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flowerandblood · 1 year

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The Impossible Choice (55) (End)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, giving birth, breastfeeding kink, mention of trauma, violence ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

I am touched, this is my longest story, my beloved child, my beloved couple. This story of mine was probably the most successful and brought me a lot of joy, your involvement made me want to keep writing. I feel like I'm ending at the right moment, just as I wanted, and I hope you won't be disappointed. I remind those in despair that I still have stories from The Impossible Choice AU to write. I also recommend reading Brother, Lover, Son and The Pearl and The Sapphire, because these are also stories from this universe. Thank you all for such a wonderful response!

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

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She wasn't sure she'd ever been as horrified in her life as she was when she realised her husband had lied to her – after he left the wedding feast, as she waited for him in his chamber, she finally asked the guards standing at her door if they knew where he was.

They looked at her in a way that made her feel uncomfortable.

She understood that her husband had hidden something from her, that he had planned something and left her.

Her head was buzzing with his words that he had said her before he left, she could see his gaze, his lower lip trembling.

You know that I love you.

Only then did she realise it was a kind of farewell.

A farewell in case he didn't come back.

She felt as she had that night when his army had set out with her father to the Eyrie, only for her to suffer such a painful loss.

She began to cry loudly, terrified, unable to calm herself, her child in her womb moving restlessly, sensing her condition. She was unable to fall asleep, but she was also too tired to think logically in the morning so she persisted in lethargy, breathing hard, recoiling at every louder sound, hoping it was him.

Finally the door opened and he stood there, his white hair, his face, his hands, his armour all in blood.

She covered her face with her hands trying not to scream, horrified at the thought that it could have been his own blood, that he was wounded, and just stared at him with big eyes, unable to get a word out.

There was a kind of emptiness and weariness in his gaze.

He approached her slowly and the door closed quietly behind him. He knelt in front of her with a loud clatter of his steel armour and embraced her gently, cuddling his cheek against her abdomen.

"It's done." He whispered in a hoarse, low voice while looking somewhere in the distance, and she felt a constriction in her stomach mixed with relief and horror.

It's done.

Her lip trembled as an involuntary question escaped her lips.

"Are they dead?"

Her husband swallowed hard and clenched his eyes as her hands stroked his hair.

He seeked comfort in her arms, consolation, an escape from what he had done, what he would have to face every day from now on.

"Yes."

She didn't ask him anything else.

She didn't ask him how they died, who killed them, if they suffered much.

She didn't want to know that.

She didn't want to think about it.

"You must take a bath, my love." She whispered, kissing the top of his head. He sighed quietly, as if relieved, as if afraid that the scale of his act, the enormity of the sin he had brought with him would make her push him away.

She knew he needed her like never before.

She did not let him out of her arms, letting him snuggle into her womb as she called their servants and ordered them to prepare a tub of hot water. As they did so she combed her fingers through his hair, whispering to him that he was brave, that there was no other way, that he had protected her and their child, his family, that he had to do this.

She told him everything he needed to hear to keep him from going mad with despair.

She felt his tears on the skin of her arms, felt that his body was shaking, that the realisation of what he had done was slowly reaching his mind along with the adrenaline and overwhelm leaving his body.

"– Joffrey –" He muttered and pressed his lips together in an attempt to hold back the feeling that was building up inside him, and then he burst out sobbing.

She felt a squeeze in her throat at the thought of that little boy, at the thought that both he and she knew he was a child who had nothing to do with these events, was no different from Jaehaerys.

"− shhh − I know − I know − I know, my beloved − I am with you −" She whispered and leaned towards him so as to enclose him in the embrace of her body, his head pressed from the side to her abdomen and from the top to her breasts, her hands stroking his neck and wet cheeks, her lips kissing his hair.

Slowly he began to calm down, ashamed of his weakness and what he had shown her. As he stepped into the tub of hot water at last he let out a loud gasp of air, as if he didn't believe he was back.

That he was alive.

Just as she had done before, just as she had done then, at the beginning of their marriage, she began by washing his head, the blood from his hair and body staining the water red. She felt him lift his hand back and run his fingertips over her arm, as if he needed to feel the touch of her body, needed to be physically reassured that she was with him, that he was not alone.

She knew he was scared, that what he had done was crushing him and that she needed to be there for him.

She tried not to think about it, to push the doubt and remorse away, knowing that she had to be his pillar, his strength, that he could not see hesitation in her. He needed to feel that he had made the right choice, that she did not despise him, that nothing had changed.

After his bath, she helped him get dressed in clean clothes. Even though it was morning and they should be eating their morning meal, she led him to their bed holding his hand, and lay down with him.

"Try to sleep, my dearest. I will be with you all the time." She said softly.

He hummed under his breath and nodded, laying down beside her, cuddling his face between her breasts. She placed her chin in his hair, embracing him tightly, stroking him, and began to quietly sing him the lullaby her mother used to hum to her when she was a child.

She felt his tense body slowly relax, felt him cry again, and then after a time that lasted an eternity for her he finally fell into a restless sleep.

Word of Aegon's severe burns reached her quickly and she decided to visit him with her husband, knowing better than anyone else what he was going through. As they walked into his chamber Helaena was watching over him, rising from his bed and smiling at them.

Aegon's face was almost entirely covered in bandages and she felt an involuntary tightening in her heart at the sight.

Despite what he had done, she felt sorry for him.

"How are you feeling, brother?" She asked softly and he glanced at her, warmth in his gaze by the way she called him. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Not only am I disgusting on the inside, now I'm disgusting on the outside." He laughed, but no one responded to his words. They spoke with each other for a while, and then Aegon surprised her with his words.

"I would like to speak with my brother."

She and Helaena left his chamber and moved ahead with a slow step – now that she knew it was over, that nothing threatened them anymore, she suddenly felt a gigantic relief, as if she realised that she was safe, that she could calm down at last. She looked at her companion.

"Is he good for you now?" She asked. Helaena looked at her with dreamy eyes.

"Yes. Yes, a lot has changed in him. I regret that it is only now, but… well, I am glad that after the death of our son, me and my daughter find comfort in his arms." She said quietly, looking around, distracted, immersed in her own thoughts. She involuntarily smiled at her words.

"I'm really glad."

She decided not to return to her husband's chamber, but to visit Royce and his new wife. She reasoned that since the danger had passed, she no longer needed to fear anything and lock herself in his quarters like a prison.

She stood outside her brother's chambers and asked the guard to announce her. The man went inside, and after a moment came out and said that Lord and Lady Baratheon would welcome her.

She went inside with a smile, stroking her swollen abdomen contentedly – Royce stood up, extending his hands to her, and they threw themselves into each other's arms, embracing each other tightly.

"I've heard about what they have done. Gods, why didn't they tell me anything?" He asked, glancing at her, and she sighed heavily.

"I suspect it was all about the surprise effect. My Lady. My congratulations on your nuptials." She said softly and nodded at the young woman who stood up from the table, her dark hair braided, a grey-blue long, simple gown with wide sleeves on her body.

She wore no jewellery.

Even so, she must have found the expression on her face pleasing, her mouth was full as was her shapes.

"Thank you, my Lady." She answered her and also nodded. She glanced at her husband, moving towards the entrance.

"I'll leave you alone. Husband." She said lowly and calmly, nodding at him, embarrassment and something she couldn't decipher ran across Royce's face. When she left, they both sat down at the table, Royce grunting away while combing his hair quickly with his hand.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion. I just wanted to make sure you were feeling well." She said, looking at him intently, unsure if he was happy or not.

"Oh, I feel well." He said quickly, pouring himself a cup of wine and grunting loudly. She blinked, looking at him intensely.

"Are you content?" She asked finally. He lifted his gaze to her and pressed his lower lip tight. He sighed and ran his hand over his face.

"I…I've had close-ups with various women, but she…gods, I don't even know how to put it, I've never experienced anything like this. She's very experienced, I can only tell you that much." He mumbled and she saw with surprise and amusement that he was all red – he had trouble looking into her face, clearly overwhelmed by the memories of his last night.

"So… you're content." She finished at last. He pressed his lips together and grunted again.

"I…yes, I think so."

When she returned to her husband's chamber he was already waiting for her, sitting in a chair right by the fire, his eye piercing her, focused and anxious.

"Where have you been?" He asked coolly. She sighed quietly, approaching him slowly – her abdomen was still swelling, and she was getting tired of walking more and more quickly, but sitting wasn't any more comfortable for her.

"I visited my brother. He is pleased with his new wife." She said softly and touched his hand with her fingers. "I thought that since my husband has ensured that the danger has passed, I could visit him."

He looked at her watchfully, and after a moment he hummed under his breath, nodding, accepting her words and explanation. His gaze fled to the fire again, her hand on his skin.

"What did your brother want?"

Her husband was silent for a long time, his whole body as tense as a string. He swallowed loudly, running his fingers over his chin.

"He said he wants to relinquish the throne to me." He said lowly, and she looked at him in shock, feeling her heart begin to pound like mad. "That as he is now, he cannot rule the kingdom or represent it physically."

There was a silence between them full of tension – his gaze finally lifted to her, wanting to see her reaction.

"Did you agree?" She asked quietly.

She had the feeling that his gaze was piercing her deeply, that he knew her enough to be aware of her every doubt, her every thought.

His silence seemed to last her an eternity.

"No."

She blinked, opening and closing her mouth, looking at him in disbelief.

She felt a sense of relief.

"Why?" She asked in shock. He murmured under his breath, stretching out his hand on the armrest, straightening and clenching his fingers as he always did when he was thinking hard about something.

"Because I promised the gods that if they spared you I would give up my hopes for the crown. They kept you alive then, in Harrenhal, and they kept you alive in the Red Keep. I have grown to think that the gods do not want me to be king. My current role suits me. As the Hand of the King and Prince Regent, I will rule in his name until his condition improves. I told him I want something else in return." He said, entwining their fingers together, stroking her soft, warm skin with his thumb.

She felt heat in her heart at his words, at the thought that he still remembered that vow, that he truly believed that through his sacrifice the gods were watching over her.

"And what do you want?" She asked softly, and he lifted his gaze to her, a disturbing glint in his eye.

"Dragonstone."

When they finally moved to Dragonstone she walked with difficulty, the heat was unbearable for her and she demanded a cool bath as soon as they reached the place. Before their arrival, her husband had the chamber in the underground where Luke was last seen completely cleaned and sealed.

When she finally sank into the icy water she breathed a loud sigh of relief, her husband strolling through their chamber with evident satisfaction.

She knew that he had at last won a coveted inheritance, something to pass on to his descendants that was his, that he had been waiting for this moment all his life.

When he looked at her at last she smiled at him.

He hummed under his breath and approached her unhurriedly with his hands folded behind his back, gazing intently at the indistinct outline of her body that he could see beneath the sheet of water.

He knelt by the tub and took her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. He stroked her wet skin with his thumb and let the air out quietly through his nose.

"Just a few more weeks." He whispered, and she nodded.

She saw him press his lips together, looking at her – she knew what he was thinking about, she knew what he feared.

He was afraid that she would die.

That she had not been taken from him by fire or by an assassin, but would be ripped from him by her labour, just as it had taken wives from husbands for hundreds of years, just as it had taken Aemma from his father.

She stroked his face, seeing his worry and tension.

"Be of good cheer, my beloved." She whispered tenderly and he nodded, kissing her hand again.

She did not want to be alone at such a difficult time and asked that Cassandra come to Dragonstone to keep her company. Helaena and Alicent had also announced their passage, so that she was not as afraid.

She felt her first intense contractions at the table when they were eating supper together, as they did every day.

Her husband was telling her about a new book he had read and she listened contentedly until a wave of pain went through her body. She dropped her cup and rose suddenly, catching her stomach, her husband froze in mid-motion.

"What's happening?" He asked terrified, unable to move for a moment.

"I think it's starting." She muttered, and then felt something warm run down her thighs.

She began to cry in his arms as he carried her to their chamber, for Cassandra, Helaena and Alicent were only due to arrive in two days. True, the midwives and maids were by her side, but it wasn't the same.

"I don't want to be alone." She whined quietly and he looked at her despairingly, laying her down on the bed, the women around her began to untie her gown to help her.

"…do you want me to stay with you?" He asked uncertainly, and she swallowed with difficulty and wept loudly, feeling another powerful spasm.

He turned his face away, unable to look at her suffering, not knowing how to behave, not having any knowledge of these women's affairs that always took place behind closed doors.

"Get out." She said finally, grabbing her stomach – she felt him throw her a shocked, uncertain look. "Get out, I don't want you to look at this."

She exhaled, not wanting him to be disgusted with her, so that later, thinking of her, all he could see was that sight, the sight of a ripped flesh full of sweat, blood and bodily fluids.

He, however, did not move from his place, his hands clenched into fists, horror in his gaze.

He didn't know what to do.

She didn't have the strength to think about it, hot sweat was running down her whole body, she felt like she was on fire. She breathed a sigh of relief when she was finally left in just her nightgown, one of the servants put a pillow under her back and another applied a cold compress to her forehead.

The midwife sat down in front of her, parting her legs with her hands, peering between her thighs.

"When I tell you, my Lady, you will begin to push. Do you understand?" She asked softly.

She imagined with tears in her eyes that this strange woman was her mother, and that the servant rubbing her forehead was her sister, and nodded quickly.

Without even looking at him, she knew that her husband was still standing by their bed.

She felt relief and horror, gratitude and rage at the same time.

The pain and contractions began to become more intense and followed each other faster and faster, her heart pounding like mad, her whole body in readiness for the tremendous effort that awaited her.

She wondered if she would survive it.

"Push, my Lady!" The woman called out, and she clenched her eyes shut and, with a loud whine of effort, tried to force her child out of herself. She felt something move inside her and she threw her head back, panting heavily, hot tears running down her cheeks.

"Very well. Breathe, my Lady, deep, full breaths." The woman spoke to her, and she nodded, trying to focus only on her breathing, on the way the air flowed through her chest.

"Push!" She called out again, and she clenched her hands on the bedclothes around her and cried out loudly, feeling the searing pain, her baby's head trying to squeeze through her tight walls.

She fell backwards panting all over, heard a sudden movement beside her, her husband's hand tightened on hers, his gesture of support and terror, his gesture of closeness, his sign that he was there for her.

"Yes, just like that. And again. Push!"

It felt like it went on forever – she was one big sweaty, weeping mess.

She clenched her fingers on his hand so tightly that she felt like she was going to break his fingers, her heart pounding like crazy.

"I can already see the head, my Lady! Just a little more! Push!" She squeezed her eyes shut and a whined in effort and pain as she made her body to force her offspring out.

Suddenly she felt something flow out of her, a lightness and relief filled her, the midwife caught something red in her arms.

"There he is, my Lady, look what a beautiful baby boy!" She said, wrapping the small creature all smeared with blood in a clean white cloth, wiping him slowly. She laughed with joy and relief as she looked at her child's face.

Her son had dark Baratheon hair.

She turned her head towards her husband, wanting to see his reaction, his joy at the sight of their child, but she saw that he was crying without even looking in that direction, his wet cheek pressed against her hand, his fingers clenched on her skin trembling all over.

She felt her heart squeeze at the thought that he was rejoicing that she had been alive.

When their first shock had passed, when she had been changed into a clean nightgown and the bedclothes had been changed, when she had lain back in bed, her son had at last been given to her. He already had his first bath, wrapped in a warm, bright blanket, his tiny arms and legs squirming vigorously when he felt her proximity, as if he recognised her immediately.

She felt a bond, a love, a tenderness, looking at his little chubby pink face, his scent wonderful and addictive.

She looked up contentedly and saw her husband's proud look, an almost invisible smirk on his face. He stood over her with his arms folded behind his back, preferring not to touch such a small creature for the time being, watching his interaction with his mother.

They had agreed that if a girl was born she would name her, and if a boy was born, he would name him.

She knew exactly what name he had chosen, but she asked him anyway.

"Daeron."

It was only at night, when they were finally alone, that her husband lay down beside them in just his shirt, looking intently at the little being sleeping in her arms. She cradled him looking at him with tenderness, thinking that he was the most beautiful child she had ever seen in her life.

"He has your eyes." She whispered and he hummed with contentment at her words as he carefully put his arm around them, pressing his temple against her forehead. She felt him place a kiss on her cheek and on her jaw, felt him inhale her scent.

"You were so brave, sweet wife. I have never been more proud of you." He whispered tenderly, and she felt the heat spread through her heart. She looked up at him, brushing the tip of her nose against his and they kissed, warmly, softly, their lips moist and swollen.

They spent the next few weeks getting used to the changes in their lives – her wounds healed slowly and after only a few days she was able to get up, much to the displeasure of her husband, who wanted her to avoid straining herself.

The cold stone walls of Dragonstone suddenly became cosier when the baby's babbling filled them, their son was loud and constantly laughing, overjoyed at their constant presence.

Her husband didn't want to be like his father, and though he was afraid to pick Daeron up, he often looked in on him just to touch him, to make sure he was safe.

She saw him watching out of the corner of his eye as she fed their son, finding it a very intimate and private sight, his wife holding his heir at her breast, giving him life, tending to his legacy.

She knew he craved her, saw the way he gazed greedily at her breasts, but dared not demand anything of her after seeing their son tear her flesh.

However, when her wounds had healed and she was no longer in discomfort, when she told him he could touch her, he threw himself at her like mad, his tongue deep in her throat, his hands ripping her nightgown from her body.

They were both panting loudly, kissing each other greedily with a sticky, wet click as she felt him grab her hips and settle her on top of him, quickly untying his breeches – they didn't have time to be embarrassed by how much they needed it, that they just wanted to fuck.

"If I don't fill you soon I'll die, sweet wife." He gasped affectionately, his voice trembling with desire – she kissed him again, clamping her hand in his hair, the other guiding the swollen head of his erection to her puffy slit entrance, slowly lowering herself onto him.

They both moaned piteously loudly, his hips beginning to impale her on his manhood again and again, filling her with himself, shivers of pleasure and heat passing through her.

She pressed her forehead against his, rising and falling against onto him, their bodies slapping against each other hard and fast, the lewd clicks of their shared moisture echoing through their chamber.

"− can I taste you? − " He whispered so quietly that for a moment she wasn't sure she heard it – his hand involuntarily cupped her full breast filled to the brim with milk. She mewled in pleasure as she felt him begin to play with her nipple in his mouth.

"− yes −" She exhaled and moaned loudly, aroused by this perverse act, his lips clamped tightly around her nipple began to suckle, she heard the loud sound of him swallowing.

She clenched her hand in his hair pressing his face closer to her, feeling her walls begin to throb against his length that he pushed into her body with each of his deep thrusts.

She was embarrassed by how surprisingly pleasurable it was.

"− oh, Aemond − yes −" She mewled as she struggled to fall and rise on top of him, their bodies slapping against each other with each violent slam of their flesh, his lips pulled away from her nipple with a loud plop, he licked his lips as he looked at her with a misty gaze.

"− so fucking delicious −" He breathed out and she whimpered softly, feeling his words between her thighs, not having the opportunity to answer him, his lips pressed against her other breast, repeating everything from the beginning, her nails tightened and ran over his naked back, she heard his loud purr of pleasure between the loud sounds of swallowed milk.

"− Aemond − it feels so good − oh gods −" She cried out loudly and tilted her head back, coming harder than ever in her life. He moaned low into her breast without releasing i from his mouth – she felt his hot spend spill inside her a moment later.

She wasn't sure she had ever experienced such an intense, long orgasm before.

He finally released her breast from his mouth, pressing his face to her chest, panting along with her. She stroked his hair, kissing the top of his head, purring with delight as she felt his manhood pulsing inside her in fulfilment.

"− will you let me do it again? −" He asked in a trembling voice full of embarrassment and guilt, as if he had done something lewd and unthinkable, as if he feared she would now be ashamed of him. She kissed his hair at his question.

"− yes −"

From then on, his perfect place in the world was to be deep inside her with his mouth pressed against her breast. They both knew that there was something even more intimate than usual about this act, some kind of taboo, unmistakable intimacy that could not be replaced by anything else.

She tried not to burst out laughing when one day during their morning meal he asked her, feigning indifference, when she would lose the milk in her breasts, and she answered him that her body would continue to produce it as long as she breastfed.

She then saw the shock and the glint in his eye, he bit his lower lip involuntarily, unable to hide his expression of delight at this information.

They were closer together than ever.

The birth of their son reassured the entire kingdom, for in the situation in which Helaena did not bear Aegon another son, there was a young heir to the throne alive who would take over after his father.

When she spoke to her husband it seemed to her that he was made to be the Hand of the King, his advice always cool and recalcitrant. To her surprise, Aegon finally learned to use them and became a better king than she would ever have expected.

Daeron was a calm, joyful infant. He soon began to chatter, making his own unspecified sounds and syllables, bringing joy and laughter into their fortress. Her husband read to him a lot, and he stood in his little wooden bed with railings and hopped softly on his feet, delighted.

He adored him.

She had to keep repeating it to him because he didn't believe it, but his son was drawn to him, forever longing for him – he would reach out his chubby hands greedily to him whenever he saw him return from the Red Keep.

Although outwardly he was stern and cold towards the servants and guards, when he locked himself with them in their chamber he changed into a different person.

He would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, say he heard Joffrey crying from the underground and frighten her, breathing hard. She tried not to show it, hugging and stroking him until he fell asleep again.

She knew that these events would never stop haunting him.

When morning set in, the first thing after checking with a touch of his hand that she was lying next to him was to see if Daeron was asleep in his bed. He would sometimes get up in the night to check that he was breathing and, reassured, would only return to further sleep, embracing her from behind and snuggling his face into the hollow of her neck.

She was overwhelmed with happiness when her brother sent her a letter from Storm's End informing her that his wife was expecting a child.

From what she understood their marriage had been quite successful and peaceful, her character proving far more calm and composed than her brother had originally assumed. She renewed herself in Storm's End, happy to still be close to the sea.

As the time approached for her to give birth, she asked her husband to fulfil his promise that he had made to her when they were in Harrenhal and for them to travel to Storm's End.

Travelling on a dragon's back with a small child seemed too dangerous for them, so they set off in a carriage, patiently enduring the hardships and length of the journey.

When they arrived she felt a strange tightness in her throat as she watched the round throne room where her father had always sat, and now her brother sat in his place.

He stood up happy to see her, kissed her cheek and stroked the head of her son whom she held in her arms – Daeron giggled happily and began to squirm again, bursting with energy.

"I see my nephew is growing fast. How these children are changing! He was such a little baby not so long ago." He said gushing with enthusiasm, clearly delighted at the prospect of becoming a father himself. She smiled broadly at his words, glad to see him, glad to be home.

Royce looked at her husband, who was standing behind her, and nodded. Her husband reciprocated the gesture, but they did not say a word to each other.

She felt memories hit her from every direction and she was moved. She had insisted that they sleep in her old chamber during their stay even though it was small, her husband agreed without a word.

When they went inside their belongings and their son's cot were already standing. He had only been there once, on the night he returned from Winterfell and left abruptly after their argument, so he had no time to look at anything closely.

He looked through her books curiously, looked out of her windows, looked around, and she thought fondly that he had tried to imagine her life before she met him.

Before he had chosen her.

"Would you like to see my mother's crypt?" She asked softly. He looked at her and nodded.

They descended into the underworld with the torch he held in his hand. Although the web of corridors beneath the fortress was complicated, she knew this path by heart, having often gone down there as a child, asking her mother for advice from the heavens.

After a short walk among the stone statues, they arrived in front of the one she remembered so well. She felt a squezee in her throat, burning tears in her eyes as she saw a familiar sculpture, a stone female figure that was supposed to resemble her mother, but did not even partially reflect her beauty.

She approached it and touched its cold surface with her hand, her husband remained silent.

"Mother, this is my husband, prince Aemond. Forgive me for not introducing him to you earlier. He chose me against my and my father's will, but I did not know then how much I would love him. I didn't know that…" She said, feeling her voice break, her husband moved beside her restlessly, swallowing loudly.

"...I didn't know we would make it, I didn't believe I would be as happy as you were with my father. Thank you for watching over me, for listening to my prayers and making the gods send me the husband I asked for." She finished in a trembling voice, choking on her own tears, feeling that only now, two years after these events, did she truly understand what had happened, what she had experienced, what she had gone through, what a long and difficult path it had been.

She heard him come up to her, putting his torch down on the stone ground and embraced her, hugging her to his chest. She felt his heart pounding fast, felt that he was unable to get a word out. He kissed her hair and pressed his face to the top of her head, standing with her like this in the warm light of the fire.

"I thought it was impossible for someone to love me. I thought it was impossible for me to love someone. I thought it was impossible for me to make a good choice when I came here on Vhagar's back..." He whispered, and she clenched her hands tighter on the material of his leather tunic, his warmth, his familiar, wonderful, calming scent spreading through her lungs.

"...and then I saw you."

______

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humanpurposes · 1 year

Text

Sour Switchblade

No sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, Targcest (uncle and neice), threats of violence, bit of blood, dub-con, breeding kink

Words: 4100

A/n: Also available on AO3. Inspired by my current obsession with this song.

She knows where she is the moment she reaches the skies above the Stormlands; this part of the world was not named in irony.

She clutches tightly to Silverwing’s reigns, dragon and rider fighting through the fierce winds and heavy rain that stings the skin of her cheeks.

Lucerys and Arrax would have never made the journey. They are both too small, too young to take on such a burden as messengers on the eve of war. Jacaerys should have the more arduous task ahead of him, to fly to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell, to earn the support of the Arryns and the Starks to their mother’s cause.

She has one destination, one objective, one Lord to win over. But no sooner has she landed in the courtyard of Storm’s End, she knows her mission is doomed.

She hears Vhagar’s call, or rather feels it reverberate in her chest, before she sees her. She is a monstrously large dragon, the oldest of her kind. Only her head and neck loom over the battlements, but it is enough to terrify the Princess.

Because with Vhagar comes Aemond.

He had hardly spoken so much as a word to her during the petitions for Driftmark, but his eye never left her.

She pushes aside any childish ideas of hope for a civil encounter with her uncle. Any love between them was severed the night he claimed his dragon and Lucerys claimed his eye in the tunnels below Hightide.

Her name is announced to the Round Hall as she trails in behind an escort of guards. Rain drips from her soaked leathers and hair, the braid she wore long blown apart by the wind. She clenches her jaw, determined not to shiver in the presence of the Lord of Storm’s End, or the one eyed Prince who lurks at the edge of the room.

Aemond stands with his hands clasped behind his back. For a moment she sees surprise in his gaze, but it soon settles into a smug smile, his single eye positively gleaming through the miserable light of the hall.

Beside him is a young woman, dressed in all the finery of a Baratheon Lady. Her suspicions are confirmed when Lord Borros mentions a marriage pact.

She can’t stop herself. She looks to Aemond, knowing full well she is doing nothing to hide the fury in her face. And he stares back, like a hunter stalking prey.

She has nothing to offer Lord Borros, nothing that could compete with such a match. Her brothers are either betrothed or too young.

But she cannot fail, not when Rhaenyra has lost so much already these past few days.

Aemond’s eye remains fixed on her, vaguely amused, but still alert and intent. Perhaps he believes he has found a weakness, perhaps the shark smells blood.

If memory serves correctly, Lord Borros’ wife passed some years ago.

“I offer my hand to you, my Lord,” she says. “Pledge your banners to the true Queen, and your sons will be Princes.”

Lord Borros brings his fingers to his beard, muttering into the ear of his Maester and nervously glancing towards his other royal guest.

The amusement has faded from Aemond’s face, his moment of triumph snatched from him. Even the mere consideration of her proposal undermines him.

His chin is tilted down now, his eye dark and lips pressing together to withhold a sneer. She revels in it, taking a breath to stop herself from smiling.

“I will need time to consider,” Lord Borros says. “I will make my decision known on the morrow.”

Aemond takes one step towards her before she is whisked away by the eldest of the Baratheon sisters, Cassandra, and no less than four guards. Cassandra takes her arm in hers and leads her through the castle to a guest chamber, in a tower that overlooks the courtyard and Shipbreaker Bay beyond that.

A bath is drawn for her and a gown of black with gold embroidery laid out of her to change into. It seems unusual to see herself in these colours, but then again, her grandmother, Rhaenys, is half Baratheon.

Dressed in her gown and with her hair newly done, she watches Silverwing seek shelter from the Storm under the battlements. Vhagar is apparently sleeping, with her wings cradled over her body to keep out the rain.

Silverwing would be miserable here, she thinks. A dragon needs clear skies, they cannot always fight against the wind and rain.

It’s hard to tell exactly when the sun sets. There are no warm colours in the sky, no streaks of orange or gold. The sky beyond the storm clouds fades from grey, to indigo, and then to black.

Lady Cassandra escorts her to the Round Hall for supper. It is a modest affair. Lord Borros’ advisors and bannermen sit at tables in the heart of the hall, while a high table is set before the Stone Throne. Lord Borros sits at the centre, with two empty spaces either side of him. She might guess who they are for.

She sits between Lord Borros and Cassandra, and finds just enough time to steady her nerves with a sip of wine when Lady Floris enters with Aemond on her arm.

She swallows her mouthful wine thickly, meeting her uncle’s gaze for only a moment out of courtesy.

He takes his place beside Lord Borros and the meal commences. Servants bring out whole roasted boars, and given Aemond’s reaction to the suckling pig at dinner in the Red Keep, she refrains from moving her mouth or looking in his direction. In fact she hardly has an appetite at all. She sits with a stiff spine, glancing down at the plate of potatoes and greens placed in front of her.

Lord Borros asks her a question which immediately slips her mind. It occurs to her she’s supposed to be winning him over, to prove to him that she will be a good and dutiful wife. A better wife than Aemond will be a husband for Floris anyhow.

The thought churns her stomach and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She allows herself another glance to Lord Borros’ other side. Aemond’s head is close to Floris’. The light from a candle on the table flickers over his chin, his jaw, the top of his neck underneath his collar. He leans in closer to mutter something in her ear.

He was always so softly spoken as a boy, subdued, even in moments of frustration. He still seems subtle, but in a different way now, a quiet kind of arrogance, a silent threat with the smallest of gestures. The few words he had spoken at that dinner, though aimed as insults towards her brothers, had ignited a thrilling sort of intrigue within her.

And now Floris gets to sit beside him, gets to feel his breath on her ear as he whispers in that low, chilling voice–

“Princess?”

“Y-yes?” she stutters, turning her eyes back to Lord Borros.

Only she seems to have caught the attention of Aemond and the other Baratheon girls now.

“I said our union should be a plentiful one, if your mother’s talent for producing sons is anything to go by.”

The only thing that stops her from reaching for her knife and jamming it into Lord Borros’ neck is the quiet huff of a laugh coming from Aemond.

She shoots him a deadly glare but his cruel smile does not waver.

“The man who eventually claims my niece’s hand will have Strong sons, there’s no doubt about that,” he says, reaching for his cup.

She watches him drink, the way he pouts his lips, how his throat bobs as he swallows.

“What a kind compliment, uncle,” she says, “though not one I could extend to you.”

Aemond sets his cup down gently. “Meaning?” he asks, not looking at her.

“It took you a decade to claim a dragon, did it not?”

His head snaps towards her. “Yes, and I claimed the largest dragon in the world.”

“An impressive feat,” she says, “one your father was proud of, I’m sure.”

He wants to lash out, she can see it, his fist clenching on top of the table, his lips pursing together, his eye going wide, his nostrils flaring as he takes a few breaths to compose himself.

The rest of the table has fallen to an uneasy quiet. She simply reaches for her wine and takes a generous sip that slips over her tongue with a delightful burn.

Lord Borros calls for music, and his daughters, Cassandra and Ellyn find partners to dance with. Maris remains seated, with her arms folded over her chest and a sour look on her face.

Floris seems hopeful, sitting up and trying to catch Aemond’s eye from his blind side. It is a hope he will not entertain. He keeps one hand on the table, tapping a long, slender finger against the wood.

“You will forgive me,” Lord Borros says to her, “I am too old to dance now.”

She tries to smile to hide her repulsion. What an endearing match she’s managed to find for herself. But this is for her mother– her Queen, so that the throne might pass to the rightful heir and not a usurper.

In the corner of her eye she sees Aemond is watching her, and she does not shy away from his gaze. His lips curl into a smirk but she can see the calculations and strategising behind that piercing, violet eye.

What lurks on the other side, she wonders, underneath the leather eyepatch and the scar slicing down his face?

A bloody mess of flesh flashes before her eyes. She remembers how he cried out in pain, how he clutched his hand to his face, how the thick, dark blood seeped from between his fingers and spilled onto the floor as he fell. She had only watched dumbfounded, as Lucerys dropped the blade, as she and the other children were ushered into the Hall of Nine, as the gash in Aemond’s socket was sewn and their mothers both called for justice.

Could she have stopped her cousins from confronting him? Could she have defended him from her brothers? Would he have at least felt some of her sorrow if she had gone to him that night or wrote to him in the years that separated them?

Those possibilities mean nothing now. Aemond looks at her with no warmth, no fond memories of their shared youth.

He’d be handsome without the scar– he still is, but it is a severe kind of beauty.

The moment she manages to finish the food on her plate, she excuses herself, declaring that she is tired from her journey and will need to recover before Lord Borros makes his decision in the morning.

Lord Borros presses a kiss to her hand, and she winces at the way his beard feels against her skin. When she looks to Aemond, he is suppressing a smile by bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

She walks quickly through the halls, towards the guest chamber, already taking off the heavy gold earrings and necklace she had been adorned with, and sighs at the relief of their weight. The sooner she can get to sleep, the sooner the morning will come, then the sooner she can finally leave, either a success or a failure, but she will be free of him. Free of the tight, restless feeling in her chest.

The enduring storm does not help her nerves, the rain beating down and the wind howling against the castle walls. Her heart leaps at every irregular noise, anything that might be mistaken for a voice, a breath, a footstep. She glances over her shoulder repeatedly, but all she sees are the empty hallways she leaves behind.

Two guards wait outside her chambers. They do not move to open the door for her, as they would on Dragonstone. She huffs and pushes it open herself, falling against the door once it is closed.

Borros Baratheon is hardly a man of principle. He has no love for Rhaenyra, and is only considering offering his support out if pride. She has no friends here.

She quietly turns the lock on the door.

She heads to the vanity to set down the jewellery and release the pins from her hair, watching it fall around her shoulders.

Outside the window, she hears Silverwing’s lamenting coos through the clashes of thunder. She reaches behind her back to undo the laces of her gown as she goes to the window, but she cannot spot her dragon through the dark and the heavy rain.

“We’ll be home soon,” she whispers into the night.

She nearly screams when she hears the door rattle.

The wood clashes against its frame, but the handle does not budge, for now.

She barely has a few moments to run to the vanity, hand outstretched and eyes fixed on a long, sharp hair pin when she hears the door burst open. It slams and heavy footsteps thud against the floor, towards her.

A hand clasps over her mouth before she can make a sound. An arm wraps tightly around her waist, keeping her arms by her sides, before she can reach the closest thing she has to a weapon.

She thrashes, squirms, tries to call for help or graze her teeth against the intruder’s flesh but nothing deters him.

She looks down at the arm around her waist. She recognises the black leather sleeve of his jerkin, the wide palm pressing down on her stomach, veins and tendons running underneath pale skin.

He rests his chin on her shoulder, so his long, silver hair falls around her face. He smells of smoke and lavender.

He lets out a frustrated huff as she unsuccessfully tries to jerk her elbow into his side. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he hisses against her ear.

She squeals in fury against his palm, trying to twist her way out of his grip. She manages to drag him with her until their sides collide with the vanity. Pieces of priceless jewellery and bottles of perfume fall to the floor, and shatter.

She has a mere second to wrench herself from his grip, only for him to grab her again, turning her to face him as he pulls her into his chest.

Aemond’s expression is deadly, his eye wide, lips pressed together in a scarcely contained rage.

“The throne belongs to my mother,” she says through the drumming in her chest, with all the defiance she can muster. “She is the one true heir. King Viserys–”

“Viserys is dead!” Aemond bellows, pushing her back against the vanity. “His word means nothing now that he can no longer enforce it.”

With her hands suddenly free she attempts to strike him, but he sees her intention before she even moves, pinning her wrists to the wood, keeping her body in place with his own.

She clenches her fists, only able to dig her nails into her palms. “What is it that you want from me?”

Lightning ignites the sky behind her. The white light dances over his scar and the shape of his mouth. His expression is softer now, lips slightly parted.

“I will have what I am owed,” he says.

Her eyes flicker to the eyepatch and the edges of the scar it cannot conceal.

Aemond hums a small laugh at her presumption. “Fear not, dear niece, that is not your debt to pay.”

His gaze trails over her face, then lower, to her lips, along her neck, to the gown slipping from her shoulders and the bare skin at the top of her chest.

“Do you remember what you said to me, the day you left?” he says softly.

The children they were are almost half a lifetime away.

She remembers standing under the weirwood tree in the Godswood of the Red Keep, a warm breeze rustling the red leaves above their heads, the sun shining through the branches.

She remembers holding Aemond’s face in her hands, wiping away the bitter tears as they fell from his eyes.

He had begged her not to leave, but they were powerless then.

He is the one to bring his hand to her face now, running his thumb over the lone tear that spills from her eye.

“I said I loved you,” she utters. “I said my heart was yours, and it always would be.”

Aemond hums softly. “You made a promise to me,” he says. “Do you intend to keep that promise?”

How can she? She would have to forsake her mother, her Queen, her brothers, the realm, her own dignity.

“It was a childish infatuation,” she says.

“Not to me,” he says, fury creeping into his voice once more, his grip on her hand tightening.

She pushes her one free hand against his chest but he does not budge. “Aemond, please, you’re hurting me…”

He presses his body into her, forcing her further against the vanity– a warning, a command for obedience. He trails his thumb over her cheek, to her lower lip, taking her chin in his fingers. When she tries to look away he brings her eyes back to him.

He leans in gradually, pressing his forehead and his nose against hers, before he takes a steady breath and captures her lips in his. His kiss is starved but slow, bruising, deep and desperate. The hand that was on her chin comes to her neck, angling her head precisely where he wants her.

His hands trace down the back of her neck, between her shoulders, to pull at the laces of her gown. They fall apart between his fingers and, barely breaking away from her, he tugs it down until the black and gold fabric falls to her ankles. He lifts her out of it, seating her on the vanity, raking the hem of her shift up to her thighs so he can place himself between them as he continues to kiss her.

A dazed sort of warmth pools within her. She can feel her senses and her sanity slipping.

But he cannot best her, not after everything that has happened in the days since the King’s death.

She grazes his lip with her teeth, and when he seems to welcome it, she clenches her jaw as hard as she can.

He tears himself away from her and staggers back, bright blood dripping from his mouth. She can taste it on her tongue.

“Little cunt,” he hisses.

She slips the hairpin into her hand and runs for the door. Aemond catches her in a few strides but she’s ready for that, turning to drive it into his blindside.

Even then he misses nothing, holding her wrists behind her back with one hand and snatching the pin from her grasp. She hears it clatter to the ground as Aemond drives her forwards, towards the bed.

She lands face down and tries to lift herself up, only to feel his forearm pressing into her neck to keep her down.

“You were always stubborn,” he says, planting a delicate kiss to her shoulder, “and as exciting as that is, I want you to be good for me, dōna riña.”

The iciness in his voice sends a shudder down her spine.

“Say it, say you’ll be good.”

Hit tears prickle in her eyes. She shifts underneath his hold, but her urge to fight is already fading. “I’ll be good, qȳbos,” she whispers.

Aemond’s chest hums with a groan. At last he relents, releasing her neck and her hands. But no sooner is she free, he turns her onto her back and slides his hands up her thighs, hooking his fingers over her smallclothes and bringing them down her legs.

“Up,” he says, dragging her by her hands to sit, so that he can pull her shift over her head.

She cannot be sure why she’s shivering, the cold air, the noise of the storm, or the hungry look in Aemond’s eye at the sight of her bare body.

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as he lays her down and trails his fingertips down her stomach, to the obvious arousal at her core.

With a lingering kiss to her cheek he presses a single finger inside her. She gasps at the sudden sting of it, digging her nails into his skin.

But he reaches deeper than she’s ever been able to, stroking against the flesh within her, until she starts to melt. He edges her closer and closer to bliss until she comes undone around him with a whimper.

“Sȳz riña,” he coos against her cheek. “That’s it…”

She tries to cling onto him as he moves away, but he is not gone for long. He swiftly undoes the buckles of his jerkin, followed by his shirt, boots and breeches. His body is lithe and lean, harsh angles and soft skin.

She glances at his eyepatch again.

Aemond lets out a low, irritable “hmm,” as he looms over her. His hair falls around his face, tickling the skin of her collar. He leans on one palm placed by her head, as he drags the tip of his cock through her folds, teasing between her bundle of nerves and her entrance. The sensation burns brightly and has her hips bucking, but it’s not enough.

“Beg me for it,” he utters.

“Please,” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands, feeling her thumbs along the sharp edges of his cheeks. “Please…”

He pushes into her with a single stroke, filling her to the hilt with a soft sound of skin against skin.

She winces at the stretch, throwing her head back against the bed and trying to steady her breath as he rocks into her.

He’s gentle at first, but before long he is restless.

“I knew you fucking wanted this,” he pants, gripping at her waist to pull her in with every snap of his hips. “You little whore, I can feel you getting wetter.”

She should hate him for it. There is so much she should hate him for, but she cannot think past the pleasure tightening and rising within her, the sound of Aemond’s laboured breaths or the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling.

His hands grab at her legs, positioning them against her chest so he can fuck her harder and deeper.

“Oh gods,” she whines as he pushes against a spot that makes her feel weightless.

“Take it bastard,” he hisses, pressing his forehead against hers and wrapping a hand around her neck. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to know it could. “Fucking take it.”

She is sure it’s too much, his hold on her neck, his breath over her lips, his body pressing against hers as he pounds into her without mercy.

“I’m going to fill you up,” Aemond rasps, “return you to King’s Landing with a Prince in your belly.”

His promise sparks a new feeling entirely, her cunt clenching around him as her voice becomes a slur of desperate, wanton moans.

“Oh you’d like that, wouldn’t you, ilībõños? Want your uncle to give you a silver-haired babe?”

“Please,” she mewls, placing her hand over his, “please, qȳbos,”

With a few sharp, brutal thrusts, her body erupts with her climax, until she is a moaning, quivering mess.

Aemond’s jaw hangs open as he fucks into her through his own release, until every last drop of his seed is buried within her.

He keeps himself nestled within her, positioning them properly on the bed, hooking her leg around his hips, keeping her body and her head close to his chest.

Her eyes flutter closed, lulled by the soft sound of his breath and the gentle thud of his heartbeat.

But the pleasant glow of her peak cannot last forever.

“I can’t go back to King’s Landing,” she whispers against his skin. Not now that Aegon has claimed the throne, not now that her mother is amassing her banners and the Greens are doing the same.

Aemond takes her chin his fingers, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Did you think I’d ever let you go? You’re mine now, dōna riña. That is what you've always wanted, is it not?”

She helplessly traces her fingers along the muscles of his arm, held tightly around her.

Perhaps she did want that, once.

“What of the Stormlands? What of our duties to our families? What of the war?”

Aemond silences her with a delicate kiss to her lips. She lets it soothe her, for the sake of a love once lost, for a moment of bliss in a world unfurling into chaos and bloodshed.

“Lord Borros will pledge his banners to Aegon or I will burn Storm’s End to the ground,” Aemond mutters between their kisses. She can already feel his cock beginning to harden once more inside her. “And no one will keep you from me, my sweet, strong girl.”

Tags (comment to be added)

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#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x ofc #hotd #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond fanfic #aemond oneshot #aemond one eye #Spotify

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agentrouka-blog · 23 days

Note

"There was hunger in his(Tyrion) green eye, it seemed to her, and fury in the black. Sansa did not know which scared her more."- Sansa(ASOS).

"He wanted something from her, but Sansa did not know what it was. He looks like a starving child, but I have no food to give him."- Sansa(ASOS).

Sansa compared Tyrion lust for her with him hungry for food.

"The Vale of Arryn was famously fertile and had gone untouched during the fighting. Jon wondered how Lady Catelyn's sister would feel about feeding Ned Stark's bastard." - Jon(ADWD)

"He have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. A hunger . . . he could feel it."- Jon(ASOS).

In first quote Jon was thinking about food supply from Vale and in later he was thinking about he wanted to become lord of WF and have a family but feels guilty.

Do you think it's about Jonsa?

Great obervation, please-dot! <3

There's another language parallel involving Tyrion and Sansa and Winterfell that mirrors Jon's thoughts in Winterfell.

I want her, he realized. I want Winterfell, yes, but I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is. I want to comfort her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. Yes, and I want to be tall as Jaime and as strong as Ser Gregor the Mountain too, for all the bloody good it does. (ASOS, Tyrion IV)

It compares well with the quote you used above.

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. A hunger . . . he could feel it. It was food he needed, prey, a red deer that stank of fear or a great elk proud and defiant. He needed to kill and fill his belly with fresh meat and hot dark blood. His mouth began to water with the thought. (ASOS, Jon XII)

When Tyrion and Sansa do eat together, the food is distasteful, or their appetites incompatible.

Another thematic link would be Sansa refusing the offer of a pomegranate from Littlefinger, where the Hades-Persephone symbolism underlines her rejection of him. The closest he gets to her appetite is the giant lemon cake model of the Eyrie served up at the feast for the upcoming tourney, and yet her thoughts revolve around Harry and she is never seen eating of it.

Jon's relationship with food also turns impersonal. What meals he has aren't joyful, they even congeal uneaten. Long forgotten are the days of sweet summerwine and honeyed chicken, or the celebratory meals taken with his new black brothers. Everything revolves around food but Jon becomes divorced from the joy of eating.

Catelyn voices that connection very well.

I am become a sour woman, Catelyn thought. I take no joy in mead nor meat, and song and laughter have become suspicious strangers to me. I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings. There is an empty place within me where my heart was once. (ACOK, Catelyn VII)

The connection to the food stores of the Eyrie becomes doubly interesting in that context. GRRM specifically phrased it as feeding Jon himself.

I strongly suspect that when Jon and Sansa meet again, food will take on as symbolic a role as gifts of clothing or mutual offers of protection. There's a very unnecessary, almost random paragraph during Joffrey's wedding that has never left my mind:

And there was one woman, sitting almost at the foot of the third table on the left . . . the wife of one of the Fossoways, he thought, and heavy with his child. Her delicate beauty was in no way diminished by her belly, nor was her pleasure in the food and frolics. Tyrion watched as her husband fed her morsels off his plate. They drank from the same cup, and would kiss often and unpredictably. Whenever they did, his hand would gently rest upon her stomach, a tender and protective gesture. (ASOS, Tyrion VIII)

It's one of the sweetest interactions of any couple depicted in the series, and it revolves around the simple worldly pleasures of food and drink, affection and new life. They eat together, joyfully. The contrast to Tyrion's empty hunger, and to the stilted tension surrounding food that has crept into so many abusive relationships is evident.

So, yes, I think that repeated imagery is very intentional and will return when it is time to feast, metaphorically.

#jonsa #food symbolism #jon snow #sansa stark #anti tyrion lannister #littlefinger

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melrosing · 12 days

Text

MBO Robert's Rebellion: Season 2 Episode 4

what the fuck is this: it's me drafting a fake robert's rebellion tv show through a series of bullet points. there will be two seasons of ten episodes each

SEASON ONE: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4, Episode 5, Episode 6, Episode 7, Episode 8, Episode 9, Episode 10

SEASON TWO: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4

prev: 2.03

next: tbc

so I did fully try to see if I could get that fishing boat scene out of here but in the end I decided I couldn’t and also now I’ve decided I’ve found meaning in it after all. I’ve found meaning in Ned’s fishing boat adventure

also I am finding the Rhaegar/Elia and Rhaegar/Lyanna the most difficult to try and suss out but I’m feeling a lot clearer on them now at least in terms of how I personally want to interpret them so…. yeah this has been fun for that

title for this one: who else completely forgot gulltown existed

A raven flies to the Eyrie; inside Jon Arryn’s solar, we see Jon, Ned and Robert all assembled, apparently having slept there waiting for this missive. Jon reads aloud for the three of them, and so they learn of what has become of Rickard and Brandon Stark. Ned is frozen in the sudden onslaught of grief. Robert asks what news of Lyanna. Ned tells him without needing to hear it: she wasn’t even there. The missive ends as Aerys demands Jon’s fealty, and the heads of his wards. Robert and Ned look to Jon, suddenly aware of their vulnerability here. Jon asks if they truly doubt him - they are as good as sons to him, he says, and better than any he might have had. They are each the heads of their houses now, and must lead them for Lyanna. He goes then to Ned and comforts him as he falls apart

Lyanna awakens beside the embers of a campfire, Rhaegar’s cloak wrapped about her. She has been dreaming again, and senses something terrible has happened - but can’t think what. Rhaegar returns from between the trees from watering the horses. Lyanna asks him if it is strange that she’s hardly thought of her father since she left his camp? How frightened he must be. Suddenly frantic, she tells Rhaegar she needs to go back, and tell her father she’s alright. She’s meant to be at Brandon’s wedding. It will be any day now.Rhaegar looks at her sadly, and Lyanna realises she remembers the dream she’s been pushing to the back of her mind. She looks to Rhaegar. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Rhaegar looks back sadly. Lyanna collapses into his arms

Rip

Jaime walks into the throne room to relieve Lewyn Martell at the foot of Aerys’ throne. He looks up at the king with disgust and trepidation. Aerys sits at the top, gnawing at his fingernails - last night felt so good so right, yet now he’s more frightened than ever. He asks Merryweather if they’ve received word from Jon Arryn. Merryweather, uneasy, says there is still time

Maester at the Eyrie writes missives to the lords of the Vale, rallying them against the crown. The ravens fly out in different directions across the region

A call to arms lands in the hands of Lord Grafton, who reads it with a sullen look. His maester asks how he should like to reply. Grafton considers this a moment, before announcing that House Grafton remains loyal to the crown, and what the prince has done with some northern girl is no concern for men of the Vale

Lyanna riding through the woods, her eyes distant. Rain chucking it down. Rhaegar rides beside her in silence. After some time, he tells her that it wasn’t her fault what had happened to her father and brother. Lyanna wonders how it could be anyone’s fault but hers. Even now, she doesn’t know why she’s still running - she should’ve married Robert Baratheon as her father had wanted, and then perhaps Lord Rickard and Brandon would still be alive. Rhaegar reaches over to turn her face to his, and tells her that Robert Baratheon is not her fate. He never was. Lyanna, shocked at Rhaegar’s sudden intensity, asks again where it is that they are going

Lewyn Martell with Elia in Maegor’s Holdfast. Elia asks after the King; Lewyn says that the King is well. Elia says that’s not what she means. Lewyn pauses, then says he wouldn’t let anything happen to his sister’s daughter; it was the last thing he promised Loreza. Elia says that in life Loreza had thought marrying her to the Prince would be the best thing she could do for her daughter - though spiting Tywin Lannister was no small part of it. But this isn’t a safe place, and she isn’t happy; no-one laughs here, and her children have no idea where their father is. Neither does she, for that matter. Hesitating, Elia says she supposes the Prince is a friend of Lewyn’s, and asks his forgiveness for speaking ill. Lewyn says that he doesn’t think the Prince had friends, not even Arthur for all the time he spent by his side. Elia ponders that, then reveals that for the first year she’d thought she loved Rhaegar - he was hard to know but he said he’d seen her in his dreams. How could she not love that? Only now, she thinks perhaps he’d dreamt wrong. He thinks this northern girl is - she doesn’t know what he thinks she is. But she finds herself despising Lyanna - isn’t that foolish? That she hates this child, and yet still some part of her clings to Rhaegar. Lewyn says he doesn’t think it is foolish to have loved the Prince; many women have. Elia agrees, and says she knows now that she was just another

In Jon Arryn’s solar with Ned and Robert (are they ever getting out of there? stay tuned). Jon Arryn tells the boys he’s received messages of solidarity from many of his vassals - but not all. Lord Grafton has written back declaring his fealty to the crown, and though he has always esteemed Jon’s intelligence, he suspects it falters here. He recommends Jon send Aerys his wards’ heads before the King claims his. Robert says it’s a given then - they must march on Gulltown, and see who gets to keep their head. A rare smirk from Jon Arryn; they have enough men to take on Gulltown, but this will be only the first of their battles. He turns to Ned. He is Lord Stark now; what does he wish to do? Ned says he wants Lyanna back. Jon nods; then they’ll have need of his northmen - how fast can he rally them?

Robert and Ned say goodbye as Ned prepares to traverse the Mountains of the Moon; Robert will march to Gulltown with Jon in the meantime, gathering men as they go. Robert says that if they’re Jon’s sons, then Ned is his brother, and when they get Lyanna back they will make it law. Ned nods, slightly tearful, and the two go their separate ways

Rhaegar and Lyanna approach Summerhall. Lyanna’s eyes shine at the sight of the ruin: it is sad, beautiful, and altogether ethereal. She dismounts her horse, and wanders towards it on foot. There are flowers growing in between the wreckage, and amongst them her favourite, winter roses. Lyanna is confused, telling Rhaegar that she has only known them to grow in the North. Rhaegar tells her he’s come to these ruins since he was a boy; here, the music comes to him, and he sees things in waking dreams. For some time now, he reveals, he has seen her. That’s really it for Lyanna; they kiss

One week later. Robert marching through the Stormlands, Gulltown on the horizon. Bit of tooting from the war trumpets idk. Jon Arryn tells Robert that cannot hope to have caught Grafton unawares; Robert says he certainly hopes not

Ned meanwhile, wearing a Daemon hood: he’s about to cross the Bite. He boards a fisherman’s boat, paying handsomely for the man’s silence. The fisherman warns that there is a storm coming, and Ned pays him more - they have to depart now

Grafton’s men emerge from the walls of Gulltown. Jon reminds Robert that this is real war now, not a melee. Robert like ‘depends how you look at it’ and leads the charge, bellowing

From the fishing boat, Ned looks up at the rapidly darkening skies. The waves grow taller, and Ned tells the fisherman he’s sorry for ever forcing him to ride such a storm. Fisherman reveals he knows who Ned is, and he knows where he’s going. He himself used to be a Duskendale man, till Aerys did for good lord Denys, so fuck the king etc he’ll get Ned across the Bite if it’s the last thing he does. Anyway it literally is bc two seconds later he’s been thrown overboard and Ned’s knocked out as he collides with the side of the boat. I’m sparing my imaginary production crew the trouble of filming this basically

Robert amidst the chaos of battle at Gulltown. He spies Marq Grafton and charges at him. As Robert makes his first strike at Grafton…

We cut abruptly to Ned, waking up on the beached fisherman’s boat. The fisherman’s daughter is clearing the detritus from the deck. Ned asks where her father is, but the girl won’t look at him. She tells him she has gotten him to the Three Sisters, like they promised they would; if it’s to be worth her father’s life, he’d best do what he came to do

Aerys at his supper table alongside Rhaella; Varys leans in to whisper news of Gulltown. We don’t hear it ourselves, but we can tell what the news is as we slowly zoom on Aerys’ face, terror on Rhaella’s in the periphery

Robert at the seat of House Grafton, accepting the surrender of his opposition, and the fealty of one Lyn Corbray. He looks delighted with himself. Jon Arryn praises him quietly but reminds him that this battle was only the first - and the first of many, he fears. Robert like, so be it. He wants his bride back

Rhaegar and Lyanna stand beneath a heart tree. All about them are the charred remains of trees burnt decades ago, but this one survived. Rhaegar ties cloth about their hands himself as they look deep into each other’s eyes. Together they say the words, and it is done

#sparknotes Robert’s rebellion #asoiaf #rhaegar targaryen #elia martell #Ned stark #robert baratheon #lyanna stark #et al….#valyrianscrolls

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aemondapologistfrfr · 3 months

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Dethrone - Chapter One

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of depression, swearing

Authors Note: this is basically like the prologue but def contains some much needed info! we get more characters next chapter and then we get our mans in chap 3 so pls push through with me 🧎🏼‍♀️‍➡️

Word Count: a little over 2k

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

I’ve learned to enjoy my own company since a young age. There are some days where I wish I had siblings, but I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone else. I was born under lock and key in Runestone to Rhea Royce and Daemon Targaryen on a particularly stormy night. I’m told that when I first opened my lilac eyes that I simply sighed and cuddled into my mother as she cleaned my opulent white hair. I was only months old when an “accident” befell my mother and she was dead before I even could form a memory of her. My father left shortly after, abandoning me here. I’ve heard whispers from around the castle of what truly happened to my mother, but no story has ever been the same.

I was a particularly hellish child and never wanted to follow the rules. I would sneak out of my room forcing my handmaiden, Kaenna, to chase after my flowing silver locks trying to rein me in. Around the age of three and ten my rebellious stage burnt out. This was also around the time when they stopped allowing me to see my dragon, Vaelys. I became a shell of myself and curled inward. I became deeply depressed for years, the only way they were able to get me out of my bed was promises of training with new masters.

Wielding a blade is the only time I ever truly felt power. I became quite skilled with blades and all forms of weapons and then they slowly started taking training from me too. One thing they never took from me was reading. I was able to escape in the history’s of old. Most days I would go and hide in the library and see how long it would take for anyone to find me.

Vaelys was hidden within the forests near the coast and I often would try and sneak out of the castle to go see her. I had to beg over and over again just to see her. If I was lucky, I was able to see her once every fortnight. She was strong and could fend for herself. I just wish I could ride her. They had brought in a trainer just for me, but once we bonded and I could fly, they started letting me see her less and less. They told me it was too dangerous, that we could get caught. I think they were more scared that I would just fly away and never come back. I thought about it many times. I have no idea where I would go. I’ve never left the Eyrie. I want to, but I have no one out there.

Maester Dawsin was my “father” figure growing up, but we didn’t interact that much. He mainly observed my progress and would ask me about my dreams. He and my handmaiden, Kaenna, oversaw everything I did. At first I resented them for helping my father hide me, but soon they were the only family I’ve ever had. I knew it wasn’t completely their fault I was left here to be forgotten and rot, but they did play a part in it. This causes a lot of fights and yelling throughout my upbringing. No one would ever explain to me why I was stuck here which caused me to lose my temper most days.

The only thing I knew with absolute certainty is that I would one day be Queen. This dream has been reoccurring and the details become clearer as the years go by. I would be married on Dragonstone to a prince with long flowing white hair. His face was always just out of focus but all of the other details I have memorized. I’m not sure when or how, but someday soon I will fly away from Runestone and get my vengeance on my father and take the seven kingdoms for my own.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

Late one night, I heard a soft knock on my door. Kaenna entered my chambers and sat down next to me on my bed. She was holding a letter in her trembling hands.

“What’s going on Kaenna?” I ask grabbing her hands to try and steady them.

“I don’t know how to tell you this princess. Maester Dawsin has just passed.” she breathes out with a shaky voice.

“What happened? What does this mean?” I question feigning confusion. I had dreamed of his death a moon ago but kept it to myself.

“No one knows. He just went to bed and never woke again. He has left a letter that I am to send out.” she says looking down avoiding my eyes.

“Who is it for? What is this letter?” I throw more questions at her trying to reach for the letter.

“It’s for your father.” she says pulling the letter away from me. “He’s to come get you. The arrangement they made was to last only as long as Maester Dawsins life.” she tries to explain causing me more confusion.

“What was the arrangement? Why does he even want to come get me now? I doubt he’ll even show up to come collect me.” I say trying to figure out what this means and what I can do.

“Maester Dawsin never shared with me all of the details of the arrangement. He and your father have remained in contact. Your father knew of Maester Dawsins declining health.” she explains.

“This doesn’t make any sense. If they’ve been in contact all these years, why couldn’t he have written to me himself? Why couldn’t he come see me?” I ask confused my frustration and anger growing.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl. I wish I had all the answers for you, but I don’t. You’re strong and you’ll get through this.” She tries to soothe me.

I feel numb. My head is flooded with thoughts. Maester Dawsin is dead. My father has kept a secret eye on my entire life. Now my father is coming to get me. I’m finally leaving Runestone. I’m fucking terrified. The only thing that gives me some semblance of happiness is that my father is being forced to confront his past and come get his first child, Viktorya Targaryen. I feel dread and relief. I’ve wanted to leave for so long, but I never imagined it would be with my father.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

Kaenna helped me pack once we got the confirmation he was going to be here in two days time. Kaenna was the closest to a mother I had. She never left my side and was always there for me when I needed her. She held me when I cried and she was there to cheer me on the first time I was able to mount Vaelys. She’s truly raised me. I wish I could take her with me.

My entire life is summed up to two trunks. I spend the next two days deep in thought. I don’t even know my father so why do I have to go live with him. I’ve been able to keep up on current affairs so I know he’s been married twice now and has a plethora of children to prove it. It makes me resentful he can be a father to other kids but not his first.

The day that my father is to arrive comes too quickly, but not quick enough. Kaenna wakes me softly and brings me my favorite tea. She opened the curtains to let the sun in. Or so I thought, of course it’s a gloomy, foggy day. I get up to stretch and walk over to the vanity and sit down. I frown when I see my hair.

“Look at your hair.” Kaenna chuckles trying to smooth my curls. “May I braid this for you?” She soothes placing a kiss on the side of my head.

“Please.” I answer in a whisper and she starts with intricate braids at the top.

This is the day I have to leave her. What am I going to do with out her? She is the only person who has ever truly loved me and now I have to leave her. It’s bittersweet to leave Runestone, I’ll finally be able to live my life. My dreams have been mellow and show me a new life with a large family. I seem happy enough and I’m given more freedom.

“You don’t have to overthink. They’re going to love you. How could they not?” she pulls me out of my thoughts.

“I’m just scared. I don’t know any of them. I’m the outsider who they never wanted.” I say tearing up.

“Don’t cry Princess. It isn’t your fault you were hidden away. You didn’t ask for this. I know you didn’t ask to leave either, but I think it’s time for you to see more than just this castle and forest. To see your history. To meet your family. You deserve to have a life.” she looks at me meaningfully. I feel the tears pouring over the edges.

“I will never forget you, Kaenna. All you’ve done for me. I will visit, I swear it.” I say standing up to hug her.

She helps me into my dress. It’s a long sleeve black dress with lilac detailing down the sleeves. It has deep red embroidering bleeding down the torso. This is my favorite dress because it reminds me of Vaelys. Kaenna lightly touches my arm to tell me it’s time to head to the coast. She helps me grab my riding bags and has my trunks sent off after me. I leave my chambers for the first time without hiding who I am. I feel free.

Once we arrived to the coast I could see another dragon near Vaelys. Fuck he’s already here. I thought I would have at least some time alone with Vaelys before we left. My stomach is twisting the closer we get to my father. Kaenna grabs my hand to help calm me.

“Hello Viktorya.” he calls out with a small smile.

“Hello.” I say strained. Kaenna gives me a reassuring hand squeeze.

He starts grabbing my bags and strapping them on to his dragon. I’m thankful he does this because it gives me time to say my final goodbyes to Kaenna.

“I’m going to miss you.” I say with a trembling voice.

“I’m going to miss you too.” she says sweetly pulling me into a tight hug.

“I wish you could come with me.” I breathe out.

“It’s going to be okay. I promise. This isn’t good bye, sweet girl.” she pulls back kissing my forehead. “Fly to your future and make me proud.” she says letting me go, giving me a warm motherly smile.

“I’ll make you proud, I promise.” I say then turn to walk towards my father.

When I turn around to glance back Kaenna is still there. I’m glad she’s staying to see me off, but it makes my heart even more heavy. Once I reach my father he leads me over to his dragon.

“This is Caraxes.” He smiles proudly. “He’ll give us a nice, smooth ride to Dragonstone.”

“I’m sure he would, but I’ll be leaving here atop Vaelys.” my tone firm with no room for budging as I look back to Vaelys.

This was the perfect opportunity to fly her. I have someone to follow and somewhere to go, regardless of the circumstances. Leaving here on Vaelys will give me a sense of power and control. I will not pass this opportunity to be able to ride her in more than a circle of the forest.

“Do as you please.” my father waves me off as he starts to mount his dragon. “Let’s go then.” he says grabbing his reins.

I quickly climb up into my saddle and settle in. I grab the reins and Vaelys and I both turn to look back on our prison. She gives out a cry and shoots into the air. I turn around and I can faintly see Kaenna waving. Tears pour down my cheeks. I watch as my home disappears, leaving everything I know behind of me and I follow my father to a new life.

#aemond targaryen fanfiction #prince aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #aemond x oc #hotd fanfic #aemond smut #aemond x reader #prince aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd daemon #daemon targeryan

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impossible-rat-babies · 2 years

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something something about Zenos killing eyrie but also the wish for their survival being what drags their soul back. you can create a wound that endlessly bleeds, but do you have the strength to mend it, yeah? A wish that knits and knots a length of twine to drag your dearest friend and worst enemy’s soul back from the brink

#oc: eyrie kisne #endwalker spoilers #did Zenos regret killing them as he stared up at them and watch the light leave their eyes?#killing his only friend the one person who understood him in some twisted mirror like shape?#or was it euphoric to finally take down an enemy he had been chasing for so long?#or was their the pang of losing that which had long since alluded him? the idea of no more joy would be brought from a lifeless body?#or was he content to know they had both killed each other? or was it enough to die once more and maybe hope that his dearest friend #would keep living?#there’s something deep in the recesses of eyrie that grieves the loss but grieves also how distant Zenos is #the last bit of him that survived being a necklace and the much more fundamental thing #of eyrie being patched together—dragged back to their broken body on Zenos’s earnest wish that they survive #Zenos’s wish being this glue holding them together #it’s part of them in the patchwork of Ardbert and charon—it’s #*all of it is eyrie and will never not be eyrie but it is also Ardbert. it is charon. it is Zenos abiding in some abstract way #it’s something they don’t ever talk about it bc it feels….wrong #it’s too raw it’s too much to put to words #they take solace in drawing. putting paint or pencil to paper despite the tremors #all of them are Zenos and so much like the sketches they do when trying to put to paper what someone looks like so they don’t forget

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ewanmitchelll · 8 months

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Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (XIX): This Is Me Trying.

Imagine Aemond Targaryen imprisons you during the late civil war.

Warnings: long post, drama, angst, light smut, fluff ending.

***

• Before the War.

I've been having a hard time adjusting. I had the shiniest wheels, now they're rusting. I didn't know if you'd care if I came back. I have a lot of regrets about that…

When Aemond meets you again circumstances are about to erupt in an event that most involved wish to prevent. He’s lost an eye, and though for gaining something more important, his pride never amended for the loss.

You, on the other hand, are his cousin via his uncle Daemon’s first marriage to Lady Rhea Arryn. In theory, you should be ruler of that House, but women hold no rights there so that is why you are there with your family.

With your dark hair and darker eyes, you attract your cousins’s attention. It’s a week before the fatidic dinner when he spots you, dressed in dark blue, ignoring the rising tensions between the already formed green and black parties.

“You look as if this is the place you wouldn’t want to be”, you hear him address you.

In all fairness, last time you’ve been there he was a child and so were you. Hardly surprising it is to find the quiet boy a taller and handsome man.

“Lord Aemond”, you smile when recollecting his name. “It’s been years…”

“Indeed. Many events have transcurred since we last spoke, Lady Arryn”, he side smirks, eyeing you intently, pleased to make you blush.

As children, you were playmates before your father remarried to Lady Laena of House Velaryon. She took you as one of her own and under her care you remained until she came to past away. And then your father espoused Princess Rhaenyra, whom also took you as her daughter.

And here you are.

“They have, yes”, you nod, transfixed by his enigmatic presence. “I’m sorry about your eye. I wasn’t there when this happened.”

“You’d think I didn’t notice?”, he raises his eyebrow. “Where have you been?”

Silence hangs in between the two of you. Aemond resents your absence, how out of reach you’ve been when you were once close. How on earth have you become strangers?

You look down at your wrung hands, but when carefully lifting your gaze you still find his good eye glued on you, trying to understand you.

“I tried to reclaim my inheritance at the Eyrie right after my stepmother’s decease. I couldn’t do so earlier as I was too young, but now…”

“Are you their lady now?”, Aemond softens.

You smile almost unconsciously as the tension between you two dissipate and the prince leads you to the gardens.

“No. They accept no woman as their overlord”, you sigh. “My father doesn’t take it nicely, though. He intends to reclaim it on my behalf, refusing the proposal of my maternal uncle.”

“Oh?”, he furrows his eyebrows, fearful of the response. “What that’d be?”

As you two move towards the gardens, you barely notice how your arm slides to his, distance now shorter than before.

“Marriage. What other proposal would be?”

Aemond chuckles lightly, but you spot no amusement in his good eye.

“It is the way, is it not?”

“For us women, usually is. A duty that requires plenty of sacrifices.”

As he looks at you, Aemond doesn’t resist the urge of asking:

“What would you be prepared to sacrifice, lady Y/N?”

As you two lock gazes, you are reminded of the time spent together. As children, you were both so alike in temperament, in likes and thoughts. What has changed now?

You open your mouth, but you do not know what to say. Aemond gently parts of you, hands behind his back, expectation somewhat filling behind his good eye.

He knows the answer. He can tell by your heavy breathing, the light shake of your hands, how your bottom lip trembles… what will come out. Sensibility rises behind your coal eyes like darkness pulls him into it.

He waits.

You won’t say it. You won’t say it.

But you do.

“You.”

To your dismay, the prince smiles. Taking your hand in his, he says:

“I’ve always thought about you. I’m glad you haven’t forsaken me, Y/N.”

You blush, moving your gaze instantly away. A torrent of words are being held back. Aemond, who knows you so well, gently makes you look at him.

“Do not slip out of me. I ask you this.”

“Even though I am the elder sister of the twins who attacked you?”

Aemond chuckles.

“No one is perfect.”

That being said, he takes your hand and there presses a kiss.

***

• The Dinner.

Pulled the car off the road to the lookout. Could've followed my fears all the way down and maybe I don't quite know what to say…

Right before the expected meeting at the King’s table for the evening meal in a familiar gathering, you are found at Lord Aemond’s company. You see he’s been acting weirdly, even though nothing on his face betrayals it.

“Why are you in a glooming mood?”, you inquire, your face rested in his lap, looking up at him as his long hand strokes your hair.

“I am not”, he says in a dismissive tone. “This is who I am, you know.”

“Do not play me a fool, Aemond”, you stand reluctantly, but never too far of his grasp.

Aemond likes how wild your hair is, mirroring a tempest that is forming behind your eyes as you stare at him. He strokes your face, prompted to succumb to his desires if circumstances were different.

“Will you force me speak my mind?”

“If I must, yes”, you narrow your eyes.

Again, he chuckles.

“You can be stubborn when you want to be, Y/Nickname.”

“A trait you also have, if I recall well.”

Aemond leans so close to you now that you fear you are about to lose your balance. Especially when his lips are pressed against your forehead, there lingering in a gentle, but intense kiss that spreads fire over your body.

A sentiment that you think wise to ignore.

But when his slander hands slip from your face to your long hair, resting around your waist, you find yourself holding your breath.

“Always beautiful, my sweet Y/N. I could never let go of you, nor hold you accountable of others’ sin.”

You realize the feud between him and your half siblings are deeper than you’d judged.

“My sweet”, you hold his face gently. “Do not feed these grudges. I understand the pain of losing what is dear to you, by no chances I mean to demove you of this sentiment. However, vengeance is not changing what happened.”

It is as if you are twins, one knowing the other so well, able to feel what other feels, to think what the other thinks. As if your soul is made of the same material as his.

Even if where he is fire and you are water, a perfect mix has always tied each other.

“Aemond…”

He takes your hands and there presses a kiss.

“Come, we better not get late to the dinner.”

To your disappointment, Aemond stands, waiting for you to take the arm he offers you. But the moment you take it, it feels as if you are growing apart.

***

“Where have you been?”, your father asks you the moment you slide to your chair, next to Baela’s seat.

“By a certain somebody’s side”, you hear your half-sister grumble.

“Would you please mind your own business?”, you snort at her.

“Girls”, interferes Rhaenyra. “This is not the place nor the time.”

“Indeed it is not”, agrees Daemon. “And I pray you have not been randomly wandering around with him again.”

You raise your gaze only to meet your father’s inexpressible pair of lilac eyes studying you. Praying you are able to hold back your emotions enough not to blush, you smirk.

“Oh please, father. As far as it may be difficult for you to accept, I have other companions to spend my time with besides my relatives”, you lie blatantly at his face.

“Right… If that is what you are telling me, I have no need to preoccupy myself then”, he reclines back at his chair, ignoring how the small conversation has captured Aemond’s attention.

Though he sits at the other side of the table, the prince monitors you. He can tell you are lying by how you close your first around the glass, how you cast your eyes to the plate, chewing your bottom lip nervously.

He can tell you are upset at some sibling provocation by the blush that paints your cheeks and the air of impatience that makes you roll your eyes. The discomfort at it is crystal clear as you feel an outsider as your twin sisters talk nonsenses with the Velaryon boys.

You do not belong there. Your looks outstand the Targaryen looks, that itself makes you uncomfortable. He wishes he could tell you many great things—amongst which the depth of his affections for you.

As you raise your eyes, you meet his gaze and for the first time during the dinner both of you smile. He wishes to reach out for you. But then something changes.

It all happens very fast. The food and mutual implication of Aemond’s loss of an eye lead him to subtly stand.

“I would like to have a toast…”

You barely blink. Tension is in the air and you see by their faces that everyone is holding their breaths.

You know Aemond is up to no good. You try to convince him not doing what he’s about to, suspecting this has something to do with his long standing rivalry with the Velaryon boys.

To your disappointment and not entirely surprise, vengeance takes his best. Aemond sees the moment he speaks unwanted words how aghast you look.

“…for these three Strong boys.”

And what happens next prevents him to reach out for you again.

***

• War.

Wind howls violently at the top of the hill. You stare at your dragon with silver eyes and black scams. It’s time, you know it.

Your hair is tied in a long braid and you dress for your first battle at this disgrace war that has been waged since your sweet prince has caused the death of your half-brother.

You could not forgive him for this atrocity, even if part of you doesn’t buy the narrative that Aemond chased Lucerys and purposely ended with his life. You recall how that day you and Rhaena entered in a fight because you were accused to stand for such a kinslayer, an accusation you refused to absolve her for.

“Are you sure you are ready to do it?”, you hear the voice of your father not long as you prepare to mount your flying beast.

Clouds clash, resulting in electric storms. Not the most propitious skies to fly. Daemon looks at you with fatherly concern, reading in your impulsiveness the need of proving your worth.

“I ask you not to fight this war unless it’s absolutely needed to. You should not do it because of your sisters. What Rhaena has said to you…”

“I care naught about what she said”, you turn your head at him. “This isn’t about me or her, but our cause. I will not disappoint you, my father. You’ll be proud of me.”

“I am already proud of you”, says Daemon with his greeted teeth. “I see myself in you. There is no need to have Targaryen looks to be one. You have the dragon blood in you, Y/N. Listen to me, this is not the time…”

“I am a woman now, father. As capable as anyone else to stand for the Queen.”

You swallow your tears, smashing your childhood fears down to your throat. And you fly with your dragon without further waiting, wishing to wipe off your thoughts the nights spent with Aemond at the library or running the corridors or when each confided insecurities to the other.

You wish you had not in mind the envy you felt when seeing your twin sisters sharing the Targaryen looks. You wish you were not mocked upon because of that.

You rise, aiming to fly higher. And your dragon feels your angst, howling through the air. As electric as it is, you seem immune to it.

But of course when you play the game of thrones you either win or die. What shall be the destiny gods hold to you?

Nothing of it comes to your thoughts when you spot Aegon, the Usurper, mounting his dragon. He flies right against you. The battle scene is prepared and you promptly join it.

The dragons dance and your temper takes the best of your reasoning. Nevertheless you hold the advantage of having a dragon bigger than Aegon’s.

But inexperienced.

A fault that will come at you when Aegon commands his dragon to fly right into you. It’s a violent battle to see. He tries to attack you wearing his sword, but his blows are useless.

So suddenly you wish you have heard your father. You are not prepared to fight your cousin on your own. And when a greater dragon casts its shadow below, you have realized you fell to a trap.

***

Aemond doesn’t take pride in taking you with him as his prisoner. Your silence is a harder blow to take, unprepared he was to face it.

“Do not, I ask you, make these matters worse to you.”

He takes you to Harrenhal with him, reclaiming you as his war prize, against his brother’s will, who certainly had other plans for his uncle’s daughter.

You are still processing the trauma of losing your dragon to those beasts you share your blood with. Perhaps it’s not a misfortune to look such an Arryn this time.

You answer him not. Aemond knows this is a difficult battle to fight—and what’s worse, his conscience tells him this is the result of his doing.

“You shall stay in these chambers”, Aemond tells you. “It used to belong to…”

He’d say these were his mistress Alys’ bedchambers before she came to pass after a hard labor, but to avail should he remind you that he supplanted you in his affections?

Or did he plan to say so as a form to plague you with remorse for daring to fight his brother alone?

Such thoughts are slipping out of his mind before the sight of your distress, already plagued by traumas of a war… caused by him.

“To your whore?”, you cut the silence by saying what he could not. “How thoughtful of you, Aemond. Thank you for being considerate.”

Your sharp remark leaves him astonished at your bluntness. It hurts him more than he admits, but as you turn your back at him, entering the bedchambers and there locking yourself in, Aemond realizes that what you two once shared is no more.

***

You sob violently when being left alone. Your imprudence brought you such tragedy and at times you consider going to the window and jump to death at long last and put an end to your misery.

As your father’s daughter, however, your inclination to life speaks louder than letting broken pride taking the best of you.

However, for how long will your spirit resist this? You were never someone to be easily caged.

And yet, here you are…

***

• Reproach: the aftermath…

They told me all of my cages were mental so I got wasted like all my potential and my words shoot to kill when I'm mad. I have a lot of regrets about that I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere. Fell behind on my classmates, and I ended up here pouring out my heart to a stranger, but I didn't pour the whiskey…

Like strangers you meet. Dressed in a green silk gown with hair loose behind your back, a sign of resistance, you join the prince in an awkward dinner.

“Will you not eat?”

“I lost my appetite”, but your mouth is dried and you eventually take the silver glass poured with red wine to your lips.

Aemond softens before you.

“We have started wrongly. Again time steals you from me. I, who possess all that gold and titles can purchase, was deprived of the luxury of having you.”

How openly and crudely he speaks these words make your eyes go wide open at him. You down your glass, skepticism stamped in your features.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I mean every word I say.”

You do not answer, fearful of being brought to the edge of your tears. The old signs Aemond sees: you chew your bottom lip, you close your wrist in a fist, your shoulders remain tense.

Your body screams resentment when you spirits locks in silence.

“You don’t.” After a while you add. “Has Lady Alys been what then?”

“A replacement of you.”

You promptly stand.

“Stop it. Stop right there, my lord prince. Do you take me as a toy you can play at your will? Have you not taken enough of me to satisfy your thirst for vengeance?”

So does he stand.

“I lost a lot for the wrongs I’ve done, lady.”

“You have never missed me!”, and you at last explode. “You’ve forgotten me long ago! You took that woman to your bed, making her your wife in all but name! What have you sacrificed?”

Aemond shortens the distance as he holds your wrists, pulling you closer to him. When removing his eye patch, he hisses:

“I sacrificed you! Us! All that we could have been! Caged my own shadows, I was misled to believe I would earn no peace until they paid for the wrongs I suffered!”

You weep violently, drowning in your sobs as he holds you against him.

“Do not torment me more than I am tormented myself”, he whispers in your ear. “This is me trying, Y/N, to exorcise my demons and be a better version of me to you.”

He buries his head against your neck, smelling your scent, being reminded of peaceful days that now look old, ancient ones dusted in the wind.

His long fingers bury his nails tightly in your waist, nearly provoking physical pain as impatiently begins to unlace your gown.

You shiver before his touch, not hissing away of the pain you two inflicted each other. Now the only sound you hear is of his small sobs. Your hands go to his head.

Two souls harmed, pained in long term angst. You lift his face with scars exposed.

“How did we get here? I used to know you so well, Aemond. My sweet Aem, what have we done?”

“I swallowed vengeance as a medicine and had me poisoned. Never wanted to get you involved in this.”

Fireplace warms the prince’s chambers and soon you and him are sitting on the ground, close to the flames that warm the cold there is in either of you.

“Will you be the death of me?”

“Never”, he takes your face with his face and finally kisses your lips. “I will not let you go.”

As much as you want to be kissed, as much as your lips devour his in a fervent kiss, as much as your gown starts to slip out of your shoulders and your hands get to remove his shirt, you pull out and Aemond knows he should be more clear.

“There is a plan.”

“Then share it with me.”

“I’ll make you Lady of the Vale. You will sit at Eyre as their only lady. I’ll be by your side as you reclaim your inheritance.”

You can barely believe in what he’s saying.

“Aemond…”

“No more wars. No more tragedies. No more blood spent. This I promise you. I will make you my wife.”

When his lips twitch at a small smile, that sweet smile that has always melted your heart, you know what he speaks is true.

“Make me yours.”

That being said, Aemond, more than willingly, rises to claim your lips. And right there, before the flames, two dragons meet in flesh.

***

• Lady

And it's hard to be at a party when I feel like an open wound. It's hard to be anywhere these days when all I want is you. You're a flashback in a film reel on the one screen in my town…

A feast is thrown at the Capital. Civil war has come to an end and you are told there had been no survivors of the black party. In spite of the plans secretly arranged with Aemond, you’d still have to go through the humiliation of being seen as a trophy to the green cause.

For him, you try. To conceal your grief, to mourn underneath a well masked emotionless face.

For him, you try. To dress in the colors of his house, to act composedly even when Aegon laughs at you, even when the usurper mocks at all you know.

But Aemond keeps his word. He stands for you, refusing to let his victory to perpetuate wounds that should be closed, that must be cured.

It’s when the Dowager Queen comes at you.

“There has been many losses to our sides”, she plays the diplomatic role that is expected of her position. “I lament it deeply how this ended. She was dear to me, you know.”

You cast your dark coal eyes to see a pair of green ones plagued by vicious sadness staring back at yours. There are many things you want to say, but no words make to your tongue.

Instead, you opt for the cold, silent treatment. However, when seeing how Aemond has stood for you—as he has always done, once you’ll learn-/, you eventually say with your dry throat:

“Your condolences are welcomed, Your Grace. I assume this is where I should congratulate you thus.”

“Congratulate me?”

Oh her cynicism prevents you try further to be genuinely polite.

“Indeed. Your schemes came to fruition and here your son rules uncontestedly, notwithstanding his father’s wishes in keeping Princess Rhaenyra’s his heiress. But what do I know?”

Leaving the paled queen prompted to another access of tears, you excuse yourself to the gardens.

A film of past, merry days is relived behind your eyes. Lady Laena educating you next to her twin daughters, only two years younger than you. The tutors, the moments spent with your father, who somewhat was distant but always caring to you.

The sadness of losing Lady Laena being replaced as you witness your father marrying Princess Rhaenyra. You remember her kindness and her favours. The dragon egg she gifted you in your late teenager days…

You sob as you miss your black dragon. A hole in your heart is open and your knees go weak. You can hear Rhaenyra telling you this is not your fault for Lucerys’ demise.

“This is not your war to fight.”

But you fought it, didn’t you?

“Don’t go”, your father’s eyes cried out to you when his words attempted to pull you down.

But you wanted to prove his worth… And that was the last time you ever saw him.

Here you are, hardly free. A trophy for all those victors to exhibit. And in this cruel circumstance, you miss him coming at you, standing by your side.

“Come”, he says, taking your hand to his.

“Where?”, you do not mind disguising anymore.

Your castle tumbled and you are nothing but the ruins of days that are not going back.

“To reclaim your inheritance with me”.

Aemond senses your reluctance and stands with you, now out of others eyes. And right under his gaze you sob violently, and he takes you in his arms, feeling your pain as if it’s his own.

“It shouldn’t be this way. I cannot apologize enough for what I’ve done to you.” And leaving his pride aside, he takes your face with his hands and wiping your tears, so he says: “Please, forgive me.”

Underneath grey clouds, out of the bloody feast, it’s just you and him. Trying.

“I forgive you”, you concede genuinely, forgiving yourself too for the impulsiveness.

“I shall never leave you. Ever”, he vows it.

And this is the start of a new journey to you. Where you are neither trying it, but making it. It’s time to amend the wounds of the civil war.

***

You regain your strength, your old self the moment you land at the seat of your mother’s house.

You are not entirely surprised that the local noblemen welcome you reluctantly, as if prepared to engage in war.

“Peace”, you tell them. “I come in peace.”

Aemond leaves you to settle it. He is by your side, hand resting in his sword. Having claimed Blackfyre, he wears it proudly. Not to mention the grand beast behind them.

Although calmly, Vhagar stares at those pair of eyes as if she’s about flame them all.

A dark haired young man comes at you. He could easily be a lost sibling, but the similarities end there.

“Lady Y/N Targaryen. I thought we’d not meet.”

“How kind of you, cousin. A very warm welcome on your part”, like your father before you, snark remarks are something you do well. Aemond himself doesn’t conceal a smirk.

“What are you here for? You have no right here.”

You really forgot how the people of Vale could be ruthlessly straight to the point. It’s when Aemond Targaryen comes in the scene.

“You either bend your knee on behalf of my lady or else you’ll face consequences in the name of King Aegon, Second of His Name.”

Those present still remember from stories when Vhagar last came there. Her rider was lenient and they prayed you and Aemond remain so.

But your maternal cousin, Lord H/N, doesn’t seem prudent. Silence hangs.

“Well? What is your choice going to be? Westeros has bled for more time than it needed. Will you be the reason why the Vale will meet blood and fire on the wrong way? It’s not shameful to bend the knee.”

“I shall never bend a knee for a treacherous whore as yourself.”

It’s enough for Aemond unleash his sword and… let its blade kiss the man’s neck.

“No one who offends my lady walks out free.”

Just like that you reclaim your inheritance and you barely conceal your satisfaction at it. Who’d else dare to resist you after Lord H/N’s unwelcoming reckless?

You are dressed in the colors of your mother’s house. How ironic it is that your father’s enemy helped you to obtain what he could never achieve not even as his widower’s alleged claimant to Lady Rhea’s inheritance.

You look at your prince, who stands at the higher table as your Arryn’s relatives welcome you with a proper feast.

“Thank you”, you smile at him and Aemond is pleased to find no sadness behind your eyes.

“It is only right to amend the wrongs”, right under the table he takes hold of your hand and there squeezes it. “It pleases me more to see your kinsmen and the folks here did not provide any sort of resistance.”

“Despite my surname and whom I take after, they remember my mother well even if I don’t”, you sigh shortly. “They see how diplomatic and reasonable I am. No matter how tied I am to this new regime, they want and need the peace these years took from them.”

Aemond smiles at you and you are content for finding peace at last behind his good eye.

“Thankfully you are. I don’t see how this could be otherwise.”

Earlier that day, before the ceremony of your rise as Lady of the Vale began, you and Aemond were lawfully married before the Seven. This feast intends to celebrate both occasions with tons of merriments. The next day a tournament will be given on behalf of their new overlords.

“My lady”, he kisses your neck and bare shoulders, his hands already removing your line nightgown.

Sitting behind you at your bed, your husband stands all bare as you let him take his time to contemplate this new state both of you are.

No more childhood sweethearts. No more lovers parted due to war. But a husband loving his wife.

You tilt your head to the side, already feeling a heat ache in the between of your legs. Your nipple is already hardened as he exposes it, and you’d gladly touch yourself to ease this burden had he not held your wrist.

“Leave it to me”, he bites your neck, there leaving his bruise.

You arch your back in silent protest.

“You are torturing in me”, you moan, turning your head as you make sure to remove your nightgown and begin to climb on your nude consort when he turns you to be laid under his body.

“Am I?”, he smiles, his hair a mess as you bury your nails on his shoulders, pulling you to him. “Am I torturing my beautiful wife?”

“For years”, you grumble before breaking in a loud whimper when he inserts a finger in between your legs. “Oh, husband!”

His tongue now slides to your chest, path trailing before reaching your nipples. There, the night finally begins to you and your prince gladly takes his time.

Until you begin to reach the climax, he climbs back at you.

And not entirely unexpected…

“Ah, yes!”

He groans as he slides inside you. Raising your legs to fit better his moves, he matches the pace of his hips with yours.

Locking hands with you, he pursuits your lips and in a very passionate kiss you give all you have to him.

***

Some years later.

You watch from your scribe quarters how Aemond trains your son, Daeron, with his sword. You are writing a letter to your sister-in-law, the Queen, to ask a favor on behalf of the Vale when the lovely scene captures your attention.

Your son is now four years old. He has silver hair with some dark shades, a trait you’ve once seen in Lady Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was. His eyes are painted lilac, likes his father’s. Your boy is every inch Aemond’s son.

But his temper is quiet, like yours. He possesses attentive, fierce eyes. He has a quick wit, and some say he’s a precocious boy. He’s indeed very healthy.

The scene is adorable. Whenever Daeron mishits a blow, he pouts.

“I am terrible at it, daddy!”

Aemond chuckles, very patient and says:

“Take your time, young man. You have to go back to our lessons when holding a proper sword.”

“If you gave me a real sword, I’d do better.”

You laugh quietly at the sight, especially when Aemond reprehends him for this thought.

“Nay, son. You need to uphold a wood sword or else what’s the point in holding a true blade? And even if you did, your mother would kill me.”

He then lifts Daeron and ruffles his hair.

“Come, let’s see what your sister is doing.”

Not too far from where he is, your daughter Rhaella is climbing a tree under the supervision of your trusted maid. When seeing her father, the dark haired little girl with purples irises beams at him and promptly goes down the tree to run at him.

“DADDYYYY!”

You get emotional at the sight. Aemond and your offspring. Your children, your heirs. A family you never thought you’d have to call yours.

And there’s a third one, a newly born baby who now reclaims your attention. The maid brings little Aemon to be breastfed as you insisted you do so.

“My little boy”, you turn at him, stroking his silver locks. You once joked to Aemond how the Gods amused themselves by sending a child with silver hair and another with dark locks. “My prince. Come, you are hungry, aren’t ye?”

You are doing so the moment the door is open and your husband comes in with the two children.

“My lady”, Aemond greets you with a kiss on your temple. “How is our son?”

“Healthy and hungry, praised be the Gods”, you chuckle. “And our children?”

“Mama, I must tell you what I did today!”

Suddenly your husband is pushed aside and Rhaella and Daeron begin to compete for your attention. Aemond, as amused as he is by the dispute, has to intervene.

And here’s how the rest of your afternoon is spent: surrounded by your family you love.

But there’s a surprise that might come to shake the grounds of your hard worked for stability. Before you get to dine with them, a lady of your trust comes at you in a hurry.

“What is wrong, my dear?”

“Someone wants to meet you. I am forbidden to share his identity and he wants to see you alone…”

It’s when Aemond has a glimpse of the conversation and he promptly entrusts his children to your lady before saying:

“She shall not meet this stranger alone, regardless of the conditions he imposed.”

The said woman messenger only gives you a look before doing as said. You and Aemond shoot glances, but neither dares to speak.

What surprise it is when, opening the door, you spot Daemon Targaryen completely weary standing before you.

“Dad?!”

He gives Aemond a long look before looking at you.

“Greetings there, daughter of mine. I’m alive.”

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