slowly, as if only then realizing what he had done.

You broke like a child who had held back tears for too long.

First came the trembling of your lips. Then your throat tightened, your chest pressed as if the air had become thick and painful to breathe. Finally, the crying burst forth with a silent, heartbreaking force, as if it had been building somewhere deep inside you for months.

You only cried.

It was barely a muffled whimper, as if your soul had given way before your body. The first tear fell without permission, then another, and another, until your hands could no longer hide your face and your breath trembled like a leaf in winter.

You didn’t know how long you stayed that way, alone in the room, hunched over the edge of the bed, hugging yourself. The door remained closed. The silence was thick, almost cruel, and deep down, you knew he wouldn’t come back.

You didn’t hear his footsteps. You didn’t hear the click of the door or the sound of his breathing. You only felt the weight when the mattress creaked beside you. And his warmth—that inevitable presence—when he sat at your back.

His hands didn’t touch your face or try to lift your chin. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. He didn’t whisper a single excuse. He simply wrapped one steady, encompassing arm around your waist and pulled you toward him.

Your body, tense at first, fought against the natural urge to give in. But you were tired. So tired. And when his other hand rested gently at the nape of your neck, guiding you until your forehead came to rest against his collarbone, everything you had held back spilled over in silent force.

His fingers tangled in your hair, twisted like the thoughts in your mind, and though he said nothing, though pride still burned in his eyes, his touch trembled. There was guilt there, even if he didn’t know how to name it.

He held you. That was all.

And for that night, though the damage remained, though forgiveness was neither asked nor granted, at least you weren’t alone in the dark.

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applecandy14 · 22 days ago

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Aemond Targaryen

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applecandy14 · 24 days ago

Text

"As an actor, you just want to help realize the vision of the writers and all the directors, and passion is contagious"

— Ewan Mitchell

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applecandy14 · 24 days ago

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"Don't hold me to this but there are four sort of major events from the book. We get to you know adapt and realize in three dimensions in the season"

— Ryan Condal

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applecandy14 · 27 days ago

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Hiiii wanted to request Dark Aemond x Mermaid reader.

Reader is from house Manderly [ their flag had a merman in it ] and Aemond finds our her secret so he blackmails her father into marrying her.

Also some smut too maybe breeding kink of sorts.

even the whales fall prey to men.

pairing: dark!aemond targaryen x fem!mermaid!reader

warnings: very much nsfw. explicit language. blackmailing on aemond's part. forced marriage. dubcon. breeding kink. allusions to violence and death. mentions of pregnancy.

notes: dark & obsessive!aemond targaryen makes my head go brrr. also this smut will totally suck and i take full responsibility for it.

masterlist

The sea is much colder than usual, and across the winter sky hangs a thick blanket of clouds, dark as smoke.

It will snow soon, your mother had said at breakfast, bundled up in all her warm furs while you broke fast together. Today may be the last day we are able to swim for a while, so do make your peace and say all your goodbyes to your grandfather.

You sit on the jagged rocks that stand strong in the waters, watching as your mother and sisters finish with their own wreaths. Yours lays draped across your lap, weaved from rosemary and sea kale and the pretty blackthorn that bloomed on the nearby cliffs. The whales were making one final visit to White Harbor before leaving for warmer waters, and it was tradition to see them goodbye, and to flower them with the newly made wreathes and long garlands. It would not be until the early summer months that they would return.

“Little fish,” your mother calls out for you, already knee-high deep in the bitter sea waters. Your sisters did not wait for neither you nor her, deciding on a small race between each other. “Lost in thought, my little love?” Her face is soft and sweet, with two dimples on both cheeks, “Come or we’ll miss them!”

You were born a Manderly, under the cold moon, on the White Knife. On your first nameday, a great storm wailed outside the New Castle, crushing your lord father’s fleet to kindle and drowning the port city. Some said it was the Stranger waging war against the Father and the Warrior, high in the heavens, while others claimed the old sea god Caraxes was celebrating the birth of a new granddaughter.

Your father claimed direct descendance from the First Men, while your mother was of the true goldenblood of Old Valyria, a daughter of Caraxes himself. His mermaids, women with silver crowns and dark violet eyes and a fish’s tail for legs. The seamen swore you existed, but the rest of Westeros refused to believe.

Perhaps that was why you never strayed far from the White Knife, and from your mother’s side too.

Then again, your lady mother never faltered in warning you and your elder sisters of the myriad of dangers that came with your blood, and of people finding out the truth of such. She was a protective woman, prideful and beautiful, and a great warrior too. The magic she practiced since girlhood allowed for her to shift her appearances, and when you grew of age, she taught you the different spells and rituals, the small incantations to mumble under your breath, and the ways of honoring your grandfather.

“Be smart about it,” she cautioned, though not sternly. With a gentle palm resting over your cheekbone, she kissed the tip of your nose, smiling down at you, “always be mindful of one’s eyes and ears, my little one. The whales know no true safety, not even in their own home.”

Oh, how you wish to go back and believe her words a little more

It came as a great surprise that, while you were gone, your lord father had welcomed in a guest.

You had not been made aware of such, and neither was your mother, who took it as quite the insult. She immediately sent you and your sisters to your personal chambers, to wash up from the heavy sea salt that clung to your skin and hair, and to dress nicely. “The blue velvet, please,” she said, with a smile that did not reach her purple eyes. “We must look our best.” You had not the slightest clue of who the guest might be, and you ask your eldest sister if she caught a whisper. But she just shrugs. “A Stark, maybe? Or perhaps a Baratheon.”

“But what would they want with us?”

“Maybe a marriage pact is finally being proposed between our houses,” she replies with a sigh, a stupid lovesick grin twisting on her pink lips. She is a maiden of twenty and two, tall and slender and beautiful like your mother, and beyond ready to become a lord’s wife. You make a face at that but say nothing more. Would your mother even allow for that to happen? Perhaps for your sisters, but not for you.

You were still too young, a pretty daylily not yet ready for plucking.

In the Merman’s Court, you find your mother pacing by the castle’s throne, biting at her nails. She looks nervous, with eyes darting between the doors and the households that stood around the hall, cloaked in wools of blue and green. When she finally takes notice of your presence, she drops her hand and draws you into a hug. “Little fish,” and she studies you over, at how you brushed out your silver hair till it shone, and wore your nicest silks. “Very pretty, my little one. Very pretty, indeed.”

You remain by her side, clutching tightly her hand as your sisters soon step inside the hall, all clad in their prettiest gowns, in bright colors of green and navy and white, and giggling amongst themselves. Then come the court ladies and lords, the few maesters that lived in the New Castle, and your father, the Lord Manderly, followed by-

“Prince Aemond of the House Targaryen, son of King Viserys II and the Queen Alicent.”

Your eyes grow wide at the sight of Aemond One Eye, and you subtly shift closer to your mother. He was terribly handsome, you think, shrouded in black riding leather and a long cape that pooled around his dark boots. At his waist hangs a sheathed long-sword. Both his hands are tucked behind his back, shoulders straight and proud, and he wears a smirk. And his hair, every bit the same silver as yours, long and straight and neatly combed.

“Ah, Prince Aemond,” your mother greets. She curtsies, low and graceful to her knees, and you do the same. “Your visit is quite the unexpected one, but we welcome you into our home. Is White Harbor to your liking, my prince?”

He hums. “There are many seamen that dock themselves at King’s Landing, and almost all of them have spoken of the White Harbor, and the beauty that it possesses, particularly during these winter months.” His voice is deep, almost a purr, with a crownlands accent. “Although, my lady, now I cannot help but wonder if your daughters are the reason for that.”

Your mother clicks her tongue, and ever so slightly her eyes narrow. “You honor me, my prince,” she said, “and my daughters.”

Prince Aemond grins at that.

It was your father who spoke next. “My love, the Prince Aemond has arrived with a most equitable offer from the King and Queen themselves.” He sounds quite proud, and incredibly happy at whatever that offer might be. “They are asking for an alliance to be made between our house and House Targaryen,” but he pauses, holding his gaze on your mother, “-through marriage. Prince Aemond is here to choose one of our daughters to wed.”

Your face snaps to your mother, who stood speechless.

“Our eldest is twenty and two, and a fine lady,” your father adds, nodding to your sisters that stood to your left, “and our second-born daughter just celebrated her twentieth nameday. She has no current betrothed, though she is not without suitors, of course.” Your mother holds her tongue, it seemed, choosing to keep you tucked by her side.

But Prince Aemond shakes his head. “Your two daughters are very beautiful, Lord Manderly, I speak nothing but the truth with that, but I have no interest in having their hands,” he says, before focusing his one eye on you. “It is your youngest I wish to have.”

Your mind goes blank.

“My youngest?” Your father sputters. “Forgive me for my words, my prince, but we have not planned to wed her off yet.”

Aemond shrugs. “I do not care about that; it is she who I desire the most.” He looks at your father, tilting his head, sounding curious, “Did you not promise to me any choice of your daughters, for an alliance with my family?” Lord Manderly appears nervous now, and embarrassed as well, with cheeks and a forehead flushing a bright pink. “Well…I suppose so…”

“Mama?” you whisper, tucking yourself behind her. Your fingers tremble greatly, and it soon feels too difficult to breathe. You could feel your sisters’ eyes on you, along with your father’s and the eyes of the many court lords and ladies, and the household guards too. They all feel too judgemental, pitiful and sympathetic. But your mother, she fought back. “No,” she says, loudly. “No, you shall not have her.”

“You deny your own prince?” Aemond asks, incredulous. “Such boldness, my Lady Manderly. But alas, I came to retrieve my bride, and I shall leave with her, make no mistake in believing that.”

“No,” your mother repeats, much louder than the first. Her voice, strong and willful, echoes across the Merman’s Court, sounding every much a crack of thunder, or perhaps even a roar of a she-dragon. “She is still too young, my prince, you must understand that. I will not be separated from my youngest, she is not ready to become a wife-”

“She has celebrated her eighteenth nameday, has she not?” Your mother stays silent, and Aemond grins. “She is well old enough to be my wife.”

Your mother shakes her head. “Please, you can have my two other daughters, but not her. I refuse it! I refuse it!” She turns to your father, “My love, see with reason! She is not ready! The ocean still needs her, I still need her! Refuse it! I will not allow it! No, I will not-” But Prince Aemond cuts her off, “Refuse it?” He laughs, and you flinch at it.

“You have no power to do such a thing, least you wish to die of treason, a bloody traitor to your crown. To your King and Queen!”

He takes a step forwards, to you and your mother. “I know you, Lady Manderly,” he says, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild forest beast, “I know the sort of mother you are. It is very honorable, very admirable, and I thank you, from the bottom of my own heart, for raising my new bride well. But I also know you are very protective of them, and I understand.” Prince Aemond then leans his face close, until his lips linger over your mother’s ear, “-after all, dangers do tend to follow the daughters of Caraxes, do they not? And his granddaughters too. His pretty mermaids.”

He pulls back, a dark grin curling on his lips, his tone seeping in false concern. “What might happen if the world found out the truth of you? And your daughters? How you are not just liars, but neither full humans as well. The creatures the seamen lust after, alive and flourishing on the White Knife…”

Prince Aemond then peers at you from where you stood, his face softening. You timidly meet his eye. “Come, my lady, allow me a better look at you.” You swallow but do as he asked, moving to stand in front of him. “Look at you, a vision of pure beauty. You are so much lovelier than what I imagined when coming here,” and you could not figure out what hurts more: his grip on your upper arm, or the way your mother did nothing.

When you turn to glance back at your lady mother, she looks more a stranger than the woman you knew- weak and humiliated and defeated, almost in tears. It reminds you of something she told you, so many moons ago, back on the beachside. There was a dead whale carcass, fat and bloated, drifting back and forth in the harbor. In its side was buried a harpoon. Your mother shook her head at the sight.

“Even the whales fall prey to men.”

Five days later, Aemond One Eye claims you as his wife.

He allows the wedding to partake on the beach, alongside the ocean where you grew up and loved so dearly. Your mother had pleaded with him to agree on his part to wed you in the customs of Old Valyria, and he could not say no.

I, too, am of the blood of Old Valyria, he said, quite proudly. It will be an honor to both our ancestors, may they bear down on us as we continue our bloodline.

But afterward, he was quick to whisk you away to King’s Landing, to the Red Keep where he swore you rightfully belonged. You only caught a short glimpse of the Queen Alicent Hightower and her father, the Hand, before you were locked you in his royal chambers. And now, you lay across his bed, a flood of whimpers and moans spilling from your pink lips as he squashes his face only deeper between your thighs. “You have the sweetest cunt,” he groans, sucking on your clit as your head thrashes around, and your hips buck against his mouth.

“I knew I had to have you,” he says, while running his tongue along your wet folds. Your taste, it is like no other, and he swears himself a new and addicted man. He will spend the rest of his days worshipping you if the gods allow it. “The moment I saw you, you were mine. The gods could not even deny me of you. Your lips, my sweet girl, they looked so sweet, and I wondered if your cunt would be the same.”

Both your breasts sit in his hands, and he palms at them, sliding his face up to yours, peppering kiss after kiss across your hipbones and stomach. You are so beautiful, he thinks, while pressing his face against your belly. It should be a sin that you are not with child. “I cannot wait till our firstborn sleeps here,” he mumbles, kissing it, “I will make you the most beautiful mother known to the world, and men will envy me for the rest of their damned days.”

His words make you whimper, chewing on your bottom lip as his mouth soon hovers over yours. “Tell me you want my seed,” he demands in a whisper, gripping your chin between his fingers. “Tell me how bad you need it…and I promise you, my love, you will have it.”

“Please…”

His eyebrow raises, and he chuckles. “Please, what?”

He wishes for you to beg for him- for his seed and his love and soul, to plead with him for everything, to come undone and submit yourself- as his woman and wife and the mother of his children.

But you shy away, choosing to hide your face within the pillows, a bit too embarrassed to answer him properly. It is cute until Aemond grows too impatient. His craving for you spanned over too many moons, ever since he took first sight of you swimming in the waters of the White Knife. He toasts to both the Mother and the Maiden, perhaps even the Crone, that you never saw Vhagar flying in the sky above.

“It does not matter,” he says, kissing your forehead softly before moving to your lips. The kiss leaves you breathless, trembling and hungry for more. He flings your legs over his waist, pulling you down to where you lay completely underneath him, “I do not need your permission to seed my wife, and to make her a mother,” and against your lips, he mumbles, “you belong to me, do you understand? You are mine, from this day till the end.” And within a minute, his cock is stuffed deep inside you.

“It is too big…!” you cry, grasping onto his shoulders as he fucks you hard and deep, his thrusts seeming too unforgiving.

Perhaps he is punishing you, though you had not the smallest idea as to why.

“Please! Please, husband- please, slow down!” You bounce beneath him, fingers finding your own nipples as you twist and tweak them. It felt right in the moment, having remembered him doing it only several minutes ago.

“I do not give a shit,” he grunts, his hands resting on your hips, “you were fucking made for me. This body was made for my seed, for my children, now you will take it.” Sweat beads along his forehead as he moans and grunts some more and whines, feeling the way your cunt tightens around his cock. It is perfection, a feeling that was made just for him. “You have evaded my hands for too fucking long, now you suffer the consequences.”

You feel as if your eyes might roll to the back of your skull. Your pants are heavy and hot, and you cannot help the shriek when his fingers pinch your clit, before rubbing his thumb over it. He laughs, quickening his thrusts. “And to think, your mother would have kept this from me, kept you away from me. Ah, should I speak to you the truth, my love?” It is a cruel taunt, as you cannot answer, too overtaken by this pleasure. “I would have burned the White Harbor to the ground if I was denied you. Burned your entire fucking family to ashes if they dared keep you from me. House Strong has gone extinct because of me, maybe they will come up with a new nickname for that. Aemond Targaryen, kinslayer. Aemond Targaryen, house-destroyer.”

He shakes his head, snickering, “No, those are too silly, are they not, my love?”

Your face twists up, all in utter pleasure, and your body tightens too as you cream all over his cock. Soon after, he fills you with his cum, so much it trickles down from your cunt, staining the bedsheets along with your blood. But Aemond is quick to gather it with his fingertip, though, and shove it back in you. “Every bit of it matters, my lady, especially if we wish for you be with child by the next moon.” You try to smile, but you are so exhausted and ruined and all you yearn for is sleep.

“Did…did I do good?” you breathe.

Aemond smiles, and kisses your lips, soft and sweet and loving. He strokes your hair, twirling a silver strand around his finger. You are gorgeous, his beautiful wife, this sweet granddaughter of Caraxes. All his. You and the babe that you will carry soon.

“You did perfect, my little fish.”

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applecandy14 · 27 days ago

Text

I Swear I Need You

Pairing: Dark!Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: You've been avoiding your husband. Aemond will do whatever it takes to correct that.

Warnings: possessive/unhinged!Aemond, time-travel, infidelity, period-typical views of gender and marriage, angst, murder (non-explicit), reader’s plans go awry real fast

When you mull over it further in the safety of your own bed, you realize just how unsurprised you are by your husband's actions. Tales of Targaryen madness have always been prevalent throughout the kingdom, and the prince’s own uncle was said to have murdered his first wife long before wedding his niece.

That's probably where he'd drawn inspiration from, you decide with mounting fury. Aemond must've taken a page out of his uncle's book and discarded you in a moment of aggravation. You were of little use to his present cause—whatever it was. Being the outsider that you are, you're not privy to his family's agenda.

Having come to with a violent start, heart racing painfully in your chest, you come to terms with what's happened—with what will happen, should you remain down the same path: your husband is going to murder you. He'll push you off the terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay after you confront him about his dalliances; the ocean below you'll plunge into while you scream your lungs out, knowing full well you know not how to swim—that even if you did, you were no match for the strong currents of Blackwater Bay.

But you're alive now, you remind yourself. Not because, by some miracle of the Seven, you survived the waters, but...but because your demise has yet to happen.

You've somehow traveled back in time. The thought is as ludicrous as it is a relief, but you know not how else to explain it.

If you're alive now, it must mean you can still avoid the fate you've just met. But how?

You remember the confrontation you had with him, all the words that had tumbled from your mouth while he watched, his face impassive, one violet eye as wide as it was blank. The problem was that you never could gauge his mood, but what you're actually realizing now is that you just weren't worth the effort for him to emote to any extent. After all, you were never the prize; your enormous dowry was.

I have been nothing but an attentive and devoted wife to you—but you, you choose to spit it all back in my face—they say your father, may his bones rest in peace, would never—if you're this blind, then perhaps your nephew should've maimed your other eye for good measure—

Well, that’s it, isn’t it? You'd gone off on your husband when once you wouldn't have dared to. In your defense, you were drunk from imbibing too much Dornish red, your bitterness and neglect at a fever pitch that night.Here you were, a hare forced to dwell amongst dragons; some at court called you an upstart, others called you a tart with middling blood. You were craving.

You know your husband craves, too. You're just not what he wants.

Well.

In the end, this is what you surmise: if you want to keep your head above the water, you just need to stay clear of your husband. Keeping on his good side means keeping out of his way. Where once you longed for his attention, you are now more than happy to do without it, so long as it means you can live.

After all, Prince Aemond can't murder his wife if he hardly remembers he has one.

In your head, at least, it makes sense.

**************

The basket of white linen shirts placed in your bedchamber startles you.

You've just returned from a game of shuttlecock with your handmaidens,basking in the cool morning weather before the near-stifling noonday heat takes over completely. You're feeling light and invigorated, but the sight of that basket chases away your happy mood. It's Aemond's, those linen shirts. You completely forgot about them, but here they are.

Playing ghost with your husband comes surprisingly easy to you, but you suppose the foundations for your success were always there from the start; there was the fact that the two of you have always kept to separate sleeping arrangements, and Aemond has only ever sought your company at a frequency deemed dutiful by royal standards: there’s the few meals taken together each week with or without your in-laws, peppered with an occasional rendezvous in the evening that’s held before the hearth in your bedchamber. Where you once took these opportunities to please and engage him, now you keep mostly to yourself, mincing empty words when silence was unavoidable. Your quiet complaisance seems to please him enough, you think, but you'll never know for sure.

Under no circumstances do you accept any appointments with him on the terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay; you even turn down a surprising request to walk with him through the royal gardens, because you know one of the paths lead to that same fateful spot you were once pushed off from.

In short, you have no interest in gaining your would-be murderer's favour—though, of course, you're certainly not interested in gaining his disfavor, either. It's a thin line you walk on, and you're trying not to fall off before making it to the other side.

"You can take this back to the prince's chambers, Edyth," you order, gesturing toward the basket.

Your favourite handmaiden frowns at you. "But princess, you haven’t mended them yet,” she reminds.

"You’re right, and I don’t intend to."

Edyth looks worried. "Prince Aemond will question this, won't he? You've always insisted on darning his shirts yourself. What am I to tell his page when asked?"

You doubt your husband remembers such trivial devotions coming from you. A truth that heavy may have once left you despondent, but now, with a spark of vindication, you realize just how well that works in your favour.

"You will tell his page that I've not the time to darn his shirts anymore," you respond. "Besides, Prince Aemond has important matters on his mind to heed who is darning his shirts, don't you think?"

The look on your handmaiden's face tells you she's not wholly convinced, but she obeys nonetheless.

**************

"Won't you dance with me, sweet sister?" the Princess Helaena asks, and you smile brightly at her. You've never excelled at anything in particular, but you do consider dancing one of your stronger points. The King need not bother the two of you tonight, thankfully; as you rise from your seat you spot your brother-in-law watching fair Lady Bridgetts with a less-than-lecherous gaze, surrounded by his like-minded coterie. The King these days doesn't care much for small family gatherings, as was once the norm, you were informed; he prefers the more boisterous and wine-soaked kind, attended by courtiers he knows will keep him entertained.

Despite her marriage to King Aegon, your sister-in-law has yet to be crowned queen, but she doesn't seem to mind in the least. Her steps are light and airy, cheeks red with excitement. You match her enthusiasm with your own, realizing that your feelings of joy are, in fact, genuine; Aemond is absent tonight, as he has been for the past few days, and so you've been able to breathe a little easier because of it. Your husband has been charged with mending frayed ties with the lords of The Reach, taking him away from the capital. A blessing, that—you wouldn't have attended tonight's amusements had he been in attendance.

And so you dance and dance with the Princess Helaena, the two of you spinning in delight as the music picks up its tempo; your surroundings blur while you move, eager to be rid of your present worries for a night or two. While you've taken it easy with the wine—you learned your lesson when you drunkenly confronted Aemond on the terrace that fateful day—you've indulged on the candied fruits that accompanied tonight's supper, the sugar elating your good spirits even further.

But perhaps you've been too eager to forget, it seems, that the gods have sought to correct this.

As you ready yourself for another spin, someone catches your eye—pale blonde hair and garments as black as night instantly betray his identity.

Aemond is watching you as you stumble lightly at his appearance, just as the music halts.

Your husband's gaze remains firmly upon you as a Kingsguard standing watch by the entrance announces Prince Aemond's arrival. You look away with haste, cursing beneath your breath. This wasn't what you anticipated; your husband isn't expected back for a few days still.

His mother voices as much after greeting her son warmly. "Nonetheless, the sweet air of the Reach has done you well," she comments, and you refrain from rolling your eyes. In your opinion, Aemond looks exactly the same, his pallor just as it was when he left King's Landing. You wonder, more with curiosity rather than bitterness, what fleshly delights he had sampled on there.

"For all of its riches, The Reach lacks what I truly desire," he says, casting a look at you over his mother's head. You're forced to hold back a scoff. You have no time for flattery.

"Then you will happily greet your wife with open arms, will you not?" the Queen Mother asks, turning to lead her son towards you.

With a smile painted on your face, you offer a quick curtsy in greeting. "Welcome back to the capital, husband." The last word tastes foreign in your mouth.

The Prince must’ve changed into a fresh set of clothes before appearing before them all, by the pristine look of his leather doublet and hose. He doesn't respond right away, his expression impassive.

"You look well, my love," he finally says.

You actually want to agree with him because it's true, but you’re sure that would be in bad taste when you've been apart from each other for such a while.

"Won't you dance with her, Aemond?" It's the Princess Helaena, speaking from across the room. "Those who dance and tumble, dance and tumble, will always discern," she portends, a faraway look blossoming on her still flushed-face.

You glance at your husband. "Perhaps some wine would be a better idea after such a long flight," you suggest instead.

"Only if you join me as well."

You can't just skip out this instant, you realize; that could raise Aemond's suspicions, and you don't want to deal with that. No, you'll make your exit when the moment's right, but now isn't it.

"If it pleases you, then I will."

His violet-eyed stare is unsettling, as it normally is. "It would please me very much."

You look back at Helaena with apology and affection. Here, at least, there is no bad blood to smooth over; your sister-in-law continues smiling at you in that otherworldly, enchanted way of hers. You also have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about.

Things fall back into place again as the two of you both seat yourselves at the dining table; the music winds itself back up again, but it’s a new tune this time. You smile knowingly at a trio of courtiers you’ve caught trying to scrutinize you discreetly by one of the stone columns. Tongues never stop wagging at court, and you suspect the grapevine will be plenty fruitful on the morrow, now that Prince Aemond has returned.

At the head of the table, your husband holds out a cup provided by his servant. "To your health," he says, watching you.

You raise your own cup before bringing it to your lips. You sip cautiously, as you’re wont to do now.

Tonight’s retinue of courtiers gravitate around you both, but none dare approach close enough for discourse. From your vantage point, adjacent to the Prince’s own seat, you can see the Queen Mother’s tapestries on display along the gallery’s wall. She was forced to relinquish some of her favourites to King Aegon, he who has a penchant for life’s finest things. It’s mainly what you think about while nursing your wine, saying little to your husband.

"What have you been doing here in my absence?"

You shrug. "Things, here and there."

"Such as?"

For a moment, you consider telling him about your day traversing through River Row. Despite having never lived there for a day in your life, being surrounded by fishmongers and sea captains grips you with nostalgia you didn’t realize you yearned so badly for. More than once you’ve even had a selection of fish brought back to the Red Keep for your cook to try his hand at preparing. But why in the gods would you tell him all that? You want as little to do with your husband as possible; it’s as if the more you give, either with words or actions, the easier it will be for him to use against you, to lure you to the terrace you avoid like death itself.

"Trifling things, husband," you finally say, fingers dancing around the rim of your cup. "I doubt you’d be interested in the courtly pursuits that maidens and ladies participate in to wile away the time."

"Hm. And yet my shirts have come back to me unmended each time they are brought to your chambers. My page insists you’ve been occupied."

Your fingers stop moving. "Oh. I didn't think you'd mind, to be honest. And besides, I realized I was too poor a seamstress in the end," you add for good measure.

"I ought to be the arbiter of that."

You know his gaze has barely left your face since he’s arrived, and it’s beginning to make you nervous. Instinctively, you open your mouth to apologize, but he cuts you off, his voice low and commanding in that calmly dangerous way of his.

"I will ask you again, wife: what have you been doing in my absence?"

As the minstrels segue into a new song, you shift your focus entirely on him. The Prince sits with his back erect, one hand on the table; his face is, as far as you can tell, an attestation to his boredom and the company present.

His gaze on you is another story, altogether. Beneath his stare, you’re reminded of the madness all Targaryens are supposedly capable of—that conquering dragons is madness itself. How else to explain wedding and bedding your own kin, or murdering them for sport?

Your husband has killed. He has killed his nephew, and once he has killed you. If you let him, he could do it again. You don’t know what he wants to hear, or what he even wants from you, but you know you’re right to try and stay clear of him.

One of his long fingers taps sporadically against the base of his cup. Tap. Tap, tap. Tap—

"I've taken to the arts," you confess warily.

He blinks once, and only once. "What kind?"

"Well, ink paintings have taken the court by storm as of late," you explain, shrugging. "There isn’t one person I know who hasn’t dabbled in it."

"And you’re taken by it as well?"

You nod. "Yes, quite. Our teacher is a good one, and I’ve done well under his tutelage. He hails from Qarth, actually, but from what I understand the art of ink painting comes fr—"

"Your teacher is a man," he states, cutting you off.

You huff quietly, slightly incensed from his interruption. "Of course he is. Women aren’t allowed to apprentice."

Another tap of his finger against the base of his cup. "And how often do you congregate with this teacher of yours?"

You’re really hoping that your husband doesn’t plan on taking an interest in ink painting. That’s just what you need, isn’t it, the Prince hovering about your space while you indulge in a past-time you’ve genuinely enjoyed pursuing, and not just for social purposes. "Our circle meets once a week," you lie. So what if it’s actually more frequent than that? With a civil war on the horizon, you’re not even sure if any of this will last, and you want to enjoy it as husbandless as you’re able.

Boisterous laughter rings across the room. You realize it’s coming from the King and his coterie, but the source of their humour is unknown to you.

"You must show me your work, then," Aemond voices. "I very much wish to see your endeavours."

You smile nervously. "Yes, of course. Perhaps soon."

He smiles back at you, but there is dark mischief beneath it. "Perhaps now, my love. Let us rid ourselves of this company and find sweeter things to do in your chambers."

Your mind halts, fearful and mortified. This is absolutely not the direction you ever intended this conversation to go in—far from it. You have yet to find a plausible excuse to keep the prince out of your bed when your duty remains unfulfilled, but the experience is few and far between. Your husband does not crave you; the suddenness of his request throws you completely off guard.

Say something, anything.

"The time is late and you’ve journeyed far, husband. Wouldn’t you prefer the comfort of your own familiar bed? You’re back in the capital now, besides; we’ve plenty of time for, um, things."

He says nothing to you, but you catch it on his face. That gleam of madness again.

For a moment you think he’s ready to let it go. And then, without breaking eye contact, he extends his arm and tilts his cup sideways, Dornish red spilling out over your lap like a bloody waterfall. You gasp loudly for all to hear, but you're too slow to avoid it; the wine has soaked through your skirts.

"How careless of me," he says without even a sliver of remorse, his face turned upwards to your own, one violent eye aglow with calm mischief.

You'd shot up from your seat as soon as the wine splashed onto your gown, your chair screeching against the stone floor. The music had halted again and the discourse terminated, all eyes turned towards you and the prince.

In the hushed silence that has descended, you glare at the prince, fingers bunching into the folds of your gown not soiled by the carnage he has wrought. You're flushed with a mix of frustration and embarrassment, face warm as you catch attendants approaching you from the corner of your eyes. How could he?

"I was very fond of this dress," you say, waving off the attendants. There was nothing they could do to salvage the garment.

"Then you must forgive this husband of yours," he says, standing. "We will need to have another dress made for my lady wife. A much finer one, so that it wholly befits her status and beauty."

"Yes, indeed," his mother cuts in as she nears, turning you towards her so she can examine the damage done by her son. "What a shame. It isn't like you to be so clumsy, Aemond."

Despite his misdemeanor—or, perhaps, because of it—the corners of his mouth remain tilted upwards in a mischievous smile. "It would seem that reuniting with my lady wife has made me soft and befuddled," he confesses, standing. You take a step back, alarmed.

"Come, wife," he says. "Unfortunately in this state, you're no longer fit for company like this. We will bid everyone a good night."

You consider disobeying. I'm not fit for your company either, you think to say, but there is a shadow lingering in his good eye that you're wary of. Aemond will broker no argument or negotiation tonight. Besides, the stain on your dress is too unbecoming for this set, yes; you look down at it, noticing how it resembled a bloody island in the sea of the blue fabric.

In the end, it is the Queen Mother who decides for you. "You'll not want to linger in that dress for much longer, my love," she comments with an apologetic smile. "I'll see to it that Aemond makes good on his promise of a new dress. You are certainly deserving of it."

So you bow your head in deference towards her before bidding your King and his company a goodnight. Helaena kisses your cheek affectionately before whispering something in your ear. You don't think much about it just now, not until you're lying in your bed, coming to terms with everything that had transpired tonight.

What will transpire tonight, that is.

**************

You make it a point not to look at your husband as you make your way through the Red Keep, back to your own suite of rooms. The few restless courtiers still milling about eye the two of you cautiously.

In the now-empty corridor leading to your chambers do you finally voice your anger. "You did that on purpose," you accuse, turning on your heel to glare at him. Even his close proximity cannot thaw your feelings.

His smile remains placid. "Yes, I did." Not even a half-hearted attempt to deny it, you realize.

"Why do such a thing? What have I done to draw such ire from you tonight?"

The warm light that emanates from the torches around you sets your husband aglow while he studies you for a moment, silent. You freeze in fear beneath his gaze; it’s a look not so different from that which he'd given you before shoving you off the terrace—but no, that hasn't happened yet, not in whatever realm you've found yourself in right now. That won’t happen, so long as you play your cards right, so long—

You fail to act in time; he already has you pushed against the wall, his warm body crowding into yours. His hands curl possessively around your waist, face a hair's breadth away from your own. And while you desperately try to claw yourself from his presence, unable to discern between this Aemond and the one who killed you, between the sturdy ground beneath your feet and the ocean you were once plunged in, he only seems intent to trespass, to enforce his presence on you the only way a dragon is capable of.

"Something has come over you," he says at last with a gentle tilt of his head, his hands tightening over your waist. "Where once you seemed intent to occupy every moment of my time, you're now avoiding me as of late. Why is that, wife?"

Heart drumming loudly in your ears, you try your hardest to maintain a passive look on your face. "No, that's absurd," you insist with the lightest of scoffs. "What reason would I have to avoid you?"

"That, my love, is exactly what I plan to find out."

You shake your head vehemently, trying another tactic. "So what if I have been making myself scarce before you? You’ve been preoccupied with matters of state, don’t you see? I only wish not to add to your burdens!"

He seems to be mulling over your answer while you try to keep yourself together, but his grip on your waist doesn’t loosen at all.

"Perhaps you’re right," he affirms. "I’ve been a poor husband to you, haven’t I?"

"No! That’s not what I m—"

He doesn’t let you finish. "This needs to be rectified immediately."

You blink at him, throat parched. "I don’t understand."

A knowing smile blooms slowly along his mouth. "You will once the night is through."

**************

AN: Guys this was supposed to be like, 2k words, but here we are past the 4k mark and I have no excuses other than this plot escaped me. If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading! It’s been a while since I’ve written GOT fic, so I might be a little rusty. Let me know if you’re interested in reading more; I guess I could try my hand at smut or smth and I always planned to make our boy nuttier as the ideas flowed outta my head.

Also, despite the sappy-sounding title, it’s ripped from Seulgi’s 28 Reasons which I had on full repeat because of its creepy, dark-pop vibe. Bye.

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