lola-writes

[lola-writes]

𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫 ║ 3. The Godswood ║ Aemond Targaryen x OC!Aylana Velaryon

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➣ [divider @targaryen-dynasty]

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Word Count: 3,7k

Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person (Aylana's), swearing, angst, mentions of blood & violence, friends to enemies, consumption of alcohol. See story master list for full themes & warnings!

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

AYLANA

Where love tales start, a maiden stands, Wide-eyed, a caged truth in her hands. A diamond raw, before the strain, Innocence a fragile, sunlit pane.

But what if she, with heart untamed, Loved blood's sharp tang, a death proclaimed? The wolf's raw bite, a searing bliss, His fangs' deep pierce, a fatal kiss?

He, the wolf, with crimson stain, His teeth like steel, a hunter's reign. The world, a feast, laid at his door, And she, the prize he'd hungered for.

The Godswood of the Red Keep was an ethereal sort of place. Sunlight dappled through the verdant canopy, illuminating an effervescent, airy garden overlooking the river. A pale white oak reigned supreme in its centre, stretching its magnificent red crown towards the heavens like grasping fingers. The air was spicy with the scent of flowers. Silverware glinted in the scorching sun, and the food attracted flies. 

The thick wet heat soaked through my dress, melting it to my body like a second skin, and the salt stung in my wound. I was edgy and uncomfortable before our presence had even been noted. Mother and Daemon always made their way through the heat unencumbered, leaving me and my brothers to wilt under the sun’s relentless gaze.

It was never too hot for a Targaryen.

It singled us out, drawing unwanted attention our way as if our perspiration was proof that we weren’t one of them. 

Congruent mingling chatter, birdsong, and the chiming of cups floated around us, settling me into a veil of sereneness. The volcanic island that had been my home for the last four years was a stark and frigid place, leaving little chance for either greenery or birdsong to thrive, and didn’t even have a Godswood. This alteration in environment had proved to be a welcome one. 

But upon our entry, the ebullience was cut short, and the throng fell into an eerie silence. 

Heads swivelled our way. A subdued susurration ensued, and as we navigated the crowd, I felt a thousand eyes upon me, their scrutiny weighing down like a thick suffocating blanket. Piecing together their gossip was of little challenge. The deeper the crowd swallowed me, the clearer it became, like they were chanting it in chorus into my ears. 

She challenged Aemond.

She must have a death wish.

Shouldn’t she have been ripped to pieces by now?

Aemond clearly spared her.

Annoyance ticked beneath my skin, and it took every ounce of my power not to implode in protest right there in front of everyone. The sweet nostalgia of the place I used to call home was now a forgotten memory. Tainted and corrupted. The years of our absence had surely given the Queen ample time to sink her venomous teeth into the courtiers. Each familiar face I went to greet was another face that shunned me. 

I had never felt more unwelcome.

I followed suit behind Daemon, attempting to shield myself behind his broad back, but it was futile. The eyes unravelled me until I feared each one of my transgressions was on display, hot on my skin, as clear as the banners of the great houses. 

Never had I previously disapproved of being the centre of attention. It used to be a glittering crown, but now it was a stifling prison. These people no longer admired me. They wanted to eat me alive. 

My gaze remained locked into Daemon’s back, for I was sure to get picked apart to the bone if I skimmed the vultures around me. 

As Mother made our presence known to her siblings whose union we were celebrating, I couldn’t help but notice the absence of the King. Rumours of his ill health were, from my memory, not unfounded, but I had now begun to question its severity. It made me wonder just how close the succession actually was. 

A loud, obnoxious yawn shattered the silence and snapped me out of my abstraction.

Aegon, sprawling indolently in a chair, had just rudely interrupted my mother in her good wishes. 

Daemon’s grip around Dark Sister tightened in front of me as I took stock of the situation. 

Alicent kicked Aegon in the shin, to which he winced and blinked in rheumy confusion, his eyes widening as if suddenly realizing he was in the presence of people. 

He cleared his throat, “And to you, dear sister. Enjoy-,” he choked on a burp, before clearing his throat a second time, “Enjoy the festivities… at your leisure,” he slurred, waving one hand theatrically in the air before propping his elbow up on the armrest, his chin collapsing in his palm. 

I sawed my bottom lip between my teeth, fighting down the giggle bubbling in my chest. He was drunk, and it was only an hour past noon. 

My gaze flicked to Helaena who seemed present in body only. Her eyes stared absently into the distance, and her frame was turned away as if she did not wish to be there. But her brows, knotted in a tortured expression, told me she was at least aware of her brother’s intoxicated disposition. Something told me that she had endured far worse. 

The Hand stood protectively at her side, eyeing Daemon’s fingers caressing Dark Sister.

Alicent looked to the sky, presumably asking the Mother and the Crone for nurturing and guidance. 

My brothers and Rhaena twisted uncomfortably beside me, casting furtive glances at each other.

As a matter of fact, the entire throng crackled with tension, like electricity in the air before a lightning storm, each party eyeing the other, awaiting the source of the coming strike. 

I was biting the insides of my cheeks, scraping my nails against my palms, my stomach verging on turning inside out from my stifled laughter. None of this was funny, but I couldn’t help myself. It was the only way in which I could seem to deal with these types of situations. An unfortunate affliction, to be sure, but I preferred it over the anxious one that appeared to grip most people. At least Aegon’s impertinence had diverted the court’s attention so that my breathing could come easier. 

But a prickle of awareness from being watched still gnawed at me, sharp and beckoning. 

A warm rush of recognition ran down my spine as I met an intense gaze – one eye, cold and relentless, but carrying more weight than all the dozen pairs prior put together. It wiped the grin right off my face. 

Contempt pulsed hot and heavy in my chest; the last traces of my amusement stifled like the flame of a dying candle. Amid the silent spat that was seemingly happening between the rest of them, Aemond and I became immersed in our own. We stared at each other, the tense scene simmering around us, relegating to obscurity. 

He was taller than I’d previously observed, donning all black leather, save the dragon-shaped silver buckles fastened up his midsection to the high collar clasping around his neck. 

It was obvious that the heat was insignificant to him.

Dragons prefer heat. 

His jaw was sharper than Valyrian steel, and his mouth was set in a sort of perpetual sneer that hollowed his cheeks. Not a nasty sneer, but rather an amused one, as if all the rest of us were quite foolish and he could tell some good jibes on us if he wished. 

A subtle glow of sinister glee had come alight in his eye during our ocular joust. Like he was imagining ways of how to torture me. Or like he carried some clandestine knowledge unbeknownst to me. It was difficult to tell the difference. Either way, he looked like he could simply snap his fingers and my whole world would come crumbling down around me. 

An infantile nerve tugged at me, one of which I knew I shouldn’t indulge. But as with all of my other impulses… I just couldn’t help myself. 

I made a face at him, complete with tongue - pointing it at him like a petulant child, and his expression shuttered, a muscle in his jaw tightening. 

My face straightened, a dry huff of amusement leaving my nose. I averted my gaze, needing to abstain from looking at him altogether, or else mirth would consume me. An elbow nudged my arm, and I turned to meet Rhaena’s stern expression, mouthing the words Stop it. 

I needed to. This was serious business. But remnants of glee poked at me, my mouth twitching with forced resolve. I looked up to find Aemond’s eye remaining on me, steady and unyielding, promising sharp retaliation. 

“Thank you, brother,” Mother’s voice broke the silence, her lilt calm and composed, as if Aegon’s obvious sign of discourtesy were of no consequence, “Might I acquire as to why the King has not yet joined the celebrations?”

Alicent stepped forward, relieving Aegon of his duty to respond. Though, he was hardly capable. And the question had not been aimed at him anyway.

“I might acquire as to the rumours that have been spreading around the castle this morning,” Alicent demanded, her hands stacked beneath her ribs. 

My spine became steel, my mirth doused once and for all. 

“What is this I hear? A savage attack carried out against my son… again.” Her last word pitched lower, swathed in lethal warning and an undercurrent of tortured reminiscence. “By your daughter, no less.” Her eyes tore from my mother and fell on me, glaring daggers. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

I swallowed, heat blossoming on my cheeks. 

I had expected the matter to be brought up sooner or later, but I was not prepared to be confronted so ruthlessly. In front of all these people. Supposed it was just as she’d planned it. Humiliation was her creed.

Words of an extemporized apology began forming on my lips, when Mother grabbed my arm, a vice speaking of protection and a command of silence. 

“It is not as they say,” Mother announced, as if to the entire throng. “It was an accident-.”

“Oh, another accident, was it?” Alicent interjected, venom seeping into her voice, her lips curling. “Is this the sort of excuse you will make for all of your children? Perhaps soon they will believe murder to be an accident too.”

Mother scoffed. “Aylana’s intentions were hardly of bloodlust. This was merely the consequence of two dragon riders being a bit too reckless with their beasts. Purely that.”

“So now you’re attributing blame on my son for this façade?” 

“It’s all right, Mother.” 

A voice, the stroke of velvet and ice, cut the quarrel between the Princess and the Queen. It set my stomach churning, bile bubbling up the back of my throat. Aemond had uttered the three placating words to Alicent – not very loudly might I add – yet the entire throng stood to attention, a steady chill coursing through us in the dead heat of summer. Aemond’s eye was on me though, his expression trained into a blank mask. He held the court’s attention and the power to steer the course of the narrative in the palm of his hand. 

I’m going to make you wish you and your pretender menage never set foot in this city again.

Adrenaline exploded through my veins.

I braced myself for his coming defamation, sharpening my tongue to belittle him right back. I would not go down without a fight.

“My sister speaks the truth,” he drawled, never training his eye off me.

What?

“What?” Alicent frowned up at him. 

Mother cast me a look, but I was too focused on catching the words coming out of Aemond’s mouth as soon as he’d uttered them. 

He nodded gently. “It was my fault. I initiated a game of tag with my niece whom I’ve not seen in ages. I see now that it’s caused quite a stir. It was foolish of me.”

What the fuck was this? 

I’d known him for the greater part of my life, but the last four years of his was a mystery to me. Yet, this felt completely out of character. Words like this simply weren’t uttered by this man, and the guarded look twisting Ser Otto’s features validated my conjecture. 

Unease danced beneath my skin to a foreboding tune.  

I scavenged Aemond’s features with my eyes, searching for any quirk of his mouth, any devious crinkle of his eye that might reveal an ulterior motive for his intervention in my favour. But his countenance was unreadable. Still as a windless sea. I guessed Alicent was occupied with a similar challenge because she was just glaring at him in wide-eyed confusion, unsure of who exactly to rebuke after this declaration. 

Aemond’s resolve was more frightening than if a smug grin had been curving his lips, and a single unnerving realization was starting to dawn on me: This would not bode well for me. 

“Aylana.” My throat constricted when he spoke my name, sounding more like a threat on his tongue than a word used to address me. “Will you forgive me?” he asked, his voice a honeyed drawl, his gaze holding mine with unbridled conviction. 

My scar burned hot on my brow. 

He had stated it as a question, yet his tone brooked no argument. Mother’s grip tightened around my arm. 

I considered ripping myself away. To announce to everyone here that the fault, in fact, was mine. To make them hate me, and shun me because at least then, I wouldn’t be teetering on the precipice of selling my soul to a demon – that was the only way I could describe the feeling consuming me at that moment.

But I couldn’t do that to my mother. She was relying on me to keep the peace. To make any sacrifice necessary to prevent any further doubt spreading of our claim to the throne. Whatever Aemond’s intentions, I would undoubtedly soon find out. 

I forced a smile to my lips and a silken lilt to my tone, playing along. “Of course, uncle,” I said. 

Aemond tipped his chin up. 

“Consider it forgotten,” I declared. The incongruent feeling rose higher like a building wave of nausea. 

Being more dishevelled by the situation than anyone else, Alicent took another measured step forward, blocking Aemond out of view, as if attempting to make us all forget this ever happened, and cleared her throat. 

“The King has been up day and night readying the Keep for his children’s nuptials. He’s in his chambers having a well-deserved rest,” said Alicent, “He will join us for the tourney on the morrow.”

“I would like to see my brother,” Daemon announced curtly, with a sense of finality in his voice. “And say what you will, Alicent, but the King has not retired to his chambers on a day of celebration in his life. No matter how…,” he cast a look of scrutinizing contempt around the gardens, “…dull.”

“Causing much grief to both of us, he is not the same man as you remember,” said Alicent ominously, ignoring the Prince’s indisputable insult.

“A fact hardly attributable to your efforts, I’d wager?”

“Certainly not,” Alicent countered.

Daemon huffed derisively. 

Their conversation wove into a constant backdrop to my thoughts, as my gaze still fixed on Aemond. My eyes had never left him so that absolutely no crack in his façade would’ve escaped my notice. And indeed, I’d watched him slowly alter, morphing into something more sinister, and dark – something more himself. A predatory gleam had gradually lit his features. The corners of his mouth were no longer curled into that of rye amusement. His head was canted to one side, a cold, calculating glint shone in his eye, and his nostrils flared as if he were smelling blood. 

A shiver chased up my spine while I regarded him. Of all the weapons he’d ever taken up against me, this one was undoubtedly the most lethal. In any other circumstances, I would’ve struck my tongue at him again or casually presented him with a low-held fig. But the truth of the matter was that I was absolutely terrified to do so. 

Daemon laughed; simply, and dismissively. “We shall return shortly,” he said, casting half a reassuring look at me, my brothers, and Rhaena, before interlocking his fingers with Mother’s and ambled back into the Keep.

A raw panic gripped me as I watched them vanish, their absence leaving me bare and vulnerable to the court’s scrutiny – to Aemond’s silent execution. 

Alicent brushed past me too, her mien bristled. “Enjoy the festivities,” she said absently, almost rehearsed, and followed suit into the castle. Heleana retreated, as if finally dismissed, into a corner with her grandfather in heel, and what was left was a semiconscious Aegon, his head still propped in his hand, snoring loudly. And Aemond… His eye flickered with dark enjoyment as he watched me falter. 

“Come on.” Rhaena tugged on my sleeve and tipped her head toward a refreshment table. “Let’s get something to drink,” she said. 

I hesitated, my legs like hewn stone, too anxious to move at first beneath Aemond’s chilling leer, like one false move would trigger him to lunge at me with full force. Relief washed over me when Rhaena locked her arm with mine and pulled me along. Bodies flickered by me. Shoulders clashed and feet were accidentally stepped on in passing, but once I emerged from the crowd, I filled my lungs with a gasp, like I’d been beneath water for too long. 

I vacantly regarded the assortment of foods lining the table from which Rhaena and my brothers plucked eagerly. Lemon cake, apple cake, cream cake, candied almonds, jellies, dates, figs, pomegranate… I loved pomegranate. The vibrant, ruby-red orb was split open on a silver dish, its glistening seeds within the ivory husk making my mouth water. I considered picking up a wedge but resisted at the thought of the fruit’s bloodied stain on my fingers. I’d have the servants deliver some to my room later. I settled for some walnuts and candied almonds, the earthy bitterness mixing with the sweetness working up a proper hunger in my stomach. 

“What was that all about?” Jace’s inquiry came from my left. 

I glanced his way, noting three pairs of curious eyes awaiting my explanation. 

“What was what?” I said, feigning ignorance, placing another candied almond on my tongue. I’d barely had any time to process whatever it was that had just transpired, and I certainly wasn’t sure I’d dare speak of its significance with anyone at present. 

Jace scoffed. “That little charade back there.” He turned to me. “We all saw what happened. Half of King’s Landing did. Why is he altering the story?”

“Shh!” I chided sharply, casting my brother a look of pure venom.

Jace’s mouth tightened into a line, and he peered for prying eyes over his shoulder. Then, he dipped his head, leaning closer from down the line of Luke and Rhaena.

“Do you not find it strange?” he whispered. 

I picked up a decanter containing a liquid as dark as blood and sniffed its contents. Deeming it suitable enough for consumption, I filled a goblet. A sour and bold flavour filled my mouth as I took a sip. It burned pleasantly as it crept down my throat and left a lingering bitterness at the back of my tongue. 

“Is this Dornish?” I asked, gazing into the cup as if its origins were written in the tannins. 

“That Aemond, of all people, would find it in his heart to defend you after what you did. Against his mother. Against an entire court of people who now hate us. Why did you agree with him anyway?” Jace’s voice jumped and dipped where he occasionally forgot that he was supposed to whisper. 

“Must be Dornish,” I said, remaining on the subject of the wine, a cryptic attempt to make him change the subject. 

“I don’t fucking know!” he hissed, before coming around to stand next to me. “Listen, do you want me to be honest with you?”

My chin turned up, arranging my lips into a pondering pout while my eyes continued to travel over the refreshments. “Not really,” I sighed, collecting a handful of grapes. 

“Whether we like it or not, we’re on their territory now. And that means we eat out of their hand,” Jace began to explain, annoyance flickering in his eyes as he watched me eating the grapes out of my hand, clearly ruining his clever euphemism. “Your lapse in putting bounds on your impulses has put all of us in danger.” 

“He was just being nice. Now, drop it,” I retorted, building up a detestation for his nagging. 

Jace narrowed his eyes at me, a wave of incredulity sweeping over his features. “Nice? You know better than anyone that nice is a concept beyond his comprehension.”

“You only say that because you’re afraid of him. I am not.” That was a lie. But how would Jace be able to tell the difference? 

“I’m not afraid of him either,” he muttered, his brows knotting together. “I have a bad feeling about this. You shouldn’t have done what you did. And you certainly shouldn’t have allowed him to alter its unfolding-.”

“What did you expect me to do, Jace?” I snapped, a bit too loudly, and Rhaena’s placating hand found my shoulder. “To interject? To say, ‘No, my uncle is lying, I actually did attack him. But don’t worry, because it was purely out of jest. Not like the last time when my brothers took his eye’,” I rasped, watching Jace’s expression turn cold, a shadow of guilt passing through his eyes. “This is a better outcome than we could’ve hoped for. So be fucking grateful.”

Jace’s jaw clenched, his lips plumping into a brooding pout, telling me that he would at last give up picking at my wounds. 

“Don’t worry, Jace,” I said reassuringly, picking up the goblet anew, turning my back to the refreshment table. “Of whatever punishment the Greens would want us to suffer, be sure that I would be the sole receiver.”

I headed out into the ocean of bodies, sipping eagerly at the strongwine, planning to dull the scorching premonition at the forefront of my brain. 

That Aemond’s favour would be a bargain sealed with a cruel price. 

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[lola-writes]

hi miss u! hope ur well 🎀🤍

Omg anon this is so cute!! Thank youuu I love youuu🥹❤️❤️❤️

[lola-writes]

𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫 ║ 3. The Godswood ║ Aemond Targaryen x OC!Aylana Velaryon

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi | Playlist

➣ [divider @targaryen-dynasty]

➣ Story Masterlist

Word Count: 3,7k

Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person (Aylana's), swearing, angst, mentions of blood & violence, friends to enemies, consumption of alcohol. See story master list for full themes & warnings!

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

AYLANA

Where love tales start, a maiden stands, Wide-eyed, a caged truth in her hands. A diamond raw, before the strain, Innocence a fragile, sunlit pane.

But what if she, with heart untamed, Loved blood's sharp tang, a death proclaimed? The wolf's raw bite, a searing bliss, His fangs' deep pierce, a fatal kiss?

He, the wolf, with crimson stain, His teeth like steel, a hunter's reign. The world, a feast, laid at his door, And she, the prize he'd hungered for.

The Godswood of the Red Keep was an ethereal sort of place. Sunlight dappled through the verdant canopy, illuminating an effervescent, airy garden overlooking the river. A pale white oak reigned supreme in its centre, stretching its magnificent red crown towards the heavens like grasping fingers. The air was spicy with the scent of flowers. Silverware glinted in the scorching sun, and the food attracted flies. 

The thick wet heat soaked through my dress, melting it to my body like a second skin, and the salt stung in my wound. I was edgy and uncomfortable before our presence had even been noted. Mother and Daemon always made their way through the heat unencumbered, leaving me and my brothers to wilt under the sun’s relentless gaze.

It was never too hot for a Targaryen.

It singled us out, drawing unwanted attention our way as if our perspiration was proof that we weren’t one of them. 

Congruent mingling chatter, birdsong, and the chiming of cups floated around us, settling me into a veil of sereneness. The volcanic island that had been my home for the last four years was a stark and frigid place, leaving little chance for either greenery or birdsong to thrive, and didn’t even have a Godswood. This alteration in environment had proved to be a welcome one. 

But upon our entry, the ebullience was cut short, and the throng fell into an eerie silence. 

Heads swivelled our way. A subdued susurration ensued, and as we navigated the crowd, I felt a thousand eyes upon me, their scrutiny weighing down like a thick suffocating blanket. Piecing together their gossip was of little challenge. The deeper the crowd swallowed me, the clearer it became, like they were chanting it in chorus into my ears. 

She challenged Aemond.

She must have a death wish.

Shouldn’t she have been ripped to pieces by now?

Aemond clearly spared her.

Annoyance ticked beneath my skin, and it took every ounce of my power not to implode in protest right there in front of everyone. The sweet nostalgia of the place I used to call home was now a forgotten memory. Tainted and corrupted. The years of our absence had surely given the Queen ample time to sink her venomous teeth into the courtiers. Each familiar face I went to greet was another face that shunned me. 

I had never felt more unwelcome.

I followed suit behind Daemon, attempting to shield myself behind his broad back, but it was futile. The eyes unravelled me until I feared each one of my transgressions was on display, hot on my skin, as clear as the banners of the great houses. 

Never had I previously disapproved of being the centre of attention. It used to be a glittering crown, but now it was a stifling prison. These people no longer admired me. They wanted to eat me alive. 

My gaze remained locked into Daemon’s back, for I was sure to get picked apart to the bone if I skimmed the vultures around me. 

As Mother made our presence known to her siblings whose union we were celebrating, I couldn’t help but notice the absence of the King. Rumours of his ill health were, from my memory, not unfounded, but I had now begun to question its severity. It made me wonder just how close the succession actually was. 

A loud, obnoxious yawn shattered the silence and snapped me out of my abstraction.

Aegon, sprawling indolently in a chair, had just rudely interrupted my mother in her good wishes. 

Daemon’s grip around Dark Sister tightened in front of me as I took stock of the situation. 

Alicent kicked Aegon in the shin, to which he winced and blinked in rheumy confusion, his eyes widening as if suddenly realizing he was in the presence of people. 

He cleared his throat, “And to you, dear sister. Enjoy-,” he choked on a burp, before clearing his throat a second time, “Enjoy the festivities… at your leisure,” he slurred, waving one hand theatrically in the air before propping his elbow up on the armrest, his chin collapsing in his palm. 

I sawed my bottom lip between my teeth, fighting down the giggle bubbling in my chest. He was drunk, and it was only an hour past noon. 

My gaze flicked to Helaena who seemed present in body only. Her eyes stared absently into the distance, and her frame was turned away as if she did not wish to be there. But her brows, knotted in a tortured expression, told me she was at least aware of her brother’s intoxicated disposition. Something told me that she had endured far worse. 

The Hand stood protectively at her side, eyeing Daemon’s fingers caressing Dark Sister.

Alicent looked to the sky, presumably asking the Mother and the Crone for nurturing and guidance. 

My brothers and Rhaena twisted uncomfortably beside me, casting furtive glances at each other.

As a matter of fact, the entire throng crackled with tension, like electricity in the air before a lightning storm, each party eyeing the other, awaiting the source of the coming strike. 

I was biting the insides of my cheeks, scraping my nails against my palms, my stomach verging on turning inside out from my stifled laughter. None of this was funny, but I couldn’t help myself. It was the only way in which I could seem to deal with these types of situations. An unfortunate affliction, to be sure, but I preferred it over the anxious one that appeared to grip most people. At least Aegon’s impertinence had diverted the court’s attention so that my breathing could come easier. 

But a prickle of awareness from being watched still gnawed at me, sharp and beckoning. 

A warm rush of recognition ran down my spine as I met an intense gaze – one eye, cold and relentless, but carrying more weight than all the dozen pairs prior put together. It wiped the grin right off my face. 

Contempt pulsed hot and heavy in my chest; the last traces of my amusement stifled like the flame of a dying candle. Amid the silent spat that was seemingly happening between the rest of them, Aemond and I became immersed in our own. We stared at each other, the tense scene simmering around us, relegating to obscurity. 

He was taller than I’d previously observed, donning all black leather, save the dragon-shaped silver buckles fastened up his midsection to the high collar clasping around his neck. 

It was obvious that the heat was insignificant to him.

Dragons prefer heat. 

His jaw was sharper than Valyrian steel, and his mouth was set in a sort of perpetual sneer that hollowed his cheeks. Not a nasty sneer, but rather an amused one, as if all the rest of us were quite foolish and he could tell some good jibes on us if he wished. 

A subtle glow of sinister glee had come alight in his eye during our ocular joust. Like he was imagining ways of how to torture me. Or like he carried some clandestine knowledge unbeknownst to me. It was difficult to tell the difference. Either way, he looked like he could simply snap his fingers and my whole world would come crumbling down around me. 

An infantile nerve tugged at me, one of which I knew I shouldn’t indulge. But as with all of my other impulses… I just couldn’t help myself. 

I made a face at him, complete with tongue - pointing it at him like a petulant child, and his expression shuttered, a muscle in his jaw tightening. 

My face straightened, a dry huff of amusement leaving my nose. I averted my gaze, needing to abstain from looking at him altogether, or else mirth would consume me. An elbow nudged my arm, and I turned to meet Rhaena’s stern expression, mouthing the words Stop it. 

I needed to. This was serious business. But remnants of glee poked at me, my mouth twitching with forced resolve. I looked up to find Aemond’s eye remaining on me, steady and unyielding, promising sharp retaliation. 

“Thank you, brother,” Mother’s voice broke the silence, her lilt calm and composed, as if Aegon’s obvious sign of discourtesy were of no consequence, “Might I acquire as to why the King has not yet joined the celebrations?”

Alicent stepped forward, relieving Aegon of his duty to respond. Though, he was hardly capable. And the question had not been aimed at him anyway.

“I might acquire as to the rumours that have been spreading around the castle this morning,” Alicent demanded, her hands stacked beneath her ribs. 

My spine became steel, my mirth doused once and for all. 

“What is this I hear? A savage attack carried out against my son… again.” Her last word pitched lower, swathed in lethal warning and an undercurrent of tortured reminiscence. “By your daughter, no less.” Her eyes tore from my mother and fell on me, glaring daggers. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

I swallowed, heat blossoming on my cheeks. 

I had expected the matter to be brought up sooner or later, but I was not prepared to be confronted so ruthlessly. In front of all these people. Supposed it was just as she’d planned it. Humiliation was her creed.

Words of an extemporized apology began forming on my lips, when Mother grabbed my arm, a vice speaking of protection and a command of silence. 

“It is not as they say,” Mother announced, as if to the entire throng. “It was an accident-.”

“Oh, another accident, was it?” Alicent interjected, venom seeping into her voice, her lips curling. “Is this the sort of excuse you will make for all of your children? Perhaps soon they will believe murder to be an accident too.”

Mother scoffed. “Aylana’s intentions were hardly of bloodlust. This was merely the consequence of two dragon riders being a bit too reckless with their beasts. Purely that.”

“So now you’re attributing blame on my son for this façade?” 

“It’s all right, Mother.” 

A voice, the stroke of velvet and ice, cut the quarrel between the Princess and the Queen. It set my stomach churning, bile bubbling up the back of my throat. Aemond had uttered the three placating words to Alicent – not very loudly might I add – yet the entire throng stood to attention, a steady chill coursing through us in the dead heat of summer. Aemond’s eye was on me though, his expression trained into a blank mask. He held the court’s attention and the power to steer the course of the narrative in the palm of his hand. 

I’m going to make you wish you and your pretender menage never set foot in this city again.

Adrenaline exploded through my veins.

I braced myself for his coming defamation, sharpening my tongue to belittle him right back. I would not go down without a fight.

“My sister speaks the truth,” he drawled, never training his eye off me.

What?

“What?” Alicent frowned up at him. 

Mother cast me a look, but I was too focused on catching the words coming out of Aemond’s mouth as soon as he’d uttered them. 

He nodded gently. “It was my fault. I initiated a game of tag with my niece whom I’ve not seen in ages. I see now that it’s caused quite a stir. It was foolish of me.”

What the fuck was this? 

I’d known him for the greater part of my life, but the last four years of his was a mystery to me. Yet, this felt completely out of character. Words like this simply weren’t uttered by this man, and the guarded look twisting Ser Otto’s features validated my conjecture. 

Unease danced beneath my skin to a foreboding tune.  

I scavenged Aemond’s features with my eyes, searching for any quirk of his mouth, any devious crinkle of his eye that might reveal an ulterior motive for his intervention in my favour. But his countenance was unreadable. Still as a windless sea. I guessed Alicent was occupied with a similar challenge because she was just glaring at him in wide-eyed confusion, unsure of who exactly to rebuke after this declaration. 

Aemond’s resolve was more frightening than if a smug grin had been curving his lips, and a single unnerving realization was starting to dawn on me: This would not bode well for me. 

“Aylana.” My throat constricted when he spoke my name, sounding more like a threat on his tongue than a word used to address me. “Will you forgive me?” he asked, his voice a honeyed drawl, his gaze holding mine with unbridled conviction. 

My scar burned hot on my brow. 

He had stated it as a question, yet his tone brooked no argument. Mother’s grip tightened around my arm. 

I considered ripping myself away. To announce to everyone here that the fault, in fact, was mine. To make them hate me, and shun me because at least then, I wouldn’t be teetering on the precipice of selling my soul to a demon – that was the only way I could describe the feeling consuming me at that moment.

But I couldn’t do that to my mother. She was relying on me to keep the peace. To make any sacrifice necessary to prevent any further doubt spreading of our claim to the throne. Whatever Aemond’s intentions, I would undoubtedly soon find out. 

I forced a smile to my lips and a silken lilt to my tone, playing along. “Of course, uncle,” I said. 

Aemond tipped his chin up. 

“Consider it forgotten,” I declared. The incongruent feeling rose higher like a building wave of nausea. 

Being more dishevelled by the situation than anyone else, Alicent took another measured step forward, blocking Aemond out of view, as if attempting to make us all forget this ever happened, and cleared her throat. 

“The King has been up day and night readying the Keep for his children’s nuptials. He’s in his chambers having a well-deserved rest,” said Alicent, “He will join us for the tourney on the morrow.”

“I would like to see my brother,” Daemon announced curtly, with a sense of finality in his voice. “And say what you will, Alicent, but the King has not retired to his chambers on a day of celebration in his life. No matter how…,” he cast a look of scrutinizing contempt around the gardens, “…dull.”

“Causing much grief to both of us, he is not the same man as you remember,” said Alicent ominously, ignoring the Prince’s indisputable insult.

“A fact hardly attributable to your efforts, I’d wager?”

“Certainly not,” Alicent countered.

Daemon huffed derisively. 

Their conversation wove into a constant backdrop to my thoughts, as my gaze still fixed on Aemond. My eyes had never left him so that absolutely no crack in his façade would’ve escaped my notice. And indeed, I’d watched him slowly alter, morphing into something more sinister, and dark – something more himself. A predatory gleam had gradually lit his features. The corners of his mouth were no longer curled into that of rye amusement. His head was canted to one side, a cold, calculating glint shone in his eye, and his nostrils flared as if he were smelling blood. 

A shiver chased up my spine while I regarded him. Of all the weapons he’d ever taken up against me, this one was undoubtedly the most lethal. In any other circumstances, I would’ve struck my tongue at him again or casually presented him with a low-held fig. But the truth of the matter was that I was absolutely terrified to do so. 

Daemon laughed; simply, and dismissively. “We shall return shortly,” he said, casting half a reassuring look at me, my brothers, and Rhaena, before interlocking his fingers with Mother’s and ambled back into the Keep.

A raw panic gripped me as I watched them vanish, their absence leaving me bare and vulnerable to the court’s scrutiny – to Aemond’s silent execution. 

Alicent brushed past me too, her mien bristled. “Enjoy the festivities,” she said absently, almost rehearsed, and followed suit into the castle. Heleana retreated, as if finally dismissed, into a corner with her grandfather in heel, and what was left was a semiconscious Aegon, his head still propped in his hand, snoring loudly. And Aemond… His eye flickered with dark enjoyment as he watched me falter. 

“Come on.” Rhaena tugged on my sleeve and tipped her head toward a refreshment table. “Let’s get something to drink,” she said. 

I hesitated, my legs like hewn stone, too anxious to move at first beneath Aemond’s chilling leer, like one false move would trigger him to lunge at me with full force. Relief washed over me when Rhaena locked her arm with mine and pulled me along. Bodies flickered by me. Shoulders clashed and feet were accidentally stepped on in passing, but once I emerged from the crowd, I filled my lungs with a gasp, like I’d been beneath water for too long. 

I vacantly regarded the assortment of foods lining the table from which Rhaena and my brothers plucked eagerly. Lemon cake, apple cake, cream cake, candied almonds, jellies, dates, figs, pomegranate… I loved pomegranate. The vibrant, ruby-red orb was split open on a silver dish, its glistening seeds within the ivory husk making my mouth water. I considered picking up a wedge but resisted at the thought of the fruit’s bloodied stain on my fingers. I’d have the servants deliver some to my room later. I settled for some walnuts and candied almonds, the earthy bitterness mixing with the sweetness working up a proper hunger in my stomach. 

“What was that all about?” Jace’s inquiry came from my left. 

I glanced his way, noting three pairs of curious eyes awaiting my explanation. 

“What was what?” I said, feigning ignorance, placing another candied almond on my tongue. I’d barely had any time to process whatever it was that had just transpired, and I certainly wasn’t sure I’d dare speak of its significance with anyone at present. 

Jace scoffed. “That little charade back there.” He turned to me. “We all saw what happened. Half of King’s Landing did. Why is he altering the story?”

“Shh!” I chided sharply, casting my brother a look of pure venom.

Jace’s mouth tightened into a line, and he peered for prying eyes over his shoulder. Then, he dipped his head, leaning closer from down the line of Luke and Rhaena.

“Do you not find it strange?” he whispered. 

I picked up a decanter containing a liquid as dark as blood and sniffed its contents. Deeming it suitable enough for consumption, I filled a goblet. A sour and bold flavour filled my mouth as I took a sip. It burned pleasantly as it crept down my throat and left a lingering bitterness at the back of my tongue. 

“Is this Dornish?” I asked, gazing into the cup as if its origins were written in the tannins. 

“That Aemond, of all people, would find it in his heart to defend you after what you did. Against his mother. Against an entire court of people who now hate us. Why did you agree with him anyway?” Jace’s voice jumped and dipped where he occasionally forgot that he was supposed to whisper. 

“Must be Dornish,” I said, remaining on the subject of the wine, a cryptic attempt to make him change the subject. 

“I don’t fucking know!” he hissed, before coming around to stand next to me. “Listen, do you want me to be honest with you?”

My chin turned up, arranging my lips into a pondering pout while my eyes continued to travel over the refreshments. “Not really,” I sighed, collecting a handful of grapes. 

“Whether we like it or not, we’re on their territory now. And that means we eat out of their hand,” Jace began to explain, annoyance flickering in his eyes as he watched me eating the grapes out of my hand, clearly ruining his clever euphemism. “Your lapse in putting bounds on your impulses has put all of us in danger.” 

“He was just being nice. Now, drop it,” I retorted, building up a detestation for his nagging. 

Jace narrowed his eyes at me, a wave of incredulity sweeping over his features. “Nice? You know better than anyone that nice is a concept beyond his comprehension.”

“You only say that because you’re afraid of him. I am not.” That was a lie. But how would Jace be able to tell the difference? 

“I’m not afraid of him either,” he muttered, his brows knotting together. “I have a bad feeling about this. You shouldn’t have done what you did. And you certainly shouldn’t have allowed him to alter its unfolding-.”

“What did you expect me to do, Jace?” I snapped, a bit too loudly, and Rhaena’s placating hand found my shoulder. “To interject? To say, ‘No, my uncle is lying, I actually did attack him. But don’t worry, because it was purely out of jest. Not like the last time when my brothers took his eye’,” I rasped, watching Jace’s expression turn cold, a shadow of guilt passing through his eyes. “This is a better outcome than we could’ve hoped for. So be fucking grateful.”

Jace’s jaw clenched, his lips plumping into a brooding pout, telling me that he would at last give up picking at my wounds. 

“Don’t worry, Jace,” I said reassuringly, picking up the goblet anew, turning my back to the refreshment table. “Of whatever punishment the Greens would want us to suffer, be sure that I would be the sole receiver.”

I headed out into the ocean of bodies, sipping eagerly at the strongwine, planning to dull the scorching premonition at the forefront of my brain. 

That Aemond’s favour would be a bargain sealed with a cruel price. 

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[lola-writes]

Hello lovely! Just wondering, are you doing requests?? Because your writing is majestic 💕

Heyy gorgeous anon! I'm very flattered that you ask. I'm currently not doing requests out of fear that I would never be able to keep up with them and let people down.

If that ever were to change I'll make sure to announce it! 💕

Love, Lola

[lola-writes]

𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫 ║ 2. Childhood Kingdom ║ Aemond Targaryen x OC!Aylana Velaryon

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Word Count: 3,1k

Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person (Aylana's), swearing, angst, mentions of blood & violence, friends to enemies, mother-daughter relationship. See story master list for full themes & warnings!

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

AYLANA

Childhood is a kingdom gleaming over the horizon, a faraway sunset. You reach and grasp for faint little lights, golden and blue and red.

Your hands are made of smoke; passing through a world of gold. Sapphires tumbling into white sands. You, at the middle of it all, waiting.

Your childhood home possesses a different sort of nostalgia. It will always hold a piece of you, a version of who you once were. Reminiscence is mixed into the mortar. Its very air exudes memories that you thought long ago buried. Its edifice takes on the shape of your past - it’s almost tangible. It’s riveting.

King’s Landing held that sort of sentiment for me. When the city skyline emerged from the sea, I was a child once more, inching ever closer on the back of Syrax. Mother always used to bring me along, and I was welcomed home with an embrace. 

This time it was with a blade to my throat. The cold ruthless edge biting my skin, and a piercing blue eye staring down at me like a hawk watching its prey. Ire licked around the edges like flame on water. One eye – cold and relentless. The other patched up behind leather. Reminding me of my failings. And during that breathless moment, all I could feel was defeat. 

I hadn’t ascertained how I thought I might find him after all these years. I just knew that it wasn’t like this. Only a fool wouldn’t have presumed that he too had changed.

He was no longer the quiet, sensitive boy that I grew up with. One that would chase me around the castle and indulge my silly little ideas like swapping the milk for vinegar in the kitchens, or smearing honey on the door handles. 

He was a man. Dangerous and unforgiving. Rather, he was just the way I’d left him – tyrannical, with a weapon of steel instead of stone. His depravity had been fed like water into drought-stricken land. And strangely enough, I could not blame him. 

What was one to do at the loss of half one’s world, if not seclude to darkness?

But he was more than I would’ve welcomed in his circumstances. He was cruel. He was vindictive. Granted I hadpushed his buttons, and I had perhaps taken it a bit too far with Nymax. But I was angry. I was betrayed. A part of me wanted to see what he’d do. But behind that eye was nothing indicating regret or even the slightest acknowledgment that we had once been friends. Instead, I felt like a stranger, as significant as a leaf blowing in the wind. 

And how he’d looked at me… Like I was no more than a beggar on the Street of Silk. With his single eye like a transparent blue agate marble. And that deep scar stretching out beneath the leather like a disease… It plagued my mind. 

Word of the one-eyed Targaryen boy had surely spread like wildfire throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but this was the first time I’d seen it for myself, and all I could think of was to reach up and let my fingers graze across it as if my touch would turn back time.

My goading had reaped no fruit. Instead, it had turned to ash in my mouth. Bastard, he’d called me. My gut twisted with a wave of nausea. I’d heard the slight all my life. But from him alone, it stung more than a thousand whispers. It was a brutal testament to whatever monster had taken my friend’s place. He was no longer an Aemond who wanted to be touched. No longer an Aemond that smiled, except in a sadistic, taunting manner. No longer an Aemond that needed me for comfort, or that I needed to protect from his relentless subjugates. Like Ser Harwin and Ser Laenor, the Stranger had claimed him, and assuming his form was a malevolent and vengeful wraith. 

Unlike many, I had not pitied him but rather respected the power that he had stepped into - claiming Vhagar as his own. The power I knew deep down he had always wished for. But the shaping of his power had seemingly shattered the last shreds of mine. 

No dream had come to me in years. 

Perhaps it was the blow to my head, or perhaps our life at Dragonstone was so uneventful and humdrum that there was no scope for the imagination. 

Perhaps my auguries were imagined. Though the dream… no, the nightmare, that had come to me at Driftmark all those years ago, spoke to the contrary, filling my mind like a noxious fume: Aemond… writhing in pain, and a flock of maesters tending to him like a violent storm. Blood poured from him in lethal volumes, but as I looked him over, his body was intact. Blood was still gushing down, staining his hands that applied pressure, and as the maesters forced them away, I screamed. Aemond was crying blood. A deep, vertical gash split the left side of his face from cheekbone to forehead. His bone gaped white through the crimson like pulp, and all the layers of his eye had been slashed down to the retina. The pigments of his eye were leaking into the structures and mingled with the blood. He was howling in pain…

Moments later, I had stepped between my brother and the deadly promise of the boulder in Aemond’s hand. And then, everything went black…

It wasn’t until I’d awoken days later on a ship back to King’s Landing that I’d been told of my uncle’s brutal fate. 

My mind had been quiet since. 

Whatever the reason, I do believe I’ve been better for it. My dreams had never wrought a thing but the recipe for melancholia. 

As a child, I had hoped that the life of a Dreamer would’ve granted me the freedom I’d always wished for. 

Daenys Targaryen had a powerful foreboding, and alerting her father, Lord Aenar Targaryen, saved the entirety of our house from the Doom of Valyria. She was charged with a greater purpose, besides that of her inheritance. 

My own dreams however, were nothing but misgivings – a feeling pitting my stomach that occasionally came to pass. Just the premonitions of a stupid girl with too wild an imagination. Or so I’d been told. Regardless, nothing could’ve prevented the tragedies that followed.

Whatever the future had in store, I had decided that I preferred not knowing.

Even though the people had changed, the castle remained quite the same, ever flaunting its extravagance and wealth of the Targaryens in tapestries, ornaments, and gold. 

One thing that certainly had not changed was the stench. The pungent smell of vomit, urine, and feces gusted into my chambers through the balcony where I found myself gagging, considering which death would be more pleasant – suffocation or heat stroke. 

The summer had been torturous. The heat hovered in the air, thick and sticky, and transformed the fetidness into something more tangible. And what little wind stirred, it did little to cool me.

How did I ever survive in this place?

I fidgeted with my dress in the mirror donning the Targaryen colors, and although I myself had picked it out, I was at present sincerely regretting my decision. The fabric was beautiful and the stitching intricate, soaking up my sweat until the garment weighed twice as heavy. The only piece of the design that offered me even the slightest reprieve was the neckline that wrapped well beneath my collarbones and let the breeze whisper across my neck. 

My gaze drifted to the angry score that decorated my throat like a ruby necklace. I caressed it with my fingers, letting out a restrained hiss. It would leave a scar… 

Vexation itched beneath my skin.

If another damned scar got painted on my body by that eunuch, I would start resembling one of his training dummies out in the yard. 

The memory of his rough fingers digging into my cheeks swam up before me, pulsing hot like a bruise. His presence had been overwhelming. There had been so much of him at once, and the reminiscence of how he used to look culminated in a shock to my system, like being doused in iced water. The scent of leather, wood smoke, and citrus consumed me. The intensity of his eye on me had been so blinding that I could hardly stand to look at him, like gazing straight into the scorching sun. And his tongue… remaining idle at first but then jabbed at me like a venomous snake. 

Hatred tasted acidic in my mouth when I recalled what he’d said to me. I’m going to make you wish you and your pretender menage never set foot in this city again. 

A cold shiver skittered down my spine when I tried to imagine what he’d be capable of to make these words stand ground. 

“Ayla!”

I jolted; my mother’s entrance having completely eluded me in the bowels of my thoughts. When I turned to face her, she was a flurry of distress and agitation, one hand clutching her swollen belly, wild eyes piercing me.

“What were you thinking?! Gods, how could you be so reckless? The entire city is already speaking of it. That you attacked Aemond and Vhagar with your dragon, and that Vhagar ripped you to shreds!” Mother declared, storming towards me.

Oh my. Causing a scandal before I’d even arrived. Gods had I missed this.

I scoffed, glancing out of the open balcony as if I’d expected to catch the culprit of this gossip. “Well, they’re lying. As you can see,” I said, gesturing up and down my intact frame. 

To be fair, I hadn't actually anticipated every dockworker and merchant in King’s Landing to witness my small aerial taunt. But the fact that they would think Aemond could actually take me down was just insulting.

Mother stepped closer, her eyes narrowing at me. “I saw you attacking him.”

“But I didn’t attack him!” I countered, rolling my eyes. “I merely… tested his mettle a bit.”

“I doubt he saw it that way,” Mother hissed, raising an eyebrow at me, her eyes briefly dropping to my neck.

I swallowed, feeling the phantom of Aemond’s blade against my skin. 

He had for a fact not seen it that way.

Ugh, why did they all have to be so dramatic?

“Oh, Alicent is going to be furious.” Mother exhaled despondently, cupping her face in her hand as she paced the room.

A steady current of regret diluted my pretension. The last thing I wanted was to stir up any more animosity between the two of them. Nor put any unnecessary strain on my mother in her most delicate condition. I admitted I must’ve miscalculated the entire situation. Tugging at a friendship that died long ago. But I refused to believe that a simple amnesty wouldn’t be able to solve this. 

“I’ll… I’ll apologize to him. Publicly.” My jaw clenched, dreading the idea of begging for his forgiveness. But I cherished my mother more than I despised him. 

“It doesn’t matter now, don’t you see that? If Alicent hears tale of this – that you made a strike on her son and his dragon, she will see to it that she has her revenge.” Mother looked me dead in the eye, menace rimming them like a she-wolf ready to pounce. As she approached me again, her voice dropped to a low hush. “You know what she wants.”

“But as of yet, she hasn’t succeeded. Grandsire stands between her and her delusions.”

“That doesn't grant us leave to poke the bear. And…” Mother hesitated, an anxious frown crowning her features, “Viserys won’t be around forever.” A distant look clouded her gaze like she was contemplating the fact. I took her hand in a silent comfort. 

But once she recovered, her aggravation burned hot again. “Four years we’ve been absent, and you take the very first opportunity to risk our inheritance on some folly attempt of revenge. I thought you knew better than this.”

She was right. I had been reckless. Selfish. Not even entirely certain of why I’d done it in the first place. It hadn’t had anything to do with seeking revenge though. I wasn’t holding any grudge towards him… 

Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. I was still angry at him for bashing my head in. But my actions had not been an attempt of retribution. I already believed he’d paid for what he’d done. With no intervention from myself. It was rather that I couldn’t resist the urge to vex him. In which I had succeeded. And was ill-received. 

Like I said – me misjudging the situation.

If the Greens were to decide to take action against me, Alicent was certainly the least of my worries.

“I’m sorry,” I said, twisting the golden ring in the likeness of a dragon guarding a Tahitian pearl around my finger. “It won’t happen again.”

Mother softened, collecting my hands in hers to stop my fidgeting. 

“We’re to gather in the Godswood in an hour. You’ll allow Daemon and I to handle it from here.”

I nodded, relief that I wouldn’t need deign make any apologies flooding me. 

“And is this,” she said, cupping a hand around my crimson wound, “Something you’d wish to tell me about?” The tinge of maternal worry penetrated her voice as she exchanged a single look with her maid Elinda, who curtsied to a silent command and left to fetch something. I had always found their bond most fascinating. 

I knew Mother’s choice of returning to King’s Landing had not been an easy one. Our return would surely unravel countless memories and stir dormant grudges never forgotten. Was I to tell her that it had already begun? What good would that do?

I covered the laceration, still raw and pulsing.

“Nymax caught her thorn in me as I climbed off,” I said tersely, still feeling the cool edge of Aemond’s sword biting into my flesh, juxtaposing his warm fingers around the back of my neck. 

She studied me for a moment, before taking the damp cloth from Elinda and began to fab away the dried blood. The cool aftermath of the water’s touch was a welcome exchange. 

We stood there, in silence, feeling the reminiscence of the room, the spirit of our past echoing between the walls. I suddenly felt an overwhelming grief choking me, like something crawled up my stomach and lodged in my throat. Ser Harwin used to push open the doors and tread inside, his gold cloak flowing around his sword hand with indisputable authority, and he would announce the request for our presence, or that Nymax needed feeding. But I had come to understand that the latter was just an excuse to speak to Mother alone.

I gulped down the lump and fought back tears.

Everything had changed. 

Mother dropped the cloth back into the basin and I turned to the mirror dismissively, pulling at my dress absentmindedly. 

“It’s so fucking hot in here,” I huffed, wiping at my face with my hands.

“Are you certain?” 

“That it’s hot in here? I’m pretty fucking sure,” I quipped. 

“About your cut,” she emphasized. “And please stop swearing so much. It does not befit a future Queen.” I caught Mother’s eyes in the reflection. They were stern with an ephemeral softness at the rim, as only her eyes could. She wanted me to confess. To convey his name so that she might be granted some leverage in the coming confrontations. But I was never one to admit defeat. Nor was I a rat. 

If I wanted him reprimanded, I would put myself to the task.

I stretched my neck and forced a convincing resolve into my features. “Yes,” I told her, and she considered me for a moment, silence stretching as she looked beyond my eyes. Until she nodded what I believed was approval. 

“If anyone asks, then that’s what you’ll tell them,” she said. A golden torc emblazoned with Valyrian glyphs materialized in her grasp. “I thought you could wear this today. And considering the circumstances, I believe it would be perfect,” she said, dressing my wound in gold until the angry red was only barely visible. She turned me around to face her. 

A big sigh escaped her lips, her eyes coming alive with love as she took my face in her hands.

“You have grown into such a beautiful, intelligent woman, Ayla,” she said tenderly, rubbing my cheeks between her thumbs. “And though I would like to take all the credit, we both know part of it lies elsewhere. So, I’m aware that what I’m about to say might already be common knowledge to you. But as your mother, I must tell you anyway. No one at court is to be trusted. Do not cede to flattery and do not allow your temper to get the better of you. Here, your weaknesses will be routed and used to destroy you.” Vehemence laced her voice, and I watched a rueful glint flicker in her eyes when she let her thumb brush across my split eyebrow. “If anything happens, know that you have me, Daemon, your brothers, and Ser Laurent to protect you.”

I don’t need protection.

“Yes, mother,” I said placatingly. She was worried, and I could not find it in my heart to make any snide remarks. 

She let out a sigh that pulled the tension out of her fingertips, like a bowstring relaxing after being drawn back, readying to release the arrow. She took to washing my skin and brushing out the snags in my hair from my leaking salt. Preparing me to look perfect. Though, I never felt it. My hair had always been too dark and meandering, my skin too olive, and my spirit too wild. Occasionally, I felt like an imposter. Like a crow among peacocks. I was aware of what people were saying about me, and for the longest time, I’d been enraged by it, the whispers rendering me incapable of thinking of anything else. But ever since I’d claimed my dragon, all of their impudence faded into insignificance. 

I was as much of a Targaryen as any of them. Perhaps not pumping the amount of royal blood as Aegon the Conqueror, but pumping royal blood all the same. And I’d come to terms with that. 

I was the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, and I would eventually ascend the Iron-fucking-Throne. 

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[lola-writes]

𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫 ║ 1. The One-Eyed Prince ║ Aemond Targaryen x OC!Aylana Velaryon

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Word Count: 3,3k

Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person (Aemond's), swearing, angst, high valyrian, dragon riding, blood & violence, friends to enemies. See story master list for full themes & warnings!

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AEMOND

Gravity had nothing on us, my dear. 

You can’t untie red strings of fate. 

This is how it feels to fall in love with the atmosphere. 

The world surrendered to a symphony of wind. 

Turbulence thundered in my ears and whipped my hair untamed as I ascended the skies. Rising higher and higher, the clouds enveloped me in a blinding haze, and the elements of the earth below decreased into a mosaic. 

I conquered the celestial at such speed that I felt like Aegon reborn. 

Vhagar was an extension of myself, her undulating muscles beneath my straddling body felt as if connected to my own, forcing our masses through the heavens with an effortlessness. I commanded her higher still, and she heeded my command. 

We defied gravity in a dance of grace and power.

As we approached the stratosphere where air ran thin, I straightened in my saddle, and my mighty Vhagar leveled out, conforming to every delicate change in my movements. The world below became an inverted dreamscape as we sailed the vague interstice that marked the transition between sky and oblivion - the clouds beneath were the unconquered sky, and the indigo above was the ocean, and I was flying upside down. 

Mirth bubbled in my chest at the idea.

Together, Vhagar and I were limitless.

The memory of when I first claimed her was so potent it eclipsed everything else, real or imagined. It had been life-altering. Like I’d been a blind man suddenly being granted sight. Or a street urchin stumbling upon a hoard of gold. But it was more than that. She chose me. The largest dragon in the world. What was one to do with such power? A power so raw and exhilarating, it consumed. And I admitted, it certainly had consumed me, dousing my blood like liquor. 

And who could blame me? I went from being a fucking nobody… to being the most powerful man in the world. 

I leaned into Vhagar’s warmth, and she folded her wings against me. 

We plummeted back down towards the earth, a thrilling drop that sent a jolt of pure ecstasy through my veins, hotter than dragon fire. My stomach lurched, and beneath my thighs, Vhagar’s thorax vibrated – a deep, primal roar that resonated through my very bones. 

At that moment, I mirrored her, a guttural exclaim of pure, unadulterated joy escaping my lips.

Never had freedom tasted so sweet.

The force of our descent sliced through the nebulous clouds like a knife through cotton, and as we emerged, the Narrow Sea gaped wide, glittering beneath the noontide sun like crystal-embellished silk. I leveled out again and watched Vhagar’s twin loom out of the water. 

In the distance, the seven huge drum towers - proud sentinels of pale red stone - rose out of the sea on their stony summits, and the tolling bells welcomed me back home. 

An unfamiliar fleet of ships coasted down Black Water Rush like wooden beads along a blue mesh - an unremarkable observation since nobles from every corner of the realm had been descending upon King’s Landing for the wedding. 

They had all come through the gates though, by horse and carriage. None by sea. 

Traders perhaps? Arriving just in time to fortify our stores for the upcoming plunder. 

So many fucking mouths to feed. I had seen them endlessly pour through the castle gates in a river of gold, silver, and polished steel – their banners displaying the sigil of House Lannister, Baratheon, Tully, and I could’ve sworn I saw a direwolf banner among them. Would the Starks truly find a Targaryen wedding of such importance that they would bother dragging themselves out of their frozen pits?

It was to be a grand affair, to be sure. A celebration with tourneys, hunts, feasts, and dancing, to last for at least a fortnight.

If I had it my way, I would escape and race the wind on Vhagar, scouting the lands until I’d committed every field, mountain, and terrain to memory. But Mother’s orders were a bittersweet curse. 

‘You are to be on your best behavior,’ she’d told us. A euphemism for me babysitting my nuisance of a brother, ensuring he does not imbibe every wine cask in the Keep, and to hearten my sweet sister who always grew gauche in social gatherings. 

One could hardly fathom I was the youngest.

But the chief of my worries was Aegon. He was already inclined to get unreasonably drunk on a plain day. I shuddered to think of the lengths he might go to in tribute to his own nuptials.

Unease filled my gut.

But it wasn’t the vigil of my siblings that rendered me apprehensive.

As I drew close enough to make out the banners, I realized that these were no ordinary trading ships. In fact, these weren’t traders at all…

I tugged at the reins and Vhagar gathered air beneath her leather, and sprung up high, casting her mighty shadow atop the vessels. 

Memories consumed me like a bad aftertaste. The sigil-emblazoned sails draped across the masts below needed no introduction. The seahorse and the three-headed black dragon caught the wind. 

Straightening in my saddle, a nauseating, breathless feeling tugged at my throat.

It could only mean one thing…

The thought got knocked right out of me as a bone-jarring force shuddered through me, emptying my lungs of air. 

My point of gravity shifted. 

The world went tumbling around me. 

Adrenaline poured into my bloodstream.

Vhagar’s earsplitting roar resounding across the blackwater and the sharp tug at my arm snapped everything into focus. 

My wrist had snagged through a loop in the climbing ropes, from which I was now dangling precariously. Vhagar’s tattered wings fanned at my side and my body swayed as she straightened from the impact.

Had I fallen off?

It took my mind a moment to grasp the idea. This just doesn’t happen. I don’t fall off. 

I gazed up above where the saddle chains that I had once again neglected to attach myself to, draped down Vhagar’s side like a limp appendage. The links rattling. Mocking me. 

I had fucking fallen off. 

A distressed wailing growl tore from Vhagar’s throat, her hunter green head curving sideways. I met her glowing copper eyes. They were silently appraising me, awaiting my next command. Even though we were entirely different species, I could read her just as well as I could read any human. Sometimes I even thought I heard her. In my mind. But it was never anything so simple as a voice or an implication to one. It was a feeling. We were one entity, especially when I was astride her. But sometimes even more when we were apart. It was a bond I knew I would never experience with anyone. 

I could feel her lowering us towards the city, her dark slits pleading with me to hang on. 

“I’m alright, old girl,” I assured her, the thought of anyone witnessing this utterly humbling display suddenly seizing me, sparking my veins like hot iron. I could already feel the whispers clinging to the humid air, dispersing like disease in a brothel. 

Aemond One-Eye was no real dragon rider. 

He could not even stay his ass in the saddle on a windless day.

Gripping onto the ropes with my other hand, my eye aimed at the saddle above. “Sōvēs [Fly], Vhagar.” 

I began the climb, my heart hammering against my ribs.

My commands were binding, and though I felt her brief reluctance at first, she conformed, her wings gathering air as I hauled myself back up. Her appeasing grumble thrummed against the back of my thighs as I straddled her, and gave her three firm pats on her hide, feeling sheepish after what had just happened. I pondered the catalyst for its occurrence, my mind skipping between the dreadful thought of a dragon’s ill health to an idea far simpler such as a fault of my own. 

My gut churned at the thought.

I did not need to think for long though, because the reason then struck Vhagar’s thorax with a forceful blow, knocking me aslant. But I did not fall. My hands had gripped the saddle horns by instinct like my body had anticipated what was to come. Vhagar roared, deafening and furious, making the very air around us quiver in the still heat. 

It was a warning.

My senses prickled with apprehension.

We were under attack.

I scouted the skies in a glassy bewilderment, growing acrimoniously aware of my disability. But the firmament was still and empty. 

What in the Seven Hells?

Another blow, my frame unmoving this time. Fury consumed me like poison. Gritting my teeth, I gripped the saddle horn and twisted the thick reins twice ‘round my forearm, perceiving every muscle of Vhagar’s back contracting beneath me, waiting to charge. 

Who would dare challenge the might of House Targaryen?

More importantly, who would dare challenge me?

A flicker of movement caught my eye. 

A shadow, shrouded beneath Vhagar’s wing membranes, was soaring alongside us. And when I turned to look, my eye met a stranger, masked and cloaked, stalking us on a dragon as black and swift as a raven. The beast was miniscule in relation to us, just the age to breathe fire, and yet had nearly forced me to meet the gods. 

Humiliation morphed into a blinding rage that seethed through my veins and marred my vision with a red mist. “Ossēnagon [Kill], Vhagar!” I growled, and steered her toward the trespasser. But the figure crouched down in their saddle, and their dragon dove towards the city. 

Fucking craven.

We went after them. Wrath consumed me, shifting my attention to a single point of focus: to allow Vhagar’s jaws to rip them apart until all that was left of them was a cloud of blood. 

Their descent was swift and inaudible, while ours was slow and thunderous like a moving mountain. The pale orange rooftops of King’s Landing, bleached from the summer’s scorching sun, spread out like a vast rust beneath our darkening shadows. 

We pursued them to the Hill of Rhaenys, where we landed opposite each other outside the crypts of the dragonpit. 

Dismounting, I started towards them, each step a measured threat. The steel of my sword sang its lethal warning as I drew it from my scabbard. But the stranger stood their ground, defiance flickering in their shadowed form, making no attempt to engage a weapon of their own. 

From challenging me midair to abstaining from fighting me on the ground had my anger, already a simmering cauldron, boiling over. I closed the distance between us, a growl ripping from my throat, raw and primal before my blade bit their throat.

My whole being demanded their death, but I knew better than to execute a rogue assassin without first extracting some answers. A desperate struggle ensued, but my palm collared the nape of their neck, locking them to the steel. Alarming exclaims sounded in the distance, but the words faded underwater. 

“The Stranger requests an audience. Less you reveal the purpose of your presence here within the next five seconds,” I seethed, the contiguity drowning my voice into a whisper. 

I took pleasure in that I towered over them, feeling their hot, humid breath against me, hitching beneath the sharp edge.

“My prince!” A familiar voice mingling with the sound of clattering metal came from my left. Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was running towards us. His voice, booming like thunder, always sufficed in snapping the whole court to attention at his announcements. But it wasn’t his timber that stirred me this time. “Let her go!” 

His words carried me out of my raging inferno and had me dip into raw curiosity.

Her?

A soft, vibrant laugh with a taunting edge pooled out of the cowl, finishing with a humming sound of satisfaction. 

I blinked through my apprehension and scavenged the stranger’s frame with my eye as if I’d awoken from a dream and seen them for the first time. 

“I see that you’ve lost your sense of humor too,” came a female voice. “Someone told me you get funnier after experiencing trauma. But you look like you haven’t laughed in years.”

Annoyance twisted my features. 

A tug, a rustle, and her cowl fell back and settled around her shoulders. 

A wave of ice ran down my spine. 

It was like seeing a ghost. The protagonist of all my nightmares coming alive, ready to haunt me. 

Aylana Velaryon.

She was a wretched little thing standing before me. Her eyes, the color of sunlit amber flicked with gold, held mine with an unsettling intensity. Mischief danced in them like cinders over a fire, and a knowing smile played on her lips.  

Chagrin sparked hot within me, and she looked so fucking pleased with herself that I had no control of what I did next. 

I grabbed her face. Ignoring the ominous, billowing roar of her dragon. My palm enveloped her jaw, my thumb and index finger digging into the soft, pliant skin of her cheeks, stripping that conceited expression off it. 

“Are you saying that I should’ve found that little fucking ambush of yours up there funny?” I hissed, dubiety weighing my tone. Her dark brows knotted together, and her lips swelled forward, her mouth forced open into an oval shape. “You nearly killed me.”

She rolled her eyes. Fucking rolled her eyes at me. 

“Gīda ilagon, kepus [Calm down, uncle],” she said, a sardonic edge lacing her voice. “Iksi sesīr sir, ȳdra ao pendagon daor? [We are even now, don’t you think?]”

 The words hit me like a physical blow, taken aback by the fluency of her High Valyrian and the meaning behind the words in equal measure. 

No… Actually, their meaning stirred me the most. Then, my gaze fell upon the one jarring element which had elicited them, as if it had called to me. A crimson scar that snaked across her left eyebrow, expressing a raw pink sheen beneath a shell of transparent skin. 

Years had passed, yet the wound looked just healed.

My jaw tightened as venom scoured through my veins.

I could still see her crumpled, lifeless form in the dirt, her skull cracked open, every time I closed my eye.

And I was holding the bloody rock.

A torrent of questions, accusations, apologies – years of unspoken turmoil – churned within me. But now, with her life literally in my hands, the words deserted me. My tongue, usually an agile weapon, felt like lead. This was the person who had haunted my every waking and sleeping thought for years, and all I could manage was a stunned silence. Perhaps my countenance spoke volumes where my voice failed, though I doubted it presented anything but bored disinterest.

She echoed the girl I remembered, but time had woven its changes. Her once youthful features had sharpened. Cheekbones higher, lips fuller. She smelt of sea and brimstone. Her head of bouncy, tight curls was now an ocean of dark waves tumbling down her back in drifts… The shade struck a chord in me. Chafed at my benevolence. A testament to who… what… she truly was. 

Tainted blood. 

“No?” Her voice was muffled by the force of my grasp. “Well, if you are planning on killing me, please do try not to get any blood on this cloak,” she said, her chin wagging in my hand at the black fabric that draped her. “I’ve promised it to Jace in the event of my passing.” A sly grin curved the corners of her lips, sending ire tugging at my nerves. 

Time certainly hadn’t woven any changes on the vexing essence of her character.

I let out a guttural sound of disdain as I released her, pushing her back, and she huffed sharply. A bright seam of red welled up at the lip where my blade had kissed her and painted the length of her neck like dark fruit. But she didn’t seem to notice. 

“Don’t worry,” she said, unclasping the cloak and pulling off her leather gloves finger by finger. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

I noted her gaze briefly flicker across my eyepatch. Her scrutiny made the leather singe my skin with awareness. I bristled. A streak of something ludic crinkled her eyes, discouraging me from entertaining whatever it was she was trying to pull out of me. But I couldn’t resist. 

“What?” I muttered, regretting the acquisition as soon as it left my tongue. 

She tipped her head, pulling the gloves between her fingertips. “That you fell off your dragon,” she said softly, like she was sorry it happened. “Granted she is the largest dragon in the world. And you’re so very small. But… I’d wager the court will find it most amusing all the same.”

Red. 

Fire tapped into my spine, setting my nerves ablaze. 

I heard how the self-preserving bond on my madness snapped like a fractured leg. 

There was no restraining what I’d say next. 

I approached her until we were nearly chest to chest and she was sure to have felt the slash I’d made in her neck the way it gaped open from her straining to look up at me. But she just smiled, a dimple flashing on her cheek. As if we were still kids and she had made a humorous jest.

I could choke her.

“Listen to me, bastard,” I drawled, taking savage pleasure in watching her grin drop and the colour drain from her face. “Whatever advantage you think you have over me, my preeminence is tenfold. I know what you are. I know what your filthy brothers are. It’s as plain as day. And though you know as well as I that every living soul in King’s Landing and beyond knows it too, I doubt you’d want the likes of me going around confirming the fact Rhaenyra’s children are the spawn of her whoring.”

She attempted to strike me, but I dodged her swing and the second time I caught her fist in my hand. 

“Don’t worry,” I said, leaning into her, whispering, “I won’t tell anyone.” 

“Fuck. You. Aemond,” she heaved behind clenched teeth, her voice thick with tears and trembling rage. 

A taunting smile quirked my lips, a muscle movement that was foreign to me. I released her hand and stepped back. 

“For however long you are here, dear niece, I’m going to make you wish you and your pretender menage never set foot in this city again.” 

I watched her jaw work, her face contorting into an expression of disgust and such choler that I thought she would start breathing fire, but of which I was content. 

“Ser Harrold,” I called, and the silver-clad guard approached hesitantly, having watched the whole scene play out. “Escort the princess to the Red Keep. Her old quarters should already be prepared for her.” 

“Certainly, my prince,” said Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander who was the very first person to see my face after the loss of my eye. This fact made him remarkably significant somehow. 

Ser Harrold showed Aylana the way to the wheelhouse with a small gesture of his hand. She stood unmoving at first, but eventually started forwards, absently dragging her feet behind her. 

“Oh, and uh…” I added, watching Ser Harrold turn to me again. 

Aylana stopped, her back to me.  

“Make sure she doesn’t attempt murder on anyone else on your journey. Those bastards can be… hot-headed.”

I gave them my back, perceiving what I imagined was the sound of Aylana attempting to launch herself at me, but got caught in Ser Harrold’s grasp. Her vicious mouth spat curses and vile words as I mounted Vhagar and took to the sky, watching the Commander and the princess blur into mere specks on a canvas. 

You are to be on your best behavior. Mother’s voice resounded in my head. Gods… it turns out that would be a mighty difficult command to heed. 

This would be a celebration I was sure to remember…

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[lola-writes]

One-Eye & the Dreamer

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Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC!Aylana Velaryon

Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (MDNI!), POV first person (OC's & Aemond's) friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, feelings realisation, targcest, high valyrian, slow burn, blood & injury, angst, fix-it of sorts, swearing, eventual smut

1. The One-Eyed Prince

2. Childhood Kingdom

3. The Godswood

4. The Spear & the Hound

5. Maegor's Tunnels

[lola-writes]

Prince Regent

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking

Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones

Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby

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Enjoy the read!

[gif @aemondstark ]

AEMOND

Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.

It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.

A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.

My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.

I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.

From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.

The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.

The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.

“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)

I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.

Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering. 

But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter. 

As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.

Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.

I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.

“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.

I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut. 

A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now. 

Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.

Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet. 

A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition. 

There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind. 

The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward. 

A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency. 

_

Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.

“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.

“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”

A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.

“Aegon has fallen,” I said. 

The council erupted in uproar. 

Cries of outrage and accusations.

Obscenities.

Scandal.

“How could this be allowed to happen?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We are doomed!”

The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.  

“The King is dead!”

“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”

My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved. 

It was palpable. 

It was mine for the taking. 

I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.

“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”

A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs. 

“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent. 

I cast my gaze on her. 

“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.

“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.

“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.

Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?

“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”

“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”

My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest. 

“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table. 

A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”

YOU

Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.

The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.

One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain. 

It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.

Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.

The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.

The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified. 

A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.

My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty. 

A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach. 

My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.  

None of it mattered. 

My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find. 

Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut. 

Unanswered questions swirled in my mind. 

Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”

A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.

Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”

Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead? 

My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.

Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.

My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs. 

It wasn’t Alicent. 

A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch. 

“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”

Aemond descended the steps.

“Slayer of the queen who never was.”

Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions. 

“And Protector of the Realm.”

He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”

There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence. 

“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”

Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me. 

Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest? 

My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother. 

As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut. 

“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. “The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”

Scattered heads nodded in agreement. 

Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense. 

“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear. 

It felt like he was about to eat me alive.

A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee. 

_

Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape. 

Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.

My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.  

The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider. 

Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current. 

My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her. 

An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs. 

Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread. 

“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us. 

Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union. 

“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.

He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips. 

“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive. 

Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile. 

“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”

Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat. 

A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.

“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”

“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye. 

“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”

“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”

Seven Hells. 

Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash. 

Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?

The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic. 

I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown. 

And the crown needed heirs. 

He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head. 

“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach. 

A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea. 

“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)

I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue. 

Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.

A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”

A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”

His reaction was swift and brutal.

One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.

“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”

“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.

A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.

My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose. 

“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea. 

The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths. 

“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”

“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)

“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.

A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us. 

“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips. 

Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.

Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand. 

My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it. 

The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette. 

Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all. 

Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges. 

“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.” 

I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.

A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”

He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.

I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike. 

“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”

A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid. 

Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”

Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”

I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”

He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight. 

“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”

A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.

“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former. 

“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands. 

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.

Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.

“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.

It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace. 

“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.

The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure. 

“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin. 

“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.

My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.

His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me. 

But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate. 

Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.

A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire. 

His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.

Panic clawed at my throat. 

Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears. 

AEMOND

The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal. 

Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard. 

A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me. 

A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me. 

“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)

I started into the storm-ridden castle. 

YOU

Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath. 

To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.

My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.

None dared defy the one-eyed prince. 

Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room. 

The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air. 

If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches. 

Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.

“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.

Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead. 

“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps. 

“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.

I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze. 

His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder. 

The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.

A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain. 

“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”

A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might. 

He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.

The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him. 

Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease. 

Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt. 

Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace. 

“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear. 

“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.

Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?

My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me. 

This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger. 

“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.

Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.

Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other. 

He hummed deeply. “Say it.”

Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood. 

“I haven't.”

“You haven't what?”

Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me. 

“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender. 

A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue. 

His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.

“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)

I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control. 

I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone. 

“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.

The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.

With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip. 

He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.

Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.

He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.

Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.

I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release. 

He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.

“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.

Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings. 

When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing. 

“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure. 

I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.

He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls. 

Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest. 

His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.

“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap. 

“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries. 

A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm. 

The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body. 

A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.

Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips. 

“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.

I knew that word.

Beautiful. 

AEMOND

I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting. 

So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers. 

But this was not going to make an heir, after all.  

She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire. 

She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips. 

This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.

Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm. 

Untamed, fierce, fuckable.

She was molded just for me.

Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.

“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame. 

“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.

“You have my word,” she said softly. 

The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick. 

I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest. 

I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.  

Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance. 

Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me. 

I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy. 

“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss. 

When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me. 

I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself. 

I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian. 

“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”

Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.

Seven Hells. 

The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her. 

Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust. 

“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time. 

Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire. 

Thunder rolled overhead. 

I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.

She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.

“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.

She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed. 

“Say my name.”

“Aemond.”

“And who is your King?”

“Aemond.”

My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.

“Say it.”

“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”

It set me on fire.

I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.

My muscles shook from the aftershock.

I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down. 

When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.

“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.

“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)

[lola-writes]

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ III. Somnium Romae ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader

➣ Deliciae Imperii -> Delights of the Empire

➣ Somnium Romae -> The Dream of Rome

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

➣ Chapter II. | Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,1k

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person, violence, misogyny, angst, yearning & longing, slavery, pet names, mentions of sexual inexperience, swearing, mentions of sex. See series masterlist for full themes & warnings!

Anaticula (duckling)

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

I’d never thought I’d feel so subservient. So utterly susceptible to somebody else’s whim. Neither would I have believed that one simple action, taken in a mere second, would’ve unravelled a path that would crumble my whole world. Only to be put before an impossible choice that could inevitably grant me my freedom. 

Though, it wasn’t really much of a choice. I needed to do it. For myself, and for my honour. 

What felt like an eternity of silence had passed, before Acacius’ timber startled me, “What say you?” he whispered, like he was afraid of how I would respond to his instruction. I realized he had as much to fear as I did - relaying this sort of information to me. What nearly escaped me was just how much power he had actually placed in my hands. I was of no importance to the Roman Empire. 

I wouldn’t even have to kill him myself. One breath to the emperors about Acacius’ schemes and I could have his head on a spike come dawn. 

It was a dangerous game, a gamble with stakes far higher than I could have imagined. 

But I’d sworn my allegiance. In my world, that meant something. And I believed that it did in his as well.

He pierced me with his gaze, his eyes the color of dark, swirling pools in the dim light of the atrium.

If I were to do this, I needed answers.

“Why do you wish to kill them?” I finally breathed.  

Acacius appeared to wrestle with his thoughts, a torrent of emotions and events which I supposed could not be captured by mere words. 

Finally, he sat down on the stone rim of the pond, one hand resting atop his knee. He proceeded to tell me everything. 

About his departed wife, Lucilla, and their relentless pursuit of the dream of Rome, inherited by her father, the revered Emperor Marcus Aurelius. A dream that was slowly, agonizingly slipping away. He spoke of Emperor Geta and Caracalla – about their hot-headed tyranny; slowly bleeding the country out in pursuit of their own fame and glory. 

“The bloodshed will not end with Numidia,” said Acacius solemnly. “These brats want to take it all. Persia. India. All the while their own people starve in the streets.”

The memory of the festering city swam up before me. The so-renowned city of Rome, in actuality, reduced to such a pathetic spectacle.

“Is that not the way of the world?” I asked.

A furrow of despair etched between his brows. “It does not have to be,” he said, his voice filled with a sincerity that I yearned to believe. “Change needs to begin somewhere.” 

A strange warmth bloomed within my chest. Despite my reservations, I was beginning to realize that Acacius wasn’t inherently a bad man. 

“And you wish to start this change with an assassination?” I queried, taking a seat beside him. 

“An assassination that will help save the lives of thousands,” he implored, before rising from his seat and pacing the atrium, twisting the armilla around his forearm. 

“And you wish me to perform this?” I posed. The notion was unfathomable to me. As a General, he surely had legions of loyal soldiers at his command. Men who wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t question. Wouldn’t fail...

“That’s right,” he drawled, the sound blazing a path down my spine of velvet and steel. 

My eyes, drawn to his face, studied him intently. His skin was tanned, and slightly aged. He could not have been older than fifty. His lips, the faintest shade of cherry, formed the shape of a heart at rest. A perpetual frown etched his brow, which I supposed had come naturally from extensive warfare, but it did nothing to intimidate me, nor did it mar him. An old scar traced his right cheekbone, and the one I’d made on his neck was just beginning to heal. 

“Why?” my voice was barely a whisper. 

The question hung heavy in the air as he approached me slowly. “Because you will be able to get close enough to them.”

I stared into his eyes, dark and fathomless like polished obsidian, searching for any hint of jest. But his resolve was as clear as the dawn breaking over the horizon, and the weight of his request began to settle upon my shoulders. 

“To get close,” I repeated, contemplating the actual enormity of this task when cold vexation flashed my nerves. “Enough of these vague concepts,” I said curtly, “What are you truly asking of me? I will need details, Acacius,” I said, rising to my feet, “Strategies, routines, vulnerabilities. I’ll need to know it all.”

His jaw ticked, and his expression hewed into something apologetic, a fleeting emotion that sparked an ill foreboding in my bones. He released the armilla and allowed his arms to drop to his sides. My eyes followed his path as he moved to a corner of the room, pulling out one of the elegant curule chairs from a round mahogany table. “Please, sit,” he said, before placing himself in the opposite curule. “You must be starving.” He poured wine into two glasses while I stood rooted and hesitant. But the agonizing hollowness in my stomach could not be denied. I had not eaten for two days, and though it did not sound like a lot, it felt like an eternity. 

I walked myself toward the corner, pacing myself to not seem too eager, and cautiously seated myself. The small table offered a modest spread: a bowl overflowing with fruit, a dish of walnuts, a bowl of olives, and a sliced loaf of bread. I plucked vigorously, each bite feeling like a touch of heaven, and when my tongue tasted the wine, I found myself envying him. 

When I looked up, he was watching me, his eyes a deeper shade of brown, almost black, as he sipped his wine slowly, deliberately. I spat an olive pit into my hand, and watched his eyes grow darker still beyond the rim of his glass. 

I dried my mouth on the back of my hand, leaning back in the chair as he refilled my glass. 

“Tell me everything,” I said, my voice firm with a newfound resolve. “I’m ready.”

Acacius leaned back, the palm of his hand stroking the dark, bristling beard of his chin as he appraised me. “Very well,” he began, his voice a low murmur that seemed to carry the weight of centuries and fixed me with eyes almost imploring. 

He took a moment to gather himself, before he leaned toward me, and my breath slowed with apprehension.

“There will be a celebration in my honor. Tonight,” he said, and bile rose in my throat while a million questions and scenarios erupted in my mind like a flurry. “I need you to accompany me.”

Repugnance penetrated my veins at the thought of attending a celebration of my people’s demise. An overwhelming feeling struck me, like I was back in that cage, and the only way to set myself free was to chop my own arm off. I gritted my teeth against the rising tide of despair, pushing back the tears. “I fucking hate you,” I hissed below my breath, but the brief pause in his narrative confirmed he’d heard me. 

If only I’d contemplated how much worse it could get.

“Now,” he continued, his voice softer, “The emperors’ parties are no mere gatherings. They are spectacles of power, displays of decadence, exercises in control... and sex.”

The last word snapped me back to attention, my pulse quickening, ice settling into my stomach – fear. 

“They are designed to intoxicate the senses, to break down barriers, and expose the deepest vulnerabilities of those who attend,” he proceeded, and I prayed he didn’t notice how I’d gone pale. 

A shiver, cold and profound, snaked down my spine, my entire body quivering from dread of the heart of his plan. 

“During this party, I want you to get close to the emperors. Either one, preferably both.” His eyes held mine with such intensity that I could feel how the muscles in his body contracted. “And assassinate them.”

He made it sound so easy. I nodded, attempting to digest his every word without completely losing my mind. 

“And,” I uttered hesitantly. “How would I...” I didn’t want to know the answer. “...get close to them?”

“You will have to seduce them.”

I shuddered, his words echoing in the silence of the atrium. I didn’t have a single notion of how to do that. Though, if I somehow did manage it, what then? 

I was starting to feel dizzy. 

“What if I get caught?” I asked, annoyed that I could not keep my voice from trembling. 

“You won’t,” he said assertively. 

“What if I get caught?” I repeated, my voice hardening, “Spare me the platitudes.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair; one hand placed firmly upon the mahogany table. “Follow my plan,” he said. “Get them alone. And I’ll ensure you won’t get caught.”

It wasn’t much reassurance, but I supposed at this stage, I only had myself to blame. The moment of the battle flashed before my eyes, and instead of hesitating, I made sure Acacius spurted blood. It gave me momentary reprieve from the crushing weight of my predicament, my mind attempting to relieve my agony. But the torment only escalated once reality dawned once more.

Stupid, stupid girl.

“What am I to you?” I asked, my voice faltering.

Acacius paused and studied me cynically, clearly uncertain of the inference of this question. “You’re my slave,” he said then, and my guts twisted into a knot. 

“I mean, at this party,” I managed, choking back tears, “What will I be to you?”

Silence stretched, and the furrow between his brow etched deeper, his gaze growing solemn and cold. 

“I believe you already know the answer to that question.”

A tear spilled from my eye, not from grief, but from indignation, and I clutched onto my rags so hard they nearly ripped. 

“Listen,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Nothing needs to happen if you play your cards right. You’ll get through this,” he said placating, but somehow it only made me resent him more. 

Dread coiled beneath my skin at the prospect of intimacy. My sexual experience was limited, non-existent, in truth. And the idea of having to pretend to know what I was doing – to make it believable enough, while simultaneously plotting the emperors’ demise, made me feel vertiginous, like I was teetering on the edge of a precipice. 

“B-but,” I stammered, my fingers trembling as I tried to school my racing heart. “Will the emperors not deem a girl already... pledged to another as... off limits?”

“On the contrary,” he said derisively. “They enjoy the hunt. They like feeling powerful, and desirable. It’s important that you make them feel as such,” he explained. 

I was starting to feel delirious, and out of breath. 

“They’re not only tyrannical, but extremely vulgar.”

“Enough,” I gasped, and rose from the curule, needing to escape the unbearable weight of this imminent affair. 

“I’m not trying to upset you,” came Acacius’ voice from behind.

I walked into the atrium, and found myself drawn to the pond, watching the fish swirl and dart, their serene movements a stark contrast to the turmoil within, pacifying me. 

“You need to be prepared,” he said gently, something akin to compassion penetrating his silken drawl.

I filled my lungs, slowly and deeply. 

I would survive this, I thought. I had to. This was not merely about my freedom; it was about freeing the world from the suffocating grip of the Roman tyranny. 

I turned back towards Acacius, who was now upstanding, watching me with a determined, cautious look. His demeanour, a peculiar mix of empathy and resolve, offered me the slightest hint of relief. 

It could’ve been worse. Acacius could’ve been a tyrant too. Or I could’ve been somebody else’s slave forever, with no opportunity of escape. Acacius had offered me a chance to change something for the better. To make my life mean something. In this moment, partly to ease myself into the reality of the situation, I decided to be grateful. I decided to trust him. I couldn’t afford to falter now. 

I met my reflection in the water of the pond and recoiled. I certainly couldn’t go anywhere like this. I turned to him. “What should I wear?”

He smiled gently, to my surprise, and offered me his hand. I took it. “Come with me,” he said, as he led me out of the atrium. “I have just the thing.”

Series Masterlist

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[lola-writes]

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ III. Somnium Romae ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader

➣ Deliciae Imperii -> Delights of the Empire

➣ Somnium Romae -> The Dream of Rome

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

➣ Chapter II. | Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,1k

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person, violence, misogyny, angst, yearning & longing, slavery, pet names, mentions of sexual inexperience, swearing, mentions of sex. See series masterlist for full themes & warnings!

Anaticula (duckling)

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

I’d never thought I’d feel so subservient. So utterly susceptible to somebody else’s whim. Neither would I have believed that one simple action, taken in a mere second, would’ve unravelled a path that would crumble my whole world. Only to be put before an impossible choice that could inevitably grant me my freedom. 

Though, it wasn’t really much of a choice. I needed to do it. For myself, and for my honour. 

What felt like an eternity of silence had passed, before Acacius’ timber startled me, “What say you?” he whispered, like he was afraid of how I would respond to his instruction. I realized he had as much to fear as I did - relaying this sort of information to me. What nearly escaped me was just how much power he had actually placed in my hands. I was of no importance to the Roman Empire. 

I wouldn’t even have to kill him myself. One breath to the emperors about Acacius’ schemes and I could have his head on a spike come dawn. 

It was a dangerous game, a gamble with stakes far higher than I could have imagined. 

But I’d sworn my allegiance. In my world, that meant something. And I believed that it did in his as well.

He pierced me with his gaze, his eyes the color of dark, swirling pools in the dim light of the atrium.

If I were to do this, I needed answers.

“Why do you wish to kill them?” I finally breathed.  

Acacius appeared to wrestle with his thoughts, a torrent of emotions and events which I supposed could not be captured by mere words. 

Finally, he sat down on the stone rim of the pond, one hand resting atop his knee. He proceeded to tell me everything. 

About his departed wife, Lucilla, and their relentless pursuit of the dream of Rome, inherited by her father, the revered Emperor Marcus Aurelius. A dream that was slowly, agonizingly slipping away. He spoke of Emperor Geta and Caracalla – about their hot-headed tyranny; slowly bleeding the country out in pursuit of their own fame and glory. 

“The bloodshed will not end with Numidia,” said Acacius solemnly. “These brats want to take it all. Persia. India. All the while their own people starve in the streets.”

The memory of the festering city swam up before me. The so-renowned city of Rome, in actuality, reduced to such a pathetic spectacle.

“Is that not the way of the world?” I asked.

A furrow of despair etched between his brows. “It does not have to be,” he said, his voice filled with a sincerity that I yearned to believe. “Change needs to begin somewhere.” 

A strange warmth bloomed within my chest. Despite my reservations, I was beginning to realize that Acacius wasn’t inherently a bad man. 

“And you wish to start this change with an assassination?” I queried, taking a seat beside him. 

“An assassination that will help save the lives of thousands,” he implored, before rising from his seat and pacing the atrium, twisting the armilla around his forearm. 

“And you wish me to perform this?” I posed. The notion was unfathomable to me. As a General, he surely had legions of loyal soldiers at his command. Men who wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t question. Wouldn’t fail...

“That’s right,” he drawled, the sound blazing a path down my spine of velvet and steel. 

My eyes, drawn to his face, studied him intently. His skin was tanned, and slightly aged. He could not have been older than fifty. His lips, the faintest shade of cherry, formed the shape of a heart at rest. A perpetual frown etched his brow, which I supposed had come naturally from extensive warfare, but it did nothing to intimidate me, nor did it mar him. An old scar traced his right cheekbone, and the one I’d made on his neck was just beginning to heal. 

“Why?” my voice was barely a whisper. 

The question hung heavy in the air as he approached me slowly. “Because you will be able to get close enough to them.”

I stared into his eyes, dark and fathomless like polished obsidian, searching for any hint of jest. But his resolve was as clear as the dawn breaking over the horizon, and the weight of his request began to settle upon my shoulders. 

“To get close,” I repeated, contemplating the actual enormity of this task when cold vexation flashed my nerves. “Enough of these vague concepts,” I said curtly, “What are you truly asking of me? I will need details, Acacius,” I said, rising to my feet, “Strategies, routines, vulnerabilities. I’ll need to know it all.”

His jaw ticked, and his expression hewed into something apologetic, a fleeting emotion that sparked an ill foreboding in my bones. He released the armilla and allowed his arms to drop to his sides. My eyes followed his path as he moved to a corner of the room, pulling out one of the elegant curule chairs from a round mahogany table. “Please, sit,” he said, before placing himself in the opposite curule. “You must be starving.” He poured wine into two glasses while I stood rooted and hesitant. But the agonizing hollowness in my stomach could not be denied. I had not eaten for two days, and though it did not sound like a lot, it felt like an eternity. 

I walked myself toward the corner, pacing myself to not seem too eager, and cautiously seated myself. The small table offered a modest spread: a bowl overflowing with fruit, a dish of walnuts, a bowl of olives, and a sliced loaf of bread. I plucked vigorously, each bite feeling like a touch of heaven, and when my tongue tasted the wine, I found myself envying him. 

When I looked up, he was watching me, his eyes a deeper shade of brown, almost black, as he sipped his wine slowly, deliberately. I spat an olive pit into my hand, and watched his eyes grow darker still beyond the rim of his glass. 

I dried my mouth on the back of my hand, leaning back in the chair as he refilled my glass. 

“Tell me everything,” I said, my voice firm with a newfound resolve. “I’m ready.”

Acacius leaned back, the palm of his hand stroking the dark, bristling beard of his chin as he appraised me. “Very well,” he began, his voice a low murmur that seemed to carry the weight of centuries and fixed me with eyes almost imploring. 

He took a moment to gather himself, before he leaned toward me, and my breath slowed with apprehension.

“There will be a celebration in my honor. Tonight,” he said, and bile rose in my throat while a million questions and scenarios erupted in my mind like a flurry. “I need you to accompany me.”

Repugnance penetrated my veins at the thought of attending a celebration of my people’s demise. An overwhelming feeling struck me, like I was back in that cage, and the only way to set myself free was to chop my own arm off. I gritted my teeth against the rising tide of despair, pushing back the tears. “I fucking hate you,” I hissed below my breath, but the brief pause in his narrative confirmed he’d heard me. 

If only I’d contemplated how much worse it could get.

“Now,” he continued, his voice softer, “The emperors’ parties are no mere gatherings. They are spectacles of power, displays of decadence, exercises in control... and sex.”

The last word snapped me back to attention, my pulse quickening, ice settling into my stomach – fear. 

“They are designed to intoxicate the senses, to break down barriers, and expose the deepest vulnerabilities of those who attend,” he proceeded, and I prayed he didn’t notice how I’d gone pale. 

A shiver, cold and profound, snaked down my spine, my entire body quivering from dread of the heart of his plan. 

“During this party, I want you to get close to the emperors. Either one, preferably both.” His eyes held mine with such intensity that I could feel how the muscles in his body contracted. “And assassinate them.”

He made it sound so easy. I nodded, attempting to digest his every word without completely losing my mind. 

“And,” I uttered hesitantly. “How would I...” I didn’t want to know the answer. “...get close to them?”

“You will have to seduce them.”

I shuddered, his words echoing in the silence of the atrium. I didn’t have a single notion of how to do that. Though, if I somehow did manage it, what then? 

I was starting to feel dizzy. 

“What if I get caught?” I asked, annoyed that I could not keep my voice from trembling. 

“You won’t,” he said assertively. 

“What if I get caught?” I repeated, my voice hardening, “Spare me the platitudes.”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair; one hand placed firmly upon the mahogany table. “Follow my plan,” he said. “Get them alone. And I’ll ensure you won’t get caught.”

It wasn’t much reassurance, but I supposed at this stage, I only had myself to blame. The moment of the battle flashed before my eyes, and instead of hesitating, I made sure Acacius spurted blood. It gave me momentary reprieve from the crushing weight of my predicament, my mind attempting to relieve my agony. But the torment only escalated once reality dawned once more.

Stupid, stupid girl.

“What am I to you?” I asked, my voice faltering.

Acacius paused and studied me cynically, clearly uncertain of the inference of this question. “You’re my slave,” he said then, and my guts twisted into a knot. 

“I mean, at this party,” I managed, choking back tears, “What will I be to you?”

Silence stretched, and the furrow between his brow etched deeper, his gaze growing solemn and cold. 

“I believe you already know the answer to that question.”

A tear spilled from my eye, not from grief, but from indignation, and I clutched onto my rags so hard they nearly ripped. 

“Listen,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Nothing needs to happen if you play your cards right. You’ll get through this,” he said placating, but somehow it only made me resent him more. 

Dread coiled beneath my skin at the prospect of intimacy. My sexual experience was limited, non-existent, in truth. And the idea of having to pretend to know what I was doing – to make it believable enough, while simultaneously plotting the emperors’ demise, made me feel vertiginous, like I was teetering on the edge of a precipice. 

“B-but,” I stammered, my fingers trembling as I tried to school my racing heart. “Will the emperors not deem a girl already... pledged to another as... off limits?”

“On the contrary,” he said derisively. “They enjoy the hunt. They like feeling powerful, and desirable. It’s important that you make them feel as such,” he explained. 

I was starting to feel delirious, and out of breath. 

“They’re not only tyrannical, but extremely vulgar.”

“Enough,” I gasped, and rose from the curule, needing to escape the unbearable weight of this imminent affair. 

“I’m not trying to upset you,” came Acacius’ voice from behind.

I walked into the atrium, and found myself drawn to the pond, watching the fish swirl and dart, their serene movements a stark contrast to the turmoil within, pacifying me. 

“You need to be prepared,” he said gently, something akin to compassion penetrating his silken drawl.

I filled my lungs, slowly and deeply. 

I would survive this, I thought. I had to. This was not merely about my freedom; it was about freeing the world from the suffocating grip of the Roman tyranny. 

I turned back towards Acacius, who was now upstanding, watching me with a determined, cautious look. His demeanour, a peculiar mix of empathy and resolve, offered me the slightest hint of relief. 

It could’ve been worse. Acacius could’ve been a tyrant too. Or I could’ve been somebody else’s slave forever, with no opportunity of escape. Acacius had offered me a chance to change something for the better. To make my life mean something. In this moment, partly to ease myself into the reality of the situation, I decided to be grateful. I decided to trust him. I couldn’t afford to falter now. 

I met my reflection in the water of the pond and recoiled. I certainly couldn’t go anywhere like this. I turned to him. “What should I wear?”

He smiled gently, to my surprise, and offered me his hand. I took it. “Come with me,” he said, as he led me out of the atrium. “I have just the thing.”

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[lola-writes]

Small upgrade for the ending if anyone's interested 😘

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ II. Anaticula ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader

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➣ Chapter I. | All chapters

Word Count: 4,6k

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (MDNI!), POV first person, blood & violence, slow burn, enemies to lovers, implied age gap, misogyny, political corruption & instability, yearning & longing, mutual pining, slavery, mentions of suicide, pet names

Anaticula (duckling), Adonis (god of beauty and desire)

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I never saw Acacius again after we disembarked. But I heard his name. It was cheered in chorus, vibrating through the city like galloping hooves. The wealth of Rome was rooted in his conquests, and the people loved him for it. To them, he was a hero, the embodiment of all their dreams come true. The dream of Rome.

But from the outside looking in, this dream was rotten. The roads leading out of the city were a blight, a growing miasma of poverty and despair the further you went, like a festering wound. I gritted my teeth at the stench rising from the fetid streets, the scorching heat of the sun turning the smell thick in the air like soup, causing nausea to course through me again.

I should have killed him, I thought. I should have fucking killed him.

The ovation for his victory faded as the carriage pulled us further from the city. And after what felt like hours immersed in the relentless heat of the southern sun, a distant silhouette of buildings emerged before us. From the words exchanged between the drivers I surmised it was the city of Antium. Despite its teeming population, it lacked the grandeur of a true metropolis, its only notable feature being rows of crops sprawling their green tracks atop mounds and the circular arena at its heart, a seemingly smaller replica of the Colosseum. But to my relief, our distance from the capital offered some respite from its pestilence.

As the carriage rolled through the city center, I felt the weight of countless eyes upon me. Judgmental, hungry, lustful, hateful – their gazes were a tangible threat. The chains clattered around my wrists as I retreated from their outstretched hands. Whether their intentions were to caress me or hurt me, I was determined not to find out.

The carriage halted before a jostling, clamorous crowd, and a burly guard yanked me and the other women out from our rusted cage. The moment my feet touched the gritty Antium soil, a man with long, greasy hair, and front teeth poking forward like a rat, approached me, reaching his grimy hands out to touch me. A foul stench, like rotting fish and cat urine, clung to his ragged robes, and without a second thought, acting purely out of instinct, I lunged back and connected my foot with his gut in one violent kick. The rat man fell backwards in the sand with a grunt, and the crowd erupted in gasps and cheers of delight. 

Panic sparked through me. In this foreign land, stripped of my title and reduced to a mere commodity, no more significant than shit under their boots, I had dared to defy my captors, and all I could expect was my sure destruction.

The rat man regained his footing quickly, bashing his huge incisors in a growl that sent saliva spurting out, and went for me again. I braced myself, having mere milliseconds to decide whether to submit or break his neck. But a hand shot out then, halting his attack.

“No touching before you buy!” growled a man in long beige and white colored robes and a half head of hair. And though the bile rose up in my throat at the thought, I could only assume this was my master. The rat stepped back, piercing me with a look that demanded blood.

A laugh came from my left. It was a laugh so exuberant and hearty that it spoke of wealth and power comfortably worn. He was tall and regal, his complexion the richest shade of brown. He wore golden circlets in his ears and his robes flowed red, purple, and gold, excellently complimenting his skin. His very presence whispered of charisma and effortless charm.

“This is a feisty one!” he beamed, wagging a jeweled finger at me. “Are you certain you can handle her, Master Fausta?”

The man in beige and white cast his gaze upon me, and a cold shiver crept below my skin. His eyes were light blue and crazed as they bore into me, nearly bulging out of their sockets the way he pierced them open. “Trust me, Macrinus,” Master Fausta sneered, “Even the wildest dog will yield to the whip.”

I stared back at him defiantly, feeling the cuffs tighten around my wrists. If only he knew how fortunate he was I was chained up.

Macrinus flashed a knowing smile, a row of perfectly white teeth. “Perhaps you should surrender her to me,” he suggested lyrically. “She’d triumph in the fighting pit.”

I couldn’t discern whether he was speaking in earnest or attempted to make a jest, but the idea intrigued me nonetheless. “Without a doubt,” I concorded, and watched a crackle of allure pass through Macrinus nearly black eyes, before a blow to my temple sent me reeling, and I tumbled to the ground.

“Slaves don’t speak!” roared Master Fausta.

My head throbbed from the impact and something warm trickled down my face. 

“Now, now, there is no need for such theatrics,” Macrinus said calmly, before grabbing me by my arms and pulling me to my feet. My sight quivered from the impact, and briefly, I thought there were two of him. “What is your name, child?”

“Y/N,” I managed.

“Y/N,” he repeated. “Remember – there are always worse fates to find yourself in.” He pulled a handkerchief from underneath his robes and dabbed at my temple with it. “Chin up,” he said, and before he left, he made a playful bow, swaying theatrically with his red-golden robes. “Best of luck to you, Master Fausta. And if it runs out, you know where to find me.”

_

For days, we languished in their squalid cages, subjected to the scrutiny and degradation of the public while the masters prodded and examined us, inspecting us for injury, disease, and fertility - appraising us like livestock. As the days bled into endless nights, my spirit was slowly broken. Despair crept in, as I sunk deeper and deeper into poisonous thought. I would become a slave to someone’s whim, a mere commodity. The idea of escape was such an impossibility that the allure of oblivion grew stronger. Perhaps I could strangle myself with my own chains, or lure a guard close enough to grab his sword.

Acacius’ voice echoed in my head, ‘That’s not going to happen.’ I admitted there was a part of me that had believed him. That some greater plan of rescue was hidden beneath those words. A fleeting thought. But now, huddled in my own filth, I was consumed by a darker fantasy. The moment of the battle when he was at my mercy replayed endlessly, but in my mind, I composed a different outcome. One where I plunged my dagger into his neck over and over, until it came off his body, and my vision dissolved into a crimson haze. It offered me a fleeting reprieve, a momentary release from the crushing weight of despair. But once reality dawned, I had sunk deeper into the abyss.

On the third day, they dragged us from the cage. A throng had gathered further down the street, a sea of faces converging on a small, raised platform. It was early still. Though the sun had barely crested the horizon, the streets were already abuzz with activity. The bidding war was already raging. The women from my village were paraded like livestock, their beauty or youth the sole currency in this barbaric exchange. Men jostled and shouted, their voices a clamor of greed and lust, waving their purses heavy with coin for the young and fair, their enthusiasm waning for the aged and ugly. I watched in horror as the perfumed aristocrats fumbled, roamed, and pulled on their newly acquired possessions. I shuddered, imagining the degradation that awaited them in this accursed place. But fear did no longer consume me, for I would not live long enough to be submitted to any of it.

A wave of icy dread washed over me as I saw Master Fausta, his grip tight on a trembling girl, perhaps no older than fourteen. She clung to herself like a frightened bird, while the men haggled over her like she was a prize mare. But as the auction raged ahead, my gaze caught a spark of shiny metal strapped to Fausta’s waist. A leather-wrapped dagger hung loosely against the young girl. And all I could think was being up there with him meant that I would be just within reach of it.

I was up next. Each step towards the platform was a fresh wave of anguish. Two equally agonizing choices loomed before me, with mere seconds at my disposal to decide. Dread twisted my gut, a cold blade churning, while adrenaline infiltrated my veins, hot like fire. As I mounted the platform, my blood slowed, and dissociation clouded all ambient noise, the uproar of clattering coin purses fading into a distant hum.

“Ten aureus!” one man roared. 

“Twelve!” bellowed another.

Master Fausta snorted with contempt, his beige-white cloaks swirling around him. “You can do better than that, just look at her!” he sneered, his grip on my face bruising.

I readied myself. The dagger at my side throbbed, a burning beacon. 

“Fifteen!”

“Twenty-five!”

The bids escalated, each one a hammer blow against my will. The crowd below stretched out before me, a vast, undulating sea of faces, their eyes gleaming with avarice.

As I reached for the dagger, a head in the crowd caught my attention. It wasn’t among the gaping bidders, turned to me with a purse raised in a clamor. It was hooded and obscured, flowing through the crowd with a predatory grace like a lion pursuing a herd of blackbuck. Every movement was deliberate and calculated, and when the hood revealed strands of black and silver, I nearly gasped.

Like he was a silhouette against the sea of faces, he vanished into the throng before I had a chance to discern his features. My breath was hitched in my throat, my hand returning to my side - the purpose of its movement suddenly forgotten.

“Thirty!” The crowd roared.

“Sixty,” came a voice in the front, commanding attention.

“Oooooh,” Fausta exclaimed, trying to get a glimpse of the man who’d placed the highest bid yet. “Will anyone go any higher than sixty?” his voice echoed through the square, a challenge hanging in the air.

My eyes locked with another’s through the chaos, and my heart leaped into my throat. Acacius. His face, obscured by the shadows of his hooded cloak, was an enigma of intent. A curious sense of relief washed over me before I could reprimand it. He stood unmoving, silent, not lifting a finger to get me away from there. And why should he? 

“Higher than sixty?” Master Fausta announced, his voice straining for excitement. But the crowd was silent, the faces casting glances at each other, each wondering who had dared to bid so extravagantly for a slave. But Acacius only held my gaze among them, unwavering, almost challenging. My relief soon curdled into malice, a venomous serpent coiling within me. I was on the verge of acting on that venomous impulse when Acacius, as though he could read my mind, placed a finger over his lips. Silence. And despite the beast of hatred clawing at my reason, I obeyed.

He could not have placed the bid. There was nobody coming to save me.

“Anyone?” continued Fausta, his voice less enthusiastic. “Sold!”

I was discarded as swiftly as I’d been captured, thrust into the waiting arms of my new owner who tossed a heavy purse into Fausta’s greedy hands. The man, smelling of too much perfume and an undertone of bad milk, spoke to me, but his words were lost in the maelstrom of my own thoughts. As he guided me out of the throng, my eyes remained fixed on Acacius, his frame a ghost in the shifting crowd. His eyes followed me, but as the auction resumed, its roar drowning out all else, he vanished. 

“You listening to me, girl?” my master growled, and I nearly cricked my neck trying to find Acacius again. Once the crowd fell behind us, my master jolted me back to him and fixed me with his gaze. He was an imposing figure, old and tall, his body draped in a beautiful turquoise toga beneath a common hooded cloak, and his wrinkled skin had a film of falsity. His features twisted into a scowl from not being heard. “We have no time for this,” he grunted, pushing me towards an elegant wheelhouse. “Get in,” he said.

Before I could even gasp a question, he shoved me into the shadowy confines of the wheelhouse and slammed the door shut. The vehicle rattled forward almost instantly, the discordance of the auction receding into a distant echo. Peeking through the curtains, I watched the scene shrink behind us – the jostling crowd, the slave cages, and the arena, all fading into insignificance.

We veered south, but before I was pulled back into the stench of Rome, we took a second road west. For hours, we traversed a landscape that shifted between dusted streets of civilization and desolate stretches of sand beds. During the journey, my mind was a captive, contemplating all the horrors which awaited me. Would I scrub his floors? Would I cook his meals? Warm his bed? The prospect of becoming a Roman whore was excruciating. Revolt coiled and itched under my skin like maggots.

The image of Acacius swam up before me. I was on the brink of preventing all of this, but his presence had paralyzed me. Again. What was it about him that held such a suffocating grip on my mind? Like his very presence occupied too great a space for anything else to exist.

What had he even been doing there? A man of his stature. A General. Lingering in an ocean of squabbling merchants. Perhaps his purpose there was to witness my fate. To watch his near killer get sold as a slave and relish in the imaginings of the cruel life that awaited her. However, next time, I would not fail. Whether it was him or me, one of us would die tonight.

The carriage rolled onto a tree-lined gravel road, gliding towards a massive gate. As we passed through, the grandeur of the estate unfolded before me. I swallowed as the carriage came to a smooth halt; the silence broken by the squeaking carriage from the weight of moving bodies. The door flung open, and my master’s wrinkled face loomed over me, the lines etched deeper beneath the shadows of his cowl. I shuddered.

“We’re here,” he announced, his voice oddly subdued. Lost in a whirlwind of desperate schemes, I barely registered his words. “Quickly now!” he hissed, pulling me from the chariot.

The world exploded into color. I was engulfed by a verdant garden. The air was thick with birdsong, the scent of flowers mingled with the warm breeze, and sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting the scene in liquid gold. For a fleeting moment, I almost forgot my predicament, captured by this idyllic haven with a single thought that: I would not mind staying here forever.

“Make haste!” my master barked, striding towards the domus that centered the gardens, making no attempts to ensure I followed suit, but for some inexplicable reason, I still did. A chill prickled my skin even though I was damp with perspiration, as I followed him into the atrium.

A sense of vastness and cool air washed over me. The pillars that crowned the room brought it up high, casting long, dramatic shadows across stone. And a feeling as though I’d walked into a cave from the desert brought me awe. The distant sound of trickling water drew my attention as we slowly approached the center of the atrium, where a small pond had been built, teeming with vibrant fish, gleaming red, black, and bright silver.

My master ceased in front of it, his gaze fixed on something else but the fish. A thought of whether I should just drown him in this pond passed me like wind. I stopped across from him, awaiting his next move. 

The sound of footsteps brushed my ears and a shiver from another body entering my range of view coursed through me. White and gold muscle cuirass gleamed beneath the filtering rays entering through the ceiling, and as skin came into view, my breath lunged in my throat.

“Senator Thraex,” came a voice set in steely velvet.

“General Acacius,” greeted my master.

A breathless feeling choked me as I locked eyes with him. His countenance was etched with a stern resolve, tempered by a flicker of concern. He stood bathed in the ethereal light, the gold and white seemingly shrouding him in a veil of divinity.

He maintained a studied distance, as though he wished to assess the situation based on reaction first. His hair was gently coated pepper and salt, and his eyes were so dark they were nearly black. My mind raced as I attempted to tame the raging tempest of my disposition, while simultaneously attempting to piece together his presence here.

Thraex gestured towards me, “I’ve brought her. As you requested.”

“Thank you, Senator,” said Acacius, taking a measured step forward, his gaze barely grazing Thraex.

“A peculiar sort of savage you’ve picked out,” Thraex observed, his toga gently swishing about him as he appraised me with a cautious glance. I responded with a glare of pure venom. Master Fausta’s dagger seemed a distant, yet desperately needed, memory.

“I’m afraid I am a man of unconventional tastes,” Acacius replied, his immensely dark eyes still piercing me with an intensity that kept itching beneath my skin. “I would get out of here before this one decides to try something foolish.” His voice dipped at the last word, the implication a veiled warning to us both. A furrow etched deep between his brows as he watched me knowingly.

“I’m afraid I agree with you,” nodded Thraex, and increased the distance between us. “It’s been an honor to serve you once more, General. I trust you continue the cause that inspired Lucilla-”

“Until tomorrow, then,” Acacius interrupted, cutting off Thraex’s sentimental pronouncements. There was a palpable urgency in his tone that led me to believe he was avoiding a subject.

“Indeed!” smiled Thraex and bowed. “Good day.”

Once the rustle of the carriage departing outside melted with distance, an unsettling sort of tension permeated the atrium, a palpable unease hanging heavy like the scent of an impending storm.

I scrutinized his expression, desperately trying to decipher what the purpose of this encounter was.

Was this a favor, or a punishment?

With the stretching silence, I felt small... exposed, like an antelope in an open field. It felt like an eternity in the oppressive stillness of the atrium, until Acacius took another measured step towards me.

“Anaticula,” he said, and I began to question whether he used it as a slight or an endearment. 

“Why am I here?” I demanded, my voice coming out shakier than I’d intended.

But the realization hit me with the force of a physical blow: this man had orchestrated my purchase and had me smuggled into his own possession, hadn’t he?

What exactly did this entail? That I now belonged to him?

A wave of nausea washed over me, a sickening sensation of weightlessness.

Was this his revenge?

“Are you going to kill me?” I blurted out before he could respond, the question like smoke in the air.

He snorted, as if amused by the very notion, then quickly schooled his features into an expression of chilling solemness.

“I’ve told you that dying was never an option,” he said, his voice deceptively calm.

“So, what then?” I demanded, my voice edged with frustration. Another silence stretched, and the furrows between his brows deepening, as if the subject was too overwhelming to contemplate. Then, he fixed me with eyes so demanding, and almost pleading, as if to somehow ease the impact of his coming words.

“I have bought you,” he stated, and the pronouncement ignited a flame that began licking my nerves hot. “You belong to me now.”

What sort of sick plot was this? Was I to be his slave forever? An eternally suffering punishment.

I would rather die.

Even though this man was my enemy, his action stung like a betrayal, followed by the consuming inferno of my ire. “I’m going to kill you,” I hissed.

He quirked an eyebrow, “Well…,” he drawled, a smile playing on his lips as he dropped his gaze to his feet. “We both know how well that worked out last, don’t we?” he quipped, and gazed up at me again, an impish glow rimming his eyes.

It was like probing a gaping wound with dirty fingers, the infection gnawing at my insides.

“You fucking-.” Choler built up in me faster than a lightning strike - the fruit of my repeating failure, desperation, and grief. My fingers seized his throat with all my might. One fist coiled, aimed for his cheekbone, but he caught my wrist, twisting it back until it wouldn’t go any further. But he applied pressure still, and the pain caused my body to betray me. I recoiled, trying to lessen the agony, after which I had already lost, and before I knew it, my chest was pinned against the pillar, his hands expertly securing my arms between us.

My curse died in my throat, choked by a surge of disbelief from his domination, and a consuming languor from the heat of his breath fanning my face, and the heavy press of his body.

My wrath was a burning ember, fueled by Acacius’ firm grip on me, making me feel helpless and weak – sentiments I utterly despised. Were it not for the draining effects of captivity, I would have already shown him the true meaning of suffering.  

“When you least expect it, General,” I snarled, my voice raw with suppressed fury, “My blade will be at your throat again. And this time, I won’t fail,” I made a futile attempt against his iron grasp, though, the harder I fought, the tighter his hold on me.  

“Anaticula…” he drawled into my ear, the vibration of his voice like a warm current coursing down my spine, sedating me, sending my head spinning.

The reluctant response of my body only spurred my fury. But before I could recover, he uttered six words that would irrevocably alter my fate:

“I’m going to set you free.”

I blinked, bewildered, addled, and strangely feverish. Relief, a traitorous sensation, washed over me like a cool breeze. Yet, a chilling suspicion lingered. I’d wager this was some sort of sick ruse. But if his offer held even the slightest specter of truth, it would come at a terrible cost.

“But you will do one thing for me in return.”

There it was, I thought.

His grip loosened, and he turned me to face him. Winded, I leaned against the pillar, his white cuirassed figure looming over me. Our faces were inches apart, and a strange, foreign pressure bloomed in the pit of my stomach. He smelled like olive oil and myrrh, heavy and musky, intoxicating my senses.

I suddenly became very aware of the fact that I had not bathed in a long time.

“I don’t believe you,” I wanted to say forcefully, but the words that emerged were a pathetic whisper, a lamb’s bleat. Revolt surged within me, and I gritted my teeth in frustration.

“I suppose that’s fair,” Acacius conceded, creating distance between us. The oppressive weight of his presence lifted, and I was suddenly able to breathe again. “You have no reason to trust me. But if it offers you any solace, you’d be in far worse hands if it wasn’t for me.”

“I’d be home in Numidia right now if it wasn’t for you,” I retorted, fixing him with a glare that, I hoped, conveyed the full extent of my resentment.

The furrow between his brows deepened and his gaze dropped to the ring that he was twisting around his finger. “You’re right,” he admitted, “But I’m offering you an opportunity. An opportunity that might just lead you back home.”

The very notion caused a wave of longing to erupt within me, a desperate yearning for a home that no longer existed. Numidia was now nothing more than a ghost, mere scraps from the Romans’ plunder, and my family was either slaves or dust.

I lifted a shoulder. “I suppose I should be grateful, then?” I scoffed.

His eyes snapped back to me, dark and intense, filled with a reproving edge I had not yet witnessed from him. “You should be,” he stated, his timber dipped into something cold. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to oppose him.

Whether home was a prospect or a fantasy, freedom eclipsed eternal servitude.

“So, just like that?” I countered, my voice carefully measured. “I perform a service, and you grant me my freedom?”

“That’s right,” he said, his voice a low, silken drawl, the mesmerizing play of his fingers with the ring ceasing.

“And what guarantee do I have that you won’t deceive me?” I demanded, my voice faltering as I caught his eyes flickering over my lips.

“In your position, anaticula, there is no guarantee,” he said, his voice a low rumble, laced with a strange undercurrent of opposing emotions. “But for what it’s worth, I give you my word.”

His gaze held mine as I studied him extensively, but nothing about his countenance revealed even a hint of deceit. Suddenly, all my previous fears facing slavery dimmed, and I concluded that, no matter what he’d ask of me, the exchange for my freedom would be worth it. Killing him would be a small feat if his demands would prove unfavorable. 

The matter of the exchange loomed.

“What do I need to do?” I asked, a steady tremor of anticipation clearing my rage.

“I need you to agree first,” he replied, his timber firm and utterly convincing. 

I nodded slowly, the weight of his gaze heavy upon me.

“Swear it,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. “A sacramentum.” He extended his hand out to me. I blinked, befuddled as to the implication. “A warrior’s oath,” he clarified. I hesitantly took it, glancing down at our union. His made mine look miniscule in comparison. They were rough and calloused from years warfare. But there was a warmth in them which nuzzled through my bones and eased my apprehensions. My skin sparked hot, like my hands had just become the most sensitive part of my body. “Repeat after me.”

I swear that I shall faithfully execute all that you command.

I shall never desert the service,

and I shall not seek to avoid death.

The words tasted like ash in my mouth, like pledging myself to the enemy – betraying my own people for my freedom.

But no one was coming to save me. This was my only option. This is how I would stay alive.

“Enough,” I snapped, my voice trembling, snatching my hand out of his grasp. The nerves in my stomach were twisting into knots, a thousand terrifying possibilities of what it was that would buy me my freedom flashing through my mind. “What do you need me to do?”

His eyes hardened, the shadows inside them rising to the surface.

“I want you to help me kill the emperors of Rome.”

All chapters

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[lola-writes]

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ II. Anaticula ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader

➣ Deliciae Imperii -> Delights of the Empire

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

➣ Chapter I. | Series Masterlist | Chapter III

Word Count: 4,6k

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person, blood & violence, misogyny, slavery, angst, mentions of suicide, terms of endearment, Roman history, swearing, slight yearning. See series masterlist for full themes & warnings!

Anaticula (duckling), Adonis (god of beauty and desire)

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

I never saw Acacius again after we disembarked. But I heard his name. It was cheered in chorus, vibrating through the city like galloping hooves. The wealth of Rome was rooted in his conquests, and the people loved him for it. To them, he was a hero, the embodiment of all their dreams come true. The dream of Rome.

But from the outside looking in, this dream was rotten. The roads leading out of the city were a blight, a growing miasma of poverty and despair the further you went, like a festering wound. I gritted my teeth at the stench rising from the fetid streets, the scorching heat of the sun turning the smell thick in the air like soup, causing nausea to course through me again.

I should have killed him, I thought. I should have fucking killed him.

The ovation for his victory faded as the carriage pulled us further from the city. And after what felt like hours immersed in the relentless heat of the southern sun, a distant silhouette of buildings emerged before us. From the words exchanged between the drivers I surmised it was the city of Antium. Despite its teeming population, it lacked the grandeur of a true metropolis, its only notable feature being rows of crops sprawling their green tracks atop mounds and the circular arena at its heart, a seemingly smaller replica of the Colosseum. But to my relief, our distance from the capital offered some respite from its pestilence.

As the carriage rolled through the city center, I felt the weight of countless eyes upon me. Judgmental, hungry, lustful, hateful – their gazes were a tangible threat. The chains clattered around my wrists as I retreated from their outstretched hands. Whether their intentions were to caress me or hurt me, I was determined not to find out.

The carriage halted before a jostling, clamorous crowd, and a burly guard yanked me and the other women out from our rusted cage. The moment my feet touched the gritty Antium soil, a man with long, greasy hair, and front teeth poking forward like a rat, approached me, reaching his grimy hands out to touch me. A foul stench, like rotting fish and cat urine, clung to his ragged robes, and without a second thought, acting purely out of instinct, I lunged back and connected my foot with his gut in one violent kick. The rat man fell backwards in the sand with a grunt, and the crowd erupted in gasps and cheers of delight. 

Panic sparked through me. In this foreign land, stripped of my title and reduced to a mere commodity, no more significant than shit under their boots, I had dared to defy my captors, and all I could expect was my sure destruction.

The rat man regained his footing quickly, bashing his huge incisors in a growl that sent saliva spurting out, and went for me again. I braced myself, having mere milliseconds to decide whether to submit or break his neck. But a hand shot out then, halting his attack.

“No touching before you buy!” growled a man in long beige and white colored robes and a half head of hair. And though the bile rose up in my throat at the thought, I could only assume this was my master. The rat stepped back, piercing me with a look that demanded blood.

A laugh came from my left. It was a laugh so exuberant and hearty that it spoke of wealth and power comfortably worn. He was tall and regal, his complexion the richest shade of brown. He wore golden circlets in his ears and his robes flowed red, purple, and gold, excellently complimenting his skin. His very presence whispered of charisma and effortless charm.

“This is a feisty one!” he beamed, wagging a jeweled finger at me. “Are you certain you can handle her, Master Fausta?”

The man in beige and white cast his gaze upon me, and a cold shiver crept below my skin. His eyes were light blue and crazed as they bore into me, nearly bulging out of their sockets the way he pierced them open. “Trust me, Macrinus,” Master Fausta sneered, “Even the wildest dog will yield to the whip.”

I stared back at him defiantly, feeling the cuffs tighten around my wrists. If only he knew how fortunate he was I was chained up.

Macrinus flashed a knowing smile, a row of perfectly white teeth. “Perhaps you should surrender her to me,” he suggested lyrically. “She’d triumph in the fighting pit.”

I couldn’t discern whether he was speaking in earnest or attempted to make a jest, but the idea intrigued me nonetheless. “Without a doubt,” I concorded, and watched a crackle of allure pass through Macrinus nearly black eyes, before a blow to my temple sent me reeling, and I tumbled to the ground.

“Slaves don’t speak!” roared Master Fausta.

My head throbbed from the impact and something warm trickled down my face. 

“Now, now, there is no need for such theatrics,” Macrinus said calmly, before grabbing me by my arms and pulling me to my feet. My sight quivered from the impact, and briefly, I thought there were two of him. “What is your name, child?”

“Y/N,” I managed.

“Y/N,” he repeated. “Remember – there are always worse fates to find yourself in.” He pulled a handkerchief from underneath his robes and dabbed at my temple with it. “Chin up,” he said, and before he left, he made a playful bow, swaying theatrically with his red-golden robes. “Best of luck to you, Master Fausta. And if it runs out, you know where to find me.”

_

For days, we languished in their squalid cages, subjected to the scrutiny and degradation of the public while the masters prodded and examined us, inspecting us for injury, disease, and fertility - appraising us like livestock. As the days bled into endless nights, my spirit was slowly broken. Despair crept in, as I sunk deeper and deeper into poisonous thought. I would become a slave to someone’s whim, a mere commodity. The idea of escape was such an impossibility that the allure of oblivion grew stronger. Perhaps I could strangle myself with my own chains, or lure a guard close enough to grab his sword.

Acacius’ voice echoed in my head, ‘That’s not going to happen.’ I admitted there was a part of me that had believed him. That some greater plan of rescue was hidden beneath those words. A fleeting thought. But now, huddled in my own filth, I was consumed by a darker fantasy. The moment of the battle when he was at my mercy replayed endlessly, but in my mind, I composed a different outcome. One where I plunged my dagger into his neck over and over, until it came off his body, and my vision dissolved into a crimson haze. It offered me a fleeting reprieve, a momentary release from the crushing weight of despair. But once reality dawned, I had sunk deeper into the abyss.

On the third day, they dragged us from the cage. A throng had gathered further down the street, a sea of faces converging on a small, raised platform. It was early still. Though the sun had barely crested the horizon, the streets were already abuzz with activity. The bidding war was already raging. The women from my village were paraded like livestock, their beauty or youth the sole currency in this barbaric exchange. Men jostled and shouted, their voices a clamor of greed and lust, waving their purses heavy with coin for the young and fair, their enthusiasm waning for the aged and ugly. I watched in horror as the perfumed aristocrats fumbled, roamed, and pulled on their newly acquired possessions. I shuddered, imagining the degradation that awaited them in this accursed place. But fear did no longer consume me, for I would not live long enough to be submitted to any of it.

A wave of icy dread washed over me as I saw Master Fausta, his grip tight on a trembling girl, perhaps no older than fourteen. She clung to herself like a frightened bird, while the men haggled over her like she was a prize mare. But as the auction raged ahead, my gaze caught a spark of shiny metal strapped to Fausta’s waist. A leather-wrapped dagger hung loosely against the young girl. And all I could think was being up there with him meant that I would be just within reach of it.

I was up next. Each step towards the platform was a fresh wave of anguish. Two equally agonizing choices loomed before me, with mere seconds at my disposal to decide. Dread twisted my gut, a cold blade churning, while adrenaline infiltrated my veins, hot like fire. As I mounted the platform, my blood slowed, and dissociation clouded all ambient noise, the uproar of clattering coin purses fading into a distant hum.

“Ten aureus!” one man roared. 

“Twelve!” bellowed another.

Master Fausta snorted with contempt, his beige-white cloaks swirling around him. “You can do better than that, just look at her!” he sneered, his grip on my face bruising.

I readied myself. The dagger at my side throbbed, a burning beacon. 

“Fifteen!”

“Twenty-five!”

The bids escalated, each one a hammer blow against my will. The crowd below stretched out before me, a vast, undulating sea of faces, their eyes gleaming with avarice.

As I reached for the dagger, a head in the crowd caught my attention. It wasn’t among the gaping bidders, turned to me with a purse raised in a clamor. It was hooded and obscured, flowing through the crowd with a predatory grace like a lion pursuing a herd of blackbuck. Every movement was deliberate and calculated, and when the hood revealed strands of black and silver, I nearly gasped.

Like he was a silhouette against the sea of faces, he vanished into the throng before I had a chance to discern his features. My breath was hitched in my throat, my hand returning to my side - the purpose of its movement suddenly forgotten.

“Thirty!” The crowd roared.

“Sixty,” came a voice in the front, commanding attention.

“Oooooh,” Fausta exclaimed, trying to get a glimpse of the man who’d placed the highest bid yet. “Will anyone go any higher than sixty?” his voice echoed through the square, a challenge hanging in the air.

My eyes locked with another’s through the chaos, and my heart leaped into my throat. Acacius. His face, obscured by the shadows of his hooded cloak, was an enigma of intent. A curious sense of relief washed over me before I could reprimand it. He stood unmoving, silent, not lifting a finger to get me away from there. And why should he? 

“Higher than sixty?” Master Fausta announced, his voice straining for excitement. But the crowd was silent, the faces casting glances at each other, each wondering who had dared to bid so extravagantly for a slave. But Acacius only held my gaze among them, unwavering, almost challenging. My relief soon curdled into malice, a venomous serpent coiling within me. I was on the verge of acting on that venomous impulse when Acacius, as though he could read my mind, placed a finger over his lips. Silence. And despite the beast of hatred clawing at my reason, I obeyed.

He could not have placed the bid. There was nobody coming to save me.

“Anyone?” continued Fausta, his voice less enthusiastic. “Sold!”

I was discarded as swiftly as I’d been captured, thrust into the waiting arms of my new owner who tossed a heavy purse into Fausta’s greedy hands. The man, smelling of too much perfume and an undertone of bad milk, spoke to me, but his words were lost in the maelstrom of my own thoughts. As he guided me out of the throng, my eyes remained fixed on Acacius, his frame a ghost in the shifting crowd. His eyes followed me, but as the auction resumed, its roar drowning out all else, he vanished. 

“You listening to me, girl?” my master growled, and I nearly cricked my neck trying to find Acacius again. Once the crowd fell behind us, my master jolted me back to him and fixed me with his gaze. He was an imposing figure, old and tall, his body draped in a beautiful turquoise toga beneath a common hooded cloak, and his wrinkled skin had a film of falsity. His features twisted into a scowl from not being heard. “We have no time for this,” he grunted, pushing me towards an elegant wheelhouse. “Get in,” he said.

Before I could even gasp a question, he shoved me into the shadowy confines of the wheelhouse and slammed the door shut. The vehicle rattled forward almost instantly, the discordance of the auction receding into a distant echo. Peeking through the curtains, I watched the scene shrink behind us – the jostling crowd, the slave cages, and the arena, all fading into insignificance.

We veered south, but before I was pulled back into the stench of Rome, we took a second road west. For hours, we traversed a landscape that shifted between dusted streets of civilization and desolate stretches of sand beds. During the journey, my mind was a captive, contemplating all the horrors which awaited me. Would I scrub his floors? Would I cook his meals? Warm his bed? The prospect of becoming a Roman whore was excruciating. Revolt coiled and itched under my skin like maggots.

The image of Acacius swam up before me. I was on the brink of preventing all of this, but his presence had paralyzed me. Again. What was it about him that held such a suffocating grip on my mind? Like his very presence occupied too great a space for anything else to exist.

What had he even been doing there? A man of his stature. A General. Lingering in an ocean of squabbling merchants. Perhaps his purpose there was to witness my fate. To watch his near killer get sold as a slave and relish in the imaginings of the cruel life that awaited her. However, next time, I would not fail. Whether it was him or me, one of us would die tonight.

The carriage rolled onto a tree-lined gravel road, gliding towards a massive gate. As we passed through, the grandeur of the estate unfolded before me. I swallowed as the carriage came to a smooth halt; the silence broken by the squeaking carriage from the weight of moving bodies. The door flung open, and my master’s wrinkled face loomed over me, the lines etched deeper beneath the shadows of his cowl. I shuddered.

“We’re here,” he announced, his voice oddly subdued. Lost in a whirlwind of desperate schemes, I barely registered his words. “Quickly now!” he hissed, pulling me from the chariot.

The world exploded into color. I was engulfed by a verdant garden. The air was thick with birdsong, the scent of flowers mingled with the warm breeze, and sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting the scene in liquid gold. For a fleeting moment, I almost forgot my predicament, captured by this idyllic haven with a single thought that: I would not mind staying here forever.

“Make haste!” my master barked, striding towards the domus that centered the gardens, making no attempts to ensure I followed suit, but for some inexplicable reason, I still did. A chill prickled my skin even though I was damp with perspiration, as I followed him into the atrium.

A sense of vastness and cool air washed over me. The pillars that crowned the room brought it up high, casting long, dramatic shadows across stone. And a feeling as though I’d walked into a cave from the desert brought me awe. The distant sound of trickling water drew my attention as we slowly approached the center of the atrium, where a small pond had been built, teeming with vibrant fish, gleaming red, black, and bright silver.

My master ceased in front of it, his gaze fixed on something else but the fish. A thought of whether I should just drown him in this pond passed me like wind. I stopped across from him, awaiting his next move. 

The sound of footsteps brushed my ears and a shiver from another body entering my range of view coursed through me. White and gold muscle cuirass gleamed beneath the filtering rays entering through the ceiling, and as skin came into view, my breath lunged in my throat.

“Senator Thraex,” came a voice set in steely velvet.

“General Acacius,” greeted my master.

A breathless feeling choked me as I locked eyes with him. His countenance was etched with a stern resolve, tempered by a flicker of concern. He stood bathed in the ethereal light, the gold and white seemingly shrouding him in a veil of divinity.

He maintained a studied distance, as though he wished to assess the situation based on reaction first. His hair was gently coated pepper and salt, and his eyes were so dark they were nearly black. My mind raced as I attempted to tame the raging tempest of my disposition, while simultaneously attempting to piece together his presence here.

Thraex gestured towards me, “I’ve brought her. As you requested.”

“Thank you, Senator,” said Acacius, taking a measured step forward, his gaze barely grazing Thraex.

“A peculiar sort of savage you’ve picked out,” Thraex observed, his toga gently swishing about him as he appraised me with a cautious glance. I responded with a glare of pure venom. Master Fausta’s dagger seemed a distant, yet desperately needed, memory.

“I’m afraid I am a man of unconventional tastes,” Acacius replied, his immensely dark eyes still piercing me with an intensity that kept itching beneath my skin. “I would get out of here before this one decides to try something foolish.” His voice dipped at the last word, the implication a veiled warning to us both. A furrow etched deep between his brows as he watched me knowingly.

“I’m afraid I agree with you,” nodded Thraex, and increased the distance between us. “It’s been an honor to serve you once more, General. I trust you continue the cause that inspired Lucilla-”

“Until tomorrow, then,” Acacius interrupted, cutting off Thraex’s sentimental pronouncements. There was a palpable urgency in his tone that led me to believe he was avoiding a subject.

“Indeed!” smiled Thraex and bowed. “Good day.”

Once the rustle of the carriage departing outside melted with distance, an unsettling sort of tension permeated the atrium, a palpable unease hanging heavy like the scent of an impending storm.

I scrutinized his expression, desperately trying to decipher what the purpose of this encounter was.

Was this a favor, or a punishment?

With the stretching silence, I felt small... exposed, like an antelope in an open field. It felt like an eternity in the oppressive stillness of the atrium, until Acacius took another measured step towards me.

“Anaticula,” he said, and I began to question whether he used it as a slight or an endearment. 

“Why am I here?” I demanded, my voice coming out shakier than I’d intended.

But the realization hit me with the force of a physical blow: this man had orchestrated my purchase and had me smuggled into his own possession, hadn’t he?

What exactly did this entail? That I now belonged to him?

A wave of nausea washed over me, a sickening sensation of weightlessness.

Was this his revenge?

“Are you going to kill me?” I blurted out before he could respond, the question like smoke in the air.

He snorted, as if amused by the very notion, then quickly schooled his features into an expression of chilling solemness.

“I’ve told you that dying was never an option,” he said, his voice deceptively calm.

“So, what then?” I demanded, my voice edged with frustration. Another silence stretched, and the furrows between his brows deepening, as if the subject was too overwhelming to contemplate. Then, he fixed me with eyes so demanding, and almost pleading, as if to somehow ease the impact of his coming words.

“I have bought you,” he stated, and the pronouncement ignited a flame that began licking my nerves hot. “You belong to me now.”

What sort of sick plot was this? Was I to be his slave forever? An eternally suffering punishment.

I would rather die.

Even though this man was my enemy, his action stung like a betrayal, followed by the consuming inferno of my ire. “I’m going to kill you,” I hissed.

He quirked an eyebrow, “Well…,” he drawled, a smile playing on his lips as he dropped his gaze to his feet. “We both know how well that worked out last, don’t we?” he quipped, and gazed up at me again, an impish glow rimming his eyes.

It was like probing a gaping wound with dirty fingers, the infection gnawing at my insides.

“You fucking-.” Choler built up in me faster than a lightning strike - the fruit of my repeating failure, desperation, and grief. My fingers seized his throat with all my might. One fist coiled, aimed for his cheekbone, but he caught my wrist, twisting it back until it wouldn’t go any further. But he applied pressure still, and the pain caused my body to betray me. I recoiled, trying to lessen the agony, after which I had already lost, and before I knew it, my chest was pinned against the pillar, his hands expertly securing my arms between us.

My curse died in my throat, choked by a surge of disbelief from his domination, and a consuming languor from the heat of his breath fanning my face, and the heavy press of his body.

My wrath was a burning ember, fueled by Acacius’ firm grip on me, making me feel helpless and weak – sentiments I utterly despised. Were it not for the draining effects of captivity, I would have already shown him the true meaning of suffering.  

“When you least expect it, General,” I snarled, my voice raw with suppressed fury, “My blade will be at your throat again. And this time, I won’t fail,” I made a futile attempt against his iron grasp, though, the harder I fought, the tighter his hold on me.  

“Anaticula…” he drawled into my ear, the vibration of his voice like a warm current coursing down my spine, sedating me, sending my head spinning.

The reluctant response of my body only spurred my fury. But before I could recover, he uttered six words that would irrevocably alter my fate:

“I’m going to set you free.”

I blinked, bewildered, addled, and strangely feverish. Relief, a traitorous sensation, washed over me like a cool breeze. Yet, a chilling suspicion lingered. I’d wager this was some sort of sick ruse. But if his offer held even the slightest specter of truth, it would come at a terrible cost.

“But you will do one thing for me in return.”

There it was, I thought.

His grip loosened, and he turned me to face him. Winded, I leaned against the pillar, his white cuirassed figure looming over me. Our faces were inches apart, and a strange, foreign pressure bloomed in the pit of my stomach. He smelled like olive oil and myrrh, heavy and musky, intoxicating my senses.

I suddenly became very aware of the fact that I had not bathed in a long time.

“I don’t believe you,” I wanted to say forcefully, but the words that emerged were a pathetic whisper, a lamb’s bleat. Revolt surged within me, and I gritted my teeth in frustration.

“I suppose that’s fair,” Acacius conceded, creating distance between us. The oppressive weight of his presence lifted, and I was suddenly able to breathe again. “You have no reason to trust me. But if it offers you any solace, you’d be in far worse hands if it wasn’t for me.”

“I’d be home in Numidia right now if it wasn’t for you,” I retorted, fixing him with a glare that, I hoped, conveyed the full extent of my resentment.

The furrow between his brows deepened and his gaze dropped to the ring that he was twisting around his finger. “You’re right,” he admitted, “But I’m offering you an opportunity. An opportunity that might just lead you back home.”

The very notion caused a wave of longing to erupt within me, a desperate yearning for a home that no longer existed. Numidia was now nothing more than a ghost, mere scraps from the Romans’ plunder, and my family was either slaves or dust.

I lifted a shoulder. “I suppose I should be grateful, then?” I scoffed.

His eyes snapped back to me, dark and intense, filled with a reproving edge I had not yet witnessed from him. “You should be,” he stated, his timber dipped into something cold. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to oppose him.

Whether home was a prospect or a fantasy, freedom eclipsed eternal servitude.

“So, just like that?” I countered, my voice carefully measured. “I perform a service, and you grant me my freedom?”

“That’s right,” he said, his voice a low, silken drawl, the mesmerizing play of his fingers with the ring ceasing.

“And what guarantee do I have that you won’t deceive me?” I demanded, my voice faltering as I caught his eyes flickering over my lips.

“In your position, anaticula, there is no guarantee,” he said, his voice a low rumble, laced with a strange undercurrent of opposing emotions. “But for what it’s worth, I give you my word.”

His gaze held mine as I studied him extensively, but nothing about his countenance revealed even a hint of deceit. Suddenly, all my previous fears facing slavery dimmed, and I concluded that, no matter what he’d ask of me, the exchange for my freedom would be worth it. Killing him would be a small feat if his demands would prove unfavorable. 

The matter of the exchange loomed.

“What do I need to do?” I asked, a steady tremor of anticipation clearing my rage.

“I need you to agree first,” he replied, his timber firm and utterly convincing. 

I nodded slowly, the weight of his gaze heavy upon me.

“Swear it,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. “A sacramentum.” He extended his hand out to me. I blinked, befuddled as to the implication. “A warrior’s oath,” he clarified. I hesitantly took it, glancing down at our union. His made mine look miniscule in comparison. They were rough and calloused from years warfare. But there was a warmth in them which nuzzled through my bones and eased my apprehensions. My skin sparked hot, like my hands had just become the most sensitive part of my body. “Repeat after me.”

I swear that I shall faithfully execute all that you command.

I shall never desert the service,

and I shall not seek to avoid death.

The words tasted like ash in my mouth, like pledging myself to the enemy – betraying my own people for my freedom.

But no one was coming to save me. This was my only option. This is how I would stay alive.

“Enough,” I snapped, my voice trembling, snatching my hand out of his grasp. The nerves in my stomach were twisting into knots, a thousand terrifying possibilities of what it was that would buy me my freedom flashing through my mind. “What do you need me to do?”

His eyes hardened, the shadows inside them rising to the surface.

“I want you to help me kill the emperors of Rome.”

Chapter I | Series Masterlist | Chapter III

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[lola-writes]

DELICIAE IMPERII

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

➣ Deliciae Imperii -> Delights of the Empire

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Hanno’s sister!reader x Emperor Geta

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (MDNI!), POV first person, use of y/n, references to Gladiator 1 & 2, Roman history, blood & violence, angst, slavery, mentions of suicide, slow burn, enemies to lovers, implied age gap, misogyny, swearing, political corruption & instability, yearning & longing, mutual pining, sexual inexperience, smut, unprotected p in v, fingering, dry humping, terms of endearment, pet names, praising, creampie, voyeurism, oral f&m, orgasms, orgies, sexual guidance, dirty talk

Acacius calls reader anaticula (duckling)

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

𝐈. 𝐀𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬

𝐈𝐈. 𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐧𝐢𝐮𝐦 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐞

𝐈𝐕. 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐞𝐭 𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐬

𝐕.

[lola-writes]

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ I. Adonis ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader

➣ Deliciae Imperii -> Delights of the Empire

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

➣ Chapter II. | Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,9k

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person, use of y/n, blood, detailed descriptions of violence, terms of endearment (anaticula, Adonis), slavery, Roman history, vomiting, angst, swearing. See series masterlist for full themes & warnings!

Song: Fight for Survival – Klergy

a/n: The original plan was for this to be a oneshot, but in the end it seemed impossible. I've got a lot planned for this story. Hope you stay tuned! 🥰

Anaticula (duckling), Adonis (god of beauty and desire)

Poem by @fairytalesques

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

I am a rose unfurling, winter’s bloom. Poison dripping down my throat and out of my bladed fingers. I spin stars into black holes, drive monsters to extinction in the dead heat of summer. You ever stop to think what life could have been if the poison had been potent? A lifeline in the carnage. A blessing or a curse? The flower is now festering like a disease but with Adonis I’ll be safe, he keeps the antidote. 

The metallic tang of blood, thick and cloying, hung heavy in the humid air, a shroud of death as thick as smoke. It was a symphony of war, conducted by the piercing shrieks of the wounded and the barked commands of the officers. A cacophony that blurred my senses as I moved with deadly precision through a haze of silver and red.

I fought with the savage efficiency of a wild animal, yet my kills were clean and quiet, each motion honed by years of training under Hanno's tutelage. My vision tunneled to a singular, deadly focus – the annhilation of the Roman usurpers by any means necessary. In this moment, I was a force of nature, an instrument of retribution. I would purge the land of their corrupted touch if I were to die trying.

The enemy pressed on, a relentless tide. For every ten I felled, another twenty rose to take their place. Yet somehow, the more I fought, the stronger I became, as though the adrenaline that infiltrated my every tissue contained a potent elixir that invigorated my muscles and dulled their exertion. 

Clashing blades rang in the air. Our two armies mingled near indistinguishably; clanging, crunshing and screaming. It would be difficult to tell friend from foe, if it weren’t for the Romans distinctive galeas, the red fur frilling atop the silver helms like beckoning targets. 

Just then, the crowd parted like clouds from the sun, unveiling a figure descending the battlement steps, a silhouette of lethal grace. Donning a sable breast plate emblazoned by Sol, sprawling across his chest with a douzen golden rays, he moved with the effortless grace of a dancer, his blade a blur of silver death, his countenance molded into a rigid canvas of authority. A retinue of red fringed galeas encircled him, their bodies his shields, their presence a testament to his rank. 

My gaze fixed him through the crowd as the next wave of men in their peculiar-looking helmets came charging at me. I ducked, slicing open the patellas of the first two, making them buckle in the sand. The third I dodged, sidestepping before plunging my blade into his brachial plexus. The fourth I parried, our blades screeching in unison, before I kicked under his flared skirt. There wasn’t much fight left in him after that.      

Jubartha’s words echoed in my mind as I tracked the approaching entourage, “Take out the leader of your enemy, and it matters not how much blood stains your sword.”

He moved fluidly like a windless sea. His spatha whipped around him, trailing shadows in the dust-ridden air, splattering the sand with blood. His expression was a paradox. As though he would not rest until Rome had pocketed another conquest, while simultaneously longing for a different fate entirely.

Crimson trailed around him like crushed punica granatum. None breached the shield of bodies surrounding him, and those who tried did not emerge alive, like prey entering a lion’s den. 

I caught a glimpse of Hanno and Jubartha atop the parapet, fending off the ruthless wave from the assaulting sea. The walls had been breached, our numbers were dwindling. A sense of desperation seized me, a reckless courage driving me forward.  

There was but one choice at my disposal.

I sprinted up the steps of the opposite parapet, scaling the heights with desperate urgency. Ducking behind a wooden pole, I dashed across the platform until I reached its bosom. I leaned out over its edifice, where down below, a second protective roof had been built. I started the climb downward, the splintering wood tearing at my hands like an angry cat. I landed on the roof with a thud and crouched towards the edge. Our men were still charging through the opening of the parapet, but before I knew it, they began to slow, getting knocked back by the shield wall of fearsome Roman guards. I rose to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline surging through my bloodstream. My hand found the hilt of my sword and clasped it into place. For what I was about to do, risking becoming unarmed was to invite my doom.

The chaotic shadowy flare of guards flanking the steady shadow of an unyielding assassin grew in the sand below. I filled my lungs, washing out the biting fear of death creeping around the edges. 

A warrior’s oath echoed in my mind: I am Numidia. 

I dipped, toes to the edge. A head of dark and silver emerged below. 

What could go wrong?

I leapt. 

The fall felt decelerated, as if in a dream, and all surrounding noise faded underwater. My feet met his back, and a heavy grunt of startlement escaped him as he fell forward. His body broke my fall, and I rolled with the force of the impact, swiftly regaining my footing as I turned to face him. Dazed for but a second, his face dusted with sand, he grappled for his sword. But before he managed to get a proper grasp of the hilt, I pressed my boot atop his knuckles. He groaned in frustration behind gritted teeth. The next second, my one hand had clasped the knife from my boot, while the other had gathered a fistful of his hair and snatched him backward. 

In the third second, my blade was poised at his throat, ready to claim his life when, for reasons unexplained, the edge paused in his skin. 

In the fourth second, I had met his eyes, and an unfamilliar current passed down my spine. They were big, and brown, and full of contradictions, staring up at me with equal surprise, malice, and admiration. But no fear. His chest was heaving. His hair was a full, tangled mess of black and silver beneath my fingers, textured from the unsettled sand. The strands of silver had leaked into his beard which covered his dark, dirt-and blood-spattered complexion. His nose was sharp, angled like the limb of a bow, and his lips were slightly parted from gnashed teeth. The wound I had inflicted seemed to defy the vision of him I had before me, bleeding red but ichor. 

In the fifth second his resistance faltered, his head growing heavy against me. But before I could savour my victory, a sharp blow clattered my teeth, and suddenly my body was not my own. My vision blurred, my ears buzzed, and my fingers loosened the grip of the knife, no matter how hard I fought against it. 

In the sixth second, I was laying in the sand, grasping for consciousness. I thought I could hear Hanno screaming in the distance, but it was just beneath the surface. Gathering the last ounces of strength I had left I reached for the blade laying inches away. The contours of Adonis hovered over me, as one of the guards kicked my weapon out of reach. My other hand dragged itself to my waist, half-limb, seeking to undo the clasp to my sword.

“Tsk tsk tsk...” Adonis clicked his tongue. I winced as his boot came down on my hand, pressing down. “You have some fight in you, anaticula,” his voice, laced with what I would percieve as… concern, circulated around my head like a distant echo. “Grab her.” The words consumed me, nuzzling my cognisance like a warm blanket, and as I lifted off the ground, I faded into oblivion. 

_

Vae victis. Woe to the vanquished. 

The declaration travelled with me between the realms of my unconsciousness, followed by the distant wails of bereaved mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. 

I awoke to the comforting crackle of the fire we used to cook our supper. The air was thick with the scent of fresh fish, and the vague neigh of my stallion drifted in from outside. I sighed, nuzzling my face into the pillow, and was captivated by the unfamiliar softness of it. Something was different. The ground beneath me seemed to shift and sway, and as I opened my eyes, the pillow under my cheek was foreign to me – vibrant with patterns winding around the fabric like climbing vines.

Reality slowly dawned. I was not home. And the crackle of the fire and the neighing from my stallion was in fact the creaking and squeaking of ship timbers. 

I groaned as a sharp pain lanced through my skull. Everything came back to me. The Roman invasion. The battle. The blow to the head. Adonis … 

My breath stilled when I met his gaze across the room. Clad in the same sable armor and a royal scarlet cape, he was seated at the head of a table bedecked in plates of fish, cheese, fruit and caraffes of wine. He held my stare with a distant look of interest, rolling a purple grape between his fingers before plopping it into his mouth, his jaw clenching and unclenching. 

The throbbing pain pulsed in my temple in tune with my heart as I sat up on the setee. Sludge stuck to my thoughts and it felt as though my center of gravity was off the way the room kept rocking.

“Easy,” came his voice, a low rumble. His chewing ceased, his movements stilled, as if ready to rise in haste.

The ship’s rhythmic rocking intensified, the sound of waves lapping against the hull growing louder. A cold sweat broke out on my brow. My breathing surged and grew ragged, trying to subdue the rolling sense of nausea consuming me. 

But it was futile.

With a violent shudder, I retched, the contents of my stomach emptying onto the wooden planks.

I stared blankly at my mess, a strange blend of satisfaction and shame washing over me. Relishing at the thought of having defiled the ship of the Roman usurpers, I was humbled by doing so in front of the man who I failed to kill. My guts were ready to spill again at the very thought.

His chair creaked against the floor as he rose. I only saw his legs as he approached, dropping to his haunches in front of me – in my vomit, and I recoiled, equally to his sudden advance as to the indignity of it. He moved with intent, the scarlet cape pooled around him, and I could not help but feel intimidated. It was like he didn’t know what he was standing in. Or rather, didn’t care. Furthermore, based off his attire alone, he was too high in station to be on his knees for a commoner like me. Even less, kneeling in a commoner’s bodily fluid. 

He was so cool and calculated, from how he moved to how his gaze settled on mine, though something alive played in his dark brown eyes. Something that could snap at any second. His complexion was still riddled with dried dirt and blood from the battle, and the cut in his neck had leaked down his throat like spilt ink. 

I knew not if it was the sudden uprising of nerves, his closeness, or a result of the blow to my head, but the words slipped past my lips without thought. “You’re a truly terrible commander.” I dried the dribble off my chin with the back of my hand.

A furrow etched between his brows and genuine concern flickered in his eyes, like he was contemplating whether it might be true. “I conquered your city,” he parried.

“I nearly killed you,” I retorted.

A hint of malice clouded his features. “Nearly.” His tone of voice gathered timber; that the word came off as a threat. 

He stared at me. The urge to look away was so strong it itched beneath my skin. He expected me to. Though something foreign and astute made me persevere. Holding eye contact with him felt like a deadly game. But it also evoked a whisper of adrenaline, as warm as spiced wine. 

Finally, his eyes drifted downward to the pool of vomit at his feet. “I’ll have someone clean this up,” he said, before leaning forward and putting his arms around me. 

Adrenaline shot through me like a violent storm, and I pushed him away instinctively. His face was a mask of indifference, and he reached for me again, and this time he didn’t let go, no matter how hard I fought him. He carried me up off the settee as I kicked, squealed, grunted and clawed. My mind raced with the thoughts of what he might do to me. His breast plate was ice cold against my skin, but I was too frantic to notice. I came to my senses once he dropped me down in a chair next to the table. He glared at me, clearly unimpressed by my defiance, before grabbing a plate off the table, methodically filling it with a chaotic assortment.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, breaking off a twig of grapes as a final touch before serving it to me, rounding the table to seat himself.

I simply gaped at him, too bewildered to respond. My chest heaved from exertion, my tense body clutching onto the wood of the chair, trembling slightly from the waning adrenaline spike.

“You need not fear me, anaticula,” he soothed. His voice was a strange blend of velvet and steel, a combination I believed to be uniquely his; calming and unsettling me in equal measure. And despite the ingrained hatred I harbored towards his people, an inexplicable, vexing trust for him began to bloom within me.

“I am General Marcus Acacius,” he boomed, as though I would have trouble hearing him from across the table. Where he came from, I’d wager men stood to attention at the mere mention of him, but I remained indifferent. Belittling him was all the power I had.

His name grew heavy in the air, silence stretching. I’d expected him to explain my fate next. That I would be sold as a slave for men to plunder as they wished, or perhaps executed for having his life at my disposal. Perhaps he’d do it himself.

“What do I call you?” he asked finally.

“Whyever does that matter?” I snapped.

“Is it so strange to wish to know the name of the woman who nearly killed me?” His voice dipped at the very mention of it. 

“I’ll be dead soon enough,” I said with feigned indifference. Acacius stiffened, watching me carefully. “Or if you do not kill me, I’d kill myself before I ever become a slave.” I watched him relax slightly and continue his meal.

“That’s not going to happen,” he muttered inbetween chews.

My gut flared with anticipation, “Which part?” I demanded.

He looked up at me. “What’s your name?” he asked, deliberately ignoring my question. 

“Y/N,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper. 

He repeated my name, the sound rolling off his tongue like honey while he fixed me with his eyes dark like amber. I grew strangely warm and restless, and a sudden urge to flee seized me, a wild beast gnawing at my nerves. 

“Where is my brother?” I blurted out, rather raggedly, a note of desperation creeping in, but as I did, I recalled I had not seen Hanno since the start of the battle. Was he even alive?

“Your brother?” he asked, like the notion I’d have a family was aberrant to him, a fleeting spark of uncertainty passing through his eyes. He swallowed sharply, picking at the salted fish on his plate. “With the other prisoners,” he muttered.

“So,” I began, molding myself out of the rigid posture I had assumed, and leaned forward. “Why am I��here?” I asked, casting a disapproving look around his opulent cabin.

He stopped and fixed me with a gaze ice-cold. “For safe keeping,” he said sternly. “You nearly killed me today, Y/N. I wouldn’t want to find out what else you’re capable of.”

Vague images flickered before my eyes – chaos, then darkness. “You talk as if it’s some big feat,” I scoffed.

His eyes, twin pools of lethal venom, bored into me. “I assure you,” he hissed, resting his bracers against the edge of the table, a hint of admonition lingering in his voice, “It is.”

My face heated at the thought of having impressed him, but the word ‘nearly’ was a nettlesome creature.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue.

Acacius cocked his brows in recognition and poured wine. “Why didn’t you?” he asked, raising the cup to his lips. 

The question caught me off guard, and a bitter taste filled my mouth. I recalled myself hesitating. I had the blade at his throat. I could have ended the battle there and then, declared Numidia victorious against the power of Rome. But I couldn’t do it. 

“I-,” I don’t know, I thought. 

A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence, and a sentry entered the room, bowing slightly. “General Acacius,” he spoke, his voice laced with duty and reverence. “Rome awaits.” 

Chapter II. | Series Masterlist | Chapter III

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[lola-writes]

Hi! Do you accept requests??

Hi sweetie!

Currently no, but I’ll definitely update when I do ❤️

[lola-writes]

Embers of Us

summary | you plot to kill your uncle aemond and avenge your fallen brother.

paring: aemond x neice!reader

warning: kissing, p n v, very smutty oh and some angst, spoilers for s1e10

note: i haven't written smut in like a year. bare with me cus it's pretty ass.

word count: 2.8k

not edited

Gold coins fall into the rat catcher’s palm, his fingers quiver as you release the last two. The cold steel of your gaze pierces through him.

“Now leave,” you command, your voice sharp and hushed.

He nods hurriedly, retreating into the shadows from which he came. Your eyes lift to the second floor—the royal floor.

You ascend the stairs silently, each step filled with the weight of your purpose. The air feels thick, almost suffocating, as memories flood your mind—of Luke, of the war, of what was taken from your mother. The dagger beneath your cloak feels heavier with each breath.

When you reach Aemond’s door, your fingers shake as they graze the frame. Taking a sharp breath, you push it open just enough to peek inside. And there he is—Aemond Targaryen, your estranged uncle. The man that would meet his fate by the end of your dagger.

The room is bathed in the warm glow of scattered candles, their flames flickering against the stone walls. Aemond sits at a table, his back to you, his silver hair catching the light. He doesn’t turn when you slowly close the door behind you and seal the space between you.

Each step you take is measured, deliberate, as you approach. As you reach him, your hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of his silver hair. You yank his head back sharply and raise your dagger to his throat, the cold steel pressing against his skin. He hisses a breath through his teeth, unfazed.

“Niece,” Aemond murmurs, a low, cruel chuckle rumbling from his throat.

You tighten your grip on his hair, your voice taut with fury. “Uncle.”

Aemond raises his hands, a gesture of surrender. “Easy.”

Your wrist moves to swipe across his neck and then, with a swift move, he disarms you effortlessly–your blade goes clattering to the floor.

Before you can react, he’s on his feet, facing you with your own weapon pointed at your chest. You unsheathe another dagger, stepping back, trying to create distance.

His gaze locks onto yours, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Did Rhaenyra send you to do this, or are you foolish enough to act on your own?”

“My mother—your rightful queen—” you spit, your eyes burning with rage. Aemond scoffs at the words, but you press on. “—has nothing to do with this. I came for Luke.”

Something flickers in Aemond’s expression, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. His face hardens, cold and controlled. He steps slowly around the chair, voice lowering but steady.

“Luke was... a casualty of war,” he says, his tone almost detached. “War does not care for innocence. I am a soldier, and soldiers do what must be done. Blood is spilled, and it claims whoever stands in its path.”

“Casualty of war?” you seethe, your voice a mix of anguish and fury. “He was just a messenger! He wasn’t a threat to you, and yet you—” Your voice cracks, your chest tightening. 

Aemond’s face hardens further, his hand drifting toward his eyepatch as if by reflex. “The war,” he snaps, “began the day I lost my eye to your brother’s blade. A debt was owed.”

Your heart pounds in your ears, your hands shaking as anger courses through you. “But his life?” you choke, your voice faltering as tears well in your eyes. “He was just a boy!” You place a hand on your chest and spit through gritted teeth. “…We had nothing to burn.”

Aemond’s gaze softens for a brief moment, the flicker of guilt in his eye is buried beneath layers of pride, but it’s there.

You steady yourself, swallowing the sob threatening to escape. With trembling hands, you tilt your chin high and raise the dagger once more, whispering, "Se iā daor." (And now, you must die.)

You plant your feet firmly and charge towards him. Aemond catches your wrist midair, but you’re ready. With your free hand, you unsheathe another hidden dagger and swipe it across his side, the blade cutting through the fabric of his clothes and into his skin. A grunt escapes his lips as he staggers back, and the two of you tumble to the ground in a fierce struggle. The cold stone presses against your bodies as you grapple, breaths heavy and ragged, hands clawing and striking.

Aemond throws a punch, but you block it just in time, your arm bracing against the blow. In the chaos of tangled limbs, your fingernails catch his face, tearing away the eyepatch.

Everything stills.

Aemond freezes, his breath hitching as your gaze falls to the scarred, hollow space where his eye once was. But instead of a void, a sapphire gleams in its place, glowing faintly in the candlelight.

For the first time in years, you see the familiar tremor that runs through him. Fractured memories of child Aemond floods your mind, the Aemond you had once comforted when no one else dared to look at him.

Your heart slows as you reach your hand out to trace the scar and the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. But just as your fingers near him, Aemond’s hand shoots out, grasping your wrist.

His grip is firm, but not harsh. He holds your hand there, inches from his face, and the tension in the air thickens, the crackling candles the only sound between you.

The memory returns again—the quiet moments after Aemond had lost his eye. When you had been the only one to ask if he was in pain. The only one to sneak past your mother and Alicent to see to him—to offer him kindness when others turned away. That boy still exists, somewhere beneath the man who hovers before you now.

Aemond’s remaining eye flickers with something unreadable. Guilt, sorrow—perhaps, buried beneath his pride. “I’m letting you live,” he murmurs. “I won’t give you or your mother the satisfaction of my death. Nor will I give my brother the pleasure of yours.”

He loosens his grip, gently releasing your wrist. The violence that once filled the room moments ago now dissipates like smoke.

You continue to lay on the cold stone floor as grief overwhelms you, your body withers as bitter tears stream down your face. Damn him. Damn him for not giving you the chance to avenge Luke.

“No,” you sob, weakly striking his chest, the blows are soft and ineffective. Aemond doesn’t stop you. “No!” you cry again, your words spilling out in a broken mantra. “No.”

Aemond watches you, his expression unreadable. But something shifts in his gaze, something softer, more fragile than before. For a fleeting moment, you think you see unshed tears glistening in his eye, but the moment passes quickly.

In an unexpected gesture, Aemond reaches down and brushes a silver strand of hair from your face. He tucks it gently behind your ear. His thumb then swipes at the wetness beneath your eyes, lingering a moment too long. His fingers ghost against your skin.

His eye lowers, tracing the curve of your lips. His thumb brushes softly across your bottom lip. You taste the faint salt from your tears. He pauses, his eye searching yours, waiting—asking without words.

More tears threaten to spill, your heart torn between bitter betrayal and the love you had buried deep within.

But agaisnt your better judgement, you allow yourself to relax.

And then his lips meet yours, soft and careful, as if there’s a possibility you’d reject him. But you won't. You exhale a quiet sigh, melting into the warmth of his touch.

The kiss holds a thousand unspoken truths. It’s not just born of passion, but of release—of grief, regret, and love. For all the war, all the bloodshed and losses, the love between you had always lingered, hidden beneath layers of denial. Now, at this moment, it rises to the surface, undeniable.

Your fingers slip into his hair, pulling gently at the roots. Aemond’s hand cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he deepens the kiss with quiet desperation.

For this fleeting moment, the storm outside the walls, the weight of the crown, and the shattered bonds of family fade into nothing. It is just the two of you, suspended in this moment where the war; your mother’s throne, and the blood between you are now distant echoes.

Aemond breaks away from the kiss and leans back. You watch carefully as he strips his top half bare. Your eyes roam over every inch of his chiseled form, taking in the smooth curve of his waist and the firm lines that make up his frame. Your gaze lingers on the wound of your doing. It sits right above his pelvis, off to the side.  It's not a deep cut, but it left specks of blood on his pale skin. 

Your fingers tremble as they reach for the strings of your top. Taking a shallow breath, you begin to remove your outer clothing. Aemond senses your anticipation and helps you out of your trousers. His touch sends shivers down your bare skin, as your naked form is fully revealed for his eyes to bare. 

Aemond slots himself between your legs and peppers kisses across your face, neck, chest, and abdomen. His silver hair tickling your skin as he continues downward. He slides his face in between your thighs, leaving soft kisses on either side.

He glances up at you for approval once more. Your cheeks flush and you give a quick nod before laying back down completely.

Aemond delicately parts your legs, his rough calloused hands gently brushing against the soft skin of your inner thighs. A low moan escapes your lips as his skilled fingers spread you apart. He begins to massage and tease at your bud. Your back arches in pleasure as Aemond flattens his tongue and slowly licks you up in a long, sensual strip. 

"Gods," you mutter breathlessly.

Both of your hands are in his hair now, tight and pushing him deeper into your heat.

Aemond is undoubtedly skilled. You can't help but feel a twinge of envy as you wonder if some woman from his past, maybe someone from his court, had taught him these tricks. He moans against you and a rush heat of heat glides up your body. Your eyes roll back, as he continues to devou you like you’re the last meal on earth.

You move a peice of silver out of his face—you want to see everything.

Your fingers tangle in Aemond's hair once more as waves of pleasure course through your body.

His tongue moves with expert precision, alternating between teasing flicks and long, languid strokes. Your hips buck involuntarily, pressing yourself closer to his eager mouth.

His hands grip your thighs firmly, holding you in place as he increases his pace. The room fills with the sound of your ragged breathing and muffled moans. You feel the familiar tension building deep within your belly, threatening to overflow at any moment.

Aemond reaches towards your breast, his hand massaging the mound. His fingers pinching and twisting at your hardened nipple. His tongue swirls and darts in and out of your wet heat, in perfect unison with his fingers. “Aemond.”

Just as you approach the precipice, Aemond pulls away, leaving you gasping and desperate for release. His mismatched eyes, one sapphire gem and one his familiar ocean blue, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race.

His lips glisten in the light with your slit.

You watch as he stands tall and wrangles himself out of his trouser. Now, completely baring himself to you as you do him. Aemond's manhood is long and thick, standing with attention and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. You note the thick veins along his shaft. Your mouth waters at the thought of tasting him.

You chew on your lips in anticipation as Aemond brings himself back down to your level and hovers above your face. You both don’t pay any mind to your centers brushing against one another as he situates himself between your legs.  Both of you are too caught in each other’s gaze.

Instinctively, your fingers reach up again to trace the scar across his eye—the one that defines so much of who he is now. 

This time, he allows it. His face melts into your outstretched palm, eyes fluttering closed as your thumb brushes the sensitive area near the socket of his lost eye.

His hair falls like a sheer veil, cloaking the two of you. “iksā gevie” You say the words so softly it’s a mere whisper. (You’re beautiful.) 

Aemond's eye soften and he gently removes your hand from his face. 

But instead of letting go, he lifts your wrist to his lips and kisses the thin skin there. His lips linger for a moment before he lowers your hand back down to rest at your side. Aemond grabs himself between you both and positions himself at your entrance. 

You mentally and physically prepare yourself for what is about to happen, knowing it is an act of betrayal. Not only to your family, but to yourself.

Slowly, he enters you with the tip of his cock, causing a simultaneous moan from the both of you. Him from feeling the warmth of your walls and you from the pleasurable intrusion. You watch as his hips move, his skin glistening with sweat as he sinks deeper into you. You watch the intensity in his gaze as he looks down at where you both meet, his face contorted with raw desire.

Your legs spread wider when your body’s are fully flushed. The sensation of being so full and heavy of Aemond is heavenly.

You cry out in bliss as he begins to move inside you. His hips rolling out and snapping into your cunt.

The rhythm of Aemond's thrusts are deliberate and powerful, each one rolling and snapping with increasing force. You feel the tension building within you, a fire that is threatening to consume you both. Your chest bounces as he growls into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

Your legs and hands cling around him, trying to hold on as his pace quickens. Your fingers claw into his back, leaving red marks in their wake. Aemond sucks at the salty flesh on the curve of your neck, biting down hard before meekly replacing his tongue and lips to ease the pain.

"sīr vok," he whispers into the shell of your ear in between thrusts, his voice low and rough. “se mirre syt nyke.” (So perfect, all mines)

You moan in response, unable to form coherent words as pleasure overtakes your senses. The world around you fades away as Aemond continues to assault your inside, each thrust bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

Aemond reaches a certain depth inside you–hitting that one spot of nerves. A wave of pleasure washes over you and you cry out his name. Your back arches off the floor as you shake in ecstasy and gasp for air.

But Aemond doesn't slow down. He continues to fuck into you, through your orgasm, his grunts becoming more guttural and primal. He leans down to capture your lips in a fierce kiss, his tongue dancing with yours . Your hands roam over his body, feeling every ripple and muscle as he brings both of you closer to the brink.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, urging him on as he pounds into you with an urgency that matches your own. Aemond buries himself between the curve of your neck, his moans loud and desperate. The familiar coil in your stomach begins to tighten once more as Aemond relentlessly drives into you.

“ivestragī ñuha—ah” You gasp at the sensitivity between your thighs. “laesi jurnegon jemome.” (let me see you). You beckon him to remove himself from your shoulder blade. 

Aemond obliges and turns his face towards yours. You stare as his features twist with pleasure. How his body tenses as he reaches his own peak, his hips stuttering against yours as he spills himself inside you. You feel the warmth of his seed filling you to the brim. You let out a sigh of satisfaction. He nearly collapses on top of you, but manages to gather the strength to withdraw from your body. You both watch as your essence coats him and his own drips between your thighs.

He falls down beside you in exhaustion.

You miss the warmth of him inside you, the feeling of him being close to you. 

The silence stretches, only your breathing echoing in the vast emptiness of the room, both of you lost in your own thoughts. 

After what feels like an eternity, you glance over at Aemond. He lies still, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

Without shifting your gaze from him, you say the words slowly, each syllable deliberate. “I’m going to kill you one day.”

It was a promise.

You expect a reaction—a sudden turn of his head, a flash of anger, perhaps even the feeling of his hand reaching for the dagger beside him, and driving it into your throat. But none of that comes.

Instead, Aemond remains as he is, his face serene, his eyes still locked on the ceiling as if it held all the answers. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink.

“I know.” His words are soft and matter a fact. 

You slowly turn your head, your eyes tracing the same path his do and stare at the ceiling above. The silence settles again, heavy and suffocating, but beneath it lies a quiet understanding– one neither of you are yet ready to confront.

[lola-writes]

Prince Regent

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking

Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones

Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby

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Enjoy the read!

[gif @aemondstark ]

AEMOND

Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.

It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.

A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.

My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.

I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.

From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.

The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.

The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.

“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)

I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.

Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering. 

But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter. 

As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.

Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.

I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.

“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.

I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut. 

A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now. 

Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.

Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet. 

A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition. 

There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind. 

The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward. 

A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency. 

_

Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.

“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.

“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”

A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.

“Aegon has fallen,” I said. 

The council erupted in uproar. 

Cries of outrage and accusations.

Obscenities.

Scandal.

“How could this be allowed to happen?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We are doomed!”

The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.  

“The King is dead!”

“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”

My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved. 

It was palpable. 

It was mine for the taking. 

I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.

“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”

A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs. 

“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent. 

I cast my gaze on her. 

“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.

“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.

“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.

Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?

“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”

“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”

My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest. 

“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table. 

A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”

YOU

Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.

The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.

One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain. 

It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.

Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.

The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.

The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified. 

A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.

My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty. 

A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach. 

My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.  

None of it mattered. 

My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find. 

Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut. 

Unanswered questions swirled in my mind. 

Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”

A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.

Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”

Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead? 

My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.

Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.

My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs. 

It wasn’t Alicent. 

A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch. 

“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”

Aemond descended the steps.

“Slayer of the queen who never was.”

Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions. 

“And Protector of the Realm.”

He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”

There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence. 

“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”

Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me. 

Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest? 

My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother. 

As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut. 

“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. “The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”

Scattered heads nodded in agreement. 

Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense. 

“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear. 

It felt like he was about to eat me alive.

A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee. 

_

Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape. 

Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.

My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.  

The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider. 

Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current. 

My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her. 

An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs. 

Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread. 

“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us. 

Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union. 

“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.

He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips. 

“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive. 

Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile. 

“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”

Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat. 

A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.

“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”

“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye. 

“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”

“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”

Seven Hells. 

Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash. 

Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?

The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic. 

I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown. 

And the crown needed heirs. 

He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head. 

“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach. 

A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea. 

“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)

I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue. 

Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.

A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”

A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”

His reaction was swift and brutal.

One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.

“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”

“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.

A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.

My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose. 

“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea. 

The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths. 

“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”

“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)

“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.

A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us. 

“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips. 

Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.

Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand. 

My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it. 

The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette. 

Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all. 

Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges. 

“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.” 

I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.

A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”

He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.

I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike. 

“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”

A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid. 

Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”

Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”

I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”

He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight. 

“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”

A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.

“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former. 

“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands. 

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.

Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.

“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.

It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace. 

“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.

The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure. 

“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin. 

“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.

My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.

His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me. 

But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate. 

Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.

A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire. 

His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.

Panic clawed at my throat. 

Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears. 

AEMOND

The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal. 

Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard. 

A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me. 

A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me. 

“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)

I started into the storm-ridden castle. 

YOU

Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath. 

To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.

My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.

None dared defy the one-eyed prince. 

Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room. 

The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air. 

If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches. 

Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.

“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.

Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead. 

“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps. 

“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.

I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze. 

His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder. 

The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.

A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain. 

“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”

A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might. 

He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.

The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him. 

Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease. 

Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt. 

Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace. 

“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear. 

“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.

Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?

My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me. 

This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger. 

“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.

Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.

Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other. 

He hummed deeply. “Say it.”

Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood. 

“I haven't.”

“You haven't what?”

Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me. 

“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender. 

A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue. 

His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.

“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)

I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control. 

I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone. 

“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.

The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.

With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip. 

He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.

Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.

He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.

Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.

I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release. 

He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.

“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.

Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings. 

When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing. 

“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure. 

I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.

He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls. 

Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest. 

His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.

“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap. 

“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries. 

A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm. 

The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body. 

A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.

Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips. 

“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.

I knew that word.

Beautiful. 

AEMOND

I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting. 

So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers. 

But this was not going to make an heir, after all.  

She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire. 

She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips. 

This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.

Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm. 

Untamed, fierce, fuckable.

She was molded just for me.

Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.

“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame. 

“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.

“You have my word,” she said softly. 

The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick. 

I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest. 

I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.  

Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance. 

Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me. 

I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy. 

“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss. 

When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me. 

I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself. 

I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian. 

“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”

Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.

Seven Hells. 

The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her. 

Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust. 

“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time. 

Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire. 

Thunder rolled overhead. 

I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.

She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.

“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.

She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed. 

“Say my name.”

“Aemond.”

“And who is your King?”

“Aemond.”

My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.

“Say it.”

“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”

It set me on fire.

I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.

My muscles shook from the aftershock.

I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down. 

When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.

“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.

“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)