beggamoth

[beggamoth]

no shade because i would love for this to be true these scenes are all hot but none of them are aemond’s facial expression of desire. the first and second one are his “i want to kill you and wear your skin as clothing” face, the third one is TERROR. his desire expression is more like

[beggamoth]

[beggamoth]

lovedd your aegon fic! keep up the good work 🫶🏻

ohh thank you!!❤️❤️

[beggamoth]

The most loyal servant and their blue-balled Prince

summary | aemond targaryen survives after the battle above the god’s eye thanks to the little trinket you gave him. now he's crippled, catatonic and vaguely aroused when you tie his braces and change his linens.

technically a sequel to the things that cannot be unsaid

characters | aemond targaryen x servant!gn!reader, aegon as a comedic relief (sort of)

notes | not proofread. very chopped english. mentions of physical therapy and all the things that are adjacent to the freshly disabled person. i tried to be as accurate as I can but i'd love to hear suggestions or criticism if you have any. very ooc aemond.

wordcount | 2,8 k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

Aemond rarely dreamed, but if he did, his dreams have always been sharp, cinematic things – clarity as sharp as a sword edge, vivid as blood on the snow. But this one had been… different.

No carnage. No screams. Just sky.

And the peaks.

The Fourteen Flames had glowed like gods’ torches above him, and Valyria had risen from the obsidian earth in tiered white bloodless cities. Rising, their peaks plunging into the sky and crystalizing in immortality in the minds of white-haired and white-bearded Targaryen exceptionalists. The air smelled of brimstone and myrrh. He wore robes of purple silk, embroidered in high Valyrian glyphs—wedding glyphs, he knew somehow, like he knew the language in the marrow of his bones.

And beside him, bareheaded and barefoot as custom demanded, walked his betrothed.

Your neck was bare. Your eyes, wide with recognition but not surprise.

You were not smiling. But neither was he. That was the Valyrian way.

You were wed before a pool of molten stone, your wrists bound with red string. You spoke your vows with your fingers pressed to the ridge of his missing eye – no eyepatch, no sapphire – just empty black eyesocket with the warm wind whistling through it.

And then you kissed him. Not out of affection, but as rite. As law. Your lips tasted like ash and poppyseed.

“Dāria iā ñuha.” You whispered. You are mine.

And it was the truth in its earnest.

Aemond woke to the scent of boiled lye and copper.

His body was slick with fever sweat. The back of his tunic stuck to his shoulders. His good eye shot open, wildly scanning through the thickening gloomy shadows of his sickroom—and landed directly on your frame, crouched by the edge of his bed, sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in the most humiliating business known to man.

Cleaning the bedpan.

He blinked.

You noticed. "Oh, you're awake. Great." Your voice was all chirp and no dignity, and suddenly all pathos of Old Valyria was shattered by the sound of… sloshing in a ceramic bowl. “Try not to move too much. The stitches are still fresh.”

He tried to speak. Swallowed. Tried again His throat was as dry as a parchment.

 “And by the way, you talk in your sleep. In High Valyrian. Which is rude, because I only know the herb names.” You stood up and walked across his sickroom to the door to empty it.

He tried to sit up, as if you had an invisible ribbon around your waist tethered loosely to his chest, but enough to pull. The world tilted.

You glared. “Lie. Back. Down. Unless you want to have a real accident this time.”

“You were there,” he rasped. “In the dream.”

You blinked, pausing mid-step. “Well, that’s... concerning.”

“You—” His voice caught. “It was Valyria.”

Your brows rose slowly, visibly trying not to laugh. “Ah. That explains it. Sweating, delirium, speaking dead languages. Did I also have wings?”

“No.” He exhaled, staring at you. “You were real.”

You sighed, moved the covered basin on your hip and placed your hand on the doorknob. “Yes, Aemond. I’m very real. Flesh and blood. Just ask your laundry.”

He looked down at the linens, then back at you.

The glow of dream-Valyria still pulsed faintly behind his eye.

You pushed at the door. “Anything else you need?”

His mouth opened. Closed. His throat worked.

“…No.” And the door slammed shut behind you.

But later, he would write it in his journal.

He would write every word he remembered.

Because something in that dream had felt older than time. And worse—right.

Aemond does not speak of the dream again.

He doesn’t ask you what he said. He doesn’t even glance at you the same way. Which is to say—he doesn’t glance at all. It’s as if his one eye has decided you no longer exists in the visible spectrum.

He is recovering, inch by agonizing inch, in the way of men who feel shame for being seen broken.

The maesters prescribe stretching – for his recovering joints. He does it alone, in the grey hours before dawn, somewhat hastily, with more shame and fear of being caught mid-act than some married men fucking their ways through pillow houses.

Maesters also prescribe boiled calf marrow, vinegar compresses, and good posture. He tolerates the first two. He growls at the third.

You bring him bitter tea that smells like moldy oranges and burned cloves. He drinks it, because he’s afraid you’ll tell Alicent if he doesn’t. (You won’t. But he doesn’t know that.)

You clean his bandages. Wrap his leg. You do it like a professional, no giggling, no commentary—just humming, usually the same tune Helaena sings to dead moths.

Once, your hand brushed his thigh. He flinches, full-body movement – but not from pain.

None of you speak of it, supposing the matter settled.

You hear it first from the wetnurse—well, not really a wetnurse anymore, but an old woman with a breastbone like a coat hanger, red face and meaty fingers and an unfiltered mouth—who hisses it while arranging the washed linens.

“They say the prince’s legs won't mend straight. Might walk like a crab from now on. And the dragon, she won’t lift again.”

You nod politely and murmur a thank-you, because the proper response to unsolicited gossip is always a thank-you, and return to your room with a lump in your throat and a bundle of salves clutched tight against your apron.

His limp settles into something manageable, you notice. Not too pronounced, not too awkward. You sometimes (or rather often) glance in his direction during court and watch how he adjusts his stance, heel slightly turned, to keep the weak leg from catching. He hides it well. Too well.

You wondes if he practiced in the mirror.

Vhagar, meanwhile, lies coiled in the Dragonpit like a half-buried ruin. One of her wings has sagged like wet parchment, never to lift again. Some say she will die soon. Others say she dreams of fire.

You imagine telling Aemond: I remember the words. From the dream.

But instead you say nothing.

You smile when you hear him grunt. Make jokes about his bootlaces – when any other fool would’ve been sent to the Wall before he could ever finish the sentence (but how could he? You’re apparently very special)

You do this for him.

Because the dream had been real, yes.

But the world around you was not Valyria.

And this—this was your small, quiet loyalty. Pretending not to see.

Apparently, it wasn’t enough. Or that was too much. No matter how much mental effort you put into second-guessing and overthinking, your brain, this buzzing and hyperactive thing, couldn’t produce any reason – even the most nonsensical one – as why you’ve been dismissed.

And not even directly!

The first hint comes when the old woman with bad knees and stiff fingers arrives in your place, fumbling with a salve she can't pronounce. You are not sent for. Not the next day, either. Or the day after that.

No formal letter. No dismissal spoken aloud. Just silence where once there were folded linens, fresh poultices, little bottles of poppy and powdered pearlroot. No more of that strange incense smell lingering near his bedside—rosewater, burnt wormwood, and something faintly metallic, like old copper.

You go to the quartermaster one day. He brushes your off, muttering something close to ‘his highness’ orders’, with almost pitying, and which is strange, unsettled look in his face.

You are offended, naturally. But you nod, stiffly. And go around your other duties.

Aemond had no use for the word ‘love’. It was a word from bawdy tavern ballads, or worse, sappy poems in the library that no one read. It was used by men who cried curled in the whore’s lap while they silently counted their coin.

No, he had a problem. A you-shaped problem.

Just imagine: He’s sweating through his undershirt, the brace on his leg itching like fire, and he’s holding himself together with one good hand and the last sliver of dignity he hasn’t already bled out over this fucking war — and then you are again. Of course you are. Always quiet, always efficient, with your too-clever unsmiling eyes and those small fucking hands that touch, prod and cut open abscesses without hesitation.

You had knelt before him to buckle his brace, and Aemond breathes in on one, two, three - deeply. And holds it for several seconds.

He had to grip the edge of the bench—grip it, hard, with white-knuckled fingers—because your hand brushed his thigh and his body reacted. Not like some court poet's swoon. Not like some helpless, shivering boy. No—like a beast. Like something starved.

Your hands are light. Brisk. Efficient. You never fumble, not even when your knuckles accidentally linger near his groin. Not even when you tug it too tight and he grunts, and you let out a breath through your nose—soft, like don’t be such a baby, but not unkind.

You say nothing. Keeps lacing. Keeps pretending not to feel his pulse under your fingers, hammering away like a caged creature, because his heart felt too big for his body and its beating echoing even in the soles of his feet.

His hand, useless as it is, twitches once. He doesn’t mean to let it fall to your shoulder, not really—only the edge, only to steady himself. You do not flinch. You also don’t look at him.

He wonders—desperately—if you know

The moment stretches like hot wax. Then you tie the last knot, adjust the padding and step back, looking at your work.

“There,” you say, as if you’d mended a curtain. “You’ll need a new brace for that leg. The swelling’s down. I’ll adjust it later.”

He nods. Like an idiot. Doesn’t speak.

You pick up the linen and walk out the door with the quiet grace of someone who absolutely knows what you just did to the motherfucker

He does not move for a long moment, head in his hands, for longer than he will ever admit.

You are too soft. Too unafraid. You do not know what it does to him, your small hands tightening a bandage near his ribs while humming under your breath. The casual way you walk into his room without fear, kneel before him to adjust the brace on his ruined leg like you’re checking a hinge on a cabinet. You lean too close. Look him in the eye too long. Speak his name too gently.

He is not a gentle man.

He has felt his temper rage hot, seen it boil over in fire and steel. He has fought beneath the belly of a dying dragon and killed enough men to know what he’s capable of when he breaks. And he will break, if you keep doing what you do. Standing so close. Tending him like you don't know what he is.

So—no. It’s not safe.

You’re the only one who’s seen him completely undone. Limping. Fevered. Mewling into the mattress as you changed the linens soaked in sweat and other humiliations. You cleaned his fucking bedpan, and didn’t blink. Wiped blood from his gums. Steadied him when he vomited up milk of the poppy and bile in equal measure. Demonstrated appalling loyalty in a way that should be humiliating and undignified but you carried yourself with such grace so Aemond could not use this word while actually meaning it.

And now you’re kneeling in front of him, mouth slightly open while you tie the brace, and all he can think about is that little pink mouth. How you’d taste. How you’d sound. What you’d say if he gave in.

He could see it too clearly, feel it, how easy it would be. You are small, pliable. You trust him. Trust him utterly. You’d offered him water and tucked the hem of his tunic without asking and smiled when he hissed as the brace scraped raw his knee. All he had to do was reach. Just a flick of his hand, your wrist in his palm, the other around your throat—

No.

NO.

He’d taken a whore once, in the Street of Silk. She’d laughed while he fumbled, older, knowing, cruel. He’d not gone back. Not since. It wasn’t want that he’d felt that night. It was a dull ache. A theory. A duty to manhood. He had not even come.

But this—this was not theory.

He’d read about it, heard it in whispers and in sloppy written novels that bored him to death even while listening the retelling. Something about ‘ravishing’ and ‘restraint’ and ‘temptation’ and ‘the flex of hand and the white-hot desire when she leaned on his arm while getting out of wheelhouse’. He heard about it and laughed because he thought that inaction is easier than the action and being tempted by other’s flesh is a skill issue. But now, it makes horrifying, undeniable sense.

This was a blight, rotting through his marrow. This was a fever with no cure. Not in the poetic sense. Not in some metaphor scrawled in a bard’s song. His hands physically. fucking. itch. As if his body is saying: Do something.

Touch you back. Press a hand to your throat. Slide a palm along the arch of your spine and see if you make a sound.

Take.

What if I don't hold back?

What if I break?

What if I want so much I ruin you for it?

And that thought — that one — is what breaks him.

Because he would. Would ruin you.

Not out of malice. But out of magnitude. Because he doesn’t know how to want gently. Never learned how. Never needed to.

And you are so close. Your mouth is soft and unsmiling, and you smell like wormwood and crushed lemon leaf and not fear. And him being a cripple would not stop him from tugging you down and forcing himself on you, but you seem to be unaware.

That’s the worst of it.

You are not afraid of him.

You should be.

So he assigns someone else.

No fanfare. No notice. No explanation.

He speaks to the quartermaster in the same breath as ordering his boots polished and his ledgers updated.

“Replace them. Give them other duties.”

The new handmaid is terrified of him. She drops his shirt the first time she dresses him. That’s fine. Good.

You never come again.

And he doesn’t see your expression when you hear about it. Doesn’t hear you say “Oh. Okay.” in that small, neutral voice. Doesn’t see the way your hands freeze just briefly over the jar of salve, then move on.

But he imagines it. Daily.

He lies awake thinking about you not being there. And it hurts less than you being there. And somehow that is worse than anything.

Aegon finds it hilarious.

“Gods,” he wheezes, slouched against small mountain of pillows. “The mighty Prince Regent, the One-Eyed Terror of the Riverlands, reduced to a blushing maiden because little [name] doesn’t say hello with a smile anymore—”

He pauses for effect, then lets out a strangled little hic, laughter shaking his ribs.

Aemond says nothing. As usual. Just stands there with his arms crossed, eye twitching like he’s trying to kill Aegon with his mind. But he immediately feels bad about the lingering thought because Aegon says this from beneath approximately eleven pounds of bandages, bitter poultices, and a crushed ego. He’s propped up with pillows, his hair hasn’t been brushed in a week, and his chamber reeks of burnt lavender and dragon rot—but his eyes are sharp again, and that’s dangerous. Aegon sharp is always worse than Aegon stupid.

“Oh, don’t pout,” Aegon goes on, grinning like a devil. “It’s adorable. You’ve got that haunted, pining look. Like a widow in mourning.”

He wipes at his face with his sleeve. “Tell me, when did it happen, hm? Was it the poison thing? Or was it when they were elbow-deep in your guts, tending to your fevered nonsense while you muttered sweet nothings in High Valyrian?”

Aemond’s knuckles flex.

“You really dismissed them?” Aegon asks, incredulous. “Truly? I thought that was a rumor. Gods be good. You daft, self-flagellating virgin.”

“I am not a—”

“Oh, you’re a spiritual virgin. Same thing.”

“I’m Prince Regent—”

“You’re blue-balled and spiralling!”

Aemond turns out to stride off dramatically, forgetting about the pain and the limp.

Then:

“...do you want me to talk to them?”

Aemond turns very slowly.

“No.”

“I’ll be sweet.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll say you write poetry.”

“Aegon—”

“‘Oh [name], my soul doth ache / For thy foul starched apron and poisoned cake—’”

Aemond purses his lips, muscles twitch in his jaw. His hair whipping in the air as he practically bolts to the door, to save himself from humiliation in case Aegon notices his furiously blushing ears.

Aegon calls after him with an evil little grin, “Don’t worry! They’re not speaking to you, but I bet they’d still change your chamber pot if you shat yourself.”

Door slams.

Aegon kicks his feet up, toasts his cup of the herbal tea to the empty air, and says to no one in particular, “I give it a week.”

[beggamoth]

The Green Queen

summary | Alicent is the Green Queen, who haunts the Red Keep. she appears to the knights at the seven day of the seventh moon and challenges them: a knight must chop off her head and she'll come and give them the taste of their own medicine after a year and a day. she is believed to be sort of an urban legend, however they keep finding knights in the keep in their beds with their heads severed. Jaime, the kingsguard, volunteers out of sheer spite.

pairing | ghost!alicent hightower x jaime lannister

notes | just a crackfic. really wanted to write something about alicent haunting the keep and then saw jaimicent (if that’s how we call it) edit on tiktok and it just happened. the plot based on the arthurian legend about the green knight but there we have the green queen, obviously. kinda did jaime dirty here tbh. very chopped english. not proofread (again)

wordcount | 2,9k

It wasn’t a novice that the Red Keep was haunted – hells, the walls here carried echoes of screams died in the past centuries and floors were soaked with blood, you could’ve imagined joints between stones soaked with red. Court ladies spoke of whispers from the tapestries, and one septon who had less hair than sense claimed to have seen dragon skulls in the cellars breathing flames.

However, the Green Queen, as they called her, was more tangible than the fable. She came on the seventh day of the seventh moon to for some unfortunate knight and give him a choice, always a choice.

“Strike me now,” she’d say, voice as deep as a cavern, vocal cords crusting like dead branches from unuse, “and I’ll strike you back after a year and a day.”

And they struck. Foolish boys. Lords with swords too big for their egos.

Always she knelt, face mockingly calm, as they raised their blades. Always her head rolled, green blood staining stone. Always she rose again, whole by moonrise. They fled, and ended up headless in their beds, but with no blood, no signs of struggle, just the head missing – as though it had politely excused itself from the rest of the body

By the time the Small Council noticed, there were six knights and no heads.

They said she walked the Keep barefoot, trailing blood and myrrh. They said she was beautiful, but they always say that of horrors. They said she was so tall, her swamp head hit the doorframes. As will be discovered later, none of those accounts can be trusted.

The lion who killed kings wasn’t afraid of fairy tales and had no patience for ghosts.

No, Jaime Lannister volunteered in a fit spite.

“Give me the fucking axe,” he snapped.

“Ser Jaime, you don’t believe it?”

“I believe you’re all fools for letting a story slit more throats than a war,” Jaime laughed. “If she’s real, I’ll swing first and sleep fine. If not, I’ll have more ghost tales to laugh about come morning.”

He was still bitter from being ignored in the bard’s latest ballad. Ser Gwayne had gotten three verses just for dying honorably. Jaime had saved an entire realm once (in a way). All he got were whispers about incest and backstabbed kings. At least the Green Queen had more flair.

They didn’t stop him. Who would stop the Kingslayer, the Lion with one hand and no fucks left?

It didn’t happen in Godswood, like all trysts, deaths, oaths and weddings. He went to the sept in the Red Keep, the old one, overgrown and half-crumbling. Because where else would he find a woman who died as devout as septa.

Jaime waited there until midnight. She came at the seventh bell.

She was not beautiful, not in any way that should be permitted. Her hair was black now, moss-slick and wet as though dredged from a well. Her gown shimmered like absinthe smoke, shifting between velvet and decay. Her skin was green, but not the color of life. It was the green of rot, of drowned things. Her expression is exactly what you’d expect from a woman who spent her mortal life sandwiched between scheming men and drunken kings.

"Ser Jaime Lannister," she said, mouth curling like a bow drawn back. "Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. But not a coward."

He bared his teeth, white and wolfish. “You’re not real.”

“Then strike me.”

He didn’t hesitate. He swung. The blade passed clean, too clean. Her head tumbled, hair streaming like wildfire smoke. It rolled across the floor with a thup-thup-thup and bumped to a stop against his boot.

Green Queen remained standing. Then she reached for it.

And took her head in her arms, cradling it like a babe.

“A year and a day,” she said. And left. No black smoke or fire tongues lapping at her frame. Simply walked through the door, but he didn't hear any footstapes echoing through the corridor.

Jaime forgot about her, or pretended to. War was war. Cersei needed attention. Tommen needed guarding. The world didn’t stop for dead queens. And yet…

The haunting began small.

Every time he swore, he heard a tsk from behind the drapes.

Every time he skipped morning prayers (which was rather often), the door to the Sept would swing open with a bang and stay open until he went in.

She rearranged his books. Pious titles on the top. All the lewd songs pushed into drawers.

One night, he came back to his chamber and found all of his wine bottles gone, replaced by watered smallclothes and a note written in absurdly crisp handwriting:

"Spiritual clarity requires abstinence."

He burned the note.

It returned. Etched into the wood of his table.

The first night, she stood in his mirror.

He blinked. She was gone.

The second, she sat at the end of his bed. Just watching.

The third time was special. The third time she spoke, though nothing pleasant came out from her swamp mouth. The Green Queen appeared over his left shoulder in the training yard. He saw her in the polished sword. A flicker of pale green, half a face. Jaime was shirtless, sweaty, mid-swing with his training sword, and absolutely in no shape to deal with judgmental relics of the past.

“Are you… why are you here?!”

“You swing like a Stormlander drunk on cider,” Green Queen replied, crisply. “You owe me time, ser. And I detest poor posture. Fix your spine. This is an insult to every noble back that ever carried armor.”

“If I cared what ghosts thought,” he said, “I’d ask my father.”

She flinched.

Just slightly.

“That was unnecessarily rude,” she said.

“And you’re haunting me like I’m a squire with piss-poor table manners. Call it even.”

Next time, he was writing a letter to Brienne when the ink suddenly turned red. Blood red.

Then the quill moved in his hand.

It scratched across the page, correcting his spelling. Sersjant became Sergeant. Enclowsed became enclosed, thou absentminded goat.

He stared at the words. She whispered behind him:

“Tyland Lannister would’ve had better grammar at five.”

“Tyland was a weasel who counted coin for dragons,” Jaime growled.

“Tyland could at least spell ‘regards’.”

Among all the ways she chose to haunt the Keep, the Green Queen did something she’s never done before since her death. It first happened in this tender pre-dawn hour, around three in the morning.

Jaime had just started dreaming: something about Brienne, a white horse, and a bowl of soup he couldn’t quite reach, when the room turned cold.

Then the sobbing started.

Not delicate tears.

No. It was wail. Ugly, ripping, unnatural grief that rattled the Keep’s stone like a storm trying to get inside. The sound of a mother who’d lost everything and couldn’t say it aloud.

Jaime sat up, instantly furious and already exhausted.

“Alicent, if this is about my boots again-”

Then he saw her.

She was not like before. No cool perfection. No tight-pressed mouth and steel in her spine. She stood at the feet of his bed and wept, eyes open and endless, spilling black tears down her embroidered gown. She moaned like the walls themselves were splitting.

“Aegon,” she whispered hoarsely. “Aemond… Daeron, where… where are you?”

“You know where they are,” Jaime said gently. He was too disturbed to mock her.

She didn’t know. Or couldn’t accept it.

“Helaena… Jaehaerys… Jaehaera, she was only… her little hands- her bones…”

The sob she let out next was enough to make the fire gutter.

Jaime stared.

He wasn’t good with grief. His own, or someone’s else – too many big feeling and too little big boy words for them in his vocabulary.

“I... don’t know how to help you,” he said honestly.

She just sobbed.

He sat, watching her, his mouth dry, because he remembered another mother screaming once, when Aerys had torched Brandon Stark. Because grief was the only scream that sounded clean.

And it would’ve been easier if she kept it to his room.

But no.

That night, she haunted every inch of the Keep. Through the queen’s chambers, sobbing “Aegon” in broken pieces. Down the corridors, trailing black veils, her head in her arms, her voice echoing through the stone. And in the royal solar, where Cersei Lannister was half-drunk on Arbor Gold, she appeared behind her.

No announcement. No drama. Just a soft sob from the fireplace and then the voice. A tender lilt of the Green Queen’s voice, the steady rhythm, the soothing tones. Like a tired mother who moves from words into humming, holding the baby until he’s just tired enough that she can slip him into the crib, praying he won’t wake up in that movement.

“Swallow, swallow, give me four sips of milk: // For a cold body, // A heavy heart, // A yearning thought, // A stricken feeling.”

Cersei screamed.

Knocked over a goblet. Slapped herself.

And then…

She sobered. Visibly. A full body clench of realization.

“She’s here?” she gasped. “Jaime, what did you do?!”

“Beheaded her,” Jaime muttered.

“That usually works!”

Anyways, she always returned to her usual self the next day. Hair pristine. Head exactly where it should be. Cold and uptight as always.

But there was a tightness around her mouth.

She spoke while folding Jaime’s tunic. (Jaime never argued)

“Rhaenys is unbearable,” she said plainly. “She keeps accusing me of poisoning Viserys. As if I had the energy.”

“You did, didn’t you?”

“Of course not. But I should have. He kept drooling over a model city and muttering about balustrades in High Valyrian style all days long.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“No. I told her to adjust her neckline. She’s been dead for two century and still cannot find a proper bodice.”

She handed Jaime the folded tunic. He blinked.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Because your laundry system is an abomination.”

Later that week:

“Ser Criston is a mess,” she said absently while reorganizing Jaime’s books. “He weeps in the cellars and writes poetry about white cloaks stained in green. Nonsense.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Aemond avoids me. He haunts Harrenhal’s upper east tower and refuses to acknowledge death. Typical.”

“And Daeron?”

She stopped.

The candle beside her flickered.

“I haven’t found him yet.”

And then she vanished.

The Green Queen wouldn’t leave him alone. She judged from a height of moral righteousness that left even the most pious Septon feeling the need to apologize for the sin of breathing. She floated down hallways like a cathedral in motion. When she crossed her arms, bells rang in seven kingdoms. When she sniffed, entire bloodlines withered.

Once she found him lounging against the railing of a tower balcony, bored and aching from sparring.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Waiting to see if I fall?” he asked.

“Praying,” she replied serenely. “That the wind might find purpose.”

He fell in love a little that day.

He tried flirting. It wasn’t even conscious. He was just wired that way, like an old hunting trap: rusted, broken, but still designed to snap shut when something stepped too close.

She never blushed. She barely reacted. When he complimented her hair: “reminds me of summer moss, if moss were made of silk and pain”— she frowned at him for twenty seconds and then said, “You were breastfed too long, weren’t you?”

He grinned like a stable boy whose master tossed him a coin.

Another time, he passed her in the Sept, where she stood scowling at the statues of the Crone and the Mother like they’d slighted her personally. He leaned against a pillar and watched her.

“I think of you when I pray,” he offered.

She didn’t turn.

“You mistake self-interest for piety,” she said coolly. “I should slap your teeth out.”

He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

“You mistake desperation for charm.”

“And you mistake scorn for foreplay.”

That got her attention. Slowly, she turned. Her eyes were like candlelight caught in a bottle of poison.

“Ser Jaime,” she said, as if it were a curse, “do not mistake my continued tolerance for affection. I remain only because I pity you.”

“I’m flattered,” he said. “Not even Cersei pitied me.”

She left in a swirl of skirts and incense smoke.

He stood there grinning like he’d just been knighted again.

He started looking for her, after that.

Not because he liked her — though he did, in a way that was masochistic and frankly degrading — but because she knew things. Saw things.

“Am I damned?” he asked once, alone in his chamber with only her and the ghosts of his youth to keep him company.

She stared at him like he’d asked her to scrub floors. “You’re not important enough to damn.”

“Ouch.”

“You came into this world golden and promising, and spent every day after proving the gods wrong.”

He held her gaze. “So why haven’t you taken my head?”

She didn’t smile. Not really. But something passed over her face, a flicker of bitter fondness, like a nun watching a dog try to read scripture.

“Because even the gods require entertainment.”

A year without a day later, Jaime walked to the Old Sept like a man already halfway to his own funeral. He’d stopped counting the steps moons ago. He could walk this path blindfolded: up the curling stair behind Maegor’s holdfast, through the narrow hallway choked with ivy that never seemed to wither, to the little chamber behind the throne where the air always smelled like wax and dust and something older than rot, with half-crumbling walls held back only by the moss growing through them and light was bleeding through the stained glass windows.

The Green Queen stood as if waiting for the offerings at her feet, picking at her fingers impatiently. There was a sheathed blade in her arms, rusted, older than time, but undeniably sharp.

Jaime stepped inside. The door thudded shut, sealing them in cold stone and colder silence. He halted just beyond the reach of her spectral chill.

“I’m here,” he said.

Her head turned, slow as a rusted portcullis. Eyes like chips of obsidian locked onto him. "Your powers of observation remain… unparalleled, Kingslayer."

“To renew the bargain.”

"The bargain. I’m renewing it."

A silence followed, thick and suffocating: falling dust motes froze mid air.

"I’d... hoped otherwise." – she said quietly, almost to herself. "I know you did." "You are a profound fool." "Never claimed otherwise."

She exhaled, long and slow, like the wind blowing across a cathedral full of extinguished candles.

“Ser Jaime. "One clean stroke tonight. My blade. Your neck. An end to all this... tedium," Her fingers flexed on the dagger’s hilt. "Spare us the year.".”

He looked at her then. Not defiant, not proud. Just… Jaime. Wet, sad, kicked dog Jaime, with his tired eyes and mouth trying not to twitch into a self-deprecating smirk. His eyes held a terrifying, naked want.

“I’m not doing this for your sake.”

“Oh?” Her brow arched.

He swallowed. “I don’t want to stop seeing you.”

She blinked once. Very slowly.

“You want to be haunted, then,” she said flatly.

“I want…” His jaw clenched. “You.”

“You have nothing,” she corrected, sharp as a sting of a slap. “I am not a woman to be won and bedded. I am not a prize. I am not a dream. I am an oath given form. I am death with rules.”

“I know.” Though he could argue about the bedding. Alicent, as if sensing his thoughts, frowned deeper.

“And yet you keep crawling back, tongue lolling, asking me to strike you down.”

“Yes.”

“You squander breath. Squandered life.”

“I was never using it very well,” he murmured.

She looked at him for a long time. Her expression softened, but not with pity. Something else. Not affection — he wouldn’t dare name it that. Recognition, maybe. The grim kind you have when you spot another soul in the same sinking boat.

“You’re so damnably loyal,” she said, voice full of disgust.

He straightened his back slightly. “I never was. Until you.”

“Oh, spare me.” She turned, pacing a few feet away, the train of her gown whispering like reeds in the wind. “You want to wear your punishment like it makes you holy. Spare me the poetry. You fetishize your guilt. Wrap the shroud tight, preen in the mirror – look how beautifully I bleed! Pathetic."

He said nothing.

“You enjoy kneeling.”

“Yes,” he said immediately, without shame.

She whirled on him. “And you think this amuses me?”

“No,” he said, and smiled very slightly. “But you make me... want to deserve the blade.”

“I ought to take your head now, before you say something else ridiculous.”

He stepped forward, just once, his boots scraping against the ancient stone.

“I’m yours, My Queen.”

That froze her.

She didn’t blink. Her mouth didn’t move. Just her eyes, widening a fraction, the veil stirring slightly around her shoulders, like something unseen had just breathed out behind her.

“You grasp nothing. ‘Mine’ means obedience. Absolute. Unquestioning. Painful."

“Try me.”

"Discipline? Duty? Structure?"

“No,” he said again, and somehow smiled wider. “But I’m learning.”

“You would kneel?”

He knelt.

Not with mockery. Not in jest. Not like he knelt to beg mercy, or to plead or to please. He knelt as if before something holy. Something that could destroy him — and still might — but hadn’t.

Yet.

Alicent stepped forward. She looked down at him. Then lifted one hand. And placed it lightly on his head, fingers threading into his hair just shy of pain, but not unkind.

"Oh, Jaime Lannister... you wretched, perfect fool."

He laughed. A raw, choked sound that echoed off the saints.

When she vanished, the scent left behind wasn't decay. It was ozone. Iron. And the faint, impossible warmth of a queen’s reluctant hand.

For another year and a day.

[beggamoth]

Characters with canon descriptions of their pubic hair:

-The Lannister Chucklefuck Trio (Cersei, Tyrion, Jaime), Osmund Kettleblack, Asha Greyjoy, Qarl the Maid, Taena Merryweather, Robert Baratheon, Arienne Martell, Daenerys (I'm pretty sure), almost certainly more.

Canon descriptions of how agriculture works with decades-long winters:

-

[beggamoth]

[beggamoth]

@pyros-hollow my bad bff 🙏

[beggamoth]

The First Supper

Contains gooning material

summary | your boyfriend introduces you to his dysfunctional family on the holiday dinner. and later fucks you in his childhood bed.

pairing | aegon II targaryen x fem!reader

tags | modern au!westeros. TEAM GREEN CENTERED!!! TW! mentions of substance use and alcohol. p in v sex, tiddy sukkin, breeding kink (like 2 sentences), body worship, not proofread. very chopped english. contains one (1) succession reference.

wordcount | 5k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

Aegon Targaryen had learned many forms of dread: waking up on some stranger’s yacht with a black eye and no pants, the trembling hours after an Instagram DM slide turned into a PR disaster, the slow realization he’d lost his phone in Flea Bottom again.

But nothing compared to this: bringing you home.

His girlfriend, the apple of his eye, the loveliest but probably the dumbest person he’s ever met – because about a year ago you stayed for breakfast against all better judgement, now sat beside him on the backseat of his overpriced, over-compensatory car. He wore sunglasses despite the sun long having set, chewing a toothpick like it would protect him from the chaos of his lineage. Aegon loved his family, truly, irrevocably, in this desperate way that he would not admit when he’s sober and not actively dying. However, it never saved him from secondhand embarrassment in front of other people. In front of you. Fear that you’ll see the root of his fuckedup-ness and run away before mom showed you his baby photos or Aemond quoted mistakes from his college application letters while balancing dagger on his finger or something equally menacing.

“You can still run,” he whispered, voice low, eyes sparkling with that Aegon Targaryen deflectionary charm, one foot twitching like he might join her. “They’ll just assume you were imaginary. Like the others.”

You smiled. Didn’t say anything. Just touched his hand, grounding. Which was horrifying. No one grounded Aegon. He was a helium balloon with a coke problem.

The house looked like a mausoleum that had discovered central air. Columns. Gargoyles. A fire pit for some reason. The dinner table was long and cold and ancient, with enough chairs for dead ancestors.

Alicent Hightower—matriarch, corporate priestess, human dagger—greeted you at the door. She kissed Aegon’s cheeks and murmured, disapprovingly:

“You’re late,”

“Hello to you, mother. I am alive and that’s what matters most,” he returned, deadpan.

Helaena sat already in her chair, bent over a plate of untouched salad, murmuring something to a beetle in a decorated mason jar filled with leaves and earth she’d brought inside her oversized knit bag. Aemond stood by the wine bar, pouring himself a generous glass of red like it was blood and he needed it to survive. His eyepatch was a matte black strip, thick like the band of a designer watch.

Aegon cleared his throat. “Everybody, this is…” He trailed off, not saying her name, because he liked the sacredness of keeping her outside them for just a minute longer. “My—uh, actual girlfriend. As in, not part of a monthly rotation.”

Aemond’s lip curled in an approximation of a smile. “Brave girl.”

Helaena looked up, dreamy-eyed. “You’re not a cricket, but you’re nice. I think that’s better.”

You blinked. “Thank you?”

“Please sit,” Alicent said, motioning like a museum docent pointing toward an uncomfortable mid-century chair. “I made roast duck.”

“She means she hired someone to make roast duck,” Aegon whispered across the table, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “Last time she cooked, the smoke alarm wept.”

“You lit the oven with a match, Aegon,” Alicent replied, cutting her duck with surgical precision. “It was an electric oven.”

“And yet the house remains,” he said, lifting his glass in toast. “To sacred days and improbable survival.”

The conversation was a seesaw from the start. Alicent asked poised questions — “What are your views on career longevity?” and “Do you find monogamy restrictive or grounding?” — while maintaining direct eye contact like she was mining for weaknesses. You answered sweetly, self-assured, and that only made Alicent’s fork movements more deliberate.

“So,” Aemond said, swirling his wine, with a tone of a resting anime villain. “What exactly is your angle here?”

“Excuse me?” you asked.

“Dating my brother. There must be a reason. He’s… entertaining, sure. But like a street performer. You don’t usually take them home.”

“Aemond,” Alicent said in her best controlled warning voice.

“No, no, let him speak,” Aegon said, grinning like a wolf who’d spotted a fresh kill. “Go on, brother, tell us how you really feel.”

Aemond turned to their guest again. “Just trying to understand the strategic advantage.”

“She’s not a treaty, you sociopath,” Aegon snapped. “She’s a human.”

“She’s someone you brought into this,” Aemond replied, voice cool. “She’s now part of the chessboard.”

Helaena clapped softly. “I like chess. But the pieces scream if you listen too close.”

There was a pause.

“Right,” Aegon muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Family dinner’s going great, by the way. No notes.”

The duck was overcooked, but nobody mentioned it.

Midway through, the Dornish wine loosened things. Alicent began reminiscing about the children's baptisms. “Aegon fell into the fountain during his own. Completely naked, waving his arms like Neptune risen.”

“Big dick energy,” Aegon muttered.

“Aegon!” Alicent hissed.

“You walked in on me doing coke off a Dorne-themed map once, mother. I think we’re past the point of clutching pearls.”

Aemond chuckled darkly. “That was a good party, though.”

“That was your graduation dinner,” Alicent snapped.

“Ah, right,” Aemond said, smiling thinly.

You had stopped eating, watching them all like you’d just stumbled into a live taping of a psychological experiment. Aegon leaned toward you, hand sliding to rest on your thigh beneath the table, fingers warm and tense.

“See?” he murmured. “You thought I was exaggerating.”

You smiled faintly, leaned back, and squeezed his hand under the cloth. “You didn’t say enough.”

The fire crackled like an old secret refusing to die, its orange light spilling across the rug in soft, uneven pulses. The rest of the house had finally fallen quiet—Aemond had vanished upstairs, Helaena had wandered off with her insects and half a plate of cookies, and Aegon had gone outside for a cigarette that had already turned into twenty minutes of pacing on the patio. That left you alone in the parlor with Alicent, who had sat down with you like it was a business meeting and then, somewhere around her third glass of Dornish red, had begun to unravel with the delicate slowness of a tapestry snagged on a nail.

“-he was a colicky baby, actually,” she was saying now, staring into the fire. “Cried for hours. Nights without sleep, days feeling like one. I remember pacing the nursery barefoot, praying to the Mother to take pity and just let him rest. Let me rest.”

You were perched on the edge of the settee, warm but rigid, hands wrapped around your glass as if etiquette were the only thing keeping you upright.

“And yet, he had the most beautiful eyes, even then. Wide and accusing, as though he knew I was bluffing.” Her voice shifted, softening, but not quite tender. “He wouldn’t be soothed unless I rocked him for hours in certain way. He was peculiar even as an infant. Difficult, obstinate. Desperate to be seen, and terrified of what it meant.”

A silence fell, not awkward but immense. She poured another inch of wine into her glass but didn’t drink from it. Her fingers tightened around the stem.

“Aemond was quieter,” she continued, tone almost academic again. “He watched more than he spoke. Methodical, intense. I put on a cassette with war documentaries; it was the only thing that made him sleep through the night. Conquest was his favorite.”

Another pause.

“And Helaena,” she said, almost to herself, “was my little oracle. Always murmuring things I didn’t quite understand. I thought perhaps I’d broken her somehow. That I’d missed the right formula—too little affection, too much structure. But she would hold my hand without warning. Press her forehead to mine and say, ‘You’re trying so hard, Mother. I see you.’”

The wineglass trembled. She set it down with perfect precision, but her voice faltered.

“I see them, you know,” she whispered, almost in awe. “Even now. Children in grown bodies, staggering under all this inheritance—expectation, silence, disappointment. My legacy is restraint. I gave them rules where they needed sanctuary.”

She pressed her thumb to her lip, as if trying to hold back something spilling from within. Her eyes were glassy now, faraway and full. She didn’t blink.

“Aegon,” she said at last, like dropping a stone in still water, “was always so loud. Laughing when he should’ve listened. Mocking what he feared. He’d drink from the decanter in my office and pretend I hadn’t noticed. Pretend I wasn’t watching him become a man too quickly and in the wrong direction. And I-I told myself he’d grow out of it. That indulgence was just adolescence.”

The firelight licked the edge of her profile, catching on a tear she didn’t brush away.

“I don’t know when I started praying for him to just… stop.” Her voice cracked. “To pause. To be still, or sober, or steady, or anything at all. I thought I was asking for peace. But what I wanted—what I want—is for him to be whole.”

She turned fully toward you then, tear-streaked and composed in the most terrifying way, like a statue discovering it could bleed.

“And I see that, now,” she said softly. “With you.”

Your throat was too tight to respond.

“I know what it is to be needed in all the wrong ways,” she said. “Don’t mistake your influence for obligation. He’s exhausting. They all are. If he makes you feel small — leave. If he forgets to love you properly, remember him once, and then go. He deserves more than that. So do you.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“But,” she added, with the smallest laugh, “should you choose to stay... then know that you have done what I could not. And for that-” Her mouth trembled. “For that, I thank you.”

She wept then, silently, the way people do when they’ve forgotten how to ask for help and yet still need to. No wracking sobs, no theatrical moan — just tears, like a cathedral window cracking under centuries of sun.

You reached across the small distance between you and took her hand.

She didn’t flinch.

The hallway outside his old bedroom smelled faintly of dust and lavender polish. The door was ajar, light leaking out across the carpet like a secret trying not to be noticed. You nudged it open.

Aegon was sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg jiggling, a cigarette smoldering in the saucer of a decorative plate that probably once held communion wafers or mints.

He looked up when you stepped in and immediately smiled. Too wide, too bright.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite hostage,” he said, spreading his arms. “Survived the dinner. You're basically family now. We’ll get your blood tested and your name embroidered on a handkerchief.”

You said nothing, just moved to him. He opened his arms wider and pulled you in like gravity had claimed him.

“God,” he breathed against your temple, swaying you side to side in a lazy, slow-rocking motion that wasn’t dancing and wasn’t stillness either. “You’ve got no idea. You’ve really got no fucking idea.”

You didn’t ask. You didn’t need to.

His arms stayed tight around your waist, like he thought you might float into the walls like one of the ghosts haunting the Red Keep. He kissed the side of your head and held it there for a beat too long, breath warm, uneven.

“I don’t deserve this,” he said, quieter now, like confessing to a priest he didn’t believe in. “You. The way you looked at me across that table like I was worth something. That’s not—”

He laughed suddenly, sharp and empty. “Shit, this is where I’d normally spiral and drink myself into a blackout, but I left the minibar behind.”

You curled your fingers into the back of his shirt, and he sighed against you, breathing you in like oxygen had gone extinct everywhere else.

“God, you’re good,” he whispered. “You’re so good it makes me want to fuck you stupid just so I feel like we’re on the same playing field again.”

You leaned back just slightly, caught his smirk creeping in again — cracked at the edges but real, boyish and obscene in the same breath.

“I mean,” he said, tilting his head toward the pillow behind him, “technically speaking, I did just introduce you to the best half of my disfunctional dynasty, and I think it’s only fair you now get fucked in the same bed where my psyche was molded.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He grinned wider, biting his lip, hand sliding down to your hip. “C’mon. It squeaks like hell and the headboard is definitely haunted by my teenage shame. Makes it more fun.”

He laid you back on the mattress without waiting for the verbal approval — soft and too old, springs squeaking in protest under your weight, the sheets smelling like dust and nostalgia. His room preserved adolescent riot in the perfect order: same posters peeling on the wall, same scratch in the headboard from where he’d thrown a tantrum and cracked it with a metal lighter. He crawled over you with all the grace of a boy who knew how to fuck but never quite learned how to feel safe doing it.

“God, you on this bed,” he murmured, sinking down onto his elbows above you, eyes flicking over your face like he was memorizing a crime scene. “This bed’s seen everything. My whole goddamn life.”

You looked up at him, blinking slow, lips parted.

“I mean it. I cried here. Bled here once. Smoked my first cigarette under the blanket with the window cracked like an idiot. Jerked off so much the sheets got crusty.” He laughed under his breath, nose brushing yours, so close his breath hit your lips.

He kissed your cheek. Then your other. Then the tip of your nose.

“Nothing’s ever felt like this though. Like... like this is it. This is the way the circle closes.”

You blinked up at him again, breath caught halfway in your chest.

He kissed your forehead, thumb tracing along your jaw. “Perfect,” he whispered. “You’re just... perfect. Pretty little thing in my arms like some gift the gods decided I didn’t deserve but gave me anyway because they were bored.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, dragging it up slow, lips skimming your collarbone. When he got to your breasts, he made a sound like prayer, open-mouthed, hungry, tongue tracing a slow wet arc around your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth with a low, appreciative groan.

You slapped him lightly on the shoulder with a laugh, half breathless. “You’re a fucking menace.”

He just grinned around your skin, pulled back with a wet pop and looked up at you, flushed and amused and too in love for his own good.

“We should get married,” he said, like he was suggesting pizza for dinner.

You snorted, brushing hair from his eyes. “Right now? After dinner with your terrifying family?”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding like it all made perfect sense. “It would be the equivalent of the thing where I abduct you and force you to live with me, except you’d say yes and I wouldn’t get arrested.”

You stilled beneath him, caught on the word. “That’s not an equivalent.”

He grinned wider, not moving, not apologizing. “Semantics.”

His hands found your hips and pulled you closer, grinding against you just enough to make the air thin between your lungs.

“I’m not saying now,” he said, kissing down your stomach. “I’m just saying. Think about it. We’d make headlines. Or history.”

“Or orphans,” you muttered.

He laughed against your skin, kissed lower, bit at the waistband of your jeans. “Depends how the kids turn out. You know, destructively perfect like us. Full set of teeth and all the wrong ideas.”

“You are not breeding me,” you said flatly.

“We’ll negotiate,” he replied, tugging your pants down with both hands and pressing a kiss just above your hipbone, smug and entirely too fond.

Your shirt was somewhere on the floor, or maybe it had never existed at all — lost to the ether the second Aegon got his hands under it, mouth hungry and reverent. His palms squeezed your breasts as if testing fruit from the market for ripeness, for bruised sides - and finding none. His hair fell in messy strands over his forehead, and he didn’t even try to push it away — he was too focused, too transfixed.

“By the Seven,” he muttered, voice thick with awe, “I could write epics about these.”

You laughed, arching your back slightly as he licked a slow line from the underside of your left breast up to your nipple. “You’ve said that before.”

“Yes, but I meant it with less grandeur then,” he replied, nuzzling the soft curve of flesh with his nose. “These—these are not mere tits. Nay. These are alabaster domes fit for the kings.”

You snorted. “Aegon—”

“Silence, wench,” he cut in, mouth already moving to your other breast. “Let me sing praises unto thy silken orbs.”

“Silken what?”

He lifted his head, eyes fever-bright, solemn like a knight swearing fealty. “Twin orbs of fortune! Bountiful ye stand—lo! Like the hills of Valyria, yet untouched by fire or Doom.”

You giggled, breathless now, one hand in his hair. “You’re such a perv.”

“And proud!” he declared, before latching onto your nipple again, sucking it into his mouth with a wet, obscene moan that vibrated through your ribcage. “Mmmf, fuck. I’d suck these till dawn if you let me. Maybe longer. Like a cursed sailor with the sirens’ song trapped in his throat.”

“Do sirens have tits?”

“I dunno, but yours are better anyways,” he said immediately, one hand now palming your breast, thumb circling slow and firm, the other pinching lightly at the sensitive skin underneath. “Gods, these are too good for me. You're right. I'm a perv. A wretched man.”

You laughed again, helpless, as he bit down just slightly, then soothed the sting with a warm, open-mouthed kiss.

“D’you think they feel it?” he asked suddenly, pulling back just an inch. “The gods. When I do this?”

“When you suck at my tits?”

He nodded solemnly. “I imagine the Stranger flinches. The Crone turns away. But the Mother…” He winked. “The Mother approves.”

“You’re disgusting,” you murmured, pulling him back up by the collar of his wrinkled shirt, kissing him hard, teeth clashing, tongues lazy and warm.

“I am,” he agreed, mouth still half on yours. “And these…” his hands squeezed your breasts again, reverently, “…these are the holy texts.”

He wasn’t seducing you. Aegon moved like a creature crawling back into the dark warmth of its den, needy and desperate. His body covered yours without elegance, hips flush to yours, breath hot and impatient, grunts leaving his throat. This wasn’t about performance, not for him. He didn’t care if it was pretty. He didn’t care about lighting or timing or the way the bed creaked with every push of his knee.

He needed.

His fingers were already between your legs, not gentle, not rough—just there, desperate, sliding through folds still damp with arousal and lazy warmth. It had been a long day. You hadn’t showered. The room smelled like sweat, a little like wine and dust from the heavy old duvet that had seen too many years folded under the weight of his adolescence. But none of it stopped him. If anything, it pulled him deeper.

“Mmm, fuck,” he murmured into your throat, one finger sinking inside you with a slick, gluttonous sound, followed by a second almost immediately after. He didn’t tease, didn’t ask. He just pressed in deeper, jaw clenching, like he could bury himself whole if he pushed far enough. “Warm. Fuck, you’re so warm.”

His hips rolled against the side of your thigh, mindlessly, cock stiff in his boxers and grinding into your skin as if by accident. His face was half-buried in your neck, one cheek pressed against your collarbone while his free hand cupped your breast again like it grounded him. He moaned, like he felt it all in his chest.

He moved down your body, dragging his face against your skin like a dog burrowing under a blanket. No buildup, no foreplay, no clever lines. Just need. By the time he got between your legs, he wasn’t saying anything at all. He spread you with both hands, fingers slick from what he’d already taken, and looked at you with glassy, wild eyes.

And then he dove in.

No ceremony. No teasing. Just his tongue pushing against your folds, mouth dragging open kisses that were all spit and breath, his nose nudging into the mess as if the smell didn’t just not bother him — it wrecked him. He moaned against your cunt like he was the one being touched, face grinding into you, licking with a fast, needy rhythm that bordered on frantic.

You shifted beneath him, trying to catch your breath, but he didn’t slow. He grunted against your pussy, muffled and sloppy, wet sounds filling the room along with the creaking of the bed as he adjusted himself, rutting his cock into the mattress.

You carded your fingers into his hair and tugged—not harsh, just enough to make him pause and look up. His mouth and chin were slick, red, nose shiny, eyes hazy.

He looked dazed. Grateful.

And then he was crawling back up, yanking his boxers down to his knees, not even bothering to fully strip. His cock slapped against your thigh, hot and hard and leaking, and he lined it up with one hand, the other braced by your head as he panted.

“I… fuck, I’m not gonna last. I just-” he groaned, sliding in, slow but deep, teeth bared, eyes fluttering shut. “Just wanna be inside. Just wanna feel you.”

The bed moaned beneath you both, the smell of dust and sweat and old cotton rising with every sharp thrust, but you didn’t care. He was fucking into you like it was the only place he’d ever felt safe. Like your cunt was a mouth swallowing his past, his shame, the echo of every mistake he never fixed.

His rhythm was fast, greedy. Not cruel. Just desperate. Like he was afraid you’d vanish if he stopped.

“You feel so — fuck — you’re real,” he gasped, hips stuttering, face buried against your shoulder again. “You’re fucking real. I’m gonna—god, I can’t-”

You dug your nails into his back, and he came with a choked-off moan, cock pulsing inside you, his whole body tense like a drawn bowstring. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just held you close, panting, face buried against your skin, breath shaking like something had cracked open inside him.

He wasn’t seductive.

He was starving.

He started humping like he couldn’t help himself—his body moving in lazy, dragging thrusts, not fully withdrawn, just rocking into you again and again with the heavy pressure of someone not trying to impress, only trying to get as deep as his hips would let him. His cock wasn’t long. But it was thick, undeniably so — meaty and blunt and sheathed in soft skin that caught just a little when he shifted, every push nudging against sensitive walls with a wet, sloshing noise that was growing louder by the second.

It wasn't even rhythm, not really. More like instinct. Animal persistence.

And you could feel all of him — his weight settling harder with every grind, lean now, but not built for delicacy. His back was tight, sinewy under your palms, but his hips already carried the heaviness of future stock. You could tell. One day, he’d be broad in a way that left no room for fragility. Not like Aemond, who was build like a twink, for the lack of better wording. Aegon would always be warm, solid, heavy, with his own center of gravity.

His cock dragged slow inside you again, thick enough that your cunt squelched, loud and obscene, and that made him pause—just a second. His eyes lit up.

“Oh my fucking gods,” he breathed, blinking down at the place where you were joined. Another slick, sucking noise followed as he shifted his hips and sank deeper, groaning. “You hear that?”

You rolled your eyes and tried to breathe through the pressure.

But he grinned, still moving, just a little, the rhythm getting messier. “She’s talking,” he said, breathless, high on it. “Your pretty cunt’s got opinions. Listen to her—”

And then, in the dumbest, shrillest falsetto he could manage, he imitated the noise:

“Y-yes daddy,” he squeaked, barely moving his lips as if the sound were coming straight from your pussy. “Yes daddy your dumpy little cock makes me feel so gooooood—!”

You burst out laughing so hard it broke the tension in your spine. He didn’t stop humping. In fact, your laughter just made it worse—made him grin harder, eyes bright and fucked-out, sweat beading on his brow.

“Wait wait—wait listen, she’s got more to say,” he gasped between thrusts, voice still in that high, quivering pitch as he shoved in again, the noise even wetter now.

“Ohh ohhh mister Targaryen sirrrr, put a fucking ring on me so I can be your officially betrothed cum dumpster—”

You hit his shoulder, laughing too hard to breathe. “Stop it, you absolute degenerate.”

He didn’t. His hips kept grinding in little circles, his cock pulsing hard inside you with every lewd squelch. “She’s a talker,” he whispered, face buried in your neck now. “Gods, I love her.”

Another thrust. Another sound.

“You’re both so fucking loud,” he muttered, biting your ear with a grin. “I’m gonna end up worshipping you till my dick falls off.”

And then, against your throat, voice low again, amused and exhausted and real:

“But seriously. You make the best noises.”

He came with a grunt muffled into your neck, a low, clenching sound that pulsed straight through his stomach into yours. His cock went soft and limp inside you as he spilled, hips grinding through it with short, greedy thrusts like he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from your body, not even for the second it would take to slip out. It was raw and slow and so fucking messy—your cunt wet and aching, stuffed full of him, every twitch of his cock inside sending another slick aftershock sliding down your thighs and onto the dust-worn sheets beneath.

He didn’t move for a long moment.

Just collapsed, half on you, half beside you, breathing hard, face flushed and damp with sweat, nose smushed against your collarbone. You could feel the stickiness between your legs spreading, cooling slowly in the heat of the room, and neither of you said anything about it. There was no point. He wasn’t going to apologize. You weren’t going to ask him to.

And then, without a word, he rolled off you, rummaged blindly through the drawer beside the bed—half hanging open, crammed with old cigarette packs, broken lighters, a sticky bottle of lube, and two AA batteries—and pulled out a knife. Just a small one, but sharp. Old. The tip was stained from when he used it to cut open a can of peaches at age sixteen because he was too high to find the can opener.

You watched, still sprawled half-naked on your back, lazy and glowing, legs spread just slightly where his cum still leaked from you.

He knelt up on the mattress, took a moment to push the headboard curtain aside, and began to carve.

Slow and deliberate, like he’d done it before. Like this wasn’t the first time his name was gouged into the furniture of this house.

“What are you doing?” you asked finally, voice thick and soft and lazy.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even glance back.

“Making it official.”

You squinted. The headboard was ridiculously massive, a slab of carved oak that probably weighed more than both of you did and had stood through decades of moaning, crying, and solo existential crises. He carved your initials with care, a little heart, and then—beneath it, with exaggerated flare—wrote out in rough, slashing strokes:

Aegon II ❤️ [your name]

All the letters uneven. The heart skewed slightly to the left.

You raised a brow. “You could’ve just put A.T.”

He scoffed without turning. “There’s at least three fuckers in this cursed family whose names start with A.”

He finished the heart with a jab of the tip, tossed the knife onto the nightstand like he was done with all tasks for the day, then rolled back toward you with a smirk.

“You’re not getting confused and accidentally fucking Aemond in here someday. This-” he thumped the headboard with his palm, “-this says it was me.”

You laughed. “You really think Aemond would carve a heart?”

“Exactly,” he said, tugging you back toward him with that lazy, pervy grin, already burying his face in your shoulder again like he was winding down for round two or a nap. “He’d burn the whole bed before leaving a trace. I leave receipts.”

His cum was still dripping between your legs.

His name was now in the wood behind your head.

And he was already half-asleep, grinning into your skin like the animal he was, one arm heavy across your stomach, breathing all content and possessive.

“Aegon, second of his name,” you murmured.

He nuzzled you.

“Mhmm. That’s right.”

[beggamoth]

To Wed A Dragon. pt 3

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

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

parts | 1 2 3

tags | TW!!! OMEGAVERSE!!! VERY OOC AEMOND!!! DUBCON!!! not proofread. slowburn (sort of). very very chopped english. Beginning is his journal, the rest is just pure smut. breeding kink, degradation (if you close your eyes).

wordcount | 3k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

Contains gooning material

3rd Moon, 128 AC.

If some shameless voyeur still reads my journal to gloat at my misfortunes, daring to invade my revelation and scoff at my honesty (though most men barely have the guts for it), it is worth designating that I have succeeded against all odds and your better judgement.

I married her, reader. We were wed in the third month of 128 AC in Baelor's sept under the eyes of gods and men.

The wedding was rushed and everyone knew it. Rushed not in a way where we needed to hide a belly, but rather in a way that nobility rushes when something unseemly has already occurred and the paperwork must catch up before the court has time to sharpen its questions. Scent-bonding was supposed to happen during the consummation night. Still, it happened in a dirty courtyard while we were both ankles-deep in the wet mud, scratching and biting each other not like a man and a woman grown, but like two feral children fighting for a toy.

Now I think that it was for the better.

The High Septon muttered through the rites with eyes carefully averted. The musicians played slow, mournful chords better suited to funerals. The only flowers were bitter hyacinths and pale lilies, and someone (likely a bored Lannister cousin) remarked that the whole affair smelled like a war truce dressed as a union. But it does not matter, because we said our vows, she took off her maiden cloak and I put my own around her shoulders. It is never about passion or tenderness. It was final. And she was mine at that moment. She is mine. She will be.

The feast was quick and unusually polite. Except my brother, who made a joke about the bedding ceremony that made Mother cry in her goblet.

My lady wife (I enjoy writing and saying this word more than I should) sat beside me like a patience on a monument, hands folded in her lap, face uptight – not vacant, but eclipse. Like a candle that hadn’t been lit yet, unsure if it would burn or melt.

The night followed. There was no bedding ceremony – the moment there was some movement in the lower rows, I made it clear by unsheathing my dagger and slamming it into the table. The commotion died instantly.

She was sitting with her back to me on the bed when I entered our wedding chamber. Her hair was undone. Her white shift draped over her body like on the statue of an ancient goddess, leaving just as much room for speculation as to whether she meant to tempt me or existed only for her own pleasure. She turned her head.

And it's a horrible, sappy thing to say, reader, but I had a hard time imagining a more beautiful woman at that moment.

I found her beautiful - in a way where I am sure of it but cannot prove. It was the kind of beauty, in which nature has not erred her in the slightest feature, where every brushstroke fell perfectly in place. It felt for some reason that the most beautiful woman in the world should have the same nose as [name], the same eyes, the same eyelashes, the same way her hair curls on her forehead. She wasn't the Valyrian stone-faced perfection, no, but if the color of her hair suddenly changed to silver and her skin became white as pearls, the Gods-inspired harmony would be shattered, and she would lose all her charm.

I wanted to say something pleasant, something inspiring, something worthy of her beauty. However, she spoke first:

“Well,” she said, voice dry, brittle. “Go on, then. Mount your prize. Get your heir. Put your dragon in the Royce hutch and call it a good day’s work.”

I shouldn’t have expected to hear such obscenities, but for whatever reason I couldn’t find a modicum of surprise in me at her crude words. I spoke:

“You think this is about heirs?-”

“What the fuck else would it be about?” she snapped. “You think I want this? You think I’m sitting here because I’m gagging for your royal cock?”

The phrase caught me off guard. My royal cock. I laughed. She looked startled.

“You could be gagging,” I said. “You don’t know yet.”

“I don’t want to want you.”

“I don’t need you to want me. I need you to feel it. That’s what heat is. You can lie with your mouth. But your body-”

“My body,” she cut in sharply, “is going to do what it’s bred to do, sure. Doesn’t mean I asked for it.”

I came up behind her. Sat on the edge of our bed. I knew she’ll be in heat in no time – her scent was ripe and bleeding, absolutely magnetic, something that made hairs at the end of my neck stand up and made me feel too big for my skin.

I raised my hand on her neck. She flinched when she realized my fingers weren’t going for her hips or her breasts. Instead, I put them just below her jaw, the slight curve of flesh where the scent gland lay half-dormant, hyper-sensitive this close to heat, a place that should’ve been guarded. I knew what heat did to Omegas. I’d read enough maester manuals to know that the glands swell just behind the jaw and down into the chest cavity, flooding the blood with lustful humors. The mind dulls. The tongue dries.

“Don’t-” she started, and that was the wrong thing to say.

Because now I had her permission by objection — the kind of no that told me exactly where the line was.

I stood in the place where scent travels first — the throat, the gland, the memory of the last time I bit her. And I touched it, this sweet thing, that traitorous little switch the gods buried in soft flesh. It pulsed like a vein in heat.

It responded.

Not just the scent — the whole of her. Her back arched faintly. Her mouth parted. I could hear her breath lose its tempo.

I felt so proud at that moment.

“There it is,” I cooed. “There she is.”

“That’s not me,” she said, almost gasping. “That’s… That’s just my body reacting!”

“Then listen to it,” I said. “It’s smarter than you.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You married me.”

She choked. She swore. She broke.

“You made me think you wanted me. Not just a heat trigger that looks entertaining when it cowers.”

That hit harder than I thought it would.

I stepped back.

“I don’t know how to want you without making it unbearable,” I said. “So maybe — don’t think. Just… let it happen.”

And she did.

Or her humors did.

Or the gods did.

I don’t know.

All I know is when I bit her neck, her scent hit me like boiling wine, and my cock overruled the council of my mind.

3rd person POV because Aemond is not a kind of man to goon at his journaling. I hope so.

The room was drenched in her scent and it was disgusting. Not just scent — heat. Real heat. Estrus, sharp and saccharine, a smell that bypassed thought and went straight to the spine. Maple and blood-warm milk, syrup poured too thick, sticking to everything. The bedding. The wall. His throat.

[name] was sweating through her shift, curled half-up on the floor cushions, eyes blown wide, fingers shaking, not from desire but from involuntary shameful arousal. Aemond sat beside her, already shirtless. His face was red. His hair was sticking to his forehead. And his cock, long and not girthy, but the knot on its base was furiously red and throbbing with blood. He wasn’t showing off but wasn’t hiding it either. It just lay there. Confined. Like a possibility. Like a sheathed sword.

“This is humiliating,” she muttered. “I didn’t even get to pick a day.”

“You didn’t pick me either,” Aemond said. “Yet here we are.”

It was not romantic. It was not sweet. It was two people trying to make sense of something neither of them had ever been taught, because no septa, no maester, no wet nurse ever sat an Omega down and said, “One day you’ll burn alive in your skin and want the person you hate to be inside you while you cry about it.”

So now she was saying it the only way she could.

“Don’t make me say I want it,” she hissed. “I don’t. I just — need it.”

Aemond’s breath hitched. He didn’t pull away. He pressed his mouth to her neck, again and again, working the gland until the skin turned red.

“That’s the point,” he murmured. “This isn’t want. This is the fucking gods taking over.”

“You think that makes it better?”

“I think it makes it honest.”

She tried to glare at him, but her vision was going soft around the edges. Her thighs kept clenching and unclenching without permission. Her whole body felt like it had turned against her like a besieged keep whose own men had opened the gates from the inside.

“You like this,” she whispered, accusing.

“Of course I like this,” he said, biting her collarbone. “You’re fucking glowing. You smell like heat and rot and sugar. You smell like you’re meant to be ruined.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” she gasped. “You sound like a fucking septon on trial.”

“Then stop moaning like you're about to confess.”

She nearly slapped him.

In the back of her mind, some part of her tried to remember the stupid oaths they swore in front of the gods. That she was now his wife. That it was meant to wed her, bed her and breed her. That this was technically allowed. Expected.

This wasn’t rape.

It was just nature, according to every rotting book that called Omegas “weather-bound.”

Maesters wrote about it like it was a harvest—a thing that came, and passed, and took what it wanted.

She was thinking of that when she whispered:

“Don’t make this worse,” she rasped. “You have a face like you want to say something posh.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he muttered. “I was going to say — you smell fucking holy.”

She threw a pillow at him. It missed. She was already shaking again.

“You want me to leave?” he asked. Voice like it was dipped honey.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t move.

He reached forward — slowly, like approaching a wild dragon—and placed his hand on the inside of her knee.

Her leg spasmed and she jerked, as if considering pulling away. But she didn’t and soon settled.

“You can tell me no,” he said.

“You don’t mean that.”

“No. I mean it. You just won’t want to say it in a minute.”

His fingers slid higher.

He was watching her face, not her cunt. He wanted to see if she frowned, or averted her gaze again, or chewed on her lip in distress. But she didn’t. She just breathed. Harder. Louder. Her hips rising slightly to meet the pressure of his palm.

“You’re soaked.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’ve read enough about heat,” he muttered, sliding two fingers in so slowly it was rude, “to know when a girl’s losing the fight.”

She moaned. Quiet. Like it hurt.

“I hate that you’re good at this.”

“No one’s good,” he said, curling them. “It’s just instinct. I let the body talk.”

“Well, your body’s a fucking gossip.”

He laughed — genuinely — and ducked down, mouth to thigh, nuzzling once, then again, dragging his breath across the heat-swollen gland that had bloomed between her legs like a Highgarden flower.

He didn’t ask permission.

He licked.

She gasped. Not like a maiden. Like someone dumped a bucket of cold water on her head.

“Aemond-”

“Shh.”

“You’re not supposed to-”

“Shut up.”

His tongue moved slowly, deliberately, teasing the edge of her folds like he was mapping territory, not pleasuring her. Every time she twitched, he murmured something, until she was crying without tears, panting into her hands, hips rising of their own accord.

Then, he moaned.

Low. Rattling.

Her scent was everywhere. He wanted to bottle it. Drink it. Smear it on his tongue and walk around court with the proof still clinging to his breath.

“I’m going to mark you from the inside,” he whispered against her cunt.

“That’s not how it works,” she whimpered.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He doubled down. Tongue and fingers. One hand gripping her thigh so hard she might bruise, the other still moving slow, steady, curling until she started gasping in time with him.

She came without warning.

Hard. Violent.

Like a trapdoor opening inside her.

She groaned — not because it felt good, but because it was humiliating how badly it did.

Her scent exploded — thick, needy, pulsing with heat—and Aemond just buried his face deeper, growling into her like he could pull more of her out through sheer pressure.

He looked absolutely sinful when he had his fill of her cunt – lips wet and swollen, pupils blown wide like animal’s, hair sticking to his forehead in uneven curls — he didn’t say “are you ready?” or “may I?”

He spread her legs. Hiked them up under her knees. Then, gods, he didn’t even undress properly – but enough for his cock to rise proud and high from his breeches like a dashing flagpole, smearing precum on her thighs. He didn't feel the need to make a show of it. A dragon doesn't ask a farmer's permission to steal his sheep. Nor does he promise to be gentle before he mounts his mate. So. He rubbed the head against her slit, slow and rough, making her arch, hiss, shudder.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “That’s not want. That’s need. Your cunt’s weeping like a lost little child.”

“Shut the fuck up and get it over with,” she gasped.

“Not until you say you’re mine.”

“I’m not-”

He pushed in. Not all at once. Not gently.

But deep enough to knock the wind from her lungs.

Her mouth opened in a wordless noise that wasn’t pain and wasn’t pleasure — it was submission, the kind that lives below language. The part of the Omega brain that still believes in teeth and pack hierarchy, even when the rest of her is busy hating the man fucking her.

“Don’t play coy now, sweet wife.” – he whispered against her lips, and sweet wife sounded almost derogatory. “If you’re not mine as you insist yet your pussy weeps like a widow, what does that make you?”

Unfortunately, she was too busy being fucked silly to respond with something witty enough. Aemond pulled out just enough to feel the stretch and spasm of her tight muscles around his shaft when he dived back in. It was exquisite. It was so good that it seemed like a miracle, revealed to him personally as a reward for all whatever the good deeds he had managed to do in his life. Should he be picky about wording at this point?

Anyway, his rhythm was greedy. Hungry. Like drinking from a spring after a gruelling heatwave, when thirst feels like an endless unquenchable pit. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the stones. His fingers left bruises. Her legs wouldn’t stop shaking.

At one point, he bit her shoulder—not hard enough to mark, but enough to make her cry out like she’d just lost something.

She slapped him.

Hard.

He came harder.

The scent was unbearable now. Heat-slick. Sweet. Wild.

Aemond groaned, half-wild, panting against her throat.

“You smell like mine. You’ll always smell like mine.”

“You sound like an animal.”

“That’s because I am,” he hissed. “And you’re in heat. And I’m not going to stop until I feel you drip down your legs.”

She bit him back—gland to gland.

Accidental. Instinctual.

It didn’t matter.

The bond sealed.

For real this time.

Permanent.

When they stopped — hours later — they didn’t speak.

Not right away.

Only the scent said anything now.

It said:

Mine.

Taken.

Done.

The air in the chamber was thick with aftermath.

Cold stones of their chambers had done little to cool the room; the hearth was still crackling low, an embered hush against the obscene heat still tangled between their bodies.

His young wife lay on her side, breath steady now, legs twitching with aftershocks. Aemond was behind her, molded flush like a second skin, one arm under her head, the other around her waist, his fingers lazily resting over the soft curve of her stomach like he was already trying to claim whatever future he had just fucked inside her.

His knot was still inside her.

Not throbbing. Just... there. Heavy. Final. Quietly obscene.

She didn’t speak at first. Neither did he.

They just lay there, bound, exhausted, breathing the same air with the resignation of people who had both lost and won something in the same night.

Eventually, she muttered:

“You’re still in me.”

He smirked against her hair.

“Be patient. You’re small. I’m thorough.”

“You’re fucking arrogant.”

“You’re full of royal seed and still twitching. Don’t lie.”

She snorted. Closed her eyes again. Then opened them, squinting toward the small sliver of dawn slicing across the floor.

“They’ll expect us at breakfast.”

“They can wait. You’re not walking right yet.”

“I wasn’t walking right before. That was anxiety. Now it’s worse.”

He chuckled low in his throat. Nuzzled her scent gland with lazy entitlement.

“You’re mine now.”

“I know,” she said, very flatly.

“Say it better.”

“You’re mine now.”

“Mmm.” He nipped at her nape, where the hairline began. “Good girl.”

“I hope your cock falls off.”

“Not before I put three heirs in you and a fourth just to spite Uncle.”

A silence passed.

Not cold. Not bitter.

Then they both bristled, but strangely enough it wasn't nearly as awkward as they both imagined. And one of them, or maybe both of them though-- I'll find it very hard to hate being married.

fin. thank you for reading.

[beggamoth]

To Wed A Dragon. pt 2

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

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

parts | 1 2 3

tags | TW!!! OMEGAVERSE!!! VERY OOC AEMOND!!! not proofread. i wal half dead when i was writing it so. slowburn (sort of). very very chopped english. consists of aemond’s journals. also vague helaegons in this part.

wordcount | 3,3k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

______________________________________________________________

1st Moon, 128 AC. Three days post-scenting. The wind was rattling the windows. I was in a mood for conquest

It is time to court her.

As per tradition, both Andal and Valyrian, and as demanded by decorum, I have begun the official pursuit of Lady [name] Royce, my betrothed, my mirror opposite, my current academic project disguised as a person. Courtship, according to both the maesters and my mother, must be gentle. Considerate. Intentional. Signs of attention should not be suffocating so that the future mate does not leap headfirst but leave enough room for them to have a misconception of having a choice in the matter.

They have clearly never courted a creature who looks like she might bolt at the sound of her own name.

ADVICE RECEIVED (Most of it Unasked For, and All of it Questionable):

Alicent, exasperated, very opinionated on the matter of courtship but barely experienced one of her own:

“Ask about her interests. Write her a short poem. Compliment her mind. She may appear shy, but she’ll highly appreciate your attention.”

Yes, Mother. I shall compose an ode to her inability to make small talk.

Criston Cole (eternally bitter and inexplicably proud of it):

“Be gallant. Provide gifts of use. Things that show you think of her needs.”

I considered giving her a ten foot pole or a thick veil so she’ll have more ways to avoid eye contact.

Aegon (for some reason shirtless, half-lying on a chaise, playing with Helaena’s hair):

“Just pin her to a wall and tell her she’s pretty. Worked for me.”

Yes, brother. And now you have enough bastard children for us to never worry about the end of the Targaryen line. Helaena (lying with her stomach on Aegon’s lap, reading a book upside down)

“Make a trail of honey cakes from her solar to yours. Can’t promise that she’ll be smitten, but you’ll have her attention.”

…All right. This one may be the most efficient I’ve received so far.

COURTSHIP STRATEGY, WEEK ONE:

Gift #1: A first edition on Old Vale legends. With vivid illustrations that saved their first colours.

She received it with the enthusiasm of a tree being shown fire. Mumbled “thank you” like it was putting a strain on her vocal cords.

Gift #2: A small potted herb known to soothe nerves.

She asked if it was “meant to imply something.” I said yes. She did not laugh. Neither did I.

Gift #3: A dragon figurine carved from obsidian.

She flinched when I handed it to her. Not because it frightened her—because she feared she might drop it. I told her it was just stone. She looked like I’d insulted its honor.

SOCIAL EXPERIMENTS (Results Inconclusive):

It'd been a surprisingly hot winter. The sky was painted in pale, anemic colours. The paths in godswood in the Red Keep were eroded by the rain and became wet as clay. The Weirwood tree was rustling above us. I sat beside her on sprawling white roots. Close. Not indecent, but enough that our sleeves brushed and I found myself in a vacuum of her scent - maple and that sweet thing whose name is unlikely to be found in any language. Anyway, it made the hairs on my scruff stand up.

Meanwhile, she began reciting trade routes aloud under her breath, as if invoking shipping lanes would exorcise my proximity.

I asked her about her favorite book.

She blinked once. Said:

“The one where everyone dies before the ending. No one talks in it.”

(She is either a genius or indeed mentally challenged. Possibly both.)

I offered to spar in the yard, half-joking. She responded:

“I’d rather be hit by a carriage.”

I liked that one, actually.

If some brave fool finds this journal and decides to laugh at my failed transgressions-- I dare him. Because criticism is something we can avoid easily by saying nothing, doing nothing, and being nothing.

Moreover, I do not consider it a failure.

At no point has she refused me. That is the linchpin in this operation. She has not said no. Has not run. Has not, to my knowledge, attempted escape via hidden passage or came to my mother begging to annul the engagement.

This is tacit permission.

I think she simply doesn’t know what to do with me. Most don’t. She is disoriented by my attention – like a little shivering rabbit pulled out of its hiding place by a fox who is in no hurry to eat it, for some reason.

(There’s something beautiful in that. In being someone else’s overwhelming.)

I believe it is working.

Not quickly. Not visibly. It would be the peak of naivety to expect her to throw herself at my neck and shower my face with kisses if I handed her a dandelion or a recite stanza of High Valyrian poetry in Common Tongue adaptation. Not at all.

But I see the signs:

She no longer looks mortified when I sit beside her.

She only stammers when spoken to directly, not peripherally.

And from what her maid said, she keeps the dragon statue I gave her on the mantelpiece. The most prominent place in the room.

A lesser man might interpret her discomfort as rejection.

But I am not lesser.

Her uncertainty is not refusal, but it is formation. A thing taking shape under pressure.

She will come to want me. Perhaps already does.

And if she doesn’t… well.

I am very good at making people think they do.

[margin sketch] Aemond’s drawing of the courtyard: himself in elegant posture, offering a gift. [name]: hiding behind a bush, labeled “Bush of Emotional Avoidance.” Caption: “Courtship: Going Very Well.” ____________________________________________________

1st Moon of 128 AC, midday.

She did it.

She reciprocated. Or tried to.

And gods help me—I responded with all the consideration of a marble statue nodding at a crying child.

She wants to match me. I can see it. The hesitance isn’t fear now—it’s shame. Performance anxiety. Which, I must say, is fascinating to watch in real time.

Today, it happened.

THE CONTEXT:

It was the beginning of the year. It was warm, hot even. It was as if evil forces had tempted the spring to show an omen, and it had rushed into the Red Keep a few moons early to create a commotion.

I was in the library. Alone, ostensibly. I had no desire to go outside to look at the buds bursting prematurely. And then there she was, hovering near the fireplace like the ghost of Hamlet's father. No retinue. No buffer.

She was holding—gods help us all—a sachet.

Cloth. Stitched. Ridiculous.

One of those scent pouches maiden Omegas sometimes make when they’re still fresh from their moonblood and haven’t yet learned shame. But this one had effort. Clearly stuffed with herbs and—something richer beneath. Her. Not in full heat, but close enough that the scent had ripened into maple.

She held it out.

“I…” she began. “I thought… you might want this. It’s not strong. Just—something for when you’re away.”

The earnestness. The sheer catastrophe of it.

She was blushing so hard she looked sunburned. Her fingers, fresh from the needlework, were trembling slightly—likely from nerves, or effort, or from the sheer strain of doing something. Her scent was pulled taut like a bowstring.

And what did I do?

MY RESPONSE (EXACT QUOTE, HANDWRITING SHAKY FROM LINGERING SHAME):

“How quaint.”

HOW QUAINT.

I said it. I said it. With the tone of a lord admiring a child’s clay dragon with four legs and one wing.

I never meant to mock it. I was—impressed? Amused? Touched, in the way one is touched when a bird lands on your shoulder and doesn’t shit on you?

But the words came out wrong. Or perhaps perfectly in keeping with who I am: someone so used to asserting authority that sincerity baffles me.

HER REACTION:

She blinked. Her eyes veiled with tears

Her mouth opened, then closed, and she gave a nod that was meant to be a shrug but failed at both. Then she set the sachet gently on the table beside me—like an offering at a tombstone—and said:

“Sorry. That was stupid.”

She turned, fast. The movement snapped. Like she’d been hit.

I didn’t stop her. I should have. I did try, belatedly, to say something—anything—but she was already halfway down the corridor, walking too fast, head ducked low.

Her scent lingered.

But it had changed.

No longer maple and warmth.

Just something sharp.

Like embarrassment.

Like trying not to cry.

[three paragraphs heavily blotted. Next page, written hours later]

I am not sorry.

Let me be clear.

I am not sorry for what I said, only for the response it provoked. There is a difference.

Her attempt—sweet, strange—was admirable in the way fledgling efforts often are. But it was not what I’m accustomed to. I did not scorn her. I simply reacted as I would to a performance unfit for the stage it presumed.

Apparently, this was the wrong approach.

Apparently, she is the kind of girl who mistakes discomfort for failure.

Fine.

Let her learn through spectacle.

OPERATION: APOLOGY,

Mission Objective: Show Lady [name] that I valued her gesture.

Subtextual Objective: Reassert dominance. Assert control over the narrative. Burnish my image as both gallant and superior.

What would most men do?

A letter? Weak.

A verbal apology? Unmemorable.

A second gift? Uninspired.

What did I do?

THE GESTURE:

I commissioned a tapestry.

Not a small one. A full-wall Vale-work tapestry, stitched by three master weavers overnight, featuring:

Her sigil entwined with mine. A map of Runestone rendered in gold thread. A seven-pointed star replaced with a stylized dragon eye. Vhagar’s, for the ones who know.

A line of text beneath, in High Valyrian:

“She Who Is Seen Shall Be Feared Not.”

(Because subtlety is for cowards.)

It was unveiled—publicly—during midday meal, hung behind her designated seat in the dining hall, with an appropriate flourish of music and actual scented petals scattered by handmaidens trained in choreographed petal-distribution.

I may have stood as it was revealed. And may have said aloud:

“For Lady [name], my betrothed. That she never doubt her place beside me.”

HER REACTION:

To call it “poor” would be like calling dragonfire “warm.”

She froze.

No. Worse. She locked. Every joint seized up. Her expression did not contort—it vacated. Her eyes widened, but there was no expression or rational thought behind them, only raw animalistic panic trying to claw its way out.

She stood. Abruptly. No curtsy, no word. Her chair scraped violently against the stone floor, a sound that seemed to rupture the air.

And then—

She bolted.

Half-walked, half-fled. Past lords and ladies. Past Alicent’s gasp and Aegon’s snort and Criston’s narrowed eyes.

I watched her go.

MARGIN SKETCH:

A very large tapestry with dramatic flames and glowing embroidery. In front of it, a stick-figure of [name] drawn mid-sprint, labeled “fleeing the scene of emotional crime.”

POST-MORTEM:

Mother came to my chambers that evening. She was... not pleased.

“You terrified her, Aemond,” she said, hand clutching the seven pointed star on her chest like she was considering whacking me with it.

“It was a grand gesture, a part of the courtship,” I said.

“It was a spectacle,” she snapped. “That girl can barely speak above a whisper, and you turned her into a performance!”

We ended up in an argument that led us nowhere, except my mother snatched all the hair oils back in retaliation. Woman’s pettiness knows no bounds, indeed.

BUT.

I do not regret the gesture.

It was labourious. Artistic. It was precise. It elevated her. It told her: you matter enough to move me to grandeur.

If that frightens her, then let her learn to stand taller.

Let her understand that being desired by a dragon is not a gentle thing. ______________________________________________________________

1st Moon of 128 AC

She is avoiding me.

Not subtly. Not in an attempt to play coy.

Systematically.

I have not seen her in three days, despite orchestrating half a dozen “accidental” routes through the Keep, the library, the godswood, the corridor that leads past the kitchens where she sometimes steals honeycakes, as Helaena had told me. She walked like a shadow among shadows and I would admire her art of folding herself like parchment if it didn't annoy the fuck out of me.

At first, I thought it was shyness. Shame. That I had overwhelmed her with my affections (true), and she needed time to recover (also true). So I gave her space.

Three days.

That was a mistake.

Because today, I heard something I was not meant to hear.

LOCATION: Alicent’s solar.

METHOD: Standing outside the partially open door under the pretense of inspecting the embroidery on a nearby tapestry.

WHAT I HEARD:

[name]. Speaking. In whole sentences.

“Please, Your Grace,” she said.

“I understand the arrangement was forged with intentions that—politically—seemed sound. But I do not feel safe. Not because he’s cruel. But because he’s so much. I’m not—I’m not strong enough to share a life with someone who ticks when my stitches are uneven and makes me look like a laughingstock to prove a point.”

I froze.

She wasn’t stammering.

She wasn’t whispering.

“I’m asking you—not out of disrespect, but fear—can you annul the engagement? Quietly? Please.”

My heart went very still.

ALICENT’S RESPONSE:

“[name]. Listen to me. This match came from the King’s own lips. He wanted Aemond to have something—someone—to anchor him. He believed your blood, your temperament, might calm him. Might balance him.”

“He said it would unite the family again. That you were a bridge.”

There was a pause.

“I don’t even know if he remembered which son he was talking about,” Alicent added, softly. “He may have meant Aegon. Or… gods, perhaps he thought Daeron was Aemond. But the decree was made. And it will not be unmade. You must—you must try. You won’t be the first woman and Omega in history to step over yourself for a man. If it will make you feel any better.”

Then silence.

Then—something even worse.

The sound of her crying quietly. The kind of crying where nothing moves except the breath.

And I stood there, behind the tapestry, like a complete fool, oblivious to the life of the Keep bustling around me. Enraged or embarrased – it is still hard to tell what I was supposed to feel.

______________________________________________________________

I met her in the inner yard the same day. She tried to walk past me with her head bowed, but I grabbed her forearm – firmer that I’ve expected from myself.

THE CONVERSATION (If One May Call It That):

Me: “So this is it? One little halt, and you’re sobbing on the knees of a Queen like a little girl? Do you really think that hiding like a rat will somehow make all the pressing matters less pressing?”

Her: “You’ve heard it.”

Her voice had heat in it. For once.

Her: “You don’t think you did anything wrong, do you?”

Me: “Lady [Name]. I think I did everything exactly as expected. If it wasn’t what you wanted—why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Her: “Because I didn’t know how to say, ‘you scare me,’ without you taking it as a compliment.”

I opened my mouth. She interrupted me before a word fell from my lips.

Her: “You look at me like I’m a part of some grand scheme that exists only in your head. You don’t actually see me. You see—some version of a wife who makes you feel like a king. And that’s not me.”

Her: “You don’t talk to me. You talk at me. Like I’m a locked door you’re very proud to be kicking in.”

Her: “I tried, Prince Aemond. I made that stupid sachet, and you laughed at it. You probably didn’t mean to, but it doesn’t matter. You think you’re being kind when really you’re just—overpowering. All the time. And you always look at me like I’m supposed to be grateful.”

She laughed. Laughed, short and disbelieving, the kind of laugh people give when something breaks clean in the chest.

Her: “But I’m not. I’m not grateful, damnit! I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you. I didn’t want to be married to the one person in the Seven Kingdoms who makes me feel like I’ve been handed a blade and told to hold it by the edge.”

“And gods help me,” she added, voice rising, cracking open, “I think I like you, and that makes it worse. Because you’re the worst man I could possibly be besotted with. And I hate it. I hate that you’re so convinced you’re always right.”

“And I hate that you’re not always wrong.”

THE MOMENT (Capital T, Capital M):

She turned around, her hair whipped in the air. With quick, jerky steps, she started walking away. I grabbed her shoulder.

Everything that followed it felt like some weird haze.

She pushed me. I clutched at her palm. She scratched me. I grabbed her chin.

It devolved into a childish brawl with the servants and courtiers looking on helplessly, because even in my weird state I would never have seriously hurt her, but I couldn't let her hurt me - just as I couldn't let her go. The mere thought of it made my teeth ache.

At one point, she sank her teeth into my palm. I hissed. And on inertia, I bit her shoulder, tearing through the fabric of her dress with my teeth.

We were breathing like animals. Both bleeding slightly. My fingers dug into her shoulders, bunching up thick woolen fabric I somehow managed to bite through. My mouth tasted like wool. Her mouth left a shallow mark on my palm.

Then it happened.

The scent broke.

All of it. Instinct.

I smelled her—maple and warmth, the damned sweet-throb of it—and it responded in me like a flare catching oil. My pulse kicked. My eye sharpened. My hands trembled like a boy’s.

It was a pulsing wave that starts low and rolls over the bones. A tightness in my spine. A need to punch a wall and then kneel in the Sept near the statue of Maiden until it wears off.

My body locked. My breath caught.

I released.

Not rut, not fully—but the prelude to it, sharp and possessive.

My scent wrapped around hers. She inhaled. Hers answered.

Permanent markers.

Teeth. Blood. All this and that..

Not enough to seal a mating bond—but enough to make it clear to any Alpha, Beta, or high-ranking bastard with a working nose:

She is no longer unclaimed.

We are scented.

Publicly. Permanently. Irreversibly.

Just scent and heat and the knowledge that if anyone touched her now I’d cut their fingers off.

Her face expressed absolute, abject horror.

She pulled away, slow, like she thought moving too fast would trigger an explosion. Her eyes were wet, wild.

“You—you ruined it.”

“You made it real.”

And then she ran. Again. But her scent clung to me like smoke on a burned house.

We were meant to suffer in symmetrical silence, not accidentally become half-mated in the middle of a shrubbery.

I cannot undo it.

And more than that—

I do not want to.

Now she’s mine. mine. mine.

[written with a lot of pressure on the quill, all letters of different sizes]

She can weep. She can beg. She can try to scrub me from her skin.

It’s too late.

We’ve begun.

And I intend to finish it.

MARGIN SKETCH: Aemond sitting in the dust, raising one hand in the air, face solemn. Labeled: "Silence, brain. Cock is thinking.”

[beggamoth]

разорвало в щепки

The thing I love about Tywin is he’s just as lustful as Tyrion. My man just knows how to keep it on the low

👁️🫦👁️

[beggamoth]

“What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law. While you flout all to do as you please. Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It's trampled under your pretty foot again.”

[beggamoth]

what if….. targaryen x non-valyrian scholar/maester/any other kind of academic overachiever who studies patterns of dragon bonding or dragons in general and notices that their lover displays dragonlike behavioral patterns towards them, like hoarding and courting, etc and not even aware of it..

[beggamoth]

Let us reblog ads please

[beggamoth]

To Wed A Dragon

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

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

parts | 1 2 3

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

wordcount | 2,5k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

7th Moon of 127 AC.

I have been promised a wife.

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

And not just anyone, but the current Lady Royce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if he understands.

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

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

10th Moon of 127 AC.

I have met her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She annoys the fuck out of me.

And yet—

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

And I am to marry this... conundrum.

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

There’s something irritatingly compelling about it.

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

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

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

A proving ground. A canvas.

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

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

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

[margin sketch]

A hastily drawn caricature of Lady [Name] Royce:

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

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

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

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

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

And yet—I could feel her watching me.

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

No. It was far stranger.

She glared.

Unblinking. Grim. Purposeful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An academic approach to the topic of glaring.

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

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

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

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

And that is fascinating.

[margin sketch]

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

Caption: “The Hostage Dines.”

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

Let us address something.

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

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

Instead—

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

No.

Instead—

Earthy. Common.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I REFUSE.

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

This is not what I wanted.

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

And yet—

I keep looking at her.

Why?

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

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

No matter.

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

[margin sketch]

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

Caption: “A legacy.”

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

Today, the engagement rite was held.

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

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

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

The ritual was simple.

She leaned toward me first.

AND THEN—

The scent hit.

Maple. And something… else.

Something I cannot name.

Warm. Wet. Red, but not angry red.

Something like—

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

No. That’s wrong. Not blood. Not war.

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

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

And my eye—

The pupil blew wide. I felt that.

Like a child’s.

Like a beast’s.

I did not speak for five full seconds.

My mouth may have opened. I refuse to confirm.

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

But still,

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

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

I don’t know how I smelled to her.

I do not care.

I Do. Not.

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

Good.

Let her feel it, too.

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

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

But the scent lingers.

Gods.

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

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

It is her.

And worse—

I think I want it again.

[margin sketch]

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

The title “The Smell???”

[beggamoth]

Things That Cannot Be Unsaid

summary | aemond targaryen survives after the battle above the god’s eye thanks to the little trinket you gave him. he’s injured, delirious and talking on high valyrian while high on poppy milk (of course he is). language barrier and all that.

pairing | aemond targaryen x servant!gn!reader

tags | not proofread. very chopped english bc its not my first language (im so sorry)

wordcount | 1k

note | this is my first time posting shit on tumblr it feels like losing virginity. may write gooning material later idk but stay tuned yall

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

Believe it or not, Aemond Targaryen survived the battle of God's Eye. Some claimed they saw Vhagar fold a wing - injured or turning too sharply. Some said a sword struck through flesh and scaled both. A half-blind fool from Harenhall swore he saw a Stranger flew among them, laughing. But whatever the truth: Aemond did not fall.

We do not know Whether it was the inexplicable ways of God or a strange byproduct of fate, but when they undressed him at the Red Keep, barely breathing and bloodied, they found a small button embedded just beneath his breastplate, crushed at his side. Charred. Smashed nearly flat. But there.

“A cracked button,” one of the maesters scoffed. “That saved him?”

“No,” whispered the older one, “But someone wanted him to come home.”

It was you who gave him this charm – his little servant, too overqualified to waste your vigorous expanded mind on washing noble smallclothes and scrubbing floors. You were not an accomplished lady who spent her days embroidering her house’s crest on the silk pillows or playing plangent lullabies on a harp. You didn’t know how to arrange flowers so they would be a confession, but you knew how many were needed to hide the smell of the sickroom.

You knew herbs better than some maesters. You were smart, too smart for a person of your station. He was fond of you. And you of him.

The maesters rattled off a list of Aemond's injuries with the glee of old men discussing a banquet menu.

Compound fracture to the right humerus. Deep lacerations across the back and shoulder, from where Vhagar’s saddle-straps had broken and flayed him as he fell halfway from her back. His collarbone was cracked. His right knee — the one he favored for mounting his dragon — had been twisted near sideways in the final descent, and the bone would knit crookedly, no matter how they set it. And that was not counting three broken ribs and punctured lung (a partial collapse). If it wasn’t for the button that stuck in his breastplate and shifted the angle of the blow, he’d be dead, they said.

They sounded rather disappointed he wasn't.

You didn’t speak to the maesters, no. You listened. You noted their doses. You counted how often they replaced bandages. You remembered which one liked to swill wine when no one was looking, and which one had a habit of reusing stitching needles.

Then you began doing it all yourself. Quietly. Competently. Thoroughly.

It was dark in his solar. It smelled of iron, bitter herbs and boiled linen. He wasn’t the first nor the last sick person you’ve ever tended to, but the most difficult one, his angry temper holding intact even when his body was in throes of fever, when his bandages soaked in blood quicker than you’ve managed to change them. Even when it felt like Stranger was sitting at the feet of his bed, waiting.

Even unconscious, even writhing in fevered dreams, he twitched toward you when you stepped nearby. Flinched when others touched him. Whispered names — yours among them, but also his mother’s, his uncle’s, something that sounded suspiciously like “fuck.”

It began subtly — the way fevers often do — but the language turned strange around midnight.

You had just finished redressing the bandages across his side when Aemond stirred again. He always was getting fussy around this hour, murmuring nonsense, catching phrases in his throat like a net catching weeds.

But this time, it wasn’t curses or half-garbled ravings about revenge or his emotionally unavailable mother. This time, his voice was genuinely soft. You nearly dropped the needle.

“Skoriot… issi ao.” His hand twitched, seeking something in the air. (where are you?)

You didn’t take it, but shifted closer, bringing your ear to his lips to hear the scraps of feverish pleas in language you didn’t know and would’ve had no use for anyway.

He went on. “Pāletilla...  dēmalion...  aōhon…  Ñuhon...  Jaes, ao sagon ñuhon…” (crown... throne.... yours… mine. gods, you're mine…)

“Don’t tell me you’ve got another craving for my appliances,” you muttered. “Because if this is like last night and you try to eat the gauze again, I swear to the Seven—”

He coughed.

Then: “ñuha jorrāelagon.” (my dear)

You rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes. I’m your ‘jorrāelagon’. Probably means ‘steward’ or ‘person who cleans your bedpan.’ Gods, it wasn’t in my job requirements to know High Valyrian…”

Aemond blinked up at you, pupils dilated. Then smiled — not his usual smirk, not the clipped, cruel thing he flashed at shivering courtiers — but something oddly gentle.

“istin zālagon ziry mirre syt ao...” (I should've burned this all for you)

You tilted her head. “Does that one mean ‘I need another compress’ or ‘go away’? Blink once if you want me to leave.”

He reached up, weak fingers brushing your wrist.

And he whispered, like a prayer: “Jorrāelagon... ñuha ābrazȳrys/valzȳrys.” (dear... my husband/wife)

You stared.

The thing was — you knew what “ñuha” meant. It came up often enough when nobles claimed things. “Mine.” My sword. My claim. My blood. My land.

But the rest?

Your Valyrian was stitched together from old field journals and eavesdropped conversations of the maesters who used high valyrian names for every bone and muscle. All you knew was enough to read labels, identify tinctures, and avoid poisoning anyone accidentally.

Which meant that now — as Aemond Targaryen, Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, clutched your wrist and stared up with fever-glossy eyes while muttering what was almost certainly inappropriate levels of affection — you were left entirely in the dark about whatever he meant. But that was probably for good.

You gently pried his fingers off yours. “Right. Sleep. Sleep is good. I’ll bring you water.”

He muttered again as you stood. Something about stars and salt and se olvie gevie (the most beautiful one), which you were now convinced meant "that fucking servant."

You never mentioned it to anyone. For what, exactly?

Because it didn’t mean anything, you told yourself. Fevers made fools of lords and peasants alike.

So let him dream, you decide.

Let him babble.

Let him have his peace and linguistic somersaults, at least for now.