#Aemond x reader

[glasscandlegrenades]

Children of the Empire

a/n: finally finished my aemond x strong!reader fic, only took me two years and 350k words so i thought i'd share it here in celebration

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Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra, Princess of Dragonstone, and twin to her heir, Prince Jacaerys. When your younger brother assails your uncle in a childhood squabble, your grandsire, the King Viserys, offers your hand in marriage as payment for Aemond's lost eye.

Plighted in a match that is beheld by many and desired by none, you find yourself alone in a nest of vipers, forced to watch as your mother and the Queen maneuver and vie for influence within the court and the Realm. Despite your youth, fears, and insecurity, you know you must apply your will and wits to one claim or another, but this choice becomes more and more difficult as you find yourself further entrenched within the family who would see your mother and siblings fed to the flames.

Aemond x Reader

Warnings: arranged marriage, non-con, abortion, suicide, depression, grief, unwanted pregnancy, childbirth, motherhood, toxic relationships, dubious consent, traumatic birth, i promise some good things happen too tho

Word count: 350k

Chapter One: Without Love

“I am so frightened.” 

You whisper it as your mother leans over your shoulder, fastening a pearl earbob to your lobe. 

You whisper it like a prayer for only her ears, for mothers have more sway than all the gods put together, or at least yours does, her noble brow wrinkled in concern all morning as she has pushed through your trousseau and sharply directed the servants who hustle about your chambers with swaths of linen. 

You have avoided pleading; your mother and stepfather have both met with the King already, suggesting matches that may strengthen ties to other houses, but the King has been insistent. 

He appears to have very little energy for anything anymore, but he has thrown himself into planning your wedding with great vigor, and the feasts and tourneys of the last week have rivaled those that the Queen had held for her two eldest children’s wedding three years past. You suppose it should feel an honor.

It feels like an insult.

Your mother releases the pearl, a great sigh escaping her lips as you feel her hand fall to your shoulder and squeeze gently. 

“My darling, would that I could spare you this,” Rhaenyra says, her lips turning down in worry. She steps around to face you, giving your white gown a once over before taking your hands in her own. 

“I was loath to marry your father, but my King commanded it.”

Your mother’s voice is deep and quiet. She reaches forward and tucks a loose mahogany curl behind your ear as she gives you a wan smile. “In the end, Laenor and I shared many happy memories. I am sure that you both will find a way to share in your own joys.” 

You blanch at the thought of your one-eyed uncle. “He questions our legitimacy, Mother. He hates me.” 

Rhaenyra’s smile falters and she releases a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry.” 

She looks across the solar, past the balcony and across the city towards the sept. You feel an immense wave of guilt at how quickly she has turned despondent.

Neither Jace nor Luke ever cause her such anguish. You have no wish to, either. 

Rhaenyra twists the rings on her left hand. “I feel that I have failed you.”

“No, Mother, I-” but she gives you her look, the one that silences you immediately. You haven’t received one so severe since you and Jacaerys returned from Spicetown, drunk and stumbling, on your fourteenth name day. 

Your mother continues, her expression solemn. “How, my darling girl, how can I make this better for you?” 

You press both hands to the bodice of your gown, trying to tamp down the queasiness that bubbles in your stomach. 

“Do you think it will do any good?” You hate the childish note in your voice, craving her reassurance that your suffering will not be for nothing. “Do you think the rumors about us will stop if I wed one of them?” 

Rhaenyra’s gaze chills as she observes you. “We are Targaryens. There will always be whispers, and sometimes our presence alone is enough to fan the flames. It does not matter what anyone thinks but you, my sweet girl.”

She smiles, then. “I hate the thought of leaving you, but perhaps instead of remaining here as his wife, you can think of yourself as my envoy here at King’s Landing. Make sure that the wishes of Dragonstone, and not those of Oldtown, are given their consideration, hm?”

You try to smile, but you can feel it falter on your face. Your mother’s brow creases with worry again, and you feel guilty at upsetting her, especially when being in the capital already causes her strife.

She once more pushes some of your unruly curls behind your ear. “What ails you, my sweet? I know I may have been a - well, an indulgent parent, yet I also know that I never promised that you would be able to marry for love alone,” Rhaenyra sighs again. “Mayhaps you and he might work out some arrangement - one where you are able to do your duty to the Realm, and then-” 

“That’s just it,” you groan miserably. “My duty, let us name it for what it is: to be a mother to his children! To grow fat with Targaryens over and over, to give endless heirs to a pompous, proud, arrogant man who has only looked in my direction with scorn.”

Your mother purses her lips. You look over her shoulder, to where one of the maids arranges a bouquet of sugarbushes. The Queen’s favorite flower. 

“You thought you deserved more?” Rhaenyra’s voice is quiet. 

“I did not think of it at all,” you fiddle with the lace on your sleeve. “I certainly didn’t expect to be offered up in payment for a debt, but even after Grandsire betrothed us... I didn’t realize, not until now, how oppressive it would feel. Like my life is ending; that after this evening I will never have a chance to see the world outside this Keep again.” 

Rhaenyra’s mouth turns down, and she reaches up once more to cradle your cheek, pecking it three times.

“I understand,” your mother sighs. “When I was your age, the prospect of marriage, of motherhood, it was stifling, overwhelming. Terrifying, actually, after how I lost mine own mother. I avoided it with every ounce of will I possessed. But…” 

She trails off, looking rather misty, and it shocks you, for your mother is in turns proud, stern, warm, jubilant, defiant, but rarely weepy. She turns away from you, her voice low. 

“The moment you and Jacaerys were placed in my arms was the greatest of my life. I - I cannot - there are not even words that I can lend to describe it.”

Her emotion discomfits you, and you cast your eyes around her chambers. The old ones from your youth. They have been cleared of all of your old toys, redecorated in various shades of Hightower green.

Your mother follows your gaze before speaking again. “Motherhood - that which I feared the most... my love, you and your brothers are my greatest joys. And you - you have a warm heart. Any child you have - regardless of who sires them - they will make your world far larger, I am sure of it.” 

You nod, despite still feeling unsure; though, to be fair, you are always unsure, and it is hard to imagine your mother being afraid of anything.

Your mother rode a dragon for the first time at age seven; you yourself had a dragon hatch in your cradle, and yet you have always preferred your feet planted firmly on the ground, leaving Mhyrax to take riderless to the skies. 

“Do you-” your mother interrupts herself, clearing her throat. “Do you know what to expect tonight? I don’t - I wouldn’t wish for you to be surprised, or uncomfortable….”  

You blush slightly, looking down. “Gods, Mother, you sound like a septa. I’m sure I’ll manage.”

Rhaenyra chuckles lightly, before frowning once more. “I’m sure you will, my girl. It’s only,” she takes a deep breath, and your stomach sinks. “The King has commanded a viewing of your bedding.” 

You pinch your neck with how quickly you snap your gaze back to your mother’s. 

“A what?”

Rhaenyra blanches. “They were more common in the days of the Conqueror, to ensure consummation, prevent annulments, but I fear my father believes the Queen may also try to undermine your union, as he believes Daemon and I have-”

“How long have you known?” you interrupt, and that she does not immediately reply makes your blood boil. “Mother!”

“I did not wish for you to dwell over that which you had no control - I know how you worry-” 

You are shrill. “How long?”

“Since we arrived,” your mother admits. 

“Who?”

Once more, Rhaenyra begins fiddling with her rings. “The King, the Queen, the Grand Maester, the High Septon was meant to attend, but he is too frail, so Septon Eustace-” 

“You?”

“Would you like that?”

You hesitate, unsure if it would be better or worse.

You think of your twin. Jacaerys would find it uncomfortable, to be sure, but he would likely pinch the bridge of his nose, shrug it off, and give them a show. He certainly wouldn’t make Mother endure his discomfort. 

“No,” you say. 

“You will have ladies to attend to you,” Rhaenyra says, and her dry tone hardly makes it sound reassuring. “The Queen has apparently hand-selected them.” 

You narrow your eyes at her. If Alicent has chosen your ladies, they are certain to be uninspiring. Your mother purses her lips, rolling her eyes. “A great honor,” she finishes. 

“Oh, delightful,” you groan. “They can gather around my marriage bed and say prayers for my discarded maidenhead.” 

Rhaenyra laughs aloud at this, and you chuckle too, only remembering the pit in your stomach as your mirth subsides. 

“It’s only - I am very afraid,” you murmur. “I wish I could be brave like you.” 

Your mother purses her lips and angles her chin down, her eyes bright. “I know that you are too wise to mistake bravery for the absence of fear.” 

“Very cowardly, then,” you say, your stomach roiling.

Your mother gives you a small smile. “I have yet to know a coward who jests over her fears.”

The door opens, and your aunt’s head peeks around, her brow raising slightly as she takes you in. Her silver hair has been braided away from her face, and she wears a dress of an earthy green. 

“Princess Helaena,” your mother sighs. 

Helaena is paler than usual. There are whispers that Prince Aegon has put another child in her, but it is as yet confirmed, and there is not enough closeness between your two sides of the family to make delicate inquiries.

You try to inspect her midriff, curious, intrigued. This is your fate, after all. 

“It is time,” she says softly, and behind her, you see your cousin, the Lady Rhaena. The closest thing you’ve had to a sister on Dragonstone these last years, she gives you a reassuring smile. Together, they will carry your train.

You feel dizzy. Your mother will ride with the King, the Queen, and the rest of her siblings in one wheelhouse. Daemon, who will be removing your maiden’s cloak, will be accompanying you to the Sept. 

You glance to the corner of the room, where the sea green cape rests, the delicate silver embroidered seahorses shimmering in the sunlight that streams in from your solar. Helaena follows your gaze. 

“The seahorse trips the light, and the dragon is set aflight,” she murmurs, before glancing back towards you. “You look nice, in your dress.” 

“Thank you, Aunt.” Warmth is not what you expected. 

“Come,” Rhaenyra’s voice cuts severs the nice moment like Dark Sister. She yanks the cloak up and drapes it over your shoulders, pulling your curls forward over your shoulders, ensuring all of the front tendrils of your hair remain twisted in your tiara. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you repeat, and then she is embracing you, pressing three small kisses to your brow. You stare at her in agony as she releases you. 

Helaena moves from the doorway so that you may pass through, your heart pounding, your head spinning. 

You know not where to look as you approach the grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast; you are terrified that you will trip, and walk with exceptional slowness. It is quiet in the Keep, and you know that the courtiers must already be at the Sept; your footsteps echo, as do those of your mother, and Rhaena and Helaena’s too, trailing behind you as they silently carry the corners of your cloak. 

You fear that you need the privy, and you do your best to allay your own worry without giving voice to it - who has ever heard of a bride announcing she may shit herself on her wedding day?

Once beyond the steps, it is easy enough to reach the main gates where the wheelhouses wait. There: your stepfather, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as he speaks idly with the King.

Your grandsire is more emaciated than ever, his flesh disappearing. You hate looking at him; you hate the knowledge that this can happen to a body, that this could happen to your body. Your mind grapples with what he may have possibly done to bring this affliction upon himself. 

Still, Viserys smiles as he sees you, even as the queen glances you over, her nostrils flaring slightly as if you have brought a terrible smell from the Holdfast. You drop into a curtsy as you reach them. Aegon, standing as far from his mother as he can while still looking decorous, sways slightly and scowls. Helaena drops your cloak and moves to stand by him, her hand smoothing the front of her gown.

“Granddaughter,” the King says. You stand, looking upon his pockmarked face. “What cause for celebration. To see this rift within our family finally healed.”

Alicent scoffs at this before turning away. 

You nod, attempting to look gracious, or at the very least like you’re not about to be sick on your own shoes.

Daemon steps forward, opening the door to the wheelhouse and looking at you expectantly, a small smile playing on his own features. You clamber inside, his hand offered in aid, and then you are seated, your mother and Rhaena folding your cloak gently around you, the latter pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

Daemon sits across from you, crossing his legs at the ankle and stretching as the wheelhouse lurches into motion, the smell of the city soon reaching your nose. You grasp for your pomander. 

“How did you spend so much time with the City Watch?” You immediately regret breaking the silence.

It is not an uneasy one; you are often in Daemon’s company, and you often speak little. He is not necessarily terrifying, he is too warm to your mother to be so, but it is clear you are dear to him not for yourself, but only as an extension of her. You have never felt like an actual person to Daemon Targaryen, let alone a daughter - not the way you did with your own sire, Ser Laenor. 

Not like you did with Ser Harwin Strong, your mind voices treasonously. 

Daemon shrugs, chuckles lightly, and then pulls the screen away from the grated window, gazing out to Flea Bottom. 

You reach the Sept in little time, and as the wheelhouse door is pulled open and sunlight pours in, you see your new ladies tittering anxiously before the stairs.

Daemon looks at you again, a small grin playing at his countenance, before he steps down from the carriage and offers you his hand.

You climb out with as much dignity as you can muster, releasing Daemon’s grip as soon as you can, and then grasping the cuff of his doublet when he offers it to you. Your handmaidens, still whispering among themselves, form around you, two of the older ones taking over the handling of your cloak. 

The sun is reaching the center of the sky behind the Sept, and it is momentarily blinding, but as you blink you see the High Septon, so stooped and frail he looks as though a strong breeze may carry him away, flanked by the Hand of the King.

You feel Otto Hightower and Daemon sizing each other up, and try your best to bear it little mind. You move fluidly up the steps, and realize the finality of this moment; the last threshold you will cross an unwed woman. 

You nearly laugh as you walk through the Sept, trying to ignore the courtiers flocking the aisle, and approach Aemond. He stands with his hands crossed behind his back, his stance profoundly, obnoxiously wide.

Who could he be squaring up against at this moment? The world was Aemond’s enemy, and yet here, before the altar in his leather doublet, it looks as though he is willing to fight the very gods.

Daemon is casual, caustic, as he deposits you at the Septon’s feet with little regard for your dignity; you stumble slightly as he tugs the Velaryon cloak from your shoulders. 

It is impossible to find an adequate place to divert your attention. Aemond stares at you with freakish regard; you wonder how someone with naught but one eye can go unblinking for so long. 

The High Septon is enough infirm that he can barely speak; your hand grows sweaty in your uncle’s as he clasps it tightly. You look over his shoulder.

Viserys is smiling in his familiar, dotard way, though your mother would have your hide for considering it such. Alicent scowls. Daeron has but a mild expression on his face, and Aegon and Helaena look akin in their misery. You wonder what expressions your mother and brothers share behind you. 

Jace. 

He had been livid at the news of your betrothal. Not willing to blame the King, believing, for his own sake as much as any others, that a King’s word is inherently just, he had fought with Lucerys at first, saying that you would’ve never been traded away had he not been so foolish as to maul Aemond. 

Luke had stammered that he was merely defending Jace’s life when he took Aemond’s eye, that, in fact, Jace should be grateful.

No one, neither of your brothers, nor your cousins, had guessed that you would be the price to pay for Luke’s impulsivity. 

The boys had mended their bond soon enough, but neither knew what to do with you.

You had hardly known what to do with yourself. You grew up on Dragonstone with the lot of them, on eternally borrowed time. 

The Septon finally pauses, and you and Aemond murmur the words to one another; those that you have heard a thousand times, as the ribbon is wound around your wrists, about you being his possession, and bafflingly, him being yours. He sweeps his cloak over you. It itches. 

And then his mouth, pursed and muscled and hesitant, is on yours, and bizarrely you find yourself thinking of Queen Alicent, and what guidance she offered to this boyish man, or mannish boy, to reassure him, for he must find himself as unwitting and unwilling as you.

Your heart is filled with anguish and you can only gape at him as he pulls back, his face angular and cruel and determined as he shakes his head slightly and looks away. 

The Septon proclaims you man and wife, and the ribbons are unwound, and you wish you could turn, turn to look at anything that isn’t Aemond’s family, all clutching their bodices and picking at their doublets. 

You and Aemond leave the dais side-by-side, not touching, not speaking, and make your way to the wheelhouse, where you spend another brutal part of an hour not speaking or touching. 

The feast is grand, and Jace and Luke, to their credit, swap chairs and swivel around aunts and uncles to reach you, doing their best to make it better for you. Your mind can hardly think of anything but the bedding. 

The mechanics are clear; Aemond will put himself inside of you. Likely, it will hurt. Children will result. They may kill you in their efforts to get out. Luke sniggers at something and you are seized with the urge to slap him. 

“Do you think he removes the patch when he’s with a woman?” Jace asks Luke.

“Oh, shut up,” you say, reaching for your goblet for the umpteenth time and taking a hearty swig. You glance to your mother, who has spent most of the evening deep in conversation with Daemon. 

“Have you heard what he keeps under there?” 

You glance from Rhaenyra to Alicent, who reclines in her chair, scowling eternally, before you process your brother’s question. You bristle. “Shut up, Jace!” 

Luke is pale as he glances towards Aemond, who has moved down the table to speak quietly with Helaena. “Mayhaps it’s best we don’t discuss it-” 

“Do you think the troubadours will play the Ballad of Simeon Star Eyes if we asked?” 

You groan. “Do NOT, Jace!” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s my nameday,” you grumble, drunk. “You have to do as I say.” 

Luke laughs aloud. “What?” 

“It’s not your nameday, crazy girl,” Jace is guffawing. “It’s your wedding day.”

“Who cares? I hate that song.”

Your twin brushes against you as he stands and leans forwards, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “What would you prefer? We can dance.” 

Before you can think to answer, Jasper Wylde stands, looking right at you as he shouts: “We’ve had the wedding! Now let us see the bedding!” 

Jeers break out from across the hall. Noble ladies dressed in the off-shoulder florals of the Reach swarm your husband, while the man they call Ironrod charges the head table. 

You look to Jace, startled, but he merely shrugs, and then you scan the room for your mother, whose mouth is open as she regards you being lifted onto the shoulders of the realm's Lords. 

“You are in luck, Princess!” Jason Lannister cries. “You need not two eyes to know where to stick your cock!” 

You look across your torso at your bobbing slippers, nearly falling off your feet over the shoulders of the lords, just in time to see a ringed hand, one you can tell belongs to a Tully based on the fish embossed upon the signet, rip your bodice from your breast.

You cry out and are met with a burst of laughter; you flail wildly, hoping that mayhaps you might even slip from their arms as they turn a corner. You look back to the hall and are surprised to see Aegon staring at you solemnly as he leans in the doorway. 

The apartments you and Aemond have been gifted are humble, standard fare for a second son of the Realm, and therefore on one of the lowest levels of Maegor’s Holdfast. The Lords jape and jest all the way to the bed, tearing at your gown until you are left in the shift that covers barely your breasts and sex, and deposit you as such. 

You scramble up to the head of the bed as the men leave, and suddenly you are confronted with an open door from which the Grand Maester, the Hand, and Septon Eustace leer at you. 

“What is happening?” you slur, drunk.

The Queen enters the room and sighs as if this is some great struggle for her, before looking at you. “The bedding, dear.” 

There is a great clanking and Sers Arryk and Erryk are guiding the King into the chamber now. You are struck with the realization that this bed, the headboard of which you cling to in the filmiest of linens, is where you are meant to sleep every night from here until you pass into the embrace of the stranger. Your stomach roils once more. 

You glance around the room. The furnishings are dark, rich, damask. An honor. It has been beautifully kept. There will be a solar adjoining, and rooms for Aemond. A bureau, perhaps. Rooms for children who outgrow the nursery. You glance around wildly as Grand Maester Orwyle approaches you. 

“Princess?” he asks. 

You turn towards him, your drunken gaze fixed in question. From near the doorway, the Queen clears her throat. 

“You must be examined, Princess,” she says, her tone edgy and clipped. “For virtue.” 

The wine dulls your reaction to this, thankfully, while also making your head twist unevenly as you try to understand. “By the Maester?”

The Queen nods. 

“Oh.” 

“It will be brief,” Orwyle explains. “But your…. Princess, your positioning is not conducive. I would see - I would see you supine with your legs spread.” 

In the haze of your intoxication, you are forced to look down at your squatted limbs. One of your feet is pressed to a bolster pillow. Your toes look unnatural, like something belonging to another's body. You swear you were wearing slippers in the hall. 

You look back to the Maester, huffing so that your hair billows from your face. You debate telling him how frightened you are. The maester on Dragonstone, Gerardys, is a gentle man, always offering sageness and wisdom in your bodily qualms. This Orwyle does not seem as amenable. 

You release your grip on the headboard, the carvings imprinted on your palms as you grip at the hem of your shift and pull it down towards your knees. You sidle yourself past the pillows and press your rear into the mattress, sliding your heels down towards the footboard and spreading them slightly. The Grand Maester nods, approaching the bed so that he made sit with his boots planted on the flagstones as he places one hand on your knee and reaches another beneath your skirts. 

His touch is cold. You flinch as it seeks, objective and uncaring in its pursuance. You grit your teeth, fingers flexing, air pushing from your nostrils. You glance over his shoulder towards the Queen, unabashedly seeking sympathy.

It is the King’s doleful gaze where you find it.

“I would examine her thoroughly, Grand Maester,” the Queen says, her mouth turned downwards. “She was late to bleed; if she is barren we’d be better to learn of it now; an annulment will be more difficult to procure after the consummation.” Beside her, the Septon nods solemnly. 

You grimace. You were, in fact, not late to bleed at all - you bled at three-and-ten like most healthy girls of your station. Your mother managed to hide the fact from the King for several years, until six moons past, when your grandsire threatened to send the Grand Maester to examine you for signs of infertility - word was sent to King’s Landing within the fortnight that you had miraculously flowered. 

“Try to relax, Princess,” the Grand Maester says from between your legs, prodding a bit. You clench harder in response, and the man sighs, pulling back. 

“I see no reason why the consummation should not take place. The Princess appears intact.” 

The King nods, sinking into his chair bedside the Queen, Ser Criston and the Septon lingering behind them. Two servants walk in carrying a screen, and you stay where you are, further reclined on the bed.

Aemond follows them, looking as profoundly abused as you feel. You crane your neck to view him, and then decide it will cause you little comfort and naught but a crick.

You lie back, fists clenched at your sides, as your husband comes to stand at the end of the bed. Someone behind the screen coughs.

You try to look anywhere but at Aemond, who kneels on the bed, crawling the few paces towards you. He moves slowly, and when you glance back to see how much space still stretches between you, you are mortified to see the look of utter revulsion in his eye.

He turns away, his long hair creating a sheet between you both, and spits into his hand, shoving it under his billowing shirt.

You watch in a combination of horror and fascination as his arm moves, his hair shuddering with the motion, and when he turns back you can see his cock jutting towards you from under the hem of his shirt. You swallow audibly as he crawls forward, so that he looms over you, for there is no mistaking that he is huge, and you are not convinced whatsoever that he will fit inside you with no small amount of discomfort.

You slide further onto your back as Aemond places one hand on either side of you, his elbows extended as far as they will go so that it is only his hips brush tentatively against your thighs. His shirt falls over you, and you suck in your stomach in avoidance. 

Aemond hovers, his hair creating a shield as he turns to the right and grasps himself once more. You swallow, sweat beading on your forehead as you register little but the brush of his muslin shirt against your arms and chest.

He shudders as he sinks heavily; his chest presses into yours and you are pushed down into the mattress, fixing your gaze on the scar that hovers inches above your face.

His teeth grit as you feel first his clenched fist against you, then the dull, throbbing heat of him as he presses against your entrance. 

First it stings, and then it pinches, and then you’re gasping, trying to angle your hips to accommodate something that feels endlessly foreign.

You wish he would stop moving for a moment; give you a chance to adjust to a level of discomfort that you could at least stomach, but he keeps pressing forward, forcing you to screw your eyes closed and breathe out through your nose to avoid crying out.

Everything about his presence feels intrusive; Jace once described this act as natural, and you couldn’t think of a more inaccurate description.

Aemond begins breathing heavily as he draws back, providing you with momentarily relief before he invades again. 

You can hear more heavy breathing, not Aemond's, behind the screen and you open your eyes, trying desperately to find anything to focus on beyond the dull weight of your uncle above you or the rattling, wheezing, musty respiration of your grandsire to your right. 

The bookshelves to the left of your bed are full; they must be Aemond’s, you think wildly as he presses into you again.

You clench in a horrifying, miserable, unwilling response. His shirt covers your face; you cannot see for a moment, cannot breathe. You groan, not in pleasure, but in anguish, and close your eyes once more.

Someone in the room coughs. 

Aemond snaps his hips forward, and the angle he hits within you causes your whole body to spasm in response; the discomfort abates for a moment and you gasp, your hands reaching out and groping blindly at Aemond's shoulders. He flinches, you can feel it beneath your palms and within you, and you move your arms back to your sides. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your eyes still pressed closed.

Aemond releases a sharp breath through his nose, and then picks up his pace, hammering into you relentlessly. It sears horribly.

You try to focus on breathing, but it is hard to muffle the whimpers that slide from your lips as Aemond grunts softly above you. 

Finally, after what feels like hours, your husband releases a great huff of air that pushes your hair from your face as he stills above you. This is followed by a groan, not audible, but felt as he trembles slightly, and then the throb of him as you are flooded with warmth. Aemond pulls from you, the sticky gush of his seed following him, and you feel the weight of the bed shift as he steps to the floor.

You open your eyes slowly to see him looming above you, his singular eye fixed on the spot between your legs, an inscrutable expression on his face. You blush, moving to clench your knees together, but before you can Aemond reaches forward and grasps the sheet, tearing it from beneath you with a harsh rip that echoes through the otherwise silent chamber.

He pulls away, and you see the red spots of your blood marring the white linen as it dangles from his grip. 

You sit up slightly, trying to ignore the sticky warmth dripping from your sex. You watch Aemond, his legs long and muscular beneath the hem of his shirt as he walks to the screen, pulling it back to reveal the audience behind. You grip the bottom of your shift and drag it down so that it covers you. 

“It is done,” he says, holding up the bloodied sheet before tossing it at one of the maidservants lingering near the doorway. She catches it and scampers, the door clanging shut behind her. “You may see yourselves out.” 

The Septon clears his throat. “There will need to be another examination of the Prin-” 

“It is done,” Aemond interrupts, even as he turns and stalks off towards the doorway in the corner, his voice echoing behind him. “I wish to bathe; you may leave.” 

The King sighs before attempting to stand. You are still lying supine as two Kingsguard rush forward, grasping him by his elbows. The Queen rises, throwing you a look made of pity and disdain before sweeping her skirts towards the antechamber into which Aemond disappeared. 

The door creaks open, and a small parade of pubescent girls rush forward, eagerly dodging the screen that the pages carry from the rooms that are, from this moment, to be yours. 

One of the girls, with ears so large she can be nothing but a Florent, comes to your bedside and takes your hand. 

“Oh, Princess,” she sighs daintily as you gape. “The Queen sent for us; your husband has taken your innocence, as the Seven require of him, but we will pray to the Father for his glory, and your continued virtue, and mayhaps the Mother will give you a child.” 

Drunk still, you scoff slightly even as the indignity of Aemond’s seed drips from you. The Florent girl gives her companions a look, and they flock to you.  

“A child,” one of them smiles at you. “Can you imagine anything more lovely?”

Another one, dull in only the ways that a Tarly can be, places her palms out even as her eyes well tragically with tears. “We have yet to pray to the Maiden for her lost virginity.” 

You giggle at that, and even as your new ladies look upon you, scandalized, you think of your mother and laugh abruptly aloud. 

✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵

Keep Reading on AO3: 2. Farewells  3. Young Blood  4. Visitors 5. Breech  6. Aemos 7. Moderation  8. Sapphire  9. Whispers  10. Blight 11. Stitches  12. The Lord of the Tides 13. Aeyla  14. Shield  15. Interlude - Storm's End  16. Luke  17. Sanguine  18. Ascending  19. Guilt  20. Wrath  21. Rook's Rest  22. Prince Regent  23. Jace  24. Fall  25. The Black Queen 26. Interlude - Alys Rivers  27. Ashes of Roses  28. Heirs  29. Mhyrax  30. God's Eye  31. Interlude - Strong 32. Unconditional  33. Ivy Inn  34. Second of His Name 35. Dragonstone  36. Home  37. Alys  38. The Hour of the Wolf  39. The House of the Dragon  40. Epilogue - The Dragon in Winter 

[romanteacism]

Knight Aemond x Princess Reader Broken

Synopsis: What is one more broken promise and two more broken hearts? Warnings: Angst. PREVIOUS PART A/N: They're gonna be fine-- keep the faith

“I thought she’d be prettier,” Aemond let out a grievous breath, his hands balled tightly in a fist as his eye rolled at the words his betrothed whispered to him when you entered the great hall with your family. His house’s place was tucked by the farthest corner of the halls, but even if a crowd of attendees hid him away from your view, his lone eye would still succumb to seeking you out. After two years, he felt his heart finally announce its presence again, even if he only caught a small glimpse of you. He felt his knees weaken and his hands grow colder as he saw the clear melancholia in you, even if a pretty smile was on your lips. He always knew what you hid beneath the surface. How could he not?

“It is treason to say such a thing about the princess… they could take your tongue for your words—or even place you in the black cells for a month,” Aemond muttered as your father, the king, signaled for his guests to take their seats. He placed his gaze on the table, resisting looking at you because he was uncertain what he would do if he stared at your face much longer. However, Lady Cassandra looked upon you in curiosity. “Well, it’s the truth,” She whispered. “Everyone in the kingdom speaks of her as if she is the most beautiful princess there ever was… but if you ask me, she looks quite plain.” 

Aemond tried to rein in his anger, but he could not do so because even after all these years, he could not stomach anyone speaking badly about you. “Hold your tongue,” He seethed quietly, fire behind his lilac eye, and Lady Cassandra looked quite alarmed at the tone of his voice and the severe expression on his face. “My darling, no need to be so serious… none could hear me. Though I must say, I am touched that you are so concerned about your beloved betrothed,” Lady Cassandra grinned as she took Aemond’s disposition as concern rather than annoyance. Aemond felt his eye twitch at Lady Cassandra’s words. Aemond chewed on his cheek as your father began to speak; everyone in the hall turned upon their king except him. 

True to your eldest brother’s words, he did sit before you and hid the view of the guests, but most importantly, Aemond. You fiddled with your fingers in anxiousness and prayed that the feast would pass quickly. “Do not fret, sister; you could retire after the second course,” The prince whispered beside you, and you could only give a small smile of gratitude. However, that smile was quick to wilt as you realized that before the feast could actually commence, those who sought your father’s blessing for their marriage were to approach the long table. As your brother saw the clear alarm in your eyes, he too realized what was to happen next. “I… I shall be fine, brother.” You managed to say, but the validity of your words was debatable.

You tried to keep your mind preoccupied as the lords and ladies who asked for your father’s blessing for marriage began to queue before the long table. Your eldest brother began to speak to you and your brother, offering any anecdote just so you would not let your mind wander towards your past knight, who stood with his betrothed at the end of the line. When he was drawing closer, your fingers nervously traced the embroidery of your dress, bracing yourself as you would once again be faced with the love you had lost. 

Luckily, your cousin Eliza suddenly appeared, in her arms was her babe, and she quickly excused you from the long table as she had been privy to the truth. “Come, cousin, my son has been desperate to spend time with his aunt,” Eliza smiled softly as her daughter coed in her arms, ushering you to stand and offering an escape from facing Aemond. 

Aemond, who stood at the end of the line, felt his breath fall short as he saw you stand, your gaze planted on the babe in Lady Eliza’s arms. This was the closest he had been to you for two years. He was finally ready to face you, to look into your enchanting eyes once more, but his chances were gone as you had left, just as he did. 

“Thank you,” You said quietly as you took Eliza’s son into your arms, the tot quickly settling into your hold. You need not utter why you gave thanks, as Eliza quickly understood and took your hand and gave it a loving squeeze. 

“Oh, by the way, cousin, I wish for you to meet Lord Andrew. He’s my dear husband’s cousin,” Eliza smiled, and as the words left her lips, the young lord stood. His stature towered over those who sat at the long table and over you as well. Eliza knowingly smiled as she caught the way your eyes slightly widened when you saw her husband’s cousin. With his tall frame, warm brown eyes, and sand blonde locks, he looked exactly like the man you had envisioned and told her you would marry when you were younger. Eliza would like to believe it was fate. Though she had once wished it was Aemond you would end up with, it would seem that was just a fantasy, as he was now lined up before your father to ask for his blessing with his betrothed on his arm. 

“A pleasure to finally meet you, princess.” Lord Andrew smiled and took your hand to place a kiss on your knuckles. For the first time in two years, you feel the familiar heat on your cheeks and the slight flutter in your heart as your eyes meet those of warm brown eyes. 

Aemond, who was standing before your father, saw the scene, eye wide and confused. His mind was running with questions that no one could answer. For the past moons, he and the whole of the kingdom believed that their beloved princess was married. But you were still here, in your father’s house. No prince nor lord escorted you through the castle walls, nor did anyone see you with another man who was not related to you. Could it be true that your hand was not taken by another? That you had kept your promise to him that you would never take another that was not him? Aemond could not stew in his thoughts any longer as the king was now before him, and he and his betrothed were asking for his blessing, but all he wanted to do was run to you and leave all his misguided actions behind.

As the feast went on, Aemond could not help as his eye kept glancing in the direction of the princess. She forwent her proper place by the head table and instead occupied the seat next to a lord in a place that seems to be connected to Lady Eliza’s husband’s house. Aemond watched steely-eyed as the lord leaned forward and invaded the princess’s space, a smirk on his lips. Aemond had thought you would back away, put further space between you and the lord as you often did, but you only mirrored his smile, and he dared say he saw you mimic the lord’s movements and lean further as you two engaged in a conversation that was meant for you two alone. 

Aemond gripped his chalice tightly. Aemond had always resisted jealousy before, even if he often failed. But now? All he wanted was to stew in his jealousy. Nurse the pit in his heart as you laughed with a lord. And curse the day that he decided to leave you. However, Aemond could do no such thing, as all he felt was his own doing. 

You resisted turning towards the direction of your past knight. He was on the other side of the room, yet you could still feel the familiar burn of his lilac, icy stare. Questions infiltrated your mind— the same questions you had years before. Why did he leave? What have you done wrong? Why had he not returned your letters? All of these questions were never given an answer, and you would think that after years of silence, you would have given up and decided to move on. But who could truly move on from their first love? So instead of giving in to your wants to march over to the other side of the hall and demand Aemond’s answers, you preoccupied yourself with Lord Andrew. If Aemond had clearly moved on, so should I. You thought. You breathed in deeply and decided that it was truly better to forget about him because if you dwelled further, the hurt in your chest might never leave, and it only doubled each time as you thought of him and his soon-to-be lady wife. 

“Might be too forward of me to ask if we could break fast tomorrow, princess?” Lord Andrew questioned sheepishly, his eyes going downwards in shyness, and you bit your tongue. “But we had not even finished our supper, my lord,” You say, eyes glancing towards the plates before you two that were barely touched as you and the lord had been too preoccupied with speaking and getting to know one another. 

“Oh— I… apologies, princess, I did—“ You bit your lip to prevent the amused smile that wanted to come forth as the lord began to ramble on his apologies for being too forward, and his fear of offending and scaring you off was evident in his eyes. You licked your lips and took hold on his hand that reasted atop teh table as a signal for him to cease fretting and voiced out that you would very much like to break your fast with him on the morrow but what you liked most that for the first time in two years, you found someone who could bring your thoughts away from Aemond. 

When Aemond witnessed that you bestowed your touch upon another and how his stare could not persuade you to look upon him, he quickly stood and excused himself from the house’s table and left. Desperately wanting to erase the scene he had witnessed in his mind and expel the rage and hurt he had felt because he had to come to the truth of his actions— that his rash and ill-thought-out decision had led him to lose the love of his life. 

When morning approached, you woke earlier than you had thought as the incessant barking of your pets broke your slumber. You sat up on your feathered bed and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, all the while Theo used his mouth to pull at the sleeve of your nightgown and urged you to stand. When you did, you looked upon Sapphira in question, and the two of your eldest cats only nudged their furry faces upon your leg, and you stumbled upon them as you tried to dress in your robe. You stayed silent as your cats began to push and lead you outside your chambers. The castle was still fast asleep, and the sun barely broke through the horizon.

Through your tired stupor, you did not question the odd behavior of your beloved pets as you walked barefoot through your home and were led to the gardens. When Theodore and Shapphira’s whinnings finally ceased, you sighed and scooped them up in your arms, “Why must you wake me and lead me to gardens for nothing, my loves?” You asked softly as they rested calmly in your arms Ypu turned to return from whence yyou came from but your steps quickly ceased and you froze in your spot as you were greeted by Aemond who was only dressed in his night clothes and from the sweat on his face, you would wager he came from the tiltyard. He had a triad of cats in his arms, the kittens belonging to the felines in your arms that you quickly placed back on the ground as you feared that at any moment you might just run away, as you had never thought you should be confronted by him. 

“They stumbled into the tiltyard… I supposed they were yours because of their jeweled collars.” Those were the first words that Aemond had spoken to you. Even he himself was surprised that he did not stumble or stutter— he was certain that the words on his lips would be caught if he dared to speak to you now. You nodded meekly, watching as Theodore and Sapphira looked upon the man who had been your constant companion before. 

When Aemond looked upon the pets that he once helped raise, he felt another pit in his stomach. It was odd; he was never particularly fond of your cats, but deep inside, he still cared for them because he knew how much you adored them. Back in his home, Aemond had the habit of feeding the stray cats he saw on the grounds, a small voice in his head urging him to do such actions because he knew you’d approve of it. To this day, in House Targaryen, there were maids and squires instructed to feed any wandering or stray cat they found. 

You dared not look at Aemond, your eyes firmly planted on the ground, and as you saw him dip down and return the kittens to their parents, you took that as your turn to leave. “Good day, lord Aemond,” Was all you managed to say, and you tried to follow your cats, who returned inside the castle walls. When Aemond heard his name from your lips, he felt his knees weaken and his heart burn at the tone of dismissal in your voice.

He watched you try to hastily return inside the castle walls and perhaps hide from him once more, but he could not let it be so. He was brash as he took hold of your arm and pulled you closer to him. “Please,” Was all he could say, his being too consumed with the thought of you near, that you were once again in his grasp and that he was finally breathing in your scent and hearing your voice once more. 

“I command you to let go of me,” You ordered, voice harsh as you knew that each second spent near Aemond would undo all the stitches that his leaving had caused. You only felt him hold onto you tighter, trying to pull you closer. “I’m sorry, my heart,” You hear him whisper. He was standing behind you, his hold still upon your arm and his face thrading near your head, his breath fanning your hair. You feel the threat of tears quick to come. You shut your eyes tightly and shook your head. “Do… do not call me that— how dare you call me that?!” 

You seethed and forcefully removed his hold upon you so you could meet his eye. “You have no right to call me your heart after you had left mine broken for years!” You practically screamed, the hurt in you bubbling into rage. You watched as Ameond tried to speak— to try and say his peace but you could not let him do so— the questions you had that you desperately wnated the answers for could finally be known but you could not let it be so because you knew that whatever reason he offered, your heart would be too soft and understand him. Now, you felt as if you’d rather hate him and forgo closure rather than hear his side and mourn him for the rest of your life. 

“You had left—you left me after… after everything, and not only did you not give me a reason, you had as well ignored me! I do not wish for your apologies nor your explanations— I do not even wish to see you! But here you are, in my home once more… asking for my father’s blessing so you could marry another.” Aemond stood stiffly, he knew you were close to tears and all he wanted to do was take you into his arms and let you cry onto him once more, but he knew that the tears you wished to shed were not of sadness— it was of anger; anger towards him. 

“You have it— you have the king’s blessing.” You said. “And would you please do me this kindness?” You asked, Aemond’s lowered gaze finally placed itself upon yours once more. “Leave. You have gotten what you came for— you are free to do as you wish, but I beg of you, leave.” Aemond fisted his hands at your request, at the pleading tone in your voice. Is this truly what you wish? For him gone? Or were you only spurred by your anger? “I… I can’t, not again,” 

You scoffed at Aemond’s reply. “You had no trouble doing it the first time… what is the difference now?” You asked bitterly. You watched as the solemn sadness in Aemond’s eye faded, and in turn, fire took its place. “Do you honestly believe I wished to do that? Do you truly think I wanted to leave you?” 

You laughed humorlessly. “Aemond, not only did you leave, but you left me without a word! You could have explained your situation to me— you could have sent a letter— anything! And I would have understood! Yet you did not, I had to find out what had happened to you through whispers and gossip! So yes, I do believe you wished to leave— and you were only a coward to leave without telling me why.” 

“Do you wish to know why?” Aemond asked, stepping closer to you. “No.” You answered plainly. “I am done questioning why— I have thought of any possible reason as to why you had done what you did. I’ve had enough… So no, I do not wish to know why, Aemond.” You swallowed thickly as you met his eye, you stared into the lilac orb that you had deemed the most beautiful gaze you’ve ever held years before, and quietly mourned the fact that this may be the last time you looked upon them. 

You moved to walk away, to finally leave all of this be, but four words from Aemond made you freeze. “I only love you,” He said, staring upon your departing frame that ceased as the words left his lips. He took that as an opportunity to really tell you the words he wished to have said years before. “You are right, I was a coward— I have broken your heart and trust… but do not think for one moment that I have ceased loving you, my heart. I have promised you— laid out my oath that you shall be the only one that I will love and have 'til the end of my days… I still intend to keep my oath,” 

You breathed out a heavy breath, turning to him once more. His eye filled with hope by that small action, you dared to step closer and cup his cheek and stroke his scar with your thumb as you had often done before. That only put forth further hope in him, but it was quick to die at the words that left your lips. “You have already broken one of your oaths, Aemond. What is one more?” It placed further dread in your heart as you studied his eye filled with hurt, and at any moment it looked like a tear might fall from the lilac orb, but you could not help but say the following words that engraved in Aemond’s mind that he had truly lost you. “Marry Lady Cassandra, Aemond. You may not have kept your promises to me, but at least keep the word you’ve given her.” 

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[fish145]

in sickness and in health

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader | Arranged marriage

summary: After Aemond gets sick, you, his wife, take it upon yourself to take care of him. And he doesn't want you to. Or does he?

warnings: some swearing, insecurities (him), PiV, fingering, sloppy make-outs, Aemond is a little mean, creampie (this is fiction, use protection), not really enemies to lovers but he doesnt really like you......at first

5.6K

Note: hello i am back. also i giggled writing this ngl

MDNI

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Aemond didn't love you. At least, not really. He knew his marriage had been nothing more than a political match, and he always did what was expected of him.

But he didn't love you.

It had been hard for you, at first. Especially the first few weeks. When you were younger, you had dreamt of a loving marriage with a handsome husband. And while your husband was handsome, your marriage was not loving.

It was late, and you were sitting on a chaise in your shared chambers. Outside it was pouring, every now and then a lightning flash drawing your attention. Aemond had left right after dinner, wanting to fly with Vhagar to ‘clear his mind’,

You believed it was just an excuse for him not to spend time with you. 

And now, hours later, he was still gone. You were worried for him, worried that he might get struck by lightning, or perhaps even deadly sick from the cold wind and the heavy rain.

You sighed again, standing up and looking out of the window. It was pitch dark outside. You knew your husband was smart, deadly so, but still…

You turned quickly when you heard the door creak open, revealing him. Utterly soaked to the bone.

His long white hair was curly from the rain, and the cloak he was wearing was dripping rain onto the stone floor.

“Aemond…” you said softly, stepping a bit closer to him. But he didn't reply. He didn't even look into your direction.

He walked towards the dining table, removing his cloak and hanging it over a wooden chair.

His boots were caked in mud, his tunic and breeches clearly wet as well. He walked over to the fireplace, sitting down on the divan. You fidgeted with your hands, moving to grab a soft cloth from your nightstand. 

“You’re soaked,” you said, slowly moving over to him and holding out the fabric to him, “you’ll get sick if you don't remove your wet clothes, or… or at least take a warm bath.”

He didn't accept the cloth, however, deciding the fireplace was far more interesting to look at than you. 

“I am not some weakling to fall ill from the rain,” he replied, standing back up again. He turned his back to you, his hands unclasping his sword belt and hanging it off the side of another chair. “I have ridden Vhagar countless of times in worse weather than this,” he said gruffly, and you weren't sure if he was bragging or simply stating a fact. “I will not fall ill from this.”

His tone was cold and dismissive, his eye scanning his dagger for any imperfections. “Do not worry about me, wife,” he said, and the way he said the word wife so coldly made your stomach drop. “I have no need for your… attentions.” 

He walked over to the cupboard, pouring a glass of wine only for himself. And he still didn't look at you.

You nodded stiffly, turning to sit back down onto the chaise. 

Oh… how he hurt you. You always believed you could handle an indifferent husband. A husband who barely spoke to you, barely showed you any affection. But this? The way he spoke to you, as if you were the most annoying person he’d ever met… it hurt. 

You turned your head again, seeing the way his breeches and tunic were still wet, his hair too. He would definitely get sick in the morning. And a small part of you really hoped he did. 

“You could have said thank you, at least,” you said suddenly, surprising even yourself. 

Aemond paused, his grip on his cup tightening ever so slightly. The only sound that filled the chamber for the longest moment was the sound of rain pattering against the window, the sound of wind howling outside.

Finally, he turned, his cold eye meeting yours. 

“Thank you?” he said coldly, something close to a scowl on his face. “For what? Your unwelcome concern? Your constant meddling?”

He stepped closer, his tall frame blocking the candlelight. “I have no reason to be thankful,” he said, “you are my wife, in name only. Do not forget your place.”

His warning was clear; leave him be, or face his anger. He scoffed, turning away and walking over to the window again.

You stared at his back, barely even breathing. Then, your embarrassment turned to annoyance.

You stared at your husband, seeing his wet clothing.

Oh, he would definitely be sick come morning. And you would have fun saying ‘told you so’ as he lay in bed, unable to do anything.

You stood up, walking over to your husband. You placed a warm hand on his arm, and you could feel him tense for a moment. 

“I’m going to bed,” you said softly, sweetly. “Goodnight.”

You paused for a moment, just long enough to hear him quietly mutter a ‘goodnight’ back.

You turned, walking over to your large four-poster bed where you disrobed and put on your nightgown. Aemond didn't turn to watch, simply staring outside of the window. When he had finished his wine, he decided to join you in bed. He undressed, pulling his soaked clothing off and slipping nude into bed. He lay still on his back, staring at the canopy above. And though he was quite cold, he didn't move closer to you.

-------------

You felt awfully giddy waking up the next morning. Your husband hadn’t left for training yet, something he usually did at the crack of dawn. 

He was sick, you were sure of it. He had been coughing and shivering all night.

You got up silently, rushing to your closet and putting on your most extravagant nightgown and robe you had. You’d even done your hair and squeezed your cheeks for a lovely flush. 

Aemond coughed weakly, looking a lot more pale than usual. You slowly walked over to his side of the bed, holding the same cloth you had offered him the night before. You deftly wiped his brow, tutting softly.

“Oh, dear…” you said softly, “that doesn’t sound good…” Aemond just opened his one eye halfway, his temperature only a bit higher, but his entire body sore. 

“I am fine,” his rough voice said, clearly not even having the energy to sound as angry with you as he wanted. He looked over at you, seeing the nightgown you were wearing. He had never seen you wear the damn thing before, not even on your wedding night. 

“Do not play nursemaid, wife-” he said in a warning tone, before coughing again. “I have no need for it.”

You just hummed, your head tilting to the side a bit. “I see… shall I fetch maid Alta, then?” You watched as he clenched his jaw at the mention of the maid, the woman anything but gentle with her rough handling of things. He stayed silent.

“I didn't think so,” you hummed simply, “you’ll have to do with me.”

You stood up, grabbing another thick blanket to put on top of him. Aemond stayed silent, mad that his wife beat him. The last thing he wanted was that damned maid taking care of him with that loud voice of hers. He much preferred your gentle touch, though he’d never admit it out loud.

You moved over to the open window, closing the heavy curtains and plunging your chamber into darkness again. “My maid shall fetch the maester,” you said softly, the darkness helping his headache lessen. “In the meantime, rest.”

The heavy wool blanket felt nice around him, the warmth it gave helping the shivering lessen. He watched you move around, the extravagant nightgown billowing behind you. It looked nice, the blush on your cheeks looking lovely as you placed a cup of water on his bedside table.

He would pick you over Alta any day.

“Make sure your maid hurries,” he said with a rough voice, “so I do not need to suffer your attentions any longer.” 

He tried to sound cruel, but he ended up just sounding exhausted and uncomfortable. His body hurt, his head pounded and his throat felt like sandpaper. His one eye closed, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. He tried hard to fall asleep, wanting just a small moment where he didn’t have to feel his painful body. And when he did fall asleep, his dreams were filled with odd visions, shifting between his dragon ride on Vhagar’s back, to visions of your lovely face, smiling down at him and taking care of him with soft hands. 

Yet every single time, he would jolt back awake, being sent straight into a coughing fit that hurt his sore body further. 

The maester established that he indeed had a cold, and the man moved to make a brew for him that would hopefully lessen his sore throat and rebuild his strength. He ordered the prince a lot of hydration, rest and warmth. 

“Thank you, maester,” your soft voice said, and you moved closer to your husband. You wiped his brow again, seeing his tired eye look at you. You leaned closer, carding a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. 

“Told you so…” you whispered sweetly, before exiting the chamber along with the maester, ready to take the brew with you that he’d make.

Aemond watched you leave, feeling a flicker of irritation at your words. You had told him so, but still… he couldn’t help but smile weakly at your teasing, feeling a flutter of warmth in his chest.

------------

After a moment, you reentered the chamber, holding a warm mug filled with the brew. It smelled quite bitter, but the maester had said it would be good for the prince. 

You sat down next to him on his bed, helping him sit a bit straighter. 

“Drink this,” you said softly, seeing the dark circles under his eyes, “the maester said it will help a great deal.”

He held the mug, your hand supporting it as well, and he started drinking the bitter liquid. It was awful, and he felt his head spin the slightest bit. 

But you stayed close to him, making sure he was alright and that he finished the brew.

“Just a bit more,” you whispered, “then I’ll let you sleep.”

“Stop coddling me like a child,” he said with a strained voice, his words lacking his earlier bite, "I can finish the brew by my damn self.” Even as he said this, he allowed you to help him finish the mug, the warm bitter liquid soothing his throat. He handed you the empty mug, and you placed it back on his nightstand. Then. you helped him back under the warm blankets, making sure he was comfortable. 

“Thank you,” he said after a moment, barely audible. You almost missed it, wanting to call him a child for the way he was acting, but his words made you hold your tongue. 

“Rest,” you said instead, blowing out the two candles and plunging the bedchamber into darkness. You stood up, closing the wooden door behind you. Even though the day was young, you decided to stay inside. Just in case he needed you. And to your surprise, you didn't mind that. -------------------

You decided to go back into the bedchamber in the evening, carrying a warm, watery broth. You set it down on his nightstand, lighting a few candles. Then, you softly touched his arm, looking down at his face. 

“Darling… wake up,” you said softly, seeing his one eye slowly open, "I brought you something light to eat.”

You watched him wake up slowly, groaning softly as he tried to sit up on his own. Then, you shifted to look at his eyepatch, a frown forming on your face.

“That must be giving you such a headache…” you mumbled as your hand moved towards the leather. Aemond tensed immediately, his hand coming up to grab your wrist. “Leave it,” he said, his voice still rough from his cold. “I am used to it.” 

Even though you listened to his tired words, you still persisted, gently removing the leather eyepatch. Aemond clenched his fists, staring down at his lap as he was suddenly exposed. And he hated the feeling. He hated feeling so vulnerable, so exposed, in front of his wife, no less. But still, as you were sitting next to him, not saying anything, he couldn’t push you away. Your presence felt soothing, almost nice. And he didn't wish to part from it. 

You grabbed the warm broth, bringing the spoon to his lips. To your surprise, he didn't complain this time that you were treating him like a child. He simply parted his lips, allowing you to feed him. The broth tasted nice, made exactly right so it wasn’t too heavy for his stomach. 

You quietly looked at your husband, seeing his sapphire eye and the scarred tissue for the first time since marrying him two moons ago. You had only heard stories about it, of how frightening he looked. But now, seeing him so sick and exposed, you only wanted to take care of him, to make sure he was alright.

“The maester told me you are barely using the balm he made for your eye,” you said after a moment, breaking the silence between you two. “He said it helps with redness and… and soreness.”

Aemond’s one eye flicked over to yours, annoyance overcoming him again. How dare you speak to the maester about him? About how he takes care of his own body? It was no one's business but his.

He opened his mouth, wanting to shout at you for your disobedience as a wife, but no sound came out when you gently brought another spoonful to his lips. He sighed, deciding to just eat the broth in silence instead. 

It was just… difficult. No one had cared for him in such a gentle way before, had scolded him for the way he treated his own body. And certainly no one had seen him so vulnerable. 

Suddenly, the thought of you, his wife, seeing all of his scarred ugliness, filled him with a deep, unadulterated dread. He wanted to look the other way, hide his disfigurement from you, but you gently raised another spoonful of broth.

He swallowed before speaking again. “I have been taking care of myself since I was but a young boy,” he stated, "I do not need anyone’s help.” 

You sighed quietly, shaking your head. This man--your own husband--had denied you a lot. The loving marriage you had always dreamt of, any sort of affection, attention, even conversations. He hadn’t even touched you after the consummation.

So you would deny him this. 

You helped him finish the broth, standing up to put the bowl away on the far end table. When you returned to his side, you were holding the balm. 

Aemond tensed when he saw the ointment, his single eye narrowing. “I am not a child,” he hissed lowly, a clear warning in his voice. Even though she had seen it correctly, his scar tissue a lot more red than usual and the skin feeling tight and itchy, he did not wish to be coddled. He didn't need anyone. He didn't need his wife. But even as he thought that, the thought of your gentle touch caring for him even when his visage was so incredibly flawed, was a welcome one. 

He clenched his jaw, searching your face for any revulsion, but he only saw a determined look on your face.

“Keep complaining like that and I'll treat you like a damn child," you replied, catching Aemond off guard.

His wife? Swearing? That was… unexpected.

He stayed still as you swiped some of the balm on your finger, then gently applying the soothing cream to his scars. And he couldn't help but let out a shuddering, relieved sigh. It felt heavenly on his skin, soothing the angry tissue. And your touch was so soft, so gentle, it made his chest ache with something he didn't dare name. 

He studied your face, seeing the concentrated look on your face. Your brows furrowed slightly, the candlelight dancing on your complexion. He allowed his gaze to trail over the bridge of your nose, following the gentle curve of your lips. You looked… lovely. He had never allowed himself to properly look at you, not wanting to either be distracted or perhaps even disappointed. But looking at you now, seeing the way you were so focused on gently caring for him, he felt an emotion bubbling up inside of him. Something he didn't dare name, even if he did not know what it was. 

You pulled back, closing the lid of the balm. “There we are…” you said softly, clearly content with your own work. “Go back to sleep. I’ll bring this with me, so you don’t put it on again.”

He watched as you grabbed his eyepatch, blowing the candles out again. And Aemond felt… a lot better. The warm broth had warmed him up from the inside, having stilled his aches a bit. The balm on his eye had felt heavenly, too, relaxing the angry tissue.

He felt his lone eye slowly close, exhaustion overcoming him. But this time he felt a lot lighter, a lot better. And this time, he slept well. And he dreamt of you. 

--------------

Two more days passed just like that. You took care of your husband, feeding him and applying his balm. You wiped his brow, helped him drink and even brought his chamber pot so he didn't need to strain himself too much by having to walk to the other room. It was nice, having your presence constantly with him. Even doing the dirty work for him, you did so without complaining.

Every single time he woke up from his slumber, you were by his side, flashing him that sweet, worried smile. He had hated your constant presence at first, but now, if he woke up and didn't see you immediately, he could feel a frown forming on his face. 

By the third day, he already felt a lot better. His body didn't feel as sore, his throat also feeling a lot better. His headache had disappeared completely. By the end of the day, he was strong enough to drink his water on his own. He sat upright, spotting you on a chair next to the bed, asleep with a book in your hand. Aemond stared at you for a moment, the setting sun making your skin glow in the loveliest of ways.

He reached his hand out, grabbing your arm and softly squeezing it. You slowly woke up, eyes heavy and a bit puffy from sleep. For a moment, you both just looked at each other. He watched as you sat straighter, stretching your back and straightening out your dress. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled, "I didn't mean to fall asleep.” You set the book down, turning to face him more. “How are you feeling?”

Aemond watched as you stretched and straightened your dress, noticing you yourself also looked quite tired. He realised how selfless you had been these past days, clearly neglecting yourself in order to take care of him. He swallowed heavily, clearing his throat. 

“Better,” he said, his voice no longer rough from his fever, but only a bit rough from disuse. “I believe the worst of it has passed.” 

And he meant it. The fog in his mind had lifted, his body not as sore and feeling a lot stronger. He sat a bit straighter, wincing a bit as he used his muscles. He then looked at you again, his gaze drifting down as he saw how your chest rose and fell as you breathed, the soft swell of your breasts underneath your gown. His gaze moved further down your arm, until it rested for a moment on your ring finger, where he saw your wedding ring. 

It felt strange, having been so cared for these past days. 

“Thank you,” he said finally, looking back into your eyes, “for taking care of me.”

You just hummed, standing up from the chair. You looked at him, a surprisingly playful glint in your eyes. “It was in my vows,” you said, your lips curving up the slightest bit. 

“I shall call for my maid. She will prepare a bath for you,” you looked around for a moment, noticing the bedsheets also needed to be changed. 

“I will have a bath after you.”

Aemond was a bit caught off guard by your teasing words. It had been in your vows, he remembered the spoken words ‘in sickness and in health’ as if it were yesterday. But after the way he had treated you, he hadn't expected you to tease him.

A small smile formed on his lips, and he nodded his head. “A bath sounds wonderful,” he said, “thank you.” 

--------------

After the bath, he had put on simple linen nightclothes, lying back in bed. The bath had felt wonderful, and the clean sheets were nice as well. But he still felt exhausted.

He watched as your maid entered the chamber, moving ahead to refresh the bath for you. You entered later, wearing only a robe, clearly ready for your own bath. You looked at your husband, seeing some of the colour having returned to his face. “Was it nice?” you asked him, walking closer to him.

Aemond had already shifted underneath the warm blankets, nodding drowsily. “The warmth was most pleasant,” he replied, studying your face. Then, he softly patted the spot beside him, an almost pleading look in his eyes. “Join me,” he said quietly, “just for a moment.”

You hesitated for just a second, before making your way over to the other side of the bed. 

“Alright,” you whispered, “until my bath is ready.”

Aemond watched as you hesitated for a moment, but moved to settle next to him in bed regardless. And truly, he couldn't blame your hesitation. These past moons of married life, he had never once been kind to you, never tried to initiate any closeness. He had been distant, cold, sometimes even mocking.

He looked at you as you crawled onto the bed, sitting down next to him. You weren’t quite touching him, but still sat quite close. He moved his arm behind you, not quite embracing you, but still an attempt at intimacy. And for Aemond, it was a huge step.

He looked at you for a moment, noticing the way you grew less tense, the way you allowed yourself to relax in his presence, and he felt that unfamiliar warmth bloom even more intensely in his chest.

He cleared his throat, making you look at him. “These past days…” he started slowly, trying to gather his thoughts, “you have been a true wife to me. And I am… truly grateful.”

The words felt a bit forced, a bit clumsy, but they meant a lot. You felt that same flutter in your chest as he did, a warmth blooming on your cheeks.

“You do not need to thank me,” you whispered softly. You looked at him, feeling more drawn to him than you had ever felt before. But before you could act upon those feelings, your maid entered the chamber again.

“I must bathe,” you breathed out, quickly moving away and standing up. But before you slipped away into the other chamber, you shot him a playful smile over your shoulder. And to Aemond, that meant everything. 

By the time you returned from your bath, Aemond had already fallen into a deep sleep. You smiled softly, watching him for a moment. 

“Goodnight,” you whispered after a moment, exiting the chamber. 

You took care of your husband the following days, until all he had left was a soft cough and a little sniffle. Aemond’s mind was a lot more clear now, and while he should feel happy because of that, he actually felt quite annoyed. Because all he could think of was you.

You, his sweet wife that had cared for him so diligently. His wife that hadn't even flinched when you saw his full scar, but instead taken care of it. 

And you, his beautiful wife, that he had only taken once because of his own bitterness. 

He remembered the wedding night. It had been short, awkward, probably not even having felt that good for you. You had let out a few moans, most of them muffled by your own hand. But they had sounded… cute.

Aemond cleared his throat, deciding to get up and get dressed instead of remembering his consummation. He was a prince, and he definitely was not in love.

He had already put on his breeches, reaching for his tunic when you suddenly entered the chamber again.

You gasped softly when you saw him half undressed, quickly covering your flushed face with your hands. “I’m sorry!” you squeaked out, “I-I didn't know you were not dressed yet!”

Aemond didn't feel annoyed however. He felt quite pleased with your flustered reaction. He calmly slid the linen tunic over his shoulders, leaving the top open. 

“Do not worry, wife,” he said simply. “In fact, I am quite… flattered by your reaction.

You slowly lowered your hands, looking at your husband. He looked good. Great, actually. He was no longer sick, and he looked fit and normal again. 

You watched as he walked closer to you, his eye locked onto yours. “In fact, I am intrigued by it. By you.” 

You flushed a deeper red, Aemond caging you in against the wall and him. “By me?” you asked in a whisper, a small smile forming on his lips. 

“Aye… by you, my lady. By your sweetness… your innocence…” he trailed off, a hand moving up to softly touch your jaw.

You looked up at him, eyes wide. “My innocence?”

He just nodded again. He leaned even closer, his lips awfully close to yours. You could feel his warm breath, smell the scent of the salts of the bath he had taken earlier. 

“I wanted to thank you,” he rumbled quietly, “for taking such great care of me this past week. I wish to… return the favor. To take care of you.”

You swallowed heavily, shaking your head. “You don't need to thank me-” you managed to whisper, your heart pounding fast in your chest.

Aemond just let out a low chuckle, moving closer. 

“I want to,” he replied in a whisper, finally attaching his lips to yours. 

He kissed you deeply, allowing all of the pent up longing and denied intimacy to finally pour out. He held your waist tightly, pulling you closer as his lips moved against yours. He softly nipped your bottom lip, slipping his tongue inside when you gasped softly. 

It was needy and sloppy, and Aemond relished in it. His hands started moving up your body, groping your soft breasts through your gown. You whined into the kiss, your back arching. Aemond groaned in reply, moving his wet kisses down your throat. 

You felt his hips press into yours, a hardness pressing against your stomach. 

Oh, but he felt so good. 

His hands moved towards the back of your dress, undoing the clasps until the fabric fell away and pooled around your feet. Aemond growled softly when he felt your hands hold onto his tunic, and he easily picked you up, carrying you towards the grand bed. 

You felt so hot, and your heart was beating so fast, yet you felt so excited. You couldn't believe your husband was undressing you, making you feel all sorts of things in the morning. It felt naughty, it felt… right. 

“You are exquisite,” he breathed out, staring down at your figure splayed out underneath him. He leaned down again, kissing you deeply. You parted your lips immediately, needing him more than air. His hands slid underneath your shift, before pulling it up and off of you completely.

His hand groped your breast, pinching the nipple until it was hard and straining. He parted from the kiss, taking it into his mouth. 

You moaned out, arching your back at the feeling. “O-oh, yes-!” you gasped, egging him on. He groaned at your eagerness, his cock twitching in his breeches. You were so responsive, so soft. He had never been so turned on in his life. 

“You're mine,” he rumbled lowly, his hips grinding against your naked core. You moaned even louder, the drag of his thick, clothed cock against your aching clit making your head spin with pleasure. 

“Do you feel that?” he panted as he looked back at your face, “do you feel how hard I am for you? How hard you make your husband’s cock?” he smirked, making you gasp out at his words. “Feel it,” he whispered the order, his dark eye meeting yours, “it's yours, after all.” 

He guided your hand with his own, moving it down until it was pressed against the hard ridge of his cock in his breeches. It throbbed at your touch, and you moaned again. 

“Gods,” you moaned out, his lips attaching to your collarbone, “I need you so badly.”

Aemond smirked against your skin, licking a stripe up your throat. “Tell me what you need,” he said, groaning when he felt your hand move over his cock. 

“I need you,” you whined out, "I want you to make me feel good.” You swallowed heavily.

“Please.”

Aemond groaned again, leaning down to press his lips hard against yours. “Then have me.”

He undressed quickly, nearly stumbling, before crawling back on top of you. 

His thick cock pressed against your stomach, spreading pre-cum over your soft skin. He groaned almost as if he was in pain, and he was sure he was going to be in pain if he didn't feel your warm, wet walls clenching around his cock soon. 

His hand nearly trembled as he slid his hand down to your cunt, swiping up some of your wetness. And, fuck, you were drenched.

He groaned out, pressing his head in the crook of your neck as he slid a finger inside of your wet heat. 

“By the Gods,” he panted, sliding his digit in and out of you, “you feel so good, so warm-”

You moaned out, hips writhing under his ministrations. Your nails were digging into his shoulders, moans of his name escaping your lips.

He slid a second finger inside, stretching you out in the most delicious way. And when his thumb pressed against your clit, you weren't able to form words anymore. 

He thrust his fingers in and out of you, making you more and more wet. He wanted to make you come on his fingers, he really did, but he just couldn't wait any longer. 

He slid his fingers out, the wet noise your cunt made making you whimper.

He reached down, grabbing his hard cock and lining it up with your sopping wet core. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, my dear wife,” he groaned softly. He teased you just for a moment with the tip, just enough for him to hear those cute, needy whines again. And then, he slid inside of you, his thick member stretching you out. 

“Aemond-!” you moaned out, your head dropping back against the pillows. This was different, so different from your consummation. This was hot, and needy and it felt amazing.

“My wife,” he panted into the crook of your neck. He stayed still inside of you for a moment, allowing you to adjust. He lifted his head, pressing a needy kiss to your lips. 

“You take me so well,” he panted, sliding out until his tip remained inside of you, before filling you again. You moaned out, and his strong hands guided you to wrap your thighs around his waist. And when you finally did, he started fucking into you. His rhythm was steady, deep, aimed to pleasure you as much as himself. He groaned out, kissing you as his hips slammed against yours, the bed creaking underneath you. 

“Gonna make you feel so good,” he rambled, probably more to himself than to you. “Gonna fill this pussy up-”

You held onto him, Aemond feeling your body tighten and coil underneath his. He moved his free hand down, rubbing harshly at your clit, wanting to make you come undone so badly. 

“Come for me,” he panted against your lips, his lone eye meeting yours. “Let me fucking feel it-”

You gasped out, whining and mewling as the knot in your stomach grew tighter and tighter and--

He stared deeply into your eyes, kissing you hard when you finally came--hard.

Your back arched off of the bed, your cunt clenching impossibly tight around his cock, nearly forcing him out. But he pressed himself harder against you, moaning your name as you came. 

“Fuck, fuck-” he panted, slamming himself deep into you one last time, staying deep inside as he came hard, painting your insides white with his thick cum. 

“Gods-” he panted, his voice nearly a whine as he was overcome with pleasure. Your nails digging into his shoulders only made his pleasure last longer, and after what felt like ages, the final waves of both of your climaxes finally ebbed. 

He collapsed onto the bed beside you, holding your trembling form close. For the longest moment, neither of you talked. You just curled up against your husband, breathing in his scent.

“My princess,” he panted softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That was… amazing. You are amazing. I cannot believe how… how blind I have been.”

A soft smile formed on your lips, his words making you feel lighter than you had felt in ages. You looked up at him, seeing that same smile looking back at you. He kissed you softly, covering you with warm blankets. 

“I’m just glad you see me now,” you whispered in reply. 

He held you even closer.

[imbunnysan]

commission - surprise c:

[paranoiastudio]

Dark prince

pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen х f!reader

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, oral, pet name, sex video, daddy kink

word count: 3,0k

English is not my first language, sorry about mistakes

The Dark Prince. You knew about him, of course, among the other men on the porn site he seemed different. He never shows his face, almost all the videos on the channel are filmed in the "solo" genre, and even his few partners never appeared in his videos twice.

So what should you think when you received a message from him with an offer to shoot a video together?

You yourself had fun on camera alone: ​​you didn't have a boyfriend, and having sex with strangers in the studio was too much for you. Just a temporary job that helps you, a student, stay afloat.

Why did you agree? Why didn't you refuse or just ignore him? Probably, thoughts of his beautiful, pale and tattooed body influenced your opinion and you agreed to meet and work together.

Your "colleague" paid for your flight (of course, he is from the capital), a room in an expensive hotel and agreed to the day and time when you yourself would be ready.

- Hi. - You look up timidly and almost choke at his appearance. Everything you imagined, everything you fantasized about was not even close to true.

That long blond hair, those eyes. He was tall and thin, although you could see the relief of his muscles through his thin white shirt. It seemed he had recently taken a shower, droplets of water were visible on his bare, almost smooth chest.

- Hello. - His voice is confident, he is clearly not as nervous as you are. Against his background, you seem even shorter and the man glances at the soft pink dress you chose today.

- Hi… - Thoughts are swarming in your head, you feel yourself getting shamelessly wet, the thought that that very perfect dick is nearby intoxicated you like never before.

- Hi. - He grins and lets you into his room. You haven't seen such a room in his videos, it looked much more lived-in, as if he was here all the time. - How are you?

- Everything is fine. - The view outside the window was mesmerizing. - And you… Sorry, I don't know your name, I…

- Do you want to know my name? - You nod, afraid to anger him with this request, after all, you've only known each other for a short time. - My name is Aemond.

- Aemond. - You repeat, as if trying his name on your tongue. - Am I not allowed to use it?

- You shouldn't. - He chuckles quietly again. - I don't advertise it.

- Then why did you tell me? Do you know my name?

- Yes. I saw… The diploma on the wall. - Aymond takes a bottle of cola from the minibar and hands it to you. - Here. Don't be afraid, I don't bite… Unless you ask for it.

- The diploma?

- Yes, above your bed, next to the big flower. - Aymond thought about it. - Graduated with honors, huh?

A shiver runs down your spine. If he noticed, someone else might have too. How could you be so careless? The horror must have shown on your face, because Aemond starts talking again, and this time his tone is much softer.

- I don't think anyone else would have noticed. It's just that I… I used to watch that video of you in a bunny costume quite often, remember?

Of course you remember, you bought that costume before Halloween, made a video of it, and returned it to the store that same day. It was the first time you filmed yourself playing with your butt, and it's one of your most popular videos.

- I'll hide it. - You sit down next to Aemond and take the drink from his hands. The bottle was cold and sweaty, and Aemond's hand was so warm when your fingers touched the neck of the bottle.

- Too bad, I really like it. What do you think?

- I've watched your videos, and quite often, to be honest. You're beautiful.

- Not more beautiful than you, princess. - You've heard compliments before, but Aemond's words sent a shiver through you, a pleasant thrill from the realization that he actually thinks you're beautiful.

- And… What would you like to do? - You hadn't discussed it beforehand, and only now do you realize that it would be much easier to discuss it over text.

- I've been thinking about something for a long time… But you don't make videos with your boyfriend, and I don't know what you like.

- I don't have a boyfriend, but I get what you mean. - You take another sip from the bottle. - I guess I don't want my face to be seen… Anal, I don't think… Blowjob?

Aemond watches you flutter your long eyelashes innocently, fiddling with the hem of your short dress. You seem so innocent and somehow magically managed to convey it through the screen. That's why he chose you…

A large hand lands on your knee and squeezes the soft flesh, moving higher and higher. Aemond was so tall and big that you thought he could close you off from the world.

- I would be glad if you let me. - That look; you were ready to kneel right there and whisper "yes, daddy, please." - But first, your pleasure.

Aemond works quickly and precisely. He has already set up the light next to the bed, set up the camera. He also insisted that you stay in this dress.

Everything seems so normal when the camera starts recording. Everything feels right when Aemond squeezes your breast and kisses you so deeply and hungrily that you almost choke from the onslaught.

You fall on the bed on your back, Aemond turns you around so that the view of your wet pussy is the main one on the screen. His touches were confident and precise, it felt like he already knows you, knows how to touch you.

- Such a cute pink thing. - Aemond fidgets with the bow on the hem of the dress and lifts it to the waist, pushing aside the thin strip of underwear. - I'll take care of you, baby.

A hot mouth falls on your dripping pussy and you squirm, such caresses were unusual for you, because all the guys you met, more often than not, were too selfish for this.

- Oh god… - You press your hand to your mouth, but you moan louder when Aemond wraps his lips around your clit. - Please!

- I'm just getting started, baby. - Aemond holds your legs wide apart and begins another assault, intending to make you cum on his tongue. The thought that you must taste divine has been haunting him for months.

His nimble tongue penetrates you again and again, Aemond's thumb circling your clit, already swollen from kisses. You take two fingers at once without any problem, and you both moan as you feel how hard you clench.

A finger, then a second, penetrates, stretching your plush walls and causing only more whimpers. You were shamefully wet, soaking wet as soon as you saw him, but this… Is it possible to pass out from this? When your pussy is being licked by a man like Aemond, yeah, definitely.

- Let go, baby, let me taste you. - That growl-like cry pushes you over the edge and you break when Aemond's other hand squeezes your thigh, bruising it.

You've never been loud in bed, but no one has ever given you this much pleasure. Aemond doesn't let go of you for a second, devouring your orgasm with a hunger worthy of a starving man. His fingers slide in and out with a wet squelching sound that turns you on even more. You're like an animal in mating season, unable to think about anything but him and the way his cock is pressing into you through your jeans.

- Please, wait… - Your plump, wet, pulsating pussy was so sensitive, but the man kept licking you. - Daddy, please…

Aemond immediately looks up at you and you see the effect your words had. He seemed to get even more aroused, your whimpering and the fact that you continued to squeeze around Aemond's fingers did not help his calm either.

The man catches your palm and gently bites the thin skin of your hand, slippery fingers still moving inside and you no longer try to bring your legs together, knowing that it will not help against him.

- What do you want, baby?

- Fuck me, daddy. - You throw your leg over his strong shoulder and do not meet any resistance.

- Oh, baby… - Aemond buries his face in your chest. - Your dress is so beautiful.

You giggle, understanding why he asked to stay dressed. But what you do not know is Aemond's desire to undress you himself. It is like opening a gift that you have so long and desperately desired …

Aemond pulls the fabric of the dress, exposing your chest: hard pink nipples cannot help but attract his attention, the blond immediately circles one of them with his tongue, rolls it in his mouth and releases it with a loud "pop" made by his chiseled lips.

The man helps you sit up comfortably on the bed and you immediately open your mouth, wanting to feel his heavy taste on your tongue. With one hand you grab Aemond's strong thigh and with the other you pull the fabric of the dress even lower, something like a skirt hangs at the waist, you feel the juices of arousal flowing down the inside of your thighs.

Aemond pulls the zipper and you see him: as beautiful as you remember from all his videos, the head red and dripping, wanting to receive what you will gladly give him as many times as he says.

You swallow him as deep as you can and almost choke on the amount of saliva, this man turns you into an animal. You drool and move your head more actively, making the most indecent sounds. Aemond's long fingers bury themselves in your hair, gently massaging your scalp and pulling the soft strands so that they do not bother you and do not cover your face.

The sight of you sucking his cock, wrapping your beautiful lips around the shaft, the way you look into his eyes while licking the underside of his cock, excited him like nothing else.

- That look, baby. - His voice trembles slightly and breaks into a moan. - You look at me so innocently.

- Am I doing well, daddy? - A thread of saliva has formed between your mouth and Aemond's cock and you feel how the grip in your hair is getting stronger. - I'm trying, but you're big…

He really is bigger than all the cocks you've ever handled. Even on video, you've used small or medium-sized toys. But it was impossible to swallow Aemond whole, you squeeze his balls and suck on the head, continuing to circle it with your tongue.

- Such a good girl. - Aemond literally growls, catching the pace and moving more confidently. - You'll let daddy fuck that magic throat, right?

Your hand involuntarily reaches between your legs, the pulsation is so strong that it hurts. There's a pull in your groin and you touch yourself, smearing the lube and looking for at least some release.

Aemond penetrates deeper, sees how you inhale through your nose and continues to fuck you in the mouth, wiping away your tears with his thumb. You feel the stretch, it becomes difficult to breathe, but you exhale through your nose and choke on the cock, continuing to play with your pussy.

- I was distracted for a minute… - Aemond's voice is hoarse, his cock twitches in your mouth and he pulls away. - I didn't tell you to touch yourself, right?

- Daddy… - It's so hard to take your hand away, especially when he's looking at you, his gaze does not bode well. This man will ruin you.

He throws you down on the bed, face down, ass up in the air, Aemond pulls off your dress and you're left with only your shoes, with little white bows. A heavy slap lands on your ass and you gasp from the burning sensation on your skin.

- No one but me can touch this pussy. - Aemond's other hand grabs you from below. His palm is big enough to cover your entire cunt. - Do you understand?

- Yes, daddy… - You lift your ass higher, still hoping that he will stop teasing and just fuck you the way you want.

- Repeat. - A tone that will not tolerate an argument, impossible to disobey.

- No one but you can touch… this pussy… Please! - Tears flow from your eyes, because Aemond's nimble fingers have been touching you all this time where it was wet and hot. For him, because of him…

- And now we will reinforce this lesson. - You feel how he rubs against you, collecting your secretions and lubricating his cock. You smile slightly, noting that he cares about your comfort.

This thought leaves you as soon as Aemond fills you with one strong movement, right now he did not tease you and just took everything in one movement.

The sticky walls adjust to its shape, as if you memorize its outline. It is so heavy and hot, the angle allowed the Dark Prince to penetrate so deeply, at first you only roll your eyes, your ears seem to be blocked.

Somewhere in the distance you hear a groan, it is your own voice, so high… The man hits your round ass again to bring you to your senses and immediately begins to move.

You scream and wiggle your hips, feel like you are going to die now. But it's not death, it's an orgasm that hits you suddenly and hard, you feel yourself sucking Aemond into you, he moans long and hard, but doesn't stop fucking you, his balls slapping against you, he moved so fast, as if he was really hammering a lesson into you about whose you are now…

Still shaking, you suddenly feel light and find yourself on your back, Aemond, slightly flushed, with disheveled hair, looks at you, moving his cock with his big hand. You spread your legs and take him into your arms.

Aemond holds your legs, setting a precise rhythm and plunging into you with almost hypnotic awe. He catches your face by the chin, you hold his gaze, he doesn't break away from you for a second.

- Are you going to give daddy another one, baby? - He leans down and showers your breasts with light kisses. - Squeeze me one more time and I'll give you what you need?

- Cum on my tits? - Aemond kisses you and changes the angle slightly, your ass literally hanging off the bed, Aemond above you, fucking you like it's the last time. What a beautiful view on camera, you suppose. The thought of it drives you on and you leave kisses and bites on Aemond's thin neck. Your pussy clenches, he feels that you're almost there…

- Come on, princess. You take me so well… - His voice breaks, he's close.

Aemond rubs your clit with his thumb and kisses you again. Not a single moan escapes, he'll swallow them all, not letting you go until you're ready.

He's still hard inside you when he slides out and sits on your right side. You immediately open your mouth and smile invitingly, your hands automatically reach for your chest, you pinch your nipples and wriggle.

It only takes a minute for Aemond to cum, sperm lands on your chest and stomach, moans and tries not to close his eyes, continuing to slide his gaze over you.

You lick a few drops and smile at him. Aemond leans down and kisses your forehead.

- Can I get a close-up? - You just nod and stay on the bed.

The man takes the camera from the tripod and comes to you. Your face is out of frame, he focuses on your tits and the cum dripping down you. You play with your breasts a little when Aemond changes the angle and your pulsating pussy is right in the frame, the man catches your gaze and smiles, receiving another nod.

He runs his finger along the entrance, pinches the clit with two fingers, you giggle, but spread your legs wider. He penetrates again with his fingers, pulling out a couple more wet slaps; pulling out his fingers, he slaps your pubis and ends the recording.

You are still lying on the bed when he brings a warm towel and washes off the traces of your passion. Silently, you let him do it, using the opportunity to examine him up close once more. Aemond does everything good and carefully, he is too experienced.

The sudden urge to touch him overcame common sense and your palm ended up on Aemond's cheek. He looked up and you stared at each other for a few seconds, you were the first to reach out to him and innocently, quickly and lightly, touched his lips.

- I felt good… - You don't know why you're even saying this.

- Me too. - He smiled and leaned into your touch. - Do you want to take a shower? And then we can… go to lunch if you want.

You agreed, you spent a couple more hours together, Aemond promised to send you the final version of the video before publishing it, so that you could check everything and approve it.

As promised, you hid the video that Aemond had mentioned, but sent it to him, writing in the message "since you like it so much, you can be the only one who has it xx"

That same day, Aemond sent you video and you were pleasantly surprised. Everything looks really good, and this is your first sex video with another person.

As soon as you finished watching, another message came from Aemond.

“How about we always make videos together? And I would also be happy to take you on a date”

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Vipers, crows and dragons" - Aemond Targaryen x spy!reader

(warning: this story contains mentions of suicide)

SUMMARY: Your relationship with Aemond began strictly because of espionage. As time went on, your training failed you and you fell in love with the One-Eyed Prince. Too afraid to reveal the truth to him, you've sworn to carry it to the grave. Until your commander tasks you with murdering the prince who might kill king Aegon. Now you must choose whose life you will sacrifice - his or yours?

(angst with a happy ending, I swear)

WORDCOUNT: 5.3k (I started and couldn't stop)

Sleep has eluded you for three days now. It wasn’t for a lack of trying - recent events and assigned duties kept you too anxious to rest. Even if you closed your eyes, nestled in the strangest cranny of the keep, the sound of your own breath would keep you awake. Each sound, echoed by the stone walls, made you too wary to sleep.

Walking towards the commander’s quarters, you patted your face with the back of your hand. Mild pain and improved blood flow were just good enough to prevent you from stumbling over your feet. Once you report back, you should be off for the next day, maybe two, if Westeros decides to take a quick break from its usual lunacy.

Although most of your attention was focused on the unbearable exhaustion gnawing at your body and soul, some of your thoughts indulged in fantasies. When you finally have a few hours to yourself, what will you do with them? The weather has been lovely lately, ships from Dorne have brought exotic fruit, and…

You hear yourself gasp. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him. Three days felt like three decades. Usually, you would manage a visit here and there, between tasks. This time it was quite impossible, making you realise just how much you crave the attention of none other but Prince Aemond. How funny it really was - so many tried their hardest to avoid him whenever possible and you sought him out like stars do the night sky.

Thinking about him, you feel a sting in your chest. If he ever learns the truth, he… No. He simply can’t know. Not now, not ever. Let him believe that it was a pure accident that you were his designated guard when he travelled to one of the kingdom’s realms. This is better for everyone. Aemond may be wise for his young age but he’s just a man, despite his family’s claim to godhood - the truth will break him in an inconceivable, inhuman way. Perhaps some skeletons should remain inside the closet.

Your knock on the heavy door is more of a courtesy, rather than seeking permission. Without awaiting an answer, you enter the room.

Spymaster’s quarters resembled a library more than they resembled a war room. Stacks of books and parchments littered the space in random columns. If there was any rhyme or reason to the order, it was beyond your comprehension. Only Davros himself could find anything in that mess. Crows came and went through the open window, barely taking time to rest before flying off into the horizon again. Their cawing was comforting in its familiarity - it reminded you of the early days, when the only thing you were allowed to do was sort through the correspondence and write down the replies. Such simpler times…

"Commander Davros,” you called out, “you wanted to see me?"

The man glanced at you for less than a second. His grey eyes, a metallic shade like mercury, flickered towards you only to immediately go back to skimming through the paperwork on his desk. The table was kept in as much disarray as the rest of the room. Maps, sketches, reports and Gods know what else.

"Yes, there is something that needs to be done,” he said. The commander’s voice was, well, commanding. Each question sounded like an accusation, each statement like irrefutable facts of nature. “Swiftly and quietly."

A tired sigh left your lips. All the hopes for some rest burst like soap suds in a bath that’s growing cold. The image of Aemond’s silver hair and bright stare flashed before your eyes. As strange as it may sound, it was starting to feel physically painful to be away from him for so long. The most feared man in the kingdom and he was your safe haven, the only moment in your bleak days that you could feel truly safe.

But you swore your fealty to the Iron Throne. Fighting through another task means keeping Aemond and his family secure for one more night. Now, it seemed, it was the only thing you could do for him.

"Just my expertise.” You force yourself to smile and keep your head high. It would be incredibly naive to think that a few days without sleep could make Davros ease up on you. He was nothing if not demanding. “How can I be of use?"

The commander lifted his gaze at you. He leaned forward, propping himself up on the table. Despite deep wrinkles and greyish hair, he appeared quite youthful. Age hasn’t slowed his body or his mind.

"Kill Aemond Targaryen."

Maybe the lack of sleep started playing tricks on your mind. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Your voice was a mere breathy whisper. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me just fine, girl."

Most people would say that their hearts started beating out of their chests when hearing something of that sort. In your case, it was quite the opposite - the muscle stopped at once, leaving you unable to breathe. Numbing pain spread underneath your ribs like a beast of horror gnawing at its enclosure to be let out. Is it love or grief that is clawing its way out fo you?

"And I can't believe that I heard what I heard. This is quite unexpected, sir."

"Death usually is.” Davros appeared calm, completely unmoved by the situation and its implications. This was just another day for him. “Prince Aemond is currently the largest internal threat to king Aegon. A mellow rug rat is easier to steer than a maniac with a grudge."

The commander may be a demanding man but he was never greedy. In fact, greed and selfishness were the two things he made sure you grew out of. His methods were painful, at times cruel, but effective. If it wasn’t for him training you, Prince Aemond would never have known about your existence, much less fallen in love in a ploy to keep his plans known.

"Since when do you care about 'steering' the king?” you ask, wary. Something about Davors has changed but you couldn’t quite put your finger on the cause. What was going on behind the curtains, the doors closed even to you? “We're meant to be peacekeepers and scouts, not meddlers."

"What would you call assassinating conspirators?” His question sounded like an accusation. You knew better than to answer. “You've killed many people, kid, and now you care about meddling?” Those mercury-coloured eyes bore straight into your very spirit. For a moment, he became a mirror of truth, forcing you to look at the ugliest part of who you are. Whatever you thought of it was irrelevant - it was true. “A spy with a conscience. As if!"

You’re not sure what to make of this turn of events. Davros is your commander, yes, but he’s acting unlike himself. Did someone put a spell on him? Was one of the Lords threatening him? Although blackmailing the spymaster sounded rather impossible to achieve. Which made this situation even more bizarre.

"It's just…” you hang your voice, looking for the right words. “I don't think this is wise, Davros. With Aemond dead, Rhaenyra has nothing to be afraid of. Aegon will be paralysed with fear that his brother was murdered. And Queen Alicent? She will go berserk. Our heads will end up on spikes before the rooster calls."

There was no visible change in Davros. Your words meant nothing to him.

"Queen Alicent is a woman of reason. She'll come to it."

His apparent lack of concern irked you. The commander was treading the line between callous and stupid. "She's also a mother,” you reminded him.

Davros scoffed and shook his head. "A mother who never loved her children, only the position they gave her,” he answered, the tone of his voice coming off as annoyed or bored.

It seemed as though he wasn’t asking you to assassinate your lover and the crown prince. He was sure it had to be done. All the positive and negative outcomes had already gone through his mind and Davros was content with the final outcome. He was beyond arguing.

The spymaster was clearly sacrificing peace and stability for his personal gain. What kind, you couldn’t be sure yet. What grand offer did it have to be?

“Stop wasting time, girl,” he droned out his words. “Get to it,” Davros spat out the command like a venomous lizard from Dorne’s deserts.

But you were well-acquainted with poisonous fruit and venomous bites. It was your sole purpose in this world to recognise them, to get rid of them before they reach the king. With vipers, as it is with men, one must not run in fear of their fangs. No - to win, you must show that your fangs are bigger. They dig deeper into the flesh, draw more blood.

“I won’t, Davros.” The tone of your voice was cold and calm like the winds sweeping the snow in the North. “And something tells me you knew that already.”

The commander’s eyes turned strangely dark. What once had reminded you of mercury’s colour, now reminded you of the deadly disposition of the substance. Despite healing some ailments of the body, it wasn’t any safer than a sharpened blade. In the same way, the spymaster’s seemingly collected exterior was nothing more but a ruse. 

“I was stupid enough to count on your reason.” The disappointment in his voice made blood rush to your face. As if it were a reflex, you wanted to lower gaze. Strangely enough, the thought of Aemond Targaryen forced your shame to disappear. “It seems it’s too late for that. You know that happens to traitors, don't you?"

It wasn’t a threat, at least not in the way most people understand the word. His question was more of a reminder, a warning at best. The letter of the law was clear and no amount of excuses could save your head should Davros bring your insubordination to the king’s attention.

And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to treat the matter with proper seriousness. Not when it came to him.

"Bite me,” you barked back at him. Davros raised his eyebrows in surprise and, truthfully, you shared his reaction. Never before have you stepped out against him. “I'm your second-in-command. If I suddenly fall dead your whole operation will go to shit and people will riot."

The commander’s lips twist into something similar to a smile but much too sinister to be a sign of joy. A curious glint in his grey eyes made him appear almost amused at your action.

"How bold,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “You seem to overestimate your worth, girl."

"Do I?” The question rings in your ears, its echo asking you the very same thing - are you overestimating your importance? To Davros, to the Iron Throne… to Aemond? “I'm the one you're asking to kill the prince who is next in line to the Iron Throne. If anything, I'm priceless to you."

"Priceless?” His voice came out as a hiss. Now is the time when the venomous snakes shall bare their fangs and compare. “You're only useful to me because you keep whoring yourself out to the prince. No one will question your weaponry and visits at strange hours of the night. You're not irreplaceable, girl. Just convenient."

His words hurt only because they were true and you couldn’t honestly deny the claims. Indeed, you and Aemond have indulged in ways that did not befit a couple from such different backgrounds. It was quite distasteful to call you a ‘couple’. A man and a whore aren’t a couple after all, are they? They are a person and an object. The only difference between you and the ladies in Flea Bottom was the price - you had none. Which made the whole scenario even more disparaging. The prince could do with you as he pleased and you never asked for any payment. Aemond, however, did pay. At least in some way. For every night spent in your company, he divulged parts of himself never known by any other living soul.

The decision should have been harder to make.

"Then you will have no problem finding my replacement."

Your fingers swiftly take off the small crow-shaped brooch from your coat. The pin clattered on the desk, right under the commander’s nose, when you tossed it away. One of the crows sitting on the windowsill cawed, as if in shock at the scene it witnessed.

Davros slowly picked up the brooch. He inspected it in his hands, although needlessly. It wasn’t something new or unknown to him. 

"I raised you,” he spoke after a moment of silence. His voice wasn’t calm but rather empty - rid of any emotion. “I've taught you everything you know. You would be nothing without me.” Davros raised the pin to his eye level like he was showing the pin to you. Then, he threw it across the room, missing your face by less than an inch. It wasn’t truly a miss; he meant to scare you. The metal accessory clattered as it hit the wall and then the floor. “And that's how you repay me?"

You slowly exhaled. It took a lot from you not to flinch when the pin just about missed your left cheek. Dodging flying knives was much easier, you noticed. Mainly because the people throwing them weren’t the ones who took you in around the time you learnt to walk. Those hands that taught you to tie shoelaces and braid hair had just shown you that they could easily maim you without much hesitation.

All doubts, guilt and shame left you the moment you took a deep breath. Davros no longer looked like your almost-father. No, his face contorted under the weight of something corrupted, festering inside him. He was the same man he was when you met him and yet, he appeared as a strange-faced devil.

"I'd rather be nothing than aid your struggle for power.” You clenched your hands into fists in hopes of stopping them from trembling. That waver in your voice was enough to let Davros know just how much effect he had on you. “You taught me about servitude, not…”, you hang your voice for a moment, realising you’re still in the dark about his motivation, “whatever this is supposed to be. The Iron Throne has blinded you."

The commander scoffed again. His eyes are staring at you as if you were a court jester, humiliating yourself in hopes of crumbs of dignity or food from the less-than-caring overlord. In other words, Davros found you pathetic to the point of amusement. Perhaps he had realised his own mistake - he never should have allowed you near the prince. It was his lapse of judgement that you’ve found yourself in such an undignified position; he should have known better than to make you responsible for such an important matter.

"Like the noble prick blinded you, girl? At least power is not something that will cast you away when nicer tits come its way."

A corner of your lips twisted into a half-grin. The expression was nothing short of contemptuous.

"Then you know nothing about power, Davros."

You turned to leave the room when the commander called out after you for the last time:

"This will cost you your life."

Some part of you wanted to look at him, desperately hoping to see even the shadow of the man you had almost called your father. But you knew better than to tease fate. Your eyes remained blankly focused on the door handle and your hand wrapped around it.

"It already did,” you said under your breath. “You raised me, remember?"

The door shut behind you and with them - your life. It was quite clear that by sunrise, someone would be dead. If not prince Aemond, then you. Davros wasn’t the kind of man to simply give up or let go of a grudge. Even if you were to flee King’s Landing, he was bound to find you at some point. The king’s spymaster had crows everywhere, some winged and some not. Prying eyes and ears of Westeros would be more than willing to sell you out for the commander’s favour.

Truthfully, the choice wasn’t much of a choice to you. The thought of killing Aemond was unfathomable to you. And to continue living with his blood on your hands? No, you didn’t have the heart to do this. To suffer for decades on end until your time runs out. If it’s not Aemond you will kill, it leaves you with only one option - yourself.

No matter the outcome of this night, you knew you had to do something beforehand. If you must take your longing for the prince to your grave, the truth should be known. The very truth you had sworn to yourself never to reveal. However, if you’re not going to live to tomorrow, it is only fair that Aemond becomes aware of just what awful thing you have done to him. Maybe, if you actually were more than a cheap whore to him, the truth would make his grief lighter. Perhaps it would rid him of any heaviness that your death shall bring.

You waited until nightfall, well after supper. At this hour, Aemond should be in his chamber, unbothered by any visitors. Aside from you, that is.

The twilight inside the bedroom made him appear even more alluring than he already was. Candlelight paired with deep shadows danced across his features, painting him both divine and sinister. Aemond’s silver hair, flowing down his shoulders and back, brought memories of flawless pearls smuggled by a merchant. You obtained them through trickery as well.

He didn’t move from his seat by the table when you opened his window and came in. There was no doubt that he heard you in the silence of the night. Only assassins and thieves enter homes through windows or balconies in the dark. Aemond Targaryen was yearning to see one of them.

You’re no farther than a meter away from him when the prince acknowledges your presence at last:

“You finally came.”

As cold as his voice sounded, you heard the unspoken fear, longing and anger writhing under his skin. Both lovers and spies seemed to be able to listen closely to the other’s silence. And Aemond’s silence was never empty or quiet. It spoke of things grander than life, too viscerally human to be expressed in any known language.

His leather clothing creaked as he got up from the chair and looked at you. The twilight surrounding you captured his demeanour all too well - divine and sinister, loving and dismissing, rejoiced and furious.

But most of all, he appeared sad.

It was the sadness of a child once again forgotten, a lover once again scorned.

And there you stood in front of him, bringing more heartache in place of apologies. 

“This is hardly a social visit, my love.” As much as you wanted to look Aemond in the eye, you couldn’t. If you met his longing gaze, you were sure to do just another foolish thing. “I came…” You paused, only to take a deep breath and exhale in a sigh. “I came because there is something that you must know. I have no doubts that it will change your view of me. In fact, I’m afraid it will make you despise me. But it must be said before the morning comes.”

Aemond’s eyebrows furrowed for a moment before he regained control over his expression. How truly him it was, to put on a blank mask in naive hope of fooling himself into disregard for the emotional turmoil inside. You’ve learnt to see beyond that facade, to see the small boy begging the world to finally love him. And how cruel the world was to make the love come from you.

“Despise you?” he repeated as though these words were foreign to him. “Why would I do that?” Aemond’s voice was soft, airy. Flowing through the room like a fallen leaf, guided by the cold autumn wind. “Indeed, there are many things in this world that I hate but you will never be one of them. You can’t make me hate you, my beloved.” His fingers gently brushed against the side of your face and neck. “Even if you tried.”

You grabbed his hand and held it against your chest. If it wasn’t for the layers of clothing you were wearing, he could have felt your heart hammering against your ribs.

“I hope you’re right, Aemond,” you whisper, more to assure yourself than him. “I pray to the Gods that you love me just as much as you claim.”

He remained silent, quietly egging you on to finally reveal the true reason for your visit. His blue eye bore into you, as if attempting to read your thoughts before you can say them out loud. The intensity wasn’t intimidating, quite the opposite - Aemond was wordlessly begging you to open your heart to him, to be allowed to know you on the deepest level. If he could, he would crawl inside you and inspect your inner workings up close. Maybe then he would finally learn how you could so easily bewitch him entirely.

You held his hand a little tighter. It was a naive attempt at grounding yourself, foolishly proving to yourself that Aemond was here, right in front of you. He wanted to hear the truth.

“Our meeting wasn’t an accident,” you confessed. “It was calculated, very much so. Davros knew that you’re too smart and too guarded to speak of your ambitions with just anyone. He devised a plan that I should form a relationship with you. Everything you told me, I was meant to pass on to him. And in the beginning, I did.” Tears gathered in your eyes and fell down your cheeks despite your miserable attempts at stopping them. They rolled down your face only to drip onto your and Aemond’s hands resting against your chest. “I was so proud of myself. Finally, I was given a responsibility that mattered. I was doing something important for the kingdom.” You noticed his jaw clenching, muscles desperately flexing to stop Aemond from something. “But then you made me laugh, we talked into late hours of the night and I grew to trust you in a way I’ve never trusted anyone. You’re the only person that I feel truly safe with, Aemond. I don’t deserve it but Gods!” You let out a scoff, suddenly realising just how pathetic you must sound and look. But it didn’t really matter if you were going to die soon. “I want to deserve it. I want to deserve you because I love you. And I know that after what I’ve told you, my words mean nothing, less than nothing.” You choke on a sob, Aemond momentarily stiffens. Something dark and unspeakable clouded his eye. “But if there is one truthful thing I have said in my life, it’s that: I love you, Aemond.”

He looked away for a while. To anyone else, he might have looked unbothered or even annoyed by this scene. You, however, knew the prince quite well. The way in which he couldn’t meet your gaze, how he stood unnaturally straight, how his nostrils flared and jaw was more prominent - it all pointed to Aemond caving in on himself, a vulnerable part of him shattered like a glass vase thrown on the floor. His ever-calm resolve was cracking, revealing the raw, unhealed wounds beneath. 

"Why are you telling me this now?" He managed to say in a low, raspy bark.

Aemond tried to pull his hand back but you kept it still against your chest. Your hold was firm enough to feel the bones under his pale skin.

"Because someone has to die tonight.”

The blue eye found your face again. A glaze of anger and betrayal clouded it, making it appear as though it belonged to an animal rather than a person. It was the eye of a viper whose venom you would welcome.

A questioning look, a tense silence.

“Davros ordered me to kill you and I refused,” you finally revealed, after a long silence that felt closer to years than minutes. “By the letter of the law, that is treason.”

“So is killing the prince,” he retorted in an equally low tone. 

Perhaps if the two of you spoke any louder, malicious spirits lingering in the castle would hear you, bringing doom upon you for their own pleasure.

“Which means I will die no matter what happens.” The certainty in your voice was tugging at something primal deep inside Aemond’s viscera. His hand should hurt from your iron grip but he felt nothing. There was numbness in his limbs, as though your statement had made his heart stop beating. “That actually makes it easier.” Your lips twisted into a bittersweet smile. “I can’t run from Davros, there is no corner in the world where he couldn’t find me. Running is futile. The only choice I have is regarding the manner of my death.” 

Time seemed to slow down for Aemond, allowing him to fully comprehend the horror unfolding in front of him:

You reached into your coat, pulling out a sharp knife. It reflected the low candlelight, for a moment resembling the softness of water. But water can both cleanse and drown. What cleansing, what rapture, could this blade offer to Aemond?

Your trembling fingers held onto the tip of the knife. In the most submissive of gestures, you offered him the handle of the weapon.

“Do this for me, Aemond,” you whispered. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Was is fear or excitement? He couldn’t be sure. “If you have ever loved me, kill me. Please.” Your voice and hands trembled as you begged. “I don’t want to bleed out in some back alley, cold and alone. If I have to go, I want you to be next to me.”

Aemond took the knife from you. He inspected it closely, admiring the craftsmanship of the blacksmith who had forged it. There was a motto inscribed on the handle: “Virtue guide me”.

And virtue shall guide it.

With a flick of his wrist, Aemond tossed the blade into the lit fireplace.

Before you can protest or ask what he was doing exactly, Aemond held your face in his hands. You were forced to meet his intense, fiery gaze as he spoke slowly, in a low voice:

"Gods be witness when I say this: if I ever raise my hand against you, its flesh shall rot down to the bone, resembling the fester and rot of my heart."

Tears fell down your cheeks again. Why did he have to be this way? His devotion was transgressive, turning from something romantic to delusional and viscous. As demented as it may sound, you didn’t want him any other way than treading the line between sane and sick.

“Don’t do this, my love,” you begged between whimpers. “Don’t make this harder than it already is. How can I die when you confess your love for me in such a tragic way?”

His hands felt delightfully warm against your skin. Your tears burned against his fingers. Their scorch travelled to his heart and further, into his viscera. It fed a flame you had set ablaze the first time your lips met his. This fire whispered to Aemond’s lovesick mind the most horrific promises and ideas. But the prince was a dragon - he didn’t know tender, innocent love. He only knew to devour and be devoured. Aemond listened to the whispers, slowly losing certainty where they ended and his own thoughts began. You had set his very spirit on fire and he welcomed the burn. Now the flames begged to be set free, to make true the violent vows of an immortal, all-consuming love.

Aemond rested his forehead against yours.

“Listen to me, my love,” he said. It wasn’t a plea but a demand. “If you die before me, I shall burn this world to ash. Noblemen and smallfolk alike will suffer like I do. The Gods will hear my cries of your name and they shall tremble in fear, for I will storm the gates of their castles. They will answer for taking you away from me.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. A sob was stuck in your chest.

“Don’t do this to me, Aemond, please,” you continued to beg him. “Have mercy on me.”

“I will not grant you mercy, for it is not yours to be begged for.” His cold tone gave you goosebumps. This cool anger could strike fear in the heart but not in yours. To you, it was comforting - like leaning against a cold wall in the heat of summer. “You’re mine,” he whispered, droning out the last word. “You’re mine as I am yours. If you wish to die, you will have to take me with you. If you wish death on anyone, my hands will be yours.”

Gently, you held his wrists. You were unsure whether to keep his hands on your cheeks or to pry him away from you. It was quite clear that the longer you remained in Aemond’s grasp, the less willpower you had. Truly, he could simply stand in your vicinity and gain control over you with nothing more but a stare or a mischievous half-grin.

“I can’t kill you, Aemond. I couldn’t even kill myself.”

He tilted his head backwards enough to look straight into your eyes. Your noses were brushing against one another.

“Then ask me to kill Davros.”

“I can’t, it’s-”

“Ask me,” he demanded. The cold blue of his iris stared through you, gazing into the marrow of your bones, the very fibre of your spirit. 

To be precise, Aemond wasn’t asking your permission. No, his goal was quite more sinister. He was going to kill Davros anyway. What he craved was absolution - if he committed a sin in the name of love, not hate, was it truly a sin? Was he not akin to a saint if he slew out of devotion?

“Help me,” you whispered, barely audibly.

His lips softly pecked your forehead. Aemond found some wicked satisfaction in seeing you so broken and desperate. The vulnerability hidden under your resolve was for his eye only. Only his ears will hear your whispered pleas. He was a cruel man and he could use this weakness for malice. You, well-aware of his dreadful character, ripped your heart open just for him. It was proof enough that your love for him was equally mad.

“You’re mine, my love,” he whispered into your ear. “And I will do horrible things just to remain yours.”

Aemond Targaryen was black of heart and he knew it. There was no doubt about it. He always thought that being loved would mend his cruelty, that it would fix whatever was broken inside him. It did no such thing to him, quite the contrary - it made him indulge in the most unspeakable of fantasies. He should feel ashamed, shouldn’t he? But Aemond knew no such emotion when you trembled against him, your salty tears wetting the pads of his fingers.

‘Shame is for good, honest men,’ he thought. ‘They feel ashamed because they know right from wrong. I only know her.’

Tonight, the venomous viper will meet a fire-breathing dragon, only to learn that its venom and fangs are useless against the beast of legends.

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Lust for love. // Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader.

Summary: Aemond's life has always been a bitter and sour one, the only sweet thing in his life was you, his wife, perhaps too sweet for his liking, yet he neglected you in the past but a series of events lead you both together into love.

WARNINGS: mdni, smut, unprotected p in v, cunnilingus, interrupted orgasm, horny aemond, martial duties, clit stimulation, tiddy succin, body worship(?), gentle and kind aemond but he gets rough during sex, + not proofread, lmk if I missed any!

WC: 2.9k

A/N: divider credits @cafekitsune

The cold breeze brushed against Aemond's face as he walked hastily towards your chamber, his boots clacking against the stone floor heavily while his heart banged in his ribcage.

He was feeling light headed, unable to form any thoughts and only the words of the maester rang inside his skull from earlier. ‘Your lady wife seems to be sick’ he had informed him and those mere words were enough to make Aemond spurt up from his chair in the meeting room and immediately rush towards you.

Aemond, frankly, did not know why he was feeling anxious at the information that you were sick, he did not even like you much and only merely married you for the connections and benefits your family provided.

You were just a mere duty to him, so when did he start caring about you?

He stood in front of your chamber door waiting anxiously as the guard gave him a bow before he opened the door, the mental hinges creaking as it slowly moved. He steps inside hurriedly and immediately lets out a sigh of relief when he sees you sitting up. You just stare at him confused.

“Husband? What are you doing here?” The tone of your voice indicated surprise, because Aemond had never visited your chambers even once since the beginning of your marriage and only called you to his chamber when he wanted to consummate.

“I had been informed by the maester that you were sick.” He replies nonchalantly, tone betraying the true feelings that were whirling on the inside. He wanted to get close to you, embrace you.

“I'm not with child.” You reluctantly tell him while looking down, suddenly feeling as though you are a disappointment. It felt humiliating to tell him that, especially when he came all the way to your chambers, he probably expected that you would be with a child.

Except that was not the case.

Aemond was confused on why you were bringing up that topic now, but then it clicked in his head and he cleared his throat, grabbing your attention before shaking his head, “Oh no, wife, I wasn't here because of that.. I was worried.” He admits and your eyes widen in shock.

Worried for you?

For as long as you can remember Aemond never seemed the type to show affection or concern for anyone, perhaps it was due to his past grievances, you had only heard about his eye through rumours, he never opened up to you about anything. You were a duty for him, someone he needs a legitimate heir from; because it is not as though he doesn’t have whores to seek pleasure from so what is the use of you? ; or at least that is what you had assumed and questioned.

But to Aemond, you were his sweet gentle wife, he was afraid of hurting you, in his vision, you were like a white swan, pure, elegant and graceful, he did not want to scare you lest you fly away from him. He did not know when he started perceiving you in this way, but as time went on, he had developed quite a soft spot for you.

“My apologies, Lord husband, I did not intend to worry you.” You apologised, he shook his head gently. “No need to apologise, how are you feeling now?” He questions and you simply blink at him, “I'm well, better than before.” You reply with a soft smile. Aemond's lip curved upwards slightly as he nodded, “Very well.” He says in a dismissive tone.

Awkward silence falls between you both as you look down, he clears his throat before speaking, “If you'll pardon me- I have to—”

“Would you like to take a walk with me?” The question leaves your mouth in a hurry before you could stop it, a desperate attempt at clinging onto this fleeting moment of affection. He seems slightly taken aback but he nods his head, “I'd love to.” He replies and you nod, stepping in his direction and standing next to him. “Shall we go?” You inquire, “Yes, wife.” He answers and you wait for him to take the first step, which he does; and soon you follow him out of the room.

You both stroll down the garden, admiring the scenery, the breeze was gentle today, and the weather seemed perfect, Aemond linked your arm in his, holding you close to him.

Your skin was soft to the touch and it drove him insane, he couldn't help but stare at the way your breasts pushed up against the material of your dress, he never really properly fucked you like you deserve.

Yet now, he just wants nothing to do but push you against the castle wall and fuck you relentlessly in the garden. Aemond realised that he never heard you moan, or show any type of reaction when he consummated with you.

He wondered how your soft voice would shriek in pleasure, calling out his name in pleasure, how you'd cling so tightly to him, he wished he could witness such a sight. He wished he hadn't gone to whores to receive pleasure while he left his wife dry. He missed out on a lot of things due to his decisions.

He mentally made a note to stop visiting brothels as it would taint your honour, he could simply seek the same pleasure from you. He became more bothered as his imagination went wild.

“... husband…? husband…!” He snaps out of his imagination, looking at your confused expression, “Y-Yes? Please excuse me, I was lost in thought.” He apologises and you give him a soft smile, “You were saying something?” He asks and you nod, “I was thinking about; well; if you excuse my rudeness, I realised we don't know much about each other.” You truthfully tell him.

Aemond furrows his brows in question, “What do you mean by that wife?”

“I want to get to know you, husband.” You stare at him in the eye and his eye widens slightly, and just then he recalls the memory of Aegon's words.

“That woman in the brothel knows more about you than your own wife, don't you find it amusing?” He was taunting Aemond, and at that time Aemond ignored those words, but now that you've openly admitted that you don't know him much made his heart shatter.

“Of course wife, what do you wanna know?” He decides to let his guard down, ready to tell you whatever you ask for. “Everything.” You reply, biting your lip anxiously, your hand travels up to his face, caressing his cheek before you trail your thumb down his scar. He knew what that implication meant and he smiles at you in a gentle manner, his own hand coming up to grab your wrist.

“Of course.”

Days pass by just like that, your marriage with Aemond had improved tremendously after your little effort to get to know him better, you felt bad for him when he began to reveal such vulnerable things, yet you never judged him.

He had shown you all of his vulnerability so openly, from the matter of his eye to everything else. You listened in silence, and he appreciated that.

As Aemond grew more comfortable, he began to show his emotional side, which included both his vulnerability and anger. He would utter treasonous things about his own brother.

This night was one of those cold nights, the cold breeze flew into the martial chambers you were waiting in, the maids prepared you for the consummation as they do, you and Aemond consummate according to your moon cycle since your only duty is to provide him with a heir.

And besides, he probably did not want to lay with you in an intimate manner, or for pleasure. You felt insecure because of that.

You were scared that after all this progress, everything would return to the same way it was before because of this night, you doubted that it would happen but your thoughts plagued you.

You winced when you felt the maid tug at a hair strand accidentally, “Sorry my lady.” She apologises to you, “It is alright.” You respond softly, you stare at your own reflection in the mirror, eyes trailing down your features.

The door to the chamber opens, and Aemond strides in hurriedly, the maids quickly finish fixing you up and leave the room immediately, you get up from your seat and turn around to see Aemond undoing his clothes.

“Let me help you.” You offered, usually he would decline and continue to undress himself, and you expected that again, but his actions shocked you.

He immediately dropped his hands to the side and turned to look at you, waiting for you to walk over to him and help him. You blinked rapidly before rushing over to where he stood before you stood in front of him.

Your hands immediately began to work on removing his vest, your fingers delicately undid the loops, you were too focused on the job that you failed to notice Aemond's piercing gaze. He watched with intent as you worked on removing his clothes, his eye taking in your form. His breeches felt tight.

You pushed his coat off his shoulders and peeled away the vest, revealing his tunic beneath the layers, his garments fell to the ground with a shuffle, you stepped back, leaving him in his undergarments.

He grabbed the hem of his tunic before he pulled it off and then began to undo his breeches, untying the strings. You took that as a gesture to lay down on the bed, facing up.

This is what you did when you both consummated before, you would lay down, he would spread your legs, insert himself, finish and leave.

You expected that to be the case, but you were surprised when climbed on top of you, his face right in front of yours, platinum locks curtaining around you. He stared at your lips for a moment before he leaned in, capturing your lips with his.

You were surprised, and didn't know what to do, so you stayed still, but he bit your lip, indicating his disappointment at your freezing up, and so you immediately tried to mimic his movements.

Your lips danced against his, yet it couldn't match the fervent passion he moved with, it was desperate, intimate and most importantly, filled with love and lust.

All your prior insecurities melted away under his warm lips which were filled with desire and want, he wanted you, he seeked you out.

You both pulled away to catch your breaths, his lips were glossy from your saliva and slightly swollen. Your heart was pounding loudly in your chest.

Aemond moved your night off your shoulder before ripping it apart, revealing your breasts which you immediately covered out of instinct. But he gently grabbed your wrists and pinned your hands to the side of your head.

He leaned down, tracing kissing down your jawline, to your neck and to the soft flesh of your chest. His hot breath against your bud made you shiver in delight.

He hooked his tongue on your hardened nipple before engulfing it with his mouth, you let out a squeal of surprise at his actions but you didn't stop him.

He suckled on it gently, using his teeth to trap the bud in between before licking it with his tongue, he grunted in delight, his grip loosening one of your hands, freeing it from his hold.

He grabbed your unoccupied breast with his now free hand, giving it soft squeezes and playing with the bud, rolling and pinching it. You were new to this, not having any understanding of what was happening, after all, you've only read about it, never experienced such intimate acts yourself.

You rubbed your thighs together, trying to ease the ache that was forming in between them, you realised how sticky the area felt, and how it made it difficult for the friction of rubbing to work.

He notices this, lets go of your breast with a pop, he smirks before he rises off from you and settles in between your legs, this was the position you were more used to.

He spreads your legs wide apart, pulling up your nightgown, revealing all of you. He pressed his thumb against your clit which made your breath, you stared at him confused until you felt him rub small circles upon it.

Your body felt pangs of delightful stimulation, you couldn't help but enjoy the feeling, all of this was foreign to you. Aemond takes a deep breath before he closes in on your cunt, before licking a stripe upwards to your clit. You jolt from the sudden pleasure.

Aemond wrapped his lips around it, sucking on the bud slowly, you whined, grabbing his head for support as his mouth worked wonders down there. You tasted absolutely divine to Aemond, your essence trailing down his cheek as your body produced so much of it. You whimpered, thrashing around lightly as his warm tongue flickered with your bud.

Aemond's tongue swirled around your clit before he captured it with his mouth once again; “Oh! Yes!” You moaned, throwing your head back in pleasure when you felt him nibble on your bud. An unfamiliar feeling of warmth rose in your lower abdomen, you felt as if there was a fire inside you, waiting to combust any moment.

Just when you feet the flames beginning to erupt, Aemond stops his manoeuvres, putting out the fire, you furrowed your brows in confusion, wondering why he stopped.

But when you looked at Aemond, he seemed like an entirely different being at that moment, he had risen up back to his haunches again taking deep breaths almost as if he was trying to contain himself.

He was.

He had never felt such an overwhelming of desire in his body, every time he touched you; his mind scrambled into pieces, he wanted to fuck you so badly.

“Aemond?” You call out softly, confused, wondering if he was disappointed by your behaviour but it seems to snap him out of his daze and he stares at you. “I apologise; I'm finding it hard to control myself.” He admits his thoughts.

“Then don't.”

Aemond swore he heard you wrong.

“What?” He questions you.

“Don't try to Aemond, Don't hold yourself back, I want this, I want you.” You admit shyly.

The atmosphere fell silent for a second and you could feel the awkwardness from your own words beginning to sink in, that was until Aemond moved suddenly.

You shrieked as he pulled your hips onto his lap, wasting no time in inserting himself, you gasped at the sudden stretch, feeling yourself become full of him. You grabbed onto his shoulders for support.

He held your waist tightly, grabbing onto your hips for leverage as he began to move, thrusting himself in and out.

This was a movement you were familiar with, yet somehow it still feels new because of the strange sensation, it felt more intimate and passionate, his thrusts held meaning and it was as if every time he pushed inside you; he was reaffirming his love and desire for you.

He pushed you into the mattress, grabbing your legs and shoving them to your chest as he thrusted hard, his skin slapped against yours loudly, the room echoing the noises.

You threw your head back at the sensation, and you felt the fire in your stomach rekindle and you couldn't help but desperately chase it. “Ah, right there.” You moaned, feeling him hit a sweet spot inside you that fueled the fire in you, you gasped for air as every thrust of his knocked it out of your lungs. “You feel so good, you're driving me insane, wife.” Aemond grunts, his thrusts never once faltering.

Everything about this night together was very different from the previous ones, Aemond had never felt this good and neither have you, he regrets not trying to get to know you earlier. He felt like he was in heaven with the way you clenched around him.

He felt his high approaching, and he desperately ran after it thrusting deeper inside as he groaned and moaned.

Your body jolted up and down the bed and you felt the fire beginning to spread out slowly, you closed your eyes, when you felt the fire suddenly go out, you were confused but as Aemond thrusted one more time it erupted in your body like volcano, coursing through your veins and to your mind.

You moaned loudly, grabbing the sheets and arching your back as your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the intensity, you have never felt this way before.

Your vision went completely white before you could see once again, you felt Aemond finish inside you, his cocking twitching as he spurted his seed deep inside you.

“Seven hells.” He groans, riding his orgasm off, you watch as he clenches his eye shut taking deep breaths.

He looked so ethereal.

He immediately falls down next to you, catching his breath, he pulls you close and kisses you on the forehead, “You did so well for me.” He praises you, and you blush shyly.

Neither of you moved from the bed, having no intention to.

Typically Aemond would leave the room right after.

Yet he didn't.

He was stroking your shoulder gently as you dozed off, head resting on his shoulder.

He looks at your closed eyelids and thinks you're asleep.

“I love you.” He confesses, realising his true feelings.

Your lips quirk up into a smile before you open your eyes slightly.

“I love you too.”

You then doze off into slumber immediately, Aemond's heart picks up its pace, embarrassed and shy that you had heard him, but your response made him smile.

[ivypos-writes]

put your lips (where i’m rotten)

— aemond targaryen [3/?]

[SERIES MASTERLIST] | [GENERAL MASTERLIST]

summary: There are times when Aemond thinks he hates her, if only for the crime of reminding him about the chains of servitude shackled to his throat. Other times, he convinces himself that he feels nothing towards her at all. She is a stranger. A no one. A face without a soul. She is but another prisoner within these walls; a spoil of war, only one he never wished for.

He cannot condemn her for existing.

(He does. He does.)

Or, in which war puts them together, bound by duty and united in wrath.

warnings: 18+, aemond x unnamed!betrothed, angst, implied/referenced abuse, canon divergence, dance of the dragons, arranged marriage, falling in love, tension, morally grey and dark characters, doomed from the start, dual pov, eventual romance

word count: 7k

notes: we are so back!

just to make sure, here’s a form for those interested in being tagged in the future updates. fill it if you’d like to be added to the list. as always, thank you for reading<3

(also available on ao3.)

Her hand aches.

It's still early in the morning, skies a blend of dark and light blues, and there's a candle burning beside her elbow to provide illumination. It's almost burnt out. She's been seated there for hours.

Parchment lies scattered about, creased and torn to pieces. Nothing she has written seems to be sufficient. It is as though she's forgotten how to communicate. It would make sense—she rarely speaks, and is even more rarely listened to. Every ear in the vicinity strains in search for mistakes. They want her to trip over her words, hoping for a spark of controversy. Stubbornly clinging to the last remnants of pride, she adapts to silence. It is not so foreign. Even back home, she was ignored more often than she was acknowledged.

Isolation suits her. It blooms into flowers with sharp thorns, and she caresses the petals with her lonely hands.

Time in the Red Keep works in odd ways. It trips and stumbles on a once clear path, bending out of place, twisting and turning. It refuses to pass. Like a being full of spite, it chooses to stretch itself out into unimaginable lengths. When it feels like it's been years, barely a day has gone. The sun refuses to give way to the moon; the skies take too long to once again lighten. Sometimes, she spends hours seated on a windowsill, and though her body goes numb, the clouds above stubbornly remain in the same spot.

In many ways, it is not so different from her father's castle. The skies are the same. Solitude carries similar weight. The walls are cold and indifferent, and they watch her torment in a detached silence.

(Sooner or later, it will start to feel like home.)

She remains a dutiful prisoner, forever mindful not to cause disruption. Her footsteps are quiet and breathing shallow, and sometimes it feels as though she became one with the stone background. She is not truly there. Her mind wanders through the skies and fields and forests, and when she closes her eyes, she dreams of dissolving into air.

And then she awakens.

Breathes in. Breathes out.

And she is forced to live through another day.

It doesn't get easier. Contempt breeds contempt. Ever since King Aegon decided to publicly announce her betrothal to Prince Aemond, making it irrevocable, it's become a constant theme of her existence. The dragon prince is not loved within these walls—he evokes dread and fear and never any warmth. As an extension of him, she is not subjected to much kindness, either. Being tied to Aemond Targaryen is a curse. A burden weighing upon her shoulders. Hollow-cheeked and bone-tired, she carries out her duty. Shackles tighten. They become one with flesh.

In another life, such unjust treatment might have prompted understanding. Perhaps, plagued with the same fate, she could glimpse through the many layers of Prince Aemond and see something real. A boy. A scar they hate him for. In another life, she might have looked at his anger—an ugly, festering thing—and understood why it was bound to erupt. Like a puppet, he once obediently kept it restrained, holding it tightly in between bleeding fingers. Like a dragon, he unleashed it upon the realm, and it manifested itself in flames.

If they had never demanded he keep his wrath smothered, would it have burst? If it hadn't had years to grow, would the aftermath have been this bloody?

But she was once a girl. A girl who wept for her late mother. A girl whose sisters would press their palms to her mouth, trying to stifle the cries that rang loudly enough to disrupt the world outside. She kept her head bowed, and learned to swallow tears down, and her own father's hatred ruined anything that had ever been pure.

She has no wish to see beneath his mask. Understanding for him will not bloom—she will uproot any compassion even if she must bleed to do so.

In her gilded cage, she will learn to live with the contempt they give her. She will learn pretty smiles that do not waiver underneath burning flares. She will be soft and gentle, and she'll build walls around her heart, and she'll get used to it. She must get used to it.

And she'll do it alone. With a rotting soul. With no soul at all. It is her fate to do so.

Dear sister, she writes at last, even away from the graveyard that is home, I am more dead than alive.

This letter, too, shall burn.

The Dowager Queen's eyes pierce through her skin like a dagger.

Summer breeze hits her cheeks, soft wind currents blowing her hair. In an attempt to appear collected, she keeps her spine impeccably straightened and chin proudly raised. The sense of discomfort serves as a reminder of the chains. There are dozens of faces in the courtyard, some turned away in feigned disinterest, though the majority tilted just enough to freely glance at her time and time again. They're unknown faces. Unfriendly faces.

Her future good mother's face is much the same. She refuses to openly meet her eyes, fiddling with her hands, nails sinking into already reddened flesh. Even when greeting her first, that day she arrived at the Red Keep, Alicent Hightower's gaze remained lost somewhere no one else could follow. Time and time again, she glances at her briefly, so quickly that no one else notices, and when she does, her eyes induce shivers. It is a stark contrast to her son's scorching gaze. Hers brings about a biting cold.

The Dowager Queen keeps up the pretence of enthusiasm each time her daughter or grandchildren turn their faces towards her, but it is a futile attempt. There is a permanent frown upon her countenance. Her lips tremble. She offers empty smiles and watches the skies, and sometimes, it seems as though she's trying to hold her breath for long enough to suffocate.

Her voice remains foreign. She has yet to speak a word.

In a crazed sort of amusement, she thinks she and the Queen are not so different. The thought is a fleeting one, gone before her joy-starved fingers can latch onto it. She remains seated without mirth lightening her overcast mind. Queen Alicent keeps up her glances.

A spoil of war.

It seems that no one, be it her betrothed or his family, truly wants her here.

Anger is a curious thing. She once thought she had lost it somewhere amidst the darkness of night, lip split open and left to bleed onto the pillows, her father's fading footsteps echoing outside the door. It would surface at random times and ebb away moments later, and never would it become strong enough to break out of its dusty shell. Indifference came in its place. It was made of a thicker layer—thick enough not to let pain pass through. It was a shield. At some point, it, too, dissolved into nothing.

And yet she sits there now, in a room abound in rich ornaments and silken furniture, and emptiness gradually gives way to unbridled rage.

She is paraded around but never acknowledged. Stared down but never spoken to. She is more one of the embellishments than a person—a spoil of war in a gilded cage, with its mouth stuffed to stifle any words.

A prisoner. Back home. Here. Always.

Anger does nothing to assist her. She wields it without grace, trying not to let it slip.

The sun persists.

She feels no warmth.

It may be hours later that Queen Helaena finally rises from her seat—or entire years, she thinks, given the odd stiffness in her bones. The children are due for a nap. When they walk away, clutching their mother's hands, whispers of laughter linger in their wake. She commits each sound into her memory, neatly tucked into the deepest corners. Joy is scarce within the walls of the Red Keep. If she must survive on crumbs of it in order not to forget its existence, she will do so without shame.

The Dowager Queen remains seated in the same spot. From this close, she resembles a marble statue. Harsh lines. Cold eyes.

(Like her son.)

Just when she gathers the skirts of her dress into a hand, making to excuse herself, Queen Alicent's voice stops her. It is soft in all places she might have expected a cutting sharpness. "I'd like you to join me in the sept."

And so she smothers the need to flee, dons the mask of obedience, and nods.

The sept emanates no comfort. She watches the building with indifference, making sure to mimic most of the Queen's movements, and half-wishes for the walls to crumble before subjecting her to a falsely pious torment. Religion is not equal to mercy. She sees no point in kneeling before gods so ignorant of pain.

Does the Queen ever blame them for her own sorrows? She doubts that she ever could. There is reverence in Queen Alicent's gaze; devotion with which she sinks to her knees before the altar. Soon, they are kneeling beside one another. Are they both sinners? She supposes that no ruler could keep their soul pristine. Certainly not one to crown a son not meant for the throne, marking him with blood. That crown is death. That crown will soon kill them all.

She watches the candles and imagines their fire engulfing the realm.

"You and my son must make appearances together."

The flames flicker. Their lights hit Queen Alicent's pale face. Like this, her eyes turn ablaze. She looks as though the words left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth but doesn't take them back.

Fire remains contained within the candlesticks.

It should be freed.

It should devour them all.

"The betrothal of a crown prince ought to be celebrated," Queen Alicent says, "but we are now facing difficult times. It is paramount that the masses witness the strength of your union. They must see you as one."

The one who bleeds and the one who drives the dagger through. How could they ever be one, she wonders, if he is the blade that cuts through flesh? If she is the corpse?

(Fire and blood. Only most days she thinks that he is both while she is none.)

Her mouth parts. No words come out. They cannot. She's succumbed into the deepest depths of obedience and can no longer crawl out of them. Instead of responding, she reverts her gaze to the candles. The fire dances, mocking her agony.

The Queen breathes out, bending forward. Her forehead nears the edge of the altar. Like this, she appears deep in prayer, though her mouth moves in a way that refutes this. "My son is—"

The words die into nothing, their frail existence leaving behind a weak echo.

Silence returns in all its glory.

Kind? They both know it to be untrue. Gentle? In the past, perhaps, before he lost a part of himself and filled the empty hole with fury. His touch burns through skin, and his wrath ends in bloodshed, and he is not a good man.

Her son is war personified.

Whatever the Queen says next will be a lie.

(Let her lie, she thinks. Here, before her gods. Let her cheeks paint in shame. Let her soul rot. Let judgement come.)

But then the Queen takes her hand into hers, squeezing so hard it almost hurts. She is icy-cold; long fingers wrap around her palm like thousands of frozen needles. And the gesture says everything her mouth does not.

Flames bear witness to their enveloped hands for the entirety of its duration. When the Queen lets go, the remnants of her touch linger.

Do the gods see the way she trembles?

Do they know it is because of all her sins?

The pious Dowager Queen. The statue of faith. Here, in the heart of King's Landing, even her reverent hands are not spared from the crimson stains. Here, in the sept, her heart continues to decay. Her nature comes undone. Beauty yields to the atrocity that is her soul. The gods spurn her pleas for deliverance. They demand continued penance.

"If nothing else, then at least my son will keep you safe," the Queen insists. Her glow grows dimmer.

Maybe he will. But who, she wonders, will keep her safe from him?

The answer is the same as always: no one, no one, no one.

(Does she love her son? Did she love the boy he had once been?

There is something in her eyes that indicates there was no place left in her heart by the time her children came.

Maybe she has no heart at all.

Maybe her soul had decayed long before her husband did.)

Alicent Hightower returns to her prayers without speaking again, but the memory of her pleading gaze long echoes a quiet: forgive me.

On the morrow, she is awakened by one of the servants, dressed in another grey gown, and forced outside of her bedchamber. There is no time for confusion: down the corridor, she finds silver hair and two stony faces. Violet eyes stare back. Two clouded. One violent.

Her gaze finds his with a swiftness and ease, though it comes not without an undercurrent of self-reproach. It is a curse, she thinks, to be able to meet his eye without hesitation. Would she fare better if she tried to evade him instead? She ought to bow. Curtsy. She ought to dodge his attention as though for fear of being scorched. She remembers sunlight stretching between them, back in the haunted tower, entire worlds away from here. All that remains now are dark, thick shadows.

No greetings are exchanged.

When they make their way down the hall, curious eyes follow.

Queen Helaena is a poor choice of a chaperone. Her eyes are lost amidst the turf beneath her bare feet, a low hum creeping up her throat, fingers weaving three blades of grass into a green plait. She doesn't seem to remember that she is there to watch them, lost in her own world made entirely of solitude. It seems as though someone has raised a wall between her and everyone else. Reality remains repelled by the border.

It isn't like there's anything to watch too intently. Distance stretches, a thorned thing risen from seeds of mutual repulsion, and keeps their steps well apart. They share no more glances. They do not exchange any words.

In silence and subdued fury, she allows herself to be paraded around for the court to see.

Let them witness the union.

Maybe the fire that has risen inside her will burn them, too.

She was not made for light, but finds herself yearning for it all the same.

It must be why she seeks out the sunrise. Each morning, precisely when the moon caves in to the pressure of the sun, she is there to greet the victor's first rays. They bathe her skin in golden hues; they blind her with their force, and she lets them scorch her unseeing gaze. Sometimes, she rolls up the sleeves of her drab gowns, welcoming the spells of warmth that flicker through her skin.

(This heat is only ever ephemeral. Coldness has long since been engraved into her bones.)

It's a newfound purpose of hers; a reason to rise from her bed, no matter the amount of dread that rattles her heart. She leaves her chamber before most of the fellow residents awaken, darts out of the main gate, and then stalks down a path that is not frequented and thus unpaved. There is a slope on the northernmost edge of the gardens that she's encountered by accident but now strolls down deliberately. It leads her through the greens of trees and bushes, and eventually clears into a small creek. Water curves along the edge of the forest, glinting in the sun.

Its surface remains calm.

She is not yet bold enough to break it.

Her eldest sister has always been a capable swimmer. In the long summer days they'd had the privilege to share, years before she was sold to the highest bidder, they would sneak out to the nearby lake—just the two of them, flushed faces beaming from the secrecy of the act. Her sister, possessing every ounce of courage she herself missed, would dive right in; most days, she'd stand there and watch, daring only to immerse herself to her ankles.

You needn't be brave, her sister would say on their way back. I will be brave for the both of us.

Her sister is not here now, and not being brave means death.

Her knees scrape against rough pebbles.

This is a routine she maintains with reverence. Here, by the water, she sinks to her knees with hands pushed into the ground. Like a sailor who has not seen land in years, she caresses the soil beneath with a tenderness she otherwise smothers. There are no bystanders to witness the rare display of fragility. Just the creek. Just the trees.

It is easier to sit amidst grass and cobblestone with earth staining her palms. It is easier when wind currents tangle her hair, long tendrils freed from intricate confines of plaited patterns atop her head, now dancing with the breeze. She rests the heels of her palms on the ground and lets her fingers weave in between the grass, and when she settles on her knees, all she knows is peace.

She kneels, and she is not herself. Her body blends into the canvas. She is a part of nature not created to bleed.

There is a humidity to the air in King's Landing that she's never known before. It sticks to skin like a wet cloth, sending scorching shivers down her spine. A sheen of sweat clings to her forehead, and though she has wiped it away many times, it keeps coming back. She was wrong to anticipate coldness and darkness. The skies remain clear, taunting her with the brightness of their hues. She wishes it was raining instead; again and again she yearns for a storm. A heavy downpour would be more befitting to the thunderous way her heart beats. This heat is a stark contrast to the chilling coldness that sits deep in her bones.

The stillness lasts. She imagines drowning in it. Waves of tranquility collide with her unmoving form before a sudden storm disrupts their flow.

She should have known whatever semblance of peace would be transient. Torment clings to her with an unconquered resolve.

They have thus far existed without clashing. Prince Aemond belongs to the skies. Each day, he makes it a point to remain high above the ground, bathing the realm underneath in shadows. Sometimes, he yields to his mother's demands and arrives outside her bedchamber, always accompanied by his sister. When he does, his presence is as fleeting as the winds and rains and storms. Rarely do their gazes meet. Whenever they do, flames flare up.

She feels the burn now.

"You truly are a nuisance," he drawls dispassionately. She is glad that he forgoes greetings. False pleasantries don't suit him. "The guards couldn't point the way you'd gone."

"Then they make poor guards." Her own voice is just as flat. She ensures that it doesn't pitch despite the suddenness of his arrival. "War hardly allows for such shortcomings."

He hesitates. She imagines the corner of his mouth twitching, though the vision is distorted by the absurdity of it. "Indeed."

She doesn't search for his reflection in the water but knows that it is there. Like a predator, it lingers just outside of her reach. Waits. Searches for weak spots. She presents none, remaining perfectly still. Like this, it seems easier to pretend that she is not the chosen prey.

Wind currents soften. In the following silence, she can hear the sound of his breathing.

"Your hands are bleeding."

They are. She must have scrapped them against the harsh surface of the rocks. Blood sticks to her palms and mixes with dirt. Water laps at both.

"A scratch," she mutters, eyes trailing the injury. "Nothing more."

(Haven't they brought her here to watch her bleed?)

Blades of grass rustle under his feet. It is clear that Prince Aemond has no intention to allow her any more respite. Something bitter rises in her throat. Even without being near him, she always remembers the duty resting on her shoulders. It weighs more than the realm. She lays flat beneath its crushing force, donning suffocating submission. Why would he haunt her, she wonders, in the rare moments when the pressure abates? Why is he here?

The answer remains the same: because he can. Because she is his to torment.

"The stone can hardly be comfortable," he muses, breaking through her enraged pondering. His voice inflicts a rush of unease she aims to cover up with lips pressed together. Can he see the side of her face? She has moulded it into a perfect replica of his stone-cold expression. "You've chosen an odd place for a prayer."

Queen Alicent has not invited her to the sept again. It is a small mercy. She doesn't think she could bear kneeling before the gods without spitting on their feet.

Would the Queen have her whipped for such transgression?

Would she have taken away the shackles to enact the final blow?

(It's not often enough that she thinks death would be a kinder fate. Sometimes, shame rises in her chest at the realisation. Shouldn't she yearn for the freedom of passing away, if only to rid herself from silver chains?

Doomed.

Maybe even death could not save her.)

"I have nothing to pray for."

"No?" Prince Aemond taunts, and he must be standing closer now; the inflection of his voice is clearer. "Not health or safety? Guidance? Not even happiness?"

"Happiness is deceitful. It renders you gullible."

"Does it?"

She pictures him in the shadows, striding forward without meeting anyone's eyes. Shrouded in darkness. Shrouded in solitude. "I suppose you would not know."

"A cynic," he murmurs in response. "And a profane one, too."

"How many of your own prayers have been answered, my prince?"

Has he prayed for his eye to grow back? For the gods to meld together what has shattered within his soul? Has he prayed for the artful constraints surrounding his rage to last? After they failed to do so, has he ever thought to pray for the life that was lost in the aftermath?

The answers come in a rush of unbridled honesty that only he could wield with such cold detachment. "I would not know. I no longer remember my last one."

"Funny," she replies, though it is not. "They say it's sinners who pray the most."

"Perhaps I have not sinned enough."

A storm. A boy. Fire and blood.

"Or you're well beyond atonement."

It is eternities later that she finally turns to face him. He looks like a dark stain against a pastel background, tall and pale and utterly cold. Prince Aemond stands closer than she would have expected him to. Tall and slim. Rigid. As always, he appears prepared for battle—and maybe he is. Maybe today he's chosen this one. Her.

Leisurely, he lowers himself to the ground, crouching right beside her. The scar peeks from beneath the eyepatch. Silver strands fall upon his sharp cheekbones. The air accommodates him. Nothing has changed. He still smells like smoke.

"Atonement evades our like." His voice is no more than a whisper carried by the wind. He's so close that she doesn't need to strain her ears to catch it. "I suspect that we're equally godless."

Fury returns. She latches onto it like a lifeline. "There is nothing equal about us."

He tilts his head, gaze calculating. "Not even the shackles?"

To this, she has no answer.

She looks away. It wouldn't do her any good to linger on the mangled mark of the past that cuts through his face. A huff of warm air hits her cheek, and she holds her breath in response. He is not permitted to come this close. Not yet. Please, not yet.

"Why are you here?"

"I was alerted that you left the keep." A hum follows; like a brush of a feather, the sound vibrates across her skin. "The guards are not completely useless."

"Was I not allowed to?" she demands, watching her scrapped hands. It is a better sight than the violet eye and whatever storm brews inside.

"Not alone."

"Right. Lest I lose my one purpose."

The silence that follows is a perturbing one. She can hear him breathe in, right beside her face. Does he feel superiority over her now that he has deemed it fit to impose on her space? They are so close together it could elicit a scandal. If someone saw, they'd be condemned to another onslaught of disdain.

She wonders, not for the first time, if there is any descent from how much doomed they already are.

She supposes not. Here, amidst war and raging fires, no fate seems worse.

Prince Aemond catches a strand of her hair in between his fingers. She doesn't let her breath stutter when he brushes it behind her ear.

"You will honour the arrangement."

"Did my stroll in the gardens dishonour it?"

"It could have." His hand lingers at the side of her face. Her skin tingles from the closeness. "All it takes is one person and a blade."

Her gaze drops. The Prince's sword peeks out from the sheath.

She had once urged him to drive the blade through her neck and he refused.

If she begged prettily enough now, would he be more merciful?

When her eyes find his, their gazes clash. Slowly, as if to taunt, he reaches for the handle of the sword. Long fingers wrap around the intricate metal. His grip is strong.

But she knows the truth. Eyeing the blade, she says, "I'm perfectly safe here."

As if to prove her wrong, he offers a cold smile before pushing himself even closer. The grip on the sword remains; the silver of his hair shields her vision, but she knows that his fingers have not forgone their clench. They blur together, drab greys and deep blacks against green grasses. If someone happened upon them now, the last stretch of distance eradicated, would they be able to point where the lines of their Prince begin? The proximity is suffocating. Maybe all the others cannot breathe, too. Maybe fate yearns for their union to be the ultimate end.

"And yet you're bleeding," he whispers.

If she wanted to, she could capture the words with her own mouth. Their lips are close enough that she could do so without a strain. She blinks. Something vulnerable and foreign rises within her. It lingers even once Prince Aemond moves away.

The scratches on her palms. She's already forgotten. With his reminder, the wounds begin to sting.

Her gaze drops. Defences rebuild. "Your smothering is hardly an upgrade from the past indifference."

"As is your fear," Prince Aemond muses. Something akin to mirth lightens the tenor of his voice. "There was a time I could find none in your eyes."

"I'm not afraid."

"Oh, but you are." That cold, detached smile returns. It is more of an ugly pull of his lips; her eyes trail the thin line as she imagines scraping it off with her nails. "I do not blame you. You're all alone in a place where no one cares about your life. If you're not afraid, you are a fool."

"Then we truly are equals."

"I have no fear left."

"No. But you are alone." She doesn't let herself cower at the storm inside his eye. "In a place where no one cares about your life."

Equal. The word lingers. Haunts.

The shackles that connect them may be the only thing that makes them valuable.

For a moment so fleeting she can barely grasp it, something about Prince Aemond changes. Coldness turns into flames. His eye is ablaze. The intensity renders her still; unmoving, as if for fear of retribution, she watches his expression come to life. Gone is the marble statue. A man stares back at her, unguarded and open. The lines of his face seem smoother. All his thorns are gone.

When he cracks a smile, it is one void of deceit.

(Doomed, she reminds herself.

The word has never rung truer.)

Calm seas. The sun. Like this, she could almost pretend that the storm was never there. Gentle waves lap at her fingertips, beckoning her closer. If she emerges, she will never again resurface.

(A boy, she reminds herself. A storm. A beast cutting through the sky in its hunt for vengeance. Blood falling from the skies, bathing the realm in gruesome sorrow.

Kinslayer.

Kinslayer.)

Like all things, the odd tranquility cannot last. She catches the sound of heavy footsteps long before she sees the metal armour. Ser Criston Cole marches towards them with a purpose, his presence obliterating any remaining semblance of peace. She has not seen much of him in the days of her captivity. Sometimes, he is there in the training yard, slicing the air with his sword. Mostly, he trails after the Queen, a permanent frown etched on his face. He always looks eager to spill blood. The war suits him the most.

"Prince Aemond!"

He doesn't move.

Why doesn't he just move?

"Go on," she insists, if only to once more drown in blissful solitude. She wants him gone. His presence evokes something she has no desire to name. "I shall become as docile as you command if you allow me one more moment alone."

Even when she wills sparks of submission into her gaze, it slips away. Almost as if it had no right to exist before the dragon prince. Almost as if to doom her further.

Finally, entire lifetimes later, Prince Aemond rises from his crouching position.

The scent of smoke is gone.

Air fills her lungs.

"No." The stone wall of resistance returns, but it is weaker than ever before. Remnants of softness linger in the corners of his mouth, in all places it has no right to exist. "I don't think I want you docile."

Before he departs, Prince Aemond reaches in between the side weaving of his leather tunic. White fingers wrap around a white piece of cloth. With the speed of a warrior, he drops the fabric into her lap and turns away. His footsteps are quiet. They fade into nothing as winds carry their echo.

Just to spite him, she lets the blood on her hands be.

She's so attuned to silence that it's easy to catch any disruption.

Servants retire for the night before the hour of ghosts. Guards rarely make any noise. Once the moon rises high enough above the horizon, the dark serenity persists without interruptions. It is why she shoots upwards upon the clattering sound outside her bedchamber. The commotion is a breach of her routine. She's on her feet before another sound follows.

Drowsiness clouds her judgement. Like a being suspended on the precipice of dreams and lucidity, she seeks out the unknown despite her mind's protests. Her hand moves on its own accord. When she pulls the door open, dread runs down her spine.

"Would you look at that?"

She freezes. Stiffens. All that remains in motion is her heartbeat, wild inside her chest, its force bruising her from the inside.

The man stands right in front of her. His face is strange and slick with sweat, but it's the eyes that her gaze is drawn to. There is something mad flickering inside. Something dangerous. She takes a step back, but it is futile. The stranger follows. He reeks of cheap wine she remembers from back home. In the subdued light, he almost looks like her father.

"Hello," he simpers, a leering smile stretched across his face.

Her hand clenches around nothing. No weapons nearby. No guards outside.

There's two of them. It occurs to her now that the situation is hopeless. She could scream until her throat goes raw and it would change nothing. Before anyone reached the chamber, she'd be long torn to pieces. She stands there, numb and frozen and suspended in time.

It is her father that stands before her.

No. It's a stranger.

(There is no difference between the two when both so clearly seek bloodshed.)

Her body knows how to mould into the vice hold of calloused hands. The man tightens his arm around her pliant form, her back pressed tightly against his chest. Muscle memory has her submit without any hesitation—fighting back means more pain.

Her father pulls out a blade and puts it to her throat.

Stupid. Stupid. Her father is not here. It is a foreign blade that rests against her neck, ready to draw blood. She stands still all the same, waiting for the strike. Waiting for the end.

The second man steps closer, taller and broader but with similar darkness in his eyes. He measures her with curiosity that induces another onslaught of shudders. "A princess?"

"Not without a white mop of hair, she isn't."

"I'm a servant," she rasps out, glad that her voice seems to work even when her mind does not.

The words seem to amuse them. Hungry eyes take her in. She's wearing a white nightgown and a golden necklace; skin void of signs of hard labor. Whatever false declarations she makes to spout cannot change her pristine appearance. They know. Of course, they know.

"Ain't you too pretty for a servant, girl?" The man behind her tightens his hold, pulling her closer. He's still there when she squeezes her eyes shut. When she holds her breath. When she imagines dissolving into air. "Yes, you are. I've seen faces like this only once, all the way down the Street of Silk."

"The most expensive you'll find," the second man agrees. He's close enough that his foul breath wafts the air and hits her face. A dirt-stained finger rises up to trail her cheek. She wonders if she'll ever wash away the imprint. "Always worth every damn penny."

She winces when the one holding her still grabs her hair and pulls. Her scalp burns, wildfire spreading out from where the man's nails have sunk into skin.

"Who do you serve, then?”

"The Queen," she murmurs, broken words of a broken being.

"The Queen," he parrots. Cackles. "Lots of those these days, ain't there?"

"Suppose a good cunt warrants the title." With sparks of malicious glee lightening his eyes, the tall one bends to put their faces closer together. "Think yours is nice enough to have you crowned?"

Her attempt at thrashing is as weak as it is futile. The arms that hold her captive may as well be steel. Amidst her crazed bout of writhing, the tip of the blade nicks her neck. The stinging sensation gets lost in the oncoming onslaught of terror.

(It begins like this: the peaceful lull of nightfall lures her into a state of repose, moonlight brushing her cheekbones with tender care. Fatigue comes in gentle waves, claiming her eyes first. Whenever they fall shut, she always sees the same things. Fields of blooming flowers. Her mother's dress dancing in the wind.

It's all gone by the time the footsteps appear. She tries to hold onto the images of summer with a desperate sort of fervour, but she is destined to fail. The door creaks. Tranquility ebbs away.

Eternities later, when her body is painted with new bruises and marks, she swears she'll remember that the night is deceitful.

She forgets by morning.

She always does.)

Her fear induces enthusiasm. They feed off her distress. She tries to obey her own mind and dampen the raw emotions—to discourage further abuse with artificial indifference. The trembling of her body ceases, defiance flowing through her veins and taking root in her chest. She has bled before. Nothing they do to her could scar flesh that already bears traces of damage.

The glint in the stranger's eye does not extinguish. Through hooded eyes, he watches her cling to the composure she has so desperately gathered. She meets his gaze. Dares him to come closer. To strike.

"No, no." A rough hand comes up to pat her head, as if to provide comfort. "Don't frighten her."

She is not frightened. She is half-dead. She's in the fields with her mother; deep underwater with her sister; gone, dissolved into air.

The man tears the necklace off her neck. Brings it to his face. Smiles as if he has won. "Maybe I'll find you after."

Even when he's gone, she cannot move.

The hold does not loosen. The blade remains pressed against her throat. Would it be difficult to cut through, she wonders, or would the blade sink into skin and bone with astounding ease?

"Don't be scared. I wouldn't hurt a face like this. All you need to do is be good. Can you be good for me?"

Has no one seen them barge in? Have the guards left them unprotected? She doesn't know. Her chest heaves, fighting for every breath, and she doesn't know.

(No one's coming to save you.)

"I'm looking for the One-Eyed Prince," he tells her, breaking through her panicked confusion.

Everything stills in the wake of his words. They bring about a darker sort of quietude. She chokes on air and searches her mind for a response. There's nothing but blankness.

"There's someone willing to pay very generously for his head. I intend to earn every bit of that gold." His laughter is cold. Cruel. "You'd like to help me, wouldn't you?"

Her father's face manifests in front of her. Empty eyes stare into hers. He has come to collect the price for her life—a price she ought to pay for eternities and beyond. When he leans in, he whispers promises of violence. His voice seeps with rage. She blinks and the image is gone. Silence persists, disturbed by the heavy breathing of the man behind her and the thudding of her heartbeat.

A moment passes.

Another.

Another.

How many nights has she spent conjuring images of Aemond Targaryen's death? Death is carved into her eyelids. She imagined its claws claiming her father first. Then the Prince came, disturbing whatever fleeting moments of peace she had left, and from then on she imagined him dying, too.

Because he is destined to die. Destined to succumb to the very same war he himself has begotten. The dragon prince will fall, crushed by the same violence he wields with masterful precision. She has seen him smothered by fire; dropped from the skies; with a sword driven into his chest. She has dreamed of his blood. Of the old scar reopening. Of the violet eye falling shut.

Sometimes, suspended on the precipice of sleep, she imagines it is her who takes his life.

Sometimes, haunted by solitude, she sees herself cut his throat with his own sword.

But it is never like this.

Never like this.

Does the stranger think himself skilled enough to win against Prince Aemond? Has he seen him wield a weapon? She remembers all the times she watched him train, hair wild and forehead slick with sweat. Does he know, she wonders, the extent of the Prince's ferocity? He is a bloodthirsty beast. Death sits on his fingertips the same way it lingers in her mind.

If she tells him, she's free.

If she tells him, she’s doomed.

(The shackles. The shackles.)

If the Prince dies tonight, she is a property belonging to no one. A girl without a name. A being with no purpose. If he dies, any promises of protection die with him. Whoever comes to claim the throne is free to choose her fate. To pull on the strings attached to her life. Without him, her value drops to nothing, shackles gone and agreements null. If she doesn't belong to him, her life holds no meaning. He is her curse. Her fate.

His life is hers.

Equal.

Equal.

When something clatters to the ground outside the chamber, she doesn't let herself hesitate. The sound is enough to have the man's grip loosen. She doesn't think about grabbing the blade with her bare hands. Doesn't think about letting it slice her palms as she pulls it away from her neck. She doesn't think when her foot pummels backwards. As the man staggers back, toppled over in pain, she swerves by and does not look back.

Even through blurred vision, the path is clear.

There was a time she would ponder whether one could grow immune to flames—not to wield them, but to exist in their glow. To find peace in their wake. To seek shelter amidst their heat. When the dragon prince came to claim her life as his own, she allowed herself to imagine it only once. Fire engulfing someone starving for warmth. A refuge from danger in the centre of its most menacing parts.

She collapses right outside his door and waits, and the only thought that lingers is the grim admission: she cannot have him die.

It is storming outside. Just this once, she does not fear the carnage it brings.

[lanadelreylover11]

I feel like a virgin when I search up “x Reader” with a new character I like

[lemonmoonmochi]

Me and who?!

[dirtyhotd]

#6

[connorsui]

"How beautiful was she?"

"Was? ...please ..she is beautiful, but not like those girls in magazines. She is beautiful, for the way she thinks, She is beautiful for the sparkle in her eyes when she speaks about anything she loves. She is beautiful for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. No, she wasn't beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She is beautiful, deep down to her soul ....

She is the love of my life"

The man: Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, John Price, Jason Todd, Sam Winchester, Higuruma Hiromi, Halsin, Astarion Zayne, Sylus, Xavier, Levi Ackerman, Simon Riley, Johnny Mactavish, Leon Kennedy, Aizawa, Dabi, Hawks, Rafayel, Cooper Howard, Logan Howlett, Aemond, Nikto,

[multific]

For Every Word You Give Me

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: You’ve always struggled with your stutter, speaking only when you must, trusting only your husband with your voice.

The table stretched long through the hall, glittering with silver and candlelight. 

The meat was passed, wine spilt freely, and laughter echoed off stone walls, too loud, too sharp. 

You felt small in it all. Always had.

You sat beside Aemond, his hand lightly resting atop yours under the tablecloth. 

Your thumb moved slowly across his knuckles, grounding yourself in his calm presence, his heat.

His voice beside you was low and steady, “You look lovely tonight.”

Your lips curled shyly. You whispered back, “Th-thank you.” The words were soft, hesitant. 

But he heard you. He always heard you.

Aemond turned his head slightly, a rare softness in his pale eye. “Only I get to hear your voice like that,” he murmured. “I think I’m the luckiest man in all of Westeros.”

You blushed, squeezing his hand beneath the table. 

You never spoke much, the stutter made it hard, made you ashamed. You had grown used to silence, to ducking your head. 

But with him… you tried. He never looked at you with pity. Only devotion.

Then came Aegon’s voice.

Slurred. Loud. Drunk.

“You know, brother,” he called across the table, “I often wonder if your wife is mute or just terribly slow. The poor girl can barely choke out a sentence without sounding like she’s drowning in her own words.”

Your blood turned to ice.

The table fell quiet. The silence stretched long.

You looked down instantly, cheeks burning, eyes stinging. Your throat ached with humiliation, with all the words you couldn’t say to defend yourself.

Aemond stood up, abruptly. His chair scraped the floor.

“Aegon,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “if you ever speak of her that way again, I will remove your tongue and feed it to Vhagar.”

Aegon scoffed, raising his goblet. “Oh come now, I mean-”

“She is worth a thousand of you,” Aemond snapped. “You are unfit to speak her name.”

You were already moving, tears falling fast as you rushed out of the hall, heart thudding in your ears. 

You didn’t want to be seen. Not like this. You hated how weak it made you feel. How small.

You made it to your chambers and closed the door behind you, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. You pressed your back against the wood and covered your mouth to muffle your sobs.

Why did it always hurt like this? Why couldn't you just speak normally?

Minutes passed.

Then the door creaked open.

“Aemond,” you gasped, quickly wiping your face. “Y-you shouldn’t-”

“Stop,” he said gently, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Don’t hide from me.”

You turned your back to him anyway. “I d-don’t… w-want you to see m-me like this.”

His arms wrapped around you from behind, firm and warm. He pressed his lips to your shoulder, his voice low against your skin. “You never have to hide from me.”

You shook your head. “I’m… I’m b-broken.”

“No,” he whispered. “You’re brave. Do you know how much strength it takes to speak when the world gives you reason not to?”

Your voice trembled. “You d-deserve someone b-b-better-”

“I deserve you,” he said, turning you in his arms. His eye searched your face with a mix of fury and reverence. “You, who give me your voice when no one else hears it. You, who I would kill for without hesitation. You are mine. And I am yours.”

Your lip quivered. “You r-really mean that?”

“I swear it on Vhagar’s fire, on my blood, on my love for you,” he whispered, cupping your face. “Speak only to me, if that is what makes you feel safe. I’ll carry your silence for the world, and treasure every word you give me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks again, not from shame this time, but from relief. 

You nodded and leaned into him.

“I l-l-love you,” you whispered, voice fragile as lace.

His breath caught. Then he kissed you, deeply, as if that was the only answer he could ever give.

He pulled you to bed that night and held you until you stopped shaking. You fell asleep in his arms, his hand tangled in yours.

And for the first time in a long time, you dreamed without fear.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[vampzv]

"I don't have a type." ... sure

[dolicekiss]

Apple Of Their Eye

part two here

PAIRING: Dark! Aegon Targaryen X sister!reader X Dark!Aemond Targaryen

CONTENT WARNING: smut (18+, mdni) incestuous relationship, dark!targaryen brothers, innocent virgin!reader, dubcon, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex, handjob, riding, breeding, threesome, kissing, possessive behaviour, nipple play, throat fucking, drunk reader, praise, pretty much the targaryen brothers giving their sister sex lessons and claiming her as theirs.

SYNOPSIS: Being close to both your Targaryen brothers had its own perks. Drinking wine together, going horse riding and reading books. It was all a dream but when Aegon heard the talk of your betrothal, he decided it was finally time to taint you. What you didn’t expect was Aemond walking in on you indulging in your older brother’s sickly pleasures.

Giggles erupted from your lips when your sweet brother, Aegon made a weird face to encourage sweet giggles out of you. His favorite sound in the world, as he liked to address it. Your bond with both your brothers was something never seen before among house Targaryen. Fiercely loyal to each other, defensive and protective. You were the perfect trio of destruction — well, with a honeyed touch of peace.

That was your vital role.

To calm down the blood of the dragons.

You had grown so attached to one another that both your brothers denied the responsibilities of the throne, wishing to spend time with you.

You had to convince Aegon to sit upon the throne and he agreed in one go when his little sister asked for it. How could he not? You were looking up at him with such hopeful, glimmering eyes, those long lashes of yours coating the apple of your cheeks.

He often wondered if his bridled desires would break out of control one moon and find way to you?

Aemond entered the room, hand resting atop his sword as he analyzed the room, which was in shambles. You and Aegon again had enjoyed a pillow fight — pieces of feathers and cotton everywhere in the room. Pale sheets on the floor and wine spilled everywhere.

He was the youngest, yet he felt as though he was the oldest amongst you three. You and Aegon behaved like little children, even when you were younglings. Aegon and you would disturb the council members and pull hilarious pranks on them meanwhile Aemond paid them no mind.

“You two.” His voice put a hold to your giggles, your attention diverting to your brother. Your silky strands — similar to Aemond’s — were a mess. They reached your hips, only at such a young age and Aemond couldn't keep his one eye off the loose strap of your dress over your creamy shoulder.

Aegon smirked to himself, knowing well him and his brother shared their feelings about you.

You smiled at Aemond, a big grin of excitement adorning your soft, delicate features. “Aemond! Come here, have wine with us.”

He shook his head. “I have duties to tend to, sister. You carry on.”

Your lips formed a frown. “But Aemond, I miss you. You rarely ever spend time with Aegon and I. Do we bore you now, do you seek fun in planning war and those boring councils?”

Aegon nodded in agreement and Aemond shook his head, walking closer and taking a seat on the bed with you. Aegon had his head on your lap, staring at you with love sick eyes of a puppy. Your flushed state and rosette cheeks were a vision for Aemond — his callous hands aching to touch you.

“Aemond how can you neglect our beautiful sister here?” Aegon taunted, reaching out to wrap a finger around a strand of your silver hair and curl it. You smiled at him, cheeks round and Aemond swallowed. “I am not neglecting her, I am merely occupied with tending to my duties since no one else will.”

He diverted his one eye to Aegon and the older brother groaned, tugging on the single strand of your hair. You whimpered at the pain, lips puckering into a pout. “Aegon, stop it.”

“You shouldn't trust Aegon so much, sweet sister. He is all but a twat,” Aemond’s words made you turn to him and he looked away from you, not wanting his gaze to linger somewhere below where he was allowed. His own reluctance at being around you proved that he too struggled with the same demons his older brother did.

Aegon sat up now, eyes boring into Aemond’s. “And why shouldn't she? I pay her more mind, more attention than you ever would.”

“I trust him, brother. You should too, he's our king and he cares for me.” You softly spoke.

Your soft soothing voice was like the sun against their cold words. Aemond pondered late at night how their monstrous house got blessed with such a sweet little thing? Repentance was not something that came to house Targaryen — so why were they bestowed with you?

Your kindness, to the maids — the highborn ladies and even the members of the small council made you quite the perfect candidate for queen, especially when the realm loved and adored you. The sweet daughter of Viserys Targaryen, left behind to bring prosperity and love.

“Yeah, she trusts me.” Aegon said, scooting behind you. His chin nestled over the small cup of your shoulder, staring straight ahead with mischief in his gaze. “Don't you, sweet sister?”

You nodded, coyly.

He was almost taunting Aemond, being able to stay this close to you while he was busy with preparing for war. It was not fair, definitely to Aemond it was not. He inhaled a sharp breath as Aegon buried his face in the crook of your neck, accidentally pressing a kiss to your exposed skin. Your body shuddered and you quickly pulled away from him, staring at him in confusion.

Aemond felt a lump form in his throat.

Fuck, you were so innocent. Oblivious to the sick desires of both your brothers.

“Be careful, sister.” Aemond said to you, gesturing towards the other Targaryen brother. “You're too innocent for your own good.”

Then he got up, parting from your chambers, hoping that the next time he enters, he finds you all alone and not with that foolish brother of his. He did not harbor resentment towards Aegon necessarily, but ever since they were children, they fought. For a dragon, for toys and for your attention. It had been a constant battle of who'd bring you the prettiest flower first, who would be first to dance with you at feasts, who's horse you'd sit on and ride.

For everyone else it was draining but you relished the attention you got from your brothers. Enjoying each and every bit of the fight going on for you — only you didn't knew it went beyond the walls of brotherly love and they were horrifyingly obsessed with you.

Aemond had turned down every marriage alliance, not interested in securing the future of the realm if it came at the expense of being far from you. A woman would only act as a wall between the two of you and Aemond did not want any walls. He would gladly crush them, with or without the help of Vhagar.

You prepared another cup of wine to drink but Aegon was called to the council — arranged by the dowager Queen. Crestfallen, you let your brother go as he fixed his attire and departed from your chambers, after leaving a sweet kiss on your forehead.

As soon as Aegon entered the council room, he's greeted with everyone there. Each member and with a scowl on his face, he takes his seat. Evidently upset by having to leave his sister, even though he could go back to her at anytime.

“Your Grace.” Everyone greeted him, standing up and heads low. Aegon gestured them to sit and they obliged, following into their comfortable seats.

Alicent looked at the council members, knowing that the discussion they had come to would eventually upset the King. Everyone was hesitant and Aegon noticed that. He raised a brow, confused. “Are we here to stare at one another? If we are, do excuse me. I have pressing matters to attend to.”

Everyone knew pressing matters meant giving his undivided attention to his little sister.

“In order to secure house frey and gain access and control to the passage in riverrun, we think it would be best to form a marriage alliance with them.” Alicent’s words didn't actually hit Aegon how they were supposed to, as he grinned. “We cannot offer a dragon, we can offer a dragon.”

Assuming the marriage alliance was for Aemond, his younger brother not his little sister. “Great, it is about time Aemond finds himself a pretty bird too.”

He was cheerful. If Aemond was married, he would have your attention all to himself and he became overjoyed with that, a little too fast. Alicent swallowed, exchanging glances with the master of coin and the maester. Her hesitance was in existence because she did not know how maturely her son would handle to the news of sending his only sister away from him.

“Your Grace, the marriage alliance is for your sister, the Princess. House frey has suitors available and the Princess gets to choose with whom she wishes to ma—”

Aegon’s palms slammed down against the wooden table, rising up from the table. His gaze searing and his lips quivering from the sheer courage of Tyland Lannister’s, to marry his sister off without even inquiring him about it. The fact that they even thought of doing that filled him with a rage so overwhelming, he felt like burning the whole small council to the ground.

“That is my sister you're speaking of.” He reminded them. “I will have your fucking tongue for even suggesting to get her married off in the first place.”

The whole council flinched at the King’s outburst. Alicent had expected it to be a tantrum but this was more than a childish tantrum. The room was elevated with tension as Aegon panted, his body quivering from the rage coursing through his veins.

Alicent took a deep breath. “It is for the best, my King. You need to win this war and the Freys are demanding a dragon which we cannot provide.”

“So you give them my sister, like some fucking piece of coin?” He snapped, turning to her. “She is the princess of house Targaryen, my sister. I will not have you subject her to the same fate as all the other women.”

Aegon dismissed the council, walking out of there. Alicent sighed, holding onto tethered pieces of hope that maybe talking to Aemond about it would be better, since Aegon did consider him his closest blood and best sword. Little did she know she would be riling up another dragon and awakening it.

The next few hours were unbearable for Aegon. He had visited your chambers but you were nowhere to be found and when he asked your maids, he was told you'd gone out to collect flowers for the vase in your room. Countless times both your brothers had told you to either tell them or command the servants to bring you flowers — still you did what you felt.

Upon your return, you found your chambers not deserted. Aegon was there, situated on your bed. Hair a mess, tunic unbuttoned revealing his pale chest. Your brother was disheveled and you couldn't recall the time you two spent together being the cause of this.

So what had happened?

Worried and upset, you dropped the basket filled with flowers by the side of your door and walked over to him. Your purple dress, a match to your purple eyes, flowing behind like the waves of the sea. You sat next to your brother, small hands reaching out to cup his face in them.

“Brother, is everything alright? You seem upset.” You inquired and when Aegon raised his head, you saw just how devasted he appeared.

Devasted and drunk.

Your eyes noticed the cup in his hand, as well as the pitcher on the floor. Something happened at the small council, that much you figured out. But what had happened, now that was for Aegon to tell you.

Though your brother only stared at you, bringing the cup to your lips. “Drink, for me.”

You were in no mood for wine but you still obliged him, parting your lips and consuming the wine. The crimson tainting your lips red as you swallowed it, gulp after gulp. Even for you that was a lot and when you were finished, Aegon refilled the empty cup.

“Drink more.” It was a command.

You frowned. “Did I do something wrong, brother? Is this your way of reprimanding me?”

He stared at you, eyes droopy and full of glimmering lust for you — unbeknownst to you. “I want us to be drunk together, like old times. Please.”

You heard the plea in his voice and nodded, softening at the disheveled state your brother was in. You parted your lips to take sips as Aegon held the cup for you. He pushed it, more and more until the wine had overwhelmed you and drops spilled over your dress, trailing down your chin.

The red had absorbed into the purple but you finished your glass, staring at Aegon after the glass had been tore from your lips.

Aegon moved further into your soft bed, veiled by pellucid pale curtain and you followed, laying next to him. His head found comfort on your chest, a frown so evidently ceasing his features. Confusion had clouded your senses — hoping that your brother might tell you the cause of his distress.

But all he did was lay silently on your chest, feeling the soft plush of your breasts against his cheek.

Aegon swallowed the urge to press his mouth over your pebbles and suck them, burying his face deeper into your breasts. He was a mess and he knew that his mother would go against him, to secure more power and alliances with the other lords.

He could not let it happen.

He mouthed lazily at the chiffon, attempting to take a nipple of yours into his mouth. The purple fabric absorbed the saturation of his saliva, as your brother crossed all the limits between the two of you.

As if there were any to begin with.

“A-Aegon, what are you doing?” You whispered in a breathy gasp when he sucked on your peaked nipple through the cotton, his other hand moving to provide your other breast with attention.

Your back arched slightly and your breath quickened as your brother’s hands moved down to the laces which held your dress together. As drunk as you were, you still knew this was wrong yet had no control whatsoever of the situation. Once your laces were loosened enough, Aegon tugged at the sleeve of your dress and unveiled your breast.

“Brother, this is inappropriate. You're under the influence of wine, we should not—”

Aegon looked up at you with the softest look on his face, akin to a puppy. He switched his attention to the unattended breast of yours which he had uncovered, suckling on the nipple, fingers rolling the soaked one in between them. Your soft lips were parted and made the prettiest little sounds of pleasure foreign to you.

“I'm your brother, sister. If I don't deserve to have you like this when who does? Those fucking house frey suitors?” He snapped, voice fallen to a few octaves. Your breath hitched in your throat at his words, not being able to understand what he was insinuating with his words.

Your brows scrunched and your crinkles formed on your nose. “H-House frey, Aegon?”

He chose silence.

Aegon moved to lean up against the bed, his unbuttoned tunic revealing his bare chest beneath his small clothes. You watched him, your silver hair a mess — cascading beautifully down your shoulders and narrow back. Aegon patted his lap, a silent order for you to sit on it but you could only blink innocently.

Having no regards of such matters.

“Crawl to me, sister.”

You nodded, as puzzled as you were, slithering to settle yourself over your brother's lap. Both hands on his chest as your thighs sat over each side of his waist, looking down at him. This was all new to you but you were not complaining.

His hand extended to grasp your chin, pulling your face closer to him. He could see everything, all the subtle features which made you all the more beautiful. The mole neath your left eye, the way your pupils enlarged whenever you locked eyes with him, how your pretty lips quivered. “Today I will teach you how to make your brothers the happiest. You wish to learn, don't you sister?”

You eagerly nodded.

Aegon grinned. “Kiss me, my little dove.”

You obliged, pressing a kiss to his cheek and Aegon released a chuckle. In complete awe of the naivety you possessed. “Here, sister. This will make me and Aemond the happiest.”

You were hesitant with it but still leaned your head, pressing a subtle, feather light kiss to Aegon’s lips. His hunger was far from satiated as he stared at you with a hooded gaze, his blood heating up at the feel of your lips against his. He was over the moon with only a peck, he could only imagine the power of a proper liplock.

“Did I do good? Was that okay, brother?”

Aegon shook his head. “No, little dove. You have to do more, kiss more of my lips. Try to suck on them, yeah?”

You puffed out your cheeks, irritated at your own incompetence at making your brother happy. Still, you kissed him once more but this time like a baby bird trying to eat it's food with untrained beaks, you tried to suck on Aegon’s lips. Closing them around his upper lip, your saliva glossing his lips. Aegon’s cock stirred awake in his breeches at how inexperienced you truly were. An innocent girl getting ruined by her brother.

You closed your eyes, focusing at the task at hand. Aegon reached for your nape, locking it in place as he finally kissed you back. Soft kiss of yours evolved into something harsher, something more passionate and you whimpered, your endeavor to retreat declined by your brother. Your small hands nestled over his chest — trying to push him but it only strengthened the kiss, Aegon trying to drown in the sweet nectar.

“Open your mouth, little dove.” Your endeavor to speak was mistaken as consent by your brother, his tongue running over the edge of your perfect teeth — making way to your tongue. He wrapped around the wet muscle and began to suck on it, the saliva dripping from your mouth and slipping into his. Light headed you had become due to the vigorous kiss and how your brother dominated your mouth with his tongue.

Aegon soon broke the kiss and allowed you a few moments of air, staring at how swollen your lips had become. He had tasted you and it only fuelled his desire more for you. To claim you and never let anyone else's sight fall upon you. Heart fluttering at being the first man ever to put his cock inside you.

“This is what good sisters do for their brothers.” He said to you, his hands rested on your thighs and thumbs swiping across the pale skin. “You're such a good girl, my Princess. You'd do anything for your King, won't you?”

You nodded your head impatiently, doe eyes looking into your brother's purple ones. Chest falling and rising, sharp intakes of breath breaking through the silence. Aegon smiled and that was the biggest achievement for you, ever. He lifted one hand from your thigh, taking your small hand into his. Aegon loved how your petite hand disappeared into his — a perfect size you were for him.

He wondered in that very moment how you'd look taking Aemond’s cock into your small mouth, considering he was bigger than the both of you. Taller, toned from the constant training of wielding a sword. The thought of both of them taking you at once riled him up like nothing else.

Aegon brought your hand to his crotch, laying it over it. Your coy eyes widened. “B-Brother.”

“Unlace my trousers, sister.” Albeit it was an order, his tone was soft. You had never seen such a dark look in your sweet brother's eyes, violets always glimmering with excitement and happiness.

You were hesitant at first, reluctance dripping from the way your shivering fingers pulled at the soft laces which tightened his trousers. Aegon watched with a curious gaze, knowing very well he was about to defile his little sister and ruin the innocence she so wholeheartedly showcased. It almost made him sad but this was necessary, to wed you to him. Or even Aemond.

He couldn't care less who you married as long as it was one of them.

With bated breath, you loosened his trousers and then looked at him for further instructions.

“Pull out my cock, sister. You should feel something hard, that is my cock.” Your silver lashes fluttered, fingers getting to work. The second you felt something hard, skin but rigid — you grasped it to free it. Aegon hissed upon your cold touch and you retreated, feeling bad.

He was quick to reach for you. “No, no. Do not worry, for I am fine. You shall continue.”

So you did, given the reassurance, your gaze focusing on the unclothed cock of your sweet brother. Aegon reached for your hand and wrapped it around his own cock with your neath it. “I need you to move your hand, sister. Pursue my actions, this will truly please me.”

Aegon began to move his hand in slow, sensual strokes and you followed. The more you touched him, the more he lost his composure. Little sounds falling from his parted lips and his hand fell to the side over his thigh — letting you take the lead. You picked up your pace, hand undulating over his throbbing length.

Palm stained with his precum, you used it to slick his twitching cock and then moved your fingers up. A shuddered gasp of fulfillment slipping from Aegon’s mouth upon that accident. You smiled, in victory and pressed the pad of your thumb deeper into his little hole. Watching as more of the pale liquid spurted out.

The more you stared at it, the prettier you found it — shade darker than the rest of him and cock head the same pink as his agape lips. Varicose veins, a deeper hue of purple than the ones of your irises embedded in neath the flesh.

Eyes sparkling at the thought of touching Aemond in the same way, getting to see such an intimate part of him. You wished he was here, to be able to do this for him would be a great blessing.

Your mouth watered the more you gazed at your brother's glistening cock head. Without paying much mind to it, you leaned lower and closed your lips around it. Aegon’s eyes immediately snapped open when he felt the warmth your mouth provided and stared down at you.

“Oh, Gods.” He groaned, almost a whine. “Who taught you this, my sister? Have you engaged in such acts before?”

You quickly backed away, shaking your head with a guilt ridden face. “No, Aegon. I am so very sorry if this was something I was not supposed to do. I promise I have never done this before, I promise. I swea—”

“Hey,” Aegon whispered, caressing your face with his large hand. “I believe you. You see I do not wish for you to get involved like this with someone else. It is only right if you do it with me, and Aemond.”

You nodded your head understandingly. “I would love for you to continue, my little dove but right now I need something more. Could you give it to me, my sweet girl?”

“Yes, brother. Anything my King wants.” You smiled, lips shimmering with his residual and Aegon’s cock twitched.

He pulled you on his lap once more, hands on your waist. Then the pair dropped lower to your bare thighs and Aegon bunched up your dress, revealing your unclothed, bare pink cunt. You were never too fond of wearing small clothes under your dresses — summer of Westeros unbearable for a delicate thing like you.

He licked his lips deliciously.

“Just as you touched me, I have the full right to touch you too. You understand?” You nodded like an obedient student, stomach churning in anticipation for your brother's next move.

Aegon pulled you closer rather harshly by your thighs and your shoulders went slumped, feeling his head brush against your pearl. Your eyes widening at the electrifying contact. “I need to do this in order to make my cock fit inside you, so be a good girl and let me, okay?”

“Yes, brother.” You whispered, stomach fluttering in anticipation.

Aegon’s fingers moved to your cunt, running in the center of your soaked folds. He found it amusing how you had no idea of the pleasures taken between a man and a woman yet your body had reacted like this, cunt drenched and wet. He knew your maidenhead was still intact, after all he rarely ever let you be in the presence of someone else.

If Aegon was occupied, it would be Aemond who would linger around you like a new born shadow.

They knew how innocent you were, how fucking naive and monsters lurked in the red keep. You needed their protection more than the people of the realm. Careless they were about the iron throne, Aegon wished to fuck you on it before properly ascending it.

“Oh.” Your eyes slightly rolled back at the way your brother caressed your folds, pinching your pink pearl. “You've got such a beautiful cunt, my sister. I am sure you will put it to good use to make your brothers happy, won't you, little dove?”

Eager you were to please them.

They had brought you everything, anything your heart had ever desired. Allowed you to ride their dragons with them, brought you the most beautiful gifts from the north and drowned you in lannister gold. Both brothers even went as far as getting you jewelry from Dorne since Aemond caught you complimenting a dornish necklace.

Aemon’s thumb prodded at your bud, swirling it around, watching how your face contorted in pleasure. Lids fluttering shut and head thrown back, fingernails digging into your brother's chest. You were a fucking sight, all disheveled. With his other hand, he entered a finger into you and your pleasure-clad face evolved into one of pain.

“Ow,” you complained at the sting of being stretched out. “Aegon, that hurts.”

“I know, my Princess but you mustn't rush. I will bring you pleasure soon, it is a promise.”

You believed him, waiting out the sting as Aegon fully sunk his finger into you. Driving it in and out of you, all the while rubbing your swollen attention seeking bud. Your expressions were the prettiest, the most breathtaking and he questioned himself why did he not do this earlier?

Just what was stopping him back?

He was the fucking King, goddamnit. He could have you whenever he wanted and you would give yourself up to him, everytime. Just like right now how you were serving yourself up to him on a silver platter like those animals during feasts.

“Brother, oh my god. This feels weird, I feel weird.” You whimpered, hips moving on their own accord over your brother's fingers and Aegon licked his lips, furthermore sinking his canines into his lower lip.

Aegon added another without warning and you whined out, a loud one which made him reach over and press his palm over your lips, sealing them shut. “As much as I absolutely adore your sounds, we should not let anyone find out.”

You nodded, and Aegon removed his hand, letting you breathe. You decided to keep it blow but everytime Aegon would move his finger inside you and you would feel it run at your gummy unclaimed walls, little whimpers would escape you. Feeling his fingers curve up and rotate, hitting into a spongy spot of which’s existence you too were unaware of, you cried out.

Aegon smiled.

That was enough preparing.

Aegon pulled out and you gasped when he brought his lips to his mouth, sucking on your sweet arousal.

He wanted to take you on your back but that was how he took his whores. He would never let them sit on top of his thighs and look at him like this — all dolled up yet disheveled. You were his sister, the apple of his fucking eye and Aegon was not going to take you like some whores.

They existed to keep his sick desires for you at bay, but he knew after this, he would not be needing them anymore.

“This is going to hurt, sister but worry not, I assure you I am right here. It shall feel better soon, just like with my fingers.” His comforting words and soft tone helped with your trepidation — allowing your brother to raise your hips and align his cock with your drenched hole.

Aegon allowed you to sink down on him and when his head breached your entrance, a sting worse than before spread like a virus, consuming your whole being. Your eyes welled up with tears and your lips quivered, a brusque tremor awakening in your petite hands. He was quick to come to your rescue, holding both your hands and leading the pair to his nape, making you latch onto him for support.

“Here, hold me. As tight as you can, my little dove and carefully slide down. Be careful and gentle, alright? No rush here.” He continuously comforted, guiding you and you nodded, inhaling a deep and brief breath.

Then you sunk more, his girth expanding your hole. Little movement and reassuring words from your brother helped you take the entirety of his cock and when your ass finally met his thighs, Aegon groaned. You felt his cock twitch inside you and your hold around his nape tightened. The pain was throbbing and hot — consuming your whole being but the fact you were so full with your brother's cock, contempt, you let out a drunk giggle.

Short on breath but still, you smiled at Aegon.

While you two descended deeper into forbidden pleasures, Aemond had gotten free time to come see you.

After intense sword training and back and forth of sharing strategies of the war with Ser Criston Cole, Aemond had found his feet switching route — bringing you to the hallway where your chambers were located. As he walked, with each step, he felt extreme excitement build up in his stomach. Finally having enough time to spare you a visit and get drunk, bask in your presence.

He hoped that Aegon would not be there as he wanted you all to himself, especially for tonight.

Upon opening the door to your chambers, the view before him left him astonished and there were rarely many things that left Aemond Targaryen astonished. He was quick to close the doors, not wishing for anyone to come across the Princess’ bed chambers and witness such sin.

His hands formed into fists — how you sat on top of Aegon, hips oscillating in a sensual manner. Too sensual for someone as innocent as you and he knew Aegon had managed to ruin and defile the only pure thing about house Targaryen. Yet fucking again. You two were so indulged and far gone in your pleasures that Aemond’s presence was barely noticed.

But then Aegon caught his brother's tall figure by the door.

“Oh brother, welcome.” He called out, although it was more of a moan and you turned to look at Aemond.

Your cunt tightened at Aegon when gaze laid over your brother, the one you missed the most since he barely had time to spare. Aegon let out a hoarse chuckle, shaking his head at his brother. “You will not fucking believe it but our sister's cunt became more tight upon seeing you.”

Aemond’s teeth gritted. “Mittys, that is our sister.” (Fool)

“Do not pretend as if you have not wished to do this more than I have.” He voiced it out, hand pressing into your waist. You whimpered as Aegon made you move on his cock and by now the pain had subsided, pleasure coming in to take control. You began to roll your hips over his thighs, eyes locked with Aemond.

You needed him too, your eyes screamed for him to come closer and as if you had telepathically communicated, Aemond sauntered towards the bed.

You whined when Aegon pushed his hips up, breaching furthermore of your cunt. “Aemond.”

Aegon was inside you but you were moaning for Aemond and the older brother did not even find it upsetting. Rather his cock hardened even more — if possible, hearing you whine and ache for your younger brother with such need. He did not mind sharing you with Aemond, as long as he could have his fill of you too.

“A-Aegon said I could make you both happier like this. I want to, I love you. You're my brothers.” You expressed your profound love for them, nodding your head as Aemond slipped of his leather gloves. He tossed them aside and reached for your hair, taking a strand and curling it around his finger. His nose catching a whiff of the perfumes and oils you were basking in, yet the natural scent of roses was enough to drive him fucking crazy.

He leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to your bare shoulder. Eye following the stretch mark trailing down to your breasts and the stretched flesh made him realize that you had grown. You were not a little girl anymore but you were still their little sister. Your rosy nipples were peaked — demanding attention and Aemond hissed.

His own cock bulging against his leather slacks and Aegon saw it.

Aegon moved inside you, thrusting up and you lost composure. Lips breaking apart to let out the most feminine sounds, silver strands glued on a perspired forehead as Aemond watched you bounce on his brother's cock with vigor. Your fingernails had dug into Aegon’s nape and tears sat beautifully like pearls in your waterline.

It was evident that you were sensitive, nothing like the common whores.

“Does she not look fucking beautiful, bouncing on her big brother's cock like that?”

Aemond wanted to punch Aegon but he was not wrong. You did look celestial, out of this world with how you bounced up and down on his cock, trying to desperately please him.

Aegon rolled his eyes at Aemond. “Are you only going to just watch? I have taught her things, with her hand and mouth. Be a dear and show him, sister.”

Like a trained puppy, you were quick to oblige, hands extended to work gracefully over Aemond’s leather slacks. You undid them, pulling at the leather and he watched how eager and desperate you were. Hands moving with a significant tremor.

“Aemond,” he raised his eye from your hands to your face. “may I please have you in my mouth?”

If the offer had crawled to him on its fucking fours with the most precious doe eyes, who was he to deny? He, too was a man at the end and had perpetually craved you the same as Aegon. Only he was subtle with his desires.

“Yes, my sweet sister.” Aemond whispered, staring at you. His consent made you flourish like the moonlight, bright and glowing right in his face.

Aegon decided it would be better to switch positions and he pulled out, bringing you on all your fours and giving space to Aemond against the bed headboard. He shifted, sprawled out before you, leather slacks and small clothes long gone. In the process, Aegon had stripped himself bare too but the brothers wanted you to not remove the dress.

Just how easily they had access to you despite the dress, it enticed them.

With Aemond’s cock in your hand, you came to a conclusion that his was the prettiest. It was longer than Aegon’s but had almost the same girth. Protruding veins embedded inside the pale skin, his balls hot and throbbing with an ache. You looked up at him and smiled and all Aemond could do was return it and fucking melt.

“Aemond, remove your eye patch. I want to see you whole.” You voiced out your desires and he reached for the eye patch, sliding it off and tossing it aside. The sapphire sparkled like crazy in his eye and you had always found it to be the most coolest and breathtaking thing about Aemond.

Having less of a part than the others did not make him less human too.

Though he appeared more like a god. The fire from the fireplace casting a soft golden glow over both brothers, leaving them heated with pent up desires.

Aegon had already pummeled his cock back into you, not after witnessing the blood staining his length. Testament of your chasity staining him fully and his wanton for you only grew more. You pressed a little kiss to Aemond’s tip — watching him with your deer like purple eyes and he hissed, hand moving to interview with your silver strands.

Eventually you wrapped your lips around his head, slowly taking him deeper and deeper into your mouth while using your hand to stroke the rest which failed to fit. All while Aegon drove himself deeper inside your sweet, innocent cunt, drawing pathetic little whines out of you.

Aemond groaned, fingers tightening around your roots when the vibrations from your moans sent waves of electricity straight into his loins. You choked when he breached your throat, sputtering around him. Drool and cum glistening around your mouth. Your younger brother sighed pleasure, primary focus of his one eye.

“Messy little girl,” he taunted, the fluids dripping from your chin.

Aegon nestled his cock over and over into your sweet spot, urging you to reach your peak and unravel. “L-Look at her. So fucking obedient and pliant. I want to watch her stomach swell up with my babe. That way mother won't try to marry her off to someone else, some fucking riverrun lord.”

Aemond’s attention snapped to his brother's words, and Aegon only nodded. Letting him know that they were close to losing their sister but not anymore. The sweet dove was tainted, used and claimed. Even if their mother tried to marry her off, she was already tainted by her brothers and no lord would want her. That pleased both Aemond and Aegon.

“Gods, what a blessing you are.” Aemond praised you, highly, palm pressing deeper on your head, encouraging you to take him deeper and you did. His head sliding into the confines of your tight, wet throat. “Perfect little girl, a cocksleeve.”

With each thrust from Aegon, your body moved forward against Aemond’s. A sweaty mess of pleasure and bodied you three were but that did not matter. Aegon felt his peak near, tethering onto it and soon he finished inside you after delivering harsh, potent stutters of hips into you. Your cunt tightened, sucking him in, like a vice.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned. “Like that, little dove, take me in, all of me. Milk me fucking dry, let me breed you so you carry my silver haired children.”

Aemond didn't mind his brother having you first and defiling you, since he pretty sure had your throat first. You were theirs and that's all that mattered. Gagging sounds reverberated in the room along with strong sounds of skin slapping against skin. Your peak danced around too, and when Aemond fucked his cock harshly into your throat, you squeezed around Aegon’s cock and came all over. Tears splurging out, making a mess on your face.

Your whole body twitching from the intense climax. Thighs shaking and sensitivity heightened. Followed by your release, Aemond pursued. Release spurts of white into your mouth, spending fully inside you. Yet he did not unhand you, holding your head in place to fuck his hot load into your mouth.

Once he was done, he pulled out and grasped your chin, peeking inside. “Swallow it whole, Princess.”

And you did. Gulping down the remnants of his spend.

Your head, tired from being in one position, laid right on Aemond’s bare thigh. Aegon was still inside you and when he pulled out, he saw your gaping hole spurt out his white residual. Parts that failed to reach your womb but it did not matter. He would breed you over and over again until you were to end up with his child.

Or Aemond’s.

As long as it was a silver haired babe.

“A-Are you happy now?” You asked, a question for both of your brothers and Aemond nodded his head, running his slim fingers in your hair.

Aegon crawled upto you, laying next to Aemond. A subtle smile playing at his lips, eyes hooded and body weary from all the hard work. “Very happy, little dove. We could not have asked for a better sister.”

Your pale flushed skin reddened as Aemond moved you, bringing you closer to his chest and wrapping his arms around you. Aegon admired the two of you, pleased with the fucked up dynamics of his family. This was a pleasure he could not have found or ever would find in the bed of a whore. You were the apple of their eye and they could not let you go, even if it meant restoring to such methods.

Your hands cupped your younger brother's face, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.

Aemond had expected it to be a gentle peck but it grew needy and hasty, exactly how Aegon had taught you. Your lips suckling on his like a babe, trying to pry his mouth open and meet your tongue with his. You seemed addicted, desperate to kiss your younger brother the same way you had kissed your older. The kiss grew heated as Aemond opened his lips, finally taking control and dominating your mouth.

You whimpered, and Aemond could taste the residual of his orgasm. It did not phase him as he continued relishing in the sweet kiss, feeling your cunt beginning to rut against his already hardening cock.

When you broke the kiss, Aemond admired you before shifting his attention to Aegon who had a nasty grin on his face. “You're responsible for this.”

“Proudly. Only had to teach her once and look at how she's already sucking on your lips like it's a fucking cock.” He cheered, reaching over to pinch your cheeks. You giggled and hugged your younger brother, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

The three of you did not leave your chambers that night while the whole of red keep searched endlessly for the sword, the King and the maiden.

[paranoiastudio]

Bride by mistake [Prologue]

pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen х f!reader

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, oral, fingering, unprotected, handjobs, creampies, pet name, secret relationship, fake relationship (with Aegon), angst, slowburn, drugs and alcohol references

Description: I've long wanted to visit the Targaryen country "castle", but going there as Aegon's girlfriend... A lie on the part of a friend led to many strange events, the key person of which was none other than Aemond Targaryen, the younger brother of my friends and the strangest guy in the world.

Prologue

- What did you say? - You almost knock the joint out of Aegon's hands. - Are you kidding?

- I panicked. - He shrugs. - Mom was so pressed, I was after a night of debauchery and… I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

- Idiot! - You clutch your head; getting involved with Aegon Targaryen was a big mistake.

You study with his sister. Helaena is the most beautiful and kindest creature in the world, you do botany assignments together, often hang out after classes. She introduced you to Aegon, who didn't show up on campus very often, preferring to have fun. That's how you became to friends, you started selling him weed and soon he became your regular and most insatiable customer.

You bonded over your love of cats (each Targaryen child had their own cat) and video games, sometimes smoking together and often running into each other in the city. And now you're friends, you cover for him in front of girls, help him with tests… And bring weed to his house.

- Well, what are you suggesting! You often come to our house, mom noticed.

- I study with your sister, did you not think about that?

- Please… - Aegon makes "puppy eyes". - It's only for a week, I beg you. Do you want me to pay you?

- Fuck you! But you owe me now, understand? - Aegon smiles as if he's stunned and nods to you. - I'm going.

- There's ginger beer in the fridge. - Aegon hugs you, surprisingly, but he always treated you like a friend and nothing more.

- I'll take two bottles, because you're an idiot. - You return the hug and head downstairs, calling yourself a cab.

The kitchen was cool and quiet, everyone was already asleep when Aegon let you in. Putting your phone away, you open the fridge and pull out a bottle of beer, almost dropping it when someone comes into view.

- Hello. - Aemond, sleepy and half naked, seemed to sneak up on you, you didn’t hear his footsteps.

- Hello. - You twirl the bottle in your hands, trying not to stare at him too obviously.

- Are you coming with us? - Aemond walks around you and gets milk from the fridge. His tone sounds casual, does he know that Aegon is a little liar?

- Oh, yeah. Aegon asked today… - You try to sound casual and take a sip of beer.

- So you’re his “girlfriend”. - Aemond makes quotes with his fingers and looks at you point-blank, he knows the truth.

- Since Aegon screwed up, we'll have to help him. We're friends… - Aemond is standing so close, you can feel the warmth of his body, he just got out of bed and didn't look like he usually does.

- Yeah… - He continues to look and you can't think of anything better than to hand him the bottle, silently offering him your drink.

Aemond takes the cold bottle and takes a sip, looking into your eyes. A small drop rolls down his neck, you see his Adam's apple moving and lick your lips.

The taxi's horn brings you to your senses, taking the bottle you mumble something like goodbye and fly out of the house, literally running along the white gravel path.

When you got into the car, your gaze fell on the bottle again. You hesitate for a second, then take another sip, unable to shake the thought that his lips had touched the cold glass neck too. It's going to be a tough week…