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granillx · 11 months ago

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amazing

✶ ┄ DIVINE MADNESS !

summary: you were aegon's long before you were aemond's, and the king takes great pleasure in reminding his brother of that – especially when he's drunk. aemond, however, finally decides to remind you and his eldest brother who you belong to now. (8.4k)

pairing: aemond targaryen / f!reader / aegon targaryen

contents: established relationship, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, jealousy, aegon's a little shit, cw for cheating? sorta?, swearing, mentions of gore smut 18+, rough sex, dubcon-ish because r needs convincing, degradation, exhibitionism (reader) & voyeurism (aegon)

Aemond Targaryen was not easily conquered.

He was born with an inherited sort of anger that followed him well into adulthood. As the unloveable boy grew into an unloveable man, he learned the world in only its most violent terms. The greatest swordsman he ever knew taught him as much. The soft get eaten, said the man who would soon become The Kingmaker, as he pressed his boot to the center of the fallen boy’s chest.

The words have since scorched a hole into his memory. The remains of them sit like ashes on his tongue.

Aemond didn’t learn of love until it was too late. Until he could only imagine it, like the rest of the world, from a most violent point of view.

When a royal hunt was held to celebrate his betrothal to you, he felt it was rather fitting. He followed the armored soldiers as they stalked a perfect stag all afternoon, only to find it again at sundown in a bloodied and mangled mess. He watched with his one good eye as a towering bear ravaged the dying deer. He understood quickly that he was seeing love for the very first time that golden hour.

As the bear ripped the throat of the stag and licked affectionately at the pulsing wound, Aemond wondered aloud, “Is that what marriage is meant to be?”

You stood beside him in the center of the Kingswood in a pretty dress made of pink tulle and delicate flowers — neither put off by the vicious sight nor his vicious words. “Which one of us is which?” you mused instead, as the bear’s fur matted with blood.

Aemond pondered the question for several long moments. “I’m not sure,” he answered honestly and without looking at you once. “But I assume we’ll know in time.”

He realizes now, after many moons gone, that he never found an answer to your question. Who was the deer between you, and who was the bear? Which one of you was bleeding out, and who was the one picking flesh from their teeth?

Aemond ponders the question now from the center of his marriage bed, where he lies naked over silk sheets. His hair spreads across the pillow in a silver halo around his head — the pin-straight strands set aglow by flickering candlelight.

His pale body is pressed between your bare one and the mattress as you roll your hips over his lap. There is no real rhythm to your movements, which seem to be guided only by your building pleasure. Your nails bite crescent shapes into his chest like you intend to break through the skin there — to rip his heart from behind his ribcage and crush the beating organ in your fist.

Your skin is lithe and plush and delicate like a flower’s. You leak honey for him, too, which drips warm on his thighs and glimmers in the coarse thatch of hair above his cock. You’re a heavenly thing on top of him — a fact so undeniable that not even Aemond himself can turn away from it.

Your resemblance to that bear, from that day in the Kingswood, is equally as indisputable.

You do not fuck him for his pleasure but for your own. You open him up to ravage him. To eat. And you leave claw marks on his skin to remind him of the damage you’ve done.

Aemond does nothing but let himself be slaughtered by you. He yearns for it — for your teeth in his flesh, for the sight of his blood staining your mouth.

The Kingmaker always said that love makes you soft and that the soft get eaten, but god, Aemond has never felt more brutal.

“Are you close?” he wonders in a monotone that shatters the heavy silence, which has so far been filled only by your breathy whimpers. He already knows the answer to his question. Your body tells him without words as your velvety cunt flutters around him.

Aemond feigns an air of disinterest, anyway, just as he always has.

He tilts his strong jaw upward to pretend he’s looking down at you and digs his lanky fingers into your bare thighs to pretend he’s ripping flesh from bone. Because he is not the weak and mangled stag, but a thing built for death. A thing that bleeds out joyously. A creature not worth loving.

A loyal hound that would bleed for you if you loved him right.

It explains why he let you mount him for the very first time, despite the queer nature of the position. The Maester always said it was best for him to be on top, so that his seed may have an easier time penetrating you — so that he’d produce an heir swiftly and no longer have to touch you. But Aemond lets you ride him with your own selfish intent because that’s what dogs do.

Dogs are loyal. Dogs don’t ask questions. Dogs are happy to be owned.

You nod wordlessly at his question with your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth wide open. Your nails dig further into his skin as the coil in the pit of your stomach tightens. The bed creaks in time with your enthusiastic thrusts, hitting the wall each time your hips roll forward — like a symphony of your desperation to cum.

“Say it,” Aemond commands quietly, to feel like he’s the one in charge despite being caged underneath you. To pretend that he’s the bear devouring you and not the other way around.

“I’m close, Aemond,” you obey in a breathy moan.

The sound of his name on your lips makes his cock twitch in the pulsing confines of your drooling cunt. He wonders briefly if you felt it, and his chest pinches with embarrassment. It’s hard to pretend he doesn’t want you when his body so hastily betrays him.

“Go on, then,” he orders indifferently.

Despite his apathy — or perhaps because of it — your orgasm rattles very suddenly through your body.

A whimper squeaks in the back of your throat as you tense over his lap. Your hips still as your pussy gushes around him. You work yourself through your high with little help from the boy beneath you, rubbing at your swollen clit to milk the remains of your pleasure.

You sigh after a few breathless moments. Your trembling thighs gradually relax on either side of his hips. Your grinds resume, slower this time and with much more rhythm than before. When you grow too sensitive to be touched, you remove your hand from your pussy and smooth your palms over the crescent indents left unknowingly on Aemond’s chest. You feel his heart thrumming beneath your touch.

You toss your head back to smile deliriously at the ceiling. “Seven fucking Hells…” you whisper to yourself.

“You’re in rare form today, aren’t you?” Aemond observes in a detached tone of voice. “The Maester said you would be. Said the days after your bleeding made you more… spirited.”

He tucks his hands behind his head and only then notices the marks his fingers left behind. Small indents from his dull nails beneath blooming marks from his fingertips. It looks like it would hurt someone as delicate as you, but you don’t seem to mind. You seem to enjoy them, actually — which he thinks only proves his point.

You scoff a breathless laugh and drop your chin to peer down at him. Something mischievous flickers like a flame in your heavily lidded eyes.

“You’re talking about my sexual appetite to The Maester?” you wonder aloud, scraping your nails over his unblemished chest — tainted only by the reddened marks you left behind. With his hands behind his head, Aemond’s lean torso is pulled taut. Your lips ache to trail kisses down the length of his milky skin, as smooth as white quartz.

“Of course I am. I’ve got to fuck a child into you sometime, don’t I?” Aemond answers, shrugging like it’s obvious. A smirk hints at the corner of his thin lips as he blinks up at you. “Especially if I intend to make you queen…”

The sapphire gem in his right eye glitters in the low light as he rises from the mattress. He presses his heartbeat against yours, smothering your pillowy breasts with his slender body.

You wrap your arms around his neck and roll your eyes at his insistence — of which he’s maintained since your engagement. You thought he’d get over the false fantasy with age, but his thoughts of sitting the Iron Throne have only seemed to mature alongside him.

“I have no wish to be queen, Aemond,” you confess quietly, peering at him beneath your lashes. The look you give him is bone-crushingly sincere as you swipe your thumb over the marred skin beneath his severed eye. “I don’t want all of Westeros… I just want you.”

Something in Aemond’s chest threatens to warm.

He refuses to let it.

He knows that isn’t the truth. Not completely, anyway.

You don’t want him the way you want his brother — the way you’ve always wanted his brother. Aegon was a drunken fool and a middling ruler, but he had always been good to you. The two of you fell in love well before you understood what the word meant. You only loved Aemond because it was your duty to, as his wife. The title was not of your choosing, either.

You did not want Aemond — not then, and maybe not ever — but you were cold and you were lonely, and Aemond was a dragon, and a fire was a fire. It was not fate that drew you to him, but convenience.

But Aemond lets you kiss him anyway because somewhere down the line, he forgot he possessed the blood of the dragon. He became your loyal dog instead, watching you dangle the leash of his longing in a limp hand, growing hungry as he waited obediently for something that would never come back.

As you lick hungrily into his mouth — making his softening cock twitch with a newfound ache inside you — your bedroom door swingssuddenly (and very forcibly) open. The heavy wooden panel drones in protest before it slams hard against the cobbled wall.

Neither of you is particularly startled by the sudden entrance. You both know who it is without having to look. The notion makes you part from each other with annoyed huffs.

A fit of boyish laughter and a very strong scent of ale follows Aegon Targaryen as he saunters into your bedroom. His dark green robe flows behind him, unbuttoned to reveal his undershirt and baggy sleep pants.

He doesn’t bother to shut the door behind him, and Criston Cole, standing guard at your door, blinks wildly into the amber-lit room. He momentarily forgets himself at the sight of your and Aemond’s entwined bodies. His armor clunks heavily as he rushes inside with an averted gaze. He doesn’t say a word before shutting it behind him.

“We’re busy, Aegon,” you huff, scolding the drunken king as though he were a child.

You don’t bother to cover your bare form or dismount Aemond’s lap as you glare at the silver-haired boy over your shoulder. There is a very obvious familiarity between you and Aegon — so palpable that Aemond feels it even now, with his cock still piercing you.

“Oh, trust me. I noticed,” Aegon says, chuckling to himself as he attempts to pour a glass of wine with fumbling hands.

The jewel-encrusted chalices clang together and fall heavily to the table when he reaches for them. The wine sloshes over the pitcher and splashes in fat droplets onto the cloth as he makes several attempts to pour himself a cup. To anyone else, it would be a clear sign to practice temperance, but Aegon has only ever known indulgence.

His white hair swishes around his shoulders when he turns to face you, grimacing briefly when wine splatters to his feet. “Please don’t tell me my brother always makes you do the work, Dove,” he pouts playfully into his goblet before taking a hearty sip.

You open your mouth to protest, but Aemond beats you to the punch.

“When she begs for it, yes,” he answers plainly and without an ounce of hesitation.

The youngest boy sighs through his nose and leans away from you to rest his weight on his hands. You flash him a hardened glare in response, which he meets with a stoic look of apathy — you can’t get anything more out of him when his brother’s around.

“Isn’t it a divine thing?” Aegon slurs unknowingly, tripping over his feet as he staggers towards the bed. “To see her so desperate for your cock she’s practically salivating for it?”

A pink smile sits lazy and lopsided on his mouth before he stumbles again, catching himself on the bedframe with a pale, ringed hand. He laughs loudly then — at himself or perhaps at his words — but your face flares with embarrassment anyway. Both for the drunken king and for yourself.

You slide off of Aemond with a huff. The mattress dips softly as you sit beside him. His softening cock falls heavily to his hip, shining in the low light with your cum. You try to ignore the suddenly empty feeling as you drag the scarlet blanket over your naked bodies.

“I don’t much appreciate being talked about like I’m not here,” you gripe with the sheets balled up at your chest — gripping at straws (or silk, rather) for an ounce of privacy, as if Aegon hasn’t already memorized every corner of your body and mind.

He had no choice but to commit every inch of you to memory after you were sold to his brother like cattle. He thought he’d get to keep you when he became king — that he’d have a wife to bear his children and you to warm his bed. He was very boyishly heartbroken when he’d heard of your engagement.

“I can’t just be your whore for the rest of my life,” you’d giggled the night after the royal hunt, drawing indistinct shapes on his bare chest with the tip of your finger.

Aegon shrugged a bare shoulder and jutted his kissed lips.“Well, you wouldn’t be my whore.”

“Oh, really?” you grinned.

“Of course not! You’d be my paramour!” he insisted bluntly, hugging your naked body closer with a pale arm around your shoulder, trying to ignore how perfectly you fit against him. He smiled wildly at you, and his light eyes sparkled with a post-orgasmic bliss. “What more could you possibly want?” he asked you, only partly joking.

Aegon never imagined, then, that he’d be where he is now. A king. A father. A drunk. A heartbroken fool standing at the foot of his brother’s marriage bed, trying to remember how it felt to be noticed by you.

“Surely, you’re used to being disregarded— as my brother’s bride and all,” Aegon jokes in muddled slurs. He cups a hand over his mouth and whispers loudly to Aemond, “You’re not very attentive in bed, I’ve heard.”

The orange embers simmering in your chest burst into red-hot flames behind your ribcage. A wildfire swims in your irises. Smoke billows from your nose. The inferno sets your skin ablaze. You can’t help but wear your emotion all over your face — or wear your heart on your sleeve, as it were.

Aemond has always been the opposite.

He’s stoic. Calculated. Taciturn. He rarely lets the facade slip, and now is not one of those times. Not a muscle in his face flickers as the candlelight dances over his sharpened features, glittering in his sapphire eye. You can feel the heat of his own controlled wildfire radiating from his pale skin as he seethes.

Aegon can feel it, too, it seems, as he giggles boyishly to himself.

“I told you that in confidence,” you say in a steady voice, as soft and as stoic as any princess is allowed to be. “As a friend.”

The word sounds as sweet as honey as it spills from your pretty mouth — like a saccharine venom. Aegon feels the sting of it in his chest, only slightly dulled from the sparkling wine. He clutches at his bleeding heart and flinches playfully backward.

“Ouch… Friend,” Aegon echoes in a slurred drawl before a smile tugs slow on his lips. The rosy expression sits crooked on his mouth as he leans over the bedframe to be nearer to you. “Tell me, Dove. Was I just a friend when you were begging for my tongue after the feast? When you were pleading for me to let you cum like only I can?”

Your soft features harden in Aegon’s direction as the boy’s pale eyes meet Aemond’s, who remains silent and simmering at your side. “Her words, brother,” the king amends, faux-sympathetically. “Not mine.”

Aemond knows his brother well enough to know when the halfwit’s baiting for a response. He’s hardly ever subtle about it — or about anything, for that matter. He wants the fight because he wants the attention. Your attention. And who is he to deny the king of want he so desperately wants?

The bed squeaks under his weight as he rises from the mattress. His feet pad along the floor as he stalks wordlessly across the room. The moonlight spills in rays from the stained glass window and bathes his bare body in glittering shades of silver. He searches very obviously for something, but what, you can’t be sure.

“You talk very proudly, your grace— for someone who could hardly pleasure me that night,” you scoff bitterly, lip snarled in a smirk as you look him up and down. “You were too drunk, if I recall. Too sloppy. Just like you are now.”

Aegon’s smile widens, as though he were pleased by such a cynical response from such a pristine girl. Despite his drunken state, his ringed hand is oddly steady when it reaches out for you. He smooths his palm over the downy silk blanket you clutch to your naked body and runs his thumb over the inside of your knee.

“Perhaps I could make it up to you, then,” he offers in a low and honeyed tone, the exact color of the candlelight he’s bathed in. “If my brother will be so kind as to permit it—”

Aemond reappears from the darkened edges of the bedroom then, still blissfully bare but carrying a sword in his hand.

The long blade glimmers in the moonlight when he presses it to the side of Aegon’s neck. The freshly sharpened edge idles at the king’s pulse point — one sudden movement to the left would leave him as bloodied and mangled as that deer Aemond can’t seem to get out of his head.

Your heart lurches into your throat at the sight. You gape at the treasonous act before you, wide-eyed and breathless and waiting.

Aegon’s reaction is perhaps slightly delayed by the alcohol. He forgets to be frightened by the blade stinging his skin when he stands to full height again. His pink lips turn softly downward as he gazes at the steel with heavy eyes.

He blinks once, then shrugs, “Well… Get on with it, then.”

You can’t be sure if he’s calling his brother’s bluff or if he’s really that big of an idiot. When he lifts his hand to take another hearty swig of grape wine, you figure it must be a bit of both.

“It’s time for bed, Aegon,” Aemond quips in a condescending monotone. He counsels the king as if he were a child, yet holds a sword to his neck as though he were a sheep to slaughter. “His Grace is obviously very tired.”

Aegon’s jaw clenches, hard enough to shift his temples.

For the first time since he made himself at home in your bedroom, the meaningless masquerade slips. Aegon has perhaps only two weaknesses — two scars that will surely bleed out if prodded: you and being treated like a child.

He’s coddled enough by his mother and his grandsire, who seem so unintimidated by his authority that they rush to rule over him instead. No one in court ever took him seriously. Only you, perhaps.

“You’ve got the temperament of a court jester, Aegon,” you told him once, painfully honest, but smiling as you cupped his teary face in your hands. “But you are kind. Maybe the kindest to ever seat the Iron Throne. And that’s what makes a good king.”

Aegon swallows hard, then fakes another smile as he gestures to you with his chalice. “But the princess has yet to answer my question, dear brother. I’ll let her bid my leave, if you don’t mind—”

“Do it, Aemond,” you command sharply into the honey-lit room.

You sit like a painting in the center of an unmade bed, naked but dripping in silk, with your features still softened from an earlier orgasm. Despite your petaled softness, a harsher venom spits from your lips.

There’s a brief flicker in Aegon’s eyes, though perhaps it’s only the candlelight.

His smile ebbs a moment later, and his contrite is unmistakable then. His face floods with a quiet sort of concern, as though he were actually worried that his throat would be slit before you — or worse, that you wouldn’t even cry for him if it were.

He’s quick to cover his momentary woe as he turns on the heel of his boot to face his brother, the opposite way of where his longsword sits in wait against his pulse.

“Tell me, brother— Have you ever fucked her like a hound?” he blurts with a lopsided smile and a mischievous squint. “Have you ever pinned her to the bed and just— made a proper whore out of her?”

Aegon’s boyish giggling fills the room, still mostly quiet, save for the crackling of candle wicks and the summer wind rushing through a partially cracked window.

Aemond’s face doesn’t waver. His sharp features are set in stone, neither scowling nor smiling, but a sinister in-between thing. “You’d do well not to call my wife a whore, brother. Especially with my sword to your neck. ’Tis not very wise.”

“You haven’t, have you?” Aegon laughs, so hard he clutches his stomach to keep from doubling over. “Well, it’s no wonder you can’t make her cum! She goes wild for it, brother. Truly. She does. I have never heard someone scream so loudly from pleasure before— Not even in a brothel!”

Your features twist with a quiet anguish. Your teary eyes flit from Aemond’s hardened face, to the sword in his right hand, and to his face again. You wait for him to look at you — so that he might look upon your disdain and find you equally hurt by Aegon’s words.

He never does. He doesn’t even blink. He just lets his eldest brother talk himself into a bigger hole while his burning anger builds.

Aegon fights hard to swallow his laughter. He clears his throat and tries to be serious, furrowing his brow and tilting his chin in a playfully solemn look. “Let me guess— You only fuck her how the Maester instructs?”

Aemond remains silent. Deafeningly so.

Aegon shakes his head and smacks his lips against his teeth, looking genuinely sympathetic.

“You poor, poor things… No wonder you’re always so irritable,” he quips and pokes his brother hard in the chest. When Aemond doesn’t flinch, Aegon twists the knife. “And no wonder your wife comes to me for a proper fucking—”

Aemond reaches for his brother with his free hand, shoving him unforgivingly on the shoulder. Aegon stumbles over his feet for a moment before toppling to the cobbles. He falls hard and laughs the entire way down. Dark wine stains the stone like blood as the chalice rolls out of his hand.

With Aegon finally out of his tunnel vision, Aemond’s able to see you more clearly. His icy gaze hardens as he eyes you like prey. He stalks towards you on long limbs just the same. A menacing bear to a harmless doe.

You flinch when his sword clatters harshly to the ground. You tilt your chin to meet the boy’s eyes when he towers over you. “Turn over,” Aemond commands, still soft in his way but leaving very little room for argument.

You try to, anyway, as you blink at him with wide eyes. You swallow through the lump in your throat and try to make out the words. “Aemond— I—”

He lifts his chin in a dismissive look that quietens you immediately. “It wasn’t a question, I’m afraid.”

Your anxious hands grip tighter at the sheets covering your naked body. Your eyes flash with panic and distant arousal as they flit away from him and to his brother. Aegon, still chuckling quietly at nothing, has a hard go of lifting himself off the ground.

“Don’t look at him,” Aemond taunts.

Your heart stops when you look back at him. His cock hangs heavy between his thighs as he grips it in a pale fist, jerking it slowly stiff with lanky fingers. Pearly pre-cum dribbles from the tip of it, which glows softly red with his arousal. His hand rises and falls in steady motions, punctuated by each of his commands for you.

“Turn around… On your knees… Head to the pillows… I won’t repeat myself again.”

Something warm blooms in the pit of your stomach at the apathetic look he gives you. You clench your thighs together, distantly ashamed of the throbbing arousal between them.

You swallow down any remaining feelings of trepidation when you shift on the bed. The wooden frame creaks under your weight as you twist into the instructed position. Your knees dig into the mattress. Your cheek rubs against the silk pillow like a cat.

Aemond snatchers the blankets from your body with a cruel hand when you try to hide beneath them. You fight back a shiver when you’re exposed to the cool air. The slick between your thighs glitters more obviously in the candlelight. The sight of your sparkling pussy makes his cock twitch.

“That’s the spirit, brother!” Aegon commends with a bout of childish laughter.

He staggers to the side of the bed when he’s finally off the ground, boots scuffing along the stone floor. He sways in place as he stands at your side, brows furrowed in concentration as he eyes your naked body. You try not to squirm at the attention.

Aemond pays the boy king no mind as he kneels on the mattress behind you. He slides two of his fingers into your drooling cunt with ease, already stretched out from his cock before Aegon’s sudden intrusion.

You sigh hard through your nose when his middle and ring fingers wet themselves in your satiny walls. You try not to whimper when Aemond pulls them abruptly out again, using your honey to lubricate his cock.

“She’s absolutely dripping for it, isn’t she?” Aegon muses with his gaze locked on your ass, arched obediently into the air. His eyes go far away in thought as he imagines your waiting pussy clenching around nothing, just begging to be filled.

“I told you she liked it,” he boasts, then murmurs more curiously to himself. “I didn’t know she liked to be watched, though…”

He tilts his head to the side to gaze upon you in a quiet sort of wonderment, like he’s seeing you for the very first time.

You avert your gaze when you accidentally lock eyes. You find a spot on the wall to stare at instead, a jewel glittering in one of the tapestries across the room. You needed to distract yourself from Aegon’s prying eyes — needed to distract yourself from how much you liked having him look at you like this.

“Neither did I,” Aemond mutters distantly as he lines his weeping cock at your entrance.

He slams into you without warning. Buries himself to the hilt inside you and lets you revel in the burn of being pierced so ardently. If you liked being fucked like a whore, he’ll treat you like one. He’ll use you like you used him. He’ll ravage you completely. He’ll rip your throat out and lick at the gaping wound.

A whimper sounds in your throat when the burning gives way to a warmer feeling in the pit of your stomach. Aemond’s cock was much thinner than his brother’s, but what he lacked in girth, he made up for tenfold in length. It was easy for him to penetrate you completely — to leave you writhing beneath him without moving.

But Aemond was usually much more careful with you than this. You were often on your back with him— always on your back with him— and his thrusts were always calculated. The goal was never to make love to you but to produce a child, which was your shared duty as members of court. His orgasm was more important than yours, in that regard, so you rarely ever had one of your own with him. Not that Aemond cared, anyway.

He did not care about your pleasure. Did not care that you spent most nights playing house with his brother. Did not care that you had your own separate bedroom that you often shared with Aegon — a sanctuary wherein the holy vows you made in the eyes of the Seven meant nothing.

Aemond didn’t care about any of it because it was always easier to hallucinate your holiness. But he understands, now, that you have always been the demon. The demon of his dreams. The death-touched witch he carries like a burden. Somewhere deep in the enemy he made of you, he found the lover.

And as his brother idles some feet away — watching him fuck you, mocking him, giving him something to prove — Aemond realizes they’re bound by the same sin.

You.

“You’ll have to do better than that, brother,” Aegon instructs with a shake of his wild head. He furrows his brows in a pinched look of concentration, like he’s really analyzing each of Aemond’s thrusts, visibly disappointed to find the boy still holding back.

The thought of pinning you down is rather strange, Aemond realizes, when you’ve always given yourself to him so willingly. Despite your arrangements with the king, you were always waiting for him after a long day of counsel — with spread legs and a flagon of wine— ready to be bred because you knew the prince’s work was never truly finished until then.

It was somehow stranger to be rough with you, when you were made of something more delicate than flower petals.

Aemond struggles to find a rhythm with his thrusts accordingly. They’re sharp and merciless — two words that describe the boy rather well — but he can’t decide between burying himself inside you completely or sparing you a gentler inch or two. It leaves him fumbling foreignly in his body.

“She’s not made of glass! You won’t break her!” Aegon chuckles loudly, gesturing to your petaled body with a ringed hand, which now trembles with the anticipation of being ruined.

Aemond hasn’t yet realized that you, his petaled bride, revel in the cruelty. He hasn’t understood the great relief of giving into destruction, either. Aegon feels like it’s his job to show him, as his older brother and all.

“Go on, then! Fuck her like you hate her!” he shouts brazenly into the quiet room.

Aemond stills completely. You feel him staring down at you. His eyes, both made of striking sapphire, are wide and attentive as they dart over your profile. He searches for any sign of hesitation in your features, because even despite his simmering anger, he won’t hurt you unless you tell him to. Until you beg to be fucked like a whore with his brother watching you.

Your chin brushes your bare shoulder when you glance at the boy behind you. Your gaze swims with orange candlelight as you blink at him with big, wet eyes. He finds a distant fear pinching your pretty face.

It is not Aemond that frightens you, nor his brother who’s still swaying in place beside you — drunk on the wine, the sight of you, and the hankering to watch you be ravished. It is, instead, the enormity of your desire that scares you. The crushing weight of your craving for both of them.

Aemond sees the eyes of the dying stag in your own. The wide-eyed gape of an innocent thing that has no idea what’s happening to it. A thing that knows it’s going to be ripped apart but can’t do anything to stop it.

The only real difference is you don’t want him to stop. You want him to open you up, to ravage you completely, to leave you for scraps.

“Do it, Aemond,” you beg in a breathy whisper. “Please.”

He takes a moment to look at you, to really look at you, and feels like he’s seeing you for the first time. His fragile and unholy wife, commanding him now to sin, with those bad and beautiful eyes beneath him. The embers swimming in Aemond’s chest burst into an all-out flame. He wants to devour you in a similar way — burn you, eat you, love you into dragonfire.

Aemond slams into you again. His hips make a dull clapping sound when they collide with the plush of your ass. His cock reaches a spongy depth inside of you and your velvet walls hug him tight, like you don’t want him to leave. A pained noise sounds in the back of your throat despite that. You arch into him in a silent plea for more.

He gives you exactly what you want.

He finds a steady rhythm with ease — burying himself to the hilt, pulling out before you have time to adjust, then punching back into you again. His lean hips angle forward to thrust into you deeper. His long fingers pull you into each of them, creating new bruises on the prints already blooming there.

Aegon chuckles loudly. A boyish giggling that echoes over the sounds of a creaking bed and slapping skin — over Aemond’s low grunts and your pitiful whines.

“There you are, brother! Fuck her like a hound!” he shouts between giddy laughter as he staggers back to the table. His boots splash in the wine he spilled earlier as he steps over the fallen goblet. He retrieves another golden cup and pours himself another.

“Reach under her hip— touch between her legs. She lovesthat. Don’t you, Dove?” Aegon coaches over his shoulder as he empties the flagon of wine.

Aemond could hardly stomach authority. He rarely took direction because he long understood that he was the wisest in any given room. But here, now, he knows his brother is far more familiar with your body than perhaps anyone in Westeros. So Aemond, for the first time maybe ever, decides to obey.

He does everything his brother tells him to. He pins you to the mattress with a wide hand fisting your hair. Brings his free one between your legs to massage your clit with calloused fingers. He does everything he’s told to do, but better.

You make noises for him he’s never heard before. Tiny whimpers are forced from your lips every time he punches inside of you. His fingers find your swollen clit and you writhe, whining all pretty underneath him as a coil in your belly starts to tighten.

Aemond watches you take pleasure in his subtle cruelty. Something short of pride sparkles in his chest. “Do you like being fucked like a whore?” he spits between bated breaths.

It’s hard to tell if he’s being genuine when he speaks in such a monotone. You nod for him anyway, warm cheek grazing the soft silk pillow. His pointer and middle finger press hard to your clit, and you keen.

“Say it,” he commands sharply, bending at the waist to lean over your back. His sweat-slick chest presses flush to your spine. His breaths fans over the shell of your ear as he tells you, “Tell me you like being fucked like this.”

It’s hard to make the words out when it’s taking everything in you not to scream. You try for him, anyway. “I love when you fuck me like this,” you whimper between heavy pants.

Aemond rises to his knees again. He releases your hair from his fist and holds you tightly by the plush of your hips, pulling you into his thrusts and fucking you that much harder.

You hear yourself bellow a feeble cry at the assault on your delicate pussy. The stinging of his cock punching into you combines with a warmer pleasure that drools like honey from your cunt. You clench around him despite yourself, swallowing him further inside.

His fingers are merciless as they rub at your clit. The sensitive button swells for him as your pleasure builds, overwhelmingly so.

“Do you hear that?” Aegon wonders aloud when you sob. The pitiful sound is strikingly familiar to him. He saunters back towards the bed and brings the chalice to his mouth. “That means she’s close,” he murmurs into the cup.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, but you can feel Aegon when he’s near. You grip the pillow in your fist and struggle to find the will to open your eyes. Through the haze of looming pleasure, you find the face of your first-ever love gazing upon you with a cynical sort of smile.

Aegon crouches beside the mattress so his face is level with yours. He smooths a sympathetic hand over your cheeks, fiery to the touch, and pushes rogue strands of hair behind your ear. His touch is much softer compared to Aemond’s — less calloused, less bruising. The contrast is dizzying.

“Are you close, Dove?”

You answer with a strangled moan.

“It’s okay. I know you are,” he murmurs in a honeyed voice, lips jutted in a pitying pout. “I bet you’re going to make such a mess for him, aren’t you?”

Your pussy weeps around Aemond’s cock at his words — the faux-sympathetic tone of them, more so. The youngest Targaryen grits his teeth when the walls of your velvety cunt tighten around him. A wet schlick schlick schlick sound fills the air. You swallow down a feeble whine in response.

Aemond’s fingers push hard on your sensitive clit. “Answer him,” he tells you.

“Yes,” you squeak obediently.

Aegon smiles into his wine. The bitter-sweet grape shines on his pink lips until he licks it away again. He catches your lidded eyes on his mouth, and his grin grows. He’d kiss you if he could, but he knows you want it too badly. He knew there was very little gained from getting what you wanted without making a little fuss about it first.

“Say my name when you cum, will you?” he murmurs softly as the fingers of his free hand scratch gently at your scalp. “I know you’re surely thinking of me, anyway.”

Aemond falters. His hips stutter against your ass and his hands grip you noticeably tighter, as though physically affected by his brother’s words. The pinch in his chest is only partly relieved when you shake your head against Aegon’s palm.

“You’re so pretty, Dove. Do you know that?” Aegon smiles. “Even when you lie.”

You hear yourself whine before you can help it. Your back arches as your thighs start to tremble. Aemond feels you clench somehow tighter around him, hugging mercilessly at his cock and making it harder to move inside you. Your orgasm swells up from the pit of your stomach, held by a fraying rope that’s bound to snap. The inevitability of your pleasure startles you.

“Aemond,” you whimper quietly, as though looking for an ounce of comfort from the boy fucking you so brutally.

“Cum for me,” he instructs without a shred of sympathy. The words come out slightly choppy from the strength of his thrusts. “Cum for me now.”

The pressure in your stomach builds, like a dam about to burst. A scream rises in your throat and escapes just the same. The pretty sound scratches at the back of your throat, which Aegon cradles in his gentle hand.

His thumb rests just over your pulse while his fingers curl around the back of your neck. He lifts your chin in a silent command to look at him. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth when you blink at him with glassy eyes.

“Say my name, Dove. Go on,” he guides with a soft nod.

Your face pinches as you grit your teeth, fighting the urge to scream once more. Aegon’s gentle features harden into something sterner. If there was anything he couldn’t stand, it was not getting his way.

His pretty eyes lose any ounce of empathy as he repeats, “Say my name when you cum for my brother.”

You crack. The dam bursts. His name swells in our throat and tumbles from your lips. “Aegon!” you moan in a strangled cry as your orgasm racks through your body in merciless waves.

Your pussy flutters as you leak around Aemond’s cock. He struggles to move with your satiny cunt embracing him so ardently. His hips stutter against you when his own orgasm overtakes his body. A moan grumbles in his chest, bitten back with a clenched jaw, while his cock jerks within your pulsing velvet confines.

Aemond leaves bruises on your petaled skin with how tightly he holds you. He brings his chin to his chest and pulls you into his sharp thrusts, each of them punctuated by a growl and a load of his cum. Your rippling cunt milks him dry. You sigh at the warm and tingly feeling of being so full of him.

“There you go!” Aegon praises as he watches both of you tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasms. He rises to full height again and takes another sip of wine. He talks in jumbled slurs into his goblet. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, brother? Just takes a little… communication, is all. You’ll breed her in no time, no doubt.”

The haze of honeyed pleasure is slow to pass. Aemond tilts his head back as the remains of it ebb like a low tide. He smiles bitterly and glances at his brother with his one remaining eye. “I thank you for your service, your grace. Truly,” he mocks.

Aegon smiles obliviously, swaying softly in place. He bends at the waist to whisper in your ear. The heavy alcohol on his breath makes you flinch.

“Come visit me soon, won’t you?” he mutters, equal parts playful and meaning it, as the pad of his thumb brushes the apple of your cheek. “Bed’s much too cold without you, Dove.”

You glare at him in response, knowing he’s putting on a show for his brother. Aegon only grins as he rises once more, giggling to himself the entire way out of your room.

When the heavy wooden door creaks open and shut again, you take your first good breath all night. Your lashes brush your cheek as your tired eyes flutter slowly shut.

“How much of that did you hear?” Aegon asks Criston Cole, muffled from the other side of the entrance.

“Not a word, your grace,” the knight answers obediently.

The king snickers. “Good boy…”

Aegon’s footsteps scuff the floor as he walks away on unsteady legs. Metal armor clunks softly together as Ser Criston shifts outside your door. The bedroom, otherwise, grows eerily quiet — quelled only by crackling candles and whipping wind.

The notion that you and Aemond are alone again together weighs heavily upon you. You’re still reeling with the disbelief that any of it had happened at all.

“Are you… Are you alright?” the boy stammers as his cock softens inside of you.

Aemond often found it hard to make small talk with you — or anyone, for that matter. He cared little for conversation and less for meaningless ones. He enjoyed keeping to himself most of all, which was a difficult feat for a married man.

You nod wordlessly against the satin pillow.

“Tell me.”

You swallow hard. “I’m alright.”

Aemond’s hands tremble with the urge to comfort you despite having bruised you moments ago. He guides himself out of you and balls them into fists instead. You bite back a whimper at the empty feeling, relaxing slowly on the mattress as Aemond pads across the room.

“I am sorry about my brother,” he says to fill the silence as he reaches for the flagon of ale. He finds it lighter than usual and scoffs when he realizes Aegon has emptied its contents. The king only came around to drink his wine and fuck his wife, it seems — the only two things he appears to be good for. “His Grace quite fancies himself a scene, I believe.”

You exhale hard through your nose in place of a laugh. “I’m used to it, husband. I assure you,” you hum tiredly, twirling your finger around the golden tassel of the pillow.

“I’m sure you are,” Aemond lilts as he steps into his breeches.

You huff and roll onto your back. Your naked body stretches in the sheets like a cat as you languish on the crimson silk. You possess a demoniacal sort of beauty that Aemond struggles to look away from. You seem to know this, too, as you flash him a quiet smirk.

“You don’t have to be so jealous, my love,” you tease. “Your cum is still leaking out of me, if you’ve forgotten.”

He flashes you a cynical glance that loses its playfulness when he swipes his leather patch over his sapphire eye. A hint of a smile quirks the edges of his thin lips. “Along with my brother’s leftovers, I’m sure.”

“Aemond—”

“Don’t,” he interjects sharply before tugging his undershirt over his head. The baggy white fabric drips over his pale torso. He tucks the hem of it into his pants with an absentminded hand. “I can’t abide by petty conversations. I’ve grown used to receiving Aegon’s hand-me-downs, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

He flashes you a knowing glance, as if to say you were the hand-me-down in question — the princess who was meant to be Aegon’s bride, doomed to belong to his youngest brother.

“You say that like I’m some kind of doll,” you scoff.

“You are, aren’t you?” Aemond humors in a monotone, walking back to the bed as he ties the string of his breeches. “Is that not what you wanted to be before? A whore to be played with?”

He looms over the foot of the mattress. You sit up to be nearer to him, propping your weight on your hands. “A whore?” you repeat with a quirked brow. “Or yours?”

Aemond ponders the question for a moment. He spots a rogue tendril of hair clinging to your jaw and gets the sudden urge to move it for you. He decides not to deprive himself of touching you this time as his knuckles graze your skin, tucking the strand behind your ear. The act of softness is obviously foreign to the two of you.

“As my dear brother always said… ‘A whore is a whore is a whore,’” Aemond recites indifferently. “They’re all the same, aren’t they? One is as good as another.”

Your chest pinches at his words, though you figure you have no real right to be angered by them. Aemond bends at the waist to brush a chaste kiss to your cheek, pink lips chapped as they graze your skin. You buzz for more as soon as he’s gone.

“Where are you going?” you call to him when he stalks to the door on long legs.

“To the brothel,” he lies without missing a beat. He wraps a hand around the golden door handle and spares you a mischievous look. “Perhaps you should go visit the king whilst I’m gone. He’ll need someone to turn him on his side when he vomits on himself.”

You blink at Aemond with a knowing glint in your eye, like you can see right through him. He decides to blame it on the flickering candlelight instead, which paints your bare skin in flaxen shades of amber as you slide off the bed and saunter toward him.

“Perhaps I will,” you muse with a shrug when you stand before him. You smooth your hands over his cotton shirt, running your palms up his torso and resting them finally on his chest — just over his heart, where your claw marks are red and welting. “I supposed it’ll help me pass the time while you’re off whoring.”

The corner of your lip quirks in an evil smile that Aemond meets with a hardened scowl.

You know exactly the game he’s trying to play. You are, perhaps, an expert in it yourself. The notion makes him seethe.

He finds himself quickly missing having you pinned underneath him, falling apart and pleading.

“Best hurry off to the brothel, my love. Before all the good whore’s are taken,” you tell him with a faux-innocent twinkle in your eye.

You rise to the tips of your toes to press your lips to his, balling his tunic in your fists to pull him down the rest of the way. You stamp a quick kiss to his mouth and ignore any urge to deepen it as you step back from him.

Aemond watches with clenched fists as you stroll away, headed towards the looking glass at the far edge of the room, where your gown hangs on the back of a chair. The see-through cotton drapes over your skin like summer rain. He swallows hard, feeling suddenly like his heart’s in his throat — like you’ve ripped a tendon or more out with your teeth and sucked the weeping wound dry.

There was no fighting here, Aemond realizes quickly. There was no winning here, either. He has long been the mangled stag, wailing to the gods for mercy, and you have always been the bear taking chunks from his flesh — the only one around to hear his prayer.

You love him in the only way Aemond understands. Cruelly. With his blood staining your teeth as you gnaw him to the bone.

You’re going to kill him.

And he’s going to let you.

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