#aemond and aemella

[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Ten.

I think this is the chapter you've all been waiting for... :) Thanks so much to you all for your engagement, too. Means the world to me!

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 4,139

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine

“It still feels loose.”  

Rolling her tongue over the very last of her back teeth, Aemella felt it wobble a little against the careful prod, admittedly though much less so than the night before.  

“Do not persist in touching it, princess,” Veron spoke softly, “with luck the tooth will reset itself in the gums. Mine have, except for this one.” Hooking a finger into his mouth, he showed her the space upon his lower gumline, a gap present between teeth. “I did plan on saving some coin and having a silver or gold one put in its place, but I have never gotten around to it.” 

She chuckled softly. “Then you truly would look more like a pirate than a highborn.” 

“Perhaps people would take me more seriously if I did, rather than seeing a soft, odd-looking boy who can be pushed around with such ease.”  

“Nay,” she breathed, reaching to cup his cheek with her hand, her smile kind as her thumb stroked the gritty, blonde stubble flecking his face. “You are a handsome young man with no oddities about his appearance. I will not hear of this talk.” 

He coloured a little, dropping his gaze to where he sat cross-legged on the bed before her. A beautiful young woman’s praise wasn’t what he was used to. “You are much too generous with your compliments, princess.” 

“Please, I wish for you to address me as Aemella,” she insisted, her hand still stroking fondly. “Tis’ a privilege for friends, to forgo my title. You are my friend, Veron.”  

His face lit up to hear such warm words. Friends were something they both lacked, him not having many thanks to his brother’s tyranny, and Aemella bonding so closely with Aemond that she had never sought friendships with others. Apart from her treasured Gileda. Her tutor was certainly considered a good friend. 

Her smile matched his, hissing in wince when her split cheek throbbed. “Gods, tis’ sore.” She had sat bravely while Veron had stitched it for her, doing so with careful precision so that the scar would only be very minimal. If only she were home, where she had access to a plethora of lotions and balms blended by her own hand to aid the expedited healing of cuts and scrapes.  

Home. How her heart ached heavy in her chest to be so far from it.  

“Allow me to fetch you a compress, pri-,” he began, stopping himself. “Aemella.” 

Moving, he picked up the piece of now dry rag he had used for that purpose, going to soak it in the small pale of water over in the corner of his poky little room. Squeezing the excess droplets away, he returned, folding it neatly and handing it to her.  

“When do you anticipate we shall be moving further north?” she asked, closing the wolf pelt shrug around her shoulders a little tighter. She had only ever seen one winter in her whole life before, the summer that had arrived not long after her tenth birthday lasting for many years now. Winter, it seemed, was now upon them once more. 

Taking a seat again, Veron pulled the bed blankets over her lap, noticing her shivers. “I had expected we would be on the road again already. Where my brother is and what halts him from moving us all along, I do not know.” Looking down at her lap, he reached to her finger, there upon it a small, silver dragon ring. “Such a beautiful piece of jewellery. Was it a gift?” 

“Yes, for my fourteenth name day.” Filled with the memories that would warm her without him, she remembered, her thoughts turning to another man whose presence in her life she so dearly missed... 

“It seems not so long ago we celebrated you both upon your thirteenth name day,” the king spoke, receiving his twins within his quarters, rising from the comfort of his couch. “Happiest of name days, my twin stars. Come, come. Your gifts from mummy and I await.” With his arms open in welcome, he gestured to the table, chuckling softly when Aemella ran to hug him first, Aemond much more focused upon the many boxes there waiting for them.  

Sniffing, Viserys looked curious. “Apple blossom and... oud?” He had always taken an interest in his daughter’s love of botany, and the associated apothecary she so enjoyed partaking of. His own preferred sage and lemon soap was made by her. 

“White rose too, father. I blended it myself,” she spoke proudly, her father’s eyes glinting with adoration. 

“Of course, of course. My clever girl.” He touched a loving hand to her cheek, gesturing to the table full of gifts once more, he and Alicent sitting to watch them open each with much gusto. There within the boxes lay a trove of beautiful items one would expect for two regal youngsters to receive. Exquisitely tailored finery, crystalised fruits, antique nicknacks, and two small boxes which contained very special matching pieces.  

“Father!” Aemond exclaimed, pulling the silver dragon ring from its box. “Tis’ wholly stunning, thank you.” 

His son, always so very poised and stoic; Viserys often got quite the triumph out of stirring any other emotion. “I had the crown jeweller make them specially. Quietly, I did think perhaps those would catch your eyes the most.”  

Looking on, he watched his children place them upon the fourth fingers of their right hands, holding them up together while smiling, Aemella popping one of the crystalised cherries before her into her mouth, feeding one to her brother, too.  

Their parents looked on with quiet delight while their children enjoyed the array of gifts, eagerly anticipating the coming large feast being held to honour their name day later on. Viserys would have enjoyed holding a tournament to mark the event as well, but knew well how much his son lacked any interest in them. It was a great shame, for Aemond was so very proficient.  

“I will have your gifts ferried back to your quarters, my children, and see you later for our special supper.” Being king of the realm, both Aemond and Aemella understood well the constrictions on his time, only grateful to have been set aside a small amount of it with him to open their gifts. He did so with all of his children, but with the twins, the apples of his eye, he perhaps unfairly did devote a little more. 

Aemella had never forgotten it, but while her remembrance was of fondness, her elder brothers remained that of burning envy. Sitting within the lowly surroundings of the inn, far from her home, she quietly wondered how much more peaceful life would be, had her father not passed when he did.  

“I miss my father, too,” Veron sighed. “He was not a kind man like the king, may he rest, but he was always fair.”  

Anything Aemella might have replied with was left unsaid, the peace of the room shattered by the loud arrival of Dalton. “We prepare to move forward. Aemella, with me. Now.”  

“You do not have to bark orders at her,” Veron spoke, standing, his brother pointing warningly. 

“I will do unto her as I please, and you will cease your infernal interference!”  

He was no calmer that morning, then. 

Aemella shuffled off the bed, her side and back burning in pain, walking with a hobble. Her eyes found Veron’s, both sharing a look of silent trepidation, Dalton deliberately shoving a hand against where he’d lain the series of brutal kicks upon her back, hurrying her from the room as she yelped in agony.  

They made their way out to the waiting men and horses, Dalton reaching into his saddle bag, brandishing something that immediately filled her with dread. “I visited the local saddlery this morning, hence our lateness in moving on,” he began, taking the thick, leather dog collar and moving to fasten it around her throat. She made the mistake of stepping back, receiving a slap to her already throbbing face. “If you are to bite me like a dog, girl, then I shall treat you like a dog.” 

Humiliation coiled through her every muscle as she stiffened, her tired, dejected violet eyes cast downwards, clasping her hands together. If only she had not missed; she could have been aboard a horse galloping towards Kings Landing right at that moment, but instead she now found herself collared, brought to heel. For a young woman with such pride, it was a terrible blow.  

“You may consider that you have gotten away with your mistreatment of me, but that is not the case,” she then spoke, something bold swelling within her. Her heart fluttered, bravery lifting her spirits a smidgen. “However, if you release me now, I promise you, I shan’t burn you for it. If you do not, I cannot say that I will show you an ounce of mercy once I am free.” 

Dalton tipped his head back, a bellowing laugh sounding the air. “You speak in nonsense! All fucking mad, you Targaryen's. You surely must be, to speak such delusions!” Yanking her close where a thin rope fastened upon a ring set at the front of the collar, he snarled, his terrible breath overpowering. “Get on the fucking horse and keep your mouth shut.”  

While she reluctantly climbed aboard her mount, feeling great shame and indignity to be held fast upon the end of a rope, her love sailed through the skies aboard Vhagar, heading to the coast of the Westerlands. He anticipated that the galleon should be nearing its port upon the Iron Islands, but wanted to follow the shipping course to make sure he did not miss their location upon the high seas.  

It was while he was flying low over Lannisport that he noticed it, the vessel not out upon the water where he had expected to find it. Instead, he saw the unmistakable black sails bearing the Greyjoy crest of a golden kraken, run aground on a long stretch of rocky beach.  

“Ilagon, Vhagar. Tegon rȳ se rāenion.” Instructing his dragon to land upon the shore, he prepared for the descent, Vhagar cutting through the air swiftly, slowing herself to come to a neat landing upon the sandy rocks of the beach. 

Dismounting, he drew his sword, although from the outset the ship looked to be abandoned. He knew little of sailing, but with the small amount of knowledge he possessed, he did understand that the likely cause was being blown off course by a storm.  

His eye searched the deck of the ship, not a soul around, the rope ladder still flung down over the side, Aemond sheathing his sword and trudging out into the shallows to climb it. Once up on deck, he listened carefully, removing his sword once more as he did a quick tour around. Nothing. Throwing the hatch open, he moved down to the galley, once again lending his ear to any noise he might hear within the silence of the seemingly abandoned ship. 

The immediate quarters he entered seemed to be those of Dalton Greyjoy, a little grander than the smaller dwellings he kicked open the doors of, finding hammocks strapped up to house the crew while they slept. Arriving back within the space, he moved to a table, attracted by the glittering upon the wood. A single strand of silver hair lay atop it, his fingers moving to wipe over the stain next to it.  

Crimson smudged against them, a weight hitting him in the chest. Her blood. Sheathing his sword, he searched for any further trace of her, finding nothing, not even her possessions, climbing back up to the deck and down to the beach once more.  

He naturally deduced that with the galleon unable to be pulled back to sea without the aid of another vessel towing it, the party must have continued north on foot and found horses to complete their journey. It was the only logical move, to ride to the nearest coastline of the Iron Islands, Aemond running back to Vhagar to mount her and take to the air once more.  

There was one main road that led to the northern territories of the Westerlands, quite a lot of it covered by thick swathes of forestland he knew he could have to circle over, flying low in order to spot any large parties upon horseback as they emerged from beneath the gaps in the thick, green canopy.  

“I am coming, my love. Soon, we will be together again.” he pledged, his eye carefully scanning the ground below.  

While he searched for her, a hundred miles north of his location, Aemella rode along beside her captor. Dalton relished in yanking at her collar every so often, for no other reason than he could. This was how he showed his power, truly? She thought of her husband then, the difference between them night and day.  

“When we rest for the night, wife, I will have my way with you,” he asserted, snickering darkly.  

Aemella lifted her chin, not about to show him any further fear. “You have begun to erroneously refer to me as that recently, yet we remain unmarried. As we shall, going forward.” Something inside her grew then, a burning feeling of determination, a little gasp fluttering from her lips.  

Aemond. 

“You imbecilic bitch,” he scoffed, shaking his head, her collar tugged upon once more. “You still presume that somebody is coming to rescue you, or that you shall escape me?” 

The timing of his words... Oh, they could not have been more perfect.  

Exiting the thick of the trees, the horses moving forward to trot into the large, vast valley that lay before them, the air rapidly changing. A sudden, mighty gust of wind carried down from the sky, each rider bathed in the dark of a gigantic shadow. That descending darkness was then followed by the almighty cacophony of a dragon roar, the peace of the valley shattered by the guttural reverberations.  

Looking up, Aemella’s heart almost caught fire.  

Vhagar.  

“Dragon!” one of the crew yelled with desperation, the horses all scrambling, some rearing in fright as the mighty beast turned, Aemella feeling her insides burst with the moonbeams of his love. He had come for her. 

“Fall back! Retreat to the trees!” Dalton bellowed, turning his horse, too focused upon finding shelter to see that as Aemella cantered along at his side, her hand reached to unfasten the collar. Dropping the humiliating shackle from her grasp, she squeezed her heels into the horse’s sides, advancing ahead, turning the steed sharply to double back in the opposite direction.  

With the air whipping against her face, she pulled down the black hood of her cloak, letting her silver hair cascade out behind her, distinguishing herself from the rest of the fleeing group. Turning, she saw in the near distance her tormentor in rapid pursuit, Dalton kicking his heels against his horse, propelling it forward. 

He probably shouldn’t have bothered.  

A ball of fire rolled out over the ground, decimating the land below, the lord of the Iron Islands swerving, narrowly managing to dodge it, feeling his pursuit of the flightily escaping princess a fool’s errand, turning and galloping for cover beneath the trees with the rest of his men. A wife and position as Master of Ships was all well and good, but he did not covet it enough to risk being burned alive by his would-be bride’s former spouse.  

With her entire body burning in pain, Aemella made the horse surge forward into flat-out gallop, watching as Vhagar was brought to land upon the crest of the valley. She choked on a sob to see Aemond as he climbed from her saddle speedily, her heart thumping out waves of pure, undying love. Overcome to see him after her endless yearning, feeling as if her heart had all but died, her eyes filled with tears, slowing the horse when she was close enough and jumping down.  

They ran to one another, everything that had shattered within them rebuilding, their bond strengthening once more with every step until finally, they were clasped in one another’s arms. Fifteen days, and yet it had felt as if they had been parted for fifteen years, Aemond lifting her from the ground as their mouths met in a deep, longing kiss, his arms tightening around her.  

Finally. They could breathe again, their hearts blooming, the darkness of their separation giving way to full colour once more.  

“You,” she began, sobbing, tears streaming down her face. “You found me, darling love.” 

“In this lifetime and beyond,” he spoke, nuzzling her, “I will always find you. My first, my last, and my only.” His face was adoring as he stroked her, breathed in her scent, but taking in her injuries more carefully, it soon darkened to rage. “He did this. I will fucking burn him to his bones.” 

“Shhh, love,” she tried to placate him with, shaking her head. “It is not for now.” 

Oh, but it very much was, Aemond stiffening as he looked back towards the trees where the Greyjoy party had fled. “This.” Gesturing with his hand to her bruised and broken face, his nostrils flared, back teeth grinding in livid fury. “What he has done to you will not stand.” 

“Aemond, no.” Halting him again, she stroked his forearms, her eyes pleading with him. “There is another way. Let him feel as if he has escaped. I will return to him in due course. The revenge he is due, it is mine alone to give.” Her hands continued to soothe him, Aemond feeling the embers of his temper simmer down once more. “I cannot risk you accidentally hurting Veron if you chase them down aboard Vhagar. His brother, he was good to me. He looked after me. Without him, all of this would have been much worse.” 

As she gestured to her beautiful face, so darkened from bruises, he could not imagine it appearing worse for even a second. Her present state was shocking enough. It was with great reluctance, but eventually he relented to his wife’s wishes. 

“He didn’t...” Trailing off, he cast his eye downwards, his jaw tightening. “I cannot even speak the word.” 

“No, no he did not,” she stated emphatically. “He tried to, but I beat him until I freed myself. In fact, I attempted to stab him with his own dagger, but lamentably missed.”  

His mouth flickered into something of a smile, hands stroking her face. “My brave love. You ask of me an enormous restraint, not to seek retribution for all of this.”  

Leaning to him, she nuzzled him softly, kissing him, her arms tightening at his waist. “It must be me, but it is not of importance now.” 

“As you wish, precious one. Come now, let me take you home. Where you belong.” 

If she was to agree with anything, it was that. 

Nearing Vhagar, she proceeded cautiously, though the dragon looked more concerned with dozing. Such a lovely, old girl, she thought, mighty when she needed to be, but very much happy to sleep whenever she could.  

Aemond helped her aboard, taking a seat behind her so that he could clasp her sore, battered body tightly, his care once again taking over now he had her back from within the clutches of the man who had sought to bring this hurt.  

“Bring Grand Maester Orwyle to me at once!” 

His barked order was bellowed much louder than the usual strong, yet soft cadence he spoke with as soon as they entered the Red Keep later that day, servants gasping as he carried Aemella in his arms, whispers of ‘the princess has returned!’ filtering up to the high ceilings. 

“Gods be good,” Ser Eddard exclaimed, arriving with them. “What happened to the princess?” 

“Dalton Greyjoy,” Aemond seethed, his eye narrowed. “Send the Maester to our quarters and fetch the handmaidens. The princess’s comfort is of the utmost urgency.”  

Eddard moved swiftly in obedience, Aemond taking the stone staircase at a run, his long legs ascending the steps two at a time. Arriving with the quarters, the Grand Maester entered just moments after them, Orwyle ready to tend to her.  

She would not be the only Targaryen sibling his duties extended to in the coming days, but what lay ahead of him was far worse than what he treated upon that afternoon.  

“Severe bruising to the cheek bone and eye socket, but I doubt a break, princess,” he spoke quietly, gently examining her face. “Your nose was not so fortunate, but whomever re-set the bone did a sterling job of it.” Turning to the handmaidens, he ordered for hot water to be brought to him, the girl Ginny rushing to go and fill a bowl and bring it back at speed, Orwyle emptying the contents of a brown glass bottle into it and taking clean, fresh cloths to begin cleansing the cuts to her face. 

“Where else are you experiencing pain, princess?” he asked, gently dotting a healing balm to her cuts. “This too is well-stitched,” he commented, studying her cheek. 

“My thigh, my ribs and my back,” she replied, Orwyle nodding.  

“May I remove your dress to study the injuries?” he asked with courtesy, Aemella nodding. With the handmaidens help, he undressed her carefully, his eyes touring every dark, angry looking bruise. 

At seeing his wife’s pale flesh marred with shades of purple and blue, Aemond felt his anger rise sharply. What he wouldn’t give to pin Dalton Greyjoy down and inflict every last morsel of suffering upon him, too. He would enjoy such a show of brutality greatly, before feeding his useless carcass to Vhagar.  

“Love, go and fortify yourself with a rum,” Aemella advised, feeling his anger flaring with blistering heat. “Maester Owyle is doing an excellent job with my care. Go on.” 

He nodded, his shoulders tightening as he turned and walked to the living area, pouring out a large measure and sinking it in one gulp.  

“You are the wounded, and yet you still care for the prince’s wellbeing,” Orwyle whispered, smiling proudly at her. “Some things certainly do not change, princess.” He studied the bruises, lifting a different balm from his large box of items. “Some arnica balm, which as you know will expedite the bruising to flush out. Alas, I fear your rib is cracked. Tell me, are you able to walk well, move your feet and toes?” She nodded in confirmation. “And can you feel this?”  

Reaching, he gently pressed his hands against the soles of her feet. Once again, she nodded. “This too?” Each toe was squeezed, Aemella confirming that yes, she could feel the little pinches. “I feared spinal damage, but I am greatly relieved to see none.” 

Her body could have been battered to several shades worse in severity; the only thing she cared about was the tiny life she held inside, a life she knew was still well and safe. She’d anticipated perhaps she might suffer another loss, but her undergarments remained clear of all blood, and no pain blighted her abdomen.  

The brunt had been to other parts of her body, each treated by the Maester before one of the handmaidens gave her a very careful bed bath, brushing her hair and helping her dress in a fresh nightgown. 

“Do you wish for something to eat, princess? I could bring you some bread and cheese? Some of your favourite wine, too?”  

“That would be lovely, Ginny.” While she left the room, Orwyle collected his things and tidied them back into the box, advising her to remain on bed rest for a couple of days. She knew she would have to seek him out soon and inform him of her expectancy, but in order to do that, she had to reveal the happy news to her child’s father first, something she desired to do alone.  

Once by themselves, Aemond return to seat himself at the edge of their bed, smiling, taking her hands in his.  

“I have longed for this moment, to have you returned to me,” he spoke, his eternal love for her winding through every word. 

“I have, too. Both of us have, in fact.” She then moved his hand, laying it above her womb where soon, she would begin to swell. “My moonsblood did not arrive as it should have two weeks ago. You are going to be a father, darling love.” 

Aemella would never forget the way he smiled at her in that moment. A single, glimmering tear trickled down his cheek as he leaned to kiss her, his hand stroking atop of where inside his twin star, the very beginnings of their babe safely grew, blissfully unaware of the pain its parents had so recently faced.  

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[darklydeliciousdesires]

This is SO her! Thank you, Anna!

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[call-sign-shark]

White Flesh Marks Easily

Summary: When the despicable King Aegon Targaryen stays in the North in anticipation of the wedding he planned between his little sister Aemella Targaryen and a Stark-born, Aemella finds an unexpected ally.

Words: 2.3k

TW: Smut, mention of incest, infidelity, non-protected sex, no proofreading, blablabla. No one's gonna read that so nvm aha. Amos is still cruel in this but not to Hev.

Notes: A little something inspired by @darklydeliciousdesires's story A Storm of Stars. Aemella is her OC while Heavenerys Targaryen and Amos Bolton are mine. A second part will be posted soon because I ended up having too many ideas. I also wanted to write about the two sisters gossiping but it would have been far too much. Anyway, enjoy!

"Oh my Lord, please! More!" The little Targaryen Queen moaned, her head thrown back and her plump, sinful lips parted in ecstasy as Lord Bolton thrusted in her with a merciless pace. The velvety walls of her soaked cunt clenched around his hardness with a possessive grip each time he buried it deep inside her.

"You're such a hungry whore, lil' dragon. My hungry little whore." He purred in her ear, his voice sounding like a dangerously seductive growl. The Queen let out a horny whimper when she felt his large hand leaving her hips only to grab one of her tiny perky breasts. His pantings, interspersed with animal groans, resounded around with the sound of their flesh snapping. She could feel his scorching breath fanning against her cheek, the scratching sensation of his beard on her delicate, porcelain skin and the way his strong chest heaved in her back "Fuck, you're so good..." So fucking good you got me higher than torture, he thought, glancing down to relish the obscene sight of his glistening cock pulling and pushing side her, and how stretched her poor pussy looked. "Does the King even fuck you, my Lady?"

"I'd rather fuck with a dog." Heavenerys sneered, showing her teeth like a wild beast when Amos hit a painful but oh-so-delightful spot. "Pretty sure I'd have more pleasure with your kennel than him."

"Well, all you have to do is ask and I'll bark." He said, his thumb caressing her hard nipple in circular motions and his cock twitching at the sensation of his belle climaxing on it. "I might even let you yank my leash and lick you like a good boy..."

Lord Bolton had to hold onto the wall with his free hand given how dizzying was the feeling of her cunt pulsing around him before it flooded his length with more of her love juice.

"Amos..." She moaned, discreet tears of pleasure beading at the corner of her glowing blue eyes.

"Yes little dragon, like this. Just like this..." He cooed with a honey voice, slowly moving his hips to accompany her orgasm and make her see stars until the very last seconds. It didn't take more for him to come too, pleasure washing over him like a tidal wave as he shot milky and warm ropes deep inside of her. Her overstimulated pussy shook with delight at the warmth that painted her walls white.

When Amos pulled out, he tucked himself back. Then, his lips parted, "Show me." He commanded and she obliged with a little bratty smile that sublimated her after-fuck face and pink cheeks. Queen Heavenerys leaned over slightly to allow him a perfect sight of her stretched hole from which an awful load of cum was dripping. The most delightful sight he has ever seen, one even above that of a man he'd have flayed alive.

"Do you like what you see, my Lord?" She purred, her siren-like voice sounding like music to his ears, taming the demons in his head.

"You cannot imagine how much I adore it..." What he really liked about it was more than the sexual depravity of the scene though. It was how it meant he had managed to make her his. How it was the result of their lovemaking, and the proof they had just made one. Amos gently turned her around and pulled her in a possessive yet loving hug. With his eyes shut close, he tried to ignore the pain of not being the one who had put a ring around her finger. "I love you so much..."

Surprised, Heavenerys glanced at him before sinking even more in his warm and protective embrace, "I love you too."

It had all started during one of Aegon's trips in the North, months before the foolish idea of remarrying her big sister Aemella had bloomed in the King's mad brain. Their infatuation had been instant. Cataclysmic.

"No, you don't get it. I've never thought I would love someone as much. Never thought someone would melt the ice of my heart and make the evilest part of me go soft like a puppy... It kills me not to have you, Light of my life."

Killed him to witness Aegon's hand upon her hand, or his lips grazing her skin.

"I know..." The little white-haired queen said with a sad smile as her frail hand lost itself in his coal-dark hair, gently petting his head to soothe his sorrow, "Having another man in my bed feels more painful than death. " Even more when that man was her brother Aegon. Twisted, idiotic, despicable Aegon. A brother-husband she wished to see split in half, dead and cold, with his guts spread on the marble floor of the castle.

"Has anyone seen the Queen?" A voice resounded, not so far away.

Fuck, they had to go back to the dining hall. They had to go back very quickly.

The meeting with the King had been a pain in the ass. During the exceptionally boring rambles of Aegon, Amos Bolton came to the realization that he wasn't as cruel as he -- and people -- thought he was. Had he really been a heartless and sadistic monster, he'd have sat his victim in the same room as Aegon Targaryen and forced them to listen to him for hours.

"I didn't expect the North to be so welcoming, Lord Bolton. Even though Dreadfort Castle is an unpleasant stern place and food from the North the most horrid things I've tasted."

"And I didn't expect the King to be so aesthetically disadvantaged, but here we are, Majesty." He retorted with a tone as cold as the North' wind. It was true that Amos Bolton, on top of standing quite taller than the King, his athletic figure enhancing his graceful height, was dangerously good-looking. Extremely good-looking.

Pretty cute for a monster, right? Aemella had whispered to her little sister the first time she saw him. The two Targaryen Princesses had exchanged a mischievous smirk.

Shit, shutting Aegon's mouth without saying how he had fucked his wife against a wall just between the starters and the main course — or how she had sobbed from pleasure when he ate her before dessert — was more challenging than he had thought. Aegon didn't understand but pretended. He laughed and slapped Lord Bolton's shoulder in what sought to be a friendly gesture.

Amos' whole body tensed -- he viscerally hated unwelcomed physical contact. Yet, he still remained quiet for the sake of a political relationship he'd dislike ruining.

"You're far less the cruel beast that everybody depicts, Lord Bolton."

"How... Quaint." He raised a brow, unable to refrain a gleam of disdain from shining in his ink-black eyes.

"I mean it, Bolton. Your mother says you constantly refuse to talk about marriage -- why is that? Are the women here too ugly and frigid to your liking? Come to Dragonstone and I'll find you a beauty who'll gladly let you pump her full of cum. The ultimate pleasure, eh?"

"I appreciate your concern but I am fine."

Do you know your wife had spent the whole dinner filled with my seeds? Yeah, she had to keep her thighs closed to keep my cum from leaking all the while she was holding your hand and smiling.

"If you say so. But think about it Bolton, we could make a powerful alliance. Hadn't Aemella already been suited for Stark, I'd have wed her to you." Aegon chimed, grabbing a red apple from the fruit basket that was on the gigantic wooden table before taking a bite out of it.

"Aemella is surely more beautiful than the moonlight reflection on a quiet frozen lake during a Winter night but I'm afraid I would have declined such an offer. I feel like there is no better suitor for her than her actual husband." Amos said, chin held high. He exuded a natural pride that radiated from him. One could even ponder who was the King between the two of them.

Aegon almost choked on his apple, "Former husband," He corrected dryly, "A wedding is nothing more than a contract. In fact, theirs is a joke I intend to cancel."

"Well, I've known many jokes in my life. Some even became Kings," Lord Bolton tilted his head. The light of the chandelier above them hit his onyx eyes, as black as the blackest night, and made them burn with a strange, frightening fire, "But Aemond and Aemella's marriage is not one. In fact, their union seems far more genuine and pristine than all of the others I've seen during yesterday's banquet, My King."

A heavy silence fell on the meeting room, bouncing against the grey walls of Dreadfort. The only noise that pierced through it was the muffled thud of the King's apple he had dropped on the floor. Uncomfortable because of Lord Bolton's black eyes and sharp words, Aegon waved the topic off with a trembling hand.

There was something about Amos Bolton... Something that unsettled him deeply. An aura of not-so-hidden monstrosity whose weight could have crushed the mightiest dragon had it stood too close to him.

"The cold makes you believe nonsense, I'm afraid."

That was the end of the conversation. Aegon pretended to have a significant meeting with Lord Stark and left, but the rapid pace of his walk betrayed how eager he was to escape from him.

"Pathetic." Amos breathed, caustic poison dripping from the word.

"Aesthetically disadvantaged? That sure was a clever jab, Lord Bolton. Mean, of course, but clever." The lilt echoing behind him was like a pleasant melody of both malice and tenderness. Light as spring, sweet as honey. Shooting a somber glance above his shoulder, the tall darkness caught sight of Princess Aemella Targaryen bypassing him before she sat on the edge of the table, observing the dark-eyed Lord with the curiosity of a cat. Amos let out a long exhale before slightly shaking his head, "With all due respect, your brother the King is..." He drawled, his unfinished sentence lingering in the air as he weighed how much he could be insolent in the presence of another Targaryen. "A twat? A reeking drunkard? A saddle-goose?" She smirked at Bolton's surprise. "Disgusting words from such a pretty mouth." He stated, but the way he squinted his eyes betrayed his amusement, "I'd say that he's more insufferable than a venereal disease but your flourished speech outperformed mine."

The radiant Aemella giggled briefly but her joy was cut short by the howling of the freezing wind outside Dreadfort's window. With the wind came the cruel reminder of her situation: she was here to meet with the man she would be sold to like a vulgar prostitute. If she didn't find a solution quick enough, the North would be her new home. And the cold? That same cold that was hooting outside? well, the cold would become the jail keeping her far away from Aemond's warm and loving arms.

Noticing the shift in her attitude and the sudden sadness of her pout, Lord Bolton spoke again, "Maybe you should take a walk near the kennel. Some newborn pups are around and they are fond of kisses and playtime."

Aemella's shoulders slouched a bit, "I'd love to but Lord Stark will arrive soon and I don't want him to see me..." She appreciated the suggestion though.

"I can pluck his eyes out. By accident, of course." Amos relaxed a little, his stern and authoritative composure fading a bit for a more relaxed posture. He leaned against the table, next to beautiful Aemella.

"Of course. You surely know how to seduce a woman, Lord Bolton." Mella beamed.

Her purple eyes reminded him of the sky's colors at sunset.

"I wouldn't dare, Princess."

Another silence. Comforting, this time.

"But you would dare to do so with my little sister, wouldn't you?" Her quick wit caught him off guard. Indeed, the tall darkness had turned his head to her, his black eyes wide open and his mouth already opening to defend himself. Or rather to defend his sweet little dragon's honor. He didn't mind coming off as a heartless bastard, that was already what his reputation said, but tarnishing Heavenerys' virtue was inconceivable.

"I know, Lord Bolton." She added with very gentle remonstrance and a tad bit of amusement. His jaw clenched visibly -- Aemella could see dimples forming on his cheeks even under his perfectly trimmed beard.

"How?" He simply asked, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he swallowed, trying his best not to show his annoyance.

Nimble as a cat, Aemella jumped from the table and proceeded to walk all around the tall darkness, circling him with the grace and the power of a dragon.

"Well, white flesh is certainly one of my family's most valuable and mesmerizing traits, along with our hair. But you see the thing is that.... White flesh marks easily, my Lord. And I fear I saw my little sister's body covered with them last night."

Aemella offered him a teasing smile.

White flesh marked easily and sisters loved to talk about men.

Once the surprise faded away, Amos Bolton was left with a bitter taste on his tongue, mainly caused by his wariness. Despite her hatred for the King, he wasn't sure Aemella wouldn't disclose the hidden affairs. Maybe in exchange for the cancellation of her wedding with Stark? As if she had read his mind, Aemella stopped circling him and gently, oh-so-gently, rested her small hand on his arm. Her crepuscular iris bore into the black holes of his, blazing with both sincerity and a promise of trouble to come.

"I can help you free Heavenerys from Aegon. I can help you marry her, because I know she's dying to be yours. But please, Lord Bolton... Help me in return."

Wanna read more? Here's Dance of the Cold.

Tagging the GoT moots: @justrainandcoffee @mischievouslittlecreature @shelbydelrey @cillmequick @evita-shelby @darklydeliciousdesires @peakyswritings

[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Fourteen.

Thank you kindly to those of you still reading :)

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 3,905

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen

Aemond would be the first to admit, should he entertain such talk, that he often much preferred for his wife to be the more commanding in the bed chamber. This was even truer since his succession to the Iron Throne, the heavy weight of the realm and the crown – although not literally placed upon his head as yet – often burdening him heavily.  

Yes, to have someone in control of him for a while made for the perfect tonic of change. The morning of his coronation was no different.  

His vision swam with bursts of colour behind a closed eyelid, hands roaming over her body, opening his eye and viewing the utterly delectable sight of his love, knelt astride his head, the sweet honey of her cunt bathing his tongue as he ate her with fervour. 

They had newly moved into the king’s quarters, Aemella perplexing the handmaidens and various other courtesans alike by refusing the queen’s quarters entirely. Although they were next to the kings, she had no desire to reside in separation. One of the elder female courtesans had been most bemused, the woman within the employ of the castle’s textile needs, called by the queen to discuss new drapes and bed linens. 

“If I may be so bold, my queen, but when you are already with child, why is it that you seek to be with the king nightly within his bed?” 

Ahh, the older generation. To them, lovemaking was a means to procreation and little more. “For the comfort of his embrace. Also, because it is rather impossible to have sex with him when a wall divides us.”  

Her statement had a nearby Gileda quietly laughing behind her hand, the queen’s candour not quite what the lady with the armfuls of fabric had expected to hear, colouring to the shade of beetroot rapidly.  

Indeed, it had been many years since the reigning king and queen had been so genuinely in love with one another that they showed that love quite so regularly. While for Aemond, his respectable demeanour meant that he was never overt in his desires towards his wife, if the noise borne of those desires should happen to carry, however... 

“Ser Crison, I have handmaidens bothering me about not being able to gain entrance to the king’s quarters,” Ser Eddard bustled, not pleased over being disturbed by the trivialities of the servants. “Something about needing to begin seeing to the queen’s hair regime.” 

It was a little past dawn, the usual time in which the queen rose. “Then let us investigate.” The knights moved from their quarters up the many stairs which took them higher within the Red Keep, arriving upon the correct floor where the king’s quarters were located.  

The nearer they walked towards the door, the more apparent it became why the queen was not allowing the handmaiden’s entrance. It was doubtful she’d heard them at all.  

They paused, sharing a look, eyebrows raised. “Her grace is...” Ser Criston began, his words cut short by the noise that filtered from behind the doors. 

“Oh gods, fuck!” 

“Receiving the king, it would appear.” 

Eddard couldn’t bite back his smirk, or help the snort laugh that sounded his nose. “We should not laugh.” 

“No,” he agreed, his eyebrows raising a little. “Most certainly not.” 

“Tis’ not appropriate,” Eddard continued. 

Another bliss-filled wail sounded.  

“Well, at least the king will not be short of heirs, if this is how they intend to go on.” The knights walked away, both giving way to a moment of boyish immaturity as they shared laughter.  

While they headed off, on the other side of the door, Aemella felt like she was drowning in the ecstasy she received from her husband, head thrown back, thighs quivering, her moans unabashed. He gilded the pearl of her sex with wet heat, each lick rolling slowly, smiling against her as her cries filled the air. 

“Does my tongue please you, my queen?”  

He knew well that it did, but Aemella still gave him what he sought. “It never fails to, husband.” Her mouth dropped open; eyes pinching shut tightly. “Yes, right there, ohh!” 

He knew she was close, tongue fluttering in hard, rapid licks upon her bud, his hands tightening at her waist, entranced by the sight of her losing her mind to his mouth. She dug her nails into the lean muscles of his arms, dragging raspberry brandings over his pale skin as her body burned white-hot with every rolling ripple of her release, glimmers tingling up her spine, leaving her breathless.  

“I think I deserve rewarding for that, sweet wife,” he groaned, wiping his mouth, kissing her thigh and branding her with a little bite as she shuffled backwards, straddling his hips. 

“Mmm,” she hummed, leaning forward to kiss him, sinking down onto his cock. “And you shall receive it too, darling love. I know how keenly you enjoy being ridden.” 

Straightening, she rolled her hips, slipping down on as much of him as her tightly stretched cunt could take, feeling him filling her deep. “Oh, gods. I love you so much, Aemond!”  

He couldn’t help but offer a little tease. “You always do, when you’re all full of my cock.” The sudden upward punt of his hips almost unseated her, Aemond grasping her breasts and steadying her, sitting up, pulling her legs around him as he kissed her with filthy heat. “I love you, too, my sweet, beautiful wife.” 

It became torrid and wild with all the ferocity of a hurricane, bodies grinding against each other hard, all that had been softer in edge sharpening, his fingers clenching as he grasped her back, short nails grazing her skin as he bit her nipple.  

Groaning out the heat of his arousal, his teeth released the soft flesh, kissing the pink marks left behind upon a deep groan, his hair tugged at, her fingers weaving into the roots. Her hand yanked in a fierce tug, her eyes gleaming with all the power her fuck wielded over him. 

“Bend for me, my king.” 

He leaned back, arching like the bend in a riverbank, her lips meeting his throat as her hips worked in serpentine against him, each roll viciously slow yet savagely thorough, her inner muscles clasping in spasm on his cock. She had him sent mindless rapidly, his deep moans filling the air, fingers digging into her shoulders as she rode him with ember-burning vigour. 

In the place she had kissed one brother to his death, she sent her other to the edges of the heavens, tongue sliding in a sensuous lick along the column of his neck, the roll of her hips a little more purposeful, staring at him intently. The love within her heart echoed through her dominance, gentle glimmers meeting the sharper edge she fucked him with, scraping like feather kisses and razor cuts across his soul.  

Releasing her grip within his long, silver mane, she pushed him down, her hand curling elegantly at his throat and holding him there, whispering words of love, lust and desire to him in their mother tongue, High Valyrian spells that held him bound, enchanted into the bed.  

The fervid nature of their tryst held no hope of anything more than a rapid chase to their simmering release, Aemella grinding down upon him determinedly, the lighting dancing at the base of her spine streaking fully, bouncing from strike point to strike point. She came with a wail, the flutters of her walls around him milking his cock to erupt deep in the velvet wet of her, both panting in exhaustion as she collapsed atop his chest. 

Sweet glimmers ebbed, his hands stroking her sweaty back, Aemella looking down upon him with the kind of wide, satisfied grin that made his laughter sound, kissing her head.  

“Such a smug face, wife,” he chuckled, hand stroking her cheek. 

Turning her head, she kissed his palm. “I always am when you come that hard for me, love.” 

Indeed, he had. Lying there with his mind a foggy mess, he could have happily fallen asleep again. He didn’t have the luxury of dozing in the aftermath of his bliss, though, both getting out of bed and bathing quickly before a flurry of activity overtook their morning. For the entire time as handmaidens rushed around them, they stole little glances at one another, Aemella bursting with pride especially. 

There he was, her twin, her husband, her love, and he was about to be coronated. She didn’t think she could feel prouder, but later that morning, with thousands of people gathered there within the dragonpit to bear witness to the new king being named, her heart could have burst.  

Once again, Otto Hightower announced the proceedings, his mighty voice booming through the huge, looming space. 

“People of Kings Landing, today again we are united in our grief, our family and the realm alike mourning the loss of our beloved King Aegon II. But it is with his passing we are now fortified once more in the hope for a solidified future, with his younger brother, Aemond I Targaryen, succeeding to the throne.” 

Seeing him walk towards the platform beneath the arch of swords, a tear slid down Aemella’s cheek. After all his childhood torment, such indignities and deep-cut wounds, being made to believe he was not good enough by means of cruel bullying via his brother and nephews, there he stood. A literal king amongst men.  

Every storm they had weathered together had led to this moment.  

“My queen.” he whispered as she greeted him with a soft kiss, moving aside as he knelt.  

The High Septon walked forward, taking the small, gold bowl of anointing oil from one of his aides, beginning to mark little slicks upon his forehead as he spoke. 

“May the warrior give him courage. May the smith lend strength to his sword and sheath. May the father defend him in his need. May the crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom.” 

He then took the crown, handing it to Ser Criston Cole, who could only hope as he raised it aloft, the head in which he would place it upon would hold better sense and judgement than that of his predecessor. 

“The crown of the conqueror, passed down through generations.” As it was placed upon his head, Aemond felt with it the great weight, but it was far eclipsed by the sense of righteousness. This was how it always should have been, he realised. 

His sense of duty and destiny intertwined as he rose, the anointing oil cool on his brow, and the crown's heaviness a testament to his newfound responsibilities. Aemella's heart surged with a mix of pride and resolve, knowing even more so than before that their shared journey of hardships had culminated in this literal crowning moment. She could see in his eye, the unwavering determination to rule with sense and efficiency, a stark contrast to his predecessor's short, yet volatile reign.  

The atmosphere in the dragonpit was electric with anticipation, every eye fixed upon the new king, a crown upon his head, ready to lead them. 

“Let the Seven bear witness.” Ser Criston continued, stepping back as Aemond stood, receiving bows of acknowledgement from his family, his heart virtually bursting into flame to see the way his queen smiled at him. 

“All hail his grace, Aemond, first of his name. King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” 

Turning to his public, he nodded to them, standing poised before drawing his sword and holding it aloft, his name chanted by the thousands there to witness his triumph. Raucous applause and cheers filled the dragonpit, the celebration joyous and exuberant.  

Standing dutifully, Alicent leaned to her daughter. “Do you recall what it was that I told you, while you were still only a girl?” Studying her carefully, she inclined her head towards Aemond. “The husband is the head, but the wife is the neck…” 

Aemella finally peeled her loving gaze away from her husband. “And the neck can turn the head in any direction she wishes.” 

She nodded. “Exactly.” While her eyes flitted back to her son, she leaned close to her daughter’s ear. “I am trusting you to make those turns where you see fit, lest your husband become more unhinged than we both know well he is capable of being.” 

Something flickered in her daughter’s eyes, a dark light Alicent had rarely seen manifest itself. It chilled her for a moment, swallowing hard as Aemella leaned to her. 

“Trust that I know always, mother, exactly in which direction to wield my power.” 

Her statement should have settled her mother’s fears, yet for Alicent it only left her with an uneasy, nagging doubt over which of her twins truly was the more unhinged.  

Sheathing his sword, the king turned, extending his hand towards Aemella. She moved gracefully, taking it, Aemond pulling her close, his eyes glittering with adoration before turning back to the crowd. 

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. I present to you your queen, Aemella Targaryen.” Very unprecedentedly, he then took to his knee before her, the cheers rapturous, kissing her hand. There was not a chance that on his coronation day, the woman who had brought him there would be pushed into insignificance. They were, after all, one. His triumph was hers. His adoration was hers.  

His rule was hers. 

As king, he planned to swiftly prove to her, too, just how significant she was to him. Not that she ever needed to be told, but there was a score to settle.  

The eroded cliffs that jutted out from the swirling sea stood formidable, Vhagar coming to land upon one of the high bridges that connected Pyke to its keeps. No matter that formidability, the mighty dragon dwarfed her standing, her ear-piercing roar signalling the arrival of the king.  

“My lord, king Aemond has this moment arrived upon Pyke, another dragon circling overhead.”  

Dalton Greyjoy did hate to be disturbed over dinner, but he would have been dealing in untruths had he stated not to have been waiting for this moment. “And what does the one-eyed king wish for from me?” 

His servant looked trepidatious, having of course witnessed the redoubtable air the new king had arrived in, waiting beside his colossal dragon for Dalton to make his way to him. “Your audience, outside.” 

Forking in a final mouthful of liver sausage, he swilled it down with a slug of ale, his eye sharpening towards his brother. “Come.”  

Obediently, Veron followed through the draughty halls and corridors, the sea spray flecking them as they walked to the bridge, Aemond standing in wait, arms folded.  

“Veron, stay where you are.” His eye burned like a flaming amethyst through the night as he stated menacingly at Dalton, curling his finger. “Proceed towards your king, Lord Greyjoy.”  

Dalton lifted his head as his feet strode out over the bridge, the ground as hard beneath his feet as the demeanour he wished to present himself with. Within himself, though, he felt his courage trickling. He’d never witnessed Vhagar close before, only from the air above. The mighty dragon stood as a chillingly terrifying sentry to her rider.  

“Halt.”  

Immediately, he stopped, the king still a good distance from him. “If you call me out here to discuss alliance...” 

That was as far as he got. “I call you out here at my queen’s behest, to answer for your crimes against her.”  

“My crimes?” he spluttered, his whole body stiffening as he jumped in fright, Fyreclaw’s screech from above shattering through the night.  

Aemond nodded, looking up at the sky as the dragon began to descend, Fyreclaw hovering in place in the air. “That is correct, Lord Greyjoy. Or did you think you would remain unpunished for all the times you raised a hand to my wife?”  

The colour began to drain from Dalton’s flushed cheeks, the king continuing. “I don’t take kindly to that, nor you attempting to rape her. Neither does she, as one might imagine.” 

Fear began to coil through him, entwined with a sense of indignance. “She told me herself that if I released her, she would not seek retribution!” 

Aemond sniffed, resting his hands upon the hilt of his sword. “You did not release her, though. I rescued her from your clutches. There is rather the difference there, wouldn’t you say, hmm?” 

Realising he was at a loss with the one quietly menacingly enraged Targaryen, he turned to appeal his plight to the other. “Aemella! Please! I beseech you. Do not do this to me!” 

“Address your queen correctly, you pathetic cunt,” Aemond gritted, looking up with pride as his wife.  

“You said that you would not have me burned, your grace! You swore it!” Dalton bellowed to the skies above, his voice only just audible over the mighty swish of Fyreclaw’s colossal wings. 

Aemella’s grin grew in its sinisterness, her pretty mouth twisting, all of the pain and humiliation she had felt simmering just below her surface. Here it was, what she had waited patiently for while putting other wheels in motion, her chance to offer a fitting punishment to another who had wronged her. 

“I lied.”  

The lord of Pyke, riddled with panic, sank to his knees, clasping his hands together. It was a piteous display. “I beg of you, please! Spare my life.” 

His appeals fell on deaf ears, for there was no room for mercy or pity remaining in the queen’s heart, a single word delivered with determination that sealed the Red Kraken's fate. 

“Dracarys!” 

With a bellowing breath, Fyreclaw roasted the man alive upon his rider’s instruction, Dalton screaming and flailing before he fell forward, charred to his very bones in mere moments.  

As Helaena had foreseen, the Red Kraken finally burned.  

Neither Targaryen flinched, and nor did his brother, the king moving past the fiery corpse and approaching Veron. 

“Your grace,” he spoke, bowing, looking up and extending the same to Aemella. 

“Lord Greyjoy,” Aemond replied, Veron realising that yes, he indeed was now. “I have a proposal I wish to put forth to you.” 

The proposal was a very rapid exchange, which lead to the newly appointed Lord Greyjoy sailing his fleet to Kings Landing, arriving three days later, to his first meeting upon king Aemond’s small council. He witnessed there the fallout to the king and queen’s actions against his brother, the lords present all quietly agreeing that the punishment he’d received had not been a becoming start to his new reign.  

Veron thought it very fitting. After all, it was no secret that should one play with fire, one should expect to get burned. It was no secret either that Dalton Greyjoy had been a monster. He had revelled in it, truly, worn it as a badge of honour. 

Perhaps the worst monsters of all were the ones who did not know that they were, though. 

“Not that he should have gone unpunished, your grace,” Otto began, the weight that had been lifted of one reckless grandson now bearing upon his shoulders once more. “He should have been reprimanded through the correct avenues. To burn the man to death shows a significant lack of restraint in a quest for personal indulgence.” 

Aemond sniffed with nonchalance, his fingers running over the smooth, marble ball before him. “Some claim the worst indignity a woman can face is that of a man forcing himself upon her. Others claim it is the loss of a child. My wife suffered the former, and could very nearly have also experienced the latter – for a second time, I hasten to add - had he been successful in his attempt to brutalise her.”  

A sharply glinted stare bored right through Otto’s eyes, a savage tingle he felt prickling somewhere in the back of his skull. “The queen’s choice was a very fitting retribution for his crimes against her.” The king then extended a hand down the table, nodding at Veron. “Which brings me to introduce you all to my newly appointed Master or Ships, Lord Veron Greyjoy. Tell me of our current standing regarding the blockade, my lord.” 

“I am happy to inform his grace that the Iron Fleet will set sail at noon, along with the fortifications of the triarchy. Together, we hope to annihilate the Sea Snake’s barrier with swiftness, allowing trade to pass through from Essos once more.”  

While talk circled the table over the finer logistics of Veron Greyjoy’s attack, Otto sat and ruminated silently, a small slither of foreboding coiling through his insides. Much like his daughter, he had always seen Aemella in the light of the harnesser of Aemond’s reckless side. To learn that it had been her idea to burn the Red Kraken to ashes did not sit well within him. 

For the new king to have ousted his mother from the small council only to bring his wife in, too, seemed very much a play of fortification. Concerningly, it appeared that both twins were a little too comfortable with the notion of trial by fire. Otto could only wonder just how many more ashes in their wake would sit in charred smoulder for all to see before they found their composure. 

“Together, they could be mighty, yet incredibly poised rulers,” he began, visiting with Alicent in her quarters a time later. “Equally though, if they forge together and exclude the word of all others, then we have an even greater challenge than Aegon on our hands.”  

Alicent had been toying with it in the back of her mind, not truly wanting to give light to the whispers. Whispers both in her mind and circulating the Red Keep, courtesy of a recently departed Lord Larys.  

“Do you believe it was her, father? The agent to Aegon’s demise?”  

Otto looked troubled by her statement. He would never wish to believe it of his gentle, wise granddaughter, yet when she was threatened... when Aemond was threatened... 

His thoughts swirled in a tempest of uncertainty, not unlike the storms that had beset their shores of late. He could not shake the grim realisation that Aemella’s protection of her husband, thus leading to an ambition to steer his seat to the Iron Throne might be a far more formidable force than he had ever anticipated.  

Seating himself, his fingers dug into the arm of the couch. “I beseech even myself not to believe such of her,” he began, sighing wearily. “Beneath Aemella’s calm poise always did lie something quite unnerving, though. Especially where Aemond is concerned.” 

The king and queen’s unification seemed an unbreakable bond, yet within it lay the potential for unchecked power, a wildfire in its own right, threatening to consume all that opposed its path.  

The flickering candlelight in Alicent’s quarters cast eerie shadows, shadows that seemed to whisper secrets of vengeance and betrayals. As father and daughter exchanged wary glances, the air grew heavy with unspoken truths, for they both knew that the line between justice and retribution was perilously thin. 

“Perhaps impending motherhood may gentle her,” Otto spoke finally, the heavy atmosphere cut through with the slither of hope.  

Alicent scoffed quietly, resting her chin upon her curled hand. “Or make her ten times more ferocious in her drive to protect what is hers.”  

Only time would tell. 

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :) 

Next Chapter

[darklydeliciousdesires]

I would like to jump in here and add this as very fitting for Aemella, too. Aemond would probably decree the following, though. A little re-write following the prompt...

The defeated and bloodied king was chained to kneel in front of his enemy and he says weakly: "Is my wife still alive?" His enemy nodded. "You fools," he said smirking, watching them turn to where they'd had one of his courtesans bring them wine to drink of their triumph. "You are in trouble now."

Watching them drink it back, he continued to grin sinisterly, a flash of white shining through bloodied teeth as they immediately began to show discomfort, their throat constricting, lungs stilling.

"You should have killed her first." Aemond chuckled darkly, spitting out a mouthful of blood upon the floor, watching as his enemy dropped down, writhing in agony to their death against the cold stone. The door burst open, the queen striding in to view her triumph.

"Precious one, do please unchain me," the king requested, Aemella kneeling before him.

Surveying his injuries, she was relieved to see they were mostly only superficial cuts and welts he had suffered. "I will, for now. I might take these chains with me to our bedchamber, though."

The wicked glint in her eye was immediately returned.

@zablife @kmc1989 @0eessirk8 @m-riaa @multifandom-03

The defeated and bloodied king was chained to kneel in front of his enemy and he says weakly: "Is my wife still alive?" His enemy nodded. "You fools," he said smirking, and the king starts laughing as the sounds of explosions getting closer shake the room.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Nine.

Good morning, my lovely audience! A fresh new chapter has arrived for you all to enjoy. Huge thanks to my regular and new commentors alike!

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 3,262

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. This chapter contains violence against a woman, plus the blended canon scene of the battle of Rook's Rest. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight

To some, one forest was the same as any other, identical in its thick of trees and low-lying clusters of shrubs. To a person with an educated eye within the field of botany, though, the subtle differences were clear. 

All along the narrow road they took, Aemella was able to view the kinds of plants she had only seen sketches of before within the pages of her education books, remembering back to many a lesson with Gileda where she had first learned of them. The Cerseirellus flower, for example, was native to the Westerlands, the shortened name of Cersei a popular choice for baby girls, as she had learned.  

Brilliant red petals accentuated the beauty of the bloom, growing hardily beneath the thick canopy of trees, not to be deterred by the presence of the mighty evergreens reaching tall towards the sun. Among them, bluebells filled the forest floor, a sea of purple-blue and red decorating the thick carpet of lush green.  

“Princess, look aside here,” Veron spoke, pointing to his right. “Midnight Foxgloves. They were my mother’s favourite flower.” 

Those could be found anywhere, and much like the former Lady Greyjoy, they were Aemella’s favourite, too. They were also the ones her husband would arrange to be brought to her from where they grew abundantly in the gardens, having a servant fill a vase to place upon her dressing table every few days.  

Her smile was of sad longing. “Aemond would always have those sent to our quarters.”  

Immediately, Veron felt his insides tighten, wincing a little. “I am sorry, princess. I did not realise, and now I have caused you upset with no intention to do so.” 

“No, no,” she insisted, reaching to grasp his forearm softly. “You were not to know, my friend.” By that point, Veron Greyjoy truly was her friend, her only confidant in her new life, a man whom only knowing for twelve days she knew could be trusted implicitly. His kind of decency and good nature was nigh on impossible to be masqueraded.  

He was also the only one who took the slightest bit of interest in her, too. Had you asked Dalton Greyjoy his soon-to-be wife’s favourite colour, food or flower, he would not have had the faintest idea. Veron, however, would have instantly been able to answer blue, venison with roasted vegetables, and now, Midnight Foxgloves. 

With his usual concerned sympathy tracing his handsome face, Veron nodded, his smile thin. “You must miss him awfully.” 

Gods, awfully simply did not lend to the pain inside, forced into a mere shadowed existence without her darling love. Reaching into her dress pocket, she removed her beeswax balm, noting she was running low as she dotted a small amount to her lips.  

“I do. I confess to be lost without him.” Lifting her chin, she took a deep, fortifying breath. “I must be strong, though, in all which I now face.”  

Such tenacity was very in keeping with her Targaryen blood, he thought. “Your strength is to be admired, princess. I am unsure I could remain so determined, should I be in your situation.” 

If only he could see her on the inside, where the fibres of her soul rapidly unknitted themselves one by one in Aemond’s absence from her life. “You are kind, Veron. I do not know how well I would have fared, should you not have been as lovely to me as you have been.”  

His eyes flitted ahead, towards the front of the large group they rode roughly a third back within, viewing his brother with slightly narrowed eyes. “Not all Greyjoy’s are monsters.”  

“Tell me,” she asked softly, “has he always behaved so cruelly?” 

The young man winced slightly, pausing in his reply. “Yes. He was my chief tormentor throughout our childhood, teasing me mercilessly for my lack of height, my slight build, my apparent unease upon the ocean. I suffered greatly from seasickness, which naturally does not go hand in hand with the ethos of my house. Chasers of the wave, worshipers of the Drowned God; such lends no place for a short, gawky, odd-looking boy emptying the contents of his stomach over the side of a galleon.” 

His words were delivered with a shade of bashfulness, his cheeks colouring a little to have admitted his weakness to one as strong as a dragon riding princess. He had no clue that his candour only enamoured him to her more. Veron was far from such now, too, grown into a well-built, fine looking young man. The gawky boy was long behind him, yet his elder brother still sought to treat him as if he were. 

“My husband was often the subject of his elder brother’s cruelty, too. Tis’ no shame, Veron. The elder sibling, they lamentably seek to remind the younger of their perceived place, should they favour such castigation. Aegon continues to partake of his cruelty to this day, no matter how much it serves against his best interests.”  

Her elder brother had cut off his nose to spite his face, for Aemella knew, deep in her heart, that whatever Aemond was being subjected to, he would find a way out of it if he at all could. She’d felt it over the last few days, a renewed sense of hope and purpose within him, her twin not quite as dejected as he had been at the beginning of their separation.  

In turn, a staunch refusal to resign herself to her fate was all that she had, no matter how hopeless it seemed at times. It might still be, she had to remember, but how she prayed that it wouldn’t be.  

They rode the entire day, Dalton keen to move as far north as possible until darkness descended upon them, finding an inn capable of housing them all for the night. Most of the ship’s crew took the innkeeper's barn, others lucky enough to be given a room.  

Aemella, as she soon found, would have fared better in the barn.  

“Your moonsblood surely has finished now, Aemella?” Dalton spoke after she had reluctantly slipped into the bed they were to share, Dalton turning to his side to let a hand smooth over her curves.  

Bile instantly rose in her throat. Swallowing hard, she tensed, recoiling from his touch. “I do not feel it appropriate for us to become acquainted in such a way prior to our betrothal. It is not proper, Dalton.” 

He snorted, placing his hand back upon her breast through her nightdress, squeezing. “Do not bleat such rubbish, girl,” he chided, moving closer to her, lips kissing her shoulder. “I bet your brother was sticking his cock in you for moons upon moons prior to your wedding.”  

“Stop it,” she gritted, her body stiffening further. “You will not speak of him in such a way.” 

Gripping her jaw, he turned her head to face him. “Why? Tis’ the truth, is it not? Tell me, Aemella. Tis’ quite the perverse thing, letting your own twin pound you into the bed night after night. By that token, you should be filthy as a whore.” Moving atop her, he leaned to her breast, biting her nipple, grinding his hardened manhood against her hip. “Tell me what else you enjoy, and I shall please you.” 

Feeling panicked, she pushed against him, Dalton taking her hands in his, closing a grip around her wrists. “I tire of your frigid disposition. You are almost my wife, and if I want to fuck you, I will fucking fuck you, so hard that you will forget all about Aemond fucking Targaryen.” 

She needed a plan, and rapidly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something glint, the hilt of his dagger lying unsheathed upon the bedside table. “No, no, Dalton,” she began, setting her voice to a silky purr. “You misunderstand me. I push against you not to fend you off, but to show you what I enjoy.” 

The way she looked at him from beneath her lashes had his grip slackening in an instant, groaning as she began to trail her nails over his wide, hairy chest. “Turn onto your back. Let me show you how a princess rides a cock.” 

He flipped faster than a dolphin upon a wave, Aemella moving astride him. His body felt so different to Aemond’s. Thick and bulky, overly hairy, and gods, he did not wash nearly as often as he should have. She had to seduce him, though, send him mindless, so he wouldn’t see it coming.  

“There, my fierce commander of the seas,” she whispered, leaning to place a kiss upon his throat. “You lie back and enjoy yourself.” 

A filthy chuckle rumbled his throat, making himself comfortable. “I knew you could not resist me forever, my little silver haired nymph. You will be gasping and crying when I bounce you on my cock, fill you with my seed, breed some fine, Iron Born sons into your belly.”  

She almost wretched against his neck, gritting her teeth, steeling herself. “Shhhh.” she cooed, placing a finger to his lips, having him suck it. Gods, his breath could have ripped the paint from a canvas. Pressing her lips to his neck, she peppered kisses downwards slowly, her fingers running in trails over his chest, circling his nipples until they peaked stiffly.  

It made her feel sick to do it, but she lowered herself against his cock, gyrating against the solid mass alluringly, watching his head tip back as he groaned gravelly. 

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered, “I shall be on your cock soon, soaking it with my pretty little cunt.”  

Her words had him in a daze, coupled with the rhythmic roll of her hips against him, Dalton feeling like he was adrift from himself entirely. No wonder Aemond One Eye had been reluctant to give her up. If she could bewitch a man like this without him even being inside her...  

The trail of kisses moved lower, Aemella keeping a sharp eye upon him, watching his own eyes roll into the back of his head, lids fluttering shut, her hand beginning to snake down while her other reached for the dagger. Gripping the hilt, she brought it to his throat just as his eyes opened again, the blade catching him, Dalton quick enough to grasp her wrist. 

Oh, no.  

“You duplicitous bitch!” he roared, gripping her throat, overpowering her swiftly as he slammed her other hand off the side of the bed, forcing her release of the weapon that has almost been plunged into his neck. “You dare attack me, you little fucking cunt of a whore?”  

Moving atop her, both hands wrapped around her neck, beginning to throttle her, her fear surging like wildfire. No, no! Her panic pulsed so strongly that back in Kings Landing, her true husband awoke, sitting bolt upright in their bed, feeling her fear rip through him like a razor’s edge.  

There was nothing he could do to save her, though, Aemella realising her only salvation was herself, Dalton beginning to lay hard punches into her face. Bringing her leg up to kick him in the balls, her nemesis folded, grasping his aching crotch. With all her might, she gripped the wrist holding her throat, wrenching it away. He surged forward again, but before he could grip at her delicate neck, her teeth locked onto his cheek in a savage bite. 

He roared in agony, Aemella tasting copper against her tongue as she punched him in the stomach, pushing and punching him in her desperate attempt to escape. Releasing her teeth, she spat a mouthful of sanguine and spit at him, ripping her nails down his face before tearing a path from the bed, the door in her sights. 

He threw himself towards her, grasping her hair and arm, running her against the opposite wall. “If you think the beatings I have given thus far were restrained, then sweetheart, you know nothing of pain.” He smashed her face against the cold stone of the wall, the skin over her cheekbone splitting, screaming for help as she struggled against him. 

Throwing her down to the floor, he kicked her in the ribs, Aemella curling into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest to protect herself. More so, it was to protect the tiny life growing inside of her, Dalton kicking her legs, her back, stomping upon her thighs until the door suddenly burst open, the innkeeper running in, shortly followed by his brother. 

“Sir! Unhand the lady this moment!” 

“She’s my wife!” he roared, kicking her helpless form once again. “I do with her as I please, and I please to beat the bitch!” 

“You will not cause this commotion within my walls; make no mistake I shall not have it!” While the innkeeper pushed at him, Veron managed to pull Aemella off the floor, lifting the sack carrying her belongings too.  

“This is a travesty, brother. You may punish me all you wish for it come to morning, but on this night, I will not allow you to hurt her further.” Turning, he carried her from the room, the princess shaking in his arms. The look she gave to Dalton over his brother’s shoulder was one of cold, hard defiance, though. “Tis’ over, princess. I will not allow you to come to this harm.”  

In a world where she could barely predict the machinations of his sibling, she could at least count on the security of Veron’s devotion to her safety. His friendship would never be forgotten, not even after she had freed herself from this predicament. For she swore right then as she cried, trembling and bleeding, that free herself from it she would.  

Aemella Targaryen was nobody's victim.  

While she was taken to Veron’s room to be cared for, Aemond could barely rest for feeling pain and horror flooding her, pacing before his bed, having to settle himself with a few large measures of rum before he could attain sleep. He truly needed to be well-rested too, a raven arriving to the Red Keep earlier that day to inform the king of the van’s imminent arrival upon Rook’s Rest, Aemond to fly up there aboard Vhagar come the following morning.  

He saw nobody and was handed no escort to Vhagar, but took one in the form of a young squire to ferry the horse he rode back once more, approaching his ancient beast as she dozed upon her preferred mossy ground.  

Reaching for her, his hand stroked her face, her huge eyes opening as she made warm noises of greeting in her throat. “Māzigon va, uēpa riñnykeā. Naejot īlva ērinnon.”  

Indeed, he and his precious old lady would surely fly to victory, for there was not a dragon in the realm capable of defeating them. Whatever the fight happened to be. He arrived ahead of time, in the wilds of bracken growing within a vast clearing to the south of Rook’s Rest, lying in wait. That was, until soaring above, a golden dragon caught his eye. 

Aegon? 

For the love of the gods. “Mittys!” he cursed, telling Vhagar to wait when she lifted her head. Crashing down again, she obeyed, until the moment her rider gave his word for her to take to the air and join the fight. 

Once above the battlefield, she surged forward, Aemond seeing his opportunity clearly, Sunfyre and Meleys locked in attack. Sneering, he witnessed the king uneasy in the saddle, wondering how many goblets of wine it had taken for his balls to grow enough in order to participate in the battle.  

Their conflict offered him the opportunity he’d hoped to gain, joining the war effort with such carefree acceptance of his brother’s decree. He could burn the princess from the sky and take with her the man who had inflicted every single ounce of his suffering. Only a fool with no pride, no spine and no conviction would ever pass up such a chance. 

The king would be collateral. Just as he’d viewed Aemella in his disgusting ploy to harm the brother whom he so envied. If there was ever a chance to reverse the hand of fate, it danced before Aemond right at that moment. He closed his eye momentarily, and there he saw her face. His course, it was decided.  

“Dracarys!” 

Vhagar breathed forth a decimating inferno, both dragons before her hit in the gargantuan blaze, Sunfyre the first to tailspin into descent, his wings alight. Looking below, he saw the ground break into flame, a sneer curling his lip. Triumph ignited his heart, the path he had been set upon now forked off, finally leading him back to his love. 

“I warned you not to make an enemy of me, brother.”  

But what had happened to the Red Queen and her rider? Turning his head, he spotted them upon the skyline, the crimson dragon surging towards him, miraculously gone unscathed. Not for long. The dragons flew head-to-head, this time, Vhagar reaching to grasp onto Meleys, her talons closing around the smaller dragon in an iron-forged grip, blasting her with a ball of fire.  

They spun through the air, Rhaenys feeling the heat of the flames scalding her skin, fighting to pull her dragon free. For the queen who never was, though, it was her final stand aboard her beloved old girl, Meleys trying in vain to fight back with her own blaze.  

Suddenly, the grip upon her beast broke contact, Vhagar swirling to crash land upon the ground before taking off again, Rhaenys flying higher once more, assuming the gods to be on her side as they ascended. She flew over the battlefield, coming up over the crest of Rooks Rest, when like a harbinger of doom, Vhagar appeared, her jaws closing around her beloved Meleys’s neck.  

The sickening crunch of shattered vertebrae filled her ears, her dragon squealing in agony, the light fading from her beautiful eyes as rapidly, they began falling.  

All that flitted through Rhaenys’s mind in her last moments was a silent prayer to the gods of gratitude, that at least she and her treasured Meleys would be received together, crashing to the ground and exploding into wildfire. 

Aemond looked down from the sky with quiet triumph, his mission accomplished, flying then to the first dragon-erupted fire, landing Vhagar and proceeding on foot. All around, the spoils of war littered the ground, men charred, torn apart, horses lying lifeless as smaller fires dotted the landscape like beacons.  

Moving through the thick of the trees, he approached the smouldering mass of what was left of Sunfyre and his brother, sword drawn. When he took in the state of the severely burned dragon, his gravely injured brother lying beside the head of the great, golden beast, he moved to sheathe his sword once more. The job, it seemed, was done. 

“Aemond!” 

Turning, he was approached by Ser Criston, Aemond looking back upon the flaming heap, crouching to where Aegon’s dagger lay upon the floor.  

“Where is his grace?” the knight questioned. Picking up the dagger, he pointed it ahead, his face passive. Not one drop of emotion flickered through him. While Aemond stood, Criston approached, dropping to his knees in despair to witness the stare of his liege, wondering truly if the king was alive at all.  

“Where are you going?” he asked, turning to see Aemond pause in his path away from the scene. 

Turning, he tucked the dagger into his baldric, giving the answer Criston likely knew was coming. “To find my wife.”  

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :) 

Next Chapter

[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Four.

A huge thank you to those kind enough to offer engagement with this story. Please, if you are enjoying this, do tell me! I love to hear your thoughts and chat with you all about it :)

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 3,644

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three

Those sweet purrs of ecstasy, honey-soaked and warm. He lived for them, would burn empires to the ground for them, for her. His first, his last, and his only. Pushing his slippery cockhead over the pearl of her sex again, he watched the swollen bud bounce, leaning to suck upon her nipple with a hungry moan.  

“Do you crave it, love? To be all full of my cock, watch it stretch you out and make your belly bulge?” 

There was little in life that could make Aemella simmer like when her husband spoke to her so filthily. “By the heavens, yes. Please, darling love. Do not continue to tease me so wickedly.” 

“Ahh, but is the eventual satiation not worth one to yearn a little more?” 

He was nothing if not a merciless tease. “Please, Aemond. Please fuck me.” She thought her wait was over, feeling him steer towards her needy, streaming hole, breeching her with his cockhead alone before retreating. He did it again, moving a little further, making his cock bounce within the snug hug of her walls before alas, leaving her empty.  

She growled in soft frustration. “You send me reeling to sheer madness!” 

“I know,” he chirped, entirely too smug for his own good. “The reward shall be worth it, though.” Releasing his hold upon her hips, he shuffled out to lay before her, tongue running a long, slow, firm lick through her folds. She would be teased further that evening, it seemed.  

While she might’ve longed for the many thick, hard inches of his manhood, Aemella would never, ever refuse to receive the sublimity of her husband’s mouth. 

His tongue pressed hard against her bundle, rubbing back and forth, alternating between that action and using the very tip to offer tight, light circles, his thumb moving to tug the hood back. The little pink bud stood out to him, Aemond wrapping it in a soft suck, her blissful sigh sending a jolt through him.  

She truly was the altar he would lay his worship at, and yet his brother had accused him of fearing what he so contentedly gorged himself upon. Pah. Out of the two, Aemond could comfortably wager he spent much more time between his wife’s legs than the king did the queen, tending to her desires, loving her, and now, hopefully creating new life with her, too.  

Licking the sheen of her from his lips, he knelt before her, sinking into her fully. Glimmers shot up his spine and quickened his heartbeat in an instant, watching her body arch from the bed, bending elegantly like a bow. 

“Gods above, you are so sumptuously wet,” he panted, body falling to hers, delighting her elegant throat in soft kisses and tongue swirls as he began to sink slowly back and forth in the heavenly heat of her cunt. “I love you, Mella.”  

Her body sang a wordless sonnet of the same sentiment returned, her hands stroking the hard, chiselled planes of his back, reaching to his backside, guiding him deeper within the soaking cavern of her sex. Each roll of his hips gained greater purpose, until he was unbridled and wild within her, the sound of their skin smacking together and moans of utter rapture filling their quarters. 

The urgency of it mingled potently with intense desire, both feeling the driving force of conception heating their very bones. It skittered through them in endless tides, Aemella’s nails grazing across his back, soft little cries pouring from her mouth to his as her legs tightened at his sides.  

His hands ran in slow glide down her thighs, the slight rotation of his hips making sparks begin to skitter up her spine. The warm wells of bliss ran like magma through her blood, everything fervid, an entire constellation streaking through her as she unravelled beneath him.  

His teeth sank into her neck, gritting around the bite as his cock jerked and spurted hot and deep, filling her with cum, his orgasm leaving him a trembling wreck between her legs. They never failed to dance within the stars with one another, but that time, something about it was so very palpably different, clinging to one another as they fought for breath. 

He stayed within her, sharing sweet kisses until his cock began to soften once more, retreating to lay at her side. That was, at least, until she rearranged herself, kicking up off the bed, taking her weight onto her shoulders with impeccable balance. 

The sudden and bizarre movement only served to perplex him somewhat. “Gods be good, what in the seven hells are you doing?” 

“I have heard it is an extra help, to elevate the hips like this. Means the seed stays where it must be for much longer.” 

Her husband couldn’t help himself. “It also leaves you quite prone to my meddling, should I see fit.” 

A scowl darkened her features. “You wouldn’t dare!” 

He began to chuckle, moving to lean and place a bite upon her bum, Aemella squeaking, finding her love undeterred as she tried to fend him away. While positioned in a shoulder stand, though, such was tricky. 

“No, Aemond, cease this!” she squealed through her giggles as she was bitten softly again, this time upon her thigh. “Your seed must remain so it will take. Marinade, if you will.” 

His eyebrow tugged upwards. “Precious one, you are a woman, not a chicken seeping up flavour.” 

They shared a look, gentle laughter abounding between the spouses, Aemond proving himself useful by providing his body as a prop. “I only hope to the gods that it works, should our brother be foolish and cruel enough to enact upon his intentions. There is no chance that Cregan Stark will accept you while you carry another man’s child.” 

Looking up to where he peered down at her from between her knees, Aemella reached to stroke his face, receiving a little kiss to the pad of her thumb. “My love, I doubt very much that this shall ever come to pass as it is, whether my womb is ripe or not. Despite the power my name would come with, I would be second hand. Men do so prefer the purity of a virgin bride, it seems.” 

Again, his eyebrow raised. “You are much fortunate that I am not one of them.” 

Her mouth dropped open, Aemond chuckling as he pacified her with kisses to her inner thigh. Or at least, he hoped to. “You only tease me because I am currently too incapacitated to give you a walloping for your insolence.” 

“True,” he admitted, his shoulders moving in light shrug. “You must allow a man his simple pleasure without consequence once in a while, sweet wife.”  

“I will not be very sweet once I have placed myself back down!”  

Her warning merely entertained him more. “Probably not. I could be sweet to you, though, while I am here?” Parting her thighs a little further, he leaned to gently tickle her bud with his tongue. “It seems a pity to be this close and not pay any attention to this pretty little flower of yours.” 

His ministrations continued with tender precision, each touch and caress a testament to his adoration. Her laughter turned to soft moans, the brief irritation melting away under the gentle assault on her senses. He made her ascend again, Aemella finally resting back to the bed, curling into his warm embrace.  

Needless to say, they slept extremely well that night.  

Come the morning, once they had partaken of their usual routine, Aemella arrived first to Gileda in order to tend to her botany studies, then visiting with her mother come the early afternoon.  

“Oh, how darling of you,” Alicent spoke softly when presented with flowers, taking them and smelling the blooms. “Exquisite. The cultivation of the gardens has always been in the safest of hands with you, my sweetling.” Turning to her handmaiden, she instructed her to place the bouquet into water, leading Aemella to her terrace.  

There, they were swiftly bought a board laden with cheese and cured meats, grapes and apples as well as a jug of wine. Looking out over the capitol, Aemella couldn’t help but feel a deep pang of guilt. There she and her mother were, partaking of a hearty lunch of the finest quality, while the people below hungered.  

She then swiftly countered that thought; it had been Rhaenyra to order the Black – aligned Velaryon fleet to act in blockade across the gullet, not her. 

“What news do you bring to me this afternoon, daughter? I trust all is well, although note that you do look somewhat fatigued.”  

Her mother’s words acted as gentle rousing from her thoughts, Aemella reaching to pick a grape from the serving plate before her. Fatigued. That was the more eloquent term, she supposed, after having Aemond between her legs half the night. Gods, she was sore.  

 As ever, she got right to the point of her visit in the first place, for it was not solely to sit and enjoy her mother’s company. “My news is as thus; the king proposes a plan of sheer preposterousness, one which has thrown Aemond and I into great turmoil.” Curiosity and a smidgen of trepidation flickered in her mother’s eyes, the words ‘gods, what on earth now?’ entering Alicent’s mind, her daughter continuing. 

“In short, he schemes, plans to annul my marriage with Aemond and offer me to Cregan Stark to forge an alliance within the north, and all the fighting men that would come with it. I would laugh, be entertained at the audacity of it, of his naivety in handling matters of court in such an immature fashion, should the very proposal not fear me with such foreboding dread.” 

Alicent appeared stunned at first, then a touch humoured, but incredulously so. “He cannot seek to enforce this. Tis’ sheer lunacy! We stand at war, and all your brother seeks to contribute is child’s play.” She had hoped that possibly, although she and his council pulled at his strings, perhaps Aegon might settle into some much-needed maturity and poise now he had been seated upon the Iron Throne. Alas not. 

She reached for her daughter’s hands, grasping tightly. “Do not fear this threat, sweetling. Cregan Stark is a man of great honour, I cannot see him turning away from his pledge to the Blacks, no matter whom or what is offered to sweeten his favour. It shall not come to pass. He would never accept you as a wife on the flimsy grounds of annulment from your current marriage. Nay. The council will advise against his desires, Aemella. We will steer him away from this imbecilic chicanery.” 

Aemella nodded, feeling somewhat reassured by her mother’s support, taking her beeswax from her pocket and dotting her lips. “I do hope you are right, mother. I cannot imagine my life without Aemond. The thought of being torn away from him is unbearable.” Her voice quivered slightly, betraying the depth of her emotions. 

Alicent’s expression softened as she gently stroked her daughter’s hand. “Your love is a powerful bond, Aemella. It always has been with you and your brother. Stronger than any political machination ordered by a king not yet schooled earnestly enough in the ways of war. Remember that.” She paused, pondering a moment. “I will speak on this with your grandsire. Together, we will wash this witlessness from Aegon’s mind. His Hand will never allow it. Trust me.”  

Trust in her family was all she had, knowing that she and Aemond alone could not fight the brunt of a determined, yet dangerously misguided king.  

The assurance in Alicent’s words provided a semblance of comfort, yet the undercurrent of trepidation still wound its way through Aemella’s veins. She had not one ounce of faith in her elder brother’s judgement, for he had proven time and again that wisdom was not his strong suit. Still, her mother’s confidence was a balm, soothing the raw edges of her distress. 

The women continued to enjoy their time, sharing stories from a calmer life gone by than the throes of turbulence they both found themselves entrenched within, Aemella leaving her mother’s quarters after a time to return to her own.  

Once alone, Alicent’s mind churned through the possibilities, the alliances and counter-alliances that wove through the court’s intricate web of power. She knew all too well the delicate balance they had to maintain to keep Aegon’s reign stable. In her mind, though, that did not equal forsaking two of her other children in the process. 

Sighing, she smiled weakly, remembering a lifetime gone by with her twin stars. Her affection was stirred as she replayed the moment that they had both taken their first steps in her mind’s eye. Aemella had been the first, a shaky stride upon the soft rug of the queen’s quarters seeing her on her way, yet she had paused, reaching with her hand for Aemond. It had been a prophetic omen over what lay ahead, that one twin had steadfastly refused to move forth without the other.  

While her mother sat and partook of a little wistful anamnesis, Aemella walked the stone corridors in return to her own quarters, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across its walls. Although the conversation with the dowager queen had provided some solace, her heart remained a trifle weighty with worry. The thought of being a pawn in her brother’s games – and the intended result - was a burden she could scarcely bear.  

“Darling love, I did not expect to see you returned so early,” she spoke upon her entrance, finding Aemond relaxing in the living area.  

Standing, he reached for her, his hands soft upon her arms as he leaned to place a kiss upon her lips. “I found myself with some free time, and thought we could perhaps go for a ride, should you be keen?” 

A grin of soft mischief began to spread. “Upon dragons, horses, or me atop you?” 

“You are so very spirited, wife,” he spoke fondly, laughing quietly through his nose, his arms wrapping around her slender waist. “Horses, for a change. The latter, though, I very much plan on holding you to later this evening.” 

A short time on and they were riding through the Kingswood, the sun providing sublime illumination to the trees that flanked their path, every shade of green so richly backlit by the favourably temperate rays. Behind them, a good few horse’s lengths back, Ser Arryk Cargyll and Ser Rickard Thorne rode, dutifully keeping the watch over the royal couple. 

Aemella was looking out at the sight of three rabbits scurrying in return to their warren when she felt a tap against her arm, turning to see Aemond holding out his hand. Looking up at him beneath her long lashes, she smiled with gentle delight, taking the reins in her left hand and lacing her fingers through his.  

He was not one for being publicly affectionate with her at all, Aemond very proper in that respect. Well, the incident where he had used their lovemaking to mock their brother with aside, that was. With only the near distant eyes of the knights who guarded them, though, he felt comfortable enough to allow himself a small lapse in his usual respectability, it seemed. 

“What have you been busying yourself with today, precious one?” he asked, feeling greatly eased for their current tranquil surroundings.  

“I met with Gileda as usual firstly, and then visited with our mother,” she began, enjoying the feel of his thumb idly stroking the back of her hand. “I shared with her Aegon’s schemes. She had no clue he had proposed such, it did seem.” 

Aemond tensed a little, an action that his twin would have felt quite palpably still, even had she not been holding his hand. “And what did our dear mother have to state on the matter?”  

“Do not give way to trepidation, husband,” she soothed, her hand squeezing upon his. “She abashed his actions entirely, stated emphatically that he was – to use her exact words – acting in sheer lunacy. She tells me that the Hand will never allow it, and we are fortunate that I do believe our grandsire would be outraged at the very suggestion. Mother assures me that this shall be swiftly nullified before gaining any momentum, as well as stating with certainty that the small council will advise against it.” 

He seemed to slacken a little, then, but not by much, she noted. “I do welcome her support, although cautiously, I anticipate there could perhaps come a time that it may be fickle, Mella.” 

“Upon what suspicions?” she questioned, a small frown creasing between her brows. 

Although balanced and wise, her soft heart meant that Aemella was not always as readily equipped as her brother to spot the possibility of a looming threat from a loved one. “Upon the suspicion that if Cregan Stark refuses, Aegon is likely to seek another alliance to marry you into. One which, should it hold enough weight of favour, our mother is certain to back in order to protect his seat upon the throne.”  

Although she had asked, he immediately felt regret for his candour, his fingers tightening around hers. “Let us hope it does not come to that, though. The weight of his small council’s distain over such a ploy should be sufficient for him to realise his folly. All we can do is prepare for the off chance that it does not, and what will inevitably bring.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “It would not end well for him.” 

While she remained unconvinced that their mother truly would act in turncloak toward Aegon’s ridiculous scheme, Aemella kept it to herself. There was no point in attempting to enforce her opinion on Aemond, especially when she could partially see the sense in his caution.  

In the days that followed, the meeting of the small council indeed curried favour for Aemond and Aemella’s position, the king’s advisers imploring of him to see sense. Alas, though, not even the incensed – and loudly delivered countering of Otto Hightower was successful in having much effect in the prevention of a raven being sent north. While all bar Aegon despaired, it seemed their shared strife was not to last. 

“A raven was received from Winterfell earlier this morning, your grace,” Lord Larys began, looking down the table at his king. “I am afraid Lord Stark has declined your offer. We are to move forward without the support of his house.”  

The Hand breathed a palpable sigh of relief. It had been heavy on his mind, burdened more as each day passed with how the young king handled his duties with such carelessness. It was a tether he was reaching his end to, and rapidly. 

While Aegon rested a clenched fist to his lips, the wildfires of defeat licking against his insides, Aemond felt the tension he had been carrying in his shoulders finally abate. While the king stewed, he rose from the table, practicality and duty to the realm taking precedence as he put forth his plan for how to next move their army across the kingdom.  

Once the meeting was concluded, Lord Larys found himself once again called to service, this time alone to the king’s quarters.  

“How may I be of assistance, your grace?” he spoke cordially, hobbling in with the aid of his walking cane.  

“I have called you here in trust that you are, for this moment at least, prepared to keep our discussion solely to yourself,” Aegon began, his tone measured and composed despite the residual fury that swelled from Cregan Stark’s rebuke. 

Larys nodded earnestly. “In that, you can trust as ever before, your grace.” 

“Not that we should be having it at all,” the king continued, petulant spite lacing his every word. “I curse house Stark and their unwavering bind to honour, their precious word!” 

“I fear we do not have the luxury of mourning over lost alliances,” the Master of Whispers began, his tone set with practicality. “We must now look to other means of solidifying our power and expanding our reach.” The king looked upon him expectantly, Larys continuing. “There are still other avenues to explore, ones that may yet yield the support you seek.” 

Aegon’s gaze sharpened, every muscle in his body taut with expectation. “Speak plainly, Lord Larys. What is your suggestion? This is, after all, why I seek private counsel from you.” 

Larys’s eyes glinted with a knowing light, a smirk barely perceptible at the corners of his lips. “The Iron Islands, your grace. Dalton Greyjoy is a man driven by ambition. Offer him both a Targaryen bride and the position of Master of Ships. Such a deal would be difficult for him to refuse.  

“Also, his fleet would serve us well in assistance eradicating the blockade of the gullet and allowing trade from Essos to move freely once more. Your people would see you as a hero in their time of suffering.” 

The king considered the proposition, the weight of the decision heavy upon him. The Iron Islands had always been a wildcard, their loyalties knowingly fickle. As yet, the Red kraken had made his ambiguity known, no ravens of previous offers returned, the Lord of the Island Islands seemingly waiting out for what he considered to be the best proposal from either the Greens or the Blacks. 

“Very well,” he decided, his voice resolute. “Prepare the offer. We will see if Dalton Greyjoy is as easily swayed as you believe.” 

With a nod, Lord Larys took his leave, his cane tapping rhythmically against the cold stone floor. By nightfall, a raven had flown from the Red Keep, bound for the Iron Islands, carrying with it the proposal that would set everything to change in motion.  

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :)

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[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Two.

A huge thank you to everyone who read the first chapter. Please do be kind, and if you are enjoying it, reach out with a comment and remember that all-important reblog! This is how we keep the fandoms alive, besties :)

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 3,452

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One

Dawn over the Red Keep. The sun rose, bathing the castle in the first rays of light, swallows flying overhead and enjoying the warmth of its beams upon their wings. Within its walls, most of the bustle was confined to the servant's quarters readying themselves for the royal family to awake and call upon them for their usual services, from providing breakfast to assisting with dressing.  

For two members of that family, though, their day had already gotten off to a very lively start. 

“Oh, gods. Ohhh!”  

Nothing delighted Aemond more, even four years on from their wedding, than the sounds of his wife lost to the throes of sexual rapture. Holding her legs high and wide, he drove long, hard thrusts into the molten slick of her core, their bodies beaded with perspiration, watching intently as amethyst fire danced in her hypnotic, violet eyes.  

“Yes, precious one, that’s it. Come all over my cock,” he encouraged, his mouth tilted into a very satisfied grin as he felt her fluttering around him. “By the heavens above, if you are not the most beautiful woman in all of the realm, my sweet wife.” His gaze fell to where she reached to stroke his thick cock as it assailed her insides, arrowing her sharply, Aemella bringing her fingers to his mouth. “And by the fucking stars, the filthiest, too.” he rasped, sucking her dew from them keenly.  

Arrowing her with ragged pants, he watched her hand return, rubbing at the pearl of her sex as her back arched from the bed, coming undone with a feral wail moments before he coated her spasming walls with hot ropes of his spend. He swam in beautiful delirium, releasing her legs as he collapsed atop her, stroking her sweaty, lily white skin while laying kisses atop her right breast.  

Moving from beneath him, she knelt at his side, reaching inside herself while bearing down. A moment later and she pulled from within the small, domed sponge that had served to collect his seed. Oh. She must have placed it in there prior to waking him with her mouth upon his cock, Aemond watching as she placed the sodden receptacle down in a small bowl upon the bedside table.  

“Darling love, do not look upon me like that,” she breathed wearily, reaching to smooth a loving hand across his chest.  

“Like what?” he spoke, his tone mildly biting. “I did not realise you had it in. I thought that perhaps, finally, you were allowing my seed to take.” 

He had told her in the past that the sponge implanted there to prevent him from successfully breeding her was difficult to distinguish once fully in place over the neck of her womb, but Aemella thought his stance a little naive all the same.  

It would have been something they certainly would have discussed, her willingness to try for conception once more after the harrowing loss of their only child just five moons into her expectancy. It had been two years gone, but the fear, the pain, the heartbreak. They all still haunted her.  

After blooming late in her ability to bear young, turning six and ten before her first moonsblood arrived, it had been a colossal setback after so much expectation was put upon them to start a family of their own. Aemella felt the weight of that anticipation every day, yet she was still not ready. 

“We will, Aemond. One day,” she assured him, leaning to kiss his chest, her hand continuing to stroke the taut muscles beneath her palm.  

“When, hmm?” he snorted, “before or after I turn twenty and still am yet to father a child?”  

Loving, gentle and patient with her he might have been, but Aemella knew her husband better than all others. His patience always had its limits, and he did so yearn to continue their family line. Still, his lack of emotional grace in that moment sparked her displeasure, shaking her head as she rose from the bed.  

“Where are you going?” he demanded, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“For a bath. Alone.” The servants would have quietly entered their quarters earlier that morning to light the coals beneath, meaning the water would be warm enough by the time they came to bathe. 

“So that is it, hmm?” he spoke, a frown creasing his handsome features. “We are at an end to this discussion because you say it so, are we?”  

She appeared again in the doorway to their bathing chamber, her face a little stony. “Yes, Aemond. At least until you can regain a little sensitivity.” 

“It has been two years, Mella,” he sighed wearily. “We cannot live in perpetual fear of further loss, or we are destined to remain barren.”  

Shaking her head, she walked from his sight once more. “Tis’ well and good for you to say that, husband. You were not the one who had to birth a barely formed, stillborn babe.” 

Closing his eyes, it flashed through his mind, the Maesters attempting to keep him away from the scene until they had cleaned up the princess of her loss, his heart shattered as he’d joined her on the bloodied bed and carefully pulled her onto his lap, rocking her in his arms.  

Sighing deeply, he ran his fingers through his silver hair in frustration. Although he felt the weight of her pain within his own chest, he could not understand why she was still so affected by the event after so long, though he knew he likely should be more empathetic. After all, she was correct. He had not been the one whose body had rejected their precious infant, a daughter, as the Maesters had told him after taking the tiny cadaver away.  

The echoes of her cries on that fateful night still rang like bitter sirens in his head, yet it was much easier for him to separate his desire to father a child from the memories of their shared grief.  

It did not mean the same had to be true for her, though. 

Rising from the bed, he made his way to the bathing chamber, knowing that the right thing was to offer an apology regardless of his frustrations at the situation.  

“Aemella, my precious one,” he whispered, his voice soft and filled with remorse as he stood at her back, wrapping his arms around her. “I am sorry for my harsh words. I know the pain you carry, and I should have been more understanding.” 

She turned to look at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. For a moment, they simply gazed at one another, the unspoken bond between them strengthening once more. Finally, she nodded.  

“Thank you. I appreciate your words, love.” His fingers reached beneath her chin, leaning to press his lips to hers.  

“My first, my last, and my only.”  

They climbed into the steaming water together, Aemond seated behind his beloved, his long legs flanking her body as he ran a soapy sponge over her skin. There, they spoke about the current climate within the Red Keep, their brother newly coronated on a last minute, deathbed change of wish from their father for Aegon to succeed him as king.  

This had of course forced a wide cavern to split the house, those who remained loyal to their elder half-sister and her claim as heir splintering off and absconding to Dragonstone with Rhaenyra and Daemon, and those who supported Aegon in his claim remaining within Kings Landing.  

To say that either Aemond or Aemella truly supported Aegon’s succession keenly would be pushing it a little far, though. While they both erred on the side of the duty and loyalty instilled into them by their mother, they shared the opinion that in a perfect world, Aemond himself would have been much better suited to take the Iron Throne, Aegon not wanting it, nor fit to sit upon it.  

The difference in the brothers was a stark contrast, like night and day in their capabilities to rule. Aegon preferred to drink and partake of depravity, taking no true interest in his birthright. Aemond, meanwhile, had proved himself to be the far better equipped of the two, fastidiously studying history, law and philosophy, training in swordsmanship for long hours that left him exhausted.  

He was the most intelligent, the most poised – his predisposition to sometimes be rash and at the mercy of his temper aside – the most capable with a sword, and he rode the biggest dragon in the world. All of this, though, did not equal him attempting to usurp the throne for himself. He was too loyal for that.  

However, he had recently grown to suspect that this was exactly what Aegon feared. Then again, the king spent so much of his time drunk away from his duties at court that one could never truly pinpoint what roved within his unquieted mind.  

“You do not honestly assume he believes such, do you?” Aemella questioned, turning view her husband. “Surely, your loyalty to him remains apparent?” 

His lips tightened a fraction, sighing quietly. “Who can say? Certainly not I, and yet he refers to me as his closest blood.”  

Her fingers traced idle patterns upon his arm as she mulled over his response. "We are caught between our sense of duty and our caution over the king’s current stability." she mused softly, scoffing a little. “Or lack thereof.” 

His eye narrowed slightly, the weight of their circumstances pressing upon him. "Indeed, but our loyalty is the only shield we have against the rising tide of suspicion. If that is truly what it is." 

The echo of their solemn conversation lingered in the warm, mist-laden air of the bathing chamber; no further words added for a few moments. Aemella nestled deeper into Aemond's embrace, seeking comfort in the solidity of his presence. "Do you ever wish it were different?" she asked wistfully. 

At this, he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, his breath a soft caress against her damp skin. "Every day, my love. But wishing does not alter reality. We must navigate our path with the tools we have.” 

While they continued to enjoy the quiet of the morning, wisps of steam coiling the air all around them, they heard the arrival of their handmaidens to their quarters. Clothes were laid out, the bed made, the twins climbing from within the sanctuary of the bathtub eventually.  

Once dressed and readied, their breakfast was brought to them, eating duck eggs and blood pudding with freshly baked bread on the terrace as they continued to converse. 

“And what is that particular, very well perfumed concoction you sip upon, sister?” Aemond asked, nodding in the direction of the steaming receptacle housing her tea. 

“Ahh, tis’ one of my own,” she began. 

“I guessed as much.” Since she had been but a young girl, Aemella had taken a keen interest in botany and herbology, her father even bringing an expert in the field into court. Dornish by birth, Gileda Sand had long served as Aemella’s tutor in all aspects of plant, herb and flower, guiding the young princess until her knowledge flourished.  

Proffering the beaker forth, she raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to sample?” 

He viewed the deep green liquid with a smidgen of caution before taking it form her, giving the brew a cautionary blow. “Seven hells!”  

His reaction to the careful sip had his wife in soft fits. “Not to your taste, my love?” 

Despite his slightly contorted face, he went in for a second sip. His nose crinkled even further. “A potent blend, precious one. To think, you make complaint over my choice for being too strong.”  

His preferred morning beverage was much too overpowering for her liking, Aemella preferring the teas blended with care by her own hand. “Your nettle tea is bitter.” 

“And are you truly claiming that particular tea to be mild in palette?”  

She shook her head softly, taking the beaker back from his outstretched hand. “Not mild. Different. A concoction of water lily, rosemary and clary sage. The blend is excellent for clarification.” 

“Clarification, you say?” he snorted softly. “I feel it has had quite the opposite effect. My tongue is now sullied.” Looking up at her over the steam of his tea, his wink indicated his teasing was all of course in good nature, his smile widening.  

“You are most impudent,” she charged him with, removing the little jar of beeswax balm she always carried within her dress pocket, dotting some of the pink petal dyed wax to her lips. 

His smile continued to grow, standing up and moving to place a kiss upon her forehead. “Only towards your repugnant teas, my love.” 

They parted ways soon after, Aemond down to the courtyard of the Red Keep, ready to partake of his morning training in the ways of the sword. At that point in his life, though, it was more keeping active with it than learning much new. He was, after all, the Green’s most competent sword.  

While he moved in parry and evasion, Aemella mastered her own talents, hers marginally less deadly than those of her husband. Well... sometimes they were. 

“I am astounded, simply amazed that it has come to flower.” Taking her tiny shears, she carefully pruned the leaves, the bright orange petals of the Sunset Rose splayed beautifully, keening for the summer rays warming its bloom.  

It was a rare flower, usually only found upon the coastal region of Dorne, the hostile desert landscape providing the perfect climate in which the hardy roses flourished. Even though the southern, warmer climate of the Crownlands did offer greater success for flowers and plants that preferred a warmer habitat, Aemella still had to nurture that particular rose beneath the sanctuary of a glass dome to give it the heat it required to thrive. 

Gileda watched with pride, dusting potting soil from her elegant fingers. “Tell me of the rose’s properties, princess.” 

“When the petals are dried and crushed, they can be used as an agent to cease muscle spasms. The rosehips, however, are the deadliest part of the deceivingly beautiful flowers. When boiled down, they emit a powerful poison, just one drop enough to kill a man. Being an entirely organic agent, it is untraceable as the source, too.” 

“And how does the figurative man die, exactly?” 

Placing the dome down once more over the flower, Aemella turned to her tutor. “Through a lack of air, the poison entering the airways and causing the lungs to cease their function, tightening the muscles of the chest until the victim can no longer draw breath. It is the only known flower to both be the poison and the antidote. The stoma to kill, the petals to save.” 

She inclined her head, her lips broadening. “Excellent, princess.” Moving along the balcony that bordered their small workroom, Gileda examined the white flowers of the small shrub taking up plentiful space within its window box. “The Moonthorne is truly thriving, princess. Shall you have a need to harvest any of its flowers?” 

A little chuckle sounded her throat. “Not today, Gileda. Aemond is still recovering from the last time. And accusing me of being a witch.” 

Her eyebrow rose suggestively. “They do not nickname it man’s ruin for nothing, princess.” The women shared gentle laughter, Aemella remembering the effect it had upon her husband. Moonthorne flowers, when extracted, ground into a paste and added to a carrier oil or balm, had a very powerful effect when applied to the skin.  

In short, they were capable of heightening sensitivity and tripling arousal, Aemond feeling as if – to use his very words – his cock was about to explode with stars as Aemella had gently rubbed the man’s ruin all over it in a very capable caress. Indeed, she had never seen her husband so mindlessly aroused, in turn knowing well its power when he had taken a small amount to work over the pearl of her sex. 

On they moved to the tamer variety of plants, the herbs all looking well, the newer basil and rosemary plants ready to be taken to the gardens and planted there along the borders. Taking the pots with care, they departed for that very location. 

Moving from plant to plant, the women spoke in hushed tones about the delicate balance of the flora around them, their knowledge and skill evident in every scrupulous ministration. They meticulously tended to each newly planted fledgling, ensuring that those requiring special attention received it. 

Their conversation was then interrupted by the distant sound of armoured footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. Aemella straightened, dusting her hands off and looking toward the entrance. "That will be Ser Arryk, no doubt. Ready to escort me to Fyreclaw." she said, a hint of affection colouring her tone. "A dutiful, punctual knight through and through." 

Gileda smiled, soft and knowing. "He is loyal to a fault, princess. As all good men should be." 

As the women concluded their work, carefully placing their tools aside, Aemella felt a sense of tranquillity wash over her. The serenity of the gardens and the well-ordered minutiae they poured into it were a stark contrast to the often-turbulent political machinations that plagued the halls of the Red Keep. More so now than ever before, it seemed. 

It sat a little sharp within her, that her beloved was the root cause of the most recent unrest, the realm falling now into full-blown civil war. It would have been an untruth to claim she had much in the way of affection for her late nephew, the prince Lucerys Velaryon, but had castigated her husband for the hot-headed behaviour that had led to his accidental downfall all the same.  

As he had lain naked in her arms a few nights on from the fateful incident, Aemond had eventually expressed regret for his part in it, claiming truly that he had not meant to slaughter his young nephew at all. ‘My intention was to toy with him and nothing more, exact a little revenge, perhaps, for this.’ He had pointed then to the sapphire glittering his left eye, his wife stroking the scar that marred his handsome face.  

She of course understood and believed his words. He was telling the truth, and his twin was the sole person he’d revealed that truth to. To all outsiders, he wore the title kinslayer with his head aloft, no matter the trouble it was presently causing for him.  

Her thoughts were interrupted then by the chivalrous arrival of Ser Arryk. With a curt yet respectful bow, he announced his readiness to escort her to the dragonpit. Aemella acknowledged him with a soft smile, excusing herself from Gileda’s company, ready to go for her afternoon ride.  

“Gīda, Fyreclaw. Gīda, dohaeragon!” the dragonkeepers spoke, urging the mighty, formidable dragon to remain calm and serve. At seeing his rider appear, the great beast emitted a soft noise in his throat, lowering his mighty head to receive her affection.  

“Issa gevie dyni.” Aemella spoke warmly as she scratched beneath his eye, for indeed, Fyreclaw was a beautiful beast. Deep blue in hue with orange-flecked scales that glittered like the fading sun upon the Blackwater, his claws and foot scales of matching hue. Hence the name Fyreclaw.   

Mounting his saddle, she readied herself. “Sīmonagon, Fyreclaw. Sōvegon!” At hearing his command to rise and fly, the beast fully unfurled his wings, his ascent to the skies swathing the dragonpit into full shade. He was the second largest of the world only behind the behemoth that was the ancient Vhagar, although much younger in age. 

The exhilaration offered atop Fyreclaw’s back served to make any lingering tensions she might have carried from her earlier quarrel with Aemond melt into pure insignificance, sailing through the skies above Kings Landing, over the few banks of clouds floating in the primarily clear, blue horizon. 

Descending sharply, he dipped his toes in the sea with a happy squeal of delight, Aemella smiling fondly. He was the only dragon never to put up a fight when presented with water to cleanse away any dried blood from his scales, his rider often joking that her noble beast must have been a mighty sea creature in a previous incarnation.  

Ascending once more, the wind whipped through her long mane of silver hair, the sun so warm and comforting at her back. Up there in the skies, life was unquestionably serene and peaceful.  

Looking down at the Red Keep as she felt something suddenly quake within her belly, she could only wonder what troubles Aemond faced at present. They were never far from them those days, it lamentably seemed.  

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :)

Next Chapter

[darklydeliciousdesires]

@call-sign-shark @zablife @multifandom-03 @kmc1989 *Cough* Aemond and Aemella *Cough* :D

When violent characters are gentle and tender & when gentle characters are violent and unhinged

[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Twelve.

I think this might be the chapter you've been waiting for, besties!

Note: One small scene within the chapter has been taken directly from HOTD, as you will notice, so obviously not credited to me!

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 3,809

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven

Duty. It was a word Aemella understood well, one which had led to her spending long periods of time at her elder brother’s bedside, watching over him as he continued to sleep. It wasn’t a true sleep though, she supposed, when he was yet to regain his consciousness at all after the battle at Rook’s Rest. 

“Your duty and loyalty to the king in his time of need are truly an unmatched kindness, your grace,” Grand Maester Orwyle spoke, tending to the king while the princess reagent sat quietly reading to him, holding his hand. “Some in your position might not be quite so charitable, considering your recent troubles.” 

That was exactly the facade she was hoping for. “He is my brother, Grand Maester. My kin. I cannot turn my back on him now. He needs the love of his family as well as the grace of the gods to see him through his ordeal.”  

“And you read to him, too,” he spoke, nodding to the book in her lap. “A very touching gesture.” 

“I am told that it can help, that those who suffer this elongated sleep can hear the words.” Taking her beeswax from her pocket, she spread a little slick to her lips, pressing them together. “He always enjoyed this story, when he was an infant.” 

Orwyle paused, nodding. “You are correct, your grace. I personally believe he can hear every word. The king is likely grateful to you for your devotion.”  

Gratitude? Her petulant brat of a brother wouldn’t know the meaning of the word, not even if it jumped up and bit him upon his pompous little arse.  

Remaining at his side for a further time, she then continued with her day, spending time with Gileda in the gardens, experiencing a little gratitude of her own in that her injuries were now almost all healed. She had missed the simple luxury of being able to walk more than a few feet without her back or side burning in pain.  

“Right, then,” she asserted, standing from her crouched position before the large cluster of newly planted rose bushes, the exquisite orange blooms of her fledgling Ochre Fox Roses bursting with colour and fragrance. “I do believe we are finished in our outside toils. We should head back to our workroom and continue. I need to harvest a little Moonthorne.” 

Gileda inclined her head, her smile playful. “Someone is indeed feeling more spirited, your grace.” 

A knowing smile curled her lips, Aemella linking her arm through Gileda’s as they set off along the path. “Even if I was not, I would entertain passions regardless. Aemond is much like a stud horse denied his dalliances with mares if he goes too long without. He gets antsy, becomes ill-tempered.” 

“Your grace!” she cried with mirth, her chuckles tinkling through the air. “How you amuse me so, even if at times I feel I might know a little too much regarding the prince reagent.”  

Aemella gave her a gentle nudge, her smile broadening. “Trust me, in the grand scheme of things, you still know little. As my friend, you know just enough.”  

The sun cast a warm glow over the garden as the two women walked together, their laughter mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves. Aemella's spirits were lifted, the weight of her recent predicament lightened by Gileda's companionship. After all she had suffered, the simple pleasures of home had never felt more welcoming. 

The remainder of her afternoon was spent in the workroom, focusing on her blends, alone for much of it with Gileda returning to her quarters, suffering from her moonsblood pains, Aemella kindly insisting she go and rest. 

Resting, however, was most definitely not on the princess reagent’s mind. 

“Mella?” Aemond called, returning to their quarters after a day of duty, governing with the kind of order expected from the crown. Taking off the baldric holding his sword around his hips, then his boots and socks, he felt better for the cool stone soothing his tired feet.  

The position was demanding, but he was taking to it like a duck to water, very much enjoying in this new role at the head of the realm. “Where are you, my sweet wife?” 

She appeared then, with not a stitch of clothing covering her sublime curves, Aemond’s eye widening as he paused in his stride. “Feeling better, are we?” 

“We are,” she confirmed, sauntering over to him, smoothing her hands down his chest. “But this does not mean I don’t desire to spend a little more time in bed.” 

The clear connotations were not lost on him, Aemond feeling his desire charge like a tethered bull vying for its escape. Reaching for her waist, he lifted her, Aemella clinging on around him, a breathy sigh leaving her mouth as his lips bathed her nipple in a warm, wet suck. “I had better do something about that then, hadn’t I?”  

Leaning to him, her mouth clasped his in a soft kiss that gained heat rapidly, all fire and honey as carried her to the bed, ready to enjoy every last inch of her newly healed body. While the hunger in him swirled with a certain wildness, he tethered it, their combined effort rendering him naked atop her, kissing with simmering passion. 

Apart from a few tentative touches here and there, and of course her pleasuring him with her mouth a few days prior, this was the first time they had been intimate since her return. Moonbeams of desire streaked through her as she felt his hands and mouth charter paths of divine warmth over her body, tongue fluttering at her nipples, the sharp close of teeth upon each pebbled bud making her jolt.  

“I missed you so much,” she sighed, pulling his face back to hers, kissing him longingly.  

“As I did you, precious one.” Their lips met again before he slid from her grasp, pressing kisses all over her skin, careful touches stroking her everywhere, glad to finally see the bruises that had marked her fading to violet and yellow. Oh, how the Red Kraken would suffer for it, but it would not come from him.  

As his mouth descended, she tangled her fingers in the spun silver of his tresses, thighs widening with unabashed keenness, eager to feel his mouth upon her... 

“Ahhh! Oh, and that I certainly missed.” she purred, his tongue teasing over the petals of her sex, toying with her just a smidgen before it dipped between, granting her the firm contact she so craved. Her back arched, his hands travelling that elegant bend, pressing the flat of his tongue against her, long, slow licks making her quiver, Aemond watching her intently.  

Circling, he eventually reached her pearl, the soft flicker from the tip of his tongue sending a blaze to shoot up her spine, her soft moans and hands flexing within his hair making his cock harden more.  

“I still regard this as a thing of greater beauty than any fine art,” he spoke, pausing to suck upon her pink, “the sight of my beloved enjoying my mouth.”  

Art was exactly what he lavished upon her, the colours of her pleasure bleeding into one another as he reached to tease swirling strokes over her breasts, rolling her nipples, a harder pinch making her whine in ecstasy as his tongue continued to lay hot, firm licks.  

Ebullience skittered over her bones, her thighs brushing the sides of his face until his hands moved to spread them once more, tongue driving against her bud a little harder, pausing to suck with a rich, hungry groan. He’d barely begun and already the culmination was upon her, winding tight like a summer storm. While she wailed, his lips tightened as he felt it beginning to snap through her, knowing exactly what she needed. 

Her release shot through her every nerve, a lone comet streaking through a vast, dark sky, still shaking with the heat of it as she felt herself turned on her side, Aemond moving to lie behind her. Slowly, he spread her wide around his cock, hooking his arm beneath her knee to hold her leg elevated, pressing kisses full of gently burning desire across her shoulder. 

Their bodies slid together harmoniously as he filled and emptied her steadily, Aemella turning her head, their mouths meeting in a kiss with all the heat of dragon fire. Little shocks began to skitter through her core as he filled her right to her very summit, his hand reaching to begin rubbing pure sparks of ecstasy upon her bud.  

She barely had time to settle into the rolling rhythm of it, finding herself turned once again, this time onto her front. Kneeling either side of her thighs, he drove into her with hard, unrelenting thrusts, frenzied within her for a few moments. Slowing again, his body lowered to blanket hers, the feel of his lips branding a path that followed the teasing stroke of his fingers making the back of her neck tingle. 

His chosen position offered the kind of exquisite tightness that made his heart begin to rapidly hammer in his chest, like a caged bird attempting freedom, his cock throbbing as he gripped her waist, moaning a deep, barbarous rumble. The narrow, slick heat of her consumed him as he began to quicken, still holding back a little for the sake of not wanting to hurt her.   

The thrill of it glimmered to her very marrow, his hands smoothing up her body, trailing her arms and clutching her wrists, pinning her there, sinking into her heat hard and deep. She knew exactly what this display was borne of; he was making her his again after the shattering pain of almost losing her to another. That loss might have been against her will, but Aemella understood the way a man worked. Or rather, she understood how her brother worked, and what was his, he would claim. 

Besides, she always did enjoy when her beloved husband’s softer edge gave way to something a little more ferocious. 

“Please, Aemond. Harder!” she cried out, her words negating any remaining traces of restraint, giving him the go ahead to begin driving into her with brutal force. She made the kind of noise he’d expect from a wild animal in heat, a sound that did not cease the further uncontained he became, his fingers leaving pink crescents at her wrists.   

For her, it was absolute heaven, being taken with such ferocity, her fingers clutching the pillows, foggy as he dragged her insides at speed, groaning incessantly. 

He needed to do everything he could to drive her to the same undoing as his own body raced towards, not wanting to arrive without her, needing to feel the gratification of her milking his orgasm from him. His arms slid beneath her, pulling her up to her knees before him, keen upward thrusts pounded into the soaking wet of her cunt as his hand dropped to rub at her pearl until she cried out shrilly.  

Her body trembled, bucking against each surging wave of her release, feeling his cock twitch as he filled her with spend. She was left a mess in the wake of it, like a forest torn apart by wildfire, collapsing on the bed with a contented hum. He moved to her side, pulling her into a hug, enjoying the feeling of her burrowing against him, kissing the column of his throat. 

“Ahh,” she lamented, looking past him to the small bottle placed upon the bedside table. “I blended some moonthorne oil, but did not get a chance to use it upon you.” 

His eyes followed hers to the bottle in question, gazing back at her with a very lascivious smirk. “Who is to say we are finished? Especially if you are proposing to bewitch me with a little man’s ruin.” 

“Mmm.” she hummed, turning him onto his back, kisses peppering his chest whilst her hand reached towards the table. They enjoyed themselves into exhaustion, dozing for a while in one another’s arms before they were disturbed by the servant's bringing supper to them. 

Once they had eaten, they settled in bed, both partaking of another favourite shared activity and reading the same book by candlelight until they felt their eyes growing heavy. Sleeping curled around one another, it was a long, deep sleep of nourishment they both sorely needed after such elongated sexual enjoyment, yet for one, it was not to last.  

A short time before dawn, haunting dreams plagued Aemond’s mind, his stillness in sleep becoming fitful until like a bolt, he shot up with a gasp. 

“Aemond?” Sitting up behind him, her hand smoothed down his back, feeling his chest heaving, his muscles tight. “Bad dreams, darling love?” 

“The worst,” he admitted on a sigh. “I was back within the dungeons again, and you were still gone.”  

Shifting behind him, she moved her legs either side of his hips, pulling him down into her embrace as she lay back. Her hands stroked at his hair, soothing him gently, feeling him begin to calm. “It must have unimaginable down there. Dreams are only dreams though, husband. They cannot bring us harm.” 

He sighed, his arms sliding around her waist, feeling the comforting warmth of the covers as she pulled them back over their bodies, resting his head to her breast. “If Aegon survives, he will continue his attempt to bring havoc unto us. This I know, love.” 

“I think he has much greater things to be concerned with at present. After all, he is yet to wake,” she attempted to placate him with, although she would have been speaking in untruths if she’d claimed not to have feared the same. 

“He is weakened and defeated, he will seek to redress some sort of balance, one which the very darkness of his nature dictates will be us he comes after once more.”  

Aemond, alas, was not to be fully calmed over his fears. Often, in the dark of night, what one kept well hidden under the calmness of the light would be flushed out with the shadows. As she held him tightly, stroking his head, being her usual pillar of support, Aemella reasoned that it would be much more conducive to his wellbeing if, for once, he didn’t have to fear their brother’s cruelty. If, in fact, nobody had to fear it. 

She held him all night, neither getting much more in the way of plentiful rest, the morning light bringing with it the news many had been eagerly awaiting. The king had awoken, his condition still serious, but stable, as Grand Maester Orwyle relievedly informed the council. 

Of course, as soon as the meeting drew to a close, Aemond visited with his brother. Entering the king’s quarters, he witnessed the sight of his dressings being changed, Aegon in obvious agony from the many burns that blighted his tattered body. He felt a certain dark pleasure rush through his veins at that, thinking it fitting that after putting him through so much emotional anguish, he now be the one to suffer the duress of blinding agony. 

“What do you remember?” he asked after approaching the bed, the delight in his suffering dancing in his eye. 

Aegon wheezed and whimpered, his pain nothing short of horrific. “Nothing.” 

The prince reagent was not entirely convinced. “You challenged Meleys. It was foolish.” 

“I remember... nothing,” Aegon repeated, the press of his brother’s hand grasping his upon his chest almost more than he could bear.  

Leaning to him, Aemond placed a kiss upon his head. “I will keep a meticulous order in your absence, your grace.” A cunning smile spread his lips. “Tis’ much more comfortable than being confined to a dungeon, now that I am returned to my quarters. With my beautiful wife at my side.” 

The king’s eyes rounded, taken aback by the information presented. 

“I will send her,” Aemond then whispered, “she will no doubt wish to give you her best.”  

With the arrival of Orwyle, Aemond left the room, instructing him to make sure the king rested comfortably through his long recovery. Aegon had little time for his mind to whirl over the whys and wherefores of his sister’s return, a milk of the poppy-induced sleep sending him into the rest he sorely needed in order to heal. Upon his awaking later that afternoon, though, her eyes were the first thing he saw. 

“Aemella, I...” 

Immediately, she rose from her chair. “Shhh, brother. Do not unsettle yourself. We have all waited with bated breath for you to awake and return to us.”  

Gasping in pain, his mouth floundered, for he recognised the look in her eye. Aemella never did blink when rage swirled within her like a decimating tempest, one which in this instance was pointed squarely at him.  

“Your sister has been a true beacon of devotion, your grace,” Orwyle spoke, tinkering with medicines at the other side of the bed. “She has sat with you day after day, reading to you, praying for your recovery.” 

She smiled, her eyes never leaving him. “Tis’ true, my king. I have indeed waited patiently for this moment.” She then turned to Orwyle. “If I could be left alone with my brother, Grand Maester. I would like to give him my happy news in privacy.”  

Nodding, he understood her wishes. “I will await your call, your grace.”  

Aegon watched him walk away, pleading with his eyes for the Maester to say. The growing heat of fear swirled with his crippling pain, looking back to his sister as his chest rattled. “Happy... happy news?” he rasped, Aemella reaching for his hand. 

“Yes, brother. You are to be an uncle, for I am with child. Aemond’s child, in case you wondered.” Seating herself upon the side of his bed, she continued. “Not that Dalton Greyjoy didn’t attempt to rape me, for he did. I suppose such treatment of women is something you both have in common. Nay, I was unknowingly already in my expectancy at the time you had the High Septon annul my marriage, which as you can imagine now makes said annulment void.” 

Every word that came from her mouth was steeped in quiet, yet deadly contempt, her nostrils flaring, Aegon’s heart hammering like a war drum. “Forgive me, dear sister.”  

Chuckling, she reached into her pocket, taking out her beeswax balm, slicking her lower lip with it before leaning forward to press a firm, lingering kiss upon his mouth.  

“No.”

On impulse for feeling the scented wax against his own lips, he licked them, watching her then wipe her mouth upon the sleeve of her dress, taking a small vial from her pocket. She could feel it immediately, her jaw beginning to tighten, knowing the muscles of her throat and chest would follow, tipping the finely ground, dried petals onto her tongue.  

Instantly, the deadly tension relaxed. Her eyes, though? They bore all the cold, lethal intent of the deadliest assassin; the one whose victim never saw them creeping through the shadows toward them until it was too late.  

For the king, there was no merciful antidoted respite, his jaw soon feeling tight, his throat constricting, his breaths coming shallower as she leaned over him again. 

“To think, all of the times you suspected Aemond of intentions to usurp your throne, when in truth, it was always me you should have viewed with caution.” Her words, delivered on a viper’s hiss, chilled Aegon to his tattered, broken bones, the tightness spreading down to his lungs as his eyes widened in horror. “I was never above fratricide, your grace. Know that for my husband, I will do anything to protect him. Anything. Beware the Sunset Rose.”  

He had no idea what those final, chilling words meant, but he knew, oh how he realised as his time rapidly ticked to an end, that Aemond was never the one he should have feared. Aegon truly had no idea until that moment, just what a powerful adversary he’d had all along in his own sister.  

“I would bid you a restful sleep, Aegon, but the words would be empty,” she spoke, her stare boring into him as his chest rattled, breath now stilled, floundering in desperation. “For every ounce of suffering you have inflicted upon us, upon my husband his entire life, I hope the seven hells keep you tormented. As you deserve to be.”  

Watching intently, the light began to fade in his eyes, Aemella pocketing the empty vial and turning, pressing her fingers into her eyes until they watered, giving the appearance of tears. “Grand Maester! Come at once! My brother, he cannot breathe!” 

The doors flew open, Aemella amping up her hysteria. “He cannot breathe, he cannot breathe! Help him, please, I beg of you. Help him!” 

“Come, your grace,” Ser Rickard spoke, his hands gently grasping her arms, pulling her away from the bedside. “Let the Maester work.”  

The room descended into chaos, more healers running to the king’s aid, Aemella screaming from the doorway. For her performance to be accepted as nothing but genuine, she poured into it every ounce of fear and pain she’d experienced being parted from her twin, her body trembling as Ser Rickard wrapped a comforting arm around her.  

With his efforts all in vain, Orwyle shook his head, sharing looks of grave sadness with the rest of his team as he sighed, turning to Aemella. 

“I did all I could, your grace. The king is now at his final rest.” 

“No, no!” she screamed, collapsing to her knees in seeming grief.  

“Gods above us.” Ser Rickard spoke, dutifully taking to his knee, bowing his last before his fallen king.  

The news of his death tore through the castle, Alicent arriving at a run, pausing in the doorway to bring Aemella back to her feet and hold her in a tight embrace before tearfully, she approached the body of her first born. 

“We can be comforted to know at least he was with his dear sister when he began to pass, dowager queen.” Orwyle spoke, hoping his words might be a balm to the distressed woman before him as she wept.  

Still crying, but inside bursting with triumph, her every fibre uncoiling with relief, Aemella stood and spectated the scene, feeling two hands rest to her shoulders. Turning, she sank into her husband’s embrace, crying against his neck. 

“What happened, my love?”  

Emerging, she gasped, her tears cascading as she looked up at him. “He... he... stopped breathing. Then he was gone.” Her performance was faultless... to anyone but her twin.  

The way she smiled at him through those tears would have chilled him to his bones, had Aemond not known what she’d done was - as she always had and would - to protect him. 

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :) 

Next Chapter

[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Eight.

Thank you to all those reading, reblogging and offering commentary :) You are all wonderful!

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 3,565

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven

The indignity of festering away down there, with the rats and the insects, in the very bowels of the Red Keep. It was a constant source of wounded pride upon a man who assumed he could hurt no further. Be that as it may, it was but a mere pin prick of discomfort compared to the agony of being parted from his wife, this now the sixth sunrise he could see coming up through the tiny window at the end of the cells without her.  

By his calculations, she’d be close to arrival upon the Iron Islands by then, the journey across the sea around the most southern coast of Westeros taking roughly seven days to complete. Maybe having her taken from him might have been tolerable on some miniscule level, if he couldn’t sense every ounce of her distress, and at times, know she suffered actual pain.  

Whatever Dalton Greyjoy had done to her, Aemond promised on his life he would avenge, should he ever see freedom. That, however, did not seem likely. With his brother so deep rooted in the role of a drunken, witless excuse for a king, he knew the odds would be stacked against him. His trial would likely be rigged to spell his ultimate downfall, Aemond understanding that all he likely had waiting for him was a swing at the end of a noose.  

The path his life had taken him upon was a hopeless one, devoid of anything other than bleak dark; made infinitely darker without his twin star.  

The sixth day had also brough much loneliness, Ser Rickard called away to other duties, it seemed, Aemond only delivered a small plate of food and a beaker of water once a day. He presumed the same was arriving again at hearing the heavy door to the dungeon heave open, footsteps echoing off the cold, damp floor.  

“I am to escort you back to your quarters, my prince.”  

He wasn’t all too sure that he had heard Ser Rickard correctly, frowning with puzzlement at his statement. “I am being freed? What about my trial?” It then occurred to him that this was probably it.  

“You are to go and make yourself presentable, after which the king wishes for you to meet with the small council later this morning.” 

Were his alleged misdeeds being handled without the aid of a presiding judge? Standing, he was no clearer as Rickard used one of the heavy keys within his grasp to unlock his cell, standing back with a sour look upon his face. Aemond was well aware he stank, the knight keeping a few steps back as he escorted him back up to his quarters.  

“I will escort you to the king when he is ready to receive you, my prince.”  

The door closed behind him, the sound of another set of armoured footsteps arriving, somebody else placed outside to keep guard.  

“Call me to fucking heel.” he muttered, beginning to strip off his filthy clothes. Catching sight of himself in the mirror over in the bedchamber area, he approached it, staring at himself for a few moments. He didn’t look like him, standing there in messy disarray, shadows beneath his eyes, even the sapphire within the socket looking as grubby as the rest of him.  

Hooking a finger behind it, he popped it out, holding it in his palm as he turned and headed to the bathing chamber, his stride little more than a shuffle. Sleeping on a hard floor, even for his young body, had given him a back stiffer than a gangplank. Once he was submerged within the sunken bath, though, he felt all his tension beginning to ease. Except for that which continued to grip upon his heart.  

The space felt vast without her there with him. Too much water and not enough Aemella. It was this that drove him out after a short time, dying himself and choosing his clothes, perhaps for the first time in his life with no handmaiden present to assist.  

When he looked at himself again in the mirror for the second time, he recognised the reflection, his spine straightening, his visage set to resolve. Whatever was to come with his meeting with the king, he would not simply roll over and accept his fate. It was the time to fight for what was right and just, no matter how inefficacious it might be.  

Moving to the dresser, he ran a brush through his hair, tying the front part back away from his face neatly as ever, his hand placing the brush down and moving to the green glass bottle placed nearby. Removing the stopper, the smell flooded his sense immediately, apple blossom, white rose and oud. Aemella’s scent, blended by her own hand. 

The one she had blended for him, a spicy mixture of clove, oud and orange within a blue bottle sat close by. He did not seek to dab that to his skin, though, instead pressing the stopper of hers just once beneath his chin, a scant amount that only he would be able to smell. A little of her there with him.  

He hoped somehow to absorb some of her wise grace, her poise, for if it was his darling wife – and he would refer to her as nothing else, annulment be damned – heading into council, she would do so with steely calm. She would play her hand with shrewdness and cunning, Aemond knowing he had to adopt that same facade and not allow his rage to dictate his demeanour. 

The king, after all, would likely play upon that weakness. 

Placing the bottle down again, his hand then moved to the barren, cut glass vase. It would usually be full with Midnight Foxgloves, his wife’s favourite flower. He would arrange their arrival every couple of days, serving a constant reminder of his love towards her. Peering into the vessel, he lifted from it a dead petal, dried and crisp, no life left within what had once been a stunning bloom. 

What a fitting metaphor for their current predicament. 

“My prince, the council are ready.”  

Ser Rickard had arrived promptly, Aemond glad of it so as not to allow himself any time to become caught in the maelstrom of his mind, following the knight through the corridors, the feeling of sunshine upon his face quite the blissful tonic after six days of near darkness.  

Stepping into the small council room, the faces of those sat at the table met his eye with a certain look of trepidatious solemnity, all bar his mother. Her usual poise faltered a little, rising from her seat and moving to wrap him in her arms, kissing his cheek.  

“That will be enough comforting of the prisoner, mother.”  

Ahh, his brother. The one person he had yet to lend focus to. Nodding to Alicent in acceptance of her concern, he then lifted his chin, looking down the table toward the scourge. “You sent for me, your grace.” 

Aegon was not expecting to be addressed so cordially, his brother’s passiveness taking him aback a smidgen. Six days in the dungeons seemed not to have broken his spirit quite as much as he had hoped. “I did. While you remain a prisoner of the crown, the time has come for us to call upon your... services, as it were.”  

Aemond’s mind whirled, yet his face remained set, giving nothing away. Not even the perplexity over the fact that as far as he was aware, the only chance he would have at leaving the dungeons was to attend his own trial for treason. 

“I have had it advised to me that your plan to lay our next attack at Rook’s Rest does indeed hold merit, such a strike effectively cutting off Dragonstone by land. Ser Criston marches our army as of this morning, his arrival anticipated within the next six days, give or take. You are to follow aboard Vhagar and lead our attack from the air. A raven will be sent to us when they are nearby, after which you will proceed.” 

At hearing his own plan which the king had previously admonished as pointless now parroted back at him, Aemond had to stop himself from laughing bitterly. So, he could be freed as a prisoner, then, his treason apparently not so treacherous in that it would prevent the king finding use for him.  

Gods be good. And this churlish brat who bent the rules for little more than his own personal gain was their leader, their monarch, protector of the realm.  

Closing his eye briefly, he saw his beautiful love there, the little hint of her scent upon her neck serving him as a reminder to cull his temper. “Hmm, A brilliant strategy, your grace. I will be happy to lend myself unto it.” 

Aegon paused, studying him carefully. Compliance? Not a flicker of complaint? Suspicion riddled him, shifting in his seat as he reached for his goblet, draining the contents. “Of course,” he stated, clearing his throat, “this by no means bypasses the fact that you remain a prisoner of the crown.” 

Aemond nodded gracefully. “Naturally, my king.” 

Gulping from his newly refilled goblet, a visibly unsettled Aegon continued. “I am quite prepared to forgo any trial, should you be compliant to our effort going forward. You will serve your king without hesitation or question. Any deviation – and I do mean any – will result in your treason charges being reinstated once again.” 

He read between the lines well, knowing that his brother was handing him a very specific warning; go after Aemella and be tried for treason, a trial which would almost definitely conclude with him facing the noose.  

Steepling his fingers, Aemond nodded. “Your terms are fair, your grace. Will that be all?” 

“For now. You may reside within your quarters once more, but only move around under escort. You are dismissed, Aemond.”  

He uttered no further word as he rose to his feet, taken back to his quarters once more, his mind whirring with counter-schemes against his brother. To simply be at the king’s beck and call, showing nothing but dutiful obedience, was not at all within his plans. He would not reveal such, though, his thoughts once again going to his wife. 

“It isn’t over, precious one. Trust me, all that we are, we will be once again.” 

While he took a seat within the living area of their quarters, feeling the weight of his unhappiness without her bearing down upon him weightily, Aemella found herself flung from one side of the galley to the other. The external force was not Dalton for once, though, the man still not relenting in his violence toward her.  

The seas around the ship heaved and crashed, the great storm off the coast of the Westerlands blowing them off course. While she attempted to find her bearings and hang onto something, above deck, the men rallied hard against the fearsome winds, the rain unrelenting in its assault upon them as thunder crashed across the clouds. 

“My lord, we cannot steer her back to course, lest be blown out further into the very eye of the storm!” Henry called upon the bridge, straining with all of his might to bring the helm back to port. The waves crashed starboard, the vessel swaying, Dalton hanging on as he turned to the crew. 

“Reduce the sails, men! We must be swift else be blown off course entirely!” Upon his order, the brave men began grappling with the lines, Dalton turning back to Henry and assisting him at the helm.  

Their efforts were to be in vain, though, a sudden wind change making their fight against the storm a fool's errand, the ship eventually running aground upon the rocky beaches of Lannisport.  

“We will seek shelter for now. I propose we travel the rest of the journey on horseback to the northern Westerlands, to Banefort and sail from there to Pyke. I will send a vessel to tow the ship back to the Iron Islands in due course.” 

With their only means home over the seas now stuck fast within the sands, it was all they could do. At least the gods looked upon them fairly, their journey through the rain and high winds upon the mainland nowhere near as savage as they had been out at sea, a local inn stumbled upon a short distance into their walk from the coast.  

“A bottle of your finest rum, my good man. Please do tell me you have room here within your establishment, for I require lodgings for my men and my future bride,” Dalton spoke, the innkeeper casting his eye to where his party, soaked to the skin and shivering, all crowed around the crackling hearth.  

“I have rooms a’plenty. Being there’s so many of you, your men’ll still have to share, but yes, I can put you all up for the night,” he spoke, producing the rum along with the many beakers required to provide for the fifty men who had filled his inn. “Tis’ a mighty storm out there, my lord. How does your vessel fare?” 

“Ran aground, damage yet to be deterred,” he spoke, handing over a pouch of coins. “With my thanks, inn keep.” 

Filling a row of beakers with the rum, he alerted his men to the warming drinks, taking three of the beakers over to the fire, handing one to his brother, nudging Aemella when she did not immediately notice him proffer it forth. 

“Thank you,” she spoke, taking it from him, her attention barely leaving the flames before her.  

“Drink that and I will see you to our room,” he spoke, obviously wanting to get her out of the way. “You need your rest; we’ve a long journey ahead of us come the dawn.”  

While she was not partial to being ordered around by him, she could see the sense in his words on that particular occasion. She was also becoming dejected and weary from his regular beatings, the fight in her physically becoming knocked out. With each day that passed parted from her husband, she felt herself weaken further, her insides no longer a place where their love blossomed in glorious, sunlit bloom. 

Now, it was a desolate wasteland, empty winds scraping upon her very soul, the kind of damage done that could only be remedied in healing with reunion. It fractured her to pieces that the next time she would see him, if she ever saw her beloved twin star again, she would be betrothed to another. 

Another whom she could barely stand at all. 

She was grateful for the inn’s chamber maid already headed into the room before them, finding the basic, yet comfortable looking bed turned down and a roaring fire lit, placing the wet sack of her belongings down, ready to sort through and hang up what needed to be dried.  

Before she could, though, two large, gold ring-adorned hands rested to her waist, Dalton leaning to her ear from his place at her back. “Tell me. Do you still bleed?” 

“I do.” It had been safer for the mortality of the babe she carried within her womb, to lie and tell him there was none at all. The thought of losing another child – in whatever wicked way he planned for that to happen – was more than she could bear. No teas would be drunk in order to make the expectancy go away, she would never murder hers and Aemond’s unborn child. It would live, even if she had to pass it off as a child of Dalton’s.  

His hands moved to her breasts, squeezing, moving her hair to kiss her neck roughly, Aemella wincing in disgust. He had all the finesse of a drunken vagrant. He smelled similar, too. “Tell me when it has gone away. I wish to give you a thoroughly vigorous mounting.”  

Her stomach churned with repulsion. “I shall, my lord.”  

Gladly, he left her alone then, Aemella stripping down to her undergarments, laying her dress out to dry before the fire. The undergarments dried quickly upon her body while she also laid out other clothes, finally taking a cross-legged seat upon the soft, wolf pelt rug before the hearth.  

Looking into the flames, her heart pined for home, for her own fireplace, where she would sit upon her husband’s lap and warm her toes, usually while they read the same book together. The fire was a painful reminded of another she longed for as well, her beautiful, precious Fyreclaw.  

There, she was not alone in her sorrow, the feeling entirely mutual, as it would seem. 

During a strategy meeting over the battle at Rook’s Rest but a few days prior to Aemond’s departure, the small council were disturbed by the arrival of Ser Eddard, bringing with him important news. 

“I bring word from the dragonkeepers, your grace,” he spoke, clearing his throat. “The dragon Fyreclaw has become increasingly hostile and ill-tempered. One of the keepers has perished this morning, and he is becoming seemingly more difficult to calm. The welfare of the other dragons is increasingly at jeopardy due to his current mood.” 

“Hmm, ill-tempered,” Aemond spoke, circling his finger upon the table idly. “As naturally he would without his beloved rider.”  

All bar the king picked up on the quiet connotations of his words. “Tis’ their job to control him. What do they expect of their king?” Aegon merely questioned, looking unbothered, only irritated by what he considered to be nothing more than trivialities. 

Eddard looked at his feet a moment before his eyes fell to Aemond. “The princess would frequently take him out to the coast, where Vhagar spends her time in slumber. With your permission, your grace, I could accompany the prince to either bring her within the city walls, or Fyreclaw out to visit with her. The remaining dragonkeepers feel that this would pacify him.”  

Aegon snorted. “Vhagar outgrew the dragonpit, tis’ ludicrous to imagine she could land easily within the city walls,” he scoffed, pondering a moment before his lips curled, extending a hand to his brother. “I give permission for you to take him to Vhagar. Under escort, of course.” 

He only did such because he knew well how difficult a task that would be, enjoying greatly giving his brother a duty he would likely not accomplish with any sense of ease. Fyreclaw knew well who Aemond was, but to command a dragon bonded to another rider would be near impossible. Still, if he could, at least Fyreclaw’s heart would cease to ache. He knew well that anguish.  

After riding over to the dragonpit, the keepers called up Fryeclaw, Ser Eddard waiting outside with the horses while Aemond ventured within. With a series of annoyed snorts and growls, the beast climbed up from the pits below to the platform, eyes narrowed, snapping and knuckling. 

“Gīda, Fyreclaw! Dohaeragon, sagon gīda!” they spoke, using their sticks to guide him, the dragon’s hostility very apparent. While they asked of him to be steady, serve and be calm, he barely seemed to notice, his head turning left and right. He could smell Aemella, searching for her, leaning down close to the source of his rider’s scent.  

It had been an idea of great merit, for Aemond to dot his tunic with her perfume prior to his departure from the Red Keep, the beast giving him a small shove, whining with displeasure that while he could smell Aemella, she was nowhere to be seen.  

“Follow issa, Fyreclaw. Naejot Vhagar. Māzigon, māzigon! Follow, dohaeragon!" He spoke, advising that the beast should follow him to Vhagar. As soon as the dragon heard her name, he lifted his head, making a soft knuckling noise in his throat as Aemond began to walk back, Fyreclaw guided along the path by the dragonkeepers. Exiting the dragonpit, he jumped aboard the horse once more, again calling to the dragon to follow.  

While they began the rapid ride through the city and out to where Vhagar nested, Fyreclaw took to the air, following their journey until they reached the last of the lush, green area running along the coast of Kings Landing. Once close to her nest, the riders dismounted, Fyreclaw landing, Aemond beginning to walk closer.  

Suddenly, a rapidly unsheathed sword blocked his forward motion, Ser Eddard looking a touch pained through his defiance. “I have been given orders by his grace not to allow you too close, for obvious reasons.” 

Aemond rolled his eye, folding his arms. “Yet he assumes I am to dutifully fly her into battle without deviation,” he began, his frown heavy. “Mittys.”  

Although Eddard understood no words in High Valyrian, he could guess that what Aemond had spoken was far from positive. The prince continued to frown, a crease that eventually began to soften as he watched Fyreclaw approach his dragon, making sweet noises of greeting, Vhagar stirred from her slumber.  

Heaving her mighty head from the mossy ground below, she leaned to nuzzle his face, their demeanour gentle as they reacquainted. She then lifted her huge, tattered wing, Fyreclaw lowering himself to rest at her side, Vhagar draping it over his back. As they lay, their muzzles touching, contented knuckling noises sounding the air, Aemond thought them so lucky.  

How he longed to be reunited with the one his heart sang for, too. 

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :) 

Next Chapter

[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Three.

I am updating a day early, besties, as I will be busy all day tomorrow. Enjoy!

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 4,062

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two

As the afternoon drew into the inky dusk of evening, Aemond found himself grow weary after being summoned to the small council, his brother the king requesting his presence. It seemed though to be little more than to continually rebuke his practical advice, Aemond left wondering for what end he had been called there at all.  

“That will be all, my lords,” Aegon spoke from the head of the table, the men present as well as the dowager queen all rising. “Not you, Aemond. Be seated.” 

He waited until they had left the room, nodding to the royal cup bearer to refill their wine goblets, lifting the freshly topped up vessel to his lips. “I keep you here as a courtesy as my brother, to inform you firstly before the others of my proposal going forth in our war effort.” 

Aemond looked a touch pained to have been kept behind, his thumb absently spinning the Valyrian steel wedding band upon his fourth finger, as he often did when keen to return to his wife. Most persons of nobility chose gold, but he and his beloved had sought something a little different for theirs.  

“I am listening.” He would at least extend the courtesy of that much, not that Aegon often partook in offering the same token. 

“Our alliances are so far yielding good success, but what I wish to secure will take a certain differing strategy,” he began, another mouthful of wine gulped back. “The pretender unfortunately has the greater advantage in so much as she holds the pledge and loyalty of the north, an alliance I wish to snatch out from beneath her.” 

A challenging commission if ever there was one, Aemond recognised. It was well known throughout the Seven Kingdoms that House Stark embraced their loyalty to a fault. It would take much to turn the tides in their favour with Cregan Stark himself. 

“And how do you propose such a task be accomplished?” 

“That, Aemond, is simple,” he began, lifting his chin. “I will offer him a wife, and Lord Stark himself a seat at my small council. Men, even as noble as he, can always be seduced by the promise of power.” 

He shook himself internally, not immediately able to recall an available Targaryen to offer as a bride. “How?” he questioned sharply. “The only women of our house who remain loyal to the Green and whom are of marital age are our own wives. Unless you seek to offer our mother, a proposition I cannot see her accepting.” 

The king’s smile split his mouth almost sinisterly. “I do not propose such, but Aemella will be your wife no longer when I seek an annulment to your marriage, freeing her to carry out a greater duty for our side.” 

Gods be good, the king could not be serious. Aemond balked, fury dancing in his eye. Was he dreaming? “You cannot possibly mean to use my wife as a mere pawn in your war effort.” he seethed, fingers clenching into fists on the table before him. “I will not allow it.” 

Aegon’s expression remained unchanged, his demeanour disturbingly calm. “You misunderstand, brother. This is not a request. It is a command. For the good of our house, sacrifices must be made. You are loyal, are you not?”  

“I am loyal to the Green,” he spat, “but even more so to Aemella. You ask too much of me, Aegon. This is madness.”  

The king set his goblet down with a hard thud, his eyes narrowing. “Madness, you say? No, Aemond. Madness is you and Vhagar chasing our nephew through the eye of a storm to his demise. This is strategy. Cold, calculated strategy. The north will not bend easily, but they can be persuaded. Aemella is our best chance at solidifying our power.”  

Except that it wasn’t strategy. This, Aemond knew well, was not solely confined to their efforts to strengthen their seat. Nay. Aegon, as ever, relished in the opportunity to toy with him. He honestly could not believe his ears, that his brother thought a plan so feeble, driven by his own need to exact cruelty upon him and little more, was by any means viable.  

“If you suggest this in all sincerity, then brother, you are unfit to seat yourself upon the Iron Throne. A king does not entertain such follies. Besides, however would it look within court, hmm? To break up a harmonious marriage simply to achieve alliance?” 

Aegon shrugged, smirking. “Your marriage is childless. A sham of a union by that token, some might suggest. An annulment would not be frowned upon. Besides, I am the king. What I fucking decree shall come to pass.” 

“By choice, we are childless. You know why,” Aemond gritted, feeling his temper flickering further into life deep in the pit of his belly. While their lack of children might have been a bone of contusion for him at present, he would not take kindly to his relationship being labelled a sham because they remained barren. “When Mella wishes it so again, I will grant her offspring.”  

The king’s voice broke on a burst of mocking laughter. “Do you even fuck her, brother? Or is the marriage merely you hiding in the skirts of our sister, too terrified of something real? You cling to the one you shared a womb with because you fear anything else. Seven hells, you probably fear her just as much,” he drawled, circling the rim of his wine goblet with a pointed finger. 

Aemond clenched his teeth, the grinding noise audible. “You speak in ridiculous assertions based in mere fantasy. As ever. Anything to demean me.” 

Leaning forward, Aegon was enthralled to have received a reaction. His younger brother’s words were calm, but his demeanour lacked it. It there was ever a way to get to Aemond, it was through his twin. “You do. I see it in your eye. When you were thirteen, you refused my offer to take you to a brothel, so you might know what it is to wet your cock. You likely still do not. Tsk, tsk.” 

And on he continued with his streaming torment. “Poor Aemella, shackled to a man who fears her cunt too much to go anywhere near it. Was there ever a child at all, or perhaps you arranged another to lay with her in order to sire the babe who was never to be?”  

His nostrils flared, remembering the harrowing night, holding a bloodied, wailing Aemella in his arms after their loss, trying in some way to comfort the intense pain his darling wife had suffered. “I will not allow this to stand, Aegon. My marriage is not subject to annulment for political gain or otherwise. We need not forge any new alliances – northern or otherwise – through betrothal.  

“Myself and Vhagar, Aemella and Fyreclaw, we are the most competent dragonriders within the realm. Sending her north is an action with little merit behind it. She is needed here. Her place is here, at my side. As it always has been and shall be to come.”  

Aegon lifted his chin, his top lip curling. “If I set the order that she is to be married to house Stark, then it is not for you to argue.” Oh, how his brother very much begged to differ, unable to truly believe this spite driven agenda was sincerely his plan of action. 

“May I remind you that I was called to your council to do just that; counsel. Not to hear of ridiculous ideas cooked up in order to needlessly break up my marriage. Be honest, Aegon. You do not seek to marry off Aemella in order to forge stronger alliances in our time of war. You seek it to feed your own perverse interest in punishing me.” 

Aegon laughed once again, lifting his wine goblet to his lips. “And to what end is this perceived punishment, dear brother?” 

He did not hesitate in stating the obvious. “For my role in earning the title of kinslayer, first and foremost.” Indeed, Aegon could not argue with such an assertion, Aemond continuing.

“You also wish to keep me as far from the throne as humanly possible. The rest is mere cruelty, a twisted game. Rather childish, I find. And to think, I am the younger of us. Then again, I was always a threat, was I not? After all, you never sought this, never wanted it either.” He leaned forward in his seat, his eye narrowing. “Now is not the time to play your petulant games, Aegon. Now is the time for us to stand unified.” 

With a deliberate, measured breath, the king considered his brother's words. He swirled the deep red liquid in his goblet, his eyes closing momentarily as he seemed to calculate his next move. Aemond's steadfast resolve was a formidable barrier, one that Aegon had tested countless times before. Most of the time as children, he’d broken it, but his brother was undoubtedly much stronger in character than he had once been. 

"Do not mistake me for a fool, Aemond," he finally spoke, his tone laced with a blend of amusement and underlying threat. "Your love for our sister is undeniable, but love does not always align with duty. The realm demands sacrifices, and sometimes those sacrifices come at the expense of personal desires." 

Aemond's gaze remained unyielding, his determination unwavering. "I will continue to assume you the fool if you let your hostility toward me drive your agenda. Especially at a time of war.” 

“A war your foolhardy actions ignited,” Aegon spat, poking his index finger onto the table aggressively. “Would I be so wrong to punish you for that?” 

“Yes, and I tire of having this thrown at me by you and our mother at every given opportunity!” he began, his words strong, voice set to the conviction he felt inside that no, he would not continually be blamed over the semantics of their current position. “Whether I had been the catalyst or not, we both know the pretender would never relinquish her claim. That is a given. War was inevitable!”  

Leaning back, he picked up his goblet, draining the contents. “I will not sacrifice my love, my wife, for the sake of a fleeting political advantage. Our bond is unbreakable, and no decree from the crown will change that." Rising from the table, he turned, storming toward the door, beyond exhausted by the measure of his brother and his ridiculous games.  

“I was not asking you, Aemond.” 

Pivoting on his heel, he lifted his chin. “No, but I am telling you. If you push this ahead then you go to war with me, too. Distension within these walls will not lead to your victory. Only your downfall. Choose wisely.” 

Returning to his quarters, he dreaded having to reveal the state of play to Aemella, knowing of course his usually calm and well-measured wife would likely - to put it mildly – be plunged into nothing less than tempestuous fury.  

“Mella?” he called, entering the living area of their quarters, taking a beaker and decanting into it a large measure of rum, bolting it back in one gulp. Turning, he saw her move through the room, aiming a nod to where he poured himself a second measure. 

“Your meeting with our brother went successfully, then?”  

Her light sarcasm was met with a stony face, Aemond taking a seat. “Trust me. Once I have revealed the news I hold, you might find yourself in need of similar fortification.” He patted the space beside him, sipping his drink before placing the beaker upon the table. “Come, sit. You must promise me, though, that you will not fly into incandescence.” 

Her heart jolted sharply, unsure she could uphold such a vow. “Well, husband. That all depends on what it is that I am about to learn.” Sitting at his side, her hand went to his thigh, resting atop the lean, hard muscle beneath his britches, ready to hear his news. Once it had been revealed, she did not remain seated for much longer. 

“He cannot seriously seek to enact this?” she cried, her eyes wide and usual cool composure all but lost. 

Aemond nodded. “He does, and he is a fool for it. I told him as much.” 

“A fool? Brother, that is putting it in the mildest of terms!” Her voice cracked on a sudden gasp of laughter, throwing her hands to the heavens. “He will make himself a laughingstock! Annulling his sibling’s marriage in order to marry his sister off in hopes of a forged alliance with Cregan Stark? Has his lost his mind entirely?” She began to pace, Aemond leaving her to her need as he remained seated.  

“He thinks that little of our union as to order its dissolution for political gain, a gain he isn’t likely to successfully attain? We all know how strong a bond is with the Stark’s and their word. Cregan will no more back away from his pledge to Rhaenyra with the promise of a bride and a seat upon the small council dangled before him than he would the threat of burning Winterfell to its foundations with dragon fire!” 

Her husband sighed, sinking his rum. “Reason is lost upon him. He seeks this of course not merely as a feather in his cap for our war effort, but mostly to spite me. I instructed that this truly was not the time nor place for his games, to exact his personal vendetta against me further.” His mouth tightened, nostrils flaring. “He did that to me enough when we were children.” 

Aemella's pacing slowed as she processed the weight of Aemond's words. Her eyes, once wide with fury, now narrowed with determination. "Then we must be ready for what comes next," she declared, her voice resolute. "If Aegon wishes to tear us apart for his own gain – or under the masquerade that this is to fortify alliances - he will find us unyielding. We will not be pawns in his reckless game." 

He reached out, halting her pacing and taking her hand firmly in his. "You are right, my love. We stand together, and together we are stronger than he could ever imagine." He paused, a spark of defiance lighting his gaze. “Besides, there is a way we could make this ridiculousness cease before he truly has chance to set the wheels in motion.”  

She caught his drift immediately, a flash of trepidation flickering in her eyes. She knew, though. It would kill his plan dead, should this preposterous scheme to have their marriage annulled ever come to fruition.  

Aemella was not naive enough to think that Aemond wouldn’t personally relish in getting his own way by extension, too, but truly, the gravitas of the situation meant that she had little choice but to allow it. It was the only way to put a stumbling block before their brother.  

“He cannot dissolve our marriage and send me north if I am carrying your child.”  

Even though it had been his suggestion, he still looked upon her with care, remembering well her hurt after their very recent quarrels on the matter. “It is the perfect counteraction to his treachery. Are you quite ready for such, for us to try again? You made your stance very clear only this morning.”  

He received his answer in Aemella lifting her dress, seating herself astride him, her skirts pooling in froth around his hips as she leaned to press her mouth to his. Her kiss was all honeyed embers, her tongue rolling slowly with his as his hands moved to bracket her slender waist.  

“Take me to bed and fill me with your seed, my love.” 

He did not need to be asked twice.  

Clothes were shed, the alluring dance of hands delighting over bodies they knew inside and out, soft moans peppering the air between kisses borne of fever and need. There in his wife’s embrace, though, Aemond still struggled to truly shake the king’s words from his mind. 

“He said I feared you, you know,” he muttered bitterly, his hands gliding her curves, one lowering to gently cup at her sex. “Your cunt specifically.” 

Aemella snorted on a chuckle. “Oh, darling husband. For a man who fears it, you certainly do spend ample time within it.”  

“Just as I plan to tonight, as I so sweetly task myself with putting a babe in your womb, my love.”  

Even through his pledged resolve, Aemella still felt turbulence coiling through him. She always did read him flawlessly, sensing his need for her to take charge of him for a while, banish what haunted his thoughts like phantoms. 

Turning him onto his back, her fingers weaved with his, squeezing his big hands in hers. “Lie back, my beloved. Let me show you how much I hunger for you at my mercy.” 

Desire danced in his eye, as well as a little playful objection to countenance. “Oh, I am to acquiesce to your dominance, darling wife?”  

“Yes, you are” she purred reaching to the bedpost, her fingers curling around the ever-present length of black rope looped around the heavy wood. “And if you do not,” she continued, threading it over his wrists, “I shall force it.”  

A sharp tug had him sufficiently bound, a soft grunt of appreciation welling in his throat. “Then it looks as if I am without further option but to allow it.” 

“I will untie you again,” she pledged, scattering a descending path of kisses upon his chest. “Eventually.” 

His eyebrow fluttered. “You enjoy my hands too much to keep me bound for long, love.” He watched her mouth lowering, tongue licking along the thin line of silver hair descending his navel, leading to the thicker, but well-groomed thatch above his cock. As soon as her mouth closed around his hardness, his head rolled back onto the bed, a groan fluttering from his lips. He’d needed this for hours. 

“Gods, Mella,” he panted, lifting his head once more to watch himself vanish into her mouth. “I... I... fuck. My words fail me.” 

“Then for once, be quiet, husband. Not too quiet, though.” Indeed, he was not, the groans she pulled from his throat upon flickering her tongue over the very tip of his cock all smoke and grit, her mouth swallowing him back again tantalisingly slowly. 

He was heavy and wide between her lips, the salty tang of leaky fluid mingling on her tongue as she slid her mouth as far as it would go, using her hand on the remaining inches. She thought herself the luckiest of women, married to a handsome man she not only adored beyond measure, but with a long, thick cock he knew exactly how to use. 

The sound of the rope pulling as his arms tensed brought her delight, his hips shivering as pleasure corded through him. He twitched against her tongue as she tightened the pressure, her cheeks hollowing, watching the way all of his chiselled muscles danced beneath his pale, blemish free skin.  

While the prince and princess spent their evening favouring the pleasures of one another, not much could bring the same to their brother. Aegon sat alone in his quarters, his hand steadfastly clutched around a wine goblet, drinking to his usual excess to quell his burdens.

He stewed in fury over the reckless tactics implemented by his brother, thinking Aemond should be lucky that marrying their sister off to a Stark was the only punishment he was receiving. 

“A war criminal, instigator of this wretched mess we find ourselves in, and he can only continue to think of himself?” he gritted, draining the goblet. “Pompous fucking twat!”  

More wine was poured hastily, Aegon feeling restless and prickled to his very bones. He did not trust that his brother might not once again show such abandon, be ignited by the short fuse of his temper. After all, the king knew well how powerful Aemomd was capable of being.  

It was why he had always sought to make him feel less than, bring him down to a size he could more easily manage. He would have exerted much further cruelty upon him too, had it not been for Aemella standing so rigidity in her twin’s corner.  

Without her there at his side, Aemomd would be half the man he was. To part them would destroy him, render him powerless in his quest to – as the king so asserted – usurp the throne from beneath him by devious means. What he ultimately failed to realise, though, was that the calming influence of Aemella was perhaps the only buffer that prevented Aemond becoming as unhinged as he probably would without her.  

This aside, it was not solely his own paranoia over such that drove his decision, though. Within Aegon, a streak of envy ran just as deep as the gorge of inferiority. 

He had never wished to be married to his sibling, the union bore him not one ounce of contentment. Witnessing his brother and sister in such matrimonial harmony twisted sharp in the pit of his guts. Aemond loved her more than life itself, was entirely happy with her, and there was he, betrothed to his oddity of a sister, without one ounce of Aemella’s intelligence or grace.  

In short, he hated what they had, that fierce fury leaving him to sink so much wine within his quarters, he swayed in drunkenness while making his way to theirs. Nearing the guarded door, he could hear muffled noises from behind the heavy wood, ordering Ser Arryk to move aside before flinging the door open.  

There on the bed, he witnessed the sight of his sister spread before Aemond, his mouth buried at her apex. Aemond jumped a little, freezing as embarrassment misted over him, Aemella covering her breasts with her arms.  

That bashfulness soon retreated, though, when Aemond realised that on this occasion, he had the definite upper hand over his brother. Perhaps it was high time that the tormented become the tormentor. 

Looking up over the rise of her covered breasts, he released his suck upon her with a soft little slurp.  

“Can I help you, brother?” he spoke, the king staring piercingly at the scene, swaying as he grasped the door for support. At least Ser Arryk had the good grace to turn around and avert his eyes.  

“I’ve... and you... I’ve...” he slurred, chagrin pinking his cheeks. 

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “Allow me to guess,” he smirked, “you’ve come to witness for yourself how much I fear my wife’s cunt, hmm?” He placed a quick lick to her bud, making her jolt and gasp through her chuckles, her laughter aimed at the ridiculousness of their elder sibling. He then sat up, holding his gaze defiantly, steering his cock to sink into the cunt he so allegedly feared right to the very hilt. 

It only added further insult to injury, for Aegon to notice that his younger brother also happened to be hung like a horse. 

“If you’ll excuse me, your grace. I’d rather not make love to my wife with an audience. Unless of course, you wish to perhaps learn something about what it is to pleasure a woman? If so, then by all means, do stay.”  

Having his shame tactics turned back on him to such an extent, Aegon felt his ire glow white-hot, only serving to embarrass himself further by releasing the door to storm over toward the bed, making it all of three steps before ending up in a drunken heap.  

“Ser Arryk, if you would be so kind to escort the king back to his quarters,” Aemond called, lifting Aemella from the bed to protect her modesty in front of him, the knight entering and coming to the king’s assist. Aegon made little protest to fight, so annihilated he was upon the wine he truly did not have the stomach for.  

The door closed softly, Aemond smirking. “Mittys.” he hissed quietly, turning his full attention back to his wife, who did indeed agree their brother to be much the idiot.  

While the drunken ruler was taken to his bed, the love and passion shared between his siblings was ignited to roaring flame within theirs. And, just maybe, the beginnings of what would make his dastardly plans to part them an impossibility. 

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :)

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[darklydeliciousdesires]

Very Aemond coded with Aemella. Yep.

He will burn you alive for his wife.

love when fictional men are so devoted to their partner it makes them dangerous and insane. very slutty behavior keep it up king

[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Eleven.

We can all breathe a sigh of relief, she's home where she belongs! I hope you all enjoy the chapter of her settling back into life, huge thanks to my lovely little audience for all your comments and reblogs. You give me that feet-kicking joy!

Note: One scene within the chapter has been taken directly from HOTD, as you will notice, so obviously not credited to me!

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 3,439

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten

The tear he first shed with happiness to be told he was to become a father was followed rapidly by more, the relief of having her home, everything he had suffered without her crashing against him in unabating waves.  

Her. She was the only one who he allowed to witness him crumble. 

“Shhh, darling love,” she soothed as he silently wept against her shoulder, all of the emotions he had held tightly within now released like a torrent surging through a floodgate. “I am returned, never to leave you again.” 

While his façade might have been that of composed strength, inside, he was a different man to the one he outwardly presented. Inside, he was softer. Aemella had always been the stronger, there to protect him, be his emotional support.  

Without her, she had felt every wave of his loss, how hard he had tried to hide it from her. He should have known that there was no shade dark enough to ever conceal his truth from her. 

Shifting, she made room for him at her side, moving to the centre of the bed, guiding his head to her lap. Her lap was good, it did not burn in pain like her left side, her left thigh, her shins, forearms or face. Also, it was right next to the tiny life he’d put in there, Aemella knowing if anything aside from her was to act like a balm to his distress, it was their child. 

Rested there, he felt his insides starting to unclench, all of the inconceivable pain finally beginning to ebb away. While parted from her, she had still remained the beacon guiding him through the darkness that had threatened to consume him, even when he felt all hope was lost. Turning to face her, he made himself comfortable, hand returning to stroke over her womb, drying his eye as his tears continued to trickle. 

“I love you,” he whispered, smiling when her hand moved to stroke his hair, undoing the tie and letting his silky locks fall free into the caress of her elegant, tapered fingers. 

“And I you, my love.”  

More than ever, he truly realised how her presence alone was sufficient to mend the fractures within his soul. As they lay intertwined, the knowledge of the life burgeoning within her was a salve to the wounds they both bore, a promise of new beginnings and hope that their past sorrows would not define their future.  

Her gentle touch, the delicate warmth of her lap, provided a sanctuary where he could lay down his burdens, if only fleetingly, and find solace in the unwavering love she offered. He knew it was just as much his task to be there for her as well, for all she had been put through without him.  

They were disturbed only fleetingly by their mother and sister, the women visiting to share their relief and joy that Aemella had been returned to them. Alicent allowed her poise to slip as she shed tears, gently stroking her daughter’s bruised face, thanking the gods eternally for answering her prayers.  

“If I could have come after you myself, sweetling,” she began, the lament hanging heavy in her voice. “Know that I would have. Your grandsire and I, we attempted to thwart Aegon’s plans, but alas you were spirited away prior to us being able to enact them.” 

Aemella nodded in acknowledgment, her eyes a little heavy as she attempted to stifle a yawn. “I know, mother. You likely feared what my tempestuous brother would have had done unto you. His cruelty knows no bounds, it would seem.” 

That cruelty had been suspended after his fall from the skies. For how long, nobody knew.  

“We shall leave you to your rest now. All my love, darling girl.” A soft kiss was placed against her forehead, the tenderness of her usually stoic mother softening the edges of her heart, Amella smiling gladly.  

A short time later, Aemond stripped off his clothes and nestled beneath the covers with her. There, he acted as her support, Aemella half propped on a nest of pillows, half upon him. The feel of his skin and the softness of the bedclothes acted as a wonderful agent to soothe. Her pain lingered, but the familiarity of her home and the comfort of her husband acted in counteraction to everything she’d suffered over the fourteen days preceding her return. 

Also, the little sip of milk of the poppy she’d been given certainly helped. 

“Holding you in my arms has always been a joy for as long as I can remember,” Aemond began, stroking her forehead between her eyebrows, kissing her hair softly. “I do not think there has been a moment where I have truly treasured it quite as much as I do now, though.” 

Cuddling into him closer, she rested her head upon his chest, her fingertips stroking idle swirls between his chiselled pectorals. “Nor me, darling love. I think that I shall probably sleep better tonight than ever before at your side as well.” 

His lips began to curl, looking down upon her. “So, there will be an absence of poking me when I snore?” 

Laughing all she comfortably could, she lifted her chin, receiving a kiss. “That depends on how loud you become. If you reach Vhagar’s volume, I shall not be best pleased.”  

His mouth thinned, frowning playfully. “I should be offended at that, but I am not. I have missed your gentle teasing just as much as everything else. Even the negatives.” 

“Negatives?” she gasped lightly, pushing herself up. “Such as?” 

“I am to give you a list?” 

Her eyebrow rose, nodding. “I’d be curious to hear it.” 

“Hmm.” He was thoughtful for a few moments, taking a breath. “You creep up and tamper with me, usually when I am deep in thought and then scare me half to death by pinching me on the arse or the like.” 

She made an accepting face. That was one of her favourites in their playful repertoire. 

“You whistle in your sleep, and for some curiously bizarre reason, it always makes me need to go and pass water.”  

The snort laugh that came from her instantly had him shaking gently with his own beneath her. “That is how you assist a horse when it needs to have wee!” She then looked down and back up at him with a slightly lascivious smirk. “Well, I suppose there is one part of your anatomy quite akin, so perhaps it is a big cock similarity.” 

“Compliment accepted,” he chirped, continuing with his list. “You leave cake crumbs everywhere, which only serves to encourage the vermin further.” 

Ahh, yes. She did indeed, realising her folly from her fondness for cake, especially since the rats had seemed to become more plentiful in recent months. Aegon’s decision to hang all of the rat catchers hadn’t helped there.  

“I will endeavour to do better,” she vouched. “Any further comments?” 

“Just the one,” he spoke, hand idly wondering up and down her upper back, mindful not to go near the middle, where her bruising lay. “I am entirely too deeply in love with you for my own good, and it is all your fault for being the most wonderful person in the world.”  

Oh, he was so lovely. “How very romantic of you, husband.” 

“Shhh,” he hissed softly, “do not tell anyone.”  

Sweet kisses and soft nuzzles were exchanged, her hand stroking his face. “Your secret is safe with me.” 

As she had predicted, there in the warm, luxurious comfort of her bed, wrapped in the arms of her twin, she slept better than ever before. After waking late, she had a visit from Grand Maester Orwyle, checking her over, Aemella also sharing with him their news. 

“I must state, princess. After examining you, I feel that you are perhaps a little further along than you first anticipated,” he spoke, folding his hands in his lap. 

She looked puzzled. “But I had a moonsblood? Only one has failed to come.” 

He nodded knowingly. “It is not unusual, the moonsblood failing to cease completely in early expectancy for some women. Tell me, was your bleed lighter than usual?” 

It was, actually. “Yes. Come to think of it, so was the one prior to that as well.” 

Orwyle smiled, his eyes crinkling. “I did think perhaps you might at least be two moons along from the very tiny swelling of your abdomen. I will adjust to three, your babe likely to appear after the next six.” 

He left their quarters, Aemella beginning to lower her nightdress once more, but not before Aemond had leaned to kiss the tiny rise of her belly. “I cannot tell you the happiness this brings me.” 

Stroking his hair, she rearranged the nightdress, rising to her feet with his help. Her pains, they had become much worse without the pulsing adrenaline that had first propelled her into his arms upon her rescue, Aemella taking it very easy, but bored of lying down.  

She only truly liked spending that much time upon her back if her husband was between her legs. 

“I share this joy with you entirely, husband,” she replied, taking his hand as she walked carefully to the terrace, their breakfast of pottage and freshly baked bread out there waiting for them.  

Partaking of the simple things, the little rituals they had so enjoyed. How she had missed them. “I am unsure whether our brother shall be quite as elated, though. It means for one that any potential plan to return me to Lord Greyjoy is now well and truly scuppered.” 

Aemond snorted, helping her into a seat. “I doubt his present condition lends to any care over your expectancy. That is, if he has survived the journey home at all.” 

The van was moving towards the capitol from Rook’s Rest without pause, day and night in order to shorten the six-day journey as much as possible and deliver his grace back to the Red Keep.  

“Do you think that he shall?” she asked, buttering a slice of bread and cutting it in half. “More pertinently, if he does, do you think he will realise that the strike which led to his current state was not entirely accidental?” 

Of course, Aemond had told Aemella everything. She did not judge him for it either. So scorned as she was by her brother’s cruelty, the only thing she wished was that it had been her dragon whose fire had hit him, although she did feel sadness for Sunfyre. It was as yet undetermined whether the beautiful, golden dragon would survive his injuries.  

He raised his eyebrows slightly. “The Maesters will have to assess that. As for his remembrance, I will ascertain that myself once he has returned. That is, should the van not be currently ferrying his cadaver to us.”  

Aemella’s thoughts were divided between the concerns of her present and the tension of awaiting Aegon’s return. The journey of their brother was a lingering shadow, yet her focus held resolute as she pondered the consequences of his potential survival and the power she could wield within her delicate grasp, should he live.  

After all, she had another to think of in all of this now. Their place within the Red Keep had to be safeguarded at all costs. 

As ever, though, Aemond’s presence brought a calm to her turbulent soul, reaching for his hand as she chewed upon a piece of butter laden bread. The morning sun casting long hues of gold across the terrace backlit him perfectly, her husband never looking more handsome to her than he did in that moment. Her husband... 

“Our marriage, Aemond,” she began after swallowing her mouthful of food, taking a sip of tea. “What is to be done there?” 

He squeezed her fingers, releasing her hand to take his napkin and dab at the corners of his mouth. “In my mind, the annulment does not exist. On paper it very much does, though. Do not fret, precious one. I shall take it to the High Septon in due course. When I have the necessary weight to do such.” He paused a moment. “I should not truly need it. The fact it was decreed while you were with child already certainly means it should be instantly voided, but as I say, weight helps.” 

The weight of the crown specifically, as it undoubtedly would while the fate of the king remained to be seen. It was a further day before Aegon was brought back within the walls of the Red Keep, his condition so grave as he teetered upon the precipice between life and death that the Silent Sisters watched on while the Maesters worked upon him. His small body was burned almost beyond recognition, the Valyrian steel of his armour stuck fast upon the melted skin beneath. 

This, of course, meant that somebody must rule in his stead, that very topic discussed at the small council meeting in the following time, the Grand Maester giving his regretful, heavy-hearted opinion that he did not expect the king to wake. 

Alicent sat, her hand to her mouth, eyes widened as the horror of it crashed against her insides. Two of her children returned to her broken, thank the gods one much less so than the other. Her visage of a mother’s worry gave way to the strong poise she adopted within court once more, rising from her seat. 

“A king cannot rule in his sleep,” she began, pressing her hands to the table before her. “The realm would notice his absence, let them hear of his great deeds at Rook’s Rest.”  

Aemond felt his insides pinch tightly. All his drunken brother had done at the battle was get himself in the fucking way, no matter how much such folly had personally benefitted him. 

Alicent looked around the room, continuing. “But now we must name a reagent to take his place, until he recovers.” The council around her exchanged slightly pensive glances. “Or does not.” 

“A wise strategy, your grace,” Lord Larys spoke, “a regency will assure the people of the stability of the crown.” 

Ser Tyland Lannister was next to offer forth. “Did you have a candidate in mind, your grace?” 

The dowager queen straightened; her face firmly set to determined. “I myself served in this role with my husband, I am well prepared to do it again.” 

“You played your part admirably in a time of peace, your grace,” Lord Jasper began, “but circumstances have changed.” 

“And here I had forgotten,” she chirped, her sarcasm crisp, yet softly delivered. 

“The king does not lack for heirs. The obvious choice is his immediate successor, prince Aemond.” 

“Agreed,” Ser Tyland spoke, nodding towards the master of rules.  

“Aemond is young, and his lack of restraint has already cost us dearly,” his mother began, her eyes glinting with trepidation at the very suggestion. While in the midst of her elder son’s madness, she did consider such would be quite welcome. With the reality of it now facing her, she was not quite so certain.  

Grand Maester Orwyle weighed in with his own thoughts then, hoping to propound a little wise insight to the meeting. “It is experience that offers the surest path to security. Queen Alicent ably shouldered the duties of the realm when her husband’s health failed him.” 

The arguments and counter arguments went around the table, each as firm and sense driven as the next, until finally, a choice was landed upon. With the final word of Ser Criston Cole siding with the call for Aemond to lead, the prince immediately rose from his seat, walking to the other end of the table, grasping the marble ball from its redundant place in the centre, the marker used for the presence of the king. 

Seating himself at the opposite end from which he’d begun, he slotted the ball into the place before him. “What is our standing in the Riverlands?” 

While her son went about his duties with swift efficiency, hearing of how what were now his armies progressed through the realm, Alicent sat back, letting the fear of her ever-slackening grip upon power wash over her. One mad son had been replaced by another, this one only marginally less so. At least, though, Aemond could be brought under control with his wife now returned to him. Speaking of that wife... 

“Now we are at an end to our meeting, I must ask, you grace. How does the princess reagent fare this morning?” Ser Tyland inquired graciously, all eyes turning to Aemond. 

“She recovers well. We thank you for your concern, Ser Tyland,” he began, sharing a fleeting glance with the Grand Maester. “Regarding my wife, I also have a small announcement to make. As confirmed by Grand Maester Orwyle, the princess reagent is with child, estimated to be in her third moon of expectancy.” 

With the weight of the war bowing down heavily upon them, his news was received with gentle cheer, a small round of applause rending the air.  

“This is magnificent news, your grace,” Lord Jasper spoke warmly, “I wish you many congratulations.”  

Aemond extended an accepting nod towards him, turning to Alicent as everyone took to their feet. “You are to be a grandmother again, mother. Does the news please you?” 

She smiled, looking tired, reaching for him. “Of course, it does. I will visit with Aemella now to share in her joy.” If anything could further harness his wild impulses, perhaps a child would act as the perfect counterbalance to his often tempestuous, reckless spirit.  

While Alicent went to spend some time with her daughter, Aemond and Ser Criston rode through the streets to the Grand Sept, the High Septon himself awaiting a visit from the prince reagent. 

“Your grace,” he greeted him with a bow, Aemond stepping inside alone while Ser Criston waited outside. “What brings you to me this afternoon?” 

Removing a slightly crumpled piece of parchment from within his pocket, he uncoiled it as they walked, both men pausing beside the vast array of lit candles decorating one of the wide, stone plinths within the Sept.  

“I wish to know your thoughts upon this, High Septon, and what we can do to decree the annulment void. The princess reagent is with child, and was at the time king Aegon ordered you – likely under force – to sign it.” 

The High Septon cast his eyes down, seeing his own signature there, grateful for the fact that the prince reagent was intelligent enough to know that yes, he had signed it under great pressure from his elder brother. Men of honour never did fare too well when they were forced to forget that they had any. Especially men of faith. 

“Then it is quite simple, your grace. The marriage consummated a child; therefore, it cannot be considered annulled within the eyes of our faith.” 

Aemond grinned, offering the parchment to the candle flames, watching as it caught light and rapidly became nothing, burning to mere ashes. “Good. That will be all.” 

Back within the walls of the Red Keep, there was an afternoon full of duties as acting reagent that required his attention, happily returning to his quarters come the evening.  

“How is my love feeling?” he asked, moving to the bed to lie down at her side, poking his nose around the pages of her book to see what she was reading within the large text on botany within her grasp. Herbs to assist mothers in their expectancy. It touched his heart tenderly.  

“My aches are finally abating a little more, I am glad to reveal,” she began, marking her page and turning to grant him a kiss. “Did you have a pleasant day, darling love?” 

“I rather did, yes.” After speaking his news, Aemella elated on both counts, his appointment to prince reagent as well as their marriage officially classed as still binding. Placing her book down she turned onto her side, beginning to carefully shuffle down the bed.  

The look she received was one of curiosity. “What are you doing?”  

He got his answer when she began to unfasten his britches, stroking him through the thick, black fabric. “I have always wondered what it would be like, to pleasure a king with my mouth.” 

He chuckled, fingers moving to smooth her curls away from her face. “Technically, I am a prince reagent, not a king. I shan’t object to your wondering, though.” 

Any further thoughts he might have had rapidly turned to fuzziness as soon as he felt her mouth close around his cock.  

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :) 

Next Chapter

[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Sixteen.

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 3,385

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen

“Aemond, come and sit,” Otto advised, stifling a yawn. “You are wearing a trench into the floor.” 

It killed him, hearing the screams, fury and fear from his wife coming from the next room within their quarters, unable to go to her. She needed him, yet it was not a man’s place to be present as his wife toiled through her labours, the king finally sitting upon the adjacent couch to his grandsire, pouring out a measure of rum and sinking it.  

“And you will be steady with that,” he then added, nodding to the bottle. 

“As my Hand, I quite expect you to put forth good reasoning when I am required to give it attention. Now is not one of those moments,” the king spoke, pouring another.  

“Aemond, I speak to you now not as your Hand, but as your grandsire.” Yanking the bottle from his grasp, he placed it down at his feet, pointing sternly to the beaker he held. “Sip it! Having you in here drunk as a lord will do nobody any merit.” 

He sighed; his shoulders tight. “It might serve to help me feel marginally less useless.”  

Otto smiled thinly, remembering his own anguish at not being able to be there for his wife during the same. How he still mourned his darling Alyrie, even years on from her passing. “It is simply not our place, grandson. I do however realise that it must be even harder for you, with the exceptional nature of your relationship.”  

What he alluded to of course, was not lost on Aemond. “I feel every ounce of her distress. Hence why I was trying at least to numb it with a little rum.” His eye then fixed upon Otto. “Was.” 

“I remain resolute, Aemond.” Oh, what a formidable barrier his grandsire was in placing himself between the only source of fortification he sought, another scream ripping through the air, Aemond wincing. “Do you feel it literally as a pain within, what Aemella experiences?” 

“Not as such,” he began, sipping from the beaker in his grasp. “Tis’ very uncomfortable all the same. I cannot explain it in a way you would understand. Nobody does, except for her.”  

Just then, the door opening disturbed the quiet of their room, Aemond out of his seat in a flash. 

“I am returning to my quarters to rest,” Alicent spoke, reaching for her son’s arms as she leaned to kiss his cheek. “Gileda is with her.” 

“How is she?” he asked, Alicent stroking his cheek, seeing the weight of it bearing down upon him very clearly. 

“She fares much better than she considers, but these things can of course take great time. Grand Maester Orwyle assures us that all is progressing as it should, although she is not yet close to the active stage of birthing. Try and get a little sleep, perhaps return to your former quarters and rest?” 

“I am going nowhere.” he scoffed, his pacing beginning once more. Alicent shared a look with her father, Otto silently conveying that he would look after him before she took her leave.  

Aemond's resolve to remain steadfast in the face of his wife's suffering was a testament to the depth of his love and the strength of his character. Although he did falter at times. Especially when his queen began to call out for him specifically. 

“No, no. Come on back.” Otto spoke, grasping his shoulders and steering him to the couch once more. “She will be fine, I promise you this.” Truly, he had no foresight to know it was a promise he could keep, but what could he do? His grandson was having a very natural reaction to hearing the love of his life in such distress. A little placation was needed.  

As the hours dragged on, the flickering candlelight casting the room in an amber glow, his mind raced with unspoken fears and fervent hopes. Otto's presence, though a source of frustration, was also a comfort, a bulwark against the tide of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm him.  

If only he was not guarding the rum so steadfastly. 

Each scream that pierced the air was a dagger to his heart, yet he clung to the knowledge that Aemella was a force of unwavering strength in her own right to endure something that seemed nothing short of horrific. Even if it did sound like she was not coping well with such. 

The night seemed interminable, but within the walls of his quarters, a quiet determination took root. Aemond's thoughts drifted to the future, to the moment when he would finally hold his child, a tangible symbol of their love and their legacy. His heir. Even if the first child was a daughter, he would break with tradition, he had decided, and name her his successor. There would be no quarrels the likes of which had split the realm from his fraction of house Targaryen. 

With every measured sip of rum, every word of reassurance from his grandsire, he fortified himself against the tumultuous tide of his emotions, finding strength in the solidarity of his family and the unyielding bond he shared with his beloved twin.  

The morning broke, and with it no arrival of their babe, Gileda and Alicent once again switching places, the former coming to him. 

“Your grace,” she spoke, bowing. “The queen is well, tired now she is nearing active birth, but well.”  

The scream that suddenly filled the air sank heavy against his chest, Aemond closing his eye, pointing in the direction she had come. “Your words fill me with reassurance, Gileda. That, however, does not.” 

“Tis’ a painful thing, your grace. The queen battles on wonderfully, though. It should not be too much longer now before the little one is here with us. I will take my leave.” 

His hand then suddenly reached for hers, preventing her departure. “I appreciate you highly, Gileda. For staying with her.”  

It was a fondness she had not expected from the stoic king, one who rarely showed his emotions at all. “Always, your grace.” she nodded, leaving him be.  

Morning ran into afternoon, Aemond brought parchments to sign, meeting with Lord Jasper, discussing a few of the issues faced where monetary expenditures were concerned, the busyness of presiding over a realm only giving him temporary respite from his endless wait. His heart ached for Aemella, that she did not have the same luxury offered unto her.  

As time stretched on, and the shadows began to lengthen once more as a second evening fell, Aemond's resolve grew ever more determined. His mind became a battleground of despair and hope, each thought a fervent prayer for Aemella's safe delivery of their babe. He found himself lingering by the door, as if his closer presence alone could somehow ease her suffering, the rhythmic pacing a testament to his inner turmoil. 

The knowledge that the culmination of their love was so close, yet so fraught with peril, weighed heavily upon him. He could hear the muffled voices of the Maester and his team encouraging her through the birthing, the occasional reassuring murmur from his mother, yet each scream began to echo louder, resonating within the very core of his being.  

The castle seemed to hold its breath, as if the walls themselves were witnessing the poignant struggle within. With his grandsire snoozing upon the couch, he helped himself to another rum, placing the bottle down quietly. Not quietly enough. 

An eye cracked opened. “You are a guileful boy.” 

Aemond couldn’t help but laugh softly through his nose, seeing his grandsire’s wry smile widen his mouth. “I get that from you.” 

Suddenly, the opening of the door gave them both a start, Otto straightening, Aemond turning to be greeted by the Grand Maester. 

“Your grace,” he bowed. Gods, the man looked tired, staying awake right through this whole process to in order to be present for the queen. “The labours progress well, but her grace is exhausted by it. She makes valiant efforts in her pushes, but the babe is still not yet with us because of her weariness. I feel it will be a time yet.” 

Or not, if Aemond had anything to do with it. “Fuck it.” he spat, sinking the rum and slamming the beaker to the table, making a start for the door.  

“Your grace, you must not, please I have to insist that you...” Orwyle began as Aemond stormed through to the bedchamber, receiving the same polite discouragement once he arrived. To see his wife turn to him, her exhausted, tear-streaked visage brightening in an instant spoke louder than anyone attempting to force him out of the room once more.  

“Your grace, this is unprecedented, and I must...” 

“You will deliver my child, Grand Maester, and I shall be here supporting the queen while you do it.” He then climbed onto the bed, moving a few of the pillows, slotting himself down and wrapping his wife in a tight embrace.  

“Look at me, precious one,” he began, his fingers weaving with hers, Aemella turning her head as she leaned into his chest. “You are my love, my twin star and my entire world. You are the strongest, most formidable force I have ever known, and your strength will see you through this. You can do it, Mella, and I will be right here with you as you do, laws and traditions be fucking damned.”  

With the renewed bolstering of her beloved right there behind her, she dug deep into the very depths of herself, summoning a strength as yet untouched, pushing with all her might as she hung onto Aemond’s hands. It took time, but not as much as she wagered it would have without him right there behind her, the Red Keep at last filled with the cries of their newborn child. 

“A son, your graces!” Orwyle announced, holding the baby aloft, taking clean linens to immediately wipe him down before placing him on his mother’s chest. “My warmest congratulations to you both.”  

Aemella sobbed with joy as she looked down upon him, her beautiful son, finally there, screaming his tiny lungs out.  

“See?” Aemond spoke, kissing her cheek, his fingertip moving to lovingly stroke his son’s head. “I told you; you could do it, and now he is here at long last.” 

Turning to him, she pressed her lips to his, her heart bursting to see him shed tears of happiness, stroking his face lovingly before she leaned to press a kiss upon their son's head. “Look at you, little boy,” she spoke with emotion, “you are perfect!”  

They were given a few moments pause to bask in their new unity as a family, the baby then taken by the Maester to be checked over and cleaned properly, Aemella passing the afterbirth before she was washed, stitched where needed, changed into a fresh nightdress and made comfortable upon a clean bed.  

The baby took a feed, the nursemaid Ceira there to help bring his wind up thereafter, an extremely tired Aemella fighting against her urge to sleep as she watched from the bed. Her eyelids grew ever heavier, Aemond insisting he hold his son once he’d had brought up his wind, Ceira passing the child into his father’s arms.  

“Love, go to sleep,” he spoke, smiling fondly, holding their babe securely against his chest. “Between Ceira and I, we shall look after the boy while you rest. You have earned it.” 

“Hmm,” she hummed, still fighting it, Aemond watching until she finally dozed off, leaning to kiss her head.  

“That will be all for the moment, Ceira,” he spoke, “I wish to spend a little time with my family alone.”  

“I shall return later, your grace.” the elder woman spoke, exiting his quarters. 

Walking towards the room he had paced endlessly in the time preceding, he reached to open the door, entering to the expectant faces of his mother and grandsire. 

“I have somebody who would like to meet his grandmother and great grandsire,” he spoke, the pair moving to flank him, both looking down at the child with eyes that shone with affection. “This is prince Aeryn.” 

“Oh, there has not been an Aeryn in the family for quite some time. A wonderful choice,” Alicent spoke, holding out her arms. “May I?”  

Passing him over, Aemond couldn’t keep the proud smile from his face, watching his mother gently bounce her grandson in her arms. “Hello, my little love, hello. You are such a beautiful little babe, yes!” 

Otto opened his arms, embracing Aemond warmly. “My congratulations to you, grandson.” 

Aemond nodded in acceptance, gesturing towards the table. “Will you allow me another rum now?”  

His grandsire’s laughter filled the space, clapping him on the shoulder heartily. “I do not see why not. Tis’ customary to wet the babe’s head, after all.”  

“I think I require it, for I now understand firsthand why it is we men are kept away during labours,” he spoke, his eye widening. 

“A rule you so unceremoniously flouted,” Alicent chirped, tearing her eyes away from the babe for a moment. Aemond merely sniffed, unbothered. 

Pouring out two measures of rum, Otto passed the beaker to him, both toasting to the child’s health. “Was it truly a terrible thing to witness?” 

Screaming. Blood. So much blood. “When people claim it to be beautiful, they lie,” he began, his eye still wide, lips thinning. “Tis’ beautiful when they have arrived, but the preceding part? Seven hells, no. And I was only present for the end.” 

Otto could imagine if he tried, but did not wish to, merely smiling as he stiffened to prevent the internal shudder. “And how is Aemella?” 

“Sleeping, thankfully. The poor woman is thoroughly exhausted.” That sleep stretched on, too, Aemella awaking to the most heartwarming sight. There beside her upon the bed lay her husband, bare to the waist, their son sleeping contentedly on his chest. 

“I am informed by Ceira that this is beneficial to the bonding process, skin on skin contact. He did a shit on me, though, so the nappy has made a reappearance.” 

Laughing all she was able through her soreness, Aemella reached to stroke his face, her hand then gently cradling Aeryn’s tiny head. “And did you place the nappy on him yourself?”  

His sour expression again evoked her laughter. “The seven hells, I did,” he grunted, lip curling a smidgen. “That is an expertise beyond my means.” 

“Or rather, you pledge not concern yourself with shitty nappies and swaddling rags?” she teased. 

“I would rather not concern myself with the fact he soiled on my fucking chest, yet here we are,” he hummed, smiling widely, turning his head to press a kiss against her shoulder. “You should have witnessed mother holding him. She was instantly in her element. I feel that the palpable frostiness she has shown toward you since my coronation might finally be at its thaw.”  

Propping herself up a little more, Aemella reached to stroke Aeryn’s hand, marvelling at him. There he was, at last. “I think that beneath it all, she knows. I just hope that in time she forgives me, that she realises my actions served the good of so much more apart from you and me. Aegon was a liability that had to be eradicated for the good of the realm. But let us not linger upon such talk. This is Aeryn’s day.” 

“And he is content to sleep through most of it.” As if acting like a siren, the boy began to snuffle, making little gasps of displeasure that preceded the howling. “I think he may be hungry.”  

Aemella opened her arms. “This is where mummy comes in.” 

“Are you resigned to feeding him yourself,” he began, carefully placing the babe into her arms, “or will you call upon a wetnurse?”  

Again, it was quite standard within noble houses, for such a woman to take on the feeding instead of the mother herself. “I am undecided. Before his birth, I did consult mother about it, Ceira as well. Apparently, when we were born, we fed both from mother and our wetnurse equally, but Ceira warned me that they can become fussy and decide to favour one over the other.”  

“It would leave you with much more time to sleep if you did, but I will leave the ultimate choice to you, love.” he spoke, his fingertip idly stroking his son’s tiny foot as he watched him latch on and take his feed. It was a beautiful sight, seeing his love and their newborn bonding, Aemella smiling down at the babe in a way he’d never witnessed before.  

As Aeryn continued to feed, Aemond's heart swelled with an emotion that felt brand new, a strange experience as he had thought until that moment, his wife had already stirred all he was capable of feeling. His usual stoicism gave way to a profound tenderness, his heart flooded with serenity.  

He marvelled at the simple, lovely domesticity of the moment, feeling a newfound respect for Aemella's strength and resilience. The gentle snuffling of their son and the soft murmurs of his wife created a cocoon of peace around him, momentarily shielding him from the responsibilities and burdens of his station.  

“Would you like many more in the future?” he questioned, her immediate snort amusing him. 

“Ask me when I have forgotten how painful it was!” she scoffed, her elegant fingertip stroking the soft, chubby cheek of her son. “Although amazingly, I did not need to be stitched more than twice, which the Grand Maester said is a rarity. I stretched sufficiently, it appears.” 

“Well, you’re used to it.” His eyes flitted to his crotch, then back at her with a roguish grin. “You’re welcome.” 

She began to shake with laughter, narrowing her eyes. “People would not believe me if I told them of how playfully humorous you can be. And filthy.” 

“I wouldn’t want them to,” he sniffed, “who I am in private is not the man anybody else should expect to see.” Stretching, he tried to stifle a yawn, failing miserably, removing his eye patch to rub beneath.  

“Did you sleep at all during my labours?” she asked. 

“Here and there.” 

She was unconvinced, her raised eyebrow showing it. “Aemond.” 

“Not one fucking moment, no. I was too preoccupied with panicking, or as grandsire worded it, wearing a trench into the floor,” he finally confessed with candour. “I might doze a little now, if you do not mind?” 

Leaning to him, she kissed his forehead. “Of course not, my love. I shall send for Ceira once more, ask her to help me with this little piglet.” A soft call alerted Ser Eddard, who dutifully located the nursemaid, bringing her back to their quarters. 

Aemond was snoring softly before she’d even stepped foot in the door, taking the babe from his mother and moving through to quarters to the child’s nursery, a room located just off from their bedchamber.  

“If you wish to go and curl up with his grace, I shall arrange for the wetnurse to be on hand for his feeds throughout the night. I expect he will awake at least twice more from hunger.” There were two beds within the nursery bedchamber, one for Ceira and the other ready if she did so choose the wetnurse to attend over the evening.  

The mother in her wished to solely be the one to nurse her treasured son, but the tired young woman beneath that somewhat overrode it. Gods, she could sleep for a week, she felt. “I think for tonight, I wish to sleep, Ceira.” 

Bending to the cradle, she kissed her son before leaving him in the capable hands of the nursemaid, returning to carefully pull Aemond from his britches and throw the covers over him. Climbing into bed slowly, she winced, her poor womanhood so very sore, pulling the blankets over them as she draped an arm over his waist, stuffing her face into the pillows. 

The king and queen slept very, very soundly that night. Their son, however, did not. Luckily, though, between Ceira and Lula, the wetnurse who crept in as the royals slept, the little prince was very well cared for while his exhausted mummy and daddy remained in deep slumber.  

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :) 

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[darklydeliciousdesires]

A Storm of Stars - Chapter Five.

A huge thank you to my little audience for your continued support. Is shit about to get real in this chapter, I hear you ask? Maybe... ;)

Summary: The Targaryen twin stars. Two sides of the same coin. Aemond and Aemella Targaryen, second children of King Viserys I and his queen, Alicent Hightower, had spent their entire lives almost as one, the lines blurring where one twin ended and the other began. What started as an inseparable sibling bond eventually bloomed into a deep, limitless love.

A day would come, though, when their love story - famed for generations to come - would be tested by the one who sought to tear them apart. When the storm of stars descended, nobody who had wronged them would come away unscathed. 

Words - 3,520

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added.

Warnings - 18+ content throughout. Incest, mentions of child loss through miscarriage. Minors DNI.

Previous Chapters - One Two Three Four

Loss. It was a word that Aemella understood deeply, after losing the babe within her womb before it had truly been a babe at all, her heart shattered beyond imagination that her precious daughter had never come to be. However, she knew herself that the loss suffered by her younger sister over the merciless slaughter of her son, the little prince Jaehaerys, far eclipsed that grief.  

She had held the boy, raised him, nurtured him, formed a maternal bond. Helaena’s loss was a wound which cut far deeper. Aemella realised all of this and more as she held her, the young woman wide eyed in a state of shock, trembling in her arms. It was not lost on her that the infant had been, in a fashion, a collateral slaying. After all, it was her own husband whom the ratcatchers had been seeking.  

“Is there anything you require, sister? Please, at your word. I will seek it immediately, your grace.” Aemella told her dutifully, drying her tears with a soft, silk handkerchief.  

The shock of it continued to coil savagely through the queen, her insides knotting, violet eyes still wide. She merely shook her head, her lips quivering, gulping hard. Helaena remained on mute, clutching her daughter in a vice like grip, leaning into her sister’s embrace.  

Aemella looked to her mother, who paced with tear-soaked eyes before the crackling hearth of her fire, the women sharing a gaze of crestfallen mourning. Turning back to her sister, she watched her niece wriggle to free herself, moving to seat herself by the fire. The queen then turned to her, a hand reaching to cup her cheek. 

Looking upon her with a stare of steel through her gut-wrenching pain, Helaena leaned to press a kiss just above her brows, leaning to whisper at her ear. 

“The Red Kraken shall burn.” 

Aemella frowned in confusion, wondering what on earth the lord of the Iron Islands had to do with this, since the assassination had come directly from the Black’s, it had been learned.  

Her sister had always been somewhat of an oddity, though, uttering cryptic statements that had little to nothing in way of corelation to the current, Aemella merely nodding and returning the forehead kiss before excusing herself, retiring to her quarters, happily sinking into Aemond’s embrace. They climbed into bed soon after her return, curling up beneath the covers to talk.  

“It feels erroneous to speak with such selfish interests at this time, but at least one positive thing can come of it. With the loss we have faced, the king cannot possibly continue to enact his wretched plan against us. It makes little sense to both split his family down to an even lesser fraction at such a critical time, and by that extension rob himself of one of his most competent dragon riders by seeking to send you into a marriage of alliance. I tentatively think, precious one, that for the moment we remain safe.”  

Aemella remained rested against his chest, her index fingernail idly circling at his nipple. “You speak a plain truth, darling love. Indeed, Aegon cannot be foolhardy enough to proceed in light of this. If he does, then the state of his mind should be cast firmly into question.”  

His finger wound a lock of her silver tresses around his knuckle, his muscles stiffening a little. “I only wish I could throw at him that you are with child, thusly therefore unfit to be used as a bartering piece.” It had been a sad morning when, after returning from the privy chamber seventeen days before, Aemella had regrettably informed her husband of her moonsblood arriving.  

Lifting herself from his chest, she reached to stroke his face tenderly. “It shall happen, love. When I cannot say, but I do feel encouraged hope that soon, I will finally carry your child again.”  

Leaning to his lips, she kissed him, a kiss of love that soon deepened, gaining heat, turning into something much more. “There seems like no better time than the present to attempt again.” 

He hummed against her mouth in agreement, lips leaving hers to trail a scorching path of kisses upon her neck, turning her onto her back. His body blanketed hers, mouth descending, the soft peaks of each breast sucked until her nipples pebbled tightly, mouth then returning to hers. Shifting, he made room for his hand at her apex, fingers stroking in a gentle, deft glide over her slit before seeing the petal-soft warmth within. 

She gasped against his mouth, her husband as ever so very skilled in knowing the exact touch to make her nerves sing a symphony of bliss. He smiled against her lips, pulling from the kiss to feed her his fingers, his cock further hardening at the smouldering glance she gave from beneath her lashes as she sucked upon them. 

He brought those wettened digits to the pearl of her sex, circling lightly, her breathy sighs fluttering against his tongue, their kisses steeped in honeyed embers.  She mewled, and it sent sparks up his spine, quickly sensing her need to something more, his fingers burrowing into her aqueous cunt, thumb replacing the contact at her bud.  

The rhythm he set was slow, deep and rolling, mouth sucking at her neck, but not hard enough to mark her. Aemond might have been sinful between the sheets, but he would never leave a mark of said sins for the world to see. Upon her body, though, where clothes would conceal...  

“Ahhh!” she gasped, his teeth crushing a bite to the underside of her breast, his tongue circling the deep pink marks thereafter. “I see the beast in my love reveals himself.”  

His eyebrows flickered upward, pouting a little smugly. “Hmm. Do not make pretence of not enjoying it.”  

She clasped his face in her hands, pulling him against her lips. “I make no such thing.” They kissed with heated need, Aemella nibbling his lower lip and sucking his tongue as his fingers began to rotate so firmly, she felt darts of bliss dash beneath her skin.  

He felt her trickling hot and sweet over his knuckles, the urge to replace fingers with tongue knocked aside by what his cock dictated. Kneeling before her, he arrowed into her cunt fluidly, a shuddered breath quaking his chest, watching the way her eyes darkened to stormy violet. Gods, how he loved her to her very bones.  

He chased each sinful throb around his cock with a harder thrust, intruding into her so deeply, he truly felt one with her. Where he ended and she began had always remained but a blur, though, a map unchartered, for there was no beginning and end of them. The twins were one.   

His shaky breaths were propelled forward by each rasping groan, Aemella whimpering at every hard shunt that filled her. She clenched around him, Aemond gritting in response, cussing, his teeth nipping at her neck, the deep groan in response to the snugness of her cunt making her insides spark.   

He had her breathless, glimmering, her back arching off the bed as he wrapped her in his arms and pulled her up with him, his hands gliding over her flesh as he bounced her on every last thick, hot inch of his manhood, her nails dragging down his back. Lightning began to strike at the base of her spine, ecstasy fizzing through her bones, right through to the very marrow of her as she felt herself teetering, reaching the precipice.   

Her thighs trembled, squeezing against his hips, feeling him charging to the same destination, until it was upon them both, a fiery tempest, sweeping them both up as the tingles of release erupted. It dragged them under the stormy tides of bliss, steeped in magmatic heat, leaving them breathless, quivering, utterly undone and boneless in the wake of such euphoria as they fought to breathe.   

Resting her forehead to his shoulder, their chests heaving, she felt like she was no longer of the earth, sent into some far away realm, reality shattered, the inconceivably incredible pleasure still yet to fully ebb away. 

“I love you,” she whispered, combing her fingers through the slightly wayward mess of his silky hair, kissing him softly. 

“There is no love like ours,” he replied, clutching her to him, the little flutters of her walls around his cock still so blissful that he did not make effort to move, happily drowned to the moment. “I love you, too.” 

They slept a little sounder that night, neither interrupted by the gnawing feeling of dread that had been seeping through them like a poison, their fear abated in the fact that truly, Aegon could not effectively cut off his nose to spite his face and continue forth with his dastardly intentions. 

Their assessment of the situation, though, was lamentably incorrect.  

The tone within the small council was still decidedly sombre, days on from Prince Jaehaerys’s brutal beheading. Those present appeared pensive, as they naturally would be, on tenterhooks over how the king would demand they proceed. 

What brought them further concern was the fact that Otto Hightower, a man of such sense and influence, was no longer seated at the table. Without him, who knew what instability would face them in challenge next, the king seemingly untethered from his rationality altogether. 

His opening words reflected that beyond comprehension. 

“My lords, call you here this morning to inform you all of my latest move in order to forge a strong alliance, and with that open up the blockade of the gullet. Our people starve below us because of it, and I must show fairness as their monarch, charity towards the smallfolk.” 

His pause for breath was Aemond’s cue to speak. “Then why, your grace, do you not simply send my wife and I aboard our dragons to burn Lord Velaryon’s fleet? While it is true that the princess Rhaenys patrols the area, Meleys is no match for two dragons more than double her size.” 

The small council all gave faces of approving agreement to his statement, all of course, bar the king himself. “My machinations already move in motion, Aemond. T’was fourteen days past when I sent a raven to Dalton Greyjoy, with the offer of marriage to our sister and also the position of Master of Ships. He accepted. The Iron Fleet was spotted off the coast of Kings Landing this morning, his arrival imminent. With his effort, your place in the air aboard Vhagar and his ships upon the sea, we will be victorious.”  

The coiling viper that was Aemond’s anger flared with such deadly venom, he immediately placed a hand upon his sword. His mother, ever watchful, reached to grasp his arm, her eyes urgent. 

“Aegon, you cannot make moves in secrecy behind the backs of your council like this,” she stated emphatically, all of that urgency shaking her voice. “Our family cannot be divided in this manner, at this time! Please, I implore you. See sense.” 

“Your grace, with the greatest respect, to call an annulment to your brother and sister’s marriage - even to further a plan of merit - I once again must advise most vehemently against,” Lord Jasper then spoke. “To bend our laws to such an extreme is chaotic, unthinkable!”  

Taking a piece of parchment from before him, Aegon uncoiled it, proffering it to the centre of the table. “As king, my word is final. My decree is final, and this morning, the High Septon signed.” He then looked to his brother, a glare of pure contempt narrowing his eyes. “Your marriage as of this moment is annulled. Over. Aemella is your wife no longer.” 

Aemond's knuckles turned white as he gripped the hilt of his sword, his breaths coming in harsh, ragged bursts. His eye, filled with a fury that could ignite the very air around them, locked onto Aegon. "I will not let this stand. You cannot dismantle our family for your own whims, Aegon. This will bring nothing but ruin." 

Aegon's expression remained unyielding, the look of a man resolute in his decisions. "The ruin has already come, brother. I need not remind you whom the blame lies solely with. It was your actions to ignite this war, your actions that robbed me of my son and heir, my little boy, slain in his bed! You brought this on yourself, and it is my duty to salvage what fucking remains!" 

Like a lightning strike, Aemond was out of his chair, his sword unsheathed and pointing at his brother, the small council descending into chaos. 

“Aemond, no!” Alicent cried, moving to halt her son.  

That son, though, was too far gone into his rage for reason or restraint. “You will not take my wife, and you will not put our position in jeopardy merely to suit your own wretched need for payback against me,” he warned, the tip of his sword drawing a drip of blood beneath the king’s chin, Ser Criston moving to Alicent’s aid in holding him back.  

The tension in the room was palpable, the consequences of the king's decree setting the council on edge. As Aemond’s blade glinted menacingly at Aegon’s throat, the king’s disdain only grew more pronounced. Alicent’s cries fell upon deaf ears, the once united front now crumbling before them. 

“Aemond, lower your sword. Do not throw away your honour for this,” she pleaded, her voice a juxtaposing mix of desperation and determined resolve to bring her sons under control. 

“You speak of honour?” Aemond spat, his gaze not wavering from Aegon. “Look around you, Mother. Honour has no place in this room, not while snakes coil around the throne.” He then turned to Lord Larys, deadly intent swirling through his remaining eye. “This has your scheming, sycophantic mark all over it, Larys. For that, know you make an enemy of me.” 

The slimy toad of a man remained passive. “I seek only to advise my king in his time of crisis. T’was nothing personal, my prince.”  

The small council members exchanged glances, fear and uncertainty etched into their faces, unsure of where their loyalty should lie. Thier duty was to their monarch, but the prince’s case was the more compelling. Aemond was not wrong. 

Aegon’s expression remained a mask of cold resolve. “You think me a villain, brother? Perhaps I am. But I will be a villain that secures our house’s future, unlike you, who jeopardises it with every reckless action.” 

The words stung, each one a barb that dug deeper into Aemond’s pride and fury. He spoke of recklessness, and there he was, revelling in it. Murdering a slew of innocent men merely to take the life of one guilty one, and breaking apart his family for an alliance it held no true merit to seek.  

He could feel the eyes of the council upon him, could sense their judgment, their fear. But more than that, he could feel the burning need to protect what was his, to defy the brother who sought to tear his world apart. 

Summoning every ounce of restraint, Aemond finally withdrew his sword, his mother and Ser Criston releasing their grasp upon him. “Mark my words, Aegon. You may sit upon the throne, but you will never command my loyalty. Not now. You have made an enemy this day, and I promise you will regret it.” 

As he sheathed his sword, the room seemed to exhale collectively, the tension easing slightly but far from dissipating. Aegon’s gaze never left his brother, a silent battle of wills waging between them, one that would undoubtedly shape the fate of their house. 

Without another word, Aemond turned on his heel, striding from the room, his mind already whirling with counterplans. He would not let this stand, but he needed to be smart, to be cunning, and above all else, secure his wife’s safety. No mere piece of ink scrawled parchment could nullify it. She was his, until his last breath.  

“Mella?” he called out upon arriving in their quarters, his love coming in from the terrace, her eyes wide. She had felt his distress and ire flicker, in half minds whether to go and wait outside the small council meeting for him, but ultimately deciding it best not to. “Prepare yourself necessities, nothing more than you can carry comfortably aboard Fyreclaw. We are leaving.” 

Her face contorted in confusion, perplexed, yet seeking to bring her usual calm to the storm of his fury. “Aemond, my love. Tell me what has transpired firstly. I feel it within you, yet I know not of what has sent you reeling.” 

“Our fucking brother,” he gritted, the words feeling like poison upon his tongue, “has offered you in marriage to Dalton Greyjoy in return for a post as Master of Ships and his assistance in annihilating the blockade. It has been accepted, our marriage allegedly nullified by the High Septon just this morning, and the Iron Fleet now close to arrival upon our shores. We must leave at once.” 

Her heart fell into the pit of her stomach. “What?” she cried, bracing herself in a grip upon his forearms. “But he cannot! What did the small council say?” 

“Implored his sense to prevail, but it is abundantly clear now that he has none. The king is beyond reasoning with.” 

“But... but...” her words faltered, distress claiming her composure. “I still would never be Dalton Greyjoy’s true wife, though! Their law forbids it. I would be a salt wife at best, not being an Iron born woman able to claim the position of rock wife!” she cried in desperation. 

“No, but you are a princess in your own right, a fact that I feel would override any of their cultural rules. Now, we must make haste before Lord Greyjoy arrives to take you away.” 

Her distress burned with all the heat of dragonfire, and Aemond saw it, felt it deep in the fibres of his soul, taking a moment to restore her calm. 

“Fear not, precious one. When I pledge to you that no wicked schemes concocted against us will ever come to fruition, I mean it until my dying breath.” Cupping her face in his hands, he placed a loving kiss to her lips, thumbs stroking the apples of her cheeks. “I would burn entire empires to the ground solely to watch the flames dance in your eyes. Nobody shall tear you from me.” 

As their world filled further with treachery and backstabbing, disloyalty and deceit, Aemella understood right to the root of her soul that truly, Aemond’s love for her was the only thing she could trust wholeheartedly. And so, she moved swiftly in order to pack some of her belongings. Alas, their motions were interrupted, the doors to their quarters flying open, the king and three members of the Kingsguard storming in. 

“Seize him!” Aegon bellowed, the knights whom Aemond regarded as little else than incompetent lickspittles advancing, swords drawn.  

“Aegon, no!” Aemella cried, rushing to place herself within the mele. “You cannot take him; I will not allow it! As you sister, I beg of you, please see reason!” 

The king viewed her with distain and nothing more. Not that had ever been close, but any familial bonds were severed entirely in that moment, upon both sides. “He committed treason, holding a sword to my throat. Your former husband has gotten away with much, but this I will not allow to stand.”  

Aegon’s command was met with swift action, the Kingsguard knights seizing Aemond at once. Aemella’s desperate cries echoed through the chamber as she clung to her husband, refusing to let him go. “This is madness!” she shouted, her voice breaking with anguish. “Aegon, you cannot do this. There must be another way!” 

“There is no other way,” Aegon replied coldly, his eyes devoid of any empathy. “He has betrayed the crown, his actions ignited a war and brought about the death of my child. He will finally face the consequences of his quick temper.” 

“Stand aside, princess.” But oh, she would not. A punch was aimed, the knight catching it straight to his nose, Aemond struggling against the grasp, a sword held to his throat as Aegon intervened to physically restrain his sister, who screamed in fury as she watched her irate husband dragged from the room. 

“This will not stand, my love,” he called back. “Be brave, Mella. Trust that I will return to you.”  

As he left her sight, she felt as if somebody had torn her insides in two, collapsing onto the cold stone floor, screaming in distress as Aegon looked down upon her with sneering victory. 

“You will be guarded within your quarters until you are to depart for the Iron Islands. If you make any move to free our brother, I will have you tried for treason as well. Choose wisely, sister, and enjoy your new life further north. We will, of course, attend your wedding with much jubilation.” 

Jubilation. She no longer understood the meaning of the word as she remained upon the floor, howling with grief. 

A/N - Now, did you enjoy what you just read? Please remember, this is not Instagram. Clicking that heart does little, but a comment? Your author will be rewarded. A comment and reblog? Your author is throwing roses at your feet! It takes less time to do this than it did for you to read the chapter, too. Please, be kind and help support the fandom! :)

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