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𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬 | aemond targaryen x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | these were the only times he showed you any affection— when others were watching. when his reputation was at stake. but as eyes from around the room fell on you as you danced, you swallowed down a lump in your throat as you wondered if they could see it all: the truth, that is. separate bedrooms, sparse conversations, silent meals. {aka, an arranged marriage with aemond that’s not as loveless as it seems, once he’s forced to admit how he really feels…}

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 9.4k (WHOOPS)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | smut (virginity loss with some pain due to aemond being… very gifted, breeding kink ft. breeding press, emotional sex, the slightest dubcon if you squint but trust me it's wanted), arranged marriage, angst, the love isn’t unrequited they’re just idiots, innocent reader, slight infidelity (reader has essentially an emotional affair with a stark!oc), touch starved reader and also touch starved aemond but at the same time cocky aemond lol, reader is insanely whipped for aemond (aka self-insert lmao jk but really tho), slight housewife kink? but really just very old school/traditional views of marriage, reader is implied to be some kind of royal but no mentions of her house or origins or appearance

You knew Aemond hated these sorts of things, but you loved them. You loved that he had to treat you like a wife for the evening— putting his hand on your shoulder or waist, smiling at you, talking about you to other guests…

Maybe that was the same reason that he hated them. You really couldn't tell; but on nights like this, you just basked in the fantasy, in the joy of putting on this show for the others so they wouldn't know how loveless and empty your marriage really was.

The banquet was, all things considered, rather uneventful. You didn't make much conversation, opting to stay firmly planted at your husband's side until he invited you to dance. He disliked dancing, too, but he was decent at it; you couldn't stop smiling when he took your hand so gently, guiding you to the centre of the room. His gracefulness and stoic nature reminded you of how you thought of him when you met him for the first time.

You remembered returning home after your first visit, knowing the courtship would be brief for a political marriage and that your next visit would probably be permanent. You spent the night telling everything to your friends, giddy with romantic glee. What's he like? they asked. They say the one-eyed prince is strange— but maybe they all are…

You clutched your hands to your chest as you answered: he's shy, you said, and reserved— mysterious! But I know he has a kind heart, if only he'll let me near to it. He took my hand and kissed it… just the way he looked at me as he did made my heart jump! He's handsome, I think, if in a strange way— he doesn't look anything like the men here. But I like that…

And they all swooned, going on about how lucky you were, fantasising with you about how romantic it would be when he showed you his true nature and fawned over you as his new wife.

For a dragon, for a man made in fire, he was so cold— frozen solid, right down to his heart.

These were the only times he showed you any affection— when others were watching. When his reputation was at stake. But as eyes fell on you as you danced, you swallowed down a lump in your throat as you wondered if they could see it all: the truth, that is. Separate bedrooms, sparse conversations, silent meals (when you ate together at all, which became rarer over time).

Nearly eight months into marriage, with no pregnancy, you knew there were rumours already about why no children were on the way. The kindest of them spoke that Aemond didn't desire children and had you on a strict regimen of preventative elixirs and teas; the harshest alleged that you couldn't satisfy him, couldn't interest him, or couldn't bear for him at all.

Worst of all, you weren't sure which of those were true yourself. He never told you if he wanted children, or if he had a lover already, or if he was like his brother— spending night after night in whorehouses.

You didn't know him at all, really, and it made your eyes sting at the dance came to an end. He let go of your hand to clap for the end of the song like the other dancers, and you knew it could be weeks before he touched you again. You bowed your head and hoped he wouldn't see your eyes getting watery.

When you looked up again, Aemond's attention was elsewhere as a Lord visiting from far away approached him to make conversation; but another set of eyes were upon you, those of the Lord Stark seated across the hall. His stare was dark, but warm, and you glanced away quickly.

"Excuse me," you offered quietly to your husband and his conversation partner, who nodded at you to dismiss you before you left. Making your way to the doors, you saw Stark standing from his chair in the corner of your eye as you passed.

Leaving the party, you walked far enough that you suspected no one else would come by— no one else that wasn't looking for you, that is. And only one man would come looking for you…

He did, as you suspected; you waited under a sconce until you heard footsteps behind you. You turned to face him, and part of you imagined, still, that it would be your husband standing there. Why did you leave, dear wife? Wouldn't you like to dance with me again?

He probably didn't even know you were gone. Instead, you stared at the man standing before you. "Lord Stark," you greeted with a polite curtsy.

"You may desist the pleasantries," he smirked, full lips surrounded by dark brown stubble on his face, approaching you with a gentle touch to your arm. "We are alone, my lady."

Sighing, you watched his fingers pet the sleeve of your dress. What would it be like if Aemond touched your arm, with his delicate touch and slender hands? "That we are," you agreed softly.

"I've waited quite some time to see you again," Philip Stark said thoughtfully, and you smiled up at him shyly, "and I'm afraid you are even more beautiful than I remembered."

"And you are even more flirtatious than I remembered," you returned, making him laugh lightly.

"Quick-witted as always, my lady," he praised, "but it is not flattery— you know I truly adore you, don't you? These nights are all I have to look forward to… though it does wound me to see you with him. Especially now that I know how cruel he really is."

Yes, when you first encountered Philip in one of these empty hallways, you confessed more of the truth to him than you'd ever told anyone. As embarrassing as it was, he never judged or shamed you; in fact, he apparently fell madly in love with you after that one conversation. And now here he was, jealous that Aemond married you first, making you feel terrible for the way you entertained the interest of another man.

"I wanted to ask you for a dance," Philip admitted. "Would you have accepted?"

"Of course," you beamed.

"Then I'll ask now," he decided, extending his hand to you as your eyes widened.

"But there's no music!" you protested.

"Can’t you hear it?” he grinned, making you knit your brows and try to listen more carefully. With the doors to the main hall shut, you couldn’t hear anything. “That’s what it’s like to be in love— you hear music when others don’t.”

As sweet as it was for Philip to imply he was in love with you, you had to laugh. “I think that’s what it’s like to be insane!” you replied.

“The two are actually quite similar,” he winked as you took your hand and pulled you closer, squaring up to dance with you.

For a few moments, it was just that— dancing in the hallway with Philip to silent music. It was fun, romantic even, and you laughed like you hadn’t in weeks. And though you couldn’t quite call it a surprise, with the way he was looking at you, you felt a strange sense of disappointment when he kissed you.

Disappointment because all you could think about as he kissed you was how different it felt from what you thought kissing Aemond would be like.

You'd put a lot of thought into it, actually, since you first met him. Aemond’s lips seemed soft, and the few times you'd seen the tip of his tongue slip out to wet them as he was immersed in thought, you thought of him tasting your lips. His touch was delicate and lithe, those thin fingers might tilt your head back so you would look up at him, or lightly tickle the small of your back. He would be so careful with you, tender and patient as he was in all things, he would savour every moment that your body was pressed to his…

Philip was exactly the opposite in every way. His stubble scratched against your face, reminding you what you were doing and who you were doing it with. His kiss was aggressive and hungry, his tongue prying into your mouth as he hummed in delight and pulled you closer by your hips.

It took all your strength, physical and metaphysical, to push him away. "I can't… my husband—" you began.

"You told me yourself that he ignores you," he sighed, tightening his grip on you to keep you close. "Didn't you say that you thought he was having an affair of his own?"

"W-well, I'm not sure— I just imagine he must be, since he's never… since we never…"

He growled slightly, leaning in to kiss your neck as you shivered. "I still can't believe it," he mumbled. "That the prince has a beautiful wife all to himself and never once bed you. What a waste that is— you deserve to be pleasured, my love…"

You wanted so much to give into it, to let him take you now and finally know what you'd been waiting so long for. You wanted it more than anything— to be loved, desired, cherished. But you still gasped and pushed him away again when he started to grab at your dress. "I saved my purity for my husband," you reminded him with a frown.

"And you still have it!" he snapped. "Isn't it time to give it to someone who wants it?"

You'd told him yourself that your husband didn't care for you, and yet it stung horribly to hear Lord Stark say it so plainly. You dropped your head and bit your shaking lip, sniffling as he awkwardly tried to recant what he'd said.

"I-I've offended you— my apologies— but it is him that should feel guilty, not you," Philip insisted. "He's mad to treat you in such a way… he should desire you, I can't imagine why he doesn't. But he doesn't, that much we can both be certain of. And I do— more than anything, I desire you. I meant all that I said in my letter— and more. I have dreamt of you every night since we first met, since you let me kiss your hand…"

The declaration of love was beautiful, and tender, but it was soured— for it all came from the wrong man. It would be easier to run away with the Lord Stark and be his wife instead, let him give you all the things he promised. But it was not duty that kept you bound to Aemond… it was devotion; real, pure devotion.

You interrupted the Lord's imploring speech by resting your hand tenderly on his cheek. He sighed, shutting his eyes and savouring your touch. "My lady," he whispered reverently.

"I am truly sorry, my Lord," you breathed. "You are handsome, and gentle— and any lady should be so lucky to have your heart, for it is truly kind and just. But—"

"But you can only love him," Stark finished with a sneer, jerking away from you dejectedly.

"I wish I didn't," you admitted with a whimper as you started to cry. "I wish I was the sort of woman who could ignore my marriage and abandon my husband and just love you, but—"

"Say no more," he interrupted firmly. "I see now that you never felt for me as you said you did. You only liked that I gave you the attention your husband does not."

Well, that was sort of true, but it still hurt.

"No wonder he hates you— he knows how wicked you are!"

You reached out for the man but he had already turned to leave you; you wanted to plead for just one more embrace from him, so it would be longer before you forgot how it felt to be held. But you, apparently, had a single shred of dignity left… or maybe it was just that you were crying too hard to speak.

Crumpling to the floor, you leaned against the stone wall, hearing the sounds of the party grow louder for a moment as the doors to the banquet hall opened again. The sounds of merriment and joy felt distant, not just because they were literally far away— you had so few joys left already, and one of them had just tossed you aside with impatience and disgust.

When the evening concluded and you were alone in your bed across the castle, you dreamt that Aemond found one of Philip's letters to you; that he read it and confronted you, admitting he was livid to imagine another man stealing you away. In your dream, Aemond's anger revealed his true lust for you, and he asserted his claim over his wife by violently taking you right there in your bed, all the while swearing to never even let anyone else look at you again.

It may have sounded like a nightmare to anyone else, but you would accept any interest from Aemond by now— you wouldn't struggle or resist him, too good of a wife to ever deny your husband. But that was hardly something you had to worry about: you'd never have to deny him, because he'd never want you. Realising this for the hundredth time hurt just as much as the first; you wept into your pillow for the rest of the night.

"What is it that you hate so much about me?" you asked, voice wavering even though you'd imagined being so tough when you finally confronted him.

You hadn't woken up that day planning to ask him that. You'd woken up that day melancholy as you knew it was your eight month wedding anniversary— and you knew that Aemond didn't care. He didn't join you for breakfast, and you thought about taking your meal to the terrace to look out at the garden while you ate, but then you thought you'd better just wait for him at the table in case he came late and gave you a kiss on the head as he passed by to his seat.

Of course, he did not. You didn't see him before lunch, either— or at lunch! That was when your heartbreak shifted into anger. If he wanted to be aloof, fine. If he wanted to be in a purely political marriage without even consummating it, that was his right. And if he didn't think children were necessary, being the second son and therefore not needing an heir, even though you longed to be less alone and have someone to care for here in this draughty old castle— you could live with all that.

But if he couldn't even think to say hello to his wife, either ignorant or uncaring that the twentieth of every month was another month gone by since the wedding, then he was worse than you realised. Up until now he’d avoided you, sure, but he wasn’t… mean, except for avoiding you, which was mean in itself. It made you think of what Philip said a few weeks ago— no wonder he hates you.

So, that was what compelled you to find Aemond in his chambers, swinging the doors open and blurting out your question.

He sighed, seeming annoyed, as he shut his book and looked at you. Even after seeing firsthand how little he cares about you, part of you imagined he'd be offended when you asked that. Hate you? Darling, of course not! You're my wife, aren't you?

But no, he only contemplated you with an unsurprised frustration as you stood there, shaking hands clenched into fists. You spoke again when he still said nothing. "I'd just like you to tell me, Aemond. Tell me why you despise me so much."

He smiled— fucking smiled— as he tilted his head down and shook it. "Haven't I done enough for you? This is the thanks I get, when I try so hard to be kind to you?"

You choked on your gasp, tears falling down your face already even though you wanted more than anything not to let him see you weep. "Is this what it looks like when you try? I'd hate to see what happens when you just give in and show me how you really feel."

He scoffed. "You would hate it," he agreed.

"You're so cruel…" you whispered, choking on a sob. "How do you do that, Aemond? How are you so horrible to me, without a second thought?"

That seemed to anger him properly, and he finally stood up as rage heated his face. "How dare you come to my chambers and question me? After all I've done for you—!"

"All you've done?" you repeated incredulously. "Ignored and belittled me? Treated me like a stranger, secluded me to another bedroom… are these your mercies?"

He seemed confused— an emotion you weren't used to seeing on him. "Yes!" he answered, irritated. "What more could you want? I can't exactly have you living on another continent, can I?"

You blinked quickly, shaking your head at him. "I— I don't understand…"

"I grant you all that, because I know this marriage was not your choice," he explained, like it was obvious. "It wasn't mine either— we can at least be civil, and keep up appearances, for your honour and my own."

"Honour? Aemond, the court believes I am barren! I haven't the heart to tell them that you're disgusted by me!"

He stepped closer to you, the short distance making your heart race. "Disgusted? You may think me a monster, but I am only a man— even I know how beautiful you are."

Your throat caught. He said it like you should know— but it was news to you, and it made your heart skip. "If… if you think me beautiful, why— why did you never lay with me? Even on our wedding night?" you asked, feeling your face warm to discuss something so crude.

"I'm not like my brother," he sneered. "I have no desire to force myself on you…"

His eye darted to the side briefly.

"W-well, no intention, at least."

"Force?" you repeated, confused as you shook your head. "Aemond, you're hardly making any sense…"

"I'm not making sense, am I? Who are you to question me? You act like a nice, obedient wife— you like to make them think of you that way, don't you? But I let you live as you did before, as much as I can. What more do you want, woman?!" he asked ragefully.

"I… want only for you to hold me," you admitted, voice breaking as you cried in earnest. You felt like a child when he looked at you like this, even more so as you admitted your foolish desires. "I want my husband to love me— I want him to touch and kiss me, and tell me that he can't live without me. I want, even just for one day, to feel worthy of your love— fuck, just your attention! Just your approval!"

He blinked at you, softening, and you almost jumped when his hand reached up to tenderly stroke the back of your arm. "My wife…" he whispered, and your lips fell slack with a sigh.

He leaned in a bit closer then, reaching up to wipe a tear from the height of your cheek with his thumb. In all the months you'd been married, in the weeks you courted, he'd never touched you so sweetly.

"I… I didn't want to hurt you," he promised, "or scare you. I thought you—"

He lowered his voice again, shutting his eye, and you leaned in closer.

"I knew you couldn't love me," he whispered. "You're so sweet and lovely— I'm scarred. And you played the part well, but… I've seen that look before, when a lady is trying to be polite but is upset by the sight of me. I understand."

You reached up to hold his face, biting your shaking lip. “Aemond… I never— you’re beautiful.”

He turned away shyly, cheeks starting to tint in a way that only added to the beauty he was about to deny. “I know you want to be a good wife, but your flattery is inconceivable.”

“I always thought you were handsome, my prince,” you promised, forcing him to look at you so he could see the earnestness in your eyes. “And I don’t just want to be a good wife— I want to be your wife.”

"You always had my attention," he informed you. "And you never lost my approval."

Overcome with joy, you threw yourself onto him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Though he seemed a bit stunned by your forwardness at first, he returned your hug; you could've sobbed when he embraced you. It was all you'd ever wanted, and it was so simple: just the touch of your husband— just the warmth and strength of him, wrapped around you.

Squeezing your shoulders gently, he sighed beside your ear. “You don’t need to be so excited,” he mumbled.

“Of course I’m excited,” you beamed, holding him even tighter. “I thought you— do you really care for me?”

“Yes,” he assured, and you pulled back to look at his face, just in case he was obviously lying or something. But he seemed genuine— actually, he seemed surprised that you didn’t believe him already.

"I won't believe you until you kiss me," you decided. Smiling, he leaned closer and took one more long look at your face before pressing his lips to yours.

It was sort of like how you'd imagined that it would be, at first. But in a moment, it was better than you could've ever thought.

It was needy. You loved it; your husband needed you. His kiss was still delicate and precise, yes, but filled with heavy sighs and hesitant attempts to pull you closer and press his body to yours. It was teeming with all that suppressed hunger, like he was fighting every instinct so he wouldn't overwhelm you. If only he knew he could do whatever he liked to you; if only you could make him let go and show his true self.

“I care for you,” he whispered into the kiss, almost so quiet you didn’t hear it… but you did, and you had to cling to his shoulders with your knees going weak. He pulled away to speak to you more clearly, as much as you hated being away from that kiss again. “I care for you too much to subject you to my presence.”

“Do you care for me too much to consummate our marriage?” you asked, catching the way his eye widened slightly while his grip at your waist tightened.

“Avoiding you was easier than resisting you,” he explained quickly. “It’s… difficult, even now, holding you like this, and not—”

“I want you to,” you admitted, nearly whining as you clutched at his shirt to pull him closer. “Since our wedding night— well, even before then, I wanted—”

"Don't," he pleaded, voice thin as he looked away. "I… I won't be able to hold myself back…"

"Take me, husband," you begged. "I— I waited for you all my life. I need to feel you, to please you—"

He snarled a bit as he shut you up with a bruising kiss, holding your back tightly.

You hummed into it, feeling heat flood your face (and between your legs) as he kissed you so… shamelessly. Your grip on him loosened, only because all of you went a little limp from the way his teeth grazed your bottom lip, and you pressed your hands flat against the leather in hopes you could feel the warmth of his chest through it. Unfortunately, you couldn’t, so instead you found your hand slipping between two of the fasteners of his tunic, fingers brushing against the bare skin underneath. He pulled away from your lips, but you couldn’t seem to find the strength to pull your hand from his chest— his warm, porcelain skin—

"Your eagerness is unladylike," Aemond noticed with a pleased smirk.

"I-I am sorry, but I can't help it," you whimpered. "I've longed for you— I've dreamt of you—"

"Shh, I know," he smiled softly, petting your hair as you leaned into the gentle touch. "I quite like this desperation on you, anyways. Be careful not to let me enjoy it too much, or I'll make you wait another eight months."

"No, please," you breathed, "you could hold me every day and I'd be just as eager, my prince."

He sighed just by your ear, even something that simple making you shiver. "I'll do more than that— I'll never let you go. I'll hold you for the rest of our lives. Then will you be satisfied?"

Crying softly, you nodded and hid your face against his shoulder, sighing at the relief being close to him brought you.

He reached up slowly to help you unfasten the clothing that covered his upper body; watching him undress was just divine, in your opinion— every nimble motion of his fingers exposed a longer sliver of his torso until he shirked the tunic away from his shoulders and revealed himself to you. Biting your lip, you graced your fingers over his chest, admiring how strong he was and how delicate his ivory skin felt; if it weren’t for how shockingly warm he was to the touch, you’d believe he really was porcelain.

“Do you wish to see me too, husband?” you asked shyly, fishing for a little eagerness from him as well. He hummed as he leaned in to kiss your neck, reaching behind your back to unlace your gown as you held onto his arms.

“I apologise for how many breakfasts I missed,” he replied, not seeming to be a related statement at all until he went on. “Seeing you in your dressing gown was becoming too much to bear… all I could do was imagine how you must look without anything to cover you.”

You smiled proudly, though you couldn’t for very long when his tongue teasing along your pulse made you gasp shakily. “U-uncover me then," you pleaded, as if he wasn't already shedding you of the layers of your dress, down to the thin linen chemise underneath. You were told from an early age that your body was meant for your husband's eyes only, and aside from the occasional lady's maid who helped you dress, you'd covered yourself in modest wear in order to preserve your own dignity and keep your promise to your future husband. Maybe some would protest to such a stricture, but it seemed sort of romantic to you. And now that you were finally here, with Aemond's fingers delicately shedding you of your last layer of clothing, it was more intimidating than you expected— but in a good way, mostly. Really you were just scared that he wouldn't like what he saw; even if he said he was affected by the sight of you in your nightgown, he knew nothing of what laid beneath.

Taking a shaky breath, you held your arms out just enough for him to slide the thin fabric down, and the garment pooled on the floor at your feet.

For a moment, you couldn't find the courage to look up at Aemond, just blinking down at the ground beneath you. But soon, when he said nothing still, you worriedly glanced up to examine the expression on his face.

Before then, you wouldn't have known how to describe what lust looked like. Well, you still couldn't describe it, but you knew it when you saw it. And this? That darkness in those icy eyes, that tightness in his jaw and the subtle smirk on his lips? That was it.

You shivered as he ran his hands over you, a pleasant sort of chill that made you clench inside. You opened your mouth, about to ask him if you were pleasing to him, but he spoke first.

"Lay on the bed, wife."

You were, obviously, already very obedient. But you may have never been as instantaneous in your obliging as that moment. You were on your back on Aemond's bed in an instant, and he was atop you just a second later, kissing you again and breathing in deeply as his bare chest pressed to yours.

His hands returned to exploring you as his kiss became more and more overpowering; he was so warm, almost hot, pressed against you and it was simply the most perfect feeling. You found your legs spreading naturally without much thought put into it, and in the same way, his hand just seemed to move down between them of its own accord, gently rubbing over your mound as you whimpered from the feeling.

"Are you truly untouched?" he whispered against your lips.

"Of course," you answered, "how could I not be? You never touched me…"

He hummed softly. "I longed to," he admitted, "I imagined it…"

He delicately parted your folds with two fingers, making you shudder as his touch carefully discovered every detail of you. "I-is it like you imagined?" you wondered.

"Even more lovely," he replied. "You're so warm here, my love— are you warmer inside?"

You gasped loudly as he slid those fingers inside you. "Shh," he soothed. "It's only to prepare you."

Only to prepare? I feel as if I'm being torn apart already! you thought.

"Soon you'll be ready to take me inside you," he whispered. That was plenty of motivation to get through the pain, and he hummed contentedly as you pulsed inside, more of your arousal leaking out and threatening to leave a puddle on his bed.

"Will… will you keep your trousers on?" you wondered, as you looked down at where the pale skin stopped and the black leather began.

He seemed amused. "I know you're not naïve enough to think we can consummate this marriage with my trousers on."

"N-no! I mean—" you choked. "I meant that… I'm naked, and you haven't taken them off yet."

He raised an eyebrow, curling his fingers inside you and watching your face twist. "Are you that curious, my darling?" he mocked, leaning down to speak closely beside your ear. "Would you like to see my cock, is that it?"

Well, it seemed that the time for shame was well past… so, you bit your lip and nodded slightly, feeling his kiss the side of your face quickly.

"Soon," he promised. "It's easier to keep my patience this way."

Patience? After this long, his concern is patience?

Of course, you couldn't quite understand yet what Aemond was truly concerned with— but you would soon enough.

As much as it had stung to be entered by something for the first time, you were whining in disappointment when he pulled those fingers out of you— until he brought them to his lips and stared forward at you darkly while he sucked your flavour from them.

When he had licked every drop from his skin, he smiled at you and put those wet fingers by your hole again— wiggling and twisting them to fit three inside as your back arched.

"It's too much," you warned, grabbing his wrist. "Three is too many!"

"You'll need to take much more than three fingers, my darling," he chuckled. His free hand grabbed yours and guided it to his erection, firm and hot even though the leather, helping you rub him as he sighed. Your eyes went wide as you felt it, and he smirked at you. "Do you see now? You'll need to be prepared."

"Oh— my husband, you— are you sure it will fit?"

"Yes."

It wasn't as convincing as you'd hoped it would be. It felt so thick, and you were afraid your sense of touch was deceiving you with the length of it! Sure, you had no true point of reference having never even seen a man naked before, but you understand the mechanics of all this to find a sense of fear bubbling up in your gut. Would it hurt you? Would it break you?

And why did that idea, as terrifying as it should be, excite you a little bit?

Pulling him down into another kiss, you found yourself weaving your fingers into his hair, and when he pushed his fingers deeper into you again you couldn’t help but tug on the silver-y strands unintentionally. You started to apologise, before the little wince he let out turned into a low groan that made your walls bear down on his fingers yet again. And that made him sigh as he leaned down to kiss your neck, even biting on you just hard enough to make a whine escape from your throat.

“I should give you more time,” he admitted, “prepare you further, but… my patience is wearing thin, dear wife.”

“You don’t need patience with me, husband,” you assured, surprised by your own voice’s wavering as he kept filling you with his long fingers. “Just… say that you love me.”

He smirked a little, and the pridefulness in his face made you feel sort of foolish— but you sort of liked it. “I don’t know you enough to say that,” he replied.

Well, that wasn’t exactly your fault, was it? And he had three fingers to the knuckles inside you, he certainly knew you better than anyone else! “You don’t have to mean it,” you mumbled, “just say it…”

His free hand, attached to the elbow that he balanced himself on beside your head, lightly pet the line of your jaw as you blinked up at him. “Say that you love me first,” he decided.

“I love you,” you replied instantly, “of course— I love you more than anything.”

Smiling wider, he closed the space between you and kissed you softly. Only when your eyes fell shut did he answer in a whisper below his breath, “and I love you as well.” It seemed like it might be too much for him to say it with his eyes open.

He took his hand away from you and reached down; excitement jumped through you like a shock when you realised he was removing the rest of his clothes. It made the kiss suddenly much more… thrilling, less precise and more desperate as you grabbed onto his shoulders and felt his bare body lay fully on top of yours.

His hands ran up the back of your legs, holding them open wide for him, and his cock pressed against your waiting cunt; it was warm, that was the only word you could think of for it, and you moaned into his mouth as he just barely rocked his hips to slide himself over your slick folds.

Right as he held himself tightly, hissing softly between his teeth, and guided his thick and leaking tip to your opening, a second wind of hesitance startled you.

"Wait!" you blurted out, pushing him away just slightly by his shoulder. You could tell by the fear in his eye that he thought you were about to renege on the whole thing, admit that he was right from the start and you were too afraid of him to go through with any consummation.

Instead, you reached up to the brown leather patch on his eye, gently caressing it.

"Let me see my husband," you pleaded. "I know you don't like to show me— but I want to see you as you are."

You'd only seen him without the covering for a brief moment, on accident; a few weeks into the marriage you entered his chambers without permission, finding him without his shirt or patch, and he covered his face quickly to scold you for your rudeness. You were much too flushed by the sight of his bare chest— that toned, pale torso with scars of the softest pink in a few places— to mind his sapphire eye much or his frustrated rant. He could yell at you all he wanted if he did so in any state of undress! You thought he had the most beautiful body— seeing more of it today only proved your suspicions correct— and as he took off his eyepatch now, you smiled as you finally saw your husband's face.

A moment later, your smile fell into a gasp and a cry as he pushed himself into you. Head falling back onto the down pillow, you whined through your teeth as his cock filled you, and you dug your nails into his shoulders with more strength than you thought you had. "I'm hurting you," he noticed. "I tried to prepare—"

But as he pulled back, you reached down and held onto his hip. "No!" you whimpered. "Don't… don't stop. The pain will fade, yes? I— I want this so much, Aemond…"

He sighed, leaning down to kiss away a stray tear from your temple. "I know— and you've waited long enough, haven't you? My poor wife… I never wanted you to be lonely. I only wanted to protect you."

"From what?"

"This."

He put his hand over your mouth and shoved the rest of his cock inside you, muffling your scream as he groaned in satisfaction. He was so deep, and it burned to be stretched for the first time; you sobbed but wrapped your legs around his waist and tried to keep him inside. Still, he started to move, and you shuddered and wept as the pain seemed to bloom from your cunt and crawl up your back.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I can't— I can't stop now, and you feel so warm…"

He looked at your face, twisted in pain, and stared at the hand over your mouth with and heavy gaze.

"I don't want them to hear you. No one should hear my wife but me— in her pleasure or pain."

Even as you shivered from the way it hurt, your heart sang to hear him call you his wife, and to be possessive of you in some way.

"You feel so perfect," he grunted, starting to fuck into you faster already. "It won't always hurt like this— just a little longer, I know you can take it for me, can't you?"

You nodded against the pressure of his hand over your face, hoping he wouldn't mind the way you pierced your nails into his skin to try to cope with the pain— you’d feel terrible if you left any marks on such a beautiful form as his, but then again, wouldn’t it be sort of erotic? Little half-moons carved into his white skin as a memory in the flesh, a way to claim him in return as he claimed you?

Yes, actually, it would be wonderful— and so you held onto him tighter, and he certainly didn’t seem to mind.

Each time his hips collided with yours, your whole body rocked under him and his grip on the sheets beside your head tightened until they threatened to tear. His breaths were fast and sharp as he moved, a lovely flush on his cheeks and his eyes shut (the scarred one only as much as it could be) as he chased his own ecstasy. Even though it still stung for a few moments longer, you loved looking up through your teary eyes as watching him, feeling impossibly proud knowing you were pleasing your husband this way.

He knew something had changed when your grip on his shoulders relaxed and you exhaled a long sigh from your nose that tickled his hand over your mouth (which he took away to admire your face in this moment). "Is it beginning to feel better?" he asked.

"Yes," you whimpered. "Yes, yes, yes—"

He laughed softly. "I heard you the first time," he soothed, "but you may say it as much as you like. Say my name as well, love— it never sounded as nice as it does from your lips…"

"Aemond," you breathed.

It spurred him on even more, deeper thrusts making your back arch and moans jump from your throat quickly. "Such precious sounds you make," Aemond noticed proudly. "Have you never felt this way before?"

You shook your head, and a snarl of twisted pride ghosted over his face. "Never— it feels— oh!"

He had leaned down to capture one of your hardening nipples between his lips, gently flicking at it with the very tip of his tongue until you jolted under him. You hadn't even known of such a thing before, you didn't realise how sensitive you were there or how beautiful Aemond would look with his mouth latched onto your breast. He switched back and forth between them, smiling occasionally when your moans grew louder or you gasped out his name at the feeling. A long whine slipped out when he kissed his way up from your nipple to the curve of your neck, moving his hips harder and faster as his bent arms kept him balanced and caged you in. “Tell me again,” he demanded in a pant, “how much you like this.”

“It’s— you feel so—” you choked, really trying to answer him but losing focus each time he filled you to the brim and rubbed against that one place that made everything light up inside you. Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, and your toes curled, and you clung onto him as each thrust made your body— and mind— feel more and more beautifully helpless. “It’s so… deep…”

He purred a little.

“It feels so good,” you finally decided to answer, knowing it wasn’t the most descriptive but not sure how else to put it. “It feels amazing— you feel amazing… I don’t want it to ever end…”

His next sound was a hum of approval, and while it made you feel happy, you felt the urge to press for a more conclusive response.

“Does— does it feel— is it nice for you, too?” you panted out. For all those attempts to ask that question, it still came out sort of needy and pathetic, but he found that amusing and smiled against your skin as he kissed beside your ear.

“Nice isn’t the word,” he admitted. “There isn’t a word for how you feel, my darling. The closest I can think of is perfect.”

You were just hoping for a small compliment; you didn’t expect him to so flippantly say something that romantic, even poetic.

Just after you’d said you didn’t want it to end, he decided to stop and pull out of you. The emptiness was jarring and disappointing; reaching out for him as he sat up, he smiled and gave your waiting hand a squeeze. “Just a moment, my love.”

He sat up enough to lift your legs from around his hips, and hold them up as he pushed them against your upper body. Just when you wanted to warn him that you may not be as flexible as he expected, he slipped his cock inside you again— and when you’d remarked before about how deep he was, you had no idea how this would feel.

Your whole body tightened up and your face twisted in a gasp. “Is it too much for you?” he asked softly, the concern in his voice making your heart swell.

“No, please— keep going,” you insisted, though your back had to arch when he slid the rest of the way inside and you swore the head of his cock was going to go into your stomach or something. But it didn’t— it only stretched you to your absolute limits, a new sensation that wasn’t quite sharp enough to be pain but more powerful than you’d ever known pleasure to be. You whimpered, but braced yourself, ready to give him anything he needed.

"My sweet wife, so devoted," he groaned as he pushed his hips as hard as he could into you, holding you steady to force his cock just that last little bit deeper inside until your eyes rolled back. "You wanted so much to fulfil your marital duty— and look at you, taking it perfectly, even better than I imagined."

"You… you imagined this?"

Aemond laughed, heartily, at your question. "Only every night," he replied quickly, "with my hand around my cock, wanting to call for you but barely resisting each time."

You would've been ecstatic if your husband had called for you in the middle of the night to soothe his aching need; even if he sent you away right after he was finished and went back to ignoring you, it would've made you feel like less of a complete failure of a wife.

"I imagined more than this, though," he admitted. "I imagined kissing you and tasting you and hearing you say how dearly you love me…"

That explained why he’d asked you to say it before. You’d say it a thousand times if he asked— or, probably, even if he didn’t.

"I imagined you pregnant."

To say your heart skipped a beat was an understatement. Your heart skipped so many beats that you might have been technically dead for a couple seconds— except that you felt more alive than ever. There were a thousand things you’d like to say, but rendered totally speechless, all you could do was pant out his name weakly.

"We don't need to make any heirs," he reminded you. "But I could give you a child, if you want one."

Your heart had never been so filled before— finally, your husband's child, inside you: it could really happen. You'd longed to give him one (or many) since you met him and now… now you could finally bear him one. "Yes," you whimpered, "Aemond— a baby, I want one so desperately…"

But then again, you'd wanted a baby so you wouldn't be so alone— someone to keep you company. And now he was here, finally, and you didn't need to be alone anymore.

"I want us to— to be a family," you choked out, and you felt his smile against the side of your face.

"We are," he whispered. "Already, we are. Husband and wife. But, you would look divine carrying a son…"

You hummed contentedly at the praise, feeling his hand rub gently on your belly right where it would swell the most.

"Perhaps I will, then," he decided. "Bless you with a child… if you'd like that."

He was taunting you, tricking you into begging him for it— and you didn't mind at all, happy to oblige. "Yes! Please, my husband, my prince— I long for it, let me have your son, please… if you give me your seed, I promise, I'll do all I can—"

"Shh," he soothed softly, "I know you will. I know— such a good wife you are, a perfect wife…"

You felt warm tears run down your temples, all this devotion to him finally appreciated when you feared it would all go to waste. Clinging tighter onto him, you tried to hide your face in the curve of his neck. But he gently pried you away, cooing, "No, no— let me see you, let your husband gaze on you— oh, what a sweet face. Shall I kiss your tears away? All will be right, my love… you'll have our son. And what a lovely mother you'll make."

Maybe it was a strange thing to push you right up to the edge— but you’d been approaching it for a while, that was just the moment you realised how close you really were. The way he said it, you could somehow tell he’d thought for a while that you’d make a good mother for his children; maybe he thought that from the start, he must have if he agreed to marry you. And at the same time that it filled your chest with pride, it made your gut burn with a need for something you couldn’t quite define but that you knew was incredibly close.

Apparently, he was in a similar situation, though much more aware of what it really was than you were. “It won’t be much longer,” he promised. “If you ask me, I will— are you sure it’s what you want?”

"Please, my prince," you whimpered as you held on tightly to the sheets. "Please! Give me your seed, please—"

"Fuck," he groaned, "once more—"

"Fill me, Aemond, with your child— I'll do anything, I want it so much, I want to be pregnant—"

"My name," he hissed, shutting his eyes tightly as his thrusts became erratically fast. "Say my name again."

"Aemond," you whimpered, losing yourself in pleasure just as his name crossed your lips. "Aemond, my husband, my beloved— yours, m'yours, only you, Aemond—"

It was a feeling so powerful that it felt like you separated from reality for a brief moment— like you were floating in water except less wet and more… hot, more all-encompassing, more pure sensation that filled you from head to toe— and then seemed to rob you of all your remaining strength at once. As you went limp, he whined loudly and his movements faltered. It took you a moment to realise it was finally time: you were finally being filled by your husband. He groaned softly as he panted, silver hair sticking to the sheen of sweat on his face.

He looked absolutely beautiful, even more than usual. And he finally blinked his eyes open and looked at you like he'd never seen anything so perfect.

His thumb gently wiped away a tear from your temple. "Lovely wife," he praised under his breath. "I can't wait to see you with child. I hate how long I waited… if I had taken you as I should have on our wedding night, our son would be almost here now…"

You pulled him down onto you for a tight hug. "None of that matters now," you whispered to him sweetly. "Just hold me, my husband— you said you'd never let me go."

He smiled as he sighed, melting into your arms and wrapping you up in his own. "Yes, my lady," he agreed as he tenderly kissed the side of your face.

He looked up at you when you entered the room, and even just the slight smile on his face made you fill with joy; for someone as stoic as Aemond, you knew it was a sign of incredible affection to be smiled at that way. “Good morn, my lady,” he greeted, standing from his seat at the breakfast table.

“I worried when I awoke without you,” you admitted, clutching shyly at your nightgown.

“I figured you would be used to it by now,” he smirked. “Have I spoiled you with affection already?”

Chewing your lip, you glanced away. “I thought— you said you’d never let me go.”

“Well, I wasn’t hungry when I said that,” he replied, chuckling. “I awoke earlier and was afraid to disturb you… you seemed in need of your rest.”

You seemed worn out from all the fucking, he really meant, but he was still trying to be polite.

“Aren’t you going to sit with me and dine, my love?” he prompted, nodding towards the chair nearest to him— not even across the table, where you used to sit. Feeling like you’d received some sort of promotion to sit so close, you happily bounced up to the table and a servant stepped forward to pull the chair out for you. “Actually—”

You and the servant both stopped, and you worried you were about to get kicked back to the end of the table; instead, he sat back in his chair and motioned for you to step closer. Normally, Aemond wouldn’t sit again until any lady in the room was seated (he was mindful of custom, always), but as you came closer, he patted his knee, and you felt your face warm up.

“You could sit with me,” he suggested, and you tried not to show how ecstatic you were as you perched yourself in his lap. He looked up at you with his uncovered eye, smiling, and draped his arm around your waist. It felt, honestly, a little bizarre to have him be this affection, even if he’d shown you love in the most literal way just last night… you were still getting used to it. And this felt very different, though it made you quite happy. “Would you like a grape?” he offered, gesturing to his plate.

“I was upset before that I felt I didn’t know my husband very well,” you recalled, totally ignoring his innocuous question, “and now I think I knew even less than I thought.”

He tilted his head. “How do you mean?”

“You’re so… romantic!” you blurted out, and he laughed.

“I don’t know about that,” he denied. “But I am rather taken with you. And I must say…”

His voice lowered, as did his gaze, while his hand traced down your back delicately through your clothes.

“...I’m still just as affected by seeing you in your dressing gown,” he finished softly.

“I-I—” you stammered, making him smile amusedly at you. “I’m still just as amazed at how forward you can be, my prince… and to think I thought of you as shy once.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “I am shy,” he assured. “I’ll even dismiss the servants before I fuck you on this table.”

You raised your hand to your mouth to cover it, hoping to suppress your shocked giggle, but he grabbed it and held it tightly as he pulled you even closer, until you thought he might kiss you. He didn’t, yet: he only looked at your face very carefully. You looked back at him, of course, and found yourself reaching up to stroke his cheek as you admired his sharp, harsh sort of beauty. “You… you really plan to take me again, husband? Now?”

He smiled wide, maybe wider than you’d ever seen. “I was going to let you have breakfast first,” he clarified. “Unless ‘now’ is your preference.”

You looked away, smiling to yourself. “I’ve heard eagerness is unladylike,” you dodged his obvious attempt to make you out to be the needy one. Which wasn’t exactly false, but not fair either: you knew he wanted you just as badly, and finally knowing that gave you a little confidence to toy with him instead.

“Maybe you aren’t the finest lady, then,” he accused, which almost hurt before he continued, “but you are the most perfect wife any man has ever had, or wished to have.”

And, in an objective sense, Aemond hadn’t been much of a husband. Last night notwithstanding, he was all but cruel to you— and though he’d finally allowed himself to give in to desire for you, it was not as if his entire personality would change, he was still… whoever he was, an enigma with white hair and an eyepatch.

But he was perfect to you, and you loved him with everything you had.

You knew Aemond hated these sorts of things, but you loved them. He hated the loud guests, the small talk, the awkward customs— but those were the things you liked the most, they seemed to bring life to the empty old castle.

It wouldn’t be as empty soon, though; that was the purpose of this banquet, to announce and celebrate your impending addition to the family. And as much as Aemond generally disliked social engagements, he was obviously glowing with pride as he showed off his pregnant lady wife to the court. Now that you saw it on him, you thought maybe that was what he meant when he said you were glowing… but you weren’t sure, because whenever he said it you just figured it was sweat from having to carry around his massively heavy child all the time.

Not that you minded! You loved it, and he doted on you more than ever, kissing your belly and coming up with all kinds of plans for his son— and he was still sure it was a son, with no proof at all, but you weren’t even going to try to convince him otherwise.

“A toast,” Aemond instructed his guests, who raised their goblets in turn with him, “to my son, Vaegon—”

The guests started to lower their cups, but he wasn’t finished.

“— and his mother, my darling lady wife.”

You beamed as he squeezed your shoulder. Yes, it was no wonder you loved banquets now that you had the most adoring husband by your side for the night.

2K notes · View notes

becausesebastianstan · 1 year

Text

to make them love me (and make it seem effortless)

pairings: aemond x fem! Targaryen! reader / original female character

word count: 15,053

genre: fluff, angst

content warnings: TARGCEST, age gap, mentions of death, mentions of childbirth, swearing (aemond has a potty mouth)

additional notes: we interrupt your regular genshin x reader viewing by bringing you this (big) little thing I wrote for aemond targaryen. he had me in a chokehold until I finally relented and. this is it.

expect a couple more works on this pathetic little meow meow and an eventual update to an ode to heartbreak!

read this work on ao3

“I don’t understand,” Aemond says in disbelief, pushing his helmet’s visor out of his face as he attempts to decipher the contents of the note. “How could I have not been informed of this earlier?”

Ormund shrugs. “Perhaps the tourney masters thought it best to rearrange the lists. More signed up for the games than they thought.”

“Their poor planning does not justify an inconvenience on my part,” Aemond scoffs. “I am a Prince of the realm. I should be placed higher up on the lists.”

“Never mind that, cousin,” Ormund attempts to console him. “It is your first tourney, after all—”

“—and yet it is one we all look forward to seeing.”

The two look up to see Aegon sauntering into the hall, grinning from ear to ear as if he’d just been privy to a particularly humorous joke. Aemond rolls his eyes as he shoves the note into Ormund’s hand.

“Why so tense, dear brother?” Aegon nudges Aemond playfully. “I only speak the truth. You’ve never really thought much of tourneys.”

“Some of us like to keep most of our thoughts to ourselves,” Aemond shoots back, as he fiddles with his armor. “Where’s Helaena?”

“Back in the castle.” Aegon jabs his finger behind him. “All the shouting was getting to her, so Mother had me escort her back.”

At Aegon’s words, Ormund’s expression lit up in realization. “Perhaps it was the Queen behind it!”

“Shut up!” Aemond hisses, at the same time Aegon asks, “Behind what?”

“Er…” Ormund scratches his head, lowering his gaze in response to Aemond’s murderous one. “Behind, er, the Princess’ nameday tourney.”

Aegon scoffs. “My mother can hardly be credited for my sister’s nameday tourney. We all celebrate our namedays for days at a time, with tourneys and feasts galore.”

He glances around, taking in the sight of the contestants and squires milling about the area. “Though our sister’s nameday tourney has, indeed, piqued the interest of all. How strange.”

“Hardly,” Aemond mumbles. “She comes of age today.”

“Ah!” Aegon claps his hands. “Our beloved sister comes of age today, yes. I wonder just what the prize is for this tourney.”

“Surely, His Grace would not decide who Princess [Y/N] marries based on who wins today’s tourney?” Ormund says, blissfully unaware of Aemond slightly wincing at his words.

Aegon frowns. “Have you never picked up a history book, cousin?”

“Have you?” Aemond retorts.

“Of course I did. I never said I read them, though.” Aegon sniffs. “It’s not usual, but it’s certainly not new. Tourneys are simply pageants in all but name. See for yourself.”

The trio turn to see a tall, sweeping teenager, with locks the color of night and skin like copper parading about the hall, his bronze armor chased with red, a spear piercing the sun on its front.

“Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers, a sense of dread washing over him.

Aegon hums. “Came in right at the last second, as they were drawing up the lists.”

Ormund turns to Aemond, holding up the note he had been reading earlier, an expression of understanding dawning on his face. Aemond fidgets beneath his armor, hating that Aegon had a point for once; there really wasn’t any other plausible explanation for Dorne to finally start taking an interest in the Crown’s affairs.

Aegon looks over at him, seemingly contemplating his next line. He decides instead to clap Aemond’s back, sending him forward. “Oh, don’t worry, brother! The Dornish don’t mind sharing their lovers. They seem to enjoy it, in fact.”

Aemond turns and walks briskly away from his brother, Ormund hastily trailing beside him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Of course, Aegon had to press further, keeping up with Aemond’s pace in a couple of long strides. “Oh, but I think you do,” he says. “If there’s anything the Dornish get right, it’s their outlook on bastards. I’m sure Prince Qoren wouldn’t mind if [Y/N]’s children turn out to have silver hair and a remarkable resemblance to a certain other Prince—”

Aemond stops abruptly to stare Aegon directly in the eye. “[Y/N] is not you. You would let our sister disgrace herself and put the stability of the realm at risk?”

Aegon towers over him, smirking triumphantly. “You and I both know that’s not any of your concern.”

“Then you do not know me.” Aemond turns away again, walking towards the edge of the hall where the tourney field was being set up. Hordes of people continued filing into the stands, some of whom were dressed to the nines despite the sun beating down upon them like a drum. He glances at the King’s Box, watching as the newest arrivals, the Velaryons, occupy their seats next to Rhaenyra and her children.

A mix of gasps and cheers sound from the smallfolk as a shadow passes over them, coupled with a familiar-sounding roar. Aemond squints up at the sky, and his heart practically leaps at the sight.

The voice of the Master of Revels announcing your arrival is all but drowned out by Silverwing’s proud roar, as you land her atop the King’s Box, jostling the people inside. Rhaenyra grabs the end of Lucerys’ coat to keep him from falling off trying to look up at you, while Lyonel Strong steadies a visibly surprised Viserys. Aegon lets out a hearty laugh at the sight, and Aemond could not help but join in.

It’s only when the she-dragon lowers her neck does Aemond finally get a better look at you. You’re grinning from ear to ear, and the only thing that could compete with the brightness of your smile was the glint of your silvery hair in the sun. Your dragon climbs down the Box, much to your family’s chagrin as they grip the arms of their chairs to stay steady.

Silverwing dips herself to the ground of the tourney field, allowing you to dismount and pat her neck before you wave to the crowds. You don a black dress chased with blue (which Aemond presumes is for your late lady mother, who was an Arryn), with the Targaryen three-headed dragon embroidered on your front.

“A fly might make its way down your throat if you don’t close it,” Ormund murmurs in Aemond’s ear, and he only sniggers as Aemond elbows him in the stomach. When your eyes meet his, he prays his ears aren’t as red as he thinks they are.

“Seven blessings on your nameday, dear sister,” Aegon says, pairing the mock reverence in his tone with an exaggerated bow.

You only snort as you remove your riding gloves. “Save your courtesies for someone who actually believes them.”

“Now, is that any behavior befitting a lady who has just come of age?”

You deliver a playful punch to Aegon’s midsection, which he just barely dodges.

Ormund bows. “I wish you a happy nameday, Princess.”

Aemond fidgets nervously, silently cursing both Aegon and Ormund for getting to greet you first.

You smile warmly. “Thank you, Ormund.” When you turn to look at Aemond, you reach out to push his visor out of his face. “Finally joining the lists today, eh, Aemond? I never thought you were interested in jousting.”

Aemond opens his mouth, but no sound leaves it. Behind you, Aegon raises his eyebrows, giving him a look that says, Say something!

“I…decided to test my skills today,” Aemond manages.

Aegon silently gestures for him to keep going.

“…and I thought your nameday would give me extra luck,” he adds, now feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks.

You laugh, reaching over once again to pat the front of his armor. He wonders if you can feel his heart hammering underneath the cold metal.

Aegon clears his throat, glancing at something behind Aemond; in his periphery, he sees Qoren Martell hovering around the group. Ormund, miraculously, gets the silent message.

“If you would excuse us, Princess,” the Hightower lord says, slapping the back of Aemond’s armor. “As his loyal squire, I have a duty to get Prince Aemond ready.”

You nod in understanding. “I will pray for your opponents,” you say solemnly, and a genuine smile finally breaks out onto his face.

“Will you allow me to escort you back to the King’s Box?” Aegon says in his mocking tone once again, and you wrinkle your nose before dropping your hand into his.

Ormund pushes Aemond in the other direction. “Come now, my Prince,” he says. “You’d better get ready if you want to win the Princess’ favor.”

“I’ve been put in the lower lists,” Aemond reminds him miserably, while keeping his eyes trained on Qoren Martell attempting to strike up a conversation with you.

“What of it?” Ormund scoffs, suddenly sounding confident. “It just means you’ll score more victories. Makes the final one all the more sweet. Just trust your training, and you’ll have Qoren Martell on his fat Dornish ass before you know it.”

It seemingly only takes a split second for all the air to leave Aemond’s lungs when he crashes into the dirt. Though his armor had taken the brunt of his fall, pain shoots all over his body like tendrils of lightning, ironically leaving him feeling momentarily weightless.

He manages to roll onto his back, gasping for air and staring up at the sky above. The ringing in his ears subsides enough for him to hear the triumphant shouts and the shocked gasps of the crowd, as well as the neighing of his distressed horse. He blinks the stars out of his eyes, and after remembering seeing a Bolton squire die from a lance to the throat, he checks himself for any injuries. To his relief, he seemed to be physically fine.

“My Prince! Aemond, cousin!” Suddenly, Ormund was hovering over him, distress and clear fear in his eyes. “Speak to me, are you alright?”

“I’m…” Aemond coughs, feeling his lungs constrict, then relax. “I’m fine.”

A tourney master joins Ormund. “Will you continue with a contest of arms, my Prince?”

Ormund helps Aemond sit up, and he catches a glimpse of his sword lying off to the side. He blinks again, and his vision finally returns to normal; he sees his opponent (who, by the stag on his armor, Aemond surmises is a Baratheon) jumping off his horse and running over to him.

You fool, Aemond wants to shout. If your opponent wished to continue, you might have benefited from the distance.

But he glances over to the King’s Box, where members of his own family were peering over at him, awaiting his decision. His mother leans over the railing the furthest, so much so that her ladies were trying to restrain her.

He does not see you.

Aemond sighs and shakes his head, and the tourney master nods.

“Prince Aemond forfeits! The winner of this round…”

“My Prince!” The Baratheon boy tosses his helmet to the side, sticking his hand out. Aemond clicks his tongue, but accepts the gesture, allowing his opponent to pull him up. “It was an honor to tilt against you, Prince Aemond. I hope to be given the opportunity again.”

Not likely, Aemond wants to snap back. But he only gives the boy a brief smile and a respectful nod, before turning away.

“Do you need help?” Ormund offers.

“No, be quiet, keep walking,” Aemond commands, keeping his head held high. He nods and waves to the crowds shouting out their congratulations to him, deliberately ignoring the pain he was starting to feel in his left leg.

As soon as he was out of both the public and his opponents’ sight, Aemond finally gives in, grabbing the wall for support as he reaches down to tug at his armored leg.

“Aemond!” Ormund throws one of Aemond’s arm over his shoulders. “Sit down, I’ll call the maesters.”

“No, no need,” he hisses in reply. “Just help me get my armor off.”

“But you might have twisted or broken your leg, I—”

“If I had twisted or broken my leg, you’d think I’d bloody well know, wouldn’t I?” Aemond snaps. “You’re my squire, act like it. Just take off the damn armor.”

Ormund blinks. Aemond feels a twinge of regret over the venom in his tone, but elects not to say another word. He instead works on the buckles of the metal, all the while trying to swallow down the growing lump in his throat and blink away the stinging in his eyes. Ormund finally assists him, detaching the parts away and allowing Aemond to stretch his limbs out.

The humiliation weighs over him even as he climbs into the King’s Box. Ser Criston Cole is the first to greet him, and after looking over him to find no serious injuries, pats Aemond’s shoulders. “You did very well, my Prince,” Criston assures him. “Don’t lose heart. You’ll get your chance one day.”

Aemond offers him the same tight-lipped smile he’d given his opponent, and keeps it on as his mother hurries over, worry painted all over her face.

“Are you alright?” she fusses, pushing his hair out of his eyes, looking as if she was about to demand he remove all his clothes in front of all who were present. “The lance—I thought it went through—”

“His armor took the blow, Your Grace,” Ser Criston says. “The Baratheon squire’s lance splintered against it, yes, but there’s no harm to him as far as I can see.”

A Baratheon squire. Aemond’s jaw locks in anger; he, a Prince of the realm, had lost to a Baratheon squire of all people.

Alicent sighs. “You scared me, deciding to enter the lists out of nowhere. Perhaps you should wait until you’re a little older before—”

“Why did you place me further down the lists?” Aemond hisses, keeping his voice as low as possible (but failing to contain the anger in it).

Alicent frowns. “What?”

“I was supposed to tilt against the likes of Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers furiously. “I am the son of the King, in line to the throne, brother to the Princess to whom this tourney is dedicated to! Why wasn’t I placed where I was originally supposed to be?”

“I am not liking your tone, Aemond,” Alicent warns. “Remember that you are not of age yet. This is a vile, cruel game where men attempt to kill each other for sport. Be grateful that you were even allowed at all to compete.”

Aemond opens his mouth to protest, but Alicent gives him a look so scathing, whatever argument he had promptly died in his throat. He grunts in displeasure and pushes past her, ignoring his father's Council members congratulating him as he goes.

He finds his seat regrettably next to Aegon, who at the sight of him, bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Aemond surges forward, only to be stopped by Rhaenyra's outstretched arm.

"You did well, little brother," she says, though all Aemond hears is the underlying distaste that she seems to reserve solely for him, Aegon, and Alicent. "But settle your scores with Aegon later. I'd rather not ruin my sister's day with any of your antics."

Aemond removes her arm from his path, sauntering forward and dropping into his seat, taking care to crush Aegon's foot underneath his. A heavy hand finds its way onto his shoulder, and he turns to find its owner, a scowl on his face ready to greet them—

"Well done, my boy," Viserys says, a smile on his lined face. "Next time, you'll win. I know it."

One could almost take your words for affection, old man, Aemond thinks, as Viserys pats his shoulder again before settling back in his seat. Still, he manages a polite, "Thank you, Father," before turning back to the tourney still playing out beneath him.

It takes a while for him to realize that you were sitting right across him, already turned to face him with your signature blinding smile. You reach out to pat his interlocked hands. "Father's right," you tell him. "You'll win next time. If you focus on your training."

"I will if you will," he blurts, before he could stop himself.

"Ha! I feel I'm much better at riding a dragon than wielding a sword."

The moment is shattered when Lucerys (who Aemond just realized had been sitting on your lap the entire time) begins to wave your wreath around wildly, causing you to turn away from Aemond to keep your nephew from falling to the ground.

He watches as, to nobody's surprise, Qoren Martell wins the tourney. The Dornish Prince urges his horse forward towards the King's Box, and asks for your favor. Rhaenyra nudges Ser Laenor, the two sharing knowing glances as you stand with Lucerys in your arms and balanced on your hip, instructing the boy to toss your crown of red and black roses into Qoren's hands, much to the delight of the spectators.

In that moment, Lucerys’ curly brown locks no longer suspiciously remind Aemond of the Commander of the City Watch standing right next to Ser Laenor, but of the man staring adoringly from below as you and Lucerys wave to the crowds.

Aemond stands, mumbling an excuse in his brother's ear, and leaves the Box in a hurry.

Having to watch as Viserys deliberately has Qoren sit next to you during your own nameday feast had irritated Aemond beyond measure, given that he could do nothing but pick furiously at his own food as Qoren regales you with tales of his House and region. It had seemed like forever before the King had finally gone to bed, and even then his torture ended bitterly with Qoren bringing your hand to his lips.

Rhoynar scum. He scowls as he slams the door behind him. Your lot come from vagabonds at sea with no real homes. Our blood is the blood of Old Valyria, the blood of kings and conquerors and warriors. She rides the Good Queen’s dragon. What in the Seven Hells could ever possess you to think you could have her?

Aemond opens the window to his room, allowing the cool breeze of the Red Keep to wash over his agitated figure. Aegon’s teasing, Ormund’s obliviousness, and Qoren’s audacity had given him a migraine like he’d never had before, yet he could not find it in himself to sleep it off.

Of course he was fond of you, that much was certain. He’d always looked up to you, asked for your advice, took great comfort in the fact that your dragon had not been born to you either. It had always been his crutch for when he laments his lack of a dragon, what with Sunfyre hatching in Aegon’s cradle and Helaena claiming Dreamfyre shortly before her tenth nameday. Ultimately, though, Aemond supposes he hadn’t much to go on about you other than the fact that you took the time to get to know your half-siblings, unlike your actual full-blood sister.

He’d mulled over the idea of claiming Vermithor, who at this point was the only known dragon that had yet to be claimed after the death of Jaehaerys. He would imagine himself flying alongside the Good Queen’s dragon atop the Good King’s, and what a poetic ending that would be for all his troubles.

A knock comes at his door. “My Prince, I apologize for the late hour,” one of his servants calls out to him. “Princess [Y/N] is here to see you.”

Aemond’s head whips around. “Send her in,” he replies almost immediately.

The door swings open to reveal you, still in the same dress he’d seen you in that morning, the only difference being your hair now let down; a silvery waterfall, not unlike his own.

He turns to face you, heart hammering in his chest.. “What…what do you want?”

“I came to check on you,” you reply. “You fell hard earlier, I didn’t get a chance to check how bad it was.”

Aemond chuckles dryly and gestures for you to sit. “ “How bad it was”, huh?”

“Our family is more than fond of tourneys,” you remind him. “We’re just about the only ones that are not. I would be lying if I said I was not surprised that you changed your mind today.”

“I’ve not changed my mind.” Aemond picks at his sleeve. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys. Never have and never will.”

You laugh, and though it is a quiet sound, he tries to fool himself into thinking it’s more genuine than the ones you’d shared with Qoren. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He sits there with you in silence, and for the first time all day, he relaxes. It’s nice, he thinks, to simply be in your presence, where no one—not even himself—expects him to do something to impress you.

Being with you was enough.

That said, the thought of you leaving for Dorne forever leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Namedays are always a time for celebration,” you begin. “I confess, however, that my nameday…always comes with a tinge of sorrow.

“I went to the Sept with Rhaenyra this morning. It’s always been a habit of ours on our namedays. It’s really less of us praying to the Seven for good fortune, it’s more of…finding comfort in the silence. It…it’s where we hear our mother and siblings the best.”

He nods in understanding.

You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, staring off into the distance wistfully. “Father’s always been good at putting on a mask,” you continue. “He’s good at it, too, probably from all the years he’s had to do it. But today would have been Baelon’s nameday, too. And today was also the day when Mother…”

You duck your head.

Aemond leans forward to capture your hands in his. Despite his own misgivings with Aegon, he had to admit that it was difficult to imagine a life without him. He would have been the heir, forever put against Rhaenyra. Forever put against you, one of the few of her true kin.

You squeeze his hands gratefully. “In any case,” you say. “I am glad you’re no longer interested in tourneys, otherwise I would not have brought you this.”

You produce a box from the depths of your skirt and slide it over to Aemond. He clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “It’s your nameday and you’re the one giving out gifts.”

You wave your hand dismissively. “I have a whole mountain of them in my apartments, very few of which I would actually care to have. I take far more pleasure giving things to you.”

Aemond shakes his head, finally relenting and opening the box. Glittering among the plush dark velvet was a sapphire brooch, as blue as the waters of the Narrow Sea, sitting in a bed of pure starlight. He lifts it from the cushion and sits the gem in his palm gingerly, admiring its weight and the way it glints, even by the dying fireplace.

“The sapphire was my mother’s,” you explain. “One of many I’d inherited from her. I had it re-cut and set.”

Aemond swallows thickly. “I…I can’t take this. If it was from your mother, then you should—”

You interrupt him by closing his fist over the jewel, holding his fingers down with a firm grip. “I want you to have it,” you tell him firmly. “We are one House now, no matter what others say. None may divide us. Keep this with you as a reminder, you hear me?”

You stare at him with such intensity that he has little to do but agree. You pat his hand and rise from your seat. “Think of it as my favor,” you say, and he doesn’t miss the slyness in your tone. “You have no need to fight in tourneys or any sort of battle to earn it. It will always be yours, Aemond.”

Words he’d been keeping buried for months were bubbling on his tongue now, tearing down the walls that he’s had to construct all his life to keep them from destroying what he has with you. Resistance seemed futile now, now that you had bid him goodnight and turned to leave his room.

“Don’t marry him.”

Your hand had been on the door at his words, and you do him the considerable honor of pausing in surprise before turning again to look at him. “Aemond?”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, desperation now leaking into his tone. “Qoren Martell. You were never meant to marry a Dornish, even the first of them, so…”

He wrestles with his words, and you seem oblivious to his agony as you stare, clearly waiting for him to finish. He inches closer and closer to the brink, and there seems to be nothing tethering him to reality anymore, save for the erratic beating of his heart.

You purse your lips, and the expression on your face is something he can’t read—did you think him foolish for telling you not to do your duty? Or did you perceive his desperation as an act of childish jealousy, a brother imploring his sister not to give anyone else the time of day?

What did he think his words meant?

You do not give him an answer. “Good night, Aemond,” you whisper, and you slip quietly out the door.

Your betrothal to the heir to the Dornish throne had begun to sound less like a rumor and more like a given fact, with the endless whisperings fluttering about the Red Keep like irksome flies. Viserys certainly did not do much to silence them, and Aemond had the misfortune of hearing him discuss potential dowries with Rhaenyra.

He had to admit that it was an ideal match, and certainly one he would have considered seriously were he in his father’s place. Any king who would bring Dorne into the fold would be credited with something even the Conqueror could not have done, further cementing his place in Westerosi history. Aemond often dreams of having his name written down in the history books, never just as an afterthought or a simple second son, but of a warrior king who made the Seven Kingdoms truly one, with a queen by his side who would cast a shadow over all who would succeed her.

But like his position in life, all his dreams had to occur in the darkness of the wings; the only good thing about it was that, given their unlikeliness, he was free to dream just a little bit more.

In a surprising turn of events, however, he’d received the news that you had suddenly mounted Silverwing and taken off. At that moment, Aemond truly curses the lack of a dragon—he could have just gotten on and tracked you down, not go through the humiliation of asking Aegon (or any of his kin, for that matter) for a favor. He would have had to explain why it was so important for them to take time out of their day to find out where you had gone, because beyond you being a Princess of the realm, he had no other reason (that he’s willing to admit, at least).

Even Helaena, whom Aemond had realized could see things before they happened, offered no help in this matter. She had even expressed confusion at the very notion, much to his frustration.

So, he turns to his last resort.

Jacaerys looks up from where he was cleaning his armor, clearly surprised to be addressed. “She isn’t at Dragonstone,” he tells Aemond. “She could be anywhere, for all we know.”

“She didn’t tell you anything?” Aemond presses. “No notes, anything?”

Lucerys fiddles with Aemond’s gauntlets, and for a brief moment, Aemond sees you in his little face. “I think she’s gone to Daemon.”

“Prince Daemon? Why would she…”

“It’s just a guess,” Jacaerys says, scratching the back of his neck. “The last we heard of him was that he was in Pentos with the Lady Laena. They’re our only kin living beyond Westeros, and [Y/N] was always fond of Lady Laena.”

Of course. Aemond wants to smack his forehead. It made sense. You, Rhaenyra, and Laena had always been so close. But it wouldn’t have been his first guess, not when a marriage proposal didn’t seem too far behind…

Jacaerys’ and Lucerys’ guess seems to hold merit, as the small council receives reports of a silvery dragon flying east. It’s only confirmed when you finally write to your family, stating that you were indeed exploring the Free Cities and would be staying there for an indefinite period of time.

Funnily enough, your message had arrived at the Red Keep the same day the Dornish party did.

The excuse given had been that you were sent off as an envoy to the southern Free Cities to ascertain the peace, following the Triarchy’s defeat at the hands of the Daemon-Velaryon alliance. Aemond had to restrain himself from laughing in the throne room at the Dornish lord’s baffled expression, as well as the irritation that Viserys had kept well-hidden beneath his kingly persona.

That same night, he’d received a raven from you, carrying a brief message and a couple of trinkets you had collected on your travels thus far. It had been as if a giant weight had been taken off his shoulders, and in the privacy of his own room, he finds himself running his fingers longingly over your handwriting.

But your letters begin to stack on his desk, the gifts you bring him start to collect dust on his mantle, and every day holds less and less promise of you finally returning to King’s Landing. He’d thought you would finally return shortly after Rhaenyra gives birth to her third son, but aside from a written note of congratulations and a messenger bringing gifts, you never do. Aemond finds himself sitting by his window every night, deluding himself into thinking a bird flying over Blackwater Bay or the occasional cloud would be Silverwing, bringing you back to him.

But you don’t, and he finds solace only in his lessons and his training, stealing glances at the sky whenever he has the chance. He’d thought your absence would finally rid him of thoughts and desires unwanted, but all it is is a thorn in his side; a dull ache that flares up every now and then, much like his old leg injury.

When news of Laena Velaryon’s death reaches King’s Landing, and as he sits next to his mother on the ship, his thoughts were only of you, and if you had already been in Driftmark for a while now. He should have known better when he sees no silver dragon sitting amongst the gold, blue, grey, and red amongst the rocks.

After giving his condolences to the Velaryons, Aemond walks around aimlessly, the disappointment sinking in with every passing second. Politicking thinly veiled as courtesies seem to follow him everywhere he goes, and he eventually finds respite in Helaena’s presence, though it would seem she had not noticed his.

Of course, Aegon had to come and disturb it, only to repeat what he had been complaining about for weeks.

“We have nothing in common,” he grumbles, gesturing to Helaena.

“She’s our sister,” Aemond replies curtly, as he has done many times before.

“You marry her, then.”

“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.” The words weigh heavily on Aemond’s tongue.

Aegon scoffs. “If only.”

“It would strengthen the family,” Aemond parrots what he’s learned in his lessons. “Keep our Valyrian blood pure.”

“She’s an idiot!”

“She’s your future Queen.”

Aegon lowers his goblet, and from his periphery, Aemond can see his brother watching him carefully. He keeps his gaze on Helaena muttering under her breath, waiting for Aegon to call him out for the double meaning in his words.

Fortunately, he doesn’t. “We actually do have one thing in common,” Aegon says, as he throws the rest of his drink back and reaches for the next, his eyes lingering far too long on the serving girl. “We both fancy creatures with very long legs.”

Aemond only shakes his head in resignation, feeling a surge of pity for Helaena. It’s the first time he actually feels relieved that you had left before you’d gotten any offers of marriage; he dreads the thought of you being doomed to suffer the same fate as Helaena.

A dragon’s cry pierces the air, and Aemond looks up sharply. He rushes to the edge of the courtyard, listening as best as he could with the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

He scours the skies and searches among the dragons already resting nearby, to no avail. His shoulders sag; perhaps you weren’t coming, after all.

But that same cry persists, even as the sun begins to sink into the sea. Aemond has never heard a sound like it before—this one was a melancholic melody, like longingness taking flight above the waters of The Gullet. It isn’t long before his attention is drawn from searching for you to searching for the source of the sound instead, somehow feeling as if it was calling out to him.

And then it happens.

A clear and piercing trill that he initially chalks up to one of the other dragons, had it not been for Rhaenyra looking up, surprise painted all over her face. Aemond follows her gaze, and even in the setting sun, it’s clear as day—

He momentarily forgets himself and runs over to his half-sister, tugging on her sleeve. “It’s her, isn’t it?” he asks, unable to contain his excitement.

“It is,” Rhaenyra replies, pure relief in her tone. She glances down at Aemond, and it’s perhaps only then does she realize the peculiarity of the situation; he doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever had a casual conversation with her. Aemond lets go of her sleeve, clearing his throat and taking off in the other direction with his head spinning.

It takes a while for you to show up, but when you do, you’re soaked to the bone, with Laenor Velaryon’s arm wrapped around your shoulders and his other arm around his squire on the other side. The whispers come to a standstill, partially at the sight of you and partially at the sight of the future Prince consort looking as if he was about to follow his sister at any second. You must have found him, Aemond thinks, about to keel over into the water.

At the sight of his father, however, Ser Laenor steadies himself and limps away, leaving you in the middle of the crowd. No doubt you feel all eyes on you, but you straighten and walk to your father, who now looks as if he’s ten years younger again.

Aemond doesn’t get the chance to speak with you, not while you remain glued to Viserys’ side, leaving only to speak with Rhaenyra, Daemon, and his daughters. You’ve not changed at all over the years, save for your hair, which you had cropped short (presumably for it to not get in the way of your flying), and for your gait, as a certain confidence exudes from you as you walk or simply stand. But you were still you, much to his relief.

His thoughts take him back to the strange cry, which rings out well into the night. It’s only until his mother commands him to go to bed that he realizes Viserys has long left and you are nowhere to be found. He waits for his mother and siblings to head into the castle before heading down the stairs, down where you had come bringing your good brother.

He doesn’t have to search long for you—you’re right there on the beach, your head tilted upwards as if in silent meditation. The sand crunches underneath his feet as he closes the distance between you two, and just as you’re within arm’s reach, he stops.

And he waits.

When you finally turn, you regard Aemond with the same smile that had greeted him on your nameday all those years ago, tinged with just a bit of sadness. He wonders if you get your seemingly eternal warmth from the late queen; whatever the case, he certainly has never felt it with any of his siblings, even the one you share all your blood with.

“You’ve gotten tall,” is the first thing you say to him. “You’ll probably be as tall as Daemon.”

“I’ll be taller,” he promises, and your smile grows wider, only for it to drop just as quickly. Aemond remembers the very reason you had come, and the history you shared with Laena. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You turn back towards the beach, and Aemond moves to stand next to you. “It is our loss,” you correct him. “Laena was kin to you and me both.”

Aemond nods in response. You duck your head and sigh deeply, the grief you feel leaving you looking aged. “I left Pentos the day before she died,” you whisper. “I promised to be back for the birth, but…”

“They say she went into labor early,” Aemond says. “You couldn’t have known.”

You keep your eyes trained on the ground. “I don’t think I could have borne to see it,” you continue in a shaky voice. “She died trying to birth a son, and my mother—”

You choke on the last word, and for a moment Aemond fears you would start crying. He reaches for your hand, and you squeeze it gratefully in response.

But you don’t, and instead take the time to be silent and count your breaths, all the while holding onto his hand like an anchor. When you raise your eyes to the sky once more, he sees all the stars reflected in them.

When you speak again, your voice is steadier. “You remind me of her, you know. Laena.”

Aemond struggles to find an answer, one that would insult neither you nor the deceased. You seem to sense his hesitation, and you squeeze his hand again. “Our dragons weren’t born to us,” you say, confirming his thoughts. “Though I became a dragonrider earlier than she did. She cried the first time I mounted Silverwing, and cried again when I took her up years later.”

“The second time…out of fear?”

“At first, I suppose. But she was laughing, too. Always a wild one, Laena was.” You sigh. “You’re just as spirited as she was. Fearless. Bold.”

“If I were fearless and bold, I’d have a dragon by now,” Aemond grumbles.

“It isn’t that easy, I fear,” you tell him. “I’ve spoken to scholars and warlocks and magicfolk of all kinds in the Free Cities. Some of them are of the opinion that dragons are not as willing as we might imagine.”

“We’re a family of dragonriders. One dragon-less member is hardly enough to discredit that fact.”

“Our Valyrian blood is the exception, not the rule. Had we been so confident in its mere presence, I daresay we ought to have more dragonriders around.”

“Especially with Aegon,” Aemond offers.

“Especially with Aegon, yes,” you chuckle. “It may well be that our blood is a contributing factor. But dragons have minds and hearts of their own. Some say they are even more intelligent than we are. The right is not freely given, Aemond. It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.”

You turn to face him then, and it’s only when you do so does Aemond realize he has indeed grown taller; he no longer has to tilt his head upwards to properly meet your eyes. You take his other hand in yours, and he feels the calluses from years of dragon-riding brush against his skin.

“I told you you were as spirited as Laena was,” you say. “Like her, you are also kind. Compassionate. Smart. Loyal. You are everything our House stands for and more.”

For the first time in what seems like years, a genuine smile spreads across his face. “I’ve missed you,” he admits.

“As did I,” you whisper, and your eyes travel to the sapphire brooch you’d given him all those years ago, nestled just above the middle of his collarbone. You let your fingers skim over the gem lightly, before pulling away from him. “Father has mentioned that we may stop by Dragonstone to see if any of the eggs there take your fancy.”

Aemond’s spirits rise. “Really?”

“Really,” you promise. “If nothing does, Rhaenyra’s told me that if Syrax brings forth another clutch of eggs, you’ll have your pick from them.”

He lets out a breathy laugh; he could think of Rhaenyra’s sudden act of kindness as a way to win him over to her favor, but surely Viserys had agreed to the Dragonstone visit only upon your request. He had never been known to turn you down, and the impromptu visit to the Free Cities was clear proof of it.

To think, you had talked him into it for Aemond’s benefit…

He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Wait. You said “we”. You’re coming home? You’re coming with me to Dragonstone to pick an egg?”

You give him another one of your comforting smiles. “If you’d like.”

He nods, almost too quickly. He’d come to Driftmark expecting to have the secondhand grief hanging over him like a storm, not to feel as if he’d been denied the sun for years before this very moment. He imagines walking off a ship onto Dragonstone and leaving atop Vermithor, as he’s always thought of doing. He replays a scene from his dreams where he finally flies next to you, the Good King and the Good Queen’s mounts flying over the realm once more.

He’s almost too happy to notice you’d reached out to brush his hair away from his face. “You might take a little inspiration from Laena,” you advise him. “She was dragonless for years, and yet she did what many thought was impossible.”

“She claimed Vhagar,” Aemond says, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.

“She certainly did.” You squeeze his hands before slipping out of them. “Now, go to bed. Your mother will have my head if she finds out I caught you after dark and did nothing.”

The same cry pierces through the night sky again, and Aemond watches as you head back up to the castle. He wants to call out to you again, to tell you what he’s been hearing all day, to confirm something that had clicked at your words just now.

Aemond stares across the sea, in deep thought.

The right is not freely given.

He turns to the west, to the source of the strange cry.

It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.

He begins walking.

“It will heal,” Alicent frets. “Will it not, maester?”

Aemond winces as the needle pierces his flesh, dreading the answer; but even with one eye, he sees it on the maester’s face as clear as if he had both.

Alicent audibly sobs at the revelation, and Aemond isn’t sure if his feeling light-headed was due to the blood loss, the pain from the little scuffle he’d gotten into earlier, or just remnants of his encounter with Vhagar. He tries to link it to the last factor; it was the only good thing he got out of the entire ordeal.

He’s no stranger to dragon-riding, as you’ve taken him up on Silverwing many times before. But to be completely alone, to hold the reins and be solely responsible for directing the flight, to ride the largest dragon in the world, a Conqueror’s dragon—

Something flutters in his periphery, and Aemond turns his face to see you, still in your nightclothes. He opens his mouth, about to call out for you, knowing that surely you of all people would rejoice at the news…

But he watches as you rush past everyone else to where Lucerys was, his face still bloody and nose crooked from where Aemond had punched him. Lucerys cries out when you attempt to set his nose, and you shush him comfortingly, kissing the top of his head before checking on Jacaerys.

What little happiness left in Aemond ebbs away as Rhaenyra calls for him to be “sharply” questioned, as Viserys demands he reveals where he heard the rumors over Rhaenyra’s sons parentage, as Alicent loses her patience and attempts to exert justice on his behalf by force. All those he could have lived with…if not for you standing behind Rhaenyra quietly, moving only to shield Jacaerys and Lucerys from Alicent. If not for you barely even sparing him a glance.

When he tells his mother an eye was a fair trade for a dragon, he means it.

But when he thinks about you as part of the price, he's not as certain.

"Be calm, Vhagar," Aemond instructs the great beast. He tries to climb the ropes, as he had the night before, but Vhagar continues to squirm.

He sighs, trying to focus. Walking was already disorienting enough on its own, but flying with a limited depth of perception was another matter entirely. But Aemond's no stranger to challenges—this is just another he has to conquer.

"Obey, Vhagar," he reminds the dragon. "Serve me."

"She feels your pain," someone tells him, in the same tongue.

Aemond grips his ropes tightly, his jaw tightening as he tries to maintain his composure. He turns in the direction of his good eye, and when he finds no one, he lets go of the ropes to turn the other way around. Sure enough, you were there, in full riding gear.

He'd forgotten that he was supposed to stop by Dragonstone to pick an egg. And he'd forgotten that that was probably the only reason you had to return to King's Landing.

Now, perhaps, he's left you with no other choice but to remain on Driftmark, as Rhaenyra and her family did. Worse, you'd probably go back and dig up your own potential match to Qoren Martell.

Funnily enough, though, the thought didn't stress him out as it used to.

"Dragons and their riders share a special bond," you continue. High Valyrian was the most beautiful language to ever exist, and even with all things considered, Aemond still thinks it's at its best when he hears it from you. "What you feel, they feel. Your friends are theirs, and your enemies, they will endeavor to crush."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," he says.

"I say it as a warning," you reply. "You must keep your emotions in check if you want to have a safe flight, without any dire consequences."

Aemond laughs humorlessly. " "Keeping emotions in check"? Is that what you did last night?"

You frown. "You don’t understand."

"I lost my eye," Aemond hisses, pointing to the bandaged side of his face. "On account of that bastard."

"Aemond.”

"You were supposed to be on my side!" He's raising his voice now, and Vhagar shakes her head in agitation. "You understood me better than anyone, you know the truth about our nephews, you were supposed to stand aside and let my mother seek justice!"

"They are our blood, regardless," you remind him gently. "We protect our own."

He stomps in frustration. "You were supposed to be happy for me," he snarls. "I have a dragon now, and all of those warlock shits that you spoke to were all wrong. I proved them wrong."

"Yes, you did," you tell him, and it takes everything in him not to pull his hair out over your patience. "But I hope you know that having one does not change who we are. Dragon or no dragon, you are still you. Still Aemond."

His fury threatens to boil over. "Go away."

"I want to help you, Aemond," you coax. "You've gotten past the first ride, yes, but with one eye, you're going into unknown territory. You will need a new saddle, too. There's still so much I can teach you."

"Go away!" he screams, running forward just to push you away. "I don't need you! Don't come near me, don't ever presume to speak my name, and don't you ever come home!"

Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but he thinks he sees you flinch. Whatever it is, you try to maintain your composure. "You don't mean that, Aemond."

"I do," he insists, turning and hauling himself up the ropes. "I hate you. Go away."

It takes nearly forever before he finally reaches the saddle. The view from atop Vhagar with one eye certainly was disorienting, but not as bad as he'd originally thought. He looks up to see Sunfyre and Dreamfyre already up in the air, and he gains a sense of pride; he would be flying back to King's Landing with his trueborn siblings.

Out of habit, he tries to ascertain where you were. He deduces you had left just as he'd demanded you to, but pushes the guilt down to focus.

"Obey me, Vhagar," he shouts over the wind. "Fly!"

The dragon rumbles in response, and Aemond holds on tightly as Vhagar makes her way towards the edge of the cliff, before spreading her wings and taking flight. The short drop makes his stomach flutter delightfully, and he tugs on the reins to pull her higher into the sky.

He drinks in the feeling of seeing Aegon and Helaena on either side of him, and even dips Vhagar to greet his mother watching atop the same ship he'd arrived at Driftmark on.

When he finally gets the nerve to look back, Driftmark continues to disappear into the distance, but he can barely make out a familiar figure flying east.

He turns his attention back forward, thinking of nothing but the breeze in his hair and the sun washing over his skin.

The morningstar swings idly at Criston's side as he and Aemond circle each other, like mountain lions about to pounce at any given moment. Aemond twirls his sword in his hand, scanning his opponent from head to toe and watching his every move.

When Criston swings, Aemond dodges, immediately understanding what fight pattern his teacher was about to go for after years of experience. The crowd around him grows, the whispers now starting to irritate him, but he remains calm and collected.

The morningstar comes down on Aemond's other side, and he moves; he treats it as a dance, and the weapon an overeager partner (gods know how many Aemond's had to deal with at feasts).

Criston smirks, but Aemond can tell he's running out of steam. "Shall we have a respite, old man?" he teases.

His teacher opens his mouth to retort, but he's interrupted by a guard by the nearest watchtower.

"Dragon!"

Aemond looks up in confusion. All dragons go straight to the Dragonpit, he thinks. Why would they warn of a dragon, unless…

A high trilling sound, louder than what was normally heard so deep into the Red Keep, causes everyone within the vicinity to look around. Aemond's fingers slacken around his sword—he knows that call.

Silverwing soars into the courtyard, circling the area thrice before Aemond realizes she was trying to land.

"Clear the way!" His voice booms across the yard, and servants, nobles, and guards alike frantically move to open up a space for the dragon to land.

However, it did not seem to be what the silver mount had in mind; gasps ranging from those of shock to wonder echo throughout the Red Keep when you land your dragon atop the very gate, causing those on the watchtowers on either side of you to cry out in fear.

Aemond shakes his head in disbelief, watching in a near-trance as Silverwing dips down to allow you to dismount carefully. The years melt away as you walk over to where he and Criston were training, completely ignoring the stares you were receiving.

"Princess," Criston says, bowing deeply. "You know dragons aren't allowed this deep into the Red Keep."

"Really?" you ask, raising your eyebrows. "There are a whole score of them here, so I did not think it any harm to add one more."

Criston laughs, a short but genuine sound. "Welcome home, Princess."

You nod your head in response, before turning to Aemond. He remembers the last words he spoke to you as if he'd just said them yesterday, and not all those years ago. He remembers panicking after you never indeed come home, opting to resume your travels across the Free Cities.

He remembers spending six years trying to come to terms with the fact that he might never see you again.

What does he even say, now that you've proved him wrong?

Thankfully, you relieve him of that burden. "Brother," you greet amicably.

He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, trying (and failing) to piece together a sentence. Criston shoots him a sideways glance.

Aemond eventually settles for a nod, before his sword slides out of his grasp.

You look like you're about to burst into laughter.

"I hope he's better with a sword than he is with women, Ser Criston," you say wryly, before heading into the castle.

As soon as you've disappeared, Criston turns to Aemond, a single eyebrow raised.

"Be quiet," Aemond mumbles as he reaches for his sword.

Aemond doesn’t mull over the potential reasons for your arrival long, as the answer comes to him by the news that you have not left Viserys’ bedside all day, even to eat. He leaves you to it, equally because the incense in his father’s room lingers about him for hours, and equally because he has nothing to say to you.

But whatever your intentions were, they immediately took second place in favor of the news that the Sea Snake had suffered a mortal wound while fighting in the Stepstones, leaving the succession of Driftmark in doubt. Rhaenyra, along with her now-husband Daemon, all but materialize into the Red Keep, no doubt to secure Lucerys’ claim.

Aemond next sees you on the day all claims to the Driftwood Throne were made, just before the entire court had begun to settle in. In a brief stroke of madness, he makes his way over to where you were, drinking in your startled expression before changing course towards Rhaenyra and her sons. He gives them the usual courtesies, much to their bewilderment, and even strikes up a conversation with Jacaerys over their encounter in the courtyard, where he was training. His good eye flickers over to you, silently bidding you watch as he walks over to Daemon.

To his great satisfaction, he’s a couple of inches taller.

Aemond could have sworn he saw you smile.

It does occur to him that perhaps you have come to fulfill your father’s wishes and to marry at last, now that Viserys is on the brink of death and the succession (in Aemond’s mind, at least) remains unclear.

No doubt that thought weighs heavily on Alicent’s mind, also, given that she’s let slip a couple of times that she’d wished for you to marry one of Vaemond Velaryon’s sons. But that plan died on the floor of the throne room along with Vaemond himself, who destroyed his ambition by letting his pride get the best of him.

Through you, any House would have closer ties to the throne, and the various other lineages you’ve been linked to. That House would also be bound to whichever party secured that pact for, and all their strength and swords would be theirs.

Perhaps you’d be wed to Joffrey. No doubt that would keep you on Rhaenyra’s side forever, had you not already declared for her in all but writing. Qoren Martell was no longer a viable option, given that he’d taken your absence as an insult and married some other noble lady. Had Borros Baratheon not already married, you’d probably be his, owing to his House having hosted you in your youth. Cregan Stark. Whomever at the Vale had the claim after Jeyne Arryn. Some old and balding Riverlands lord.

But Aemond has a better idea.

Your serving girl answers the door, and her eyes widen at the sight of Aemond looming over her.

“Is the Princess still awake?” he asks quietly.

The serving girl swallows. “She is, my Prince, but…”

“I thank you in advance for your discretion,” he interrupts, reaching over to place a bag of gold dragons in her hand. Bribery was the oldest trick in the book, and yet it was always Aemond’s last resort; so many things, even principles and skills that people spend their whole life trying to cling to, could be traded at the mere sight of a gold dragon.

To the girl’s credit, she seems to struggle over the dilemma, and Aemond owes it to her to give her a moment. When she purses her lips and turns away, he steps back in victory.

The few times he’s entered your apartments, it’s always empty, on account of you being somewhere else. He’s never had a reason to stay long, if only to bask in the ambience of a room you’d spend a lot of your time in, before turning to other matters that require his attention.

Now that you’re there, however, he realizes it does not differ much from his own apartments. The same layout, but a different air about it. Less cold. More you.

Aemond waits for the serving girl to close the door behind her, and he keeps a respectful distance from your bed, allowing you some time to make yourself presentable.

“The hour is quite late, brother,” comes your tired tone.

“My apologies, sweet sister,” he says, walking forward. “I had to see you.”

You were indeed already in bed, putting a book aside when he stands at the edge. You regard him carefully, clearly wondering about the purpose of his visit, before you sigh and move to throw the covers off yourself.

He holds up a hand. “Please.”

“I cannot see you in this light,” you reason.

“Then allow me.”

Aemond takes the box of matches from you, moving about the room to light the candles. The room glows brighter, allowing him to see the shift you had put on for bed. Your silver hair hangs about you like spun moonlight, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and touch it.

“To what do I owe this late-night visit, then?”

Aemond sets the matchbox down, before turning to you. “I apologize, again,” he says. “I was not certain you’d stay in the Red Keep for long.”

“And why is that, do you think?”

“I regret I do not have the answer. You’ve never really explained the reasons behind your frequent absences from court.”

His direct tone surprises you, and he sees it in your face. But gone are the days where he stumbles over his words, cherry-picks through them to find the ones that would please you the most.

The boy you knew died the night his eye had been taken. And he wants to prove it to you.

“You think your little stunt this evening will not change anything?”

A smirk threatens to play on his lips. “Call it what you will, I was simply expressing how proud I am of my family.”

“Clearly, pride comes in the form of insulting your nephews’ parentage,” you shoot back.

“Is that why you’re contemplating leaving again? Leaving Father to succumb to his wounds alone over the truth?”

He’s never seen you this angry before; you were always the most patient sibling. “Did you come here to try and elicit some anger from me? Was your intention to alienate the only friend you have at court?”

His jaw clenches. “I am the Prince. I have no shortage of friends.”

You scoff. “With that tongue of yours, I am sure that’s true.”

“If you would like to bring my tongue into this matter, I can talk of more than just friends.”

“Your nocturnal activities mean little to me, Aemond,” you say, your tone getting fiercer and fiercer with every word. “If you mean to brag about your conquests, I suggest going to your brother instead of me. Now, if there is nothing else—”

“Why do you refuse to marry?”

Now that catches you off-guard. You look up at Aemond questioningly, but he stands his ground. He will not repeat it. He knows you have heard.

“I—I hardly think any of my decisions should matter—”

“But they do,” Aemond interrupts, moving forward to sit at the edge of your bed. “Had Father been anyone but who he is, you would have long been married by now, with children. Your husband and children would have been Rhaenyra’s, if you insisted on backing her claim. You know the benefits, and yet you refused. Why is that?”

You sigh, fidgeting with the covers uncomfortably. “I do not expect a man, even you, dear brother, to understand.”

“I’m smart. Try me.”

You give him a look so scathing, that if he were a lesser man, he would have backed down immediately. But the fire in your eyes sets his blood aflame, and he wants nothing more than to stoke them.

“My mother died attempting to give Father a male heir,” you say. “Laena gave her life for a son that did not live and wanted to ride Vhagar before she bled out. Helaena has to bear children for a philandering, drunken husband who shares her bed only when he’s out of whores to fuck. Rhaenyra dedicates her life to a realm who will not accept her because she has a mind of her own and not a cock between her legs. History will not give you women that are as miserable as the ones in our family.”

“And yet, you run from your duty to save your own skin.”

You elect not to respond to that.

Aemond sighs. “Qoren Martell would have cherished you. He said he’d wait forever for you.”

“If “forever” meant half a year, certainly,” you mumble. “I have no desire to marry, Aemond. No one expects me to be Queen, nor would my children ever come close to the throne. My only regret is that I never told my father the truth when he was still sound of mind.”

Aemond remains silent, letting your words sink in, while wrestling with his own. You lean forward, letting the covers fall to expose your skin. His eye widens at the sight, and he swallows thickly as you reach for his hand. As your fingers close around his, he has to wonder: were they always this small?

Against his will, his body turns towards you, and he shuffles up your bed so you don’t have to reach that far to touch him. With your other hand, you cup the side of his face, and he briefly flinches when you gingerly brush the pads of your fingers against his scar.

“May I?” you whisper.

He was never one to refuse you.

He keeps his one eye closed as the eyepatch leaves his skin, and is replaced by your curious fingers. He hears you suck in a breath.

He opens his eye to see you regarding the sapphire, your gift to him all those years ago, with a strange sort of reverence (despite the playful jab he had offered). He knows you’ve already seen his missing eye at its worst: swollen shut and stitches marring his face. Now, the scar has healed but not quite disappeared; Lucerys Velaryon had made his mark on Aemond forever.

He’s taken to putting jewels where his eye used to be so as not to scare the ladies at court, but he finds your sapphire fits the best, ironically. The parallels to his father's eye, gouged out by his illness and eaten through by maggots, is not lost on him, either.

"You haven't seen it since it happened," Aemond says. "It's healed. But it has left its mark. There are some things that just cannot be forgotten, as your sister is so often told otherwise."

"Our sister," you correct him. "And I know Rhaenyra regrets the incident, too."

"I don't need any of her regrets or apologies."

"Then why are you here?"

Aemond doesn't answer, and instead fixes you with the same chilling, weighted stare that he’s often been chided by his mother for having. Had you been a lesser being, you would have cracked under the pressure of his gaze.

But you are the blood of the dragon, fierce and proud and unafraid. No man, not even the one you share blood with, could ever make you back down. The look in your eyes ignites something in him; a feeling not unlike the one he gets every single time on dragonback. He steals a glimpse of the smooth expanse of your throat, then lower, and even lower…

Aemond pulls away sharply, leaving your hand drifting midair.

“The entire kingdom expects you to marry soon, rather than late,” he says, attempting to salvage what was left of his self-control.

You tilt your head. “The kingdom, your mother, or my sister?”

“I regret to say all of them do. But your fears will not be ignored.”

“Do you have a better idea, then?”

Aemond hesitates, testing the words on his tongue before letting them leave his lips. “You could marry me.”

Your reaction is what he expects it to be.

You withdraw your hand sharply and get out of bed, and Aemond gets to his feet, allowing you to increase your distance from him.

“Does…does no one listen to a word I say?” you ask in agitation. “I never thought to hear these words from you, brother, I—”

“This match has its merits,” Aemond says. “I will not insult your intelligence by discussing them one by one.”

“Whose idea was this?”

“…Father’s.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Father?” you ask incredulously. “Father was barely able to speak in complete sentences before today, and you expect me to believe he’s behind such a large arrangement?”

“Can you prove that he isn’t?”

All of a sudden, you’re standing inches away from him, a finger jabbed into his sternum and your eyes blazing with anger. “You are not getting away with this on a technicality,” you hiss. “Tell me the truth of it.”

“Is the thought of marrying me that repulsive to you?”

“Not if it’s born out of lies.” You clutch the collar of his shirt. “Why do you want to marry me, Aemond?”

He looks down at you, and his hands twitch by his sides, no doubt wanting to feel your warmth permeate through your clothes. He can feel your heart hammering underneath your ribs, and he’s sure that if you slide your hands lower, you could feel his racing similarly. Your body melds so perfectly to his, and you breathe in sync, as if engaged in a dance of their own. Every molecule of your body thrums to life underneath his fingers, every second that passes between you is charged with a tension that threatens to push the both of you over the precipice, and still you do not see.

He hates that, even with one eye, he does.

You await his answer with bated breath, but he sees the way your eyes briefly flicker down to his lips.

“Aemond,” you whisper.

“To…to preserve the family line,” he answers.

And your face just falls.

You gently detach yourself from him, leaving him impossibly cold despite the roar of the fireplace nearby.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m afraid I will have to refuse you. As I did Qoren. As I did everyone else.”

Your words echo around his mind, as if you’d shouted it to him in an empty corridor. Aemond does nothing but stare at you, and you hold his gaze with a practiced ease.

He doesn’t remember leaving your room, nor does he remember if you’d said anything to him as he did. But the next day, he breaks fast alone: his mother missing, Aegon not expected to wake until well in the afternoon, Helaena tending to the children, and Rhaenyra’s family having left for Dragonstone at first light.

When a messenger arrives to inform him that Silverwing had left the Dragonpit before dawn, he simply waves them away.

Aemond takes the death of his father in stride.

He operates exactly how logic demands him to, what he’s always been expected to do. He takes great pains to track Aegon down and forces him to face the reality that Aemond would have accepted without a fight. He keeps Jaehaerys and Jaehaera company as Helaena is prepared for her joint coronation with Aegon, sobbing the whole time her maids fit her into her dress, all the while fighting back thoughts of you donning the magnificent dress made for a future queen.

He gets through the coronation, and is momentarily forced into action when Meleys and Rhaenys disrupt the ceremony. But when the Red Queen and the Queen Who Never Was depart, he settles back into his work.

None of the things he was doing required emotion. He had no need for it. He’s gone for so long without an eye, he can live without a heart.

It’s why he can accept Borros Baratheon’s terms without batting an eye, why he can choose the first of his daughters that crosses his line of sight. He may grow to love her, he thinks, as he offers her a tight-lipped smile, and he may look at her someday without you lurking in the back of his mind.

But the gods that decreed he’d lose an eye, the gods who damned him to years of being dragon-less, are the very same gods that bring Lucerys Velaryon to Storm’s End.

“Go home, pup,” Borros spits, his voice booming like thunder all over the hall. “And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up and need to set against her foes.”

Lucerys keeps his head up, unwilling to show any semblance of weakness. Aemond wants to laugh; his entire body screams fear from head to toe. “I shall take your answer to the Queen,” he replies, his voice steadying at the last word. “My lord.”

Ever the consummate fighter. Had he not been born a bastard, Aemond might have actually liked him.

“Wait,” he calls out. “My Lord Strong.”

Lucerys pauses, taking a moment before looking back at Aemond. His eyes glint with a familiar fire that only eggs Aemond on.

“Did you really think,” he says. “That you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

Lucerys scoffs. “I will not fight you,” he asserts. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge. No…” Aemond moves to remove his eyepatch, a burst of lightning illuminating the sapphire sitting where his eye used to be. “I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine.”

Lucerys pales. For a moment, Aemond wonders if he recognizes the jewel in his eye socket. He presumes not, and even with you now forever out of his grasp, he can’t help but feel a sense of triumph. He had something Lucerys Velaryon had not—your favor.

“One will serve,” he continues casually, retrieving the dagger he keeps on his person and tossing it onto the ground between them. “I would not blind you. I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

What fear was in Lucerys’ face left at the sight of the blade, and was replaced by an expression of pure defiance. The adrenaline rushes through Aemond’s veins, practically begging Lucerys to make one wrong move. The looming threat of war, the despair that threatens to crush his mother, the look on Lucerys’ face that looks so much like—

“The Princess [Y/N] of House Targaryen!”

Lucerys nearly staggers in his attempt to turn to the door, and the lump in Aemond’s throat rises as you walk into the hall. You take one confused look at Lucerys, another at Aemond, then at Borros Baratheon.

“Am I to host the entirety of House Targaryen in my hall?” Borros shouts.

You raise an eyebrow. “I admit my surprise at seeing two more dragons than expected in your courtyard,” you say. “But, lest my lord forget, you invited me for the Lady Cassandra’s nameday tomorrow.”

Aemond frowns, and Lucerys looks equally confused. Was it possible that you hadn’t…

Borros gets to his feet. “I will not have this,” he snarls. “I will not be spoken to so casually by dragonspawn, and the least of them, least of all!”

Lucerys reaches for his sword, a look of great affront painted all over his face. Aemond turns his attention to Borros, ready to strike at any given second.

Silence falls over the group, interrupted only by the sounds of the storm raging outside.

You raise your eyebrows.

And Borros bursts into laughter.

Floris stifles a giggle from behind Aemond, as do all her other sisters next to Borros. Aemond and Lucerys share a quick look, all enmity momentarily forgotten in the confusion.

“You have not changed at all, Princess,” Borros continues to laugh heartily, as he settles back into his throne. “My father always told me you would have made a better Baratheon than a Targaryen.”

“And as I’ve told your father, I’d leap off one of your cliffs first before I’d give up the life of a dragonrider,” you say, entering the hall and making your way into its center as if it had been your home all this time.

And it’s then that Aemond remembers you’d been hosted at Storm’s End in your youth, and later named godmother to one of Borros’ daughters.

“But I must admit my confusion, Princess,” Borros says, as soon as he’s finished wiping the tears from his eyes. “I hardly think this is the time for celebrating.”

“I fly all the way back from Volantis to be told it isn’t the time for celebrating,” you repeat dryly.

Borros looks at Lucerys, to Aemond, then back to you. You mimic the action, and when your eyes settle on Aemond, it takes a while for you to get it.

Your lips part in shock, and he watches as your eyes slowly widen.

“I’m…I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Princess,” Borros says, his voice sounding the gentlest Aemond has ever heard all day despite the gruffness in his tone. “You know how highly my father and I held the late King in regard. If there is anything we might do…”

“You are too kind, my lord.” You clear your throat. “You are right, of course, this is not the time for celebrations. I will see the Lady Cassandra on the morrow, but first…” You walk over to Lucerys and wrap an arm around him. “I believe Prince Lucerys’ business here is finished. I ask your leave to escort him back to Dragonstone.”

“Granted,” Borros replies. “Safe travels, my friend.”

Aemond seethes as the guards follow suit, and as you press your lips to Lucerys’ ear as you turn him around. “If you leave,” he near-growls. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

Your head whips around, and you meet his gaze with a fury he’s never known you to hold. “Not here,” you snarl.

Wisely, Aemond holds his ground.

You take one last glance at the Baratheons, before tightening your grip on Lucerys and leading him out of the hall.

When the door shuts behind you, Aemond retrieves his knife, just as he hears one of the Baratheon girls scoff. He follows the sound to the lady standing closest to Borros, who had on an expression of pure contempt.

“Princess or not, she had the gall to speak to a Prince like that,” she says. “No wonder she’s not yet married. What man would take her?”

“Maris, hold your tongue,” Floris warns.

Maris ignores her sister, looking at Aemond straight in the eye. “Was it one of your eyes he took, or one of your balls?” she asks, voice sweet as honey despite the venom in her words. “I am so glad you chose my sister. I want a husband with all his parts.”

Aemond’s mouth twists in anger. “Lord Borros,” he nearly spits through his teeth. “I ask your leave to depart, as well.”

Borros harrumphed in response. “It is for me to tell you how to act whilst not under my roof.”

Aemond turns on his heels, barely sparing his betrothed a glance before disappearing out the door.

Despite the relentless rain, all Aemond’s senses were heightened as if he were the beast he rides, focused solely on the hunt. He wants to see that look on Lucerys’ face again—that look of pure fear. Pure helplessness. He wants to see all those years’ worth of misery weigh on his entire being, threatening to crush Lucerys with every second that passes.

The laugh that leaves him is one of pure glee as Lucerys and his dragon just barely dodge Vhagar, and he only urges her after them. He shouts a command, and the great she-dragon opens her jaws, closing with a sickening snap that causes Lucerys to cry out in fear.

The dragon takes Lucerys even lower, and to Aemond’s great dismay, they disappear between two cliffs. He takes Vhagar’s reins and heaves; she follows suit, albeit with great difficulty.

The fog clouds his already-compromised vision, and the only things he sees above the gorge are the tips of dragon wings as it beats up and down. “You owe a debt!” Aemond bellows, the frustration of being denied his vengeance lining every single one of his words. “Boy!”

Vhagar notices it before he does, and moves her head to the left. He barely sees it in the darkness of the storm, but there was an unmistakable flash of white that wasn’t a streak of lightning. He pulls to the left, cursing. Finally took advantage of your handiwork, Lucerys? he thinks bitterly. Flying in my blindspot…who would have thought…

Perhaps the storm had grown fiercer, or the fog had gotten thicker, but Aemond only now gets glimpses of Lucerys’ dragon, unlike the direct confrontation that had occurred just earlier. It was unlikely that it had gotten used to Vhagar’s flight pattern so easily, given its age and how inexperienced Lucerys clearly was…

“There!” he shouts, and Vhagar follows without further instruction. The new direction is one that turns the wind against them, and Aemond wonders how such a young dragon fares in such terrible conditions. But Lucerys and his dragon were now up ahead, growing bigger as Vhagar closes the gap in mere moments…he could have sworn that the dragon was a little brighter than that…

A hard gust of wind nearly blows him back in his saddle; blinking the tears out of his eye, he dodges the cloak that Lucerys had previously donned as it flies past.

Revealing a taller figure in the saddle, sporting bright silver hair…

You sense the shift in Vhagar’s disposition almost immediately.

The roar she lets out is enough to shake the entirety of Storm’s End to its very core, and Silverwing shakes her head, clearly agitated. You glance over your shoulder to see Vhagar being pulled back, and you know you have run out of time.

You could only hope that you had bought enough to allow Lucerys and Arrax to escape.

“Listen carefully, Luke,” you shout over the rain, as both you and your nephew make your way to your dragons. Lightning flashes, and you look to the east; your stomach drops when Vhagar is nowhere to be found. “Aemond will try to follow you as you leave.”

You take Lucerys’ face in your hands. “You must find him and Vhagar first. Get them to chase you, and take them to the gorge just a few miles away from here.”

“How will I—”

“It isn’t hard to miss. Fly Arrax through that gorge, go as low as you can. I will meet you there.”

“But you—”

“After that, go as high as you can and go with the wind so you can go faster.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks fearfully. “Vhagar is the largest dragon in the world, and—and Aemond’s angry, and—”

You shush him, brushing his curls out of his face as you have so many times in his youth. “Vhagar is also the oldest dragon in the world,” you remind him. “And Silverwing and Arrax will look nearly identical in this storm. I will try to stay in Aemond’s blind spot, and trust that his dragon will not know the difference.”

The tears start to well in Lucerys’ eyes. “This is my fault,” he begins to cry.

“It is not, sweet boy.” You pull him into an embrace, and Lucerys grips onto your shoulders almost painfully. When Arrax shrieks, and Silverwing hisses at the sky, you pry yourself out of Lucerys’ grasp, tilting his head up.

“I may still reason with Aemond,” you say. “But at least one of us must make it back to Rhaenyra, to tell her what has happened here. I intend it to be you.”

“But—”

“Be brave, Lucerys,” you tell him, and in High Valyrian, you command just as much as you soothe.

Your mother had told you to be brave, too, just days before she’d died on the birthing bed.

Was that the same fate that awaits you in the jaws of a dragon? You suppose that, one way or another, you would leave this world in the same manner.

You find a rocky beach, and you will Silverwing towards it. The pebbles crunch in a strange sort of symphony under her feet, as it does under yours when you dismount. The waves pummel the shore just inches away from where you stand, waiting for the inevitable.

You press your forehead against Silverwing’s head, feeling the she-dragon purr at the contact. No doubt she was feeling the same things you were feeling, after so many years of flying together, but you want to let her know how much she means to you.

A terrifying growl shakes the beach, and Silverwing hisses as Vhagar appears just above you. You hold onto her as the dragon hits the ground, her sheer size causing nearly half of her body to be submerged in the ocean.

You watch as her rider dismounts, his blade glinting in the darkness as he makes his way over to you. When you move to meet him halfway, Silverwing blocks your path, wailing. You feel a surge of affection for your dragon wash over you.

“Be calm,” you instruct her. “Obey.”

Silverwing keens in protest, but obliges, withdrawing reluctantly, only to roar in contempt when Aemond points his blade towards your neck.

Amidst the heavy rain and thick fog, Aemond Targaryen stands tall and proud, his missing eye doing little to discredit the fact that he now looks every inch a god. You could find no trace of the boy you’d known all those years ago, the one who’d followed you everywhere in the Red Keep, the only one of your half-siblings who’d managed to maintain a solid correspondence with you when you were away.

But perhaps he is still in there, somewhere hidden behind the clear wrath in his eye.

“None can stand between a dragon and its prey,” you begin. “A Conqueror’s dragon and her blood, even less.”

“And yet here you stand,” Aemond spits.

“And yet here I stand,” you repeat calmly.

Aemond studies you carefully. You keep your gaze trained on him, completely ignoring the blade he holds to your throat.

“You know the truth of Rhaenyra’s sons,” he hisses. “You’re no fool, yet you choose not to see it. Would you let the pups of House Strong sit on our father’s throne, and his grandfather before him?”

“They have just as much Targaryen blood as you do.”

“Do not—” He presses the tip of his sword directly against your skin, and Silverwing growls in warning. “Do not dare question my heritage.”

“I would never,” you say quietly. “But surely you see why I cannot let you do this.”

“Would you lay down your life for your traitor kin?”

“They are all I have left.” Your voice quivers dangerously. “You may deny their parentage all you like, but you cannot deny that they are my blood still.”

“I am your blood!” You hadn’t realized that Aemond had dropped his blade in favor of closing the distance between the two of you, looming over you like a malevolent shadow in the pouring rain. “‘Tis I who know you better than anyone else; I, who wrote back to you and sat every night by the windows of the Red Keep waiting for you to return; ‘tis I who study history and philosophy and politics to elevate myself to your level.”

Thunder rumbles overhead, and you blink the rain out of your eyes as you continue to stare up at Aemond. You think you catch a glimpse of the child he once was when he holds your gaze so defiantly, but he scoffs, and turns away from you.

“Lord Borros was right,” he spits. “I stand to destroy myself, risk my brother’s cause, worry my mother senseless, and for what? The whims of the last in line to the throne? A mere afterthought, forever in the shadow of her sister? A spoiled bitch who flees with her tail between her legs at the very thought of duty?”

You shake your head, and despite the gravity of the situation, you have to smile. The rocks crunch beneath your feet as you move towards him this time. When your hand presses against the middle of his shoulders, just opposite of his heart, you feel him jolt.

“Words hurt less to those who have heard the same all their lives,” you tell him gently. “But if it comforts you to lash out at me, I will not stop you. I daresay by the time you end, Luke will have already returned to Dragonstone.”

Aemond growls as he turns and grabs you by your arms. Silverwing hisses and snaps, but backs down when Vhagar moves forward.

“Stop acting as if I was a child,” he demands. “I can challenge the greatest knight of the Seven Kingdoms and ride the largest dragon our world has ever known. I am the closest in line to the Throne. The Aemond you knew died the night Lucerys Strong took my eye, and if you mourn him, you will step aside.”

“I cannot,” you whisper, but you might as well have screamed it in his ear. “I told you on Driftmark, didn’t I? You are still the Aemond I know. The Aemond who fought during my nameday tourney all those years ago, giving it his all despite being out of the lists earlier on. You believed that it was Alicent that put you in the lower lists, did you not?”

Aemond stares at you, clearly not following.

“You thought and acted exactly as I’d hoped. I’m sorry you were embarrassed because of it. But…if you would forgive my selfishness…I wanted you by my side in the King’s box, not injuring yourself on the jousting field for my favor. I would have always given you my favor, no matter how many you’d win against.”

You reach up to brush away the hair sticking against his face in the cold rain. “Because it’s you,” you say, running a thumb down the strap of his eyepatch before gently lifting it up. “You’re my Aemond.”

The sapphire that once sat in the brooch you gave him glints in what little light the storm permits to shine. No doubt that to many, it only serves to further unnerve those who already shift uncomfortably in his presence, but to you, it rivals the stars you’d stared at, thousands of leagues away from home, quietly wondering if Aemond was looking at them too.

The expression on his face is a mixture of surprise, admiration, and pain all into one. You know his true feelings; he’d made it known the night he asked for your hand. You would have given it to him gladly, freely, had he been honest about his reasons. A loveless marriage was the last thing you wanted for yourself in this lifetime, the very reason you’d run away from home all those years ago, causing your own father grief; you weren’t about to have it start with a blatant lie.

You think he understands everything now, by the way his shoulders slump and how Vhagar nearly purrs in content. It’s only confirmed when he reaches for your hand, still warm despite the biting cold.

“You’re not playing fair,” Aemond murmurs. “You would make me a kinslayer…every word you speak will damn me for all eternity, and yet…”

He shakes his head. “You know why I’ve come here. Baratheon’s banners for a marriage pact. You’ve scorned me once before. What makes you think I could ever give in to you now?”

“I dare not force you to choose,” you respond. “But know that I will not move from this place; how you will deny me, I leave it to you.”

Aemond’s mouth twitches. “How kind of you to make things simple for me.”

He backs away, and you close your eyes, waiting for the frigid storm to be drowned out by a shower of dragonflame. You think of Lucerys, and how you hope Arrax was able to navigate the storm all the way back to Dragonstone. You think of Rhaenyra, too, your sole full-blood sister, and the tears that you’d shared together in the Sept on your namedays. Your chest grows heavy with grief at the thought of Viserys, and how he’d begged you with his rattling breath to stay, only for you to leave the very night he’d passed.

You should think about what your death would mean; the pain that would cause your kin, the war that was bound to follow. But your last thought, ironically, might ultimately be of the man who would bring about your demise.

Seconds pass. Silverwing falls silent.

And you feel Aemond’s lips on yours.

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becausesebastianstan · 1 year

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Mistaken Hatred - Aemond Targaryen

Authors Note: This was a request, but I might have accidentally deleted it! If this was something you requested sorry for the lateness! Idk what happened

Word Count: 4748

Warnings: angst, aemond is a loud-mouthed asshole

Description: Aemond is sure that you are enemies and stuck in a marriage of convenience

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becausesebastianstan · 1 year

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idaña: high valyrian meaning twin

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞 || your twin never learned how to share, and he always hated when someone tried to take one of his toys.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙 || 6.2k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 || twincest, noncon, kinda reader insert kinda oc because she has white hair and is aemond's twin, aemond is horrible and possessive and very nasty and mean, loss of virginity, pain kink, breeding kink, forced voyeurism/exhibitionism, jealousy, hair pulling, choking, kinda yandere vibes, a slap, brief somnophilia (just mentioned), degradation, angst

this fic is by, for, and about adults. minors do not interact.

this is a dark fic with very triggering content, please keep scrolling if it would be upsetting for you. if you do choose to consume it and you enjoy it, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

Your fingers toyed with the hem of your dress’ draping sleeves, your thumb nail tracing the golden embroidery at the edges; your teeth bit down on your bottom lip slightly to try to keep your girlish smile at bay. It was the gaze of Ser Corwin that made you so bashful— he was a handsome and kind knight, and every time you watched the men in the courtyard, he noticed you and looked up at you with a gentle smile.

Yes, you’d begun to fancy him; there was just something so… exotic about him. Not in a foreign way, he was a native of your homeland, too— but he was different from everyone you normally spent your time with. The person you spent the most time with was certainly your twin brother, Aemond, and Corwin was nothing like him.

Where Aemond was pallid and sunken, Corwin was tanned and full-faced; Aemond, like nearly every Targaryen, had long silver hair, but Corwin had a mess of amber-brown curls that somehow looked perfect even when they were clearly misbehaving. Most of all, while Aemond tended to be aloof, calculating, and snide, Corwin was patient, sensitive, and passionate. He reminded you of the knights in your storybooks: dashing and fierce in battle, yet tender for the woman they loved.

When your twin turned his face towards you, you looked away quickly, hoping not to get caught looking at the knight in the courtyard below. “Sister,” he said to get your attention, and you looked at him as if you hadn’t even noticed he was looking at you. “Is something the matter? You look flushed.”

“I— no,” you shook your head. “Sorry, brother. My mind is elsewhere.”

He smirked slightly. “Anywhere interesting?”

In the tower, just two nights ago, where Ser Corwin kissed my cheek, and called me beautiful— and told me that he hoped to fight for my hand someday. Swallowing, you shook your head. It had never gone further than those chaste kisses, stolen moments in shadowy corners or secluded alcoves, but for a sheltered princess like yourself, it was an exceptional thrill.

“Ivestragon issa skoros ao issi otāpagon bē,” he pleaded in a whisper to you, leaning closer. Tell me what you are thinking about.

You looked at him more carefully: at the interrogating look in his eye, and the patch covering the other; at the small smirk on his lips. Sighing, you reached up and brushed your fingers over the black leather patch. “Ao gaomagon daor jorrāelagon naejot ruaragon aōha laehurlion,” you replied quietly. You do not need to cover your face.

Smiling softly, he let you reach behind his head and untie the strings, taking the patch off, letting the scars and sparkling gem show in the sunlight of the afternoon. “Iksos bona sȳrkta?” he asked you with a grin. Is that better?

“Olvie,” you agreed; Much. Leaning forward, holding his face softly in your hands, you placed a gentle kiss to the place just under his false eye along the line of the scar; he shut his eyes, though the scarred one still never shut all the way, his lashes resting on the height of his cheeks.

When you broke away, the way he was looking at you had changed just a bit. Giving him one last smile, you rested back in your seat, and he in his own beside you. You both carried on silently, watching the tourney of knights below.

The events of yesterday’s tournament were still fresh in your mind: of Ser Corwin’s victory, after he received your favour; of Aemond’s interrogation about your inner thoughts and your kiss on his eye. None of those events were particularly unique in of themselves. After all, Corwin was a strong and talented knight, and Aemond was always trying to get in your head (and usually succeeding). Of course, giving your brother a kiss was nothing strange, either, as close as you two were. But something about yesterday felt different. It felt worse and worse each day to hide your affections for the handsome knight, most of all because you weren’t exactly sure why you had to hide it— you just knew that it needed to be a secret. And yesterday, you feared more than ever that Aemond would find out soon and how he would respond.

Pulling the blankets up higher over your chest, you turned your head over on the pillow to look over at your twin. He usually woke up before you, so it was rare to see him fast asleep in the early morning like this.

Your mother had tried to get you and Aemond to stop sharing a bed over a decade ago, saying you were ‘no longer of the age where that’s appropriate’. But that had never made sense to you; why shouldn’t you sleep with your twin, your other half, your best friend? He kept you warm at night and let you whisper about your dreams to him when you woke up. And so, every evening, your room was left empty and you cuddled up with Aemond instead.

Reaching up, you tenderly pet your brother’s hair, brushing through the fine silver strands with your fingertips. He hummed as he awoke, turning to smile at you as he blinked his eyes a few times. “I hope I didn’t wake you up,” you whispered.

“Sȳz ñāqes,” he greeted with a rough, low voice; Good morning.

“Did you sleep well?” you asked gently, humming as he pulled you closer and rubbed his cheek on the top of your head. He cleared his throat to get the sleepy gravel out of his voice, holding your face in one hand with his thumb petting your cheek.

“Like a babe,” he replied.

“You woke up to cry and shit every two hours?” you joked, making him laugh and hug you a little tighter, your face pressing to his bare chest.

“I never expected you to be so funny, sister,” he admitted. “You never liked my jokes when we were little.”

“Because your idea of a joke was pulling my hair or spilling my dinner on me,” you rolled your eyes. You paused as you really considered what he’d said, leaning back to look up at his face. “What did you expect me to be?”

His gaze ran over your face carefully, his thumb slowing down a bit as it gently stroked the highest point of your cheekbone, beside your eye. “I always knew you’d be beautiful,” he answered in a soft voice, “and fierce. I thought you might get wiser, but you’ve stayed just as naïve as you were as a little girl.”

Offended, yet flustered, you blinked quickly and looked away from his face, down to his chest and collarbones. “You’re wiser, brother, but still so rarely kind,” you whispered in return.

He sighed as he kissed your temple lightly. “I try to only speak the truth, sister— especially to you,” he explained. “You should tell me the truth, too: you should tell me what’s been on your mind these past weeks.” For emphasis, he toyed with the hair right by the crown of your head. “Something’s been keeping you from me… I miss you.”

You smiled a little, exhaling a ghost of a laugh. “How can you miss me? I am right before you now.”

He said nothing, because he knew you were feigning ignorance— even if he just called you naïve a few seconds ago, he couldn’t believe that you really didn’t understand what he meant.

“Avy jorrāelan, lēkia,” you spoke to him quietly. I love you, brother.

He hummed a bit as you wrapped your arms around him tightly, embracing him and shutting your eyes. He seemed to relax, then, petting your head soothingly. “Nyke gīmigon,” he replied; I know.

It was that same day that you saw the knight again, though you hadn’t realised you would. The afternoon was falling into evening, the sky turning orange above the garden as you wandered it; you loved this time of day, because the sky reminded you of fire. You were looking up at it, probably seeming just as dreamy and careless as Aemond and the rest of your family often accused you of being, when a hand on your shoulder startled you. Turning, it was Corwin behind you, under the shadow of a tall tree.

“Ser Corwin,” you blurted out, “I didn’t expect to encounter you here.”

“I apologise, my princess,” he sighed, “but I couldn’t wait any longer— I had to feel your touch again.”

He suddenly pulled you into him, and part of you wanted to simply swoon and accept it, but just enough of your logical mind remained. “W-we might be seen here,” you noticed.

“Must we always keep our love secret?” he lamented, gripping your arms tighter and smiling down at you— that warm, comforting smile, it melted you.

“Love?” you repeated excitedly.

“Of course,” he breathed, reaching up to caress your cheek. “My princess, my darling… tell me that you could someday be my wife. Even if I am not a noble lord or a political ally— tell me you could forget your duty and we could be wed.”

You swallowed, hoping you could answer him honestly. As far as you knew, you had little duty in marriage as the youngest child of the King— it might displease your parents slightly if you asked to marry a knight, but it wasn’t any kind of treason or even that much of a disruption, especially considering a loyal and just knight like Ser Corwin. “Yes,” you decided, beaming widely, “I hope so— I dream so.”

Smiling back at you, he grabbed your face and kissed you: it was hard and sudden, but lovely. You realised you’d never been kissed this way, with so much passion and joy, and it made your heart sing as your hands reached up to tangle in his curly hair. At that same moment, his hands found your waist and held you close; you felt small in his touch, in a way you enjoyed more than you expected.

Just as you broke away, opening your eyes, you thought you saw something in the corner of your eye— up on one of the nearby balconies, a flurry of white. You turned your head in an instant, looking for it.

“Is everything all right?” Corwin asked.

“Yes— was someone there, on the balcony?” you wondered.

“I didn’t see anyone,” he replied, “but I only see you anyhow.”

The flattery was less effective as an anxious feeling flooded your chest. “W-what if someone’s seen us, Corwin…”

“Then they’ll know how mad I am for you,” he decided proudly, pulling your face back towards him, “and that you’re mad for me as well.”

You blinked up at him, staring into the dark brown abyss of his eyes, letting it wash away your fears.

“Would it be so horrible?” he pressed. “If they knew… are you ashamed of me?”

“No, my love, no,” you promised, petting his cheek quickly, “anything but.”

You couldn’t answer his first question, though; you didn’t know if it would be horrible, if anyone knew. With him holding you like this, you almost didn’t care.

He tried to pull you closer again, but you pulled away. “I should go,” you decided.

“Not so soon,” Corwin pleaded.

“I’m sure I can see you in the morning,” you promised, but he reached for you again.

“I can’t wait that long,” he pouted. “I’ll miss you too greatly— one more kiss, please?”

Though you hesitated, you leaned forward to peck his cheek. He turned his face to catch your lips, just for a moment; you pulled back again, face warming.

“I’ll be thinking of you,” he promised.

You nodded and stepped away, biting your nail as you walked back towards the castle; as much as you wanted to promise the same, for some reason, all you could think of was your brother.

Seeking him straight away, navigating the stone halls, you went to Aemond’s (and, functionally, your own) chambers. Already you feared he wouldn’t be there, and then your worries would grow even more about where he was— where he had been, more specifically.

In retrospect, you shouldn’t have been so eager, swinging open the door so dramatically: it made you look sort of foolish when he was sitting back in a chair, reading a book. He was well into it, he must’ve been here for hours to get that far in; you sighed with relief, and he looked up at you, seeming confused.

“My apologies,” you nodded, “I hope I didn’t disturb your reading, Aemond.”

He shook his head, looking back at the book as his cheek rested on his fist. “No trouble. Come in.”

You tried to examine him as you shut the door behind you and moved further into the room; you hoped to notice if he seemed irritated or emotional in some way, in case it was him you saw in the corner of your eye in the garden. He was hard to read, just sitting there, but if anything he seemed… normal. It relieved you, partially, though you were still cautious as you broke the silence. “How is your evening?”

He nodded as he shut his book. “Painfully uneventful. Yours?”

Continuing to approach him, you hoped he couldn’t see everything on your face. “About the same.”

As he stood, he took your hand and lifted it to his lips for a kiss on your fingers. “I missed you, sister. I wondered where you’d gone— you know I prefer to read with you laying beside me.”

You nodded, remembering how many nights you fell asleep with your head on his chest and his arm around you as he read— aloud to you, sometimes, or silently to himself. “I was in the garden,” you explained. I thought I saw you there, you wanted to say, but you worried it would give away too much.

“Alone?”

You tensed up a bit. “Yes.”

He sighed slightly, but smiled; you relaxed again.

“What were you reading?” you asked, looking at the book— but he suddenly touched your face, getting your attention back.

"Hm," he hummed sharply as he lifted your chin, contemplating you with his stare. "Pretty and sweet, but never very smart, were you, dear sister?"

Before you could ask him what he meant by that, the back of his hand collided with your cheek and spun your face to the side.

"A-Aemond!" you yelped, holding your stinging cheek, and he grabbed the front of your dress to roughly pull you into him.

"You should know better than to lie," he hissed at you, rage seeping through his teeth. "I never expected you to lie to me— or to be a whore either.”

“I-I’m not!” you denied.

“You let some pathetic knight kiss you! It made me sick,” he spat. “You've always been mine, sister— did they never tell you? You were betrothed to me since we were born."

You shook your head, eyes watering, and he held your chin with his other hand so you couldn’t move anymore— so you had to look at him. “It’s not— that’s not true…”

“It is,” he insisted, “I said I would always tell you the truth. I always have. But I guess I never told you, fully, what my purpose for you was— what we must do, to keep our family strong.”

He spun you around quickly, pulling your back to his chest, holding painfully tight onto your shoulders. “Aemond, please, I’m sorry—”

“No,” he interrupted, “you’re not. Not yet.”

He began to rip through your dress— fine silk splitting down the back like it was parchment. “What— Aemond, what are you—?!”

His hand snapped up to cover your mouth as he snarled, holding your head against his chest. The other hand kept tugging and ripping your dress until it fell to the floor in tatters; your tear ran over his fingertips. “Hmm,” you heard a deep sound vibrate in his chest as he looked down at you, rubbing his hand over your bare skin. Your stomach dropped as he touched you, his breath on the side of your face, his eyes boring into you. “Mandia,” he whispered to you, the Valyrian word for sister, “did that knight touch you like this?”

You cried harder, though the sound was silenced by his hand tight on your mouth, as you shook your head.

“Now, don’t lie,” Aemond warned you. “Did that filthy knight touch you this way?”

His hand explored everywhere it could reach: rubbing your thighs, squeezing your tits, even cupping your mound for a moment which made your insides clench. You shook your head again.

You could feel his smile, you could hear it somehow, just beside your ear. “Good,” he praised— somehow, it made you feel a little better. It made you less worried that he was angry with you. “Only I should be allowed to touch you. And I should never have waited so long…”

His breathing was heavy and careful as he touched you, and his fingers ghosted over your skin with that same lithe grace that he always carried. Even when you were looking away, and couldn’t see his face— even when he wasn’t speaking— it was impossible to forget that it was your twin’s hands on your body.

“I’ll admit, I did touch you while you slept sometimes,” he added, laughing slightly, “but it’s better like this. It’s better feeling you shake… and hearing you cry…”

You shut your eyes tightly, and felt his lips press to your temple.

“I wanted to wait, you know— preserve your purity until our wedding night. But I'm so tired of waiting…"

He seemed to lose track of his sentence as he focused more on feeling you, on watching his hands explore your shivering body. It caused his hand to drop from your mouth, allowing you to reply in a weak voice. "Please, brother, you can't…" you began, trailing off to whine as both his hands groped your chest, even teasing and pinching your tightened nipples.

"Can't?" he repeated. "What can't I do to you? Ao issi ñuhon." You are mine.

The slight hint of amusement in his voice was gone as he pushed you right up to the bed, making you cry loudly as you realised he was really going to go through with this— up until now, you thought he was just trying to scare you.

"You belong to me," he hissed, forcing you to bend over as he pushed your shoulders into the mattress.

"Aemond, please! Please, no," you sobbed weakly, though you didn't even try to resist him physically— you couldn't, even with only one hand he held you down easily and kept you pliant, as the other landed a harsh smack on your bottom.

"I never wanted it to be like this, sister," he sighed, petting the stinging skin he'd just assaulted. "I wanted to be kind and gentle to you. But I've no choice— you embarrassed us both, and forgot your place."

After another hit that made you yelp in pain, you heard the sound of him opening his trousers behind you, and you cried harder. Thinking that begging in Valyrian might sway him more, you found yourself repeating kostilus ("please") and lēkia ("brother") over and over, but you were ignored.

You only stopped when you felt something hot press up against the swollen lips of your cunt. "My, dripping already, sister?" Aemond noticed, sounding pleased, as he started to swipe the head of his cock through your folds, forcing your lips apart for the thickness of his tip.

You'd felt his cock a few times before, when he was aroused in the mornings and pressed it against you— or when you were younger, and in your curiosity played naughty games like children do. But you'd never felt it like this, pressed right up to your opening, bare skin on skin. You'd known already that it was thick, but with clothes in between it never felt intimidating like it did now: even just the very tip of it, sliding up and down over your slick cunt, made you terrified of how brutally it would deflower you. "Please— it's not going to fit," you warned.

He only laughed, making you feel even more stupid. "Silly girl… it never fits the first time," he explained, "that's why it's so important that you saved yourself for me, for this moment: I'll make you mine and only I will fit you after this. No other man can have you… you'll be only mine, forever."

He had to punch his hips forward sharply to be able to go inside; it made you wince, but you tried not to react too loudly as you knew this was only just the beginning.

You still couldn't have imagined how much of him there really was left.

He put the rest of his cock into you slowly— to remind you that even as angry as he was, he had never lost control. He carefully slid every centimetre into you, listening to every whimper as the stretch broke your maidenhead and opened your body for the first time. "Aemond," you cried softly, struggling to believe it was your own brother hurting you like this. "I'm sorry, Aemond, lēkia, I'm so sorry—"

"Shh, shh," he soothed, petting your back— but still pushing his hips steadily forward until all of him was sheathed in you. "Gods above, you have such a nice cunt… so warm…"

You felt actually nauseous, because he was so deep in you— like he would stir your stomach and make you sick when he moved. But no, when he moved again— slowly, deliberately— you didn't feel sick. You felt pain, and your legs began to shake, but that's it. "You're hurting me, brother, please—!"

"Shh," he interrupted firmly. "I think you'll like it, once you accept it. I know you were made to take my cock, darling, it fits in you so well."

It didn't feel like it fit well— it still hurt, it still made you ache deep inside. But he was certainly enjoying it: he kept moaning each time he filled you to the brim, examining closely the way your face tightened up and twisted in pain. He obviously liked hurting you, specifically he liked knowing he could hurt you and get away with it.

"So well— you're doing so well already," he whispered to you, a strain in his voice from his own pleasure. Each time he pulled back it seemed like he only went deeper in the next stroke; your toes curled against the floor, sometimes your legs even kicked up and your fists balled up the blankets under you. "Fuck, you know who you belong to now, don't you, sister?" he grunted, starting to move faster far sooner than you were ready for it. "You know that you're nothing but your brother's whore, yes?"

The next thrust into you was fast and sharp; it made your whole body jolt, and a cry jump from your lips. And he did it again, and again, and again.

You tried to get up on the bed, tried to crawl away to keep it from being so painfully deep inside you, but he grunted and pushed you down— he got up on the bed, too, and growled as he kept you pinned, fucking you harder as punishment for your disobedience. "Just stay still," he ordered, "just stay fucking still and take it!"

Holding you down more forcefully, fingers digging into your shoulder and side, he let go of any reservation he might have had and began to really fuck you— hard and rough and needy, more focused on his own frustration than anything. You sobbed your apologies over and over until they were just useless blabbering, pathetic cries as weak and broken as you felt. You weren't just his whore, you were his toy.

But something had changed in the way you cried; it wasn't just pain anymore, in fact, it was hardly that. You were crying most of all because of the way your body, betraying you, responded to him. It was beginning to almost feel pleasurable— there was still a sting in the stretch, and yet a fullness that made your back arch on its own. There was still an ache inside you, but it made you long for more, not less. Every forced push into you made his cock rub alongside something, a sensitive place on your walls that seemed to awake even more the longer it went on.

Now, when your toes curled, it wasn't in agony but ecstasy. And you hated yourself for it.

"You are a whore," he insisted again, though his voice was quiet and rough. "Do you see how much you enjoy it? Should I have not waited so long, darling? You longed for me, didn't you?"

There was really no point denying it now; he'd believe what he wanted anyway, and probably end up convincing you to believe it, too. You whimpered as his face appeared beside yours, kissing one of your tears away.

"Gevie," he praised; beautiful. "I know you wanted this so badly. That's why you teased me, isn't it? Let me catch you in the garden with that boy? Because you wanted me to stop waiting, and finally take you as my own."

He cooed at you, clicking his tongue; you groaned as he forced his cock as deep as he could possibly push it, holding your hips down with one hand and petting your head with the other.

"Shh, shh," he soothed, "I know— it'll all be right now, my darling. All is as it should be now. Do you know whose you are?"

Shakily, you nodded, and he sat up again so his face wasn't so oppressively close.

"Good," he decided. "Now let's make sure everyone else knows."

He whistled, loudly, the way he did when he wanted to summon the guards outside into the room. "N-no, I can't— they can't see me like—" you began to protest.

He ignored you as the guards entered, and his hips stilled as he spoke to them. Your head was hot and spinning as you heard him talking to them, knowing they were standing right there as you were laid on the bed, naked, being used by your own twin right in front of them.

"Bring that knight," Aemond requested of the guards. "The one my dolt of a sister kissed."

"No!" you screamed. "No, please, please—"

"Shh, he needs to see this," Aemond insisted, petting your silver hair as you sobbed into the blankets. You heard the door shut again, and prayed that somehow Corwin had known to run far away from this place and never come back. "Oh, don't be embarrassed," he soothed you coldly, playing with your hair as you kept hiding your face. "Those guards only saw you for a moment, sister. If you learn your lesson this time, I won't let them see you like that again."

He leaned in closer, his voice tickling your ear until you turned your head away.

"But if you don't keep your voice down, they'll probably hear you anyways," he reminded you with a little chuckle.

He started to move again, faster than before he'd stopped, and you shuddered; you should've enjoyed the moment of a break while you could.

His own sighs were getting louder and more frequent, and his thumb massaged up and down your spine while he fucked you: you couldn't tell if he was trying to soothe or savour you. "Mm, how lovely you are," he spoke, under his breath, as his hand reached down to get a handful of your bum. He pulled that handful to the side, so it wouldn't block his view of your cunt stretched out for his cock, and you felt terribly exposed. "I'm afraid you'll ruin the bed linens with your slick… you've already coated my cock quite nicely— and look, it's on your thighs too… what a mess."

He sighed and clicked his tongue like he was disappointed in you for it; your chest twisted. "I-I'm sorry," you said again.

"Hmm," was his only reply.

There was a knock at the doors just before they opened, and as footsteps approached the bed, you turned your face away so you wouldn't have to see it.

"Oh! That was quick," Aemond announced. "Come closer, knight, get a good look."

You tried to move your arms up to cover your face better, you tried to grab the blankets to hide your whole head under, but your brother wouldn't allow that.

"Don't hide your face, sister," he cooed, the gentleness of his voice in opposition with the way he roughly tugged on your hair to force you to arch your back and expose your face. You cried harder at the sight of your beloved Corwin, your sweet knight, standing in front of you; his face painted in betrayal and heartbreak at the sight before him. "Tell him who you are," Aemond ordered you.

"I…" you whispered shakily, getting louder when your twin tugged your hair again. "I am my brother's whore!"

"Mm," Aemond hummed approvingly. "Yes, you are, my love. Look at his face, darling— look how disgusted he is with you."

Blinking tears away, you did: you saw the way his eyes ran over your face, down to your weak and shaking body that Aemond was fucking into roughly. You could tell he'd never look at you again as he has before.

"He only wanted your purity," Aemond explain in a whisper, "he doesn't want you now that your brother has defiled and claimed you. He never loved you, sister… only I love you."

"You're lying," you sobbed, "you're lying to me, Aemond!"

"I'd never lie to you," he promised, speaking just beside your ear, turning your head so you had to look at the knight again, who watched the sick display with a grimace on his lips and tears on his cheeks. "I won't hurt you again, if you do not disrespect me any further. Do you know your place now, my sister?"

He got angry when you didn't respond, tugging your hair again until you whined. Against all logic, the dull pain made a chill of pleasure run down your back.

"It's a simple fucking question," he sneered. "Yes—" he forced your head to nod by pulling your hair up and down— "or no—" he forced you to shake your head by pulling your hair side to side. "Do you know your place now?"

"Yes," you whispered weakly. "Yes, my brother."

"Is it playing childish games, flirting with boys in the courtyard, taunting horny knights with your maidenhead?" he asked you, and you sniffled before you answered.

"N-no…"

"Good," he smiled. "Is it in our bed, pleasing me, serving me, and keeping the bloodline pure?"

You exhaled shakily, but finally nodded your head— you were crying too hard to speak properly. Worst of all, you were afraid if you spoke aloud, they'd both hear you moan; you hated this like nothing else, in your mind and in your heart, and yet your body was washed over and over with pleasure. You weren't sure you could take it, how good it felt, and you were fighting everything in you to keep the ecstasy at bay.

"Yes," he agreed as he whispered in your ear. "Yes, that's it. That's your place, princess."

"May I be dismissed, my lord?" you heard Corwin's voice ask your twin weakly. Aemond didn't even look away from you, didn't even slow down.

"Not until she comes," Aemond decided. "I'd like you to see how much she loves this."

He grabbed your wrists and pulled them behind your back, forcing you onto your knees and keeping your upper body suspended; it made the sounds of skin on skin even louder in the room, along with the moans you couldn't help but release.

Aemond himself moaned louder, too, his hands squeezing your wrists and his heavy balls hitting your cunt each time he thrusted forward. "I suppose I can't blame you for wanting to fuck her," he offered the knight, who didn't seem to find it all that comforting. "She's so pretty, isn't she? And a tight little cunt— fuck, it keeps squeezing me, it's how I know she's about to come for me. Aren't you, darling? About to come for your brother?"

You dropped your head in shame and defeat. You didn't even know what it felt like to come, you'd never done it before— no one ever told you it was possible, actually. So, you didn't realise what you were approaching as your moans grew louder and louder, as your legs started to shake and your cunt pulsed rhythmically. All you knew was that you needed it to keep going, you needed this feeling to get bigger and bigger until it consumed all of you.

He hissed praises in Valyrian at you— kessa ("yes") and sȳz ("good") and, of course, māzigon ("come", though it wasn't usually used to mean what he meant it as). The encouragement did little for you compared to the constant assault on your walls, faster and harder with each thrust until your defences broke and it hit you all at once: with a cry, the last of your energy causing your back to arch and your head to tilt back.

Sobs of his name broke out of your sore throat, tears running down your face and making a puddle in the sheets— well, a new puddle… you'd already made one with your arousal as he so keenly noticed.

"What ever will I do with you, sister?" Aemond scolded through his teeth. "Calling yourself a princess, acting like an innocent girl, when you're nothing but a whore. All you wanted was a good fuck, yes? You should've come to me first, only your brother can make you feel like this."

Grabbing your jaw, Aemond forced your limp head to turn up slightly, so you could look at the knight in front of you once more. He held your face and kissed it, before whispering his demand in your ear.

"Tell him that you don't love him," he instructed.

"I… I don't love you," you spoke weakly to Corwin, your voice breaking and your words slurred as you tried to think clearly in the afterglow of such a sensation.

"Tell him you only love me," he added.

"I… I only love my brother, Aemond," you repeated dutifully.

He planted a kiss on your cheek as a reward.

"Please," Corwin begged, barely keeping a straight face as tears welled in his eyes, "let me leave…"

"You may go," he decided, and Corwin bowed quickly before departing in a blur, the door slamming behind him. You and your brother were alone again, as you often were, but you'd never in all your life felt so lonely before. "I thought about having his cock cut off," Aemond admitted, "but I couldn't be that cruel. It's better this way— he'll go fuck some other dumb girl, probably by the end of the night. You never meant anything to him but a chance at something warm to put his prick in."

"S'not true," you sniffled.

"It is, my darling little sister— it is true," he insisted. "He never loved you, no one could ever love you the way that I do."

He let you collapse onto the bed, finally, and fell on top of you. His lips and teeth took turns with gentle kisses and harsh bites along your neck and shoulder, grunts from his throat turning into deep and hungry moans.

"My pretty sister," he mumbled roughly. "It's nearly time: I'm going to give you a sweet little babe, a pure Targaryen, doesn't that sound nice?"

"I… I don't…" you started and trailed off. You'd wanted children someday, but not so soon, not when you were unmarried— and not by your brother.

"Shh, shh," he silenced you again, "just tell me you love me. That's all you need to say, just tell me that you love me."

"Avy jorrāelan, lēkia," you whimpered, repeating it over and over until his movements stilled with a long, satisfied sigh— and then you were both laying there in a daze, his weight atop you, his lips just by your ear and heavy breaths falling from them.

"You'll be even more beautiful with our child inside," he decided with a happy, hazy sigh. "We can be wed before the month is through… that should make sure no more knights come sniffing around you, hm?"

You didn't respond, you only laid there, numb. He rolled off of you but pulled you with him, keeping his cock inside you and holding your back close to his chest. Gentle kisses trailed your shoulder as his fingers traced random shapes on your arm. Your eyes grew heavier and heavier, the exhaustion from your body seeming to infect your mind as well.

"You can sleep, my love," he whispered to you soothingly. "I'll hold you all night, just the way you like, all right?"

Sleepily, you nodded, letting a final tear roll down your face sideways as your eyes shut. "Yes, Aemond," you answered, already halfway drifted into darkness.

He gave one more kiss to your cheek and hugged you tightly. "Sȳz bantis, issa ābrazȳrys," he offered to you under his breath. Good night, my wife.

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becausesebastianstan · 1 year

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Ewan Mitchell as Tom Bennett in WORLD ON FIRE (2019-) created by Peter Bowker

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becausesebastianstan · 1 year

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𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Summary: Aemond is as much in need of you as a wife, just as your babies are of a mother. He makes you choose.

Warnings: Language, Smut, Aemond wants to be King so bad it's kind of a kink, Thigh riding, Masturbation, Dirty Talk, Bratty Aemond, Sub/Dom themes, Breastfeeding, Breeding

A/N: He's so touch starved I can't-

There was not a single doubt in your mind that Aemond would not be a good father. Your ladies in waiting had voiced their concerns with sharp and snide comments, giggling menacingly behind fascinators and fans as you chatted aimlessly about wanting to have his child, his seed, a dragon growing inside you.

But their viscious teasing had not gone unwarranted.

House Targaryen had proven to borne many great warriors, as well as great and righteous Kings, whose stories were as endless as the skies.

What the House seemingly lacked in offering, however, were enough examples of good fathers. As soon as your first was born, and then your second, all thoughts, all doubts were alleviated. Aemond was not Aegon, Aemond was not even Viserys. He was a man of duty and honor and you're the luckiest woman in all the realms to be able to call him the father of your children.

How insolent of you to think that brutish Targaryen streak, that ran in his brother and father, had espaced him.

How foolish of you not to think that men could only be nice for so long.

"Into the ground," Aemond mutters frustratingly as he storms into your bed chambers, slamming the wrought iron and wooden door rather heavily. You wince and you pray and you pray but still, "He's ruling all of Westeros straight into the ground-"

"Not so loud my prince, you might wake-"

At that very second, as if an alarm was sounding throughout all of King's Landing, your baby begins to wail it's insufferable wail, so insufferable it cuts completely through the stone walls, travelling mercilessly frim the nursery, waking every man in its path.

The echo rouses you from your comfortable post nestled in a mountain of fur blankets, awaiting for your husband to return from his dreaded council meetings. A deep and endless sigh escapes you as Aemond continues his mindless rant, ripping off his cloak and fiddling with the obsidian buttons in the process.

"You'd swear behind his whoring and drinking there would be," he fumbles angrily, his eyebrows bunching and his fingers restless, "Some hope for a better judicial conscience," You bring a finger up to your temple as you sway your legs over the side of the bed. This was inevitable.

"Or even some basic fucking sense on how to actually be king!" You had two babies sounding their respective sorrows all at once. Both demanded your attention and both demanded your nurturing. "That sounds completely awful, My Prince," you say, although your words give way to a polite little yawn. For obvious reasons you could not indefinefinely voice the fact that you did not think Aegon was doing too bad a job at all. The very best a boy of 20 could ever be expected to achieve. Aemond let his averous, his need to be better, cloud any and all of his better judgement.

"And don't even get me started on that absolute fool of a man he made his right hand," just as you rise from the bed, Aemond plops down at the foot. His undershirt billowing as he's fiddling with his laces. "Tis I that they call One-Eye and yet, I could do a far better job if that twat carved out the other eye as well."

"Musn’t talk like that, Aemond." The wails double and you squeeze your tired eyes shut momentarily. Your night gown would have to suffice, none of the guards had ever made any crude advances, gods help them if they did, and impatience, it seems, runs strong in these Targaryen genes.

"I'm sure you would make a much more befitting King, My Prince." He stopped his lace work, finally falling silent for the very first time this evening. His eye is unblinking as he stares up at you, as if he is only really seeing you right this very moment.

"I would, wouldn't I?" He asks, drawing a strong and long arm from off the bed and holding a hand out to you."

You hesitate for the briefest of moments, watching anxiously at the door, beyond it the baby's cries are interchangeable. Cutting from quiet to full volume at odd intervals. You can never quite deny Aemond though.

Never.

The second you conjoin your hands is innocent, but the way he grabs a hold of you is far from it. His large hands are quick to hook the underside of your thighs, making you stagger closer until you're locked in between his spread legs. "Aemond, I-" the baby's cries start up again and you unconsciously peer over your shoulder at the door.

"Shh," Aemond says as he places a finger on your cheek, forcefully bringing your eyes back to his. "Tell me again," he says, Aemond's uncovered eye piercing violet and his lips parted lazily. His scent is all encompassing. He whispers gruffly, as if you two were exchanging a very naughty secret. Which, in hindsight, you were.

"Tell you what, My Prince?" You said, humoring him as your leg began to bounce restlessly beneath you. Your handmaids had probably descended on the child but you still felt the irrevocable need to comfort the baby boy yourself.

"Tell me what a great king I would be," His resolve is breaking fast, if you looked down between the two of you, you would spot his cock slowly getting hard at just the mere thought of it. You make a joke to satiate him,

"You mean I should commit treason of the highest order?"

Aemond only hums in that delectable, ambiguous way that was unique to Aemond, and his one eye slithers down the rest of your body. His hands trail up your sides, nails hooking into the softness with a new vigor, a new urge for release. And again, your baby begins his cries once again.

The realization of it all would be humorous if you weren't quite so conflicted. Aemond's hands massaged into the spots you could not reach, along your shoulders they dragged, slipping a piece of the material along with them.

"Your babe is insufferable." He says, quite calmly as the nightgown begins to slip off your shoulder. You frown instinctively, "Tis your babe as well, My Prince. I could'nt have fucked myself. I couldnt have gotten myself pregnant."

A broad and snake-lile smirk slithers onto his face. That, paired with that one piercing eye rakes a cold and defeaning sliver down your spine. "Such dirty words from such a dirty girl," he whispers before splaying the very first kiss on your collar bone. Your eyes flutter shut in the knowledge that he was fully taking advantage of your fatigue, not to mention his blood rushes strong due to the frustrations his brother and that fucking council meeting had invoked. Aemond and Aegon had disagreed quite publicly, and both brothers had steam to let off. Aegon with his whores, and Aemond with you, as it may seem.

"You smell so good," he murmers as he dives into the crook of your neck,

"I smell like baby milk and sweat," you counter sharply, hoping it will alleviate his animalistic taking of you. "Precisely," he groans as his hands dive down to your thighs, billowing up your skirts and latching onto your bare skin.

Aemond's trail of wet kisses along your neck are sloppy and relentless, but one more painful cry goes up into the air.

"Aemond…" his lips go low and the dress dips even lower as the material skims your ample, bursting chest. He brings a hand up to uncover them from the oppressive confines of the nightgown and you sigh as the coldness begins to harden those sore peeks. "Aemond, I must go see," he squeezes your breasts expermiantally, causing a hiss to leave your lips and a single bead of milk to form on your nipple. Aemond eyes it hungrily.

Gods if he could have the gift of full vision, he'd never ever tire of seeing your breasts so full of milk. You were so fertile. So full. He fucking couldn't t contain himself any longer.

"What if you just... left it?"

That single sentence rouses you momentarily from your pleasure-filled stupor.

"I'm just going to pretend you didn't mean that. That you were just having a laugh." He brought his face up to you, gazing up at you so unapologetically that you knew in your heart of hearts, and that Aemond himself was starkly aware of the fact that he was not.

"I just want you, My wife. I've been in need of you throughout the entire duration of that godawful meeting. I demand to be taken care of. Nothing can and should change that." Aemond was blatantly honest when he wished to be so, sometimes it stripped the air right out your lungs, "That is why we have wet nurses, that is why we have a fucking nursery. So that I can fuck you whenever I want-"

As he dips his head into your cleavage once more your patience snaps. Your hand shoots into his hair and he hisses lightly as you crane his neck back. "Careful Aemond." You say, "Your manners escape you."

It was the raw power that seeps into your voice, the sheer confidence with which you said it, like a vixen or a temptress at her prime, that makes the ambitious Prince, Aemond Targaryen, the first of his name, literal putty in your hands. His tongue darts out as he stares deeply, longingly into your siren eyes. He wishes to voice, not demand, but plead just how much he needs you. How he's longed for your care, your soft touch, the softness of your curves and the velvet in your voice, all throughout the day.

"Please," is all he manages to croak up. Your eyes sparkle with the pleasure in watching his pale skin become enflamed in embarrassing red.

"What do you want, My Prince?" You ask cheekily as your instincts level at the quieting wails.

"I'd like for you to…" He looks down at your breasts once more. The man marvels at the soft and full flesh. "Just… please,"

A soft and understanding hum resonates from within you, and you smoothe out the wayward and unruly waves of pale white hair. "Would you like me to tell you how much better of a King you would make?" Aemond's eye peers desperately up at you.

Yes, it screams, that is exactly what I want.

You begin to lower yourself, quite slowly to the floor before him and his chest begins to rise and fall and rise and fall, "Rather than your whore of a brother?"

Your knees kiss the wooden floor as you kneel before him as your hand rubs lovingly along his thigh.

"Whatever happened… to the threat of treason, dear wife?" He was fighting to keep his wits about him but your hands were too teasing, too enchanting. They drifted along his trousers, soaring to higher more dangerous areas.

"I don't give a shit about treason. You've always been my King Aemond." That is enough to have the one eye rolling to the back of his head. His hand gives out underneath him until he's reclined on his elbow alone. It never failed to surprise you just how beautiful your husband really was. The ladies around you mocked his disability as a flaw, but you saw it for what it truly was, a fucking ultimatum. Aemond would have been far too beautiful, far too… much, had this trauma not befallen him. You would never utter it to him in your life, but you were glad it did.

"Fucking, stop teasing," he growled through clenching teeth and you watched in amusement as he rose momentarily to undo the buttons of his trousers, reach in to free his cock all by himself.

"Impatient King," you tease, voice dipped in honey as you watched him stroke his cock for you, "What an impatient king you are,"

Aemond grimaced in what appears to be pain but what you know is pleasure. He squeezes the base of his cock, his gaze half-lidded as he watches on. "And you are-Oh gods," You replace his hand with yours, maintaing a far more controlled pace than he ever did. "Your Queen."

"My Queen," he echoes, tasting the words on his tongue, loving the way they feel.

"My wife, the Queen," and before either of you know it, he speaks in delirium, "My wife, The Queen," he affirms, "who sits at my side with my seed dripping down her leg. My wife the Queen, who's only good for bearing and squeezing out my heirs," His words were dilerious and never ending, as deep as Blackwater bay and just as relentless. "Aemond." You chastise, your cunt responding to his words in stark betrayel, "You forget yoursel-"

"My wife, the Queen, who assimilates her wifely duties whenever I desire."

Despite his growth and maturity, despite his knowledge and wisdom, he was still just a spoilt little rich boy. "My wife the Queen, who allows me to fuck her whenever I wish-gods-Move your hands faster, fucking, faster. Please."

His breathing was beginning to quicken, his muscled hips lunged themselves off the bed, fucking your hand with reckless abandon.

"Yes, my King," you murmur, trying by all means to get him there but your wrists movements stutter as your neglected cunt squeezes around nothing at all. Aemond's eyes you warily.

"Touch yourself." Your eyes snap open without you ever even knowing they had fluttered shut. "Touch yourself as you touch me. Please your King."

You pause, weighing your options on an invisible scale. Aemond's cock stood proud and raging, precum pebbled at the head with the searing need to cum. Your own skirts were completely soaked through. Abandoning your pride completely, the idea strikes you first, like a wave, large and imposing. "I didn't say your hand could leave my cock-"

"Shhh, My king," you say with an evil glint in your eye as you rise from your place on the floor. You pull his pants further down, discarding his materials and yours somehwere across the chamber. He eyes you with hunger, as you straddle his bare hips, hands running over his bare, muscled chest. Your breasts has begun leaking fresh milk and his hands shoot instinctively to enclose around one, while his lips latch onto the other. You lower your cunt, dripping and needy onto his steepled thigh.

Aemond's eye snaps open, it's wild and wide as he watches you as if you were an unwarranted, wanton beast. Not at all his polite Lady wife who wowed his mother and captured the heart of every peasant, guard and Lord who ever crossed her path.

"Is this alright with you, My King?" You ask as you begin to ride his thigh. He watches, enamored as your breast further continue to leak beads of white. He doesn't respond, only latching his mouth onto your tits once more before saying, "I want to fuck your hand."

"Whatever my King wants," you say, your own breathing laboring and your words causing him to groan into your breasts. His hips rise to meet your hand. You cannot help the absolutely sardonic moans that escape your throat as the bed begins to rock, violently affirming your act.

"So fucking wet," he murmers quietly before latching his lips onto the other nipple. Milk and saliva intermix, they run down his perfectly pink lips with fervour, the sight makes you rock your hips faster against him.

"Thats it," he begins to croon, a loving hand locking into your sides, urging your movements.

"My beautiful Wife, The Queen." The title and praise do far more for you than you had initially expected, your hips stutter and his hands tighten around you.

"Cum for me," he whispers, breathing haggard. "Cum for me so that I may cum for you," It's all the invitation you require before you completely let go of yourself, cumming like a whore on his thigh with a cry wrenching itself from out of your throat like a prayer. Your hands have stilled their movements on his cock but it's all his needs before bringing his own hand around his cock.

"Do you wish to make more of those insufferable little things?"

"Babies, Ah-Aemond, they're called babies," you moan, as you're shuffled around until his cock prods at your entrance.

"Tell me to give you another heir," he says, lowering your hips onto his cock. Your cunt opens for him with ease as he pushes his length all the way in. You squeeze your eyes shut, the overstimulation far too much.

"Gi-Give me another heir Aemond-"

He's already groaning and cumming the second he bottoms out inside of you, muttering praises and unmarked desires as your body writhes over him. His cum shoots endlessly inside you, your head falls back and Aemond's eye squeezes shut.

"Fuck! Oh-G-Gods, you are perfect. The perfect wife. The p-perfect mother." He deposits kisses along your chest, his voice as jagged as rocks and his hips still moving slightly against yours.

"My Aemond," you say, having finally caught your breathe. Your perched over him, his cock still inside you. "My sweet, troubled Aemond." You leave it at that, his eye flutters shut and his forehead rests against your breasts. You both sit there, admist the conceiving of yet another baby as the wails begin again.

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becausesebastianstan · 1 year

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Traditional // Aemond x Targaryen! Reader x Daemon.

A/N: once again, I am in a choke-hold by @tinfairies...there was this lovely post about Aemond and Daemon teaching Little Sister! Reader the value of, ahem, certain traditions and I went rabid. Thinking about, this means that Daemon has seduced not one but TWO of his brother’s daughters (and his son too cause there was a lot I didn’t think of putting into...it just happened and I ain’t even a little sorry) and I just cannot stop thinking about that oh my god. Also, this gif is so freaking hot.

I used a translator for the High Valyrian, feel free to correct me if anything is wrong!

Pairings: Aemond x Targaryen! Reader x Daemon.

Warnings: Targaryen incest, smut lies ahead. Threesome, female penetration, oral sex (male receiving), unprotected sex and a slight breeding kink (man cums once inside of you and is already plotting).

Avy jorrāelan: I love you.

Gūrogon issa: Take me.

Issa jorrāelagon: My love.

Se avy jorrāelan, issa ābrazȳrys: And I love you, my wife.

He had always been a little more traditional, your brother.

As the youngest sister, you’d looked up to him with a sense of pride and wonder. Aemond was everything a prince should be in your mind, intelligent and charming with a softness that few truly knew. He took to his studies better then any scholar and to sword fighting with vigor, growing from an awkward child to something almost out of a fairytale.

He was everything, some said, a Targaryen ought to be, riding the mightiest of dragons and speaking High Valyrian with an accent so smooth it was almost silky.

So of course he was traditional.

The Targaryens kept strange customs, riding fiery beasts into battle and drinking blood...and marrying within the family. It was strange but as a child, you had thought little of the idea of marrying your cousins or nephews or perhaps even a brother, as your elder sister did. It was the way it had always been done, so you were told, and the way it always would be. You had been so young then and had thought little of marriage at all, preferring books and playing with your brothers. But it was not long before you grew up, growing from a girl to a woman. And when your first flowering came, the whispering came with it.

All wondered who it would be that married the princess, the lovely and sweet youngest daughter...but all agreed that it would be kept within the family. They whispered it with such disgust, the lords and ladies, snickering over the strange marriages your family created.

And suddenly you felt so ashamed, hiding within yourself.

Was it so wrong? It had seemed easy before, simply as it should be...but so quickly you were wondering if that were true at all.

Though you tried to ignore the gossip, you simply could not...and you could not ignore the way your elder brother looked at you now. Aemond had always been sweet on you, innocently enough back then. But now he was a man and you were a woman, supple and soft...and he looked at you the way a dragon looks at a meal.

Hungry. Hot.

Secretly, you could not deny the heat within yourself. Among others, you played the part perfectly and never let on how you truly felt. But in the dead of night, your fingers would slip between your thighs and fantasies filled your mind...long white hair around you like a curtain of ice, a silky voice whispering in your ear.

“Avy jorrāelan...”

But it was only a dream and never something you would allow.

Your brother would hear nothing of that, however.

After the private discussion with your mother regarding your marriage, you’d expected Aemond to find you later. The queen mother told her son everything and this would be no exception. But you had not expected your brother to be so bold, storming into your chambers as you slept and rousing you from sleep. It took a moment for you to make sense of any of it, still half dreaming, but soon you collected your surroundings. Aemond’s hands gripping your arms as he shook you, hips straddling your own...his voice, low and furious as he raved...and your heart fluttering beneath your rib cage, suddenly so aware of how exposed you were. The loose nightgown did little to hide your curves, the thinnest of cottons exposing the bare body beneath, nipples hardened and heart beating rapidly. So flushed with the realization, you barely made sense of Aemond’s words, too focused on the touch of him.

His hands, calloused and rough against soft skin, manhood pressed into your belly...lips co close and so red, like dragon fire!

“Answer me, girl!”

“Wh...what?” you murmured sleepily, pulling your gaze away from his lips.

“Am I so repulsive that you’d rather marry a stranger?” Aemond demanded. “That you’d rather be sent away then to be my bride?”

“No, no, Aemond,” you said softly, reaching up to caress his cheek. He did not shy away from your touch as he did others, allowing you to embrace him gently. “That’s...that is not how I feel, you must know that.”

“Then why?”

“It is wrong,” you insisted. “You are my brother...it would be wrong for you to take me as a bride, everyone says so. Everyone looks at us with such disgust.”

“A dragon does not care for the bleating of sheep,” Aemond coolly replied.

But he knew that the words had little affect on you, your gaze slipping away from his. Aemond knew better then to press the issue so late, fearing that he’d only upset you further and upset himself as well. So he pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist and slipped away, attempting to calm his wild heart. You slept afterwards, falling quickly into dreams...but Aemond did not. And though he did not broach the subject again, he did not leave you be either. He was spending more and more time with you now, walking with you through the gardens and taking the time to simply show you how much he cared. You were softening, that much he could see, but still you pulled away...and he was unsure of what to do about it.

Perhaps that was why he’d taken to doing this...Aemond knew the secret passage that lead to your bedroom, he’d used it often as a child, the two of you staying up late to read stories and play games without Aegon flipping over the board whenever he started to lose. But now he used it as a man, slipping through the darkness to lay beside you once more.

He was grateful that you were such a deep sleeper, needing quite a bit of effort to rouse you from your dreams.

It allowed Aemond to undress and join you in bed secretly, pulling the blankets away to gaze at your body beneath the thin nightgown and bask in your beauty. Oh, how he loved you! How he’d always loved you...but Aemond did not know how you felt or what you wanted, wishing desperately to look into your mind and see what lay within.

“Aemond...”

The prince smiled at the sweet sound of your voice...speaking and even walking in your sleep had been a habit of yours for years though you had mostly grown out of it, speaking only in little murmurs here and there and no longer wandering off into the night to frighten you mother and nurses beyond all reason. Turning on his side, Aemond watched as you whimpered in your sleep, clutching at the sheets...a nightmare, he wondered?

Is that why you had called for him?

No, no, this was no mere nightmare.

He could tell from the way your breath caught in your throat, becoming a whine, body hot and writing. Aemond began to burn with heart, watching in wonder and dreams pulled you apart and showed him your truest self. He had never seen such loveliness, taking a breath as he watched on and wondered what exactly you might be dreaming. Passionate, soft, so sweet...you whispered his name once more, Aemond moaning as he lips found your neck. Hot, hurried kisses only furthered your fantasies, his cool hands wandering over your body as you whimpered.

“Gūrogon issa...”

Take me.

Aemond felt his heart run wild, kissing your neck once more before slipping away from the bed. Now that he knew the truth of it, he needed to plan. You loved him, yes, but the cruel world had made you ashamed...how had be not seen it before?

You were always so sensitive, so sweet. Softer then the world deserved. He should have done a better job, Aemond told himself, of protecting you.

And he would, as your husband.

He just needed a way to make you see the beauty of your traditions...which would certainly be a difficult task. Aemond felt certain that he would need help but who was he to ask? Aegon was out of the question, the eldest brother had no respect for traditions and was an absolute brat. Helena could not help...there was only one he could think of, one man that held their family’s traditions in the highest regard, and Aemond was not even sure if he could ask. But it was worth trying. The prince had his ways of secretly and quickly sending messages and did just that, scribbling a letter in High Valyrian and hoping beyond all hope that the gods would make this right.

“Give her to me,” Aemond prayed. “Make her my wife and I can make her happy.”

Aemond had been quiet for the past few days.

He had not let up, still visiting you often, but he had been quieter...and always smiling. Always touching you. Now when you walked through the gardens, he kept a hand on the small of your back. And when you read together in the library, he would lean low over you shoulder, a hand sliding down your side as he translated softly, the touch of him and the curl of his voice making you shiver.

And the dreams had not stopped.

If anything they had only become more frequent, dreaming only of Aemond. In your mind you dreamed of bedding ceremonies and hot kisses stolen in the moonlight, his voice low and sweet, his lips on your neck...and you always awoke unsatisfied, thighs slick and body aching with heat, with hunger.

Tonight was no exception.

The dream had been so innocent in the beginning, Aemond flying off with you into the summer sky atop his dragon, something you had done so often together. Coming to an island somewhere far, far away, bathed in sunlight and sweetness, you had laughed as you ran through wildflowers, Aemond chasing you and laughing too...but it had all changed when he’d finally caught you, falling into the flowers, Aemond hovering over you.

Issa jorrāelagon, he had whispered.

And his lips found your own, hands pulling away clothes and leaving you both naked in the red and gold flowers.

But as always you awoke before true pleasure could be found, eyes opening slowly...and heart fluttering as a noise caught your attention. Voices. You heard them in the walls, watching through the sheer curtains around your bed as they grew louder, closer...and suddenly the panel in your wall moved, a figure stepping into the moonlight.

“Aemond?”

The sound of your voice surprised him, pale hands opening the curtains carefully. In turn you reached out to Aemond, resting your head on his chest as he sat beside you...only to see another figure over his shoulder, surprise rippling through you.

“Uncle?” you whispered. “What are you doing here?”

And why had your brother brought him, you asked to only yourself. Daemon only smiled in reply, pressing a light kiss to your forehead as he stole a glance at Aemond.

“Your dear brother wrote to me wanting advice,” Daemon said softly. “I was the only one he could ask.”

Quickly you found yourself trapped in between them, Aemond slipping behind you. He rested against the pillows and pulled you into his chest, hands around your waist, as Daemon stood over you both, watching on with such pride.

“You are so lovely,” he whispered. “So perfect! Perfection would only grow tenfold if you gave yourself to Aemond.”

Looking away, Daemon’s hand curled beneath your chin, bringing your teary gaze to meet his own.

“We are dragons, my dear,” he stated with fiery confidence. “It is as we have always done. Our traditions may seem strange to outsiders but that matters not. You’ve listened for too long to the gossiping sheep...allow me to remind you of the purity of our traditions.”

Hands moved quickly, Daemon ripping away your night gown and tossing the shreds aside. You had worn nothing else, naked and exposed. Too startled to even scream, you only moaned as both men took to touching you, every dirty dream coming true beneath their hands. Aemond’s touch was cool and gentle, his hands running up your belly to grope your breasts, teasing your nipples between his fingers. You moaned, so lost in the bliss of him, that you barely noticed Daemon taking hold your ankles...his touch was something of fire, the more confident lover he was. Slowly creeping up, up, and up, Daemon nestled between your thighs, catching your gaze as you watched in wonder.

The touch of his lips was hot, kissing and even biting your trembling thighs until you were nearly weeping from pleasure. Black and blue marks soon covered your skin, already bruising and sure to darken by the morning. But you did not care, hands tangled in his hair as you pulled and whimpered for him.

“Darling!” he murmured in delight, pressing a kiss to the bruises he’d left you. “Already you’re so wet...so willing. Don’t you see that you were made just for this?”

Aemond kissed you over and over, lips conquering your neck and shoulders.

“Made to be bred,” Daemon hissed.

His lips kissed your cunt, tasting your slickness as you cried out in delight. Aemond was quick to shush you, eye flickering towards the thankfully locked door as his hands slipped over your lips. Turning to look at him, Aemond gazed at you for a moment before softly stealing a kiss, muffling the moans that fell from your lips.

“Made to be loved!” your uncle moaned. “Allow us to love you, darling.”

He devoured you in a way you had never known, Daemon eating your cunt so desperately that you nearly wept with pleasure. Hot tongue lapping between your folds, Daemon sucked on your clit until your were dripping, slickness sweet on his lips and eyes hazy as he glanced up. Aemond was kissing you once more, his softness slipping away into passion, tongue slipping between your lips and tangled with your own as you moaned into him. His nephew was a quick learner, your uncle thought with approval, and his niece was a perfect little whore. And with that he moved forward, slipping a finger into your cunt.

You pulled away from Aemond’s lips in shock and pleasure, looking down at Daemon with lusty, half-lidded eyes.

“Ah...Daemon!”

Finding your hole slick and wanting more, he rose up slowly and added another finger, grinning as you shuddered in delight. Daemon kissed you, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips, and his fingers pumped steadily into your cunt.

“Don’t you see how lovely it is?” Aemond moaned. “How it’s always been meant to be? I could give you everything! All of this and more, my love, if only you’ll have me.”

But you were too lost to reply, throwing your head back and moaning as Daemon brought you closer and closer to the edge of bliss. They kissed you together, both stealing love bites from your neck. You wondered, briefly, what the maids would think as they dressed you...love bites all along your thighs and neck, breasts swollen from teasing, lust lingering in your eyes...but you did not care, not when the orgasm hit you like fire, crying out softly as you came for them.

Daemon grinned at the sight, finding you even prettier in the throws of passion, and Aemond encouraged you as you rode out the wave of burning bliss.

But the night was not yet over.

Slipping his fingers from your cunt, Daemon brought them to your brother’s lips and slipped between them, allowing Aemond to taste you. He moaned at your sweetness, hungering for more as Daemon pulled away and took you gently from Aemond’s grasp, laying you down onto the sheets. Moonlight slipped over your bare body, displayed so beautifully for them. Hair splayed out in tangled waves, breast rising and falling as you looked up at them. But you saw only gods before you, beautiful and strange creatures, watching as they undressed quickly. Daemon nestled above you, his body taunt and covered in scars.

He took your wrists in his hands and lifted them when you attempted to cover yourself, whispering that you had no need to hide nor feel shame.

Aemond was the perfection you had dreamed of, muscular and utterly glorious. You murmured his name as he looked down at you in wonder, cock hard in hand as he moaned, the sound of making your hips buck up.

“Take her!” Daemon encouraged. “Take what rightfully belongs to you.”

Needing little else, Aemond readied himself, cock sliding between your slick folds. The touch of the throbbing thing, thick and veiny, made you shiver.

“Avy jorrāelan,” you begged.

And he loved you far too much to deny you anything you asked of him. Aemond slowly, sweetly, slipped into your cunt, smiling as you whimpered in delight. Never in your life had you felt so full, each inch of his cock invading your body as though it had been meant to be right there, buried in your cunt. He took his time, moving gently until he was balls deep inside of you, and when he was, everything was right. Perfect.

He took a moment to catch himself, drunk on the taste of you and the tightness of your cunt around his cock. Gods, you were perfection incarnate, leaving Aemond moaning pathetically. But when you begged for more, Aemond steadied himself as began to sweetly fuck you.

It was everything he had dreamed of.

Your virtue may have been stolen but Aemond thought you had never looked so pretty and pure, bathed in silvery light as he fucked you the way he’d always wanted, the way you were meant to be fucked. Taking up a steady pace, Aemond found his rhythm quickly, hips jolting into your own as you moaned louder for him. Daemon thought quickly and with his cock, slipping into your mouth to quiet you again. He was far less gentle then his nephew but you took to it quickly, choking at first but soon sucking sweetly as he fucked your mouth.

“Do you see it now?” Daemon murmured. “The beauty of it...the purity! Do you see who you truly are, darling?”

Eyes flickered towards the mirror across the room, watching the scene in wonder. All of you drenched in dancing light, your uncle and brother defiling you so sweetly...and you had never been more lovely. Daemon went deeper, his cock dancing within your throat, you could see it...and you could see Aemond too, the outline of his cock bulging in your belly. Now you saw what Aemond had always been so proud of, your moans muffled around Daemon’s cock as Aemond sped up, swearing beneath his breath.

He was close now, Daemon moaning deeply as his own pleasure came to an end. Abandoning your throat, Daemon moaned your name as he came all over your face, painting you in his seed. Mouth agape in pleasure, you tasted him and knew ambrosia, already desperate for more.

And Aemond was not far behind, falling forward as he lost himself in bliss.

White hair hung around you like ice, violent eyes half-lidded and burning with lust, with dragon fire Daemon had released you from his grasp and you moved to Aemond at once, wrapping your arms over his shoulder and pulling him closer.

“Avy jorrāelan,” you told him once more.

“Se avy jorrāelan, issa ābrazȳrys.”

He kissed you, cum mingled between your lips as Aemond kissed you deeply. And he came as well, hot seed spilling into your cunt in thick, heavy spurts. He filled you entirely, so much so that it spilled, the last of his thrusts sloppy and hard against your hips...and he did not release you until you were filled to the brim, cum dripping from the swollen hole as Aemond pulled away, already imagining your belly swollen with his heirs and cunt thoroughly, lovingly abused.

What a lovely sight that lay before them!

Fucked to the brink of falling apart, you could barely move, much less think or speak...but you did not need to.

Aemond cleaned you up gently, whispering compliments and sweet nothings as he did, before nestling beside you. Arms around your waist, Aemond pulled you close and kissed the marks the littered your neck sweetly.

“Tomorrow,” he announced. “I will meet with Mother and tell her that, after much consideration, you and I have decided to wed...if that is what you would like.”

“Yes,” you murmured, placing a kiss to his hand.

Daemon shot you both a smile, redressing himself happily as Aemond thanked your uncle once more for his assistance in the matter. But Daemon assured him that it was nothing at all, simply a man doing his duty as a Targaryen.

“For once I’m actually looking forward to a wedding, if you can believe it.”

“We will insist on your invitation.” Aemond replied. “And while I’ve never liked the idea of lords and such taking part in a bedding ceremony...perhaps a beloved uncle might wish to embrace such a tradition.”

He smiled, stealing one last kiss from your forehead before vanishing into the tunnels again. Left alone with Aemond, he whispered in Valyrian until you feel asleep, telling you all about the lives you would have together. A grand wedding, the many children to follow...and he’d be there though it all, spending every night by your side, loving you and taking care of you...just as he was meat to do. Truly, there was no more ignoring it:

You and Aemond were simply meant to be.

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becausesebastianstan · 1 year

Text

Traditional // Aemond x Targaryen! Reader x Daemon.

I used a translator for the High Valyrian, feel free to correct me if anything is wrong!

Pairings: Aemond x Targaryen! Reader x Daemon.

Avy jorrāelan: I love you.

Gūrogon issa: Take me.

Issa jorrāelagon: My love.

Se avy jorrāelan, issa ābrazȳrys: And I love you, my wife.

He had always been a little more traditional, your brother.

He was everything, some said, a Targaryen ought to be, riding the mightiest of dragons and speaking High Valyrian with an accent so smooth it was almost silky.

So of course he was traditional.

And suddenly you felt so ashamed, hiding within yourself.

Was it so wrong? It had seemed easy before, simply as it should be...but so quickly you were wondering if that were true at all.

Hungry. Hot.

“Avy jorrāelan...”

But it was only a dream and never something you would allow.

Your brother would hear nothing of that, however.

His hands, calloused and rough against soft skin, manhood pressed into your belly...lips co close and so red, like dragon fire!

“Answer me, girl!”

“Wh...what?” you murmured sleepily, pulling your gaze away from his lips.

“Am I so repulsive that you’d rather marry a stranger?” Aemond demanded. “That you’d rather be sent away then to be my bride?”

“Then why?”

“It is wrong,” you insisted. “You are my brother...it would be wrong for you to take me as a bride, everyone says so. Everyone looks at us with such disgust.”

“A dragon does not care for the bleating of sheep,” Aemond coolly replied.

He was grateful that you were such a deep sleeper, needing quite a bit of effort to rouse you from your dreams.

“Aemond...”

Is that why you had called for him?

No, no, this was no mere nightmare.

“Gūrogon issa...”

Take me.

You were always so sensitive, so sweet. Softer then the world deserved. He should have done a better job, Aemond told himself, of protecting you.

And he would, as your husband.

“Give her to me,” Aemond prayed. “Make her my wife and I can make her happy.”

Aemond had been quiet for the past few days.

And the dreams had not stopped.

Tonight was no exception.

Issa jorrāelagon, he had whispered.

And his lips found your own, hands pulling away clothes and leaving you both naked in the red and gold flowers.

“Aemond?”

“Uncle?” you whispered. “What are you doing here?”

And why had your brother brought him, you asked to only yourself. Daemon only smiled in reply, pressing a light kiss to your forehead as he stole a glance at Aemond.

“Your dear brother wrote to me wanting advice,” Daemon said softly. “I was the only one he could ask.”

“You are so lovely,” he whispered. “So perfect! Perfection would only grow tenfold if you gave yourself to Aemond.”

Looking away, Daemon’s hand curled beneath your chin, bringing your teary gaze to meet his own.

“Darling!” he murmured in delight, pressing a kiss to the bruises he’d left you. “Already you’re so wet...so willing. Don’t you see that you were made just for this?”

Aemond kissed you over and over, lips conquering your neck and shoulders.

“Made to be bred,” Daemon hissed.

“Made to be loved!” your uncle moaned. “Allow us to love you, darling.”

You pulled away from Aemond’s lips in shock and pleasure, looking down at Daemon with lusty, half-lidded eyes.

“Ah...Daemon!”

“Don’t you see how lovely it is?” Aemond moaned. “How it’s always been meant to be? I could give you everything! All of this and more, my love, if only you’ll have me.”

Daemon grinned at the sight, finding you even prettier in the throws of passion, and Aemond encouraged you as you rode out the wave of burning bliss.

But the night was not yet over.

He took your wrists in his hands and lifted them when you attempted to cover yourself, whispering that you had no need to hide nor feel shame.

“Take her!” Daemon encouraged. “Take what rightfully belongs to you.”

Needing little else, Aemond readied himself, cock sliding between your slick folds. The touch of the throbbing thing, thick and veiny, made you shiver.

“Avy jorrāelan,” you begged.

It was everything he had dreamed of.

“Do you see it now?” Daemon murmured. “The beauty of it...the purity! Do you see who you truly are, darling?”

And Aemond was not far behind, falling forward as he lost himself in bliss.

“Avy jorrāelan,” you told him once more.

“Se avy jorrāelan, issa ābrazȳrys.”

What a lovely sight that lay before them!

Fucked to the brink of falling apart, you could barely move, much less think or speak...but you did not need to.

“Tomorrow,” he announced. “I will meet with Mother and tell her that, after much consideration, you and I have decided to wed...if that is what you would like.”

“Yes,” you murmured, placing a kiss to his hand.

“For once I’m actually looking forward to a wedding, if you can believe it.”

You and Aemond were simply meant to be.

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becausesebastianstan · 1 year

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DAEMON TARGARYEN in HOUSE OF THE DRAGON “The Heirs of the Dragon” | 1.01

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becausesebastianstan · 1 year

Note

okay…. but imagine having aemond stuff his cum back inside you, loving to press his seed back inside your overstimulated cunt and breed you every day—

— 𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒.

gif credit.

author’s note: y’all betta know…… i just had to write something for this -- my imagination ran absolutely wild with this one. i didn’t wanna write a lot, just somethin mini for myself to get these sinful thoughts outta my head… im sorry in advance. ♡ if you enjoyed – please reblog, comment + leave ur feedback! thank u & happy reading. :)

warnings: minors dni. smut. p in v sex (slight). fingering. cunnilingus. female pronouns. possessive behavior. dark!aemond. wife!reader. overstimulation kink. pain kink. pet names. romance. fluff. any grammatical errors are my own – in advance, i sincerely apologize.

word count: 2,3k.

pairings: aemond targaryen x reader (f).

♡࿐ bliss. true, undying bliss overwhelmed you, completely.

“you’re so perfect for me, my sweet girl,” aemond murmured, leaning down to press a loving kiss against your forehead, lingering there and closing his eye for a moment, breathing you in.

pulling back after a few seconds, aemond observed your face closely, feeling a warm sensation tugging at his blackened heart, feeling it crack into a million little pieces, watching you gaze back up at him in awe.

there was a soft look in your doe eyes, wide and innocent and full of love.

love for him, your husband.

aemond would never admit it, but he was almost certain that the very same look graced his face too, softening his sharpened features with equal amounts of–if not more–love.

with a deep groan, aemond thrusted his cock inside your cunt a few more times, feeling your inner walls tightening around him, wanting to keep him inside and milk him dry.

a faint, little mewl escaped your swollen lips, making aemond lean forward again and capture your lips with his, kissing you slowly and passionately. the wet, warm muscle of his tongue slipped out, licking your bottom lip, before tugging it gently with his teeth, causing you to moan.

you wrapped your arms tighter around his neck, pulling him flush against you – his naked, hard chest was pressed against yours, constantly brushing over your sensitive nipples, a whine making its way up your throat.

aemond smirked, reaching one hand up and tangling his fingers into your messy locks of hair, his other hand holding on to your hip to stabilize himself so to not crush you with his body.

“…mmm – gods, you were made to take my cock,” aemond purred against your mouth, slipping his tongue inside, your tongues slowly caressing each other’s sensually, neither of you in any rush.

“i love you,” you whimpered, your mouths molding together as one – perfection.

with one last gentle thrust of the prince’s hips, he squirted his warm cum inside of you, his load entering your womb.

aemond stilled his hips, your fluttering cunt sheathing his cock, making aemond throw his head back with a feral growl.

with his cock still buried to the hilt in your pulsing cunt, aemond squeezed your hip that he was holding, digging his fingertips into the sweaty flesh as he felt his cock twitch inside of you, softening and feeling spent.

immediately, he collapsed on top of you, his face nuzzled into your neck. sleepily, he started leaving little kisses against the salty skin of your neck, sucking on your pulse point, feeling your fingers gently brush through his long hair.

aemond practically purred, the feeling of your nails scratching lightly at his scalp, always a sweet comfort. “sweet girl… ‘m gonna try something,” aemond mumbled, though he did not move for a few more minutes, completely relaxed in the safety of your arms.

however, you did not mind – especially the feeling of his large cock still buried deep inside you, making your insides begin to tingle again, your belly tightening at the thought of his royal seed settling in your womb.

gods be good, you prayed silently for a son of your own to give to your dear husband.

you loved aemond more than anything – more than life itself, all that you wanted was to give him everything he wanted… most importantly, you wanted to give him all the love in the world, including an heir of his own.

suddenly, aemond slowly pulled himself out of you with a sharp hiss, not hearing you wince slightly at the uncomfortable feeling of being empty overcame you. you tried to suppress it, making your face remain neutral.

the prince simply leaned back on his knees between your spread thighs, tilting his head back and releasing a deep sigh of satisfaction. then, his head looked back down towards you, his one eye sharp and observing you, as usual.

aemond always enjoyed watching you, he liked making you feel uncomfortable, especially when around him, watching the way you’d start to overthink everything about yourself, making yourself think – was there something wrong with you?

it amused him greatly, no matter how many times he’d done it to you.

however, no matter how much the prince could be cruel, he’d never intentionally hurt you. releasing a calming sigh, aemond’s large hands moved to grasp both of your thighs, squeezing them and then shaking them a bit, watching them jiggle slightly with a twitch of his lips.

he adored your thighs.

then, his head snapped back up to look at you, his eye piercing and observing your naked figure, admiring it without shame.

the prince looked at the soft delicateness of your pretty face, down to your neck and collarbones that were littered in love bites from him, to both of your breasts which were swollen from him sucking and biting on them earlier, until you cried out his name.

you watched him trail his eye down further until he stopped at your bare cunt, watching it with an amused glint in his violet eye, his seed dribbling out of you slowly.

smirking, the prince seemed to have thought of a idea.

aemond slowly looked back up at your face, the sapphire that rested in the socket of his missing eye sparkled from the massive fireplace – although, you did not look away from him. if you knew anything about your husband, you knew how he loved a challenge, and you were not going to be the first one to look away.

no, not this time.

chuckling softly underneath his breath, aemond clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, before raising an eyebrow at you.

“will you be a good girl for me?” he asked, his tone flat but there was that hint of amusement hiding somewhere underneath.

if you didn’t know any better, you’d think the prince was up to something.

you gulped, nodding your head and started fidgeting with your hands, making him tsk at you, slapping your hands away. instantly, you stopped – nervousness eating away at you as you dropped your arms directly by your sides, waiting.

aemond hummed, nodding once before shifting his body so that he was now laying on his stomach, resting comfortably between your spread, open thighs. your cunt glistened beautifully, making aemond’s eye dilate with need and a feverish lust.

as he laid down, he could feel his cock twitch underneath himself, no doubt hardening once again. he couldn’t control himself when he was around you, you drove him nearly insane with a need to have you – always.

“my pretty little wife..” aemond drawled, his hands creeping up to rub up the outside of your thighs, his hands warm and comforting.

“you’re even pretty here, too,” he murmured, no doubt smirking as he heard you take in a sharp breath, his lips connecting to your mound, peppering kisses along the skin and across your hipbones.

he rubbed his warm, large hands up and down the outside of your thighs, closing his eye as he was merely enjoying himself – kissing, sucking, biting your hot skin into his mouth, moving down until his lips wrapped around your swollen, overstimulated clit.

you cried out into your shared chambers, one of your hands reaching up and grasping hold of one of the many pillows–one that happened to have belonged to aemond, since you loved to lay on it since it smelled like him–fisting your small hand into the soft material.

you immediately wrapped a leg around his head, unconsciously pulling him closer against your cunt, wanting more.

always, always wanting more of him.

aemond had made you come so many times tonight–too many times–that you had lost count.

without warning, aemond removed a hand from massaging the meat of one of your thighs and brushed a finger up your dribbling slit, gathering his cum that was leaking out and stuffing it back inside you.

you whimpered, fisting the pillow and the silk sheets below you, your head thrown back and your eyes rolling into the back of your head, feeling him curl the finger inside of you.

aemond hummed, continuously sucking and sending vibrations through your sensitive, little clit – before adding two more long fingers, stuffing them inside and just leaving them there, not moving.

almost like a plug.

minutes had passed, with just him sucking and flicking your clit back and forth with his hot tongue, though he fingers did not move, only remaining plunged inside of you, causing your walls to tighten and flutter, endlessly.

“aemond..!? what.. w-what are you doing?” you heaved, your chest rising and falling quickly, feeling your belly tighten once again, painfully – your muscles sore and aching now as you could feel yourself about to come again.

“please, aemond – i am going to come again,” you sobbed, sweating profusely and your heart feeling like it was about to explode in your chest.

aemond nodded, not missing a beat, “go on, then.”

“no..! no, no, no – please, aemond.. i cannot. it hurts, it hurts so much…” you sobbed, tears now burning your eyes, falling freeing. your throat felt like it was on fire, as well as like it was closing from you gasping in too much air, trying your hardest not to come again.

however, aemond continued his ministrations on your clit, not stopping for a moment and evening wiggling his three fingers that were inside of you–keeping his cum from leaking out of you again–and with his other hand dug his fingers into the meat of your thigh that he was still holding, making you yelp in painful pleasure.

you were exhausted.

“p-please.. please,” you sniffled, shaking your head and begging.

aemond growled, pinching your thigh and then slapping it harshly in punishment, feeling you wiggling around too much.

“be sweet, wife – stop moving and come for me again,” he commanded, his words muffled but you could still understand him.

you choked on your own saliva, “oh, gods..” you whined, feeling your muscles tense and tense and tense, before the band inside of you snapped like a violin string and you let out the most earth shattering screech.

you cried your husband’s name over and over again, feeling aemond quickly squeeze in a fourth finger, beginning to curl all four of them inside of you, feeling your walls clamp down around them.

you were honestly afraid – afraid that he would want to see how much you could take and shove his entire fist inside–(you had heard ladies of the court gossip that their husbands had done that to them, and it was the most painful experience)–you never wanted to find out for yourself.

luckily, for you – even in your blissed out mind, you trusted your husband, knowing he liked pushing you to your limits, but knowing exactly how much you could take.

your thighs were quivering, your orgasm washing over you in tsunami waves of endless pleasure, with aemond continuing to gently lick your clit now, barely applying actual pressure – though his fingers remained.

“so, so perfect for me.. you’d done so well for me, my sweet girl.”

a genuine, dopey smile tugged at your lips, feeling relieved that you had pleased him, again.

once your high had calmed down, aemond pulled his mouth away from your clit, resting the left side of his face on your thigh, glancing up at you with a small smirk on his handsome face, watching you try to keep your eyes open.

“enjoy yourself, did you?”

you giggled, nodding your head yes. “i thought i was going to black out,” you confessed, embarrassment flooding your veins.

aemond lightly chuckled, “wouldn’t be the first time.”

you looked down, pouting and making him laugh harder, giving a sweet kiss to your thigh, before locking his violet eye with yours once more.

gods, how he loved you.

“i’m just teasing, my love.”

your eyebrows furrowed, “no, you are not,” you said, knowing he was speaking the truth – in fact, you had blacked out before while he was fucking you, his love for overstimulating you overwhelmed you.. time and time again.

although, you did not mind so much.

nonetheless, you liked to tease him back and pretend you hated it when he teased you – both of you knowing full well that you secretly adored it, just as much as he.

aemond snorted, before lifting his head and leaning forwards again, giving your clit a kiss, feeling you tense up immediately. “relax,” he said, eyeing your face. “i think you’ve had enough for tonight.”

you flushed, feeling his fingers twitch inside of you, before pulling them out slowly and began observing them.. they were drenched in his cum and yours, practically dripping on to your sheets.

aemond felt the corner of his mouth tug up, before opening his mouth and shoving all four fingers inside, sucking both of your mixed essence right off, swallowing with a low hum of approval.

your eyes widened, but then you licked your lips, watching him suck and work his tongue between each of his digits, his eye locked on yours as he put on a little show for you, smirking playfully.

with a pop of the last finger, he smiled, “delicious.”

you didn’t say anything, you couldn’t – you couldn’t even begin to describe how unbelievably attractive your husband was… and he was all yours.

“i love you,” you blurted out, but meaning it anyways. you were always more of the sentimental one between you two, but you could see the softness settle over aemond’s face every time you told him those three little words.

those three little words held so much meaning to him, especially coming from you.

aemond didn’t respond – instead, he climbed up your body, being careful not to crush you and settled until he was hovering above you, his face only mere centimeters away from yours. “..i love you, my beautiful wife.”

fin

feel free to send in requests / thots here.

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becausesebastianstan · 1 year

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The Center of My Own Existence

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader

Summary: Aemond overhears you confessing your feelings for him, but believes you’re talking about Aegon. Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: targ!incest, sue me!! if everyone else gets to do it, so do i god dammit. aemond being mean and possessive. ooc aegon being a good brother

______________________________________________________________

Aegon was always uncharacteristically partial to you.

You were loving and accepting, always prepared with gentle words of encouragement. The only problem was that your devotion lied chiefly with your twin, Aemond.

Aegon couldn’t understand why you would prefer the brother who’s dragon egg had turned to stone. Were you to spend time with Aegon, you could ride your dragon alongside he and Sunfyre, but you opted instead to remain in the Keep with Aemond.

Keep reading

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becausesebastianstan · 1 year

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Hunger

Summary: Aemond has been offering to help you with this for a while and you finally give in.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW. Breastfeeding kink. Mommy kink. Praise kink.

Author’s note: Okay… so… yeah… I don’t know what crossed my mind but… yeah… enjoy! *runs away*

Word count: 1.2k

“They’re still too full,” you whispered in annoyance, staring down at the two growing damp spots on your night chemise.

Aemond sat on the bed, yawning before handing you a piece of cloth.

The choice to breastfeed your child had been one that you did not regret, although it was safe to say it was beginning to take a toll on your sleep deprived head.

“Do you need some help?”

Your eyes met his. “What?”

He pointed to your chest and you felt heat rise to your cheeks. “Aemond….”

“Just lean back and let me help… please,” he whispered, dragging his thumb over a perky nipple, droplets of warm milk seeping through the fabric and coating his skin. “You won’t be able to sleep properly otherwise.”

You shifted back until your back was pressed to the headboard, making room for him to lay by your side.

He undid the lace at the front, allowing the fabric to slide off, revealing one full breast to his gaze.

“Aemond… you don’t have to…”

He clicked his tongue. “I want to…” he said before lowering himself and planting a soft kiss to the leaking nipple, just in time to collect a droplet of milk.

Your eyes were fixed on him as he tasted the liquid on his tongue. He then wrapped his lips around you, and started suckling gently.

“You need to do it properly,” you said, pressing your thumb to his chin so he could have more of it inside his mouth. “That’s it…” you sighed in relief.

Aemond had offered to be of help before, but you were hesitant at first. Mostly embarrassed to be so exposed to him in this stage of your life.

However, he had ensured you countless times that he craved it.

Painfully so.

His eye fluttered shut, and you held back a moan at the relief that washed over you as he swallowed your milk lazily.

“Are you falling asleep?” You asked jokingly, slowly tangling your fingers in his silver hair.

He merely hummed and your heart nearly jolted out of your chest when you saw some of your milk pool around the corner his his mouth before sliding down his chin and wetting the bed-sheet.

But it wasn’t until his fingers were groping your other breast that you felt the familiar tingles of arousal spreading throughout your body.

“Gods…” you gasped as the young man squeezed it gently and drawing out the milk that soaked your chemise, effortlessly running down his hand.

There was something extremely raw and intimate about having Aemond Targaryen lazily drinking your milk and watching it overflowing in his mouth. He was a natural. Occasionally bringing his tongue to tease your nipple and letting out the softest of groans.

“You can try the other one…” you suggested, trying your best to ignore your throbbing clit.

Aemond nodded and let go with a wet sound that filled the room.

Gods…

As he shifted to sit in front of you, you nearly moaned out loud at the sight of the beautiful and widely known fierce prince having streaks of milk running down his chin and dripping onto his bare chest, and eventually landing at the base of his hard cock.

“Someone is enjoying this,” you smiled. “You’re doing such a good job.”

Praise was the way to Aemond’s heart and, seemingly, to his cock.

He leaned forward, capturing your lips with his, and you immediately tasted the sweet liquid being pushed into your mouth by his experienced tongue.

Your walls immediately clenched around nothing and you felt your own wetness dripping and coating your folds.

“You taste so good…” he moaned in between hungry kisses. “I need more…”

His visible greed left you speechless for a moment, but you broke the kiss. “Then be good and do it…”

Aemond had his hand on your breast once again, applying just enough pressure to have more milk coat his skin.

Nothing in the world could have prepared you for what he was about to do.

He brought the dripping hand to his cock and wrapped his long fingers around it, spreading your milk all around it and making it easier for him to fuck himself.

With renewed hunger, he captured your other nipple in between his teeth, teasing it just lightly and enough drag heavy groans from you.

“Suck it… please…” you weren’t one to beg, but you couldn’t hold back the lust you had for him in this moment.”

Aemond didn’t need to be told twice and promptly latched onto your breasts while keeping steady pumps on his cock.

“Aemond… you’re so good… so good…” you praised, moving some unruly strands of silver hair away from his face so you could witness him coming undone before your eyes.

He would occasionally bring his hand up to collect more droplets of milk to coat his thick cock with.

It didn’t take long before you could tell he was close. He always looked absolutely ruined as he was about to meet his release.

Muffled groans rumbled low in his throat as he struggled to down as much of your milk as possible while attempting to reach his high from fucking his own hand.

“Look at me…” you said, wiping some liquid that spilled from his lips. “Aemond…”

His uncovered eye reluctantly met yours and let go of your breasts, panting heavily.

“You’re doing so well,” you praised, your voice but a whisper. “You’re almost there…”

Aemond’s eye fluttered shut in immeasurable pleasure, lips and chin stained with milk, face flushed and twisted in desperate need for release.

You leaned into him and had your own hand replace his, earning a groan from him. He was painfully hard and you had to moan at how easily your fingers glided along his length from the combination of milk and precum.

“Who’s good?” you asked as his rested his forehead on your shoulder, panting desperately.

“Me…” he managed to growl before sinking his teeth into your skin to muffle a sob while sliding his hand between your thighs.

You jolted from the sudden touch, but bucked into his fingers as he rubbed your clit.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Why are you so…” his voice faltered momentarily. “I want to…”

You hushed him, trying to focus on his sloppy fingers sliding along your folds and your own need to find release.

A few more drops of milk started dripping from your nipples form the motion as the pace quickened.

A few more strokes had the young Targaryen prince quivering under your touch, and you felt his cock clench rhythmically to have ropes of warm cum shoot onto your stomach, some even landing on your soaked breasts.

He collapsed into you and you moaned as he latched onto one breast again, sucking gently as his thumb worked on your clit.

The tight knot on your lower abdomen warned you that you were close.

Too close.

But just as you were about to be catapulted into your own bliss, Aemond abruptly stopped and shifted so’d have his softening cock slide inside you effortlessly from your wetness.

His voice came out in laboured pants. “I want to feel you around me…”

Your legs stared quivering as the first waves of release washed over you, causing your walls to contract around him.

“Aemond,” you cried out in blinding pleasure.

He was thrusting lazily into you as he licked one nipple while aiding you in riding out your waves of bliss.

Allowing you to descend from your high, he then slumped to your side, sliding out of you at once.

“Did I help?” He asked, still breathing heavily but a hint of pride in his voice.

You were simply speechless.

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becausesebastianstan · 1 year

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Hand Kink with Aemond Targaryen

A/N: English is not my first language. Nor Valyrian, so sorry for any mistakes! Read the warnings, please. That said, I hope you guys like it 🌚🌚🌚🌚🌚

Warnings: hand kink, fem!reader, nsfw, sex, softdom!aemond, oral sex, dirty talk, pet names, velaryon/strong!reader...

The strained, monotonous conversation stretched across the table as the family pretended to bear with each other. Deceptively docile words were spoken to each other, even if in each other's eyes the hostility was obvious. The Queen and your mother exchanged sharp glances at each other, despite trying to maintain a certain level of feigned politeness. The only one who seemed oblivious to the problems was your grandfather, the King, too absorbed in his own grief and in the illusion that there could be peace within the family.

Things took a turn for the worse when Jacaerys invited Heleana to a dance, leaving Aegon and Aemond clearly uncomfortable. Aemond was sitting at the head of the table, you in the chair closest to him. Every bite you took of your food seemed to descend like rough stones down your throat, with so much hate that he emanated in waves at your side. If one look could kill you were pretty sure neither Jacaerys nor Lucerys would be alive right now with the way Aemond had been staring at them all night.

You focused on the wineglass in front of you, pretending not to notice the murderous look Aemond was giving Jacaerys, who was twirling around the room with Helaena as if they were lifelong friends and a bloody feud didn't exist between the family, completely indifferent his uncle's murderous intentions.

And that's when you first noticed.

It was subtle at first. Just a movement in your field of vision that caught your eye and you found yourself staring to know what it was, for no specific reason. You noticed Aemond tapping his fingers on the wood of the table. First he would touch his pinky, then his ring finger, then his middle, forefinger and finally his thumb. And then he repeated everything, over and over, sequentially. Perfectly choreographed. The movement of his fingers catching your attention and sending you into a strange state of hypnotism. His fingers were thin and long, you noticed, elegant as he was. His nails were short and well-groomed. Taking a deep breath, you followed your gaze to the top of his hand, noticing the number of veins marring his pale skin, and by the gods, his hand was so big. How had you not noticed this before? If he wrapped his hand around your throat you were sure he would be able to cover the entire length of it.

Why were you thinking about what it would be like if Aemond wrapped his hand around your throat?

You discreetly shook your head feeling your face flush as you drank some of the wine, your eyes discreetly rising to his face. The wine almost came out of your nostrils when you realized he was already looking at you. You felt the liquid go down like a fiery ball in your throat, it took all your concentration not to choke and make a scene in front of everyone. Aemond was looking at you as if he knew exactly what had been going through your mind, the angry, murderous expression he had before gave way to a calculating, malicious look. The top corner of his lips lifting as he unobtrusively roamed your body with his violet gaze.

There's no way he can know what you're thinking, was what you kept telling yourself trying to look away. But he drew your attention back to him with a soft touch of his foot against yours. You stared at him, partly annoyed with him, partly ashamed of yourself. The mechanical chatter between the guests continued at the table, sounding in the background as the two of you stared at each other, apparently no one noticing the staring war that had started between the two of you.

But you were interrupted, for at that moment one of the palace servants deposited a tray with a whole roasted pig right in front of Aemond. Immediately you looked at Lucerys, knowing your own brother and his lack of tact all too well. As you'd guess, Lucerys already had a big sneer on his face as he glared at Aemond, not the least bit concerned with hiding his sneer. For a second Lucerys looked at you and you took advantage of that moment to glare at him, scolding him as best you could without causing a scene. But the damage was done and with a punch to the table that made you jump in fright, Aemond raised his glass in a toast.

What ensued then was chaos, which didn't surprise you of course, all that tension and hostility disguised as sugary words would sooner or later explode. Aemond used sarcasm to humiliate you and your brothers for not being Velaryons, after which Aegon slammed Lucerys' head into the table, immobilizing him, while Aemond shoved Jacaerys after the latter punched him for his mean remarks. You have done absolutely nothing this whole time, nor have you gotten up from your chair. Too bored with all this to get involved. So when your mother ordered your brothers to their rooms, you saw them leave and decided to follow afterward, not before finishing your glass of wine, of course.

You followed the stone corridors, the firelight on the torches turning the room a beautiful orange hue, a few guards stationed along the way to ensure everyone's safety. You walked around for a long time, having already given up on the idea of going back to your own room, just enjoying the rare moment of peace and silence. Your footsteps being the only sound as you made your way deeper into the Red Keep.

It had been years since you had moved to Dragonstone, the Red Keep was no longer your home. But you still remembered the halls you were in now, you remembered running around here with Aemond when you were kids and still innocent. You knew these hallways would lead to his room, and heavens, you couldn't bear the thought of seeing him now, after everything that had happened at dinner. After he caught you fantasizing while blatantly staring at his hand. Oh, you felt ashamed just remembering that again. And after he humiliated you and your brothers, of course. No, you couldn't walk these halls now and take that risk.

You turned to go the other way, but your body collided with something hard, your nose hurting from the impact. You looked up holding your sore nose when you felt big hands grip your shoulders and discovered it wasn't "something" you had bumped into. It was someone. And of course that someone had to be the last person you wanted to see.

Aemond was standing in front of you at all his intimidating height, hands still on your shoulders, stupid crooked smile on his mouth and that damn haughty look in your eyes, like you were a mouse trapped in the mousetrap he left hidden around.

"Lost, niece?" The husky timbre of his voice sounded menacing in the empty, silent hallway. You took your hands from your nose and crossed them behind your body, straightening your posture and lifting your chin to show confidence. "Of course not, uncle. I lived here for years, in case you don't remember."

"Oh, I see, so you were purposely going to my rooms. Did you want to see me that much, niece?" He said smiling devilishly.

Damn, you had handed this one to him on a platter.

"W-what? No!" You replied blushing, shaking your head. "Of course not, I got distracted by my own thoughts and when I saw it I was here, but I was on my way out!" You spoke fast, suspiciously fast to someone who didn't owe anything.

"Distracted..." Aemond repeated, muttering a mocking sound as he cocked his head to the side, his malicious violet gaze locked on you, loving to tease you. "Just like you were distracted at the dinner table, pet?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came to mind, feeling that somehow you had sunk even deeper into your own disgrace. You laughed nervously, a breathy, half-hysterical sound that brought a more genuine smile to Aemond's lips, as if he actually found your nervousness cute. "I do not know what you're talking about." You would deny it to death.

Aemond let go of your shoulders as he circled your body, his hot breath stirring strands of your hair as he came up behind you. You stared at the empty hallway ahead of you, feeling him mold his body behind yours, his strong chest against the back of your shoulders and his chin resting on your head. You've always found Aemond intimidating in some way, but feeling his tall, elegant body covering yours like that made him a hundred times more intimidating to you.

"Hmm, since you don't know what I'm talking about, I feel it's my duty to remind you, princess." You jumped a little as you felt his hands encircling your waist, long fingers closing around you almost completely. The air around you was suddenly getting harder to breathe as you stared at his hands on you, fingers caressing your belly lightly. "Ao yknagon sīr sȳz, dārilaros." (You smell so good, princess.) He trailed his nose along your strands, inhaling your scent and murmuring in satisfaction. You blushed at the praise, still feeling his fingers sliding down your waist and belly.

"You like that, don't you?" His lips were at your ear now, hot breath on your sensitive skin making shivers run up and down your body. "Is that what you were doing during dinner, pet? Were you imagining my hands on you?" You whimpered feeling his palm go up between your breasts and circle your neck. Oh, heavens, how could he know? Her long fingers flexed around the sensitive skin of your throat, actually covering its length. The knowledge of it made you gasp, both from the pressure he exerted on your throat and the way your underwear felt wet with the sensation. Aemond tightened his other hand on your waist and pulled you even closer to his body, making you feel his hard cock right on top of your ass.

On how many different levels was this wrong?

Now with your head resting on his shoulder you felt him kiss your cheek at the same time he moved your ass against him, slow and hard, both of you breathing deeply at the sensation. And then he released you and walked away from you, leaving you breathless and flushed and dizzy. You turned to him and saw him smile, turning away and heading further down the hall.

"Come on, princess. Let's go to a place where we won't be interrupted." He said quietly, already walking towards his room. You perfectly understood what was between the lines of what he had said. You knew that if you followed him there would be no turning back, your purity would be tarnished from today. But who were you saving yourself for? To some lord you would be forced to marry soon? Heavens, you never bought into this notion that you had to keep yourself untouched if you wanted to please your future husband. You were still a virgin, yes, but only because you hadn't found anyone you wanted to give yourself to. But that feeling you felt with Aemond? That heat in your stomach, the euphoria of discovering new sensations, and the growing wetness between your legs? Yes, the time had come, you knew it. So you followed him, watching the flow of his long white hair as he walked, the tall, perfect posture and, god above, the hands clasped behind him. Yes, you needed to know what he was capable of and you knew you wouldn't regret it.

When you got to his room Aemond closed the door, the click of the key turning as he locked the two of you in here making butterflies fly in your belly. You looked around and saw two comfortable armchairs in front of the fireplace. In the far corner was his huge bed filled with furs and a shelf with many books and parchments. There was also a study table with ink, quills, and lots of papers piled up. But that was all. It was obviously a Prince's bedroom, large and elegant, but it wasn't pompous as you knew many a royal's bedroom could be. This surprised you. It was clean and elegant, like Aemond.

His hand took yours gently, drawing your attention to him, and you stared at him. Grabbing your chin, he brought his face closer to yours, a dark violet gaze invading yours as he licked obscenely and slowly up and down the flesh of your quivering lips, his teeth closing around your bottom lip and pulling, making you moan. You felt his saliva on your lips and instinctively licked them, greedy for the taste of him. His pupil almost completely eclipsed his purple irises, making his gaze go hungry, like a predator's.

His hands went to the back of your dress and he unceremoniously tugged at the fabric, the sound of the seams bursting and buttons scattering across the floor made your heart race, and your legs went weak. You didn't know how you would explain a dress torn so roughly to your maids later, but you decided not to worry about that now. Especially when Aemond grabbed the corset cords and yanked them impatiently, causing the corset to fall to shreds from your body, leaving you in only your underwear. You were out of breath, his display of impatience and dominance making you restless and your inner thighs gooey. Was there something wrong with you?

Aemond moaned softly, looking down at your breasts, your skin prickly and soft, your nipples hard with arousal. Holding your small hands in his, he led your fingers to the buckles of his shirt, indicating what to do. You nodded, and began to undo the buckles, your fingers trembling, not out of fear or insecurity, but out of excitement and desire. Gods, you had never felt this. When the last buckle was released Aemond allowed you to pull his shirt off his shoulders, indicating that the shirt underneath was also ripped off. You did, eyes widening slightly at the sight of his strong chest rising and falling fast, muscles defined under pale skin taut. Before you could see more, Aemond grabbed your hair at the nape of your neck and pulled your head back, bringing your mouths together in an urgent kiss. He didn't give you time to get used to the kiss before thrusting his tongue between your lips, licking your tongue, your teeth, the roof of your mouth…he didn't leave any part of your mouth unexplored by his tongue, overwhelming you at his mercy. You were overwhelmed, dizzy and shaky clinging to his shoulders, struggling to respond to the kiss as best you could. It was your first kiss, and by the gods, it was nothing like your friends had described during your whispered conversations over tea. There was nothing innocent and pure about it. It was dirty and dominant. And, oh, you were in love.

He walked back without breaking the kiss, until he sat down in the armchair by the fireplace, leaving you panting standing between his legs. His chest was also rising and falling fast, a mischievous smile on his lips swollen from the kiss, hair slightly disheveled. He reached for his eye patch and pulled, without warning and without hesitation. You held your breath as you stared at the glowing blue stone in place of his eye.

"Tonight we're going to see each other for what we really are, princess." He said throwing the leather eyepatch on the floor at your feet. You reached out until your fingers touched the ruined flesh beneath the blue stone, feeling the uneven scar tissue as he stroked up and down your thighs, giving you time for inspection. You saw the flames of the fire pit reflected in his sapphire eye and there was no doubt in your heart that he was beautiful. "Gevie..." You whispered to him.

He leaned his head closer until he placed a wet kiss on your belly, making you giggle at the sensation and he smiled into your skin. He followed your up, kissing between the valley of your breasts, then around your nipples, nipping lightly at the soft skin. You shoved your hands through his hair, throwing your head back, moaning as you felt his hot tongue circling your hard, sensitive nipple, scraping your teeth lightly and sucking. His big hands, those damn hands, gripped the plump flesh of your ass, fingertips brushing your inner thighs feeling the wetness there.

"I can smell your arousal from here, love. So needy..." He muttered hoarsely, letting go of the battered flesh of your breasts.

Aemond leaned back in the chair, taking his hands off your ass and placing them on his thighs, staring at you. You grew restless under his gaze, feeling exposed like never before, your cheeks getting hot and your hands clenching in front of your body. He sensed your nervousness and chuckled softly, running his fingers to the delicate waistband of your last garment and pulling it down your legs, finally looking away from you and staring into your intimacy. "Oh baby, I'm going to ruin you." You whimpered at his threat, wishing he would do just that.

Aemond's fingers went to the waistband of his own pants, slowly undoing it button by button, drawing your attention like moths to flames. The thick veins visible that ran from his strong arms to his long-fingered hands, fingers that now parted the buttons of his pants and slowly, oh so slowly, penetrated his pants to grip his cock, squeezing and running his hand down the length once more.

"Why don't you kneel here for me, baby?" He asked and you found yourself obeying without thinking, too eager to please. He kept pumping his hand up and down as you knelt between his legs, finally pulling his cock out of his pants so you could see what he was doing. You made an embarrassing sound that was half a groan, half a spit up choke, at the sight of his exposed length. His hand was tightly wrapped around his long, thick cock with strong veins and rosy head, the grip he had felt painful to you, but Aemond grunted every now and then with the pleasure. You found yourself licking your lips as a drop of pre-cum leaked from his tip, running through his fingers. Aemond saw and cupped your chin with two fingers, making you look at him.

"Want to be a good girl for me, love?" His voice was husky and groggy as he stroked your cheek. "I want to, please..." you replied breathlessly. He growled and took his hand off his cock, placing both hands on the sides of the chair. "Do what you want, love." He said as you stared at his erect cock against his belly, pre cum still leaking. Slowly you approached and slowly licked up the leaking liquid, the slightly bitter taste igniting something in you. Aemond grunted through gritted teeth as you spread licks along his cock from the base to the weeping tip. You looked at him through a lick, cheeks flushed and eyelashes fluttering, Aemond gripped the leather of the chair tightly and his lips parted. Gods, having that power was addictive. Getting bolder you licked from bottom to top once more, swirling your tongue just below the head of his cock and finally closing your lips together, drawing a broken moan from him. "Fuck, that's it, love…" He grumbled, fisting his hand in your hair as you sank your mouth down its length, trying to see how far you could take it. Aemond threw his head back, gasping loudly. When you felt that your limit had reached, you went up your head again sucking and releasing his cock with a 'pop'. Your hand, much smaller than his, moved up and down your saliva-spattered length as you caught your breath.

Aemond took advantage of that moment to abruptly stand up and finish pulling down his pants, picking you up as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around him as he led the two of you towards the bed. He set you down on the bed more gently than you'd expect, climbing onto the bed as well and kneeling between your legs. His hands parted your thighs, leaving every part of you exposed to him. "Next time I'll make you swallow every drop of my cum, love, don't worry. But this time I need to cum inside that beautiful pussy." You felt a shudder at the promise and couldn't tell if it was the dirty words or the assurance that there would be a next time.

His fingers roamed over your pussy, laughing wildly at the feel of how wet you were, his hand so big it completely covered your pussy. He lowered his face to yours as he thrust two of his long fingers into you. You moaned into his lips, feeling the lengthening of the abrupt intrusion, but the way he sucked on your bottom lip and cupped your breast with his other hand, distracted you from the sensation. You gasped at the wet sound of his fingers moving in and out of you, eyes squinted in pleasure. Aemond grabbed your chin. "Open those lips for me, princess." He ordered and you obeyed by parting your lips for him. Aemond let a trickle of saliva run from his mouth onto your tongue, groaning hoarsely as you eagerly accepted and swallowed. "A good fucking girl." His fingers moving in and out faster, his thumb going to your wet clit and making light circles.

By all the gods, he and that damn hand.

You were already too excited, having been teased too much for most of the night. It was no surprise when you started to moan more, clearly more desperately, hips moving along with Aemond's fingers and eyes starting to roll. You would cum. And when you felt that tension a second away from exploding, he stopped.

You stared at him as if he'd stabbed you in the back, eyes watering with betrayal.

"Oh fuck baby, don't look at me like that. I'm sorry." He said, though he didn't sound sorry at all as he took his fingers from inside you and brought them to his mouth, grunting at the taste of you on his tongue. "This time we're going to cum together, pet." He was laughing at your desperation as he adjusted your legs better around him, lining up his cock in your pussy. "Look what a mess. So fucking wet, isn't it sweetheart?" Aemond whispered, rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit.

You moaned loudly, orgasm so close to happening, but not with the slow way he rubbed himself into you. You needed more.

"Tell me what you need, princess." He guided his cock into your entrance, just the head moving in and out making you roll your eyes back and moan. "Say it now, damn it." You could barely make out his words, his voice hoarse and low through his clenched jaw in an effort to contain himself. You looked at him, white hair sticking to his face with sweat, purple eye almost black with arousal, the sapphire - oh, so beautiful - glowing in the shadows of the fire, muscles in his arms tensed in restraint. It took all your breath away.

"You." Your whisper was sincere, coming straight from your heart. "Nyke jorrāelagon ao, Aemond." (I need you, Aemond.) He groaned hurt into your mouth, kissing you hard as he finished pushing his cock inside you, all at once. You screamed into his mouth, the sensation burning and you felt like you could explode at any moment from being so full. Your head fell back and you took a deep breath, trying to relax. Aemond whispered words of comfort against your skin before closing his mouth on your breast, licking your nipple to distract you, his thumb returning to making slow circles on your clit.

The painful sensation was dissipating and instead you just felt full, very full. You could feel the pulse of his cock inside you, as if he were buried up to your throat. Aemond took your hand in his and rubbed it across your stomach, making you feel his length there. It made you groan and try to move your hips, the arousal coming back crawling through your bones like molten lava.

Grabbing your hips, Aemond rolled over, lying on the bed and pulling you on top of him. "Nyke jaelagon ao naejot kipagon issa, jorrāelagon." (I want you to ride me, love.) He said, holding you by the waist and pushing your body forward once, showing you what to do. You tossed your hair back over your shoulders, biting your lips, feeling the fiery intensity of Aemond's gaze following your every slightest movement. In this position you felt his cock even deeper, as if it was going to split you in half. Placing your hands on his strong chest, you moved your hips back and forth slowly, experimentally, the friction of his pelvis on your clit bringing you back into the alert state of imminent orgasm. But you wanted to enjoy it, so you continued slowly moving over him, watching him gasp and squeeze your waist as if he were going to break you, sweat pouring down both bodies. Soon slowly it wasn't enough and you were jumping faster on his cock, each thrust making a wet sound that made your cheeks red. Aemond's brows were furrowed and he was moaning softly, one hand coming up between your breasts until he closed on your throat. He squeezed, not enough to take your breath away, just to make you euphoric. You grabbed his wrist, using it as support to jump harder and harder on his cock, the rhythmic slap of your bodies together sounding loud in the room.

Growling, Aemond lifted you off his lap and placed you on the bed on all fours, holding your ass so he could reenter from behind. You screamed as he grabbed a handful of your hair pulling your head back, your hands gripping the bed furs, feeling the brutal thrust of his cock into your pussy. Aemond lowered his body until his chest was against your back, his cock piercing your core as if it were his last day on earth. He grabbed one of your hands that was propped up on the bed, his palm covering your hands completely, lacing your fingers together in the furs. His mouth close to your ear, moaning hoarsely your name.

"Ao zālagon issa hen se iemnȳ hen, dārilaros." (You burn me from the inside out, princess.) He said before biting the junction of your neck and shoulder hard. "Touch that beautiful pussy, love, cum for me..." He was out of breath, hips bumping into yours with no rhythm, hand squeezing yours tighter. You brought your fingers to your clit, circling fast and moaning Aemond's name. "Please, please don't stop!" You were euphoric, pushing your body to meet his thrusts, the side of your face pressed to the bed, mouth open as you rubbed faster and faster until you felt the tension burst. Aemond moaning in defeat against your back feeling your pussy rhythmically squeezing his cock as you cum, your moans driving him crazy and making him give too. You still had your eyes closed seeing the constellations in front of you and feeling your body trembling when Aemond buried his cock in your pussy one last time, hot strings of cum painting your walls as he growled in your ear.

You felt the beginnings of a cramp in your leg and threw yourself on the bed before it got any worse, body exhausted, shaky and sweaty. Aemond supported his body weight on his elbows before rolling over and lying on your side, exhausted as well. The two of you in a happy post-orgasm state, trying to normalize your breathing and calm your heart.

"Gods, I need a glass of water." You muttered into the furs of the bed, your voice sounding muffled.

Aemond smiled beside you, a real, almost childlike laugh. It made you turn to face him, seeing him with his arm thrown over his eyes, chest toned and sweaty rising and falling a little more controlled now, white hair spread out on the pillow. You bit your lip, feeling butterflies in your stomach and your heart beating strangely for him.

Heavens, it was a dangerous game the two of you had started.

With that thought you stretched your body and sat up in bed, every inch of your body aching and exhausted. It would be difficult to walk tomorrow.

"Where are you going, princess?" Aemond whispered as he sat up too, his hand going to yours keeping you on the bed.

"Huum, to my room..." You said sleepily. Aemond made a slightly irritated huffing sound before kissing your shoulders. "Don't be silly, just lie there. I'll get a basin and towel to clean us up and I'll bring your water. Then we'll get some sleep." He said already standing up, his glorious body parading across the room in complete confidence of the beauty he had.

"Aemond, I can't sleep here. My maids come to my room early to help me get ready for the day. Imagine the scandal if they don't see me there." You grumbled, although the idea of simply lying on the comfortable furs of the bed was dominating your thoughts.

"You'll be there before them, princess. Trust me." He said coming back with the basin of hot water and the towel in hand. "Now shut up for the gods' sake and let me take care of you so we can get some sleep." His voice was impatient, though his hands were gentle as they pushed you back onto the bed for him to start cleaning you.

"And I thought the Targaryens could go all night..." You said defiantly, even though you yourself were already half asleep under Aemond's surprisingly gentle care.

Aemond snorted in amusement, sapphire gleaming faintly in the dimness of the room now that the flames in the fireplace had subsided, giving him a somewhat dark and sadistic look that scared you a little.

"Oh, pet, why do you think I asked you to stay here overnight?" He said it seriously, but you laughed lightly, too sleepy to believe what he was saying.

But when you woke up a few hours later to the wet feel of his tongue on your pussy, you discovered he was very serious.

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becausesebastianstan · 2 years

Text

you'll be waiting in vain

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Stark!F!Reader Wordcount: 3.2K Warnings: smut. jealousy. daemon being daemon. Semi-Outdoor handjobs. Summary: “Go back to Dragonstone, husband,” you order coldly. “You’ve spilled your seed.” A/N: Someone requested a reader being daemon's reluctant bride like his first marriage. sexual tension. hatred. insinuations that daemon can't get it up. Title from eyes on fire by blue foundation

The first time is a shock to both of you. He had come to linger at Winterfell though he had hardly visited since your wedding. The marriage had been a failure from the start. The ceremony silkily resplendent, and the bed empty. The following day, Daemon had sent you home.

Now, he only visits because of his King. Caraxes loathes the cold, and so does the hot-blooded Daemon. One does not go without the other.

Daemon, by his own arrogant creed, despises everything you are.

The long-faced Starks. The North even though their lineages are just as old as Targaryens. Valyria. Brandon the Builder. The First Men. Dragons. Direwolves.

He comes without notice, the high-pitch whistle of Caraxes is the first battle call to announce his arrival. You smooth your gowns and fiddle with your hair before you glide out of the castle to greet him. Caraxes lands brutally, claws sinking into mud and shattering a few wheelbarrows of chickens. They shriek before going silent, and you grimace, knowing that it won’t reflect well on you.

As if you had invited him here. As if you did anything with your prince. The bright red dragon’s lean, enormous body shudders in the wind. His gleaming eyes register your presence, and you’d swear there is curiosity circling the pupil, a glimmer of recognition before he twists his head to look at his rider.

Daemon, in leathers and his ridiculous helmet, slides from his mount. His black velvet clothing is threaded in scarlet. The Dragon. The Rogue Prince. He is handsome and terrible with his violet irises and silver hair. The Northerners despise him, utterly bereft that their Stark Lady has married Targaryen filth. He removes his gloves as he saunters toward you before he stills. He cocks his head, eyes trailing from your toes to your brow.

“Why are you here, husband?”

“Have you grown taller?” He steps closers, looming over you with a sharp, observant glare. “You look different.”

You cross your arms over your chest and square your shoulders. “Why are you here?”

“Prettier,” he mutters. “Tell me, is there some great Northern oaf fucking you? Making you bloom like this?”

Horrified, you draw back as if he’s slapped you. The question is outrageous, and instinctively you lift your hand before he snatches your wrist.

“A jest,” he drawls, mouth quirking. “As for my arrival here? My brother wants me to fulfill my husbandly duties and seed you, wife.”

You can’t control your expression. Starks are not well trained in courtly etiquette, and your shock screams across your face. Daemon fully grins; it is the first time you’ve ever seen it.

He taps your chin to force your mouth closed before he brushes past you. “Don’t worry, sweetling,” he says over his shoulder. “We can keep up the farce. Just order my rooms ready, and I will ask nothing else of you.”

Bastard.

You wrap your arms around your waist, suddenly freezing. You watch Caraxes rise slowly before flying away, blotting out the white sun to hunt, sleep, or whatever dragons do.

His wings shake the ground.

***

Daemon does not ask for much. He keeps to himself, reading books and studying the lands outside Winterfell. One morning, you dare to climb the battlements to catch a glimpse of him.

It’s dawn. The air is cold and biting. The sky is purple, flushed with pink and red. It reminds you of the heart tree and Caraxes’s scales. Daemon, tall and imposing, is leaning against the wall. His silver-blonde hair is braided away from his face, rest of it falling in a mess of curls and tangles like the weather has whipped it up. The rising sun gilds his profile and, for a moment, you are struck dumb at his beauty.

You are so used to his dry sarcasm and guarded countenance that you don’t expect this: his distant, vulnerable gaze adrift on the horizon before him. He seems lost in a memory.

“Planning where to build your castle?” you ask, splitting the silence.

He drops his head, smiling and you should have known he sensed your presence the second you’d stepped into his space. “The Northmen would have my head, darling one.”

You bristle at the sweet name, but allow it as you have allowed all of his transgressions. “When will you leave?”

He glances at you over his shoulder. “When I have sated my pleasure.”

You scowl. “There is no one here for that.”

His eyes brighten and he stands before strolling toward you. “No one?” He cocks his head. “My dear, there is a lovely little house just beyond the gates. I’ve made quite a impression I think.”

You’re stunned. You did not realize that he’d been entertaining himself at the brothel where your own bannermen have no doubt seen him. Your cheeks burn hot at the humiliation. The entire reason Daemon has flown to Winterfell is to fuck you and he’s made it glaringly obvious that you haven’t sufficed. You’ve had enough of his pompous attitude, his princely sentiment. He thinks he owns the North simply because he’s married you.

You lift your chin, narrowing your gaze. His brow furrows as if he recognizes the imperceptible change in your demeanor. You’ve only been the winsome, docile wife. The subserviant lady.

You will show him. You will show your bitterness.

“Daemon.” you purr as you grip him by the shoulders and drag him backwards into the entrance of the watchtower. It’s cold here. The stones are wet and the torches unlit.

“Aroused, are we?” he taunts as he allows you to guide him. “Did jealousy do the trick? The thought of me fucking some whore with my-”

You abruptly grasp him over his trousers and he chokes on his tongue. Quickly, you undo the laces and slip your hand past the band. You feel him - hard, long, and pulsing. You squeeze his length, slide your thumb over the head as he begins to grind into your touch. With your other hand, you tangle it into his long hair. Your nails dig into his skull and he buries his face into your throat, his lips are warm on your skin as he groans. He croaks your name and oh the power of it…to feel him trembling in the cradle of your palm.

You fist his cock with a roughness to match his ugly exterior. You twist and rotate your wrist as you keep an even pace. You lower your gaze to watch, mesmerized every time the fat blushed head peeks between your curled fingers as you stroke down.

“Like this, my prince?” He is pinning you to the wall with all of his weight, his thigh locked between your legs as his hands fly to your waist. He smells like Winterfell and burning coals. He makes a broken sort of noise from the middle of his chest. You thought he’d be louder, but he appears to even control the volume of his pleasure. Guarded. Severe. Daemon.

You notice the vein in his throat rolling with his heartbeat and the wolf in you desires a taste. You lunge and sink your teeth into it. Daemon rumbles, jerking violently against you as he spills into your hand.

The seed is warm in the cold and you imagine that if you raised your hand to the air, it would smoke like a dragon. You say nothing as Daemon tries to calm his ragged gasps.

When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, unlatched from its usual wicked reserve. “You’re a plague,” he accuses.

You laugh as you pivot out of his embrace. You’re slippery and empty, hunger pawing between your legs as you meet Daemon’s hellbent, almost-furious, gaze.

“Who knew the cold, frigid Starks could be so welcoming,” he remarks dryly as he tried to elegantly step away, tucking himself back into his trousers. He’s shaken, vulnerable because you’ve unhanded him. You take the moment to deal a kill shot.

You lift your fingers, sticky with his seed, and taste it, lick it like you’re savoring lemon icing. His eyes widen a touch and you count it as a win against him.

Shocking Daemon Targaryen is your latest game. You are not the frigid wolf girl he believes you to be. He has put you into a box and you have decided to burn it down.

“Go back to Dragonstone, husband,” you order coldly. “You’ve spilled your seed.”

***

Daemon is gone for a month before he returns. It is a new record for him. He has always left for whole seasons, sometimes a year.

You hear Caraxes’s shriek. It wakes you, makes your heart stutter. Inexplicably, something molten trails down your belly before settling in your core. You think of Daemon out there, waiting for your arrival and being refused. You think of his spend on your tongue. The salty nip of it. Your nipples pebble and your back arches and you dip your hand between your legs and sink two fingers into your cunt.

You think of Daemon’s red, throbbing cock. You add a third finger. You stretch yourself, rub your clit and whimper into the blankets. You can hear him in the hall, boots echoing like fallen statues. He’s shouting something to the servants. He’s terribly angry. You quicken your pace, your pleasure builds into a howl before you fall over the edge.

He throws open the door. His face is covered in grime and he stinks of a battle.

Who have you been fighting, dearest? Who have you been trying to conquer?

You coyly sit up, attempting to look shocked. He’s standing there, staring and there is a tangible tension between you that rings like a bell. You slip from your bed and glide over to him. His eyes catalogue every piece of your body to note what new change you have to present. The bare skin, the white, fluttering sleeping gown. You touch his cheek with the hand you stuck in your cunt not a few minutes before.

For a second, you think he knows…he can smell you. He flushes, the pink dazzling his pale milk-skin.

He steps away from your hand and shifts on his feet as his violet gaze wanders everywhere, but your face.

“Would you like to touch him?” Daemon asks hesittantly. He’s in a linen shirt and coal black trousers. His dirty boots.

You frown. “Who?”

“Caraxes.”

It is absurd. Daemon has arrived with no warning. He has stormed into your room without any sense of courtesy before nervously asking if you’d like to pet his dragon.

“Oh,” you smile with real emotion. “Oh, yes please!”

***

“He likes you.”

Daemon’s features are twisted into incredulity. He watches as your fingers stroke Caraxes’s long snout.

Your stranger-husband had been uncharacteristically protective, putting himself in front of you before taking your hand and placing it on Caraxes’s hide. When Daemon was distracted, you’d gradually creeped toward the enormous jaws intending to peer the red dragon in the eye.

Daemon had nearly had a fit, rushing toward you before stopping dead in his tracks. Caraxes was purring, rumbling under your ministrations.

“I do not-”

“The Starks have a way with incredible creatures, Daemon,” you explain, amused at his horror. “We have magic in our blood just as Targaryens do.”

“I’ve never heard of a dragon submitting to a Stark,” he argues, sounding slightly disturbed.

“He doesn’t submit to me. He’s tolerating me,” you clarify. “A Direwolf would be another story.”

Daemon huffs before moving behind you. His broad chest touches your back, his chin grazes the side of your temple. He hovers over you before his hand clasps the top of yours and you both caress Caraxes’s snout. He lowers his head so that his warm breath tickles your ear. “Would you like to fly?”

***

You didn’t care for the flying. The air was too cold and you didn’t have the proper attire. Daemon had to wrap his larger body around yours in order to keep you warm.

Despite yourself, you had enjoyed that part. You enjoyed the way he spoke to you about how to fly Caraxes, what he tells him, how they move with eachother. He’d pressed against your back with all of his lean, tough muscle. He said something to you in old Valyrian that you could not parse, but figured it was either crude or an insult.

When you land, your guards lose their minds.

You are freezing, my lady.

You could have fallen!

You cannot ride a dragon.

Your husband has endangered you.

Daemon, with all of his syrupy contempt, rolls his eyes.

“Of course, I brought my lady wife up to the sky to catch her death,” he drawls. “You’ve caught me.”

“Daemon,” you warn before pinching the back of his arm. He abruptly stops so that you stumble into him. He smoothly reaches back, his calloused hand catching your hips to steady you. His bones are firm and he’s still blazing hot from riding Caraxes. Before you can stop yourself, you lean forward, mouth against his cheek.

“It’s not a bad plan, my prince. Winterfell could be yours.”

He turns, nostrils flaring as he levels you with a steely look. “Not until I’ve had the Lady Stark.” His voice so full of suggestion, it nearly hurts. “Not until then.”

***

For all the Targaryen flair, Daemon is a warrior at his base. He does not mind the mud, blood, and shit that a soldier’s life offers. The longer he stays, the more he seems to relate to the Northerners.

Your people are unyielding and unbreachable. They speak to him with respect, but are difficult to woo. Daemon tries his best before finally utilizing his wit at the expense of the old North houses to entertain himself. He is gleeful as he converses in double-entendres that go over Lord Mormont’s head.

“Everyone is so rigid,” he bites as he sprawls out in a chair by the fire. He’s drunk on Northern ale and you are already in your bed. No one will say a word that you’re sharing a room. Sometimes you forget that you’re married.

“They’re a cold sort,” you agree.

“Winter is coming,” he slurs with disdain as he drops his face into his hand and stares unseeing at the fire. He watches the flames crackle for a long time before he finally speaks. “Yet you are full of heat. Fire. Blood.” He looks to your bed. “I did not see you on our wedding night..I did not see you at all. You were entirely forgettable.”

You flinch, hurt by the reminder that he had abandoned you that night to roam, drink and fuck. He’d never consumnated the marriage and you had sobbed in your gown because you did not understand the rejection.

“Go to your lovely little brothel then,” you growl and his head snaps to attention.

“You do not hear me,” he protests as he stands.

“Leave,” you snap with all of your loathing and bitterness. He has slapped a nerve, hit you where you are raw and weeping. He had ignored you for years, forced you to rot in Winterfell. You were married, but remained untouched. It spills out of you - so much ice. “Go stick your cock in another, prince,” you sneer as you dig your nails into your thigh to keep from crying. “If you can even get it hard enough for the deed.”

His teeth audibly clench, a tiny muscle in his jaw flexes. “As you wish then,” he declares in a cold, severe tone before he storms out of your room.

You burst into tears, stricken with grief at your own actions. Your brother has gone to war. Your parents dead. You are alone aside from your guards and the Septa who raised you. You only have Daemon, the delicious promise of the rogue prince to ease the repetitive, unending boredom. He scares you. You leaves you soaked and feverish. He makes you want to devour everything, fight him tooth and nail until he pins you down and conquers you like Aegon himself.

You do not want to be the forgettable girl in the box. The girl not allowed to ride dragons.

***

He enters your room in his clothes from the night before. You regard him cautiously, embarrassed at your outburst. Your blatant jealousy.

“Daemon...” you begin haltingly.

He wordlessly stalks forward, both hands grasp the hinges of your jaw before he kisses you fiercely. It is bruising. He forces your back against the window, pins you with his thigh as his tongue plunges past your lips to stroke inside your mouth in the reflection of a fuck. You push at his shoulders, shove at him before pulling him back to you.

“Lift your skirts,” he demands in a soft voice between kisses. “I will prove you wrong.”

“I won’t touch if you have laid with others,” you hiss as you arch into him, rub yourself against the velvet of his tunic.

He draws back to hold your gaze. “I did not,” he swears. “I drank in the crypt until morning.” He ducks his head, expression almost sheepish.

You laugh, unable to stop yourself. The thought of your proud dragon prince sullenly drinking beneath the ground. He rolls his eyes and presses his mouth to yours again. “I want you, wife.” His lips slide down your jaw to your throat as he speaks to you, seduces you. “I have thought of nothing else but that Northern cunt since you licked my seed from your fingers.”

His voice is rich and low, grazing your skin and your bones and the deepest part of your womb. You fist a hand into his hair to wrench him closer. You want to ride the dragon.

***

He handles you well, observing your gestures and reactions. What do you like? What will you like once he teaches you to like it? He teases your sex with his fingers, stroking and petting as he nurses his thumb against the bud at the peak of it. “That’s it,” he croons. “Relax into it, lady love.”

He takes your knees in hand and forces them back against your breasts. He spreads you as he guides his cock into your slick heat. It is difficult, but he works his way inside as you bloom around him. He does it slow, controlled. He teases the head, pushing it past your folds before drawing back. He drives in an inch and then two before removing himself completely. You cry, digging your nails into his tapered waist, the flesh of his ass. When he finally buries himself, it is a shock. He groans into your mouth, marveling at the tightness, the near pain of trying to fit himself. It is the only time he is loud…the only time he cannot smother it. You take it as a victory before you become a mess.

As he braces his weight above you, he fucks you slow. Each burning drag of his cock forces a sob from your mouth that he steals away with his lips.

‘Hush, darling,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want to shock your guardsmen.”

“Don’t stop,” you beg. “Please.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he grins as he grasps your ass to lift your hips. The angle changes and he thrusts down so that the head of his cock batters against your womb.

He grips your chin, his blunt nails bite into your skin. “The cold works for you,” he husks. “My Northern beauty.” He lowers his mouth a breath from your own. “My little wolf.”

Your chest tightens, your belly warming under his praise. Daemon’s appreciation is a rare thing. He fights everything offered to him. He bullies himself against the world until he cracks his own skull. You feel his hand catch the nape of your neck, grip it firmly. He traces the tender flesh that stretches around his cock, flicks and pinches the bead that sparks pleasure through your limbs. You shiver, thighs locked around his waist.

“Do you feel it?” he asks as you clench around him, walls pulsing as your lower muscles bear down. Even below him, you’re riding the dragon. Your digging your knees into his ribs to straddle the beast. You hold his face between your hands as the warm, golden song dances beneath your skin, it simmers until it bubbles. It grows and grows and then you fall to pieces, cunt knotting around him, sucking him to your throat like it was your own desperate mouth. “Fuck,” he growls with another sharp pump of his hips. “Fuck - you feel it.”

He continues, possessing you in short, frantic strokes. The bed creaks. A log in the fire chars and hits the stone floor. Caraxes roars in the distance and you momentarily feel the blood of the dragon shoot through Daemon’s veins. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder just as he sheathes himself to the hilt, his body blankets your own. The sweat from his brow hits your tongue. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his fingers clutch the sheets as if to anchor himself, bind himself.

“This feels…this feels…”

You are nailed to the ground, a ready sacrifice. A marriage. You are connected, tangled, wolf and dragon. Ice and fire.

“We have magic in our blood,” he realizes, scraping his teeth along your collar bone. Inside your core, he throbs like a beating heart. “I taste it on you.”

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