#Floris Baratheon

[almondmilktargaryen]

Duty & Sacrifice (Part Three)

Summary: Aemond is married with two kids to Floris Baratheon, as it was his duty. But it's when he ventures into Flea Bottom in the night that he faces his sacrifices.

Couple: Aemond Targaryen/Fem!Reader

Category: Flangst

Content warnings: Mourning child loss (written by someone who's not a parent), lying

Word count: 4.6k

Also on my Ao3

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four ✍️

Just as when he left Flea Bottom, the guards do not look twice at Aemond as he walks through the Keep. They do not see his face, nor the two cloaks he wore (Criston gave him his to hide the blood). No, all they see is his boots as they bow upon passing. The only words they utter are, “My prince.” Aemond faces forward. His eye does not stray. And his head stays up.

He turns sharply after climbing the stairs, finding his chamber doors in the east wing. The guard outside mimics the expected behavior before Aemond pushes himself through.

Out of all things unexpected in one night, Floris being absent was jarring. She sticks to a routine, just like him. With the candles already snuffed out, the smell of smoke had been replaced by the open air from their balcony. She should’ve retired hours ago.

Perhaps the gods wanted to leave him alone after… all of it, reminding him how alone he truly was. Still, Aemond looks around, peering past corners and squinting into dark areas at the far ends of their chambers, straining his vision with the distance as he feels the chains in his chest. They weighed down his heart and lungs as he staggered and lifted the bedcovers. Caution camouflages with his grief and takes hold just as strongly. Floris could be anywhere.

The weight, the chains stacked on themselves. Aemond discards the cloaks and mixes them in their shared dirty clothes. The view of King’s Landing taunts him; the capital he once saw from a safe distance nearly two years ago. Even in daylight, the people were nothing more than specks of dust. None of them could hurt him. He never thought it would be the reason, once again, why he felt this way. It was only more proof that he has not changed, still stupid. Three and ten, self-loathing, and stupid.

Luc used to represent his self-loathing. Now he sees Alyssa.

She was warm whenever he held her to his chest, like the sun washing over the cityscape. She was a blaze as fiery as her hair. Now she’s snuffed out like the candles in his chambers, but this time far away from home.

Aemond grips the barrier of the balcony as he falls. The stone scratches his skin as he clings to it like a cliff’s edge, yet he sinks down and down. A heave escapes him, squeezed out of him as the imagery of it all floods back, every angle pouring in as he convinces himself there was something he could have done. Before the alleyway, before Chataya’s. Surely, there was a step he missed. He had to have, so he retraced it all while shivering, like winter was here.

The door creaked open, making Aemond’s head spring up like a deer hearing a twig’s snap. He plugged his grief, picking himself up in the shroud of darkness and rubbing his face.

“Aemond!” Floris’ silhouette is barely in view, but he still recognizes it as she pushes her bangs from her forehead. Her rapid breaths grow louder with each step toward him before she’s fully in the moonlight. She’s in her nightgown. The black one from her mother that matches her hair, both now in crumpled waves. “Where have you been? Daeron has been in a state demanding to see you.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

A hand remains in her hair, the other on her hip. “He won’t stop crying. A nightmare, maybe? I put him to bed hours ago, and the handmaidens said he woke up screaming.”

“I’ll go to him.”

“Wait.” A palm meets his chest, square in the center. “What’s wrong?”

Aemond stares into the dark of their chambers just above her head before falling to her blue eyes. It was wiser not to speak.

The tips of her fingers are cold as they brush under his eye. Her short nails barely scrape his unmarred cheek. The wetness shines under the moon as she turns her palm to him.

He pulled out his usual excuse, putting a hand over his patch. “Eye pain.”

“Eye pain?”

“Yes.”

“Your upsets usually force you to rest, not tears.” She observes the residue before wiping it on her gown. “I haven’t seen it this bad since Baelon’s last name day.”

“Well, it happened. It comes in waves. Or sometimes a moment’s fit.” Another way to cover himself in the future. He’s discovered grief rises in him at inconvenient times. Gods love to torture. “I can’t control when they occur, Floris.”

“I never said you could. I just—”

“I need to see Daeron.”

The children sleep in the west wing of the Keep now. After what happened to Jaehaerys, Aemond insisted their rooms be away from the royal quarters. He made sure there was a guard at their doors day and night. Jaehaera included. Tonight, however, there were two guards outside Daeron’s door, appearing dazed and confused. Yet they still had the sense to bow to their prince.

Aemond opened the door to find five handmaidens completely helpless. But like the guards outside, Aemond was also confused when finding his son not screaming. His body only bounces in place like he had the hiccups. His head was down and he gripped his little golden blanket.

“He’s tired out his throat, my prince,” one handmaiden says. Her voice shakes.

Daeron looks up when hearing the title. His little eyes are puffy from crying so hard, and Aemond’s heart, merely hanging by chords, can still twist in on itself as he watches his boy’s lip quiver.

“Leave us, please,” Aemond says.

“Forgive us, my prince. We tried our best.”

Daeron rubs an eye with the heel of his hand. “Papa, my… throat hurts.” His voice sounds like he swallowed gravel from the training yard.

“I’m sure, sweetling. Hold on,” Aemond turns his head to the group. “My son is thirsty. Please, one of you fetch him some water. Add some essence of nightshade to help him sleep.”

Their curtsies blend with their departure. The door shuts behind him.

The candle on Daeron’s bedside table revealed the redness across his face, hot and sticky with tears. Aemond walks to the foot of the bed. He’s careful not to let his weight go too suddenly, recalling the height difference this time between this bed and Baelon’s. He’s not hesitant though with stretching out his arms. “Come here,” he says.

Daeron springs from his covers, leaving behind the small golden blanket as he crawls into Aemond’s lap. He hugs him at the neck while Aemond holds him at the waist. It’s a long hug, something they both need. He smells like outside, earthy yet sweet. He lets himself feel the boy’s fragile ribs steadying themselves. His father was here now. There was no need to worry. So they took in air as they needed it—with ease. When he pulls back, Aemond grabs the spare handkerchiefs left behind. Daeron still sniffled, but refused to blow his nose. Aemond pinches it instead.

“What’s upsetting you so much?”

“Am I to be Lord of Storm’s End?”

“What?”

Snot dribbles on the handkerchief. “I had a dream.”

Aemond cocks his head. “Tell me about it.”

“I had a dream that… that we went to Storm’s End to see Uncle Royce. But I was alone. And-and—”

“It’s alright.” Aemond rubs his son’s back. “It’s alright.”

“You wouldn’t let me fly Morning. I couldn’t get back home.”

Aemond gave pause as he listened to Daeron. The boy’s lip quivers again as Aemond’s thoughts swirl, shushing his son as he remembers Helaena. Aemond clears his throat. He smiled down at his son. “I know what this is,” he says with an exhale. “Come with me.” He holds him close as he stands up, walking across the rooms to settle at his window, the other side of King’s Landing before them. Aemond used Daeron’s fleshy arm to point. “What’s that building there?”

“S-Sept?”

“That’s right. The Grand Sept. Your Aunt Helaena is there. You never got the chance to meet her.” He petted Daeron’s head, white fluffy hairs that swept to the front and covered his forehead. He looks back up at Visenya’s Hill. The sept’s cylindrical corners and golden domes draw eyes to the center of the city. One of them held three bejeweled urns with their ashes inside, and Aemond dares not sniffle. “She would have dreams like yours, except she would often be awake. They would overwhelm her all the same. We didn’t understand them.”

“What happened?” He doesn’t look up at Aemond when he asks, only straight ahead at the sept. Meanwhile, Aemond blocks the memories; gore and blood still trailed the back of his mind if he ventured far enough. His leg bounces as he exhales slowly through his mouth, sounding like a haunting wind. Daeron didn’t notice. Aemond couldn’t gather an answer. What could he say? His sister went insane. She killed herself. He found her on Maegor’s spikes. She blamed herself for something that was his fault, and he never got to apologize.

“She lost her sons in the last war. Your cousin Jaehaera’s brothers.”

“Were they soldiers?”

“No, no.” He’s perfectly between Jaehaerys and Maelor in age. The ages they remain for the rest of time. He skips that. “But she loved them so much, losing them was too much to bear for her.” He rests his chin on Daeron’s head, just catching the tear streaking down his cheek before it dripped onto his son’s scalp. Observing the sept again, he longed to be ignorant of such despair. He shook Alyssa from his mind (as best as he could) to come back. “That’s how I feel about you.”

Daeron relaxed a little, his back touching Aemond’s chest. “But what about—” he coughs. “Uncle Royce.”

Aemond ignored the name. “These dreams can be very vivid. About things we already know. Your uncle named you heir, so you will be Lord of Storm’s End one day, yes. But you will go when you are ready.” He kissed Daeron’s head, inhaling his scent as he tried sniffling subtly. “We will ensure your brother receives proper training in royal proceedings as king. Your mother and I will ensure you’re prepared as a lord.”

Daeron doesn’t speak. He picks at the leather of Aemond’s jerkin.

Aemond, in return, hugs him tight with both arms. He gets close to his ear. “You’re not leaving me for a long, long time. Is that what you needed?”

He finally nods. His little white sideburns tickle his nose.

“Good. Because it’s the truth.” He picks him up again. “Now, time for bed.” His sniffling boy buried his head into his neck as he cuddled close, his fingers wrapped around the back. It was painful to do so, he could admit, but he still pried him off. His fingers slipped off him like broken stitches as he made him settle back in bed. He was reluctant, but gave him the golden one, avoiding the black stag sewn in the corner. He kissed the boy one more time before walking to the door.

“Papa?”

“Hm?”

“Uncle Royce. Where is he?”

“I assume at home.”

“But in my dream, I didn’t see him there. I said I was alone.”

Aemond blinks rapidly. “Perhaps… you didn’t venture far enough to find him.”

He rubs the satin edge of the Baratheon blanket.

“He loves you very much, Daeron. He wouldn’t leave you alone.”

“I know. I just don’t feel like he’s there.”

Aemond said nothing, only watched his son. His purple eyes, swollen and exhausted, darted up at Aemond briefly. They eventually went back down as he pulled his bigger blankets over his lap. Aemond could feel there was something else there, more his son wanted to say. And Aemond, for all the love he bears for his children, didn’t want to hear it tonight. So, he slowly turns on his heels.

“Papa?”

He suppressed his curse. “Yes?”

“Was… Aunt Helaena… were all her dreams true?”

Aemond swallowed thickly as he saw his wife do hours before he left for Flea Bottom. The truth is painful to keep down as he hears Helaena’s voice speaking of rats, then Jaehaerys’ head rolling on the floor just hours later. Still, Aemond looks his son in his beautiful purple eyes as he sternly says, “No. Now go to bed.”

Daeron doesn’t move for a moment, but eventually lays down. Neither of them say goodnight.

Finally, Aemond exits and heads back to his room. Keeping his head up, he pushes down his anguish with each step. He’s not out yet.

Floris barely waited for the door to close before she pounced. “Where have you been?” She is now the starkest thing in the room, all the candles alight again and casting a deep orange across their chambers and she is as dark as tonight’s sky. Only her cream skin contrasted with her hair and attire.

“I told you,” Aemond said. “At a meeting with the City Watch.”

“Her arms crossed over her small belly. “For two hours?”

“Yes.”

“When have you had a City Watch meeting last two hours?”

“Just now.”

“Aemond.”

“Floris, please.” He walks past her, cornering himself on the damn balcony. He lacks the courage to even glance at the city, choosing the brush below instead.

“What did this meeting consist of?” Her voice gets closer.

“My business with the City Watch.”

“Our baby boy wailed for his father.” Aemond can hear the way she bares her teeth. “And wherever this City Watch meeting occurred in the Keep, you were nowhere to be found.”

“It was a meeting in the city.” He spat out the first retort in his mind. “A dire meeting.”

“What could be so dire that you could not tend to your own son?”

“Someone killed a baby.”

The brewing storm halted with a catch in her breath. Her suspicion, though, is still strong around her. Aemond could smell it like rain in the air. He didn’t speak further. Rather, he found the nearest chair and fell into it. The barrier’s small columns blocked the city, similar to a cell as he thought of the woman he loved near the Old Gate. He cannot tell which one is the prisoner, as he pressed his temple with two fingers.

Floris crouched in her gown. Her gaze was heavy as Aemond did everything to keep from letting unnecessary information slip from him. “We took care of the killer. That’s what matters.”

Floris’ pale hand meets the crook of his arm. A thumb doesn’t brush back and forth like it did when his mother succumbed to her fever. The other arm does not wrap him in closer like it did when his nightmares of war jolted him and woke them both. Her thick brows didn’t slant in sympathy. They were straight and stern. “Whose baby was it?”

“What?”

“Whose baby was it?”

Aemond rips his arm away, the leather of his sleeve squeaking sharply from her grip. “What relevance is that?”

“Because you’re a kinslayer.” It rolls off her tongue so naturally.

“I’ve told you not to—”

“It’s what you’re known for, Aemond. I don’t understand how one baby would concern you.”

Aemond slams a fist on the arm of the iron chair as he stands, turning his back to his wife before facing her again. “You know I lost my nephews in the Dance.”

“After killing another.”

“Don’t!” His fingers curl into a fist. It’s when his father crosses his mind that he throws the force against his hip and lets out a shaky exhale. “Floris.”

“With your brother’s bastards rotting in the alleyways, I just don’t understand the difference.” She picks herself  up, pushing with her knees  and holding her belly. Aemond doesn’t help her.

“Because she wasn’t a bastard.” He spits out the words. Another lie, but he doesn’t care.

“Then whose baby was it?”

The chamber doors groan slowly. Aemond doesn’t move from his wife, but refuses to answer. Even as he sees her anger boil her skin and streak her cheeks, he keeps his mouth shut and watches the doors.

“Forgive me, my prince. Princess. I do not mean to disturb.”

“Cole.”

Even in a tunic and linen breeches, he stands like he wears his Kingsguard armor: feet apart, hands collected at his front. No blood in sight, and his hair is disheveled as if someone tore him from bed.

“Leave us,” Floris snaps over her shoulder.

“Cole, what news?” 

He delays in reply, clearing his throat. “Once again, we require your presence, my prince.”

“With what?” Aemond slips around Floris before she can stop him.

“With, uh, burial arrangements.”

Aemond stood still, frozen.

“If the baby has a family, they can decide for themselves,” Floris says. “I don’t understand why such matters require my husband.”

“The family is quite… distraught, princess. As a mother, I’m sure you can understand the idea of such pain.”

Floris’ eyes falter slightly to the floor before glaring back at Criston

“The maesters have wrapped the body and prepared her for her final journey.”

“I’ll go,” Aemond says.

Floris snatches Aemond at the arm. “No!” Her heels skid on the stone floor.

“Do you wish to see the child’s body yourself?” Aemond snaps back at her. “For proof she’s real and your husband has a heart?”

He expected Floris to let him go, in every sense of the phrase. But her small fists only coiled tighter around his forearm. Everything hard about her expression fractured before him. The blue in her eyes glisten brilliantly as she shakes. “Please, Aemond.”

“It won’t take long, princess. I assure you. Your husband will be back soon.”

“Don’t leave.”

Aemond sighs. But he looks his wife in the face as he pulls his arm from her hold a second time. He walks to Criston.

“Please.”

It falls on deaf ears.

Neither speak a word as they make their way through the Keep, nor create any sense of urgency with their footsteps. The only ones who look them in the face are a number of Gold Cloaks, either nodding or appearing extra sullen.

They don’t exit through the front doors. No disguises with them now. Instead, the pair navigate through Maegor’s tunnels to find their escape, opening one (of many) secret doors. The scale of Aegon’s High Hill meets them, the white waves of the Blackwater and a bobbing rowboat just below.

“How did you do it? Is Alyssa—”

“Not now.”

Criston jumps down first, landing on a small area of flat rock. He scales down the small mountain with ease, and Aemond follows with enough distance to not disturb each other’s footing. They hug the jagged walls and Aemond keeps his eye focused down on his own feet, his impaired sight working against him more than ever, with only moonlight just barely revealing shadows here and there. Criston even turned around to help him with some of the hill’s slimmer edges, but he refused, wanting to retain his focus. Over time (and with an absurd amount of patience), they meet at the bottom. They let the steep decline guide them to the small beach, meeting the rowboat.

“We have paid some Gold Cloaks to act as alibis in case your wife wants to inquire. They have already spread the word to others.”

The pools of Floris’ Baratheon blue eyes stick with him. She barely faltered upon word of her father’s fall in battle, nor a tear shed at his funeral. She maintained a grace fit for an unmoving force like her. Yet it was Aemond who pushed her tonight. He pushed her to tears. “And the maesters?” He inquires while clearing his throat. “What you said back there, that was true?”

Criston stretches his arms out to steady the boat. “Watch your step,” he tells him. But before Aemond can even take a step, he’s holding out his hand. Aemond looks down at it.

“I can get in fine on my own, Cole.”

“Just…” He gestures again and keeps it out until Aemond reluctantly takes it, one palm meeting the other. Criston guides him in and continues holding tight as the wood creaks under his boots. He doesn’t let go until Aemond sits down, the boat wobbling. Then Criston steps in on the other side, the Blackwater just missing his ankles, rocking the boat all the same. He grips the edges as he steadies it before reaching down.

Even the late night couldn’t hide the bundle of white waxy cloth, the small bloodless being that he held himself just hours ago. He can still feel the phantom wriggling in his arms from her twin’s screams. Now she is here, still. Still and cold as Criston handed her over. But even as the wind blows, Aemond hovers over her to shield her from the chill. He whispers to her as he does.

“I asked Maester Orwyle to wrap her, so we have another alibi should we need it. With her… injury…”

Aemond traces over her eye. Where her eye would be.

“There was no reason to suspect she was anything but a peasant child.”

“And Royce?”

“The less you know, the better.” Criston then pulls their weight with the boat’s oars as Aemond’s fingers brush the outline of his daughter’s face. The noise of moving water surrounds them as he pictures her. He pulled her into the world first, and he never thought bringing his third child into the world would affect him as deeply as his first two. He never imagined she would leave the world the way she came: wet and screaming.

It wasn’t until Criston docked the boat on the other side of the bay that he thought about asking where he—they—were being taken. He still stood unsteadily when stepping out, eyeing the breathing mountain amongst the young trees: his Vhagar. White birds that were perched on her spine flew when she picked up her head. She doesn’t yawn as she normally does when she wakes up, leaving Aemond to wonder, again, just what they’re doing here.

She peers from her high vantage point, neck fully stretched out as her acid green eyes peer at them both, watching them trudge through the brush of her dwelling. She sniffed the air harshly, sounding like a long hiss if Aemond wasn’t looking. Criston continues pushing the vegetation aside (as he had clearly done before, given the faint imprints of feet in the lush grass). It’s not until they make a circle around her that he sees the pyre; a shadow of dry black timber. Thick logs made the foundation as smaller sticks crossed each other to make the bed.

“She was a Targaryen,” Criston says. “She deserves a proper sendoff.”

Aemond clings to the cloth, securing her against his chest as if he is concealing her under his cloak all over again. He stares at the stick bed, and Vhagar lying behind it. Her chest rumbles, something like a hum that causes the earth to tremor under them. Her neck cranes down for a closer look, and Aemond can see the slashes in her pupils as he feels the creaking of her ancient joints when she tries standing.

“Lykirī, Vhagar.” Aemond tries adding some force behind his High Valyrian.

She doesn’t listen. One foot forward, and the ground quakes. Roots and leaves shiver. The length of yellow teeth come into view as she takes another sharp breath.

“Lykirī!”

Still nothing. Her snout is inches from his forehead as her sniffs are smaller and more rapid. Her pupils drop to his chest, then back to him as she nudges him. Aemond has to step back to replant himself, but doesn’t order her to be still. His hold on Alyssa remains firm, closer to his chest than her mouth. She closes her lips, and the vibrancy of her eyes disappears when they do the same. Aemond’s forehead meets her snout, and Vhagar is silent as Aemond keeps his sobs down. He clenches his teeth hard and his jaw already aches from the tension.

Eventually, Vhagar steps back, leaving Aemond to walk to the pyre. He was not sure how long it took him to get there. Neither Criston nor Vhagar spoke. The strain from his temples to his eye, and now his jaw, made every step feel glacial. But eventually he did. He couldn’t imagine the sticks being more comfortable than that cot, but he didn’t pick her back up. He swallowed the snot and bile, meeting in the middle of his throat as he stepped back. Criston stood next to him. Vhagar looked at him.

“Dracarys.” He orders it as pathetically as he did before.

Again, she doesn’t follow him. She opens her mouth with no dragonfire. Her massive head twitches to one side, looking at him as she did the first time he ordered her to fly at Driftmark. But just as Aemond can feel the ache in her bones, she can feel the chains in his chest.

Neither of them wants to do this.

Aemond takes a breath, swallowing something like courage. “Dohaerās, Vhagar! Dracarys!”

Her head drew back with another hiss and her pupils thin out before her eyes close. Her neck curls back and she stretches her jaw. It’s always slow. Even the green color that lights up her mouth. He would be convinced that the pyre lit at the same speed, but Aemond fell into the grass; his knees giving in like the wood did under the intense heat.

Criston is still there as Aemond sobs freely, the sounds of it drowned out by the cracks of sticks and logs. He holds Aemond tightly as he buries his face into Criston’s shoulder. “It’s beautiful,” he tells him. “She’s ascending to the heavens where she belongs. No one can hurt her anymore.”

Aemond blocks his nose in the cloth of Criston’s shirt, sucking in air through his mouth so he doesn’t smell any of it. He remembers how Helaena wailed when she held Jaehaerys, his body limp and the blood soaking into her dress. The woman he loves screamed the same way. The cry of emptiness, a gaping wound inside. Aemond doesn’t have the lungs to scream like that. He just thinks of Helaena on the spikes. “I have to go to her,” he finally says. He pulls away, and Criston’s silhouette is nothing but a bleary shadow. “I have to before—”

“You know she doesn’t want to see you.”

“It doesn’t mean she won’t need me. We still have a child to take care of.”

“She has a child to take care of. You have three. Two of them are here. Another will be in the coming months, and your wife does not need the extra stress of questioning your whereabouts.”

Criston now sandwiches Aemond’s face between his hands. He doesn’t scream at him, but the force of the bones in his hands is hard against his skull.

“Don’t make me build a pyre for your fifth child, Aemond.”

His voice catches in his throat. Neither mother of his children wishes to see him now. Helaena once felt the same, but Aemond’s mistakes called him and Aegon to war, leaving her to grieve on her own. He turns to the pyre, a green haze that occasionally spits at the sky. The smoke burns his nose, making his eye clench shut against the sting. In that darkness, he remembers his mother and the knife to Rhaenyra’s eye. She understood sacrifice. And it was now his turn.

Criston stands up. His outline is still blurry and black, but Aemond can just see his hand outstretched for him. “Your family needs you.”

Aemond remembered his role. And he took Criston’s hand.

Taglist: @paprikaquinn @immyowndefender @teal-anchor @dixie-elocin

[thetullystark]

so beyond happy with this portrait of floris baratheon done by @riotarttherite

[aemondtargaryensource]

AEMOND TARGARYEN and FLORIS BARATHEON HOUSE OF THE DRAGON (2022-)

[cyeco13]

Vampire Helaena, Alys and Floris ✨️

Inspiration:

[florisbaratheons]

The Wrath of the Queen (1/?)

"You would become the wretchedest of women."

"Then let it be," said Alicent Hightower.

--

Alicent knows duty, she learned it standing at her father’s knee before she even had a full understanding of what it meant. So every choice after was made for her. She'd marry the king, she'd have his sons, she'd support his chosen heir. She'd suffer the cost for the good of the realm.

But on a dark and stormy night on the shores of Driftmark, when her son's eye is stolen from him and his attackers face no consequences, Alicent finally makes her own choice.

Fuck duty. She wants revenge. And the Blacks are going to pay.

A Rewrite of the Dance of Dragons.

AO3 Chapter One

Taglist @gwenllian-in-the-abbey @branwendaughterofllyr @mairoon

@peters-lab-partner @emilykaldwen @dcookechild @survivinglifesstruggles @ragnyra @alicentcole @userhelaena @ladystarksneedle @starrysepts @asoiastarks @tell-them-the-north-remembers @alihightowers @fairysluna @pookiebearsnookumsalicent @ai-megurine

If anyone else wants to be added, please let me know.

[sofikiii]

would you be interested in drawing the four storms?

WELL YES!!! I care about them... (From left to right: Cassandra, Maris, Ellyn and Floris)

(Btw... you can totally send me asoiaf-related requests and I'll do my best to do them!!)

[humanpurposes]

I Have Always Been A Storm, Part 3

Read the full chapter on AO3 // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Floris Baratheon

In the year 128AC, Floris Baratheon weds Aemond Taragryen, a daughter and a son both driven to duty, now bound to each other when the realm is on the brink of war. Floris is enamoured by the Prince, but love is something she can only hope will bloom once her vows have been said before the eyes of the Seven- AU where Aemond and Floris marry before the Dance of the Dragons.

Warnings: 18+, smut, pregnancy, arranged marriage, canon divergence, angst, possibly quite a lot of angst, hurt/comfort

A/n: I watched episode 2 and went... yeah he needs an emotional support wife <3

I don’t flinch at the sound of steel. I stand steadfast on the outlook over the yard, my hair loose about my shoulders, my gown one of Baratheon black and gold. The clouds over King’s Landing this morning are heavy and ominous. I could almost imagine I am back at Storm’s End, watching the knights spar in the courtyard before the drum tower.

Aemond is a graceful fighter, but brutal and precise. He has no taste for tourneys, he does not fight for performance. He parries and deflects the blows from Ser Arryk’s sword with ease, then once he finds an opening he makes short work of disarming his opponent, forcing him to his knees and placing the blade against his throat. 

The closeness between Aemond and I ebbs and flows. As of late we are making good progress; I’ve been watching his morning sparring sessions for the last few weeks. Afterwards we’ll retire to his chambers and take luncheon together before we part ways until the evening. Last night we dined with the Queen, and having returned me to my chambers, he kissed me. 

He does not smile when he looks up at me from the yard. His expression is gentle and not quite passive. He says I am a good wife. He says he is content to have me by his side, and yet he leaves me to an empty bed each night. I keep waiting for the moment he’ll decide we are ready to fulfil our vows. In the meantime I despair that I am no different from any girl at the Red Keep who dreams of a handsome husband and a perfect marriage which is not yet in reach. At least Helaena has her children to keep her occupied; I might as well be unmarried. 

Aemond and Ser Arryk take their positions again.

Aemond lurches forward to strike first. His opponent meets him with swift, succinct blocks, but Aemond is eager to match him in speed. There’s a stiffness in his shoulders as he moves, but he must keep his head in the right position, he must not let his blindspot leave him vulnerable to an attack.

I catch glimpses of his face as he moves, his lips pressed together, his single eye dark and determined.

A nervous feeling flutters in my belly.

A small crowd has gathered to watch them, nobles, other knights, servants, looking upon my husband with both admiration and fear– I feel a sense of pride in the awe Aemond inspires. 

Suddenly he falters.

Ser Arryk takes the opportunity to disarm him, but Aemond is not one to concede easily. He draws the knife on his belt, ducking to avoid Ser Arryk’s blows, until he’s close enough to aim the knife at the knight’s throat. 

Ser Arryk anticipates this and drops his sword, fighting with his hands to keep some distance between Aemond’s knife and his skin. The crowd is anxious now. The slashes of Aemond’s knife are too close. I dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from reacting too obviously.

Ser Arryk grabs Aemond’s right wrist with his left hand, and throws a fist towards the left side of his face– his blind side. 

I feel the impact as if I’ve been struck in the stomach.

Aemond freezes, dropping his knife. He covers his face with his hands. There is no blood that I can see but my heart races. 

I’m halfway down the steps before I realise what I’m doing. 

Ser Arryk is horrified with himself, trying to offer some help to the Prince, only for Aemond to push him away. Servants gather, unsure of what to do, hovering around him like he is a wounded beast. 

I push people out of my way so I can reach him. I place a hand over his, where he cradles his eyepatch. His breathing is quick and heavy, his hand is shaking under my palm.

I whisper, “I’m here.”

He tugs at my sleeve, a bruising grip sinking through the fabric and into my skin, around my very bones. He leans into me, his forehead pressing against the top of my head. “I’m fine,” he grits through his teeth.

“My Lady,” Ser Arryk begins, “I’m sorry– I must have acted out of impulse– I–”

“Fetch a maester,” I order.

“Not necessary,” Aemond says.

Ser Arryk hesitates.

“Fetch a maester!”

“No!” Aemond says, suddenly straightening his back and releasing me from his hold. My heart sinks at the sight of his scar, flared, red, angry. He keeps his fists clenched by his sides, denying himself the pain. “That will be all, Ser Arryk, I shall retire to my chambers.”

He marches off and I trail helplessly behind.

Full chapter on AO3

[misguidedasgardian]

The Dragon's Mistress (10)

10. Mistress

MASTERLIST

Summary: Every actions has its reasons, and its consequences 

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader, Aemond Targaryen x Floris Baratheon

Warnings: cursing, mentions of war, mentions of death, humiliation, use of the word bastard and traitor, incest, technically cheating, groping, nakedness, might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount:  2.5 k

Notes: Yes, I did feel pressured to post this sooner, that is why is shorter… :( and no, I did not like what I’ve been feeling the last hours…

Lord Borros Baratheon had his niece

That is what occupied Aemond’s mind as he saw you abandoning the throne room with tears in your eyes and whimpers in your mouth

That uncultured swine had his niece Jahaera

He “rescued her” when Rhaenyra had taken the capital and Alicent send her and Maelor away to Old Town, the children never got to the city, but they were stopped along the way, and eventually some baratheon soldiers rescue them from a mob, Maelor didn’t make it, but Jahaera did. And Borros he let it clear that he was not going to return her to her family in King’s Landing if he didn’t marry his daughter

He told himself that it didn’t matter if he did, with you, he already had you, tainted you, fucked you, put his seed on you, you were probably with his child in your belly, but he, as king, could legitimize all the children you were going to have, and Floris? he could bed her and gave her moon tea in the morning after without her even releasing it

You were going to be the mother of the future King of the seven Kingdoms, he had no doubt in his mind about it, and once he had his darling niece in his arms again, he was going to kill Borros and his entire line for even daring to threaten them.

He couldn’t chase after you right now, this was his first appearance as clear future King of the Seven Kingdoms, so he couldn’t just run like a fifteen year old behind his love. 

So he sucked it up, grabbed the bony hand of Floris Baratheon, and presented her to the entire court in the middle of applause and cheers. 

She was not an ugly woman, she had her charm, she was the youngest of Borros’ daughters, the same age as him, she had beautiful dark brown locks, and hazelnut colored eyes shaped like almonds. She was the one he had chosen that night three years ago in Storm’s End, the one he never got to marry, well, not until today.

His body was burning with the need to search for you, but sadly he couldn’t, not yet, and he also wante to smack the smile out of Borros’ face

His mother also seemed sickenly pleased, she had come to him the night before, asking him to leave you and marry Floris, when he didn’t budge she had to confess Borros had Jahaera. That is when he knew he had no choice, but he made his mother budge too, she was not going to betroth you to anybody else, she was not going to send you away.

She was going to him to keep you as his mistress. 

Lord Borros was not happy about it, and he made it clear that he was not going to return Jahaera until after the wedding and bedding ceremony, Aemond was fuming, but he had to comply, that little girl is the only family he had left, the last reminding of his gentle sister, and his last full-blooded niece.

This was the most important day in his life, and the only thing he wanted to do was to run to your room and held you in his arms, tell you everything was going to be alright, tell you he didn’t meant to break his promise, that he meant it every time he said that you were going to be his Queen

But he was tied by the hands

He had to get his little niece back

When the ceremony was over, he bowed but only to his betrothed, kissing her hand and making her blush, he nodded to his mother and to Borros, and then he abandoned the hall under his mother’s worried gaze

He finally went to find you.

it broke his heart to find you cuddled in your bed, crying 

As soon as you heard him come in you raised from the bed, wiping your tears

“My King”, you greeted and under other circumstances, his heart would have roared with happiness, but know he only felt bitter. You sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at him, you thought you saw sorrow in his eyes, but you were probably just imagining things

“My love”

“Please, I have to ask you do not call me that”, you hated yourself for how weak your voice sounded

“That is what you are”, he said, but you only shook your head

“I’m not”, you said, he sat by your side on the bed, leaning over you, trying to comfort you

“My love will always belong to you”, he whispered in your ear as he caressed your hair, “I have to marry her for political purposes, nothing else”

“You humiliate me”, you whimpered, tears running down your cheeks

“I know this is not what I promised”, he said, “but there is an important reason, you have to believe me”, you only looked down to the floor, “but we will be together”, you then looked at him wide eyed, fresh tears forming in your eyes, “being a King’s Mistress is a post of great importance”, he muttered, “and I will legitimize all the children that we will have”

“You told me you were going to marry me”, you whined, “I gave you my body… I let you do whatever you pleased with me” 

“You will be respected, and cared for, you will be treated like a princess again”, he continued his bargain, and you only whimpered, placing your hand over your heart, because it hurt

“Please don’t do this to me”, you pleaded

“Nothing will change, you will be respected, your son will be King one day”

“No he won’t”, you whined, “he will only be a bastard”

“No”, he said, you wiped your tears, angry with yourself for being so bloody weak

“What if I don’t want to?”, to your question his face hardened, and it made you tremble, “you won’t marry me, but you won’t let me marry anyone else, can I please go back to Dragonstone?”, you asked with hope in your teary eyes, but you could tell he was keeping himself in check not to burst in anger

“Everyone knows that I fuck you”, he said in a manner so mean, you whined, “you are going to be my mistress and embrace it, or you are going to be only my whore”, he spitted out, “you have one day to come around”, he said, he stood up from the bed and abandoned the room, and you along the way

What was more pathetic than to cry because a man that abused you and killed your family wouldn’t marry you?

You couldn’t come out with an answer to that question

You had made up your mind that this was what you had to do to make everything worth it, but it was snatched from under your feet like a carpet and now you were landing flat on your face, again.

You whined, as you were hurting in your chest

“You are a Targaryen”, resounded the voice of your mother in your head, “That is all that matters”

“Dragons are fire made flesh, and Targaryens are dragons made men”, said Daemon

“You must be strong”, said Jacaerys

“I CAN’T!”, you screamed wanting all the voices inside your head to disappear, “I’m none of those things”, you whispered sadly 

Aemond was not angry, he was frustrated

He understand you would be disappointed that you were not going to marry him, but he never thought you would have want to leave back to Dragonstone

That is what frustrated him the most

He naively thought that you would want to stay here no matter what

“You will never have her heart”, Alys once said, and he growled when he head her voice as clearly as she was whispering in his ear

The new appointed small council had gathered and he was supposed to be there, once he got there, everybody as there already

Tyland Lannister

Borros

Even his mother even though she didn’t have a clear post in it, but being mother to the King and the Regent as well

“My King”, she greeted, pleased as she saw him enter the room

“We were discussing dates for the marriage ceremony”, said Borros, so pleased with himself that Aemon wanted to punch him in the face

“I think is insensitive… to marry while my brother the King is dying”

“Aemond, I’m aware, but…”

“Marriage, celebrations, are for the living boy”, said Borros, and Aemond’s jaw was was ticking

“In a fortnight”, Alicent offered, and Aemond nodded

“Being considerate of the current climate all over the seven Kingdoms, it is going to be a sober affair”, Aemond said, and he didn’t want to budge on that

“Of course my king”, said Borros

“Ravens will be send communicating everyone of the marriage, but only a few of the most important families will be invited”, said Alicent

“What about the girl?”, asked Borros, and Aemond looked at him 

“What girl?”, he threatened

“Rhaenyra’s last daughter”, he said, “is she your whore?”, Aemond looked at him, a silent warning in his eye

“She is not a whore”, he growled

“You bedded her, you are bedding her…”, the man continued, an the entire council got quiet, waiting for the answer of their King Regent

“But I’m marrying your daughter”, he said with a sharp voice

“You must understand that it is my daughter who will carry the heirs to the throne”, he said with a warning of his own on his lips, Aemond looked at him like he wanted to kill him, which he did

“And you must understand that I’m marrying her”, he said, “instead of the princess”, Borros looked into his eye, trying to intimidate him, but it didn’t work

“Very well”, he conceded 

He was not going to yield to anything else, he couldn’t, he owed it to you. The meeting went long, they started talking about things related to the realms, and that took him the rest of the day.

When it was finally done, the only thing he wanted to do was to see you. . 

He found you still in your room, more calmed than when he left you, when you hear him come in you stood up from your place in front of the hearth and bowed

“My king”, you greeted, with the voice of a little bird instead of a human

“My love”, you flinched when he called you that, but you couldn’t see his reaction as you still looked down to the floor, not daring to look at him in the eyes

“How was your day?”, you asked, adapted a demeanor similar to the one you had learned to have in Dragonstone, like the one of a personal servant, a handmaid. You didn't really gave a shit, but you had to be cordial

“I just had a very long meeting”, he thought it best to keep you away from the details of his marriage to Floris Baratheon 

“I am sorry”, you wanted him to leave, but you were nobody to kick the King Regent out of the rooms of his own castle. 

He walked until he had you at arms reach, and he caressed your upper arms gently

“Don’t you wish we could take a long bath like we did in Dragonstone?”, he offered, you looked at him, and the coldness in your eyes made him shiver, even though he didn’t show it

“We can do anything you like, my king”, you said, again, your voice so low, so insignificant it squeezed his heart, and he, again, was starting to get frustrated 

“Very well”, he had the maids prepare the bath, and when you were alone in the bathroom, he helped you out of your dress, you just let him, he then undid the braids in your hair and removed your jewelry.

You then undressed him, and even appreciated when he didn’t make you touch him

He help you into the bath, and he got in with you

The bathtub was bigger than the one in Dragonstone, you both fit perfectly together. He grabbed the sponge and started to rub your shoulders and your upper arms, he had a fixation with that part of your body you noticed.

You let yourself be handled by him, touched by him

“I love your hair”, he whispered to your ear, and if you haven't been crying for most part of the day, you would have laughed. You had the same color as him

“Thank you, my king”

“please”, it sounded like he was begging, “call me Aemond”, he sounded pitiful

“As you wish, Aemond”, you whispered. He kissed your shoulder softly, gently, as he fingers greedily caressed your back and your body, of course he wanted you, and now it was your job as his mistress to please him in that way

So you leaned back and let him touch you and kiss you

He couldn’t see you, but bitter tears fell down your eyes, but you managed to not make a sound

Luckily he noticed how tense you were, so he didn’t push you, instead he just helped you get out of the tub, he help you dry and then put on your night dress

“I should be doing this things to you my prince”, you offered, even though you didn’t have the strength to do it

“It is alright”, he got you into bed and then followed you, holding you in his arms, you appreciated the comfort, you just wished it came from someone else rather than him

“I’m very sorry”, he whispered in your ear

“You don’t don’t have to be, Aemond”, you whispered

“But I am”, he insisted, “believe me, I was forced into this”

“You don’t have to give me any explanations”, you sai, broken

“But I do”

“Please My King”

“Call me Aemond”

“I don’t feel comfortable, please, just.. let me call you my king”, you insisted, he sighed loudly, but didn’t refuse you

“I want you to call me by my name”

“But is not proper”, you said, “I am not going to be your wife”, his breathing hitched

“Call me your King then”, he relented, his fingers never stopped caressing your arm

You were lucky he wasn’t making you look at him in the day, he was comfortable with only spoon you

“I will sleep with you every night”, he promised

“You wife won’t be happy with that”, you observed

“I don’t give care”, he said

“Please, don’t make this more difficult that is has to be”, you begged him, the last thing you needed was to make enemies with the new Queen

“You can tell her that”, you didn’t press it

Did you even believe him? that someone made him do it? you believed no one could make him do anything, but again, he sounded so sincere when he said he was going to marry you. 

Anyways, you were feeling so terribly every breath you took hurts. 

[chasingthedragons]

House Baratheon Wardrobe

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LORD BOREMUND BARATHEON of STORMS ENDS

1 - Gala costume in the yellow of House Baratheon and dark details on the sleeves, over a tunic in dark yellow with yellow details and the emblem of House Baratheon on the chest. Accompanied by a large gold necklace with pendant.

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LORD BORROS BARATHEON of STORMS ENDS

1 - Brown leather gala suit with golden details along the chest and a leather belt accompanied by a large silver necklace with pendant.

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"THE FOUR STORMS" as the daughters of LORD BORROS BARATHEON are known

FLORIS BARATHEON wearing a yellow dress with black details on the wrists and over a black tunic with yellow details and embroidery. Accompanied by a long and simple gold chain, gold and black stone earrings, and a large gold ring.

MARIS BARATHEON wearing a black dress of shiny fabric and yellow details on the wrists, over a yellow tunic with embroidered V-shaped details (with a gold medallion) in black and yellow on the chest and edges. Accompanied by a necklace, earrings and several gold rings.

ELLYN BARATHEON wearng a brown velvet dress with wide sleeves and embroidery on the forearm, on a yellow tunic with embroidery in dark brown. Accompanied by a gold chain with a pendant and gold earrings.

CASSANDRA BARATHEON wearing a black dress with gold embroidered patterns and gold lace on the sleeve cuffs, over a black velvet cape with long open sleeves with yellow embroidered details on the edges. Accompanied by a chain, earrings and rings made of gold.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[coldraindropsss]

Borrow Baratheon, Elenda Caron 4 daughters "The four storms"

Cassandra Baratheon, Maris Baratheon, Ellyn Baratheon, Floris Baratheon

[mejcinta]

Aegon, Aemond and Their Relationship With Power/Arranged Marriage.

Neither Aegon nor Aemond are opposed to incest because it's the culture they've been birthed into. So, I don't think their reaction to Helaena in episode 7 should be viewed as some kind of evidence of their attitude towards incest, but rather about their their relationship with power, which is what arranged marriages in their feudal society are truly all about.

Aegon's approach to an (arranged) marriage is more romantic in the sense of he thinks having things in common is a requirement. He says about Helaena, his betrothed, "We have nothing in common."

This doesn't necessarily mean he loathes his sister. Yes, he does call her an 'idiot' but I think this also goes to show how young and silly he is, just as Helaena is also young in that moment and still occupied with her girlhood hobby of playing with insects.

Aegon's admission speaks to his self awareness because he notices they can't get along and he wants to spare himself and her as well from any misery. After all their parents are in a loveless arranged marriage and if there is one thing Aegon hungers and yearns for truly, it is love, even though it is quite literally the death of duty.

Additionally, he has spent much of his life being starved of love and feeling rejected by his mom and dad for not meeting their expectations well enough. Needless to say the fear that he is unloved by his family seeps down to his siblings even though they might think otherwise of him. Aegon is repelled by duty, for all he knows about it is pain, not love.

Aegon is not as eager to wield power through marriage. After all he has only suffered being seen merely as a chess piece in the game of thrones, and not as a boy that needs his family to be there for him. Therefore, he is understandably resigned and more disinterested in power because it is being forced on him.

Meanwhile, Aemond has a more duty oriented approach to marriage. He is willing to do whatever it takes to grow powerful and be taken seriously in society, especially seeing as he grew up without the ultimate Targaryen symbol of power: a dragon.

Aemond states about Helaena to Aegon, "She is your future Queen," and proceeds to make a comment about strengthening their Valyrian blood etc. In episode 10 he was also well on his way to cement a marriage alliance with House Baratheon so as to add to their army for the upcoming war. He understands what needs to be done in order to obtain the power he so desires for self validation.

Aemond cares little for love for now because, once again, his family has little of it and he doesn't fully grasp it. And what he mistakes for love is attention which is being heaped on Aegon for being the Golden boy i.e the firstborn son.

Aemond feels invisible to his family because of not being 'Targaryen enough'. That is why he spends much of the season in pursuit of power, claims Vhagar, mocks the Strong boys' bastardy and vents about being a mere second son while Aegon, being the first, doesn't need to work half as hard as Aemond does to be noticed or respected.

In a way, both boys are dead to love because of the neglect prevalent in their family while Helaena is in her own world plagued with dreams of her family's destruction. Aegon numbs his pain and pressures by indulging in vanity while Aemond scrapes away at collecting figurative medal after medal so that he can prove his worth, a perfectionist of sorts.

The boys' reaction to the idea of marriage is more about showing us their state of mind and relationship wih power more than it is about loving or hating Helaena.

[cyeco13]

Floris and Aemond 💚

Deleted scene from S1Ep10 🤭

[ryuzakemo128]

Wrath of a Scorned Woman

Pairings: Freyja Raengyreon & Floris Baratheon / Aemond Targaryen x Female Velaryon Reader

Content Warning: cussing and swearing.

Words: 765

Masterlist

Credit 4 Dividers: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Summary: Heavy footsteps had come from down a cavernous hall. Floris ringing a bell from a velvet cushion, engraved dragons into the gold bell. “You are a coward, and I will see that history forgets you.” Floris spoke, looking at Aemond with his mistress.

“You have mistaken your own importance, husband. I have no further need of you or this ‘marriage’. I have found something greater than anything you could have ever provided me.” Floris eyes narrowed at her would be ex-husband. “I have found a dragon grander and greater than your eyes had ever seen.”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Heavy footsteps had come from down a cavernous hall. Floris ringing a bell from a velvet cushion, engraved dragons into the gold bell. “You are a coward, and I will see that history forgets you.” Floris spoke, looking at Aemond with his mistress.

Towering over the three of them, a woman, a giantess of a woman. Eyes of blue violet mixed with light grey. Lumen in the dimly lit room. Burgundy red hair long enough to brush across the floor. Freyja didn’t have to say anything. All she had to do is stand there. A clear enough warning to those who break their oaths.

Floris might have harmed his mistress. But Aemond did something far, far worse. He ruined her chances of having children of her own. Ruined her chance of getting something she wanted. She didn’t care for the consequences, damn them all, and she will bring his entire house around his head. Bring him to his pathetic knees and crush him like he crushed her. May he die in a pool of ruin, like the seven have foretold in legends.

Floris determined to bring down her soon-to-be ex-husband and his mistress. She didn’t care if she were to die in the process. She had a dragon, and for once in her life she had the power to change things to make her own life better. Better for herself and her house. “Greens can’t keep their oaths, it seems.” Freyja snarled into his ear. “Can’t help themselves, can’t help but ruin everything they touch with their slimy, rotten hands.”

Floris’s smug grin spread across her face, ‘I will crush your bones until you lay broken in front of me. You will watch your house burn until nothing, but cinders, ashes and embers, remain. I will have you dragged from one end of king’s landing to the other until you are swimming in an ocean of pain.’

Aemond looked into Freyja’s eyes, his heart beating like a drum inside his chest, “You don’t know what you’re asking for, Floris.”

“But I do. According to your brother. You just need her. This marriage is no longer needed if that is the case.” Floris snapped at him. “And you. (Y/N) You have nothing to give, and you are worth nothing in comparison. Keep that pathetic excuse of a man. Keep him as you rot into the earth when I am done with you. You shall bear witness as I ruin him and everything that he will ever have. I will kill you all and decorate you on my walls. A better end than you are worthy of.”

(Y/N) spoke up, "You think you can just cast us aside? You're a fool, Floris. Aemond is the heir to House Targaryen, and I am his chosen. Your threats mean nothing to me."

"Aemond is prince regent and Aegon's son is his heir. Your existence means nothing to me any longer." Floris corrected. "Perhaps if you were more interested in books than Aemond's cock, you would have learned that by now."

“As you can see, I do not need you anymore. I have found someone greater than you. Grander. She will give me everything I want and more.” Floris declared, she found herself a dragon. A dragon more liable to eat the ones the House of Targaryen rides. “We have no further need of House Targaryen. Take your leave NOW.” She smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress and walked out of the room.

Freyja glared at the two of them, “I will devour your dragons, crush their bones and force your entire family to watch. You will not leave this world without knowing the pain you have brought down. I will eat your dragon sheepstealer, Vhagar and Sunfire. A mere snack. A small payment for what you have done to my benefactor. Or you could annul this pitiful marriage you have no interest in and leave. Otherwise, I will, and can, devour all that you are. All that you will ever be.”

Freyja stood guard outside of Floris’s bedchambers. Disallowing entry to anyone Floris did not approve of. “Aemond take your mistress (Y/N) Targaryen and leave. You are no longer worthy of Floris Baratheon.” Freyja growled as she prevented him from chasing after Floris.

[prettymuchteddy]

The Four Storms Headcanons for my fic

Cassandra Baratheon

Called "Cass" by her sisters and "Cassie" by her mother, Elenda

She is the eldest sister at twenty years old but her speech and manners make her seem older

She is jealous of her bastard older brother and worries her father Borros will name him heir before her mother, Elenda, has a son

When she was young she often took care of her sisters as a result she no longer wants to have children after having to already raise them

She has never forgiven her parents for not allowing her to be a member of the court in King's Landing and believes she could have charmed then married Aegon the 2nd had they let her go

Maris Baratheon

She is closest to her sister, Cassandra, and as children they were as thick as thieves

While she is considered by many to be less beautiful than her sisters, it is mostly based around her unconventional clothing and sharp tongue which insults more often than not

Though Borros never admits it, Maris is his favorite child

She likes to read fervently and will ramble on to anyone who will listen about her books

Sometimes she taunts potential suitors to get a reaction out of them, knights have had to get involved in the past

Ellyn Baratheon

Her companion wherever she goes is a black and grey cat she calls Edric

She would be Aemond's favorite due to her gentle and kind disposition which reminds him of Alicent and Helaena

Despite her best efforts, Ellyn is often forgotten compared to her sisters

While she is shy and generally cautious, the first time she saw Vhagar she was in awe

Deep down she wishes to leave Storm's End and become her own person separate from her family

Floris Baratheon

Due to being showered with compliments since she was a small child, Floris is slightly vain

Her mother Elenda considers Floris her favorite child

She loves to wear flowers as accessories

For fun, Floris enjoys dancing, singing, and watching the knights in Storm's End while they duel

Floris was secretly happy that the betrothal with Aemond didn't occur because she is scared of having children young and of going through the pain her mother goes through by trying for a son

[humanpurposes]

I Have Always Been A Storm, Part 1

Read the full chapter on AO3 // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Floris Baratheon

In the year 128AC, Floris Baratheon weds Aemond Taragryen, a daughter and a son both driven to duty, now bound to each other when the realm is on the brink of war. Floris is enamoured by the Prince, but love is something she can only hope will bloom once her vows have been said before the eyes of the Seven- AU where Aemond and Floris marry before the Dance of the Dragons.

Warnings: 18+, smut, pregnancy, arranged marriage, canon divergence, angst, possibly quite a lot of angst, hurt/comfort

A/n: Surprise!! It's the Florismond fic no one asked for :) Planning on this being a 3 part mini series.

“A terrible coincidence,” my husband says.

Head bowed, he kneels before me where I sit on the end of our bed. Thunder and lightning rage beyond the windows but he has brought the storm inside with him. The rainwater that has drenched his hair and his riding leathers soak through my nightgown. I keep my jaw tight and my teeth pressed together to stop myself from shivering.

He has discarded his gloves to hold my hands in his, leaving a trail of kisses and tears on my skin. He circles the pad of his thumb over my fingertips, over the callouses left by my years of devotion to the harp. His hands are calloused too, from his sword, from the reins on Vhagar’s saddle.

He lifts his chin to look at me. I scarcely recognise him. My husband is a proud young man, always poised, never loud, often cold and stoic, gentle around the right people, his mother, his sister, me.

His single eye is glistening and glassy, the blue of his iris vibrant despite his distress. His breaths are laboured, his lips parted. I see nothing but hopelessness in him, but even like this, I wonder if the gods will ever manage to create a person quite so beautiful as Aemond Targaryen.

I slip a hand out of his grasp and, as gently as I can, pull on the eyepatch that covers the left side of his face. He lets me do it, as he has done many times before. A burst of lighting catches in the uneven edges of his sapphire eye. The twisted flesh that frames it is red, I wonder if it is hurting him.

I asked him once, why he was so reluctant to display this part of himself, why he wanted to hide it from me when we were first married.

His reply was always that he did not wish to frighten me.

What reason would I have to fear a scar? I’ve seen plenty of blood in my life, hunts, tourneys, accidents in the training yard. I see my own blood every moon. How could I fear my own husband?

He’s stuttering, sobbing, choking on his words. “I didn’t– I– I tried to stop her– but I was so– I just wanted him to…”

Heat rises behind my eyes. My skin is cold, my limbs frozen, but the shock is starting to wear off. I cannot listen to any more or I will surely break. 

I hush him, curling my whole body over his head. If he sees my face he will think I fear him, he will think I am horrified by him. I run a hand over his damp hair and he rests his face against the swell of my stomach.

Before he left, only a matter of days ago, after he had kissed my lips sore and stolen all the air from my lungs, he had come down to his knees to kiss my belly. By Maester Orwlye’s estimation, I only have a month left of my term. By tradition, I should be in confinement, but Aemond had ordered against it. He could not bear the thought of being apart from me, and I him. He has his own books and correspondences with Maesters across the continent. In Dorne, expectant mothers are encouraged to exercise as much as they can, to breathe fresh air and feel the sun on their skin. This would be best for our child, Aemond decided, rather than keeping me a dark bedchamber with only midwives and septas for company. 

Queen Alicent had said from the start that Aemond would make for a devoted husband, that he has always been a man of duty.

An awful sense of dread runs through my blood.

I should be glad that he has returned to me, and I am, I am .

“I wanted the boy to fear me. I did not imagine that I might…”

What can I say to him? What can I do to ease his suffering when I cannot stand the feeling of his body so close to mine? 

I am bound to him, through vows, through witnesses. I have given him my body and he has given me his. I carry his blood in my womb, my child as much as it is his. Most irreversibly of all, my heart is twined with his. I love him, and yet...

When he places a palm against my stomach, over the space where our babe grows, all I can think is that this is the hand of a kinslayer. Whatever fate the gods have for him now is my fate also. If he has cursed himself, then I too am cursed.

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