#aemond fanfic

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part One | Series Masterlist

Summary: his music school having been challenged by Riverrun Conservatory, Aemond is given the opportunity to come face to face with their top musician | Word Count: 4.7k~ | Warnings: smut (not with the main female character), toxic relationship, semi-public sex

Nothing quite compared to the low hum, and delicate whine of a cello. It had been that way for some time, ever since he'd discovered it.

Aemond still remembers the look on his mother's face, her chocolate eyes wide with pride and joy, when her son who was still freshly mutilated, resulting in the loss of sight in his left eye, took an interest in playing classical music.

The cello had become more than just an instrument to Aemond; it was his refuge, his voice in a world that had grown suddenly more silent and unforgiving. The accident had not just taken half his sight but had cast a shadow over his once bright future. Music, however, brought light back into his life, offering a path forward that he had never anticipated.

The Targaryen name, synonymous with power and prestige in other realms, here lent an aura of intrigue and expectation to his performances. Yet, it was Aemond's own skill, the raw emotion he channelled through the strings of his cello, that captivated audiences. His music was a blend of classical elegance and a palpable intensity that seemed to stem from the very depths of his being.

And Aemond was nothing if not a perfectionist at heart.

He perfected everything, to the point of madness some felt. And if he had not invited a feeling of deep, primal intrigue from every performance he gave, then what was the point? This innocent hobby at first, honed by his parents and caregivers alike, was now a way of life. A career. Something to strive for.

As he became older, this competitive nature never wavered once. He embraced it like a challenge to be met. And the conductor of this prestigious school, Otto Hightower, both a friend of his father, Viserys, a business giant well-known across all of Westeros, and conveniently his grandfather, expected nothing short of the best from his prodigious grandson.

He was never self-conscious either, even if he was easily noticeable and stared upon everywhere he went. And one might expect little attention from the opposite sex in a world of classical music and elegant instruments, but for Aemond this could not have been less true.

He attracted in every show, not only with his talent but with his haunting appearance. The straight long scar through his left eye was struck in the middle by a pale blue pupil, his other seeing eye stark in comparison. Women would watch his slender fingers strike fear, passion and energy into their hearts, wishing the very same could grip at their skin.

To their frustrations, he never acted on this popularity.

Alys Rivers was the only woman he ever reciprocated affections of some kind for. At least two decades his senior, his family had been less than impressed at her presence in his life. But there was no choice on their part. Aemond had made his, and Alys Rivers, like it or not, was his muse. A classical music lover at heart. And a professional critic no less.

One might be forgiven for thinking they disliked each other, they rarely exhibited romance. She was more akin to his manager than anyone else, critiquing his manner of playing and giving advice where he didn't want it. And he rewarded her, away from the prying eyes of the public, with quick, angry sex, exerting what control he did have, into intimacy.

She, like him, had a haunting presence to her, but one less mysterious. More overtly seductive. And though sometimes it seemed to irk Aemond, some felt as if they were still acquainted by convenience if nothing else.

Aemond always arrived early to Kings Landing Music College. The stuffy, wood-panelled room gave some semblance of comfort. There was something about the acoustics, the closeness, that felt almost womb-like. Safe. Familiar.

Meticulously, tuning his cello, he half-listened to the skinny, pink-faced Blackwood, practicing at the same time, “sound like a fucking dying pig.”

“Half dying,” Aemond murmured, with a roll of his eyes.

Otto waltzed in, clad in black slacks and a loose forest-green jumper, “Blackwood, get your fucking instrument in tune please. Fucking Cole could do a better job in violas.”

Criston twirled two Timpani sticks between his fingers, giving a look of mock offence from across the room, “just because I'm over here doesn't mean I can't hear you-”

“Alright, alright, before we begin today’s practice, I have an announcement,” Otto declared, his voice commanding attention. The room quickly fell silent, the anticipation palpable in the air.

“We’ve been challenged to a competition by the Riverrun Conservatory,” Otto revealed, his eyes sweeping across the room, measuring the reaction to his words. The announcement ignited a buzz among the musicians, the rivalry between the schools notorious for its intensity. 

“This isn’t just any friendly showcase. It’s a direct confrontation on neutral ground at the upcoming city arts festival. We will be judged on technique, emotional expression, and the complexity of our performance.”

Aemond’s pulse quickened. Riverrun Conservatory had a formidable reputation, known for their strict discipline and innovative performances. The thought of competing against them stirred a mix of excitement and nerve.

Otto’s gaze swept over the room, lingering for a moment on Aemond, then moving on. “I want crispness, I want emotion, and above all, I want precision. We will begin selecting the repertoire tomorrow. Today, I want everyone to focus on their sections. I expect perfection and I will accept nothing less than your best.”

With a decisive turn, Otto left the rehearsal space, his footsteps echoing his determination. The room erupted into whispers and hurried discussions; the stakes had been set.

Blackwood sighed, stress gnawing and weighing on his face. “Fuck me, no pressure then.”

“Don't fucking shit yourself. It's only Riverrun,” a lanky guy mumbled behind his flute.

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

Aemond tuned his cello once more, a determined glint in his eye. He was eager to prove himself, not just as a formidable cellist, but as a key player in leading his school to victory. As the rehearsal began, the sounds of strings, woodwinds, and brass filled the room, each musician pouring their heart into the notes.

Aemond knew that every session, every note, would count. The festival was not just another performance; it was a proving ground. And he was ready to claim his place on it.

With his cello perched on his back as if it were an extension of himself, Aemond strode toward Otto’s office. The familiar weight of the instrument reassured him, steadying his nerves as he prepared to discuss the imminent arrival of their rivals from Riverrun Conservatory.

Upon reaching the heavy oak door, Aemond knocked with a confident rhythm and was quickly greeted by Otto, who peered out from behind a mountain of musical scores. His deep-set eyes and beard, more salt than pepper, gave him an air of aged wisdom.

"Aemond, what's the matter?" Otto asked, noticing the urgency in Aemond's posture.

Stepping inside, Aemond carefully leaned his cello against the wall. "I've heard that Riverrun will be arriving tomorrow to practise here, in preparation for the festival. They’ll be using some of our facilities. I wanted to discuss how we can use this to our advantage, especially since their star pianist is said to be among them."

Otto raised an eyebrow, a slight grin playing at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he saw the cunning nature reflected in his grandson he perceived in himself.

"Indeed, they will be here. It’s a rare opportunity to observe them up close, to learn their strengths and possibly their weaknesses. We’ve managed to arrange different practice times to ensure there’s no direct overlap, but our paths will certainly cross."

Aemond nodded, his mind racing with possibilities. "If we could subtly observe their practice sessions, we might glean insights into their preparation and techniques. It could inform our strategy and help us focus our rehearsals where we need the most work."

Otto walked over to his desk and shuffled some papers, revealing a schedule. "Here are the timings. Riverrun’s sessions are slotted just after ours in the adjacent rooms. It’s crucial we keep our interactions professional, but keep your eyes and ears open. Understand how their pianist integrates with their ensemble— it’s not just about her solo performance."

"Should we consider adjusting our pieces or rehearsal focus based on what we learn?" Aemond asked, his voice low.

"Potentially," Otto responded, tapping his fingers on the desk. "But let’s not be hasty. First, observe. See if there’s a particular piece they struggle with or excel in. We’ll adjust our strategy based on solid evidence, not assumptions."

Aemond felt a surge of tactical excitement. "I’ll make sure our section leaders are discreet but observant. We can use this chance to refine our performance to outshine theirs."

"Exactly," Otto agreed, handing Aemond a copy of the schedule. "Use this opportunity wisely. We need every edge we can get against Riverrun. Remember, they are guests in our school, so maintain the highest standards of respect and professionalism at all times."

With a firm nod, Aemond picked up his cello, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. As he left Otto’s office, he knew the next few days could define the outcome of the festival. The challenge was daunting, but Aemond was ready to lead his school not just to compete, but to win.

Aemond was barely through the front door of his apartment before Alys was barraging him with questions. Her fine lips were lacquered with red, fingernails painted a charcoal black as she poured herself a coffee.

“I heard about the competition. Riverrun is notorious. Sure you can handle it?” She smirked behind the rim of her cup.

He sighed, setting down his cello, “yes, I can fucking handle it.” That was his only response before sinking into the sofa, laying his head flat back against the sofa, eyes shut, as if he wanted her to disappear.

He was somewhat ashamed to admit the way he tensed and then relaxed at the way her fingers expertly kneaded his shoulders, massaging the stress from him. But even more so as they trailed down, sharp nails ghosting over his neck had his lips parting and his trousers growing tight.

“Now, now. You know I only want you to do better,” she cooed, “and you will get better, with the right critique.”

He could hear her smile, her tone light and sensual as she trailed off.

Aemond turned his head and looked up at her where she was looming over him, her thumbs still pushing circles on his sore muscles.

“Critique?”

Alys’s lips curved up in a knowing smile, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that seemed to pierce through his weariness. Her green, emerald like eyes, were like daggers, hooking and reeling him in somewhere dark.

"Of course, critique," she murmured, her voice a melodious blend of challenge and tease. "Every artist needs it, even the great Aemond Targaryen. Especially with Riverrun breathing down our necks."

She moved around the sofa with the grace of a cat, setting her coffee down on the table before moving her legs either side of him, brushing her clothed core beneath her skirt against his growing hardness. "I watch, I listen, and I provide feedback that no one else dares to give you."

Aemond sighed, shifting to look at her more directly. The red of her lips was stark against the softer hue of her face, a deliberate pop of colour that matched the sharpness in her words. "And how exactly does your 'feedback' help me tonight?" he asked, his tone a mix of scepticism and intrigue.

"It helps because it makes you think. It makes you feel. Isn't that what music is about?" Alys replied, her hands now moving down from his shoulders, her fingers tracing lines across his chest through his shirt. "Besides, seeing you tense up like that, only to melt under my touch—it tells me where you're holding back. Not just here," she said, pressing briefly into a particularly tight spot. Then, her touch sank to his belt, then drifting lower and stroking his growing erection, teasing his length slowly. 

"But here too."

Her approach was intoxicating, a dangerous mix of personal care and professional critique. "You're brilliant, Aemond, but even brilliance can be polished," she continued, leaning in to whisper against his ear. "Let me polish you, make you shine brighter. Let me push you to be the best, and then push a little harder."

Aemond felt the dual edges of her influence—the softness of her caress, the hard truth in her critique. It was a manipulation he allowed, perhaps even welcomed. Her presence was woven into his life, a thread that was both comforting and controlling. Sometimes too tight. 

With two needy hands on her buttocks, he rolled up her skirt around her hips, dipping between her welcoming thighs, his ego somewhat inflated to find she was wet already. Alys did little else in reaction than assisting to undo his belt, taking his hard length in her hand and seductively massaging from base to tip.

He pulled her forcefully against him, fingers dug into her pale skin as she hovered over him and sank slowly, splitting herself open on his cock with a practised moan. Her hips moved instinctually, stretching to accommodate his thickness over and over. 

Between grunts and curses, Aemond was rarely vocal. Sex was a way to dispel frustration and invite inspiration in his clear head afterwards. Alys could be anyone. But he had to admit, he found her interesting, if not for her advice.

Her manicured and rounded nails dug into his neck as Alys moved on him with vigour, one hand stealing between them to circle her bud to try and hurtle herself towards completion.

It had occurred to Aemond that she was similarly using him in the same way.

With a bruising grip around her waist, Aemond jutted up into her shakily, coming hard within Alys’ quivering walls in the aftermath of her orgasm. And once she gained her breath, she peeled his hands off her as if he were suffocating. His member slid out of her, softened and slick with her moisture.

Alys straightened, stepping back to observe him, her eyes assessing as she wiggled her skirt back down. "Tomorrow, I'll come to the rehearsal. I want to see how you handle yourself with Riverrun watching. I'll be watching too, taking notes." Her tone was playful yet serious, a reminder of her dual role in his life.

As she retreated to the kitchen, Aemond lay there, a part of him resenting the ease with which she shifted roles from lover to critic, yet another part eager to prove himself worthy of her praise, his heart going fast still in the aftermath of their hastened sex.

 He knew that Alys's critiques, though wrapped in seduction, were aimed at forging him into a sharper, more formidable musician. In the complex symphony of their relationship, her motives played out in chords, each note crafted to challenge and change him.

The next day dawned crisp and clear, the early morning sun casting long shadows over the grounds of the music school. The building was abuzz with the nervous energy of anticipation, the air vibrating with the undertones of an impending musical clash.

As he made his way through the corridors to the rehearsal room, he could hear the murmur of voices, the tuning of instruments, and the occasional burst of laughter or a sharp command. Today, the halls of his own school would play host not just to its students but also to their rivals from Riverrun Conservatory.

Aemond entered the rehearsal room to find it already half-filled with his peers, each one keenly aware of the significance of the day. The room was set up with chairs and stands arranged in a precise semi-circle, awaiting the arrival of the Riverrun musicians.

Before long, the members of Riverrun Conservatory began to filter in, their expressions a mix of confident smiles and cautious glances. The room's atmosphere thickened with the tangible sense of competition, each group eyeing the other, assessing and reassessing.

Amid this tense backdrop, Alys slipped into the room, a notepad clutched in her hand and a pen poised for action. Her presence was a sharp reminder to Aemond of the dual aspects of their relationship. She caught his eye and offered a slight nod, an unspoken signal that she was here in her professional capacity.

The rehearsal began with Otto taking the lead, his voice firm as he called for attention. "Let's begin with a warm-up. Remember, while we share our space today, let's show our guests the level of excellence we strive for."

Aemond took his place, settling his cello between his knees. His fingers danced over the strings, tuning with meticulous care, his gaze occasionally drifting to the Riverrun musicians who were setting up nearby. Among them, he noticed a young woman, stood between two other boys who looked over her at one another with smug smiles. They were most certainly either violinists or cellists. But the woman between them, he saw, had such delicate fingers, this had to be the pianist he had heard so much about.

All watched them perform with a sort of challenging, stoic expression, as if judging every movement, every chord and sound made. Every choice scrutinised. In the corner of his eye, between glances at the music, Aemond noticed Alys scribbling down notes.

And when their performance came to an end, Riverrun Conservatory clapped, alongside their conductor, Lyonel Strong. He was burly, red-cheeked, strict but well-meaning, as far as Aemond had heard. But the way he and Otto Hightower looked at one another was akin to some secret rivalry nobody else was privy to.

Alys slid up to Aemond’s side as he began to tidy his instrument away, her presence immediately electric. “See that man?” she whispered, nodding subtly towards Lyonel. “He conducts with his heart on his sleeve, not a metronome like Otto. That’s why they play with such passion. It’s infectious, captivating.”

Aemond nodded, absorbing her analysis. He knew of her critical acumen, but there was a personal edge to her voice now. “You sound almost admiring,” he observed, watching her closely.

Alys’s expression darkened slightly, her emerald eyes flitting back to Lyonel. “I might admire his style, but not the man. Not after everything.” She sighed, a sound more resigned than angry. “He might be the maestro of emotions, Aemond, but off that podium, he’s a different story.”

Aemond did not inquire further. If he was being truthful with himself, he didn't much care for Alys' personal grievances.

“Keep a close eye on their cellist,” Alys warned from the sidelines, watching Riverrun tune and start up their instruments for their own warm up.

As Riverrun began their performance, Aemond’s attention initially settled on the cellist, analysing his fluid technique and the rich emotion flowing from his strings. However, his focus soon drifted to the pianist, who was poised before her instrument like a painter in front of a blank canvas. Her movements were almost ethereal, feather-like, as her fingers danced across the keys, each note floating into the air with a delicate precision that seemed to transcend the mechanics of the piano itself.

The pianist's performance captivated Aemond, her connection with the music evident in the subtle sway of her body and the gentle closing of her eyes as she played. It was more than mere execution, it was an embodiment of the piece, a true manifestation of feeling and artistry.

Alys, standing beside Aemond, watched the pianist with a discerning eye. After a moment, she leaned closer to Aemond and whispered, "See how she plays? It’s like she’s not just striking notes, but weaving a spell. Each touch is thoughtful, precise yet so naturally expressive."

Aemond nodded, fully absorbed in the performance. He could see what Alys meant—the pianist wasn’t just playing, she was performing in a way that made the piano speak directly to the audience. It was an inspiring display of how technique served as the foundation for emotional expression.

"Her approach is impressive," Alys continued, her voice a mix of professional respect and genuine admiration. "That’s what we need to aim for, Aemond. It’s not just about the notes, but how you make them feel alive, how you connect them to the listener’s soul."

Watching the pianist, Aemond felt a surge of inspiration mixed with a competitive drive. He realised that this was the standard he needed to meet and exceed. The way the pianist’s performance resonated in the room, how it seemed to stir the hearts of all who listened, including his own—it set a clear benchmark.

As the piece drew to a close, and the final note lingered in the air, a hushed silence fell over the room before applause erupted. The pianist looked up, her expression serene, almost surprised by the intensity of the audience’s reaction.

Aemond clapped, his applause thoughtful, infused with a newfound respect and a burning motivation. He turned to Alys, a determined look in his eyes. "I see it now," he said. "But she's nothing special. Our pianist is just as good."

“Just as good isn't enough. We have to be better. We need to surpass them—to be so outstanding that Riverrun feels like just a prelude to our performance. They shouldn’t just be impressed by us; they should be overwhelmed."

Aemond’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he processed her words. He watched the pianist from Riverrun mingle with the crowd, her presence still resonating with the lingering notes of her performance.

The shy, timid prodigy. A story written a million times. He felt as if he saw right through her, and no way was that washing with him.

“Meet me in the supply room before lunch,” Alys whispered, turning on her heel before Aemond could reply. The swing of her hips as she moved towards the Riverrun musicians and indication of what she wanted from him. All she ever wanted from him.

Aemond merely watched on from the sidelines, arms crossed. Alys mingled with them all, shaking their hands and wishing them luck in the weeks of practice and competitiveness to come. And when she finally shook the hand of the pianist, his gaze flickered between his lover and the delicate frame of this stranger he had yet to know.

Everything about her was different to Alys. She wore sheer black tights, and sensible shoes. Her skirt was flowy and ended mid tight, covered only at the top by her high-necked top, also black. And it was here he recognised a similarity in her and Aemond's dress sense.

Alys on the other hand exuded sexuality. Tight fitting skirts and dresses, no tights and heels at least four inches high. And while Alys wore a sleek straight style, the pianist was loose and free, if not slightly frizzy.

He watched the two women talking animatedly. Alys no doubt congratulating her on how well she plays.

He'd never been in more need of a cigarette then right at this moment.

“I apologise for him, he’s usually more expressive on stage than off,” Alys joked lightly as they approached, teasing Aemond in her usual manner.

The pianist extended her hand to Aemond with a firm, confident grip that surprised him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve seen your performances online,” she stated, her tone straightforward, skipping the usual pleasantries. Her directness was refreshing yet unexpected.

Aemond took her hand, a bit taken aback by her assertiveness. “Thank you,” he responded, realising only after the words left his mouth that she hadn’t actually complimented his work, just acknowledged it. “Your performance today was quite remarkable.”

“Thank you,” she replied, nodding politely, her smile brief. There was no reciprocal flattery, no effusive praise—just a clear, concise acknowledgment.

Her straightforwardness intrigued Aemond. It was rare for him to encounter someone who didn’t engage in the typical exchange of mutual admiration among peers, especially when one had just praised the other. Her confidence and lack of concern for social niceties made him rethink the usual dance of compliments that often felt more obligatory than genuine.

Their exchange maintained a professional veneer, but Aemond felt a distinct chill in the air as the pianist held his gaze with an unyielding intensity.

“I'm interested. How do you prepare for a performance of this calibre?” She asked in a probing manner, clasping her hands behind her back. And when she swept her hair out her face, a dash of her perfume hit him, light and floral, he noted.

“I focus deeply on the composition's technical demands," he responded crisply, his voice carrying a cool, almost detached quality. "Emotional expression is secondary to flawless execution.”

She bit back a smile he noticed before she could hide it, “that is quite a disciplined approach.”

"It’s the only way to ensure a performance is beyond reproach," he stated flatly, eyes scanning the room. "Judges appreciate perfection.”

“And the audience?”

He shrugged, “whether they do or not, it doesn't change my approach.”

She nodded, leaving a long pause, as if laying a trap, “interesting,” she mused, "I always believed that connecting with the audience was the true measure of a performance’s success."

“Emotions are too subjective.”

Alys, sensing the growing tension, interjected with a light laugh. "Aemond here is all about the technicalities when it comes to music. He believes in precision over passion."

The pianist tilted her head slightly, considering his response with an analytical gaze before a playful glimmer appeared in her eyes. “Are all aspects of your life subject to such rules?” her tone light, but probing. “Musicians are usually branded as romantics, after all.”

Aemond's brow twitched, a subtle annoyance. “There is a time and a place. In a competition, it's about control. Discipline.”

She hummed, slightly amused, “how practical. Does it not get lonely, striving so often for perfection?”

He shrugs, “it doesn't matter. Wins are measurable, feelings not so.”

“Musicians are not remembered for their wins. They're remembered for the feelings they tease out of people.”

Aemond’s gaze held steady, impressed by her ability to intertwine light-hearted banter with serious debate. “Maybe so, but I’d rather be remembered for setting records than stirring hearts.”

There was a long pause, her eyes never leaving him as if trying to piece together a delicate and intricate puzzle. And she had to bite her lip to contain her smile, simmering frustration in his chest.

“Interesting,” she mused, releasing her lip from between her teeth.

She finally broke their intense gaze, stepping back slightly as she prepared to leave. "Thank you for the conversation, Aemond. It was... enlightening," she said, her tone serious and reflective. "I'll be interested to see how your focus on the technicalities plays out in the competition. Good luck."

With a formal nod, she turned and walked away, her demeanour composed and professional. Aemond watched her rejoin her group, the interaction leaving him with a lingering sense of disquiet. Her straightforward, no-nonsense approach had challenged his views subtly yet profoundly, pushing him to reconsider the balance between technique and emotion in his performances.

Something he'd considered very little.

And as he fucked out his frustrations with Alys in the supply room, pushing her front against the wall and plunging into the tight warmth and solitude she offered, the encounter had ignited a new sense of challenge within him, or perhaps it was a hint of doubt, unsettling the confidence he had always felt in his methodical approach to music.

The usual clarity with which he viewed his musical career was now clouded with questions, thanks to a simple yet impactful exchange. It was a confrontation of ideals that made him both wary and intrigued.

It was clear now that the competition had escalated to more than just notes and rhythms—it was a clash of philosophies, a duel of passion in dual meaning.

And he was prepared to meet it head on.

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @emmaisafictionwhore @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust @minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @primonizzutto @qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (26)

[ dark • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: mention of sex, incest, smut, angst, swearing ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

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

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Jace remembered perfectly the day his little sister was born. Laenor had led him into his mother's chamber that day, holding his hand, saying that she was very tired and they couldn't spend much time with her − he had insisted on seeing her because he was delighted to finally have a sibling, a brother to play with and be friends with.

His mother, the future queen, smiled softly at the sight of him, her white hair loose and in disarray, her face red from sweat and exertion.

She held out her hand to him and he hugged her, peering curiously at the infant she held clutched to her chest.

"He's so tiny." He said in disbelief, brushing the baby's finger with his own − he smiled when he saw the baby's hand clench into a small fist with its quiet purr.

"She. You have a little sister." He heard his mother's amused voice; he furrowed his brow at her words and rose, angry and disappointed.

"− wait, comrade −" Laenor called out after him, but he refused to look at her.

She was a disappointment to him.

For the first few months, he had pretended not to hear her cries or squeals from their mother's chamber − even though Rheanyra had spoken to him and encouraged him to meet her, he had refused to do so, recognising that no little girl interested him.

"It was supposed to be a boy." He muttered regretfully while playing with his large, wooden, black dragon, pretending that the stacks of books were the great hills over which he flew on Balerion. His mother smiled at his words and combed her hand through his dark curls.

"That is what the gods have decided. She may be your future wife."

Jace put down his toy, looking at her in surprise, not understanding what she meant.

"Am I going to have to kiss her?" He asked in disgust, recalling the stories Laenor sometimes read to him before bed, in which great knights freed beautiful women from the paws of monsters, only to fall in love with them later and be bestowed a kiss by them.

His mother smiled involuntarily.

"Don't think about such things until you're a grown man. No kissing for now." She giggled, pinching his cheek. He smiled lazily seeing her warm expression, the motherly love that beat from her.

That night he went to the chamber where she slept for the first time; he leaned over the cradle, glancing at her plump little figure wrapped in a white robe and a small headpiece. Her eyes opened suddenly and he was terrified that she would burst into tears − she, however, merely clutched her small feet and began to rock from side to side, looking at him curiously.

He smiled involuntarily at this sight and tickled her belly with his finger. Her squeal and loud giggle answered him, her eyes lit up in joy, her little body all the way up in euphoria. He laughed seeing this, repeating his gesture, thinking she was like a small animal, a puppy or a kitten.

He decided that at the end of the day she wasn't so bad and stopped pretending she didn't exist.

Until Luke was born he had treated her as if she were a boy, driving their mother to despair every time they both returned sodden with mud and sand after another battle with Aegon and Aemond.

He had always felt that his uncles disliked him, and even though they were of a similar age to him, he did not feel comfortable in their company − nor could he hide his jealousy at the sight of their snow-white hair, proof of who they were.

Looking at his father and mother, he could not comprehend why his hair was not that shade.

Rhaenyra explained to him that it was surely because of the Baratheon blood that also flowed through their veins, and although he was disappointed, the sight that he was not the only one, that his sister and Luke looked similar to him, comforted him.

The first time Aegon laughed sincerely at what he said occurred when he called his sister a hamster. The comparison came to his mind when she took air in her mouth and furrowed her brow − he uttered it thoughtlessly, and his uncle burst out laughing and patted him on the back.

"− gods, you're right − and those big eyes of hers −" He sneered, and although he saw that his sister lowered her gaze, embarrassed, he continued, eager to hear more words of praise from his lips.

"− she has just as much sense too −" He added, seeing his uncle throw him an amused, mocking look suggesting that he agreed with him.

He felt a squeeze in his heart when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that his sister had turned and walked away, passing through the cloisters towards their quarters without even giving him another glance.

He turned around and noticed to his surprise that he was not the only person to notice her leaving − his other uncle, Aemond, led her away with his eyes and then threw him a look full of despise, from which he felt discomfort.

He pressed his lips together at the thought that he was the heir to the throne and, unlike him, had his own dragon.

Who was he to look down on him with such superiority?

He decided to remind him of that and share that thought with his brother.

Aegon's involvement in their little joke surprised even him − his uncle thought it was an excellent idea. He argued that his younger brother was too sullen and serious for his age, that he was sapient and could use a little lesson.

As he listened to Aegon convince him that they had found a dragon for him, as he saw the hint of hope and the shy, embarrassed smile of excitement on his uncle's face, he felt for a moment that perhaps they should not do this.

However, it was too late to retreat − Luke ran deeper into the cave, and came out a moment later, leading by a rope a large pig to which they had attached self-made wooden wings early on.

"Behold! The Pink Dread!"

He saw that his uncle froze and turned pale as they burst out laughing, swallowing this humiliation with difficulty − his eyes glazed over and reddened, his gaze again blank and distant.

He knew they had broken him.

That same day he mentioned it to his sister, and her reaction angered him.

"You are cruel." She said resentfully.

Which side was she on?

"He's forever looking down on us because he has white hair. He's constantly making excuses and bragging about what he's read in those silly dusty books of his." He snorted, playing between his fingers with the gold coin their grandfather had brought him from another of his trips overseas.

He blinked when his sister simply rose from her seat and walked out, leaving him in a state of shock and displeasure − he decided, however, that these were just normal female emotions and would surely pass her until supper.

He loved his father, but he also greatly valued and respected Ser Harwin Strong. He was a stocky, tall, handsome man who could fight very well. He often spoke to him or helped him practice by sharing stories of his duels in tournaments and hunts.

He thought then that he would like to be like him one day.

He knew that he was a close confidant of his mother and often saw them together, however, his father seemed not to mind, so he considered this condition perfectly normal and did not bother.

After a few weeks, the will of their King fell upon them like a bolt from the heavens, and their mother informed them of it during one of their suppers together.

"− your grandfather and our King has decided today that, to strengthen our lineage, we will betroth your sister to your uncle, Prince Aemond − let us raise our cups for this −" She said, glancing towards her daughter, his sister smiling broadly at her words, happy.

What?

"− what do you mean? − why? −" He asked, feeling discomfort in his stomach and a cold sweat on his back.

They wanted to gift him his sister as a consolation because he didn't have a dragon of his own?

"− your grandfather wants peace to reign in the kingdom after his death − such a marriage in his eyes will strengthen our family and our bonds between each other − of course, the marriage will only happen when your sister is of the right age −" She said calmly, looking at her daughter with tenderness, taking an unruly strand of her dark hair from her face.

"− did you agree? −" He asked his little sister in disbelief, and she nodded quickly, as if it was the happiest day of her life.

"− yes − I'm very pleased − I'm fond of our uncle −" She said quickly, putting a piece of roast on her plate, describing how worried she was that she would have to marry someone much older than herself.

He stared blankly ahead, clenching his hands into fists, bitter and disappointed.

Had she really never considered him as her husband?

After all, he was her elder brother; in their lineage such marriages were obvious.

He dared not, however, defy the will of the King himself.

His resentment towards his uncle increased with each passing week seeing that, against his wishes, he was not being harsh and unpleasant to his sister − on the contrary, he seemed to have softened in her company, his face, though still pathetically proud, also expressing curiosity and affection.

He felt rage in his heart at the thought that they could really have wished to bring about this marriage.

However, the cup of bitterness overflowed the moment he saw his sister kiss him.

They were both too certain that no one could see them − he watched them from the corridor through a window overlooking the library.

His sister was standing by the bookcase, saying something to him, and he stood up and walked lazily over to her. He rose on his tiptoes and apparently reached for a book that stood too high for her. She smiled broadly as he handed it to her, her hand traveling to his shoulder.

He swallowed hard as her lips pressed against his, and as soon as she pulled away, her uncle grasped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her again, deeper and longer.

He fled to his chamber and burst into tears with rage, dropping all the objects standing on his table, disappointed and humiliated that although he was to become King in the future, someone else was taking away something that in his mind was his right.

He never wondered what kind of love he had bestowed upon her and whether it was the form of affection that usually bound married couples; he knew that he would care for her and be good to her and that was enough for him.

She was his sister and he would never hurt her.

She, however, looked only to her uncle and it was to him that she gave her heart and mind.

He didn't know what he felt when Luke slashed his face that night when their uncle stole Vhagar − horror, shame, satisfaction and relief all mingled in his mind into one.

On the one hand, he was overjoyed that he had taken back what in his mind should have been his, on the other he was embarrassed and distraught at the confirmation of his fears that had long smouldered in his mind.

It was Harwin Strong who was their father.

To his seed he owed his dark curls.

He was a bastard.

He tried to turn his thoughts away from considering what this meant for them, focusing on the fact that his sister would surely no longer want her uncle for a husband, and their paths would part.

This is exactly what happened.

Still, what he had planned did not happen, and his mother decided to change her plan and marry her off to their cousin, Lord Arryn's son, to strengthen her support in the North of the kingdom. Again, he felt a wave of disappointment, however, this time he was not so jealous − he knew that she had no love for their cousin and that he was certainly no threat to her.

"What's my little sister doing?" He asked with amusement, startling her completely, sitting bent over her desk − she quickly grabbed the parchment she had just been writing something on and tucked it under the table, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Are you writing a letter to someone?" He sneered, raising an eyebrow, standing over her with a smile. She swallowed hard and looked down, thoughtful.

"I write poetry. But I don't want anyone to read it." She muttered, and he sighed quietly and nodded, acknowledging that he wasn't going to force her to do anything.

"Would you like to go for a walk along the beach? It's beautiful weather." He encouraged her; she, however, shook her head, no longer bestowing a single glance on him.

"No, forgive me. I'm tired."

He pressed his lips together at her rejection, which he had faced again and again since they had moved to Dragonstone.

Even though he tried to get close to her, to understand her and comfort her, she still didn't want him.

He was ashamed to speak of his feelings with his mother or stepfather, much less Luke, however, to his surprise, his closest confidant turned out to be Baela.

"I don't understand her. It seems to me that she still misses him, even though he has certainly forgotten her by now. I have heard that he is a cold, vain, self-obsessed man. He's always been that way, treating her only as an object, a consolation prize. Now that he has a dragon he doesn't need her." He said angrily − his cousin sighed heavily at his words, looking at him with understanding.

"When people part in anger and don't close a chapter, it's hard for them to move on. Perhaps she knew him in a way that is unknown to us. He's always been withdrawn into himself." She muttered disapprovingly, fiddling with the wine cup in her hand, gazing thoughtfully into the blazing fire.

He smiled at the thought that he was certain she recalled the impetuosity with which her uncle had punched her in the face with his fist that night when he lost an eye. Baela looked at him, raising her eyebrows.

"What's that look?" She asked and kicked him under the table with her foot. He giggled at her reaction and shook his head, lowering his gaze to her fingers.

"I would have been better for her. I would have really cared for her. Maybe I wouldn't have given her everything she needed, but at least with me she would have been safe." He said with a tiredness from which his companion sighed heavily. He lifted his gaze to her as her hand grasped his and squeezed it.

"I know." She replied softly.

He swallowed hard, feeling a pleasant warmth in his lower abdomen as he saw her soft, misty gaze, feeling her warm thumb stroke his palm. He grunted as he felt his manhood pulsate in his breeches at the thought that, indeed, his cousin was a very fine woman.

He had always liked her sharp tongue and confidence.

"Have you ever lain in bed with a woman?" She asked him suddenly, and he drew in the air loudly, shocked, feeling that his cheeks had certainly turned red with shame.

He didn't know what to answer.

He didn't want to humiliate himself with words that he had absolutely no experience in these matters knowing that she had a more liberated approach to these affairs.

Daemon, as her father, had expressed no dissent, so who was he to lecture her?

She sighed quietly, seeing his reaction, or rather lack thereof, and rose from her seat, turning her back to him, gripping the ties of her bodice with her hands.

"I need you to help me."

Baela was a calm and patient teacher − it seemed to him that she took great satisfaction in his lack of understanding of what she was actually doing to him as she sank down on his swollen manhood again and again with a moan of delight − her brown naked skin glistened wonderfully in the light of the blazing fire, her white curls falling over her shoulders in disarray, her full lips parted in obvious desire from which he felt his fulfilment approaching embarrassingly fast.

She made sure he didn't fill her with his seed, letting him instead come down on her abdomen with his low moan of pleasure, his length pulsating and twitching in her hand for a while longer. He licked his lower lip dry with emotion, looking at her in disbelief, a soft, shy smile on her face.

"− you're beautiful −" He whispered, and she giggled under her breath and kissed him in a way from which he felt hot in his heart.

She made him forget, at least for a moment, what was happening around them, finding in her both friend and lover, the confidante of all his secrets.

She was not jealous of his sister − on the contrary, he had the impression that she understood the source of his anger and disappointment, herself having no intention of explaining to him what she was doing and with whom.

It seemed to him that their relationship and its freedom suited them both.

Of course, they both knew that in the end they would experience a marriage that would inevitably be purely political, and they understood what that entailed.

Then their grandfather was injured on one of his expeditions, and Vaemond Velaryon challenged his younger brother's rights to the throne of Driftmark.

Knowing the truth about his parentage and at the same time refusing to accept it, he became enraged, sad and depressed at the same time − Baela's words of comfort that they would find a solution and not allow themselves to be intimidated did not reassure him.

Once again, his uncle and his family were trying to take their inheritance from them.

His return to King's Landing was a shock to him; to his disappointment, he felt like an intruder there, and it seemed to him that was exactly how he was perceived by everyone.

He felt a drop of cold sweat run down his neck, his stomach twisting with discomfort when he saw his uncle in the distance, wielding his sword as if it weighed nothing, easily defeating Criston Cole, pressing its blade against his neck.

He was tall, muscular, his long white hair, proof that he was in fact a Targaryen partly tied at the back of his head with a black ribbon, his jaw long and sharply defined, his gaze wild and cold, terrifying.

He smiled mockingly at the sight of them, playing with the hilt of his sword between his fingers as if he wanted to devour them.

He felt ashamed at the thought that he was terrified.

And then his uncle spotted their sister in the distance − his heart beat harder at the sight of their expressions.

It seemed to him that this reunion years later had caused them pain, as they both froze, breathing heavily, looking at each other as if there was no one else around.

His uncle hummed under his breath and turned away, nodding at Ser Criston, taking another swing with his sword.

Even though he hadn't cared what happened to her for so many years, even though he had humiliated her at supper by calling her Lady Strong, she had confessed in front of everyone that her place was with him.

He looked at her in disbelief, wondering what she was doing, why she had stooped to courting him when it was obvious that her uncle had neither respect nor affection for her.

After a moment, he heard his uncle's cold, trembling, deep voice.

"So it is decided, father. We will marry."

"How could our mother agree to this? How could she let her stay there?" He asked furiously, circling around his chamber in Dragonstone; Baela sighed heavily, turning her head away. She looked at him finally, hesitation in her gaze.

"I didn't tell you because I knew it would only enrage you and you wouldn't leave her alone." She said tiredly − he halted in half-step, looking at her over his shoulder, feeling his heart pounding like mad.

"You didn't tell me about what?" He asked dryly, frustrated and concerned.

Baela let out a loud breath, shaking her head. They were now betrothed, and although he thought they both seemed to have accepted their families' decisions with relief, he couldn't rejoice.

"My father told me that she had been sending him letters all these years. That the same night we arrived in the Red Keep she spent the night in his chamber."

He stared at her dully, feeling that it made him sick to his stomach, as if he were about to vomit, his face taking on an expression of disgust.

So she didn't write any poetry then, he thought with regret and pain.

"− how could she do this − expose our mother to humiliation and gossip −"

"Jace. She never stopped loving him. I think she's naive too, but you'd have to be blind not to see that she never really accepted it all. I don't know what I think about it myself." She admitted, running her hand over her face.

"You don't know what you think about it? I'll tell you. Our uncle will play with her and take advantage of her, and then he will put her up to ridicule and hand her over to us. He won't marry her." He growled angrily, burying his face in his hands, wondering how she could be so foolish, how she could believe that he had sincere intentions about her.

"The matter of succession is on a knife-edge. Perhaps our grandfather is right? A union between our mother and the Queen could really ease the situation." She muttered, clearly looking for anything comforting in the situation, which he completely failed to understand.

Had everyone around him lost their minds?

"My uncle who thinks we are bastards is supposed to alleviate the situation? He will never agree to let me sit on the throne and I am supposed to give him my sister?" He asked in disbelief; Baela tightened her lips at his words, frustrated.

"You speak of her as if she were an object. It's always been that way."

He felt an unpleasant shiver run down his spine at her words, every muscle in his body tensing like a string.

"What do you mean?" He asked coolly.

Baela sighed heavily, clearly trying not to explode and form her thoughts so as to be honest but not cruel.

"You think she was born to fulfil your whims? That the fact that you are her eldest brother gives you precedence to lie in bed with her?"

He felt himself blush with shame at her question, shocked.

Discomfort and arousal surged through his lower abdomen at the thought.

"Do you think that's what I mean? I'm just trying to…"

"Yes, Jace. I've never witnessed you ask her how she feels, what she needs. I am fond of you, but you are a selfish boy, not a man."

He felt ashamed at the thought as tears gathered under his eyelids at her words, a terrible, cold shudder shook his body, his heart began to pound like mad.

You are a selfish boy, not a man.

Her words so offended him that he stopped speaking to her despite her pleas, and then the thing he feared most happened.

The King was dead, Aegon had stolen her mother's throne and his uncle had imprisoned his sister.

They had made a mockery of them.

He had been right all along, but no one listened to him.

"Forgive me, Jace." Baela muttered, placing her hand on his shoulder. She knelt beside him, sighing heavily, laying her head on his thigh, and he involuntarily stroked her hair, feeling superiority, feeling strength.

He was going to fight for his mother's crown and bring his sister home.

In order to do so, at the behest of their mother, he flew to Winterfell to ask Cregan Stark for his support in this cause, reminding him of the oath his father had taken before her.

The North seemed to him a beautiful and wild place, so far from what he knew − the snow-covered hills, the austere fortresses of dark stone, the robes that looked only grey, black or brown around him gave him a sense of modesty and space.

Lord Stark's nature appeared to be similar to his, and the few days he had spent in his company hunting and riding horses had actually made him feel good − he felt like someone worthy with him, a true heir to the throne, not a bastard.

It was this feeling that, seeing the young Lady Snow from afar, he allowed himself to be enchanted by her charms and lay in bed with her.

Like a real man.

When he arrived back in Dragonstone he learned that Luke had just returned from Storm's End and that he had seen their sister.

"You flew after him? You flew after him knowing he could imprison you, use you as your mother's weakness? Fucking fool." Growled Daemon, shocked and horrified by his naivety, burying his face in his hands, unable to look at him.

"Daemon." Their mother rebuked him, all pale, her hand clenched on her womb. "What happened next?"

"He brought her. Someone hit her, mother, and I think she tried to take her own life. There were cut marks on her wrists." His brother muttered, and he felt his heart stop, he and Baela looked at each other quickly.

She had tried to take her own life.

Because of this bastard, his sister could be dead.

His hands clenched into fists at that thought.

"And then?" Pressed Daemon in an impatient voice.

"I told her to run away with me, but she didn't agree. She told me to tell you that she loves you and that she remains faithful to you, mother." He mumbled and he slammed his fist on the table, feeling fury and rage boiling up inside him.

"That fucking bastard purposely made her stay. He planned this, he never had any intention of marrying her!" He growled red with anger − Daemon threw him a single, drawn-out look.

"And then what? He let you just walk away? No one else saw you?" He continued, pretending not to have heard his outburst.

"N-no, I was surprised, but no. Forgive me, I had to see her, make sure that she is still alive." Luke said. Daemon sighed heavily and leaned over, placing his hands on the top of the stone table, thoughtful.

"Bring me a parchment and a quill. I need to speak with my nephew."

Baela followed him into his chamber in an attempt to calm him down.

"How can he want to pact with that fucking traitor? His brother stole my mother and his wife's throne!" He shouted in her face − his betrothed dropped her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Since he let them meet, maybe there is something to it. My father knows what he's doing, I trust him. I believe he will bring her home."

"You're naive. You always have been."

"And you're vain. You always have been."

He pressed his lips together at her words, feeling his heart pounding like mad, feeling like something was about to explode inside him.

"I met a woman in Winterfell who I took to my bed." He muttered finally, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

Part of him wanted to hurt her, and part of him wanted to be honest with her.

That was what they had promised each other.

Baela laughed at his words in disbelief and shook her head − he had a feeling he saw a shadow of regret in her gaze, but he wasn't sure if it was because of his confession or because she understood why he said it now.

"If you wish, I'll relate to you how I spent my time in your absence, but I'm not sure you'll be able to look into this guard's face afterwards." She sneered, lifting her chin high, looking at him defiantly. He felt a wave of hot shame and anger surge through his body.

"After we're married…are you going to continue this?" He asked uncertainly and she cocked her head to the side.

"If you are not faithful to me, I will not remain faithful to you. You are dear to me, but don't think I will cry for you. Certainly not like your sister cried for her uncle. Part of me has always envied her that she experienced such a deep feeling in her life even if it burned her from the inside for so many years." She said with a kind of regret from which he felt a squeeze in his stomach, but he answered nothing to her words.

He knew that they did not love each other.

They were close and felt comfortable together, but they weren't mad about each other.

He believed it just had to be this way.

He waited impatiently along with his mother and the others gathered for Daemon to return from his meeting with their uncle, simultaneously terrified and angry that they were speaking with traitors instead of fighting.

When they heard the squeal of Caraxes in the distance his mother stood up, pale, holding her hand on her womb again, as if remembering the time when she had carried her only daughter under her heart.

His other sister had died before she was even truly born.

When Daemon stepped into the main hall everyone was already waiting for him; he sighed heavily, placing his Dark Sister on the table top, folding his hands in front of him, straightening.

"Your daughter married her uncle of her own free will. My nephew has conveyed to me that his brother-cunt will relinquish the throne he stole from you if it is your daughter's children and his who become heirs to the throne or, in the event they do not conceive a son, ours − Viserys and Aegon. He demands the exclusion of Jace, Luke and Joffrey from the succession." He said dispassionately. He looked at his mother seeing that she had run out of words.

"− mother − this is −"

"− leave us − all of you −" She ordered.

"− mother − this is my inheritance − mine −" He began, but felt Baela's grip on his arm.

"− Jace − that's enough −"

He sat in his chamber thinking only of the fact that his mother was just contemplating whether or not to agree to deprive him of his inheritance, to acknowledge that he was her bastard despite the fact that he was her firstborn son, despite the fact that Laenor Velaryon had acknowledged him as his heir.

"− Jace −" Baela muttered, seeing his condition.

"− leave −" He said. He heard her sigh heavily as she approached him with a rustle of her gown, kneeling at his feet.

"− Jace − I'm on your side − I always have been − don't you see me as your companion? − your friend? − your lover? −" She asked with a pained expression that startled him. He lowered his hands and looked at her − his palm rose to her cheek, which he stroked with a tender, slow gesture.

"− you resent me − you don't see me as a man, but as a child −"

"− that is not true −"

"− I don't want your pity −"

"− Jace −"

"− you were right − I don't want to frustrate you and I understand all the accusations about me that you've made − my whole life I've been trying to be someone I'm not −" He finally replied, his betrothed's fingers grasping his hand and squeezing it.

"− that's what I mean − stop pretending − be honest with yourself −"

"− do you want me to be honest? − very well then − my mother has never asked my opinion on any important matters − Daemon treats me as if I am an imbecile and mocks me − I am both a first-born son and a bastard − my uncle wants to deprive me of everything, he wants me to be a nobody and why? − because when I was a child I gave him a pig? − god, I regret it, it was a cruel joke − I regret that he lost an eye, I regret that a dragon didn't hatch from his egg − but even if I had said that, what good would it have done − he would have laughed at me saying I am a weak cunt −" He muttered and burst out sobbing like a small child, hiding his face in his hands. Baela embraced him and cuddled his face into her oil-scented neck, stroking his hair.

"− I am grateful to you − I am grateful to you that you are honest with me − I am grateful to you that you have never lied to me −" She whispered and he wept softly, tightening his hands on the material of her gown feeling that the closeness of her body brought him solace.

"− I am grateful to you too − forgive me for not being what you deserve −" He mumbled, sniffling loudly, trying to calm the convulsions of his body and his ragged breathing.

"− I forgive you − I forgive you and ask for your forgiveness −"

When his mother came to his chamber that evening, he knew what decision she had made even before she opened her mouth.

"− Jace −" She began, and he turned his head away, panting with rage, burning tears of humiliation under his eyelids.

"− after all this − after all you've sacrificed − are you going to let them win? −"

"− how would I be a just Queen if I thought only of myself instead of the good of the kingdom? − any other solution will mean war with our own kin − is there anything else more displeasing to the gods? −" She muttered in a breaking voice in which he could clearly hear that she herself was suffering immensely.

"− you let them dictate their terms −" He said in disbelief, looking at her at last. His mother pressed her lips together at his question.

"− no − I intend to impose my own demands on them – none of them will be allowed to sit on the throne − none of them will wear the crown − they will be rulers-regents until their son, the rightful heir, is born −" She replied, forcing herself to be calm.

"− and if no son is born to them? − will you exclude me from the succession then? − your first-born son? −" He mumbled in pain, hitting his chest with his palm. Rhaenyra drew in air loudly, her eyes red from tears of pain and grief.

"− it's my fault − not yours − me and Laenor really tried, but −"

"− I don't want to hear it − I won't listen to it − why did you let me come into the world? −"

"− Jace −" She mumbled − he heard the rustling of her gown as she took a step towards him, but he held up his hand showing that he didn't want her to come near him.

"− I will leave Dragonstone to you − it belongs to me and I can give it to whomever I wish − no one will challenge your rights in this case, you will finally be able to live the life you deserve −"

"− I was meant to be King −" He hissed, and she swallowed hard.

"− as was I − but perhaps we are not meant to be − pride steps before a fall −" She said drily, her chin lifted high.

"− what does Daemon have to say in the matter? −" He asked lowly.

"− he is furious, but he will do as I command − just as you −"

[humanpurposes]

I Have Always Been A Storm, Part 1

Read the full chapter on AO3 // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Floris Baratheon

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

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

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

“A terrible coincidence,” my husband says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An awful sense of dread runs through my blood.

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

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

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

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

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

Full chapter on AO3

Tags (commented to be added)

Series taglist:

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @theoneeyedprince @targaryenrealnessdarling @jamespotterismydaddy @tsujifreya @blackswxnn

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Seventy-Six

In the late afternoon, just outside of Harrenhall, a small lavender field bloomed in all its glory. The air was infused with the delicate fragrance of lavender, carried by a gentle breeze that rustled through the rows of purple blooms. Bees buzzed lazily from flower to flower, collecting nectar as the sun cast a warm golden hue over the scene. The lavender plants stood tall and proud, their slender stems adorned with clusters of vibrant purple flowers that swayed gracefully in the breeze. Each bloom seemed to dance in the sunlight, their petals glistening with dewdrops from the morning's light rain.

As Maera walked with Ser Arryk through the flowers, the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the scene, illuminating the rows of purple blooms. With a basket in hand, they strolled leisurely along the fragrant pathways, surrounded by the soothing scent of lavender. Just an hour before, Maera had visited Maester Cain to check on her pregnancy, relieved to hear that all was progressing as it should. The Maester had assured her that the babe was growing steadily and that there were no signs of complications.

He had recommended using lavender oil for its soothing properties and to promote relaxation, which had led Maera to decide on a walk to the lavender field. Wandering among the flowers, Maera plucked a few stems of lavender, carefully placing them in her basket whilst chatting animatedly to her protector about the morning’s meeting.

"You should have seen her face," she chuckled to the knight, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Not a single soul in the room supported her idea of sending me back to the capital."

Ser Arryk's smile mirrored Maera's joy as he listened to her recount the events. "Would it be too bold of me to suggest that the Prince has finally grown a pair?" he quipped sarcastically, his tone teasing.

Maera gasped in mock astonishment, playing along with the banter. "Why, yes, Ser, I do believe it would be," she replied with exaggerated surprise, a playful glint in her eyes.

"Then I shall refrain from saying it," Ser Arryk declared with a laugh, the sound echoing through the tranquil surroundings as the two shared a moment of lighthearted camaraderie.

As Maera bent down to pick another stem of lavender, she was interrupted by Ser Arryk's voice, his tone suddenly serious. "Princess," he uttered, his gaze fixed on something across the field.

Puzzled, Maera straightened up, her hand instinctively resting on her growing bump as she followed her protector's gaze. Across the field, she spotted Alys amidst the blossoms, her figure hunched over as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Good, Maera thought. For all the pain and suffering the witch had caused, finally it was being reflected back to her. And yet… the Princess was unsure if it was due to her own pregnant state, or concern for the child within Alys’s womb, but something compelled her to go over to her.

With Ser Arryk close by her side, she called out to the weeping witch, her firm voice cutting through the somber air. "Do not cry so, Alys," she urged, her steps careful as she navigated through the fragrant lavender blooms. "It is not good for the child."

When Maera finally reached Alys's side, she observed the tears upon the witch's reddened face, her gaze drifting down to the prominent swell of Alys's pregnancy bump beneath her faded green dress. Despite her emotional state, Alys offered a quiet acknowledgment of Maera's presence with a subdued "Princess."

Sensing the tension in the air, Maera broke the awkward silence, her tone both empathetic and assertive. "You're upset because of the meeting this morning," she observed, her words carrying a subtle hint of triumph. "The Lords and my husband would never have supported your idea. My place is by my husband's side, and that will never change."

Although it may have been somewhat cruel to confront Alys so directly, Maera knew it was necessary to assert her position. However, when Alys remained silent in response, Maera sighed softly, her expression softening with a hint of compassion. "How are you faring? The child, I mean," she inquired, gesturing delicately towards Alys's swollen stomach, her concern genuine despite their strained relationship.

The witch wiped her eyes on her sleeve before offering a subdued reply, her voice tinged with weariness. "The Maester says a few more weeks, then he will be here."

Maera couldn't help but roll her eyes at Alys's insistence on referring to her unborn child as a "he," knowing full well that such knowledge couldn't possibly be accurate. The delusion stemming from Alys's supposed prophecies frustrated Maera to no end. The witch then attempted to stand but struggled due to her advanced pregnancy. Maera glanced at Ser Arryk, his hazel eyes staring back at her as they exchanged a knowing look. Despite her reservations, Maera nodded, and the knight stepped forward, offering his arm to help the heavily pregnant witch to her feet.

As Alys rose to her feet, she gestured towards the field of lavender surrounding them, her voice carrying a tone of authority. "The lavender will help you ward off any infections and prepare you for the pain of labor," she advised Maera, her hand instinctively moving to her own swollen belly. "At this stage, the plant is also known to induce labor. At least it did for my other children."

Maera and Alys began to walk side by side among the fragrant flowers, Ser Arryk steadfastly at Maera's side. Despite the unusual camaraderie between the women for the moment, there lingered an unspoken tension between the princess and her protector, both sharing suspicions about the witch's intentions, even in her current state of distress.

As they walked through the lavender field, Maera couldn’t help but inhale deeply, the scent of lavender reminding her of the birthing rituals her stepmothers performed using the flowers. Memories of Rain House flooded her mind—the stormy weather, the laughter of her younger siblings echoing through the halls. Despite the turmoil of war, Maera longed for the comfort of her family’s home. She made a silent vow to visit them once the conflict had ended, curious to see how her younger siblings would react to her dragon companion.

Lost in her thoughts, Maera momentarily forgot about Alys's presence beside her until she re-focused on their conversation. It occurred to her that Alys had been a wet-nurse, but she hadn't made the connection that the woman was also a mother herself. Alys didn't strike Maera as a maternal figure, so she found herself curious about her companion's experience with motherhood.

In an effort to ease the awkward atmosphere, Maera initiated conversation. "How many children do you have?" she inquired, her voice softening with genuine curiosity.

A note of sadness crept into Alys's reply as she spoke of her past. "I had four," she confessed, her gaze momentarily clouded with sorrow. "But none of them lived. Each were stillborn."

The weight of Alys's words hung heavily in the air, stifling further conversation. It was Alys who eventually broke the silence, her voice tinged with a hint of bitterness. "You are most fortunate, Princess," she remarked sadly.

Maera's response was swift, her frustration evident in her retort. "Fortunate?" she scoffed, her head shaking in disbelief. "I am here walking with my husband's whore, who is also carrying his child. How is that fortunate?" Her words dripped with bitterness as she grappled with the complex emotions swirling within her.

"You are high-born," Alys declared, her demeanor unwavering despite Maera's evident disdain. "Your child will receive the best care and live a healthy life." Maera remained silent as the witch pressed on, her tone taking on a softer, more contemplative quality. "Your status gives you power, Princess," she insisted, her gaze steady as she met Maera's eyes.

With a resigned sigh, Maera admitted, "It is a gilded cage," her hand drifting instinctively to her pregnancy bump as the child within stirred.

As they walked, Alys came to a sudden halt, causing Maera to pause and regard her with curiosity. "Low-born women have little options, particularly bastards," Alys explained, her words tinged with a hint of bitterness. "You do not have to sell your body or talents to gain some semblance of power. It is born within you."

This was true- low-born women had few prospects in life, often at the mercy of their circumstances. And though Alys spoke of lack of power, her words struck a chord with Maera, but in a different way than perhaps intended.

Despite her highborn status, Maera had felt utterly powerless in the face of Alys’s manipulation and promise of prophecy. The witch’s influence, bolstered by her supposed visions, had cast a shadow over Maera’s life, leaving her feeling vulnerable and disregarded by her own husband. It was a bitter realization that even those with privilege could be at the mercy of those who wielded power in subtler ways.

While she could understand the challenges Alys had faced, she refused to let the witch’s victimhood diminish her judgment of Alys’s character. The resentment and mistrust Maera harbored for Alys ran deep, and no amount of sympathy for her past could erase the harm she had caused.

"I have never felt more powerless in my life than being here," Maera sneered, her frustration palpable.

Alys chuckled softly, her laughter tinged with a hint of irony. "You wish to talk of powerlessness?" she retorted, her gaze unwavering. "I came to be because a Lord of House Strong raped my mother." Maera blinked in surprise at Alys's revelation, her resolve faltering slightly in the face of the witch's vulnerability. Yet Alys pressed on, her voice filled with quiet determination. "My children came to be because the Lords of House Strong forced themselves upon me too.”

The Princess froze, that familiar sense of dread gnawing at her insides. It was a sensation she knew all too well—the icy grip of fear that tightened her chest and sent shivers down her spine. Memories of her own encounter with Aegon came flooding back, vivid and unwelcome—the crushing weight of Aegon's strength as he pinned her down, the sound of her own desperate pleas falling on deaf ears, and the overwhelming sense of powerlessness that had consumed her.

Glancing at Ser Arryk, Maera was reminded of the pivotal role he had played in her life. It was his intervention that had saved her from a fate she dared not imagine. The witch’s declaration hit home and Maera began to struggle to maintain her composure, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her cloak as she listened to Alys’s anguished confession.

"But that was not the worst of it," Alys continued, her voice thick with emotion. "After losing each of my babies, I was forced to feed the nobles' children," Alys revealed, her tone heavy with anguish. "You cannot imagine the pain. How your body cries out for its child while you provide their milk to a stranger in your arms!"

The story Alys painted was too difficult to even think about. The love Maera already felt for her unborn child surged within her, and the thought of losing that child whilst having to care for another was crushing. Despite her loathing of the witch , Maera couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the woman before her.

The intensity of her own pregnancy had perhaps softened her resolve, allowing her to recognise that they both had something in common- they loved their children. Tears threatened to spill from Maera's eyes as she struggled to maintain her composure, her lips pressed tightly together in a silent show of strength.

Rubbing her stomach tenderly, the witch continued, her voice trembling with raw emotion. "The Gods promised me a child one day, a child of great importance. And here he is, almost ready to be born." Her gaze locked with Maera's, burning with a fierce intensity. "But the Gods' path is being desecrated, and I fear I will lose another child."

"Enough," the Princess interjected firmly, her voice cutting through the emotional turmoil.

Maera was no monster. The struggles and hardships Alys had endured were undeniable, and it was clear that she had fought tooth and nail to ascend to her current position of power. Maera couldn’t help but sympathize with the pain and desperation that must have driven Alys’s actions. The child in her belly was innocent as well, and had not asked for any of this. The babe was probably like a beacon of hope to the witch, her chance to a mother once again.

However, Maera also recognized the inherent danger in Alys’s lack of attachment to what was happening around her. With nothing left to lose, Alys posed a significant threat, capable of unpredictable and potentially destructive behavior. And as dreadful as everything Alys had been through must have been, it did not excuse what she had done and the choices she made.

And though moved by Alys’s story, Maera remained steadfast in her determination to assert her own position of authority, not only for herself but also for the sake of her trueborn child. She couldn’t afford to appear weak or vulnerable, especially in the face of someone as unpredictable as a witch.

"Your child is a bastard, nothing will change that. My husband will not legitimize them, nor give them the dragon egg we found." Alys swallowed a sob, her features contorted in a mixture of grief and resignation. Maera let out a heavy sigh, her own heart weighed down by the weight of the conversation. "But your child will be provided for, and never go hungry or sick," she promised, her voice softening with empathy as she placed a comforting hand on Alys's arm. "I swear this to you." The witch did not reply, instead sniffling and nodding in response, acknowledging the Princess’s vow to her.

As Alys and Maera reached the end of the lavender field, the tension between them lingered in the air, but there was a newfound complexity to their dynamic. Alys offered a small curtsy before they parted ways, leaving behind a sense of unresolved tension mingled with a hint of mutual understanding. Walking with her basket of lavender and Ser Arryk by her side, Maera found herself reflecting on her conversation with Alys. Despite the lingering tension, Maera couldn't deny that she now had a deeper insight into what drove the witch's actions, and to comprehend the motivations of one’s enemy was a valuable insight.

On that quiet night at Harrenhall, the castle seemed to hold its breath, enveloped in a serene stillness that draped over the ancient stone walls like a comforting blanket. The moon hung high in the sky, its soft silver light filtering through the windows to cast gentle patterns on the polished floors. Within the chambers, the air was hushed, disturbed only by the faint crackle of the dwindling hearth and the occasional rustle of fabric as the night breeze whispered through the curtains. Shadows danced silently across the walls, painting fleeting images that seemed to sway with the rhythm of the night.

Nestled against her husband’s chest, Maera’s breathing was slow and steady, her features softened in the gentle glow of the moonlight filtering through the window. Aemond’s arm draped around her, offering both warmth and security, as if he were a steadfast shield against the uncertainties of the world. Beneath the surface, the child in Maera’s belly seemed to rest as well, its movements gentle and subdued, lulled by the soothing rhythm of its mother's heartbeat. In that moment, all was calm and still, as if the world itself had paused to catch its breath.

As the peaceful silence of the night enveloped the chamber, it was abruptly shattered by a sudden commotion echoing from the corridor outside. The tranquil atmosphere was shattered by the clamor of men shouting, the sharp sound of blades being unsheathed, and the resounding banging against the heavy wooden door.

Aemond's senses sharpened in an instant, his instincts roused by the unexpected disturbance. With a jolt, he sat bolt upright in bed, his movements swift and decisive. The sudden motion startled Maera awake, her eyes snapping open in alarm as she grasped the gravity of the situation. In the dim light of the chamber, Aemond's hand darted beneath the bed, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword with practiced ease. With a determined grip, he withdrew the weapon, the glint of steel reflecting the urgency etched on his features.

Wide-eyed and alert, Maera shifted closer to Aemond, her heart pounding in her chest as they both fixed their gaze on the door, anticipation mounting with each passing second. The sound of running footsteps drawing nearer only served to heighten the tension, their presence an ominous harbinger of the danger lurking just beyond the threshold.

With a thunderous crash, the door burst open, sending Maera's heart into a frantic rhythm as she braced herself for whatever threat awaited on the other side. Relief washed over her as she recognized Ser Arryk's familiar figure entering the chamber, his presence momentarily easing the tension coiled within her.

“My apologies my Prince, Princess. But we have a situation.”

Her breath caught in her throat as Maera listened intently to Ser Arryk's words, the gravity of the situation dawning upon her with each passing moment. The panic etched on the knight's face and the urgency in his voice shattered the fleeting sense of relief, signaling that something was gravely amiss.

Without hesitation, Aemond sprang into action, his movements swift and purposeful as he hastily donned his tunic, pants, and boots. With sword in hand, he wasted no time in leaving the room, his departure leaving Maera with a sense of helplessness as she watched him vanish into the darkness beyond.

Restless and unsettled, Maera found herself unable to find solace in sleep after the harrowing interruption to their peaceful night. With a heavy sigh, she slipped out of bed, the soft fabric of her nightgown enveloping her as she moved with a sense of urgency. Pulling on her black robe for warmth, she made her way to the hearth, drawn to the comforting glow of the dwindling flames.

With a furrowed brow, Maera tended to the fire, adding more wood to stoke the flames and bring renewed warmth to the room. As the crackling fire grew brighter, Maera settled into a chair before the hearth, her thoughts consumed by the tumultuous events unfolding outside their door. Anxiety gnawed at her insides as she contemplated the cause of the commotion that had shattered the tranquility of their night. The uncertainty weighed heavily on her mind, fueling a sense of unease that refused to be quelled by the flickering flames before her.

Maera’s gaze drifted to the iron pot nestled next to the flames, cradling the large black and green dragon egg above the hot coals. The sight of the egg, bathed in the warm glow of the fire, stirred a mix of hope and trepidation within her heart. She pondered the uncertain fate of the egg as half of them never hatch, she reminded herself, a sobering reality that tempered her optimism.

Alys’s vision of Aemond’s future son as a dragon rider lingered in her mind, casting a shadow of doubt over the true meaning behind the prophecy. Why would Alys’s child, this supposed son, be the great rider of a dragon? The ambiguity of the vision only added to the uncertainty surrounding their situation. A sense of dread crept over Maera as she contemplated the tangled web of fate and prophecy that seemed to entwine their lives. With Alys’s impending childbirth looming on the horizon, she knew the complexities of their situation would only intensify in the days to come.

“Ooof!”

A sudden sharp kick from the child in her stomach jolted her out of her reverie. She gasped, hand instinctively flying to her belly, before a smile spread across her face as she remembered the source of the sensation. The child’s movements were becoming more pronounced, and Maera couldn’t help but marvel at the tiny feet that seemed to press against her skin from within.

Beneath the fabric of her nightgown, the outline of the child’s movements was visible, a gentle swell indicating each kick. Maera tenderly stroked the spot where the child made its presence known.

“It’s ok. We’re ok,” she whispered, unsure if she was trying to calm the unborn babe, herself, or both. Her gaze shifted to the door, her heart heavy with worry and anticipation. With each passing moment, the uncertainty of the situation outside weighed heavily on her mind.

After some time, the Prince returned, his face etched with rage, causing Maera’s heart to clench with concern. Reacting instinctively, she rose from her chair and moved to his side, reaching out to grasp his arms as he held hers. Their connection was palpable, a silent reassurance amidst the tumultuous emotions swirling around them.

“What has happened?” she inquired softly, her voice laced with apprehension.

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with restrained anger. “When you patrolled today, did you see anything out of the ordinary along the border?” he questioned, his tone clipped with urgency.

Maera furrowed her brow in concentration, mentally retracing her steps from earlier. She remembered the tranquility of the Riverlands beneath them as they flew, Ēbrion seemingly at ease without any signs of imminent danger or threats. She remembered the lush green trees, towering mountains and the cloudy sky. On the ground, she remembered tiny dots, which she assumed were people, going about their day. Families travelling, or merchants transporting goods, just as usual.

"No, nothing out of the ordinary," she replied, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Aemond nodded curtly before pulling away from Maera's touch, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth. "More of my cunt sister's rats," he muttered under his breath, his words heavy with disdain.

Sensing her husband's agitation, Maera's nerves heightened, her hand instinctively drifting to her pregnant belly. "Aemond, what is going on?" she pressed, her voice trembling with worry.

The Prince turned to face her, his features hardened with resolve. "Men have broken into Harrenhall, planning to assassinate us," he revealed, his tone low and ominous.

Her heart stopped. Fear gripped Maera’s heart like icy tendrils as the gravity of the situation sank in. Men had dared to threaten her husband's life, her own life and by extension, their child's. In that moment, fear and protective instinct surged within Maera. Her own safety took a backseat as her maternal instincts roared to life.

She felt an overwhelming sense of dread for her child's well-being, a fierce determination to shield their unborn babe from harm at any cost. The gravity of the situation sank in, and she swallowed hard, struggling to find her voice amidst the chaos of her thoughts.

"It seems my uncle prefers dishonorable schemes rather than an honest death on the battlefield," Aemond growled bitterly, his fists clenched at his sides as he looked into the flames of the hearth.

With a fierce gleam in her emerald eyes, Maera confronted her husband, her voice laced with tenacity. "Where are they now?" she demanded, her tone sharp and commanding.

Aemond's expression darkened, bitterness coloring his words as he responded, "The guards are escorting them down to the dungeons," he explained, his gaze fixated on the dancing flames before him. "They will be dealt with on the morrow.”

Her resolve unwavering, Maera shook her head adamantly, her determination shining through. "No," she declared firmly, her voice cutting through the tense atmosphere. Aemond snapped his head up to look at her, confusion etched across his sharp face.

Summoning her strength, Maera closed the distance between them, her gaze never wavering. "Order everyone to wake. We will deal with them now. Together," she commanded, her voice unwavering.

Aemond's gaze softened as he looked at his wife, a silent understanding passing between them. He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of her dark brown hair behind her ear before his hand came to rest on her pregnant belly. With a nod of agreement, he turned and strode purposefully out of the room. As her husband departed, Maera rang for her maid, her mind already racing with plans and preparations for what lay ahead.

At the hour of the bat, the once-quiet halls of Harrenhall were abruptly filled with the clamor of hurried footsteps and anxious voices. Every inhabitant, roused from their slumber, was summoned to the main hall by urgent decree, the echo of worried chatter reverberating off the cold, stone walls.

In the flickering light cast by the hearth, a large table was hastily brought forth and positioned at the center of the hall. Seated around it were the members of the war council, their faces drawn with tension and anticipation. At the head of the table sat Maera and Aemond, both clad in resplendent attire of black leather, their expressions stern and unwavering.

The attention of the room was fixed upon the three figures bound in chains, positioned in the middle of the hall under the watchful gaze of armed guards. These men, their faces masked by shadows, were the would-be assassins who had dared to threaten the lives of the Prince and Princess. Despite their predicament, they maintained an air of defiance, their eyes meeting those of Maera and Aemond with a mixture of fear and resentment.

Rising from his seat at the end of the table, the man who had supported Maera in a number of council meetings, Lord Unwin Peake, addressed the assembled crowd with authority. "My Lords and Ladies, people of Harrenhall," he began, his voice carrying across the hall. "There has been a threat to the lives of our Prince and Princess."

With measured steps, Lord Unwin moved to stand beside the first man, kneeling and isolated from the others. He pointed accusatorily. "This man broke into the castle a few hours ago, with the intent of assassination," he declared, his words echoing in the hushed hall.

Then, gesturing towards the two men shackled together, Lord Unwin continued, his voice unwavering. "And these two were waiting for his return on the other side of the Gods Eye, prepared to assist the would-be killer in his escape."

The room erupted into a cacophony of gasps and murmurs as Maera's gaze swept over the trio of assailants, her expression a mix of anger and disbelief. As the clamor subsided, the Lord of House Butterwell rose from his seat, his voice laced with skepticism. "How do we know this was their intention?" he challenged, his words met with murmurs of agreement from some of the onlookers.

It was then that Ser Arryk, the stalwart knight, stepped forward, holding up a small scroll for all to see. The crowd fell silent as they awaited his revelation, tension hanging thick in the air. Ser Arryk presented the parchment to Aemond, who accepted it with a tight grip, his expression darkening with each passing moment. "A written order, in Prince Daemon’s own handwriting. I know it well," Ser Arryk declared loudly, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere of the room.

Aemond's gaze remained fixed on the scroll as he silently read its contents, his breath quickening with each passing word. Maera, sensing his distress, leaned in closer, her voice laced with concern. "What does it say?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for answers. When he didn't respond, she pressed further, her tone growing more urgent. "Aemond?"

Ignoring her, Aemond pushed the scroll away, his jaw clenched with barely contained rage. Without a word to her, he moved to address the assassins, but before he could speak, Maera rose from her seat with a determined expression. The scrape of her chair against the floor echoed through the hall as she reached for the scroll, her hands shaking slightly with emotion.

Unfurling the scroll, Maera read its contents aloud, her voice steady despite the horror of the words she spoke. "An eye for an eye, a son for a son," she began, the weight of each syllable hanging heavy in the air. “Carve…” She stopped, the words catching in her throat at the sheer brutality of what she was revealing. She paused briefly, looking around the room. If there were any traitors amongst them that could support the people who wrote the order, Maera hoped the Gods would deliver justice.

Gathering her composure, she cleared her throat before forging ahead, her voice ringing out with authority. "Carve the babe from his whore wife’s belly so that he may feel a fraction of the anguish our rightful Queen felt when Prince Lucerys was taken from her- Daemon Targaryen, King consort."

The hall erupted in a cacophony of outrage and disbelief, the shock and horror evident on the faces of those gathered. Guards rushed to contain the chaos, grappling with onlookers who attempted to reach the assassins, their shouts and cries filling the air with tension and unrest. Seated amidst the chaos, Maera watched with a mixture of satisfaction and apprehension, knowing that the revelation of the scroll had unleashed a storm that would have far-reaching consequences.

Aemond then stood from his chair, tall and imposing, and the room fell silent. “I shall feed them to Vhagar and Ēbrion myself,” he proclaimed, his voice resonating with determination. As the crowd erupted in cheering, Aemond strode confidently around the table, his words ringing out. "Let these traitors experience firsthand the power of dragons."

Maera sat motionless, her gaze fixed ahead as a numbing sensation washed over her, a stark contrast to the heightened emotions that had gripped her moments before. Amidst the gruesome details outlined in the scroll and the chilling realization of the peril she had narrowly escaped, she found herself overwhelmed.

She watched as the guards attempted to pull the three men away, their faces twisted in fear. In the midst of her turmoil, Maera’s attention was drawn to one of the two men who would aid in the escape of the assassin, his desperate gaze locking with hers. He appeared no older than herself, with short auburn hair and pleading blue eyes. It struck her deeply that this man, a stranger to her, had conspired to end her life.

As the guards began to drag him away by his chains, the young man called to her. "I plead mercy, Princess," he cried out, desperation evident in his voice.

Aemond's expression darkened as he approached the man, seizing him by the hair and forcing him to meet his gaze. "Mercy? And what makes you think you deserve that, hmm?" he growled, his voice dripping with contempt.

Despite Aemond's intimidating presence, the young man managed to divert his gaze to Maera once more. "I am wed to your sister Wynnifrid," he confessed, his voice trembling with fear.

The Prince glanced at Maera, who was now alert and staring right back at the red-haired man. Wynni. Gods, Wynni. A thousand memories of her little sister stirred in her head, memories of a sister she had not seen nor heard from in what felt like an eternity. Reacting on impulse, Maera raised her arm to halt the guards from dragging the men away.

The room fell into an eerie silence as Maera left her seat, a determined yet composed figure amidst the tension. With measured steps, she navigated around the lengthy table, her demeanor exuding an air of regal poise. Despite the turmoil roiling within her, Maera maintained an emotionless facade, her hand resting protectively on her swollen belly as she advanced.

As Maera approached the assailants, her presence commanded attention. The onlookers watched in muted anticipation, their eyes fixed on the unfolding scene. Without a word, Maera halted before the man who had called out to her, her gaze piercing yet inscrutable.

The one-eyed Prince forcefully threw the man on the floor before Maera, the sound of the chains binding him clinking as they hit the stone floor. Aemond’s expression was resolute, his features etched with disdain for those who had threatened his family. Standing by his wife's side, Aemond stood as a formidable presence, a silent sentinel guarding Maera against any further harm.

"You are Lord Tarly," Maera stated evenly, her voice betraying no emotion.

The young man, now identified as Alan Tarly, nodded, his eyes pleading for clemency. "Please, I beg you. Release me, I will tell you everything I know," he implored, his voice tinged with desperation.

Maera stood over the man, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions. Doubt gnawed at her, questioning the authenticity of his claims. Was this a desperate attempt to elicit sympathy? A ruse to manipulate her emotions? Yet, beneath the layers of suspicion, a flicker of longing emerged—the longing for her sister.

Ser Adrian Tarbeck's voice cut through the tension in the hall, his accusation directed at Lord Alan Tarly. "Your House has just turned cloak, have you not? Why should we believe a word you say?" he challenged, his tone laced with skepticism.

Lord Alan Tarly's voice quivered as ignored the comment and looked up at Maera, his revelation catching her off guard. "Wynni is with child," he muttered, his words sending a shock through her.

The revelation struck Maera like a blow to the chest. Wynni, pregnant? The realization pierced her heart, stirring a tumult of anguish and regret. She hadn’t heard from her sister in ages, hadn’t known if Wynni’s marriage was one of happiness or sorrow. And now, to learn that Wynni was to become a mother, it was a revelation too overwhelming to comprehend.

The Princess took a deep breath to steady herself as she saw the man kneeling before her shaking his head. "I should never have agreed to be part of this plot. Never. I thought I was doing right by my House," he confessed, tears welling in his blue eyes.

Aemond scoffed with disdain, his voice laced with mockery as he addressed the assembled crowd. "Doing right by your House," he muttered, shaking his head in disgust. "Behold, my Lords, what Rhaenyra will do to take power."

Maera fixed her gaze on Lord Alan, her expression steely as she urged him to speak. "Start talking," she demanded, her patience wearing thin. Leaning closer to him, she delivered a warning in a low voice. "I am a lot less desperate than you are in this moment."

Lord Alan hesitated, casting nervous glances around the room before finally speaking up for all to hear. "The Queen has enlisted the help of Targaryen bastards, promising knighthood and wealth when the war is over," he revealed, prompting exchanged glances between Maera and Aemond. "She will use them to fly the riderless dragons and win the throne.”

As news of Rhaenyra’s plan sank in, Aemond's expression darkened, his frown etched deep upon his face. With a heavy heart, he stepped away from Maera, his mind undoubtedly consumed by the implications of this newfound knowledge.

Maera's gaze followed her husband, sensing the weight of his thoughts. The numbers didn't lie—while the Greens boasted five dragons, including the formidable Vhagar and Ēbrion, the Blacks had six, albeit mostly juveniles. Yet, even in their youth, these dragons possessed formidable power.

The realization hit Maera like a thunderbolt. She knew all too well the strength of the dragons. There were many known wild dragons on Dragonstone, but also many unknown in the dragonmount, just like Ēbrion. If Rhaenyra had acquired additional riders and dragons, it would tip the scales of the war irreversibly in her favour.

“You cannot win this war,” Lord Alan stated with desperation. But it fell on deaf ears as Maera clenched her jaw, her eyes flashing with resolve. She turned to Aemond, seeking strength and solidarity in their shared determination.

With a steely gaze, Maera spoke softly but firmly to her husband, her words resonating with unwavering conviction. “Morghon ondoso zaldrīzes tolī adere.” Death by dragon is too quick.

Aemond’s expression hardened at his wife’s words, a silent agreement passing between them. He moved to once again stand beside her, his presence a reassuring anchor amidst the chaos unfolding around them.

Turning his attention to the other two assailants, Aemond issued a harsh decree, his voice cutting through the air with authority. “Those two are to be hung, drawn, and quartered. Let their bodies serve as a warning to all who dare defy House Targaryen and its rightful King.”

The condemned men protested vehemently as they were dragged away, their cries echoing through the hall in vain. Aemond glanced at Maera, searching her face in order to get a glimpse at what she was thinking they should do with her supposed brother-in-law.

The Princess bent down again, her gaze softening momentarily as she addressed Lord Alan, her concern for her sister evident in her voice. "Is my sister well?"

Lord Alan nodded eagerly, relief flooding his features. "Very much so, Princess. She is looking forward to becoming a mother," he assured her.

A small smile tugged at Maera's lips as she acknowledged the reassurance. "Thank you, good-brother," she said, her gratitude evident in her tone. With a solemn nod towards her husband, Maera stepped back, her hand instinctively resting on her swollen stomach, a silent reminder of the life growing within her.

Her green eyes remained fixed on Aemond as he unsheathed his dagger, a glint of steel in the dim light of the hall. In one swift motion, he cut the man's throat, crimson blood spurting forth in a gruesome display. The sound of the body hitting the stone floor echoed through the hall, a grim punctuation to the grim act.

Notes: this was a big chapter so I’ve split it. Alys’s death is coming, don’t fucking worry 🤣 gotta get that lore in though. So chapter seventy-eight we will see the last of the witch. You guys can wait till then it’ll be worth it 😉 also I will not be taking questions about the assassination attempt and if this had anything to do with Alys, I would like to watch you all debate each other in the comments 😏

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[randomdragonfires]

Moon Song | One Shot

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He killed Lucerys, but Aemond sees the ghost of his nephew wherever he goes - especially in his sweet wife's eyes.

WARNINGS | 18+; Smut; ANGST; Delusions; Incest; Dark Themes; Kinslaying; DD;DNE!

WORD COUNT | 6.6k

A/N | Originally written as a birthday gift for @humanpurposes. Nothing says happy birthday like a dark fic about madness and murder I guess? :)

RAIN-SOAKED AND WEARY, AEMOND TRUDGES THROUGH the murky streets of King's Landing, his cold and damp riding leathers offering no respite. Each step echoes with the haunting images of Vhagar's reckless attack on Luke, the small, agonizing details etched into his mind like a deep carving. The city, shrouded in an eerie mist, seems to mourn his nephew in silent empathy.

A scared face. The cracking of jaws. The sight of Arrax’s wing flapping aimlessly down into the sea. Luke, falling free through the skies…

The Red Keep looms ahead, its imposing towers piercing the darkened sky. Aemond ascends the ancient stone steps in silence, his solitude a curtain shrouding the tempest raging within him. The guards watch him cautiously, sensing the palpable storm that accompanies the one-eyed Prince’s return. As he passes, the torches on the wall flicker, casting grotesque shadows that dance along the corridor walls.

Entering the shared chambers, Aemond's presence goes unnoticed at first. His wife awaits him, her gaze filled with a mixture of concern and anticipation as she sits at the edge of the bed, finding his gaze and immediately making note of his distress. He can feel her scrutiny, her eyes seeking answers he isn't ready to give. With how disappointed she may be, he is not sure that he’ll ever want her to know. But he knows she must, and that he’d rather it come from him than anyone else.

Words remain unspoken as Aemond, drenched and disheveled, closes the distance between them. She hasn’t moved, holding onto him by the waist as he encloses his cold hands onto the back of her head, finding some semblance of comfort in the warmth of her hair. His wife's face softened, ready to welcome him, oblivious to his guilt and agony. In the silence that hung thick in the air, he braced himself for the storm about to engulf their world.

“You’re cold, Aemond. Let me find you something warm to wear,” she says. He doesn’t let her leave him; he will not let her leave him, ever. In heavy times like these, he’s always quite liked having her to hold - and right now, it seems like she understands it just as well as she always does. She is a part of him, made to be by his side.

She’s my twin. She is mine. Her place is by my side, and nobody else’s!

He remembers the words. It was the night he had come to, after his eye had been slashed out. The marriage pact had been brokered in the aftermath, a compensation for the losses suffered. His nephew's tantrum and those venomous words had sown the seeds of a bitter possession, one that manifested in the subtle manipulative gestures that followed.

He had reveled in taunting Luke, relishing in the knowledge that he had triumphed over his nephew in more ways than one. Aemond had married his niece, a Princess of Targaryen blood, a strategic move with which he had alleviated the stain of bastardy off of her. He’d spend years taunting Luke over his wins, and he’d finally taken his life too. And now, his wife was about to cast him aside for it. 

As he confessed to his wife, his eye, haunted by the accident, bore into hers, seeking understanding, pleading for empathy. The air grew dense, the chasm between them widening like an insurmountable abyss, a reflection of the irreversible consequences that now consumed them. 

I need you to believe me.

In the flicker of candlelight, hope clung to Aemond like a shadow, a desperate desire for his wife to see beyond the tragedy. Yet, her features twisted in disbelief, mirroring the horror within him. He had not expected any less, but to see it happen is like a dagger twisting in his heart.

He’s losing her. He cannot lose her. As she tries to draw away, he lets desperation take over him. He would be damned if he let her slip away over something that he did not mean to happen. 

His grip on her tightens to the point of choking, her eyes widening as she realizes that she is trapped. Not just in his hold, but in this marriage with a man that would stop at nothing, and is not even above killing family to survive. How long before he kills me too, she probably thinks. 

He longs to assure her that he wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head, but she is angry. She does not want to hear from him, so he will settle for her forced presence for now. Surely she’ll see. He cannot bear for her to look scared and fearful - she looks too much like her twin when she does. The last thing Aemond needs is to be reminded of him. 

Her sobs soak through his already damp clothes. She tries to push him away, but he is like a never-ending nightmare - the more she tries, the tighter his hold becomes, refusing to give her the solitude she craves. He wants to, he is simply scared - what if she never chooses to welcome him again?

Why?

His touch, once a source of comfort, now repulses her, but he remains oblivious to her inner turmoil. In the midst of her agony, he lowers her gently onto the bed, attempting to offer solace through caresses and kisses, unaware that his touch has become a reminder, a brand of her brother's murderer. She refuses to believe that it was an accident, and he is further pained at the dark realization that he may not be above killing her if she tries to betray and leave him over this. After all, if he cannot have her, no one else will.

"Stay with me, wife. Stay with me, and you will be kept alive and safe.” Try to leave me, and you will not live to see the next sunrise. 

The unspoken threat hangs in the air, a chilling promise that holds its own through his silence and her sobs. She closes her eyes, her unease palpable, a fear of the man she shares her bed and heart with. Aemond, too, watches her drift away, inch by agonizing inch, knowing he will have to learn to endure. He’ll have to, if her place is by Aemond’s side - and the day he married her, he’d solidified that.

What he won’t quite get used to is realizing how much like Luke she looks in fear, and how her eyes make it seem as though he is boring into his nephew’s instead. The resemblance unnerves him as he is taken back to the skies of Storm’s End in his mind once again - Luke had looked just as fearful for his life in his last moments. She is a reminder of what he’s done, of the half of her who is now lost.

How could he have expected that his own living, breathing wife would haunt him so?

THE LIBRARY IS CLOAKED IN A HUSHED DARKNESS as Aemond buries himself in his book, the words flying over his head as he tries to comprehend them. The oppressive silence of the night presses upon him, mirroring the strain in his heart. His worry for his wife weighs heavily on his mind, a persistent ache that refuses to be ignored. She has withdrawn from him, choosing silence over conversation, and the void between them grows deeper with each passing day.

In dreams, Luke sits atop his fledgling dragon, looking at him with a somber expression that makes him appear at peace. They are in the skies of Storm’s End again, only this time, neither of them is involved in a chase. They face each other, and each time, Luke talks, and Aemond seems to have no choice but to listen.

This did not have to happen, uncle, he would say. You could have let me live.

Every time, he wakes and resists the urge to slam his fists and pull his spun silver hair out as he wills the fragments of Lucerys to leave him be. He had initially blamed the shock, but even as he gains his bearings, the visions, dreams, and voices only seem to become louder, stronger, and sharper. It would seem that the more desensitized and ready to face war he becomes, the more his nephew insists on haunting him - reminding him that he is no war god, but simply a boy forced to grow into a man too soon.

This did not have to happen, uncle. You made a terrible mistake.

“Leave me in peace bastard, be gone!” He would scream as he slams his fist into the table and sends parchment flying. 

Aemond's torment continues unabated, the ghost of Luke lingering in every corner of his life, a silent spirit that refuses to be exorcized. Late at night, as Aemond lies in bed, he catches glimpses of Luke's face in the shadows that dance on the walls, his eyes hauntingly fixed upon him. The weight of his gaze bears down on Aemond's soul, making sleep an elusive and tormenting escape.

In the courtyard, where the echoes of laughter resound, Aemond finds himself frozen in place, the air heavy with Luke's presence. The wind carries whispers that seem to be the soft murmur of Luke's voice, leaving Aemond questioning his sanity. He can almost feel Luke's hand on his shoulder, a touch that sends shivers down his spine and leaves him grasping at the emptiness.

During war strategy sessions, Aemond's mind plays cruel tricks on him. As he pores over maps of wargrounds and fortified keeps, Luke's reflection materializes beside him, scrutinizing terrains with an otherworldly knowledge. Aemond's fingers tremble as he traces the borders, half-expecting Luke to offer his uninvited and foolish insights, but the silence remains.

In the Great Hall, where feasts were once lively celebrations, Aemond finds himself unable to escape the ghostly presence. The sound of revelry - that Aegon insists upon as they celebrate Luke’s death - becomes a haunting cacophony, and he can almost hear Luke's laughter intermingling with the echoes of those who celebrate his demise. Aemond often finds himself raising his goblet in a futile toast, the wine swirling like a macabre dance, mirroring the torment within him.

Even in the solace of nature, where one would hope to find peace, Aemond can't escape the ghostly reminders. Trees cast shadows that resemble Luke's silhouette as Aemond and Vhagar fly overhead, and the chilly air seems to whisper secrets that he strains to understand.

As he closes the book, a phantom chill creeps into the room. A sense of unease claws at him as he tries to erase the recollections from mind, as though doing so would remove the occurrences altogether. The chilly night air outside intensifies, causing the candle flame to dance wildly before it sputters and extinguishes with a subtle hiss. Aemond dismisses the notion, attributing it to a mere draft, and turns away from the now darkened candle.

As he turns, his reflection in the ornate mirror catches his eye, but instead of his own weary countenance, the mirror unveils the ghostly image of Luke. Aemond's breath catches in his throat as he stares into the haunted eyes of his nephew. The dim light casts an eerie glow on his ethereal almost-figure, and the air in the library seems charged with an otherworldly energy. The weight of guilt and the eerie manifestations converged, leaving Aemond paralyzed in the haunting stillness of the library, caught between the realms of the living and the departed.

"This did not have to happen, uncle," Luke's voice carries a weight of unspoken sorrow, each word etched with the regret of an untimely departure. The ghostly echoes linger in the air, weaving through the ancient shelves of books that stand as silent witnesses to this mad exchange.

Aemond - his breath catching in his throat - struggles to find the right response. The weight of guilt presses upon him as he gazes into Luke, dazed. The regret, palpable and suffocating, threatens to consume him. Luke lingers, a reminder of all his irreversible choices. Caught in the grip of the moment, Aemond feels a lump forming in his throat. "I never wanted it to end this way," he whispers, his voice tinged with regret that he would never have admitted to feeling if he hadn't had to voice it out loud. 

"You made a terrible mistake," Luke's voice echoes, the accusatory tone cutting through the oppressive silence of the library. 

Aemond's eye meets the hollow gaze of his nephew. "I am aware, and I am burdened by it… by you." He confesses, the weight of guilt hanging heavily upon him. Memories of happier days in his marriage pass his mind, and he is once again left with the gnawing pain of not knowing if she will ever seek him out again. Is he going to be made to live with this chasm between them forever? How could she live without him?

And immediately, as thoughts of his sweet wife cross his mind, the image of Luke transforms into when he was much younger, his curls a lot more prominent and his face a bit more round. He says the words again, the same words that Aemond had heard him say about his marriage - and it is all he can do to not fall apart. "She's my twin. She is mine. Her place is by my side, and nobody else's!" Luke's words resonated in the stillness, each repetition intensifying the haunting atmosphere.

The air crackles with unresolved tension as the words loop, a haunting refrain that refuses to fade. Each spoken phrase intertwines with the musty scent of ancient books, filling the room with a lingering sense of melancholy. As the words pass through the room, the library stands witness to the unfolding chaos. Dust motes, disturbed by the weight of the conversation, hang suspended in the air like transient memories. The ambient firelight, filtered through the stained glass windows, casts a surreal glow on the troubled face of a man who desperately tries to escape the consequences of his actions. The words create ripples in the stillness of the library, a transient disturbance.

His fists clench, and with a roar of frustration, he lashes out at the mirror. The impact shatters the haunting reflection, the fractured pieces falling like a cascade of broken memories. Aemond, panting and wild-eyed, stares at the shattered remnants of the mirror as drops of his blood stain them all an angry, bloody red.

ON A DARK, EERIE MORNING, Aemond decides he will seek refuge in combat training with Cole. The rhythmic clash of steel on steel promises a momentary escape from the haunting of his tormented mind. In these fleeting moments, he clings to the hope that the precision demanded by the dance of death will anchor his thoughts, keeping them disciplined and resolute.

But the training ground transforms, and the air shimmers with the echoes of unsheathed swords. In the midst of training, Luke materializes. The world blurs as Aemond's gaze locks onto his nephew's phantom form, the arrogance etched upon his face mirroring the smirk that haunts him. A tempest of confusion descends, and in the blink of an eye, he lunges forward, sword clashing against an illusion.

Reality slips away, and he finds himself ensnared in a mirage - a realm where the dead dance with the living, taunting them with all they have left. In the throbbing aftermath, the truth bears down on him like a relentless storm.

He killed him. The admission echoes in the hollow chambers of his conscience, overtaking him completely. The clash of blades morphs into a funeral dirge, and as he stands amidst the lingering consequences of his actions, the training ground transforms into a graveyard of memories. The air hangs heavy with the scent of remorse, and the phantom of Luke lingers, a silent witness to the torment that now possesses Aemond.

How he wills for his nephew to leave him alone. How he wishes he could turn back time, to a day when his wife was happy with him, when he was not the object of repulsion in her eyes. How he wishes she would welcome him with open arms again...

But why would she, uncle? Why would she, when you have slain her twin and taken me away from her? Her true other half?

He swings his sword once more, the blade cutting through the air with a desperate force. Each slash is a fervent plea, hoping that the slashes would tear up the ghost of his bastard nephew to ribbons that fly away with the wind. Even in death, his nephew is a stain on his life that refuses to let him live in peace. First his eye, now his wife.

Her place is by my side, uncle. And by killing me, you only reminded her of that.

The echoes of Luke's haunting words reverberate through the empty training ground, as Aemond battles not only the illusions before him but also the relentless demons within. The weight of his actions, the echoes of his nephew's voice, and the damning truth merge into a haunting symphony that accompanies each swing of his sword, forming an enemy much more dangerous than the Blacks that he’d sworn to kill.

The air is thick with the acrid scent of remorse. Aemond's movements become more desperate, as if trying to carve out a safe haven from the phantoms that encircle him. The blade slices through him, yet Luke's voice persists, an unyielding reminder of the havoc wrought upon not just his life but everyone’s around him.

Amidst his violent dance with illusions, Aemond longs for the solace that has eluded him since that fateful day at Storm's End. His sword becomes an extension of his anguish, a vessel through which he hopes to banish the nightmares that torment his every waking moment. The words resonate, mocking his attempts to escape the repercussions of his actions.

Aemond's grip tightens on the hilt of the sword, the struggle etched across his face as he battles the intangible. The illusion persists, refusing to be vanquished, a testament to the indomitable force of guilt and regret.

He lowers his sword and the ghostly echoes of Luke's voice linger. The training ground falls silent, a wave of unresolved grief as Aemond grapples with the realization that, even in death, his nephew remains an inescapable presence in the twisted tapestry of his existence.

Luke smiles once more, and Aemond slams the tip of his sword into the gravel, watching it fall to the side as he screams. Luke’s reflection is a sharp image on his blade, but when he looks up, the ground is empty, save for a worried mentor that watches him from the side. What must he do to gain solitude again?

The air in the training ground seems to thicken further as Aemond walks away to put his sword aside. The haunting memories of his past misdeeds cling to him like a shroud, and the distant echoes of Luke's words continue to reverberate in his mind. The once-familiar grounds feel like a journey through a desolate and forsaken landscape as he somehow registers the distant sounds of Cole calling out his name in worry.

As Aemond picks up the sheath, he senses an eerie silence enveloping the surroundings. The wind carries whispers of his regrets, and the atmosphere is charged with an unsettling energy. He looks up to see his wife standing at one of the windows, her gaze fixed on a seemingly endless point beyond the horizon. The pain of a fractured marriage weighs heavily on his shoulders, and his arrogance, once a shield, now crumbles under the weight of remorse.

Their eyes meet, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. He reads the emptiness in her eyes, an emptiness that reflects the void he has created between them. Aemond's heart sinks, realizing that his mistakes have irreparably damaged the bond he once took for granted. The echo of Luke's haunting voice intertwines with the desolation that surrounds him.

She is his, but he does not want to have her like this; unwilling. Unable to withstand the haunting gaze, Aemond turns away. The clang of metal against metal resonates in the air as he sheathed his sword. The once-sharp blade now feels heavy, burdened with the weight of his own sins.

Before he leaves, compelled by an unseen force, Aemond looks up at the tower once more. But this time, it is not his wife who meets his gaze. Instead, the window frames the ghostly figure of Luke, staring back with fear etched on his face. Before he can further contemplate the vision, she is right there again, looking away. With the many sightings of Luke that he is subjected to, Aemond is not fazed anymore. But he is once more reminded of how similar his nephew and wife look in fear. He does not like seeing her this way.

A shiver courses down Aemond's spine as his gaze meets the ghostly visage of his nephew. Before he can avert his eyes, the apparition transforms into his wife, each manifestation carrying an accusing, sorrowful, and frightened expression. The visions alternate with unsettling speed, a haunting dance where Luke and his wife exchange places in the blink of an eye. 

Aemond is unnerved by the rapidity with which the pair appears almost indistinguishable, their features blending into an eerie resemblance that sends chills through his soul. The accusatory eyes of Luke and the sorrowful gaze of his wife interchange with a disorienting fluidity, leaving Aemond trapped in a whirlwind of regret, fear, and a gnawing sense of the uncanny.

He walks away, steps definitive and terror-struck as he steps into the tower. The silence is deafening, broken only by the echoes of regrets and the distant wind. Aemond, haunted by the consequences of his actions, contemplates the surreal encounter. The armor-laden grounds, once a place of training, now serve as the stage for the haunting manifestations of his past. The ghost of Luke remains and so does his remembrance of a happier wife - who, for reasons he cannot fathom, reminds him of his biggest mistake. A constant reminder that redemption may be forever out of reach.

THE WORD HOLDS TOO MUCH EMOTION than he can bear to pour into his voice, but he says it all the same.

“Wife.”

As Aemond approaches her, he takes in the sight of her, a weak vision of House Strong's distinct features marked by dark hair and blue eyes. The vibrant happiness that once defined her has been replaced by weariness, one that seems to have settled into the very core of her being.

Her brown hair, once a shiny cascade, now hangs in loose tendrils, lacking the luster it once possessed. The dim light highlights her fatigue, revealing the toll that the sorrow of losing her brother has taken on her. The lines etched upon her face speak of countless nights spent wrestling nightmares and the strain of unanswered questions. Her eyes, once bright and expressive, now carry a perpetual sadness and seem to bear the weight of all her losses.

Does she grieve for them too? For their marriage? For him and all the time they’ve lost?

As Aemond gathers the courage to approach, he can't help but feel a pang of regret for the role he played in casting this shadow over the woman he once knew and still loves. The air around her seems heavy with declarations unmade, the room echoing with the quiet desperation of a fractured connection that he is grasping at to mend. Aemond, yearning for reconciliation, steels himself to bridge the gap that has grown between them, hoping to heal not just their relationship, but her as well. 

She turns to look at him, the faint moonlight from the window hitting her face as she assesses the man that stands before her. Not her husband, no - Aemond knows how she looked at him when she loved him. Now she simply stares through him, understanding that it’s her brother’s killer that she is facing. He doesn’t know what hurts him more - her grief, or her cluelessness. 

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t walk away either, empowering him to take a few steps further. He reaches out to her and takes her hand, and smiles by the corner of his lips when she doesn’t grab her hand back. 

“Are you… well?”

The idiocy of the question while he sees how tired she is does not escape him, but in all honesty, she has him tongue-tied. Aemond has missed her touch, and simply getting to hold her hand again has set a fire ablaze in him that he cannot seem to quell.

“As well as one can be, considering the circumstances.”

Time stands still as he takes in the sound of her voice, hoarse from not having said much in a long while. His mother tries with her, but even the Queen can’t make his grief-stricken wife budge - she would stay until she couldn’t, leaving his wife to her thoughts. What could she say to make things better anyhow?  I’m sorry my son killed your brother? I’m sorry you’re caught in a war that is not of your making? I’m sorry you cannot look at your husband with anything but disdain?

He is rendered well and truly silent as he tries to measure her feelings, but she beats him to it as she speaks again - addressing the elephant in the room as quickly as she is able. “Are you here to apologize for murdering my brother?”

“It was an accident.”

He knows he shouldn’t be arguing, but what was he to do? He’d let the world speak cruelly of him and brand him a kinslayer, but he cannot have his own wife hate him so. His defense of his actions only seem to spur her further as she pushes her free hand into his chest, and he holds onto her hand tighter, unwilling to let her go like she wants to.

“Don’t demean yourself by justifying your venom, Aemond. You have hated Luke your entire life, and I’d rather you not make years of hatred seem like nothing in your pursuit to make a better name for yourself with me now. You’re well past that, valzȳrys.” She spits out the last word, making him feel hurt and horrendously out of place. husband

“You don’t believe me.”

“You killed him!”

She sobs, her tears making it very clear that he is a lot less in her eyes now than he used to be. He fights the urge to scream, to hold her by the shoulders and shake sense into her. He wants to remind her that he is not what she thinks him to be, and that he genuinely would never do anything to hurt her. But he has. And he is now facing the consequences of weighing the choices and choosing wrong. How he wishes he’d simply let Luke leave - Aemond had won, why didn’t he?

Her sobs echo in the strained silence, the air thick with the weight of unspoken grievances. In a moment of raw vulnerability, she hits him square on his chest - each strike of her closed fists carrying the weight of accumulated sorrow, an outward manifestation of the tumultuous emotions that have festered within. Aemond, initially taken aback, winces. 

Yet, even as the blows intensify, Aemond doesn't recoil. Instead, he envelops her in a desperate embrace, a gesture born not out of defiance but of a shared longing for understanding. The chamber becomes a battleground of emotions, the struggle to make sense of their fractured marriage playing out in light of all that has taken place.

“I want to hate you so much.” She says, the words choked out as her voice comes out muffled. Her lips are branded onto his chest as she mouths the words over the leathers he wears. “I want to. You’re a monster, that's all I see. I hate you so much.”

He pretends to not hear any of the damning words, for fear of hurting her in the anger that they rouse in him. She looks up at him, and all he wants is to crush her in his hold as he feels the anger creep up on him. But what she says next knocks the wind out of him, reminding him of why he has taken the trouble to come here to try and repair their marriage. 

“But I love you all the same, and I don’t know if I hate you or the love I hold more.”

It is all the confirmation he needs. She is not out of reach just yet. Aemond, grappling with the weight of her words, feels a heavy tension in the air as her lips remain pressed against his chest, the muffled admissions still hanging in the space between them.

As she lifts her head, her eyes, red and swollen, meet his. Aemond sees the internal conflict etched into the lines of her face, torn between the desire to loathe him and the persistent, undeniable love that refuses to be extinguished. He remains silent, understanding the gravity of her admission, aware that any response from him could tip the fragile balance they are trying to restore.

In a moment suspended between resentment and longing, she tentatively reaches up to touch his face, her fingertips tracing the contours of his jaw. Aemond, still holding back the urge to speak, feels the warmth of her touch, a gesture that speaks volumes. Then, as if guided by an invisible force, their lips meet in a hesitant, exploratory kiss. It is not a fiery embrace born out of passion; rather, it is a delicate connection, an attempt to bridge the emotional distance that has grown between them. 

And then Luke surfaces, yet again.

He holds her tighter and kisses her deep, his tongue begging for entrance as he fights the ghost of Luke, staring right at him as he tries to make his wife forgive him. With every movement of their joined lips, he refutes his dead nephew’s words. He is hers, and she is his. From this day, till the end of their days. 

Not Luke’s. His.

“Mine,” he mumbles in between kisses. Over and over until the blasted bastard’s spirit hears and lets him live. But why should he, when Aemond did not offer him the same courtesy? “You’re mine. No one else’s.”

“What?” He doesn’t answer her murmured question, not quite ready to make her privy to the haunting of his mind by her twin. He does not want to let him ruin this moment for them, not any more than he already has. His hands involuntarily find her skirts, pushing them up as he lowers his lips to kiss her neck.

The skin of her thighs are as soft as he’d remembered, his hands relishing in the touch as it disappears under her dress. She clings to him, a slight whine escaping her lips as his fingertips graze her skin, holding onto her backside as he lifts her up effortlessly, feet carrying them both and pushing her into the nearest wall. The kiss is never ending, and he’d not have it any other way.He presses into her, his hands holding her by the hip so tight that he’s probably bruising her, but he is too far gone to care. He needs to prove his nephew wrong, and with each moment he believes he is closer to vanquishing the ghost of the Strong pup from his consciousness.

“Take me,” she says. He hears her, but he is not quite sure he is listening. However, he does as she says. He has wanted this for long, having missed her touch for long, having missed her wanting him for long. He has wanted this for too long to do anything otherwise, and so he does. He growls as he bites her neck, while she unlaces his breeches and lets his cock spring free. The weeping tip is erect and stands proud, and he hopes she can see what she could have had in the time that she pushed him away. No matter, she’s here now.

He is taken aback by how tight she is, how warm and inviting she is despite it all. Her wetness engulfs him as he thrusts into her, making up for wasted time. With each thrust and with each moan that she lets out, he hopes and prays that their marriage will endure - but the phantom of his nephew is never ending as he refuses to fade. Aemond claims her as is his right, but as he does, he realizes his true goal is to simply remind the ghost in his head that she is his, and no one else’s.

“Mine.”

She leans into him, meeting his forehead with hers as her hair falls around them. Her panting breaths and heaving chest has him in a tight chokehold, and it almost keeps him from being haunted by her twin. Almost.

She peaks with a shuddering moan, and as she falls into him - limp and willing - he chases his pleasure. He brings her down to stand and mindlessly thrusts into her as he chants mine, mine, mine over and over again and when he does spill in her, he wants to be able to only experience pleasure, and nothing else. 

Surely his mind is playing tricks on him, or Luke has simply taken over Aemond in a capacity far beyond his control - for he is certain he sees him in her eyes for just a moment, taunting him and reveling in his misery.  

The memory hits him like whiplash, and it is all he can think of.

Aemond’s hands encircle her delicate throat, pressing her frail form against the unforgiving stone wall, as though he intends to merge her essence with its cold surface. The echoes of her labored panting reverberate in the air, a desperate struggle for breath, while he, consumed by an unrelenting force, cannot cease his actions. 

Her blue eyes roll back in agony, and the veins on her neck stand out more prominently than usual, appearing blue in certain lights and green in others - details he might have discerned if not blinded by rage and madness.

He sees clearly, he always does. But in this moment, the intensity of his anger clouds his judgment, rendering him as blind as he is perceptive in moments of calm. Her pallor intensifies, and her hands futilely attempt to pry his fingers from her skin, seeking reprieve - he wants to let go, but he cannot. How could he?

His nephew has haunted him for years, much like the famed phantom of Harrenhal. Luke may have only been nine years of age when he took Aemond’s eye, but it has wielded a malevolent influence throughout his journey from boyhood to manhood. It has been the root cause for a lot of what he’s done - right from marrying her, to now killing her so she can join her brother wherever he is.

He needs to banish the haunting memory of his nephew from his tormented consciousness. He wants so badly for the words to stop playing in his head, weaving a harsh thread of thoughts that he cannot seem to find his way out of. Her life hangs by a thread, one that he stretches taut until she snaps.

As much as he resents acknowledging it, perhaps Lucerys was right. He isn't killing her; he is merely guiding her to where she belongs, by his side. “Aemond…” Her plea is feeble, choked, and nearly devoid of a voice. “Husband, please…” He hears his sweet wife’s last words, but he refuses to listen.

As the light in her eyes slowly dims, he watches as she struggles to keep her eyes open. Her hold on his choking hand loosens and loses its fight, and she gives in. It is almost as though they are back to how they were, in the days when they were happier, and his hands had been around her neck in much more sensual moments - always just enough, never as tight and deadly as this.

She looks almost peaceful in this state, in the last moments where she’s accepted that she has outrun her course. He cannot have her this way, does not want her this way -  where she fears him and what he has truly become; where every moment that she looks at him with mixed emotions, he is reminded of his nephew and the day he died.

Cursed bastard.

Her once kind smiles, the very essence that once distinguished her from her twin, have undergone a haunting transformation. Her face has since been etched with an unspoken terror, a fear that clings to her like a shroud of impending doom. Every glance she casts seems laden with an eerie anticipation, as if she is poised to deliver a fatal blow.

In those harrowing moments, the resemblance between them becomes a grotesque mirror, reflecting a likeness he cannot bear to acknowledge. The weight of her presence - his presence - is suffocating, an unsettling reminder of his own recklessness. He cannot afford the luxury of a wavering mind, not in the midst of a relentless war that demands his unwavering focus.

This connection has become an unbearable burden, stoking a fury within him that knows no bounds. All he craves is the dissolution of his nephew's haunting memory, an obliteration that refuses to comply with the confines of his subconscious. Instead, it lingers, an ominous specter that shadows his every waking moment, intensifying the horrors that plague him day and night.

And then, her breathing ceases.

The chilling realization of what he’s done crashes over him like a wave, dragging him into the abyss of his own making. The haunting echoes of his nephew's voice, the relentless specter that had tormented his every waking moment ever since the fateful day at Storm’s End, had finally ceased. However, the newfound silence is shattered by the ghastly thud of her lifeless form crumpling to the floor, unleashing an eerie force that wraps its tendrils around his soul.

She seems liberated from the oppressive shackles of fear and her lifeless face descends into an eerie calm that chills the marrow of his bones. In death, she appears more tranquil than any moment he witnessed in life since her twin’s passing. The grotesque disparity between her and Lucerys’ final moments sends a shiver down his spine, the air thick with the stench of regret and the palpable weight of his transgressions.

With a trembling hand, he reaches out to touch her slowly chilling forehead, pressing a sorrowful kiss upon it. The chamber becomes suffocating, the air thickening with an oppressive calm that clings to the shadows. In that macabre stillness, a chilling certainty takes hold — Lucerys will no longer haunt him, but the cost is etched in the lines of his lovely wife’s lifeless face.

As the reality of his irreversible choice seeps into his bones, a haunting question claws at the edges of his conscience: Was the liberation from the phantom of his nephew's influence worth the mad ending of his wife's life? The Seven bear witness to another one of his kinslaying crimes and the heavy silence that follows - a testament to the darkness that now envelopes his soul, as the shadows of the hearth themselves seem to recoil from the stench of blood that stains the very fabric of the air.

Now the twins are together in death, by each other’s side. 

Aemond is free.

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MASTERLIST

[aemondsbabe]

Little Love

summary: aegon comes to your chambers crying and needing comfort, but what happens when your husband walks in?

pairing: aemond targaryen x reader x aegon ii targaryen

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, mommy kink!! i cannot stress that enough!! astronomical amounts of titty suckin', nipple/breast play, oral (f receiving), handjob, fingering, piv, angst but happy ending, hand on throat but no choking, subby aegon, breeding kink, creampie, consensual threeway relationship, let me know if i missed any!

word count: 6k oops

a/n: header image is for aesthetics only & is not used to describe the reader! a huge huge thanks to my honorary wife & this fics adoptive mother @toms-cherry-trees 🩵 thank you for all your help with this one!!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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“Aww,” you coo softly, eyes filled with adoration as you study the man on your lap, “Are you mommy’s precious little baby? Hm?” You brush a silvery lock of hair off of his face, trailing your thumb over the light flush across his cheeks as your other hand rubs soothingly over one of his biceps. 

Aegon hummed and nodded as best he could around your pert nipple, bright eyes lazily blinking up at you. One of your thumbs gently sweeps away tears from the corners of his eyes while you gently rock him as best you can, gazing at him with a smile. You stay quiet for a while, taking pleasure in the way he clings to you so needily, the way he’s looking at you as if you hung the stars in the sky. 

You can’t help the sigh that leaves your lips at the feel of his warm mouth around your nipple, his tongue flicking and teasing at the sensitive skin as he carefully suckles it in his mouth. “Shh,” you whisper, calming Aegon when you see another wave of tears threatening to spill from his violet eyes, “I promise there is nothing to worry yourself over, my little prince,” you tell him softly, trying to squeeze him somehow closer to you, “Just rumors, nothing more.”

You couldn’t help but feel protective of Aegon, your heart twisting as you remember the state he was in at the beginning of the evening when he had first loudly burst into your chamber. 

The fire in the hearth warmed your skin as you sat on the sofa in the small sitting area of yours and Aemond’s chambers, easily guiding the needle through the fabric of your embroidery as you hummed a song. With a sigh, you held the hoop up and tilted your head as you examined your work, nearly dropping it when you jumped at the sound of the heavy doors of your chambers crashing open. 

You jumped up, whirling around to see who could’ve possibly been disturbing you in such a manner, already glaring before you’d even turned your head. Your narrowed eyes widened however when you saw Aegon striding toward you, a pained look on his face.

“Is it true?” He had questioned, coming to a stop a little ways away from you, voice shaking even through the angry tone of his voice. 

“Is what true?” Your eyebrows furrowed together in confusion as you clasped your hands in front of you. 

His frown had faltered for a second, eyes already sparkling with tears as his hands clenched at his sides. “The whispers in court,” he explained, gaze flitting from you to the stone floor, “The rumors about – about you and my brother.” 

Shaking your head, you had carefully walked toward him, “My love, I am sure they are untrue,” your voice had been gentle, “I cannot even imagine what they would be ab—“ 

“That you’re pregnant!” His voice was thick with unshed tears as he spit out the words, “That you must be!” This had left you dumbfounded, unable to do anything but gawk at him, which had only served to upset him further. He had sighed heavily and fixed you with a tearful gaze, bottom lip quivering, “So it’s true?” 

“No!” You rushed out, emphatically shaking your head as you hurried to him. “My love, my sweet baby,” your fingers carded through his hair when you reached him. You had gently pulled his gaze to yours before you had cupped his cheeks, your fingers already damp from the tears streaking them, “That is nothing more than court gossip, I promise you. I swear upon the Mother, you’ve nothing to worry about.” 

The dam had finally broken as he hiccuped out a sob, his shoulders sagging. “D-Do you mean it?” He’d asked meekly, voice so small you had felt your heart squeeze painfully in your chest. 

“Oh,” you had taken his hands in yours and led him to your bed, sitting him down at the edge as his body started shaking with sobs. Sitting next to him, you wrapped your arms around his neck, gently cupping the back of his head as he slumped against you and rested a wet cheek against your chest. “My little prince, I swear to you I do,” you pressed a kiss to the top of his head, rocking the two of you together, “You know Aemond and I would not do that to you.” 

His fingers had clung to your sides as he sobbed, hands bunching in the fabric of your gown. “They’re saying it’s been long enough,” he’d said mournfully, “Th-That it’s been three moons since the w-wedding and y-you must be by now.” 

You’d stroked his hair comfortingly and rested your chin on the top of his head, feeling his hot tears trail down your cleavage, “You know your brother and I would speak with you first, my love. We would not leave you out, you know how this arrangement works.”

The only answer you got was a small sniffle, his shoulders still trembling, although not nearly as badly. You had let him calm down for a moment more, rocking him against you while you hummed his favorite song. 

Eventually, he had calmed down, his shoulders steadying and his breath evening out. You had almost assumed he was asleep before you heard him whimper against your collarbone, pink lips mouthing needily at your skin. Your lips had quirked up in a smile as you had gently pulled him up, his small whine making you chuckle as you looked into his eyes.

“Do you need some time with mommy, my little love?”

Which is how you found yourself in your current position – reclined on the plush pillows of your bed with Aegon’s head in your lap, his lips eagerly suckling at your breast, not getting any real milk but the action calmed him still. You shiver slightly in the cool breeze that wafts in from the balcony, the air growing colder now that the sun has set. 

Aegon sighs contentedly, his warm breath fanning across your chest as small whimpers and whines slip past his lips. The small noises make you chuckle as you run a hand over his bare chest, “You’re my favorite little prince, do you know that?” You whisper, softly tickling his side enough to make him giggle and squirm. He smiles around your breast and nods happily, his nose digging into the fat of your breast as he presses himself more firmly against you. 

You stiffen a little at the sound of your chamber door opening once again, unable to see the entryway from the decorative screen you and your husband had placed in front of the bed. You make no move to disturb Aegon, though – bless the poor maids but there is not much they haven’t seen already. It is not a maid, however, that rounds the corner and you are instead met with the wide, surprised eye of your husband. 

After a second, the shock melts off of his face and he smirks at the sight of the two of you, his older brother still suckling away at your breast as if nothing were amiss. “My, my,” he tuts, stalking across the room to deposit the stack of books he carries onto the small breakfast table by the balcony before returning his attention to you once more, “I left my wife this morning dripping with my spend and already I return to a babe.”

“Aemond!” You hiss, frowning when you hear Aegon whimper at your chest, “Please, he is already in a state.”

“And in our chambers,” Aemond takes a seat at the table, unlacing his boots before setting them to the side, along with his leather tunic, “Normally you two reserve this… intimacy for his rooms.” His long fingers quickly untie his trousers, leaving them hanging from his slender waist as he moves about your chambers, poking the fire in the hearth back to life and tidying the papers on the writing desk. 

You soothe Aegon when he whimpers again, looking up at you with questioning, unsure eyes as a blush blooms on his cheeks. Even if his brother knows the details of your relationship with him, and even though he had walked in on him in this exact position before, he couldn’t help but feel so shy and vulnerable when he got this way. 

“Shh, my sweet,” you speak softly to the man at your breast, running your fingers through his pale hair, “Just relax, you’re okay.” Your words seem to settle him and his eyes grow droopy and half-lidded once more, a contented groan rumbling through his chest. 

“You should have seen him earlier,” you turn back to Aemond, eyes following him as he walks to your dressing table, “Poor thing came crying about court gossip.” You didn’t miss the small eye roll your husband gave at you calling his brother “poor thing” but you chose to ignore it for the time being; you didn’t love their endless taunts and teasing but they were still brothers, after all. 

“And what was the sweet babe weeping about this time?” Aemond asks, his voice dripping with derision as he takes a cloth from the small wash basin on the dressing table and quickly wipes at his neck and shoulders, droplets of water streaming down his defined frame and running into the lines and dips of the muscles on his chest, arms, and abdomen. 

Aegon growls at your chest, not missing the mockery in his brother’s tone. You try to calm him but it’s no use, he pulls off of your chest and throws Aemond a vicious look; you merely make yourself comfortable against the pillows and sigh tiredly. Gods be good, you thought, staring up at the stone ceiling as if the Seven would appear to offer their guidance; you love the two brothers more than anything else but you could do without their brotherly spats. 

“Well?” Aemond goads, his eye widening as he stares at his brother, a silent challenge.

“He feared I was pregnant,” you interject quickly, attempting to quell the coming squabble before it broke out, “Apparently the ladies of court have nothing better to do than monitor my condition.” You put an arm around Aegon as you speak, as if keeping him close to you would keep the two men from bickering. 

“You are my wife,” Aemond huffs out a sardonic laugh, a smirk playing at his lips as he wrings out the cloth and leaves it to dry on the side of the wash basin, “Why would it be of his concern if –”

Aegon growls against your breast again, letting your nipple fall from his pink lips as he fixes his brother with a glare, one that falters for half a second as you protectively tighten your hold on him. His dark eyes continue to glare at Aemond, following his every move as he comes to stand at the side of the bed, arms crossed over his chest as he studies the two of you. 

“Hush, my love,” you pet at his head and shoulders in an attempt to soothe him once more, glaring at your husband in warning, “This is nothing we need worry ourselves with tonight.” 

Aemond comes to sit next to you on the bed, giving Aegon a quick glare before he leans down and places a tender kiss to the top of your head. “You’re right,” he says into your hair, one hand coming up to cup the side of your face, “We need not trouble ourselves with it tonight.” 

Aegon huffs against your chest once more and gives his brother a final warning glance before looking up at you with a questioning gaze, pouty lips parted in an unspoken question. 

“You need some more time with mommy?” You ask him softly, grinning when he shyly nods, still so skittish of his needs around his brother. You coo and give him a nod, unable to stop the sigh that leaves you at the feel of his mouth on you once more. His tongue delicately licks at your hardened nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, still teasing it as he suckles. 

You admire him for a moment, studying the way his long lashes fan out over his cheeks once his eyes slip closed, his arms wrapped protectively around your middle as he kneels at your side. 

Finally, you turn your head to Aemond, surprised to see his eye trained on his brother, watching as he nurses at your breast. “Husband?” You ask tentatively; your relationship with both brothers was not a secret, at least not between the three of you, but even still, you rarely had them at the same time. 

His eye finally meets yours and he smiles, cuddling you closer, which earns a small whine from Aegon as he’s forced to move a fraction of an inch with you. “You needn’t worry so much,” he keeps his voice soft as he speaks, trailing kisses down your temple and cheek, “I’m merely thinking.” 

“About?”

“Putting a babe in you,” he all but growls into your ear before kissing the delicate skin just below it. “Seeing you grow with my child,” he continues, one hand skimming up your arm before he cups your unoccupied breast, long fingers kneading it gently before they pinch at your nipple, “Watching as these swell with your sweet milk.”

A shiver rolls through you at the thought, and at the salacious groan that vibrates from Aegon’s mouth. Your husband smirks at your reaction, watching proudly as your eyes become cloudy and unfocused. 

“Do you like that?” Aemond asks against the column of your throat as his lips and teeth and tongue work against your skin, sucking marks into the flesh, “Like the thought of my seed filling you up, finally taking root?” 

You hardly register Aegon’s whine, eyes squeezed shut as you feel your husband pressing himself to you, lips pressing against any bit of your skin he can reach, chuckling softly at how easy it is to work his brother up. “Wouldn’t that be something, brother?” Aemond questions sarcastically, his eye glimmering mischievously, “Wouldn’t she be so beautiful with my babe in her?”

The older brother grumbles something against you before redoubling his efforts, making you gasp as he begins suckling at you harshly, nose twitching in annoyance. You calm him as best you can, a shaky hand coming up and carding delicately through his hair – Aemond’s ministrations making it hard to concentrate. 

“You’ll be such a good mother, sweetling,” Aemond says lowly, kissing his way down your stomach as he moves to kneel between your thighs, “So perfect and sweet and caring.” He continues, punctuating each word with a kiss against your abdomen, his long hair tickling the skin of your thighs. 

“Aemond,” you pant softly, back arching as Aegon’s teeth just barely graze against your sensitive nipple, “Please!” You beg, though whether it’s to get him to stop taunting his brother or carry on with you, you cannot say. 

“Shh,” he presses wet kisses against one of your thighs, lips trailing slowly up to where you want him most before he tilts his head and begins kissing up the other thigh as well, his pace torturously slow, “I always give you what you want, do I not?”

A loud, uncontained moan tears itself from your throat as Aemond presses a kiss against your folds, groaning into your heat as he tastes you. “Gods, you’re dripping,” he growls into your cunt, practically making out with your center as his hands come to rest on the tops of your thighs, holding you in place, “Did your babe not care for you at all?”

At this, Aegon pauses, whining against your breast as he lifts his head, thin tendrils of drool connecting his shining lips to your hardened nipple. The feeling of his mouth lifting off of you has you finally opening your eyes, only to be met with his wide, uncertain eyes.

“Mommy?” His voice is so small, so terribly worried at the thought that he may have disappointed you somehow. 

“Oh, sweet prince,” you whisper, voice catching in your throat as you gasp at the feel of Aemond sucking your aching pearl into his mouth, worrying the sensitive skin between his lips. Your brows furrow with concentration as your eyes meet Aegon’s, your hands gently cupping his cheeks, “Don’t worry yourself,” you have to pause again as a curse slips past your lips, “You’re my perfect little baby, you could never disappoint me.” 

You finally manage to pant out your reassurances, eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head at the feel of Aemond’s hot tongue licking into your center, his nose pressed firmly against your bud as he fucks you on the long muscle, groaning into your slick folds as he savors your sweet taste. You stare desperately into Aegon’s dark eyes, back arching as your husband feasts on your cunt with practiced ease, the slick, squelching sounds of him licking into you and suckling at your pearl making you mewl and blush. 

“You’re so beautiful, mommy,” Aegon murmurs softly, violet eyes staring at you with rapture, as if he’s trying to absorb the pleasure radiating from you, “So pretty.” He breathes finally and leans down to press a soft kiss against your lips, whimpering when he feels your tongue press into his mouth. 

The men hold you like that for a moment, letting you lie back on the bed as they attend to you – Aemond murmuring dirty praises into your cunt as he licks at you wildly, flicking shapes and patterns against your pearl that have your head spinning; Aegon swallowing your wanton moans in his own mouth as he moves his lips against yours. 

You whine against the older brother’s mouth when you feel your husband’s fingers gently prodding your center, gathering wetness on them before carefully pushing two into your heat. “Seven, you’re tight,” his breath is warm against your glossy folds, “Always so tight, feels so good, sweetling.” He purrs before quickly wrapping his lips around your bud once more, gently sucking at the tender flesh but combined with the pressure of his fingers, it’s enough to send you into a tailspin. 

You pull away from Aegon with a gasp, back arching off the bed as you whine Aemond’s name, blushing as you hear the loud wet sounds emanating from where his fingers fuck into your cunt. Faintly, you hear Aegon whimpering next to you, his soft cries almost in time with yours as he presses soft kisses along your neck and shoulder. 

“Mommy, my mommy,” he whispers in reverence, leaning across your chest to get to the breast he’s neglected thus far, kissing softly across your supple skin and teasing your nipple with the tip of his tongue before finally suckling it into his mouth, closing his eyes with a soft groan as he nurses, getting lost in the feel of you beneath him, your skin on his. 

Aegon’s lips around your nipple has you breaking, every muscle in your body seeming to tense up as your high overtakes you. A strange mixture of their names leaves your lips in a rough moan as you squeeze your eyes shut, fire exploding through you. 

“That’s it,” Aemond groans, crooking up his fingers within you as he feels your walls pulsing around them, pressing them into that rough patch he has memorized in your heat, the one he knows prolongs your peak, “Gods, that felt like a big one, sweetling.” 

Somehow, you find it within yourself to nod tiredly, chest heaving as you catch your breath, slinging an arm over Aegon’s back as he sighs happily against your chest. 

“Made you feel good, mommy,” he chuckles proudly around your breast, nipping and licking at your nipple as he tilts his head to meet your gaze, earning an annoyed huff from Aemond as he presses calming kisses against your thighs and hips. 

He’s so proud of himself that you can’t help yourself from smiling and giggling, your fingers carding through his hair. “Oh, yes you did,” you coo, “You made me feel so good, my precious boy.” 

Below you, Aemond bites at your thigh as a warning, making you jump. “Keep it up and you’ll only give him a bigger ego,” he rolls his eyes and presses wet kisses in a trail up your stomach, stopping only when he reaches Aegon, still lying across you. The bed dips as Aemond crawls back up to lie next to you, kissing his way up your neck and jaw before finally slotting his lips against your own.

A whimper escapes your lips as he does, one of your hands reaching up to run your fingers through his long hair, the pale strands threading between your digits like silk. He sighs into the kiss, one of his hands coming up to gently cup your neck, not choking but merely staking a claim. The action makes you mewl and he uses it to his advantage, quickly sliding his tongue across your bottom lip before entwining it with your own as he licks into your mouth. You can feel your face heat up as you taste yourself on his lips, squirming in his hold as Aegon continues licking and suckling at your hardened nipple, sending shivers of pleasure up your spine and quickly reigniting the flames in your belly. 

Aemond smirks as your moans change in pitch, the familiar high-pitched, whiny cadence causing him to let out a low, vibrating growl himself. 

“Please, Aemond,” you whisper against his lips, whimpering as he trails his kisses down your jaw and neck.

Your husband groans softly against your shoulder, a shudder rolling through him at the breathy way you say his name, his favorite sound. “You need not beg me, sweetling,” he sighs, gently gripping your hips and nodding for you to roll onto your side, “I’ve got you.”

Aegon whines as Aemond moves you, struggling to keep his soft lips latched around your peaked nipple, which earns him another eye roll from your husband. Quickly, you settle onto your side, both arms immediately wrapping around Aegon to hold him close. His pale hair tickles your lips as you press a sweet kiss to the crown of his head, softly giggling as he desperately suckles your nipple back into his mouth; your sweet boy could be at your breast for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough for him. 

The bed dips on either side of you as the two men bracket you between them, Aemond behind you and Aegon in front. Your husband presses kisses against the back of your shoulder as he slots himself against you, the warmth of his chest pressing against your back sends a shiver down your spine and makes your already stiff nipples harden to the point of aching. 

“Iksā sīr gevie, ñuha ābrazȳrys,” Aemond whispers against your shoulder as he trails a hand over your curves, humming appreciatively as he palms the swell of your arse, “Avy jorrāelan sīr olvie.” (You are so beautiful, my wife, I love you so much.)

You whimper at his words, your heart twisting happily in your chest as you recall their meaning from the lessons he had given you during your courtship. “Avy jorrāelan tolī, ñuha valzȳrys,” you manage to moan brokenly, “So much, Aemond!” You breathe, foggy brain unable to keep up with translations any longer. (I love you too, my husband.)

A gasp leaves you as Aemond presses himself against you tightly as you realize that he had managed to tug off his trousers at some point, his length slotting beautifully between your thighs as he ruts against you. 

“Gods!” Your slick folds part greedily as your husband rubs against your center, coating his cock in your juices, the tip rubbing deliciously against your pearl, “Oh, Aemond!”

“Shhh,” he breathes against your ear as one of his warm hands latches onto your thigh and pulls it up, giving him more room to guide his cock into your heat, “I’ve got you, sweetling, I have you.”

You nod, near delirious, practically sobbing as he finally guides himself into you, filling you perfectly. Your head lolls back, further into his embrace as he slowly presses into you, stretching you as he finally bottoms out, stones pressed firmly to your backside as a low, gravelly groan vibrates against your back. 

“You feel so good,” you moan breathily, your fingers scrambling through Aegon’s hair as you press his mouth against you, earning a whimper from the prince as he takes your breast further into his mouth, suckling at it greedily, spit leaking from the corners of his lips. 

“Feels perfect,” Aemond huffs, grunting as he begins moving his hips against yours, eye squeezing shut at the feel of your slick walls sucking him in as you quiver around his length, “You feel perfect, tight little cunt.” He mutters, more to himself than to you, hissing the words between clenched teeth.

You let yourself get lost for a moment, a light sheen of sweat blanketing your skin from the heat of the two men around you. You make no attempt to stop soft, satisfied moans from slipping out of your lips, breathing your pleasure against Aegon’s forehead as Aemond rocks into you, thrusting his hips in a well-practiced pattern as he fills you again and again. Your husband’s grip tightens on your thigh, making your eyes roll back deliciously as Aegon flicks his tongue against your nipple before greedily sucking it back into his mouth. 

A few moments later, you’re brought out of your reverie by a slick feeling at the front of your thigh, small whimpers and whines from the man at your breast finally managing to trickle their way into your consciousness. 

You finally open your eyes, letting out a soft moan as you take in the sight before you – Aegon suckling desperately at your sensitive breast, his dark eyes looking up at you pleadingly, already shimmering with unshed tears, as he ruts his hard length against your thigh, already leaking glossy trails onto your skin with every movement.

“Ohh,” you coo softly, pressing a kiss to his sweat-damp forehead as you wrap your hand around his length, feeling it immediately twitch in your grasp, “You need mommy to take care of you?” You ask breathily.

“P-Please,” Aegon whimpers brokenly, flicking his tongue over your nipple as he nods his head, “Hurts!” He whines, voice thick as tears leak from the corners of his eyes. 

You press another comforting kiss to his forehead, gasping in time with Aemond’s hard thrusts as you begin slowly teasing the prince’s hard length, cooing again as you feel him pulsing in your grasp. “What a good boy,” you whine, swirling your thumb against his leaking tip, “Getting so hard from hearing mommy get fucked, hm?”

You feel him shudder against you, a low groan sounding against your breast as his hips fuck up into your hold. He whines as you let go of his cock for a second, quickly running your fingers around where Aemond spears into you. Your husband grunts behind you at the sensation as you quickly gather some of your juices on your fingers, moaning brokenly as you flick them around your pearl for a second before returning your attention to Aegon. 

Your face heats as you suddenly get a dirty idea and you take a second to spread some of your juices across your unoccupied breast, chuckling breathily as Aegon immediately abandons the one he’s currently suckling on, a loud moan snaking past his lips when you wrap your slick fingers around his cock once again, easing his thrusts into your fists. 

“Greedy babe,” Aemond grunts from over your shoulder, watching as Aegon frantically licks around your breast, humming excitedly at your sweet taste before latching onto your nipple once more, “Suckling at any part of my sweet wife he can reach.”

A fire lights in your belly at Aemond’s words as you’re surprised he’s addressing Aegon at all, his teasing lilt only adding to the heat within you. The prince whines within your grasp, his face flushing to a deeper shade of pink than it already is and his violet eyes shoot daggers in his brother’s general direction, not caring that he can’t see them. 

Suddenly, Aemond lets go of your thigh, leaving you to sling it over one of Aegon’s pale hips as he continues thrusting his cock into you, deep and slow. His hand instead settles on one breast and he lovingly palms at it, humming with satisfaction at its weighty feel in his hand. 

A loud whine leaves you as his fingers pinch around your overly-sensitive bud, tweaking and tugging at the swollen skin. Your back arches, loud whimpers tumbling past your lips as his touch borders on pain. Aegon growls at your sounds of discomfort, letting your nipple fall from his lips as he sits up just enough to throw him a malicious glare over your shoulder.

“Ngh!” Your little prince grunts, smacking Aemond’s hand away from you before wrapping an arm around your waist protectively and pressing soft kisses to your abused breast, “Mommy?” He questions softly, teary eyes searching yours, desperately wanting to make sure you’re alright. 

“Shh, shh,” you soothe sweetly, carding your fingers through his hair as he lays his head on your pillow once more, “Mommy’s okay, my sweet, thank you.” Your words are breathy, feeling halfway forced out of you as Aemond’s thrusts speed up, your mind growing fuzzy as the head of his cock moves against the sensitive spot within you perfectly, making you clench around him. Aegon continues thrusting into your grasp, his hands frantically grabbing onto any parts of you he can reach. 

“Pathetic,” Aemond huffs at his brother, biting into the sensitive skin of your neck, “So whiny, fuck, so whiny under your muña’s touch you can’t even speak.” (Mother’s)

Aegon whines again, a high, pitiful sound against your beast as he latches onto you once more, low groans ripping through him as the leaking head of his cock rubs against your soft thigh. 

“Hush,” you admonish, one arm hugging possessively around the prince, “Mommy’s taking good care of her sweet little boy, isn’t she?” 

“Y-Yes,” Aegon breathes brokenly around a soft moan, his cock twitching desperately in your hand, “Yes, yes, yes!” He chants around your breast, soft little words in time with each stroke of your hand. 

You can see him start to lose himself — watching as his eyes grow ever more glossy, tears welling up in the corners while throaty sobs and sighs warm your breast, his length seeming to get somehow thicker in your grasp as the head of his cock positively weeps against you. 

“What a good boy,” you sigh encouragingly, smiling proudly, glowing with the knowledge that you can reduce him to such a state, “Are you close, my sweet?” 

He nods desperately, soft grunts accompanying the thrusts of his hips up into your grasp. You keep your pace steady, your own head swimming as your release builds within you. 

After another few seconds, Aegon begins shaking helplessly in your grasp, his chest heaving as sobs are wrenched from his throat. “That’s it,” you murmur softly, feeling your cunt clench around Aemond’s length at the sight of the prince coming undone before you, making the other man groan loudly behind you, “Come on, I know you’re so close, show mommy how good she makes you feel, my love.” 

As always, your soft approval is what unravels him. You moan loudly, watching him fall apart in your arms, relishing the soft moans and sighs of your name as they fall from his pouty lips, the way his hips stutter in your hold. You gasp softly at the feel of his cock twitching between the two of you, his spend coating his belly and chest in pearlescent streaks.

Before he’s even had the chance to recover, your sweet boy finds it within himself to bring one hand down, greedily seeking out your bud. He sighs happily when you cry out his name, his fingers circling your aching pearl perfectly, just in the way you’d taught him, his chest still heaving with his own release. 

“Oh, Gods!” You gasp, your own hips rutting back and forth between the two men, “So c-close, fuck!” You whine, the fire in your belly threatening to consume you. 

“That’s a good girl,” Aemond grunts, hips thrusting into you at a maddening pace, “Do you want me to breed a baby into your wet little cunt, sweetling?”

You and Aegon whine at the same instant, yours in pleasure and his in annoyance. Your walls clench desperately at your husband's thick length, making him chuckle breathlessly behind you. 

“Find your pleasure, sweet girl,” he groans, his thrusts somehow perfectly timed to the swirls of Aegon’s fingers against your bud, “Peak and I’ll put a little babe in your belly, my love.” 

Aemond’s promise, Aegon’s soft whine, and the feel of their touches mingling on your slick heat finally pushes you over the edge once more. Your cunt pulses around Aemond as you slip over the edge, your pearl buzzing and twitching under Aegon’s fingers as flames of pleasure lick up your spine, sparks exploding behind your eyelids as you cry out against Aegon’s neck. 

Your release claws Aemond’s out of him as well, the feeling of his seed emptying into you spurring your peak on further. You whimper, mouthing at the pale skin of your prince’s throat as you feel warmth bloom within you, your husband’s harsh strokes finally slowing to a stop. 

The three of you lay silent for a while, the only sounds in your chambers being soft pants and sighs. Finally, Aemond carefully pulls his length from you, soothing you gently when you whine. 

“Seven,” he groans softly, watching his seed slip slowly from your spent center, “Perhaps this time we should let it take.” He muses as he gets up from the bed, retrieving a fresh cloth from your dressing table and quickly cleaning your center and thighs.

“But,” Aegon whimpers softly, drawing your attention back to him as he looks at you with wide, worried eyes, “What…what about me?” The meekness in his voice makes your heart ache as you hurriedly hush him, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes with your thumbs. 

“You don’t worry about a thing, my little love,” you reassure him, pulling him into your arms and rocking him slowly against you, “No matter what the future holds, you will always be my precious little prince. I swear it.” You promise, pressing soft kisses to each of his cheeks, one of your hands tickling at his side until he squirms and giggles against you, burying his head in your neck with a tired sigh.

Aemond huffs again, setting his eyepatch on the table by your bed before he assumes his spot next to you once more, slinging an arm over your waist as he makes himself comfortable. 

On your other side, Aegon shuffles down the bed once more, making you giggle softly as he presses feather light kisses to your breast, sighing happily at the mere feel of your supple skin against his lips as he cozies himself against you. 

“Maybe we should hold off on the moon tea this time,” Aemond ponders, mumbling against your shoulder as his fingers trace soothing patterns into the soft skin of your hip, “Surely an actual babe could be no more difficult than the one we already seem to have.” 

Aegon whines, Aemond chuckles, and you tiredly groan.

tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @hopelesswritergall @phantombitch @fan-goddess @aemshaircare @cuddlejeongin @imaegontatgaryenwife0 @valeskafics @beautbuck @watercolorskyy

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Wishlist. // DILF!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader MODERN AU //🎄 SPECIAL

WARNINGS: MDNI, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, fingering, lactation kink, breeding kink, fluff, dad!aemond and mom!reader, afab!reader, breast play, nipple play, slight teasing, + not proofread.

WC: 1.4k

« part one // part two »

A/N: your fav dilf and your children are back in town, tis the season to be jolly 🤭 I really wanted to bring this duo back haha, happy late Christmas, sorry for the await! This can also be read as stand alone but reading the prev two fics might help! // divider credits @cafekitsune

“Aenys! Daenys! Be careful, don't run around or you'll slip!” You yelled as you spotted Aenys and Daenys running around with decorations in their hand around the Christmas tree, trying to hang them up.

Daenys trips over the decoration and starts crying, you immediately put down Aelora, your third child down in her high rise chair before rushing over to Daenys and picking her up, patting her back as she clings onto you.

“Shh, there, it's fine, Mommy's got you okay? Don't run around next time.” You tell her and Aenys immediately rushed over to you, “Is she okay?” He asks and you nod, before leaning down and placing a kiss on his forehead.

This year's Christmas was more hectic than before, having a toddler and a kid running around to decorate the tree while managing your one year old isn't exactly easy.

But luckily for you, Aemond had just arrived from work.

“Papa!” Aenys runs over to his father immediately and Aemond picks him up before showering him with kisses, “How was your day Aenys?” He asked him and Aenys started babbling off until he mentioned how Daenys had fallen over just now.

Aemond, being the concerned father he is, immediately rushed to see you holding her in your arms, “You okay darling?” He asks her, holding Aenys up with one arm while caressing Daenys's hair with the other. She looks at her dad before she shifts her weight in his direction, indicating that she wants to be in his arms and Aemond immediately takes her from your arms, carrying both Aenys and Daenys on both of his sides.

You chuckle at how comedic it looks, Aemond was strong enough to carry them both which impressed you, “Aren't they heavy? They're both growing now.” You ask and he smiles and leans to press a kiss to your lips, “Yeah they are, but I want to cherish every moment I can carry them in my arms.” He tells you and you smile.

The evening was spent with giggles and warmth and soon it was time to put the kids to sleep, they kept on babbling about how excited they were to see Santa leave them presents and wondered what they'll get, rambling on how Santa hopefully knows what's on their wishlist and gets exactly them that, you chuckle as you tuck them to bed, placing kisses on their faces and moving to the living room.

You can finally relax, you immediately go into your shared bedroom with Aemond, who already seems to be there, “Aelora fell asleep already?” You ask and he nods, “She seemed very tired.” He tells you.

You sit next to Aemond on the bed, leaning against the headboard as Aemond works on his laptop, you lean your head on his shoulder, watching him work. “Have you gotten the presents for the kids?” You ask curiously and he hums, “Mhm, I can't wait to see their reactions in the morning.” He tells you and you giggle, “I'll place them under the tree at midnight.” You tell him your plan and he closes the laptop, finishing his work and puts it aside on the bedside desk. “What if they catch you?” He turns his full attention to you now, resting his hands on yours. “Oh you know they will not wake up until morning once they fall asleep, sometimes I worry that they're such heavy sleepers.” You tell him playfully and he lets out a small laugh. “Hopefully they like the presents.”

“Speaking of presents, I haven't gotten mine.” Aemond suddenly says and you smile at him, knowing exactly what he wants, “I've even written it down on the wishlist, it seems I was scammed.” He pouts and you chuckle, “Well, Santa can't give you a whole human can he?” You joke around.

When he was asked to put something he wants for Christmas on the wishlist, he wrote down your name on it, making you blush and scribble out that from it.

“Hmm.” He hums as he gazes into your eyes and you look at him back, he leans in slowly before connecting your lips together, they move in passion as the air fills up with tension and desperation, he pulls away breathing heavily.

No words are exchanged as you both hurriedly take off your clothes, and Aemond pins you flat against the bed, showering your face and neck with kisses before gripping your tits with his hand, pinching the nipple.

You gasp when you feel his warm tongue against the bud as he sucks on your breast, he feels your milk fill in his mouth as he swallows it down greedily and pulls away, “Fuck you're still producing milk?” He asks before switching to your other breast and showering it the same attention, “H-hm? Yeah, haven't weaned Aelora off yet.” you tell him and he leaves your breast with a pop, “Not complaining, I fucking love it.” He kisses your lips once again.

His hand caresses and travels further downwards your body to your cunt before dipping into your sweet wetness, “Fuck, you're so soaked, all for me yeah?” He whispers in your ear and you swallow thickly, goosebumps arising when you feel his hot breath near your ear, “Y-yes.” You answer.

His pinches your clit, making you gasp, before slowly rubbing small circles onto it, cause your breath to pick up and pulse begin to race at the arousal. His fingers dip in towards your entrance gently as he places kisses to your neck, “Look how it's engulfing me.” He comments as he watches his finger sink into you before he starts to move.

He curls his fingers before moving them in and out in a certain pattern, hitting your gspot multiple times already, making you wonder if he had its location memorised the way he can find it so easily.

Soon you reach your first orgasm of the night, biting your lip to not be too loud, suppressing your moans in an effort to not wake your baby next room. You should really make your room soundproof, you remember the days when Aemond clamped his hand over your mouth just to keep you from being too loud.

You whine subconsciously when you feel him pull his fingers out and move down, spreading your legs wide before grabbing your calves and placing your legs on his shoulder as he positions his cock against your entrance.

“Literally the best fucking present I could ask for.” He growls as he sinks his cock into your cunt, grunting in pleasure at the pleasure of your walls clamping down and gripping onto him.

He tries to take it slow at first, but it changes the moment you clench around him, unleashing all the frustration he held back and immediately set the pace at a faster rate, causing your body to jolt up and down the bed as you grip on to his hands which were currently holding your waist as in means hold in place securely.

You soon begin to see stars at the way he's moving, your mind spins, feeling the way his cock keeps hitting all the right spots, “Will you give me another?” He asks, panting and you look at him in a daze, “Hm?” You mumble, not understanding what he's asking for.

“Another child, another babe.” He tells you, “You'll let me impregnate you? Fill your womb up with my seed? I fucking love watching you swell with my child, knowing it was me who put it in you.” His words make you more aroused, the thought of having another child with him doesn't bother you and you greedily nod your head, your mind thinking of nothing else besides wanting to be filled up by your husband.

“Fuck—!” He finishes with a grunt, and slowly rides his orgasm out, hitting your sweet spot at the same time, causing you to finish as well.

He immediately plops down next to you and pulls you into his arms, placing kisses on your forehead as you both catch your breath.

“Best fucking Christmas ever.” He pants and you chuckle, “You said that last year too.” You tease and he lets out a loud laugh, “Well, it just gets better every year.” He replies back.

“Aren't we forgetting something?” You question, mind wandering off somewhere else, trying to remember what you were planning on, grabbing your phone and looking at the time, noticing how it said 1AM, you and Aemond look at each other before your eyes widen in realisation.

“Oh right! The presents!”

You both say in unison and rush putting on your clothes just to place the presents underneath the tree.

Needless to say, it was a great Christmas for everyone.

— !  ݈݇- thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated greatly ♡

[lilbunnis]

❛ ♡. header credit. ⎯⎯ 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲. ❜

★ ⎯⎯ aemond targaryen has always wanted someone as his own; and with him already having claimed his vicious mount vhagar, the queen of dragons herself--- what is there to stop him from claiming you, too?

author’s note᛬ heey! 🍓 so……this is my second time posting this particular story--- however, it was a long time ago & someone anonymously requested to read it again. happily, i offered to repost it for them (with the exception that i re-edit it since my style of writing has changed / improved!) … anyways, reblogs & comments are deeply appreciated. ♡ + both aemond & reader are equally unhinged. <3 mwuah !

warnings᛬ mdni! smut, dubcon [kind of… but trust me, it’s wanted], dark!aemond, profanity, she/her pronouns, afab reader, innocence kink, corruption kink, coercion, manipulation, pussy whipped!aemond, breeding kink, cunnilingus, fingering, obsessive & possessive behavior, pet names, romance, fluff. any grammatical errors are my own--- in advance, i sincerely apologize.

word count᛬ 2.5k

𝐎𝐇, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝒀𝑶𝑼, 𝐈’𝐃 𝐃𝐎 𝑨𝑵𝒀𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮.

aemond targaryen has always thought of her as his--- his to protect, his to care for, his to love; ever since he’d met her, he surrounded himself in her feminine presence, around her sweetness and innocence, keeping her close by and never letting her trail very far out of his sight.

unless, of course, it was absolutely necessary, and even then, he’d have one of his most trustworthy guards (loyal only to him) follow her around all day--- discreetly, of course.

however, during their short time apart, the one-eyed prince would be on constant edge; irritable and in a foul mood throughout the time that they were apart, not being able to trust anyone to truly protect his lady the way he knew he could.

oh, how he missed his dearly beloved so--- so much so, that the wayward prince was known for his brutal lashings and merciless beheadings (all a gift to his love) to all of those who merely breathed the wrong way in his proximity.

or simply, sweet gifts of pretty, sparkling sapphires and pearls.

still, he knew that she thought his temper and rage was charming, as she had once told him in that sweet, gentle little voice of hers, soothing his fiery temper as if she were the maiden reborn.

like his own little angel, so delicate, tender-hearted and mine, aemond thought.

sometimes, most of the time, aemond would just simply gaze at her, at her beauty, longingly; like she was the center of the universe and held all of the twinkling stars in the night sky.

most people wouldn’t dare to believe such a thing, but aemond thought it was cute when she learned something new in philosophy, excitedly wanting to share the new knowledge she’d learned from her septa with him--- even if he already knew, just to be able to listen to her sweet, angelic voice.

oh, and on those simple days, content to just listen to her babbling on about whichever subject she deemed of interest; he would lovingly hand feed her fresh strawberries, one by one; the ripest, juiciest and sweetest ones, listening as she breathily moaned in content as each one entered her pouty mouth.

meanwhile, as his little darling continued on about whichever subject interested her at the moment; the one-eyed prince watched in delight as the red juices dribbled down her chin, allowing him to quickly swoop in and kiss it delicately away, causing him to hum in content at the sweet taste.

whether it be from the strawberries themselves or the sweet taste of her skin, it mattered not to the prince--- because the next moment, he would drop to his knees and feast on her delicious, drooling cunt; burying himself right beneath her fluffy skirts as he heard her girlishly moan and whimper for him, as he continued enjoying the taste of her maidenhood.

on lazy days, the prince will sit with her in his lap, one of his strong, lean arms wrapped snugly around her waist, most protectively; meanwhile, his free hand would slip beneath her fluffy skirts and play with her virgin, soaking cunt, teasingly stroking his long, calloused fingers through her wet, puffy folds.

seven above, and the sounds of her soft, breathy little moans, almost luring him to bend her right over the wooden table in the back of the library and rut into her like some wild, depraved beast, claiming her maidenhead as his.

‘twas almost too much to bear for the prince, knowing she was already his in body, mind, heart and soul.

he always imagined what she must taste like that day, right before he would feast on her cunny, almost to tease himself--- like freshly baked sweet tarts, spoonfuls of honey, strawberries…

late at night, while in the privacy of his own chambers, he’d furiously fuck his fist to the thought of burying his face between her smooth thighs once again, wanting nothing more than to taste and fuck her cunt with his tongue greedily; before he’d come so fucking hard in his hand, his seed coating the skin of his taut abdomen and dripping down his fingers--- sticky and messy and entirely spent.

sighing heavily, aemond would barely resist the temptation to exit his chambers and go straight to hers, knowing she’d welcome him with an open heart and open legs.

…fuck, what a waste of his seed, he thinks, for he could’ve pumped her empty womb full of his seed; fuck load after load inside of her, and come by morning, she would already be carrying his son in her belly.

rightfully so; she’s be so beautiful, so fragile, so obedient, a perfect little wife she’d be for him, indeed.

meanwhile, back in the library, aemond would continue teasing her little cunny, occasionally dipping the very tips of his fingertips into her little virgin fuck-hole, feeling how fucking tight she was for him, causing him to harden almost painfully inside of his leather breeches, right below her squirming, little ass.

like his very own wanton, silk street whore.

she continued to moan and whimper repeatedly; making him gently shush her with delicate kisses across her neck, spreading her dripping arousal all around her swollen bud, hearing her mewl his name like a prayer and grip the polished library table forcibly, watching her blissed-out face until she came all over his fingers.

when he made her come so hard with just playing with her little bundle of nerves, he had to slap a hand over her mouth to muffle her cries of pleasure and whisper sweet praises into her ear, knowing how sensitive and needy she was in his arms, just after coming down from her peak and making her come so hard on his fingers.

of course, the more time he spent with her, the harder it was to resist her--- and so, most nights, when aemond could no longer resist being away from her; the need to see her being just too much for him to bear any longer, he’d eagerly seek her out, knowing she’d be in her chambers, awaiting his arrival.

just as eager and wanton as he was, it seemed.

smirking, aemond chuckled softly, embracing her; “my sweetest, my darling, my little love--- fuck, i have missed you.”

he couldn’t control himself anymore, he needed to see her, to be with her, to have her.

always.

specifically, in the late hours of the night, wanting to be as close to her as physically possible; fuck, he loved her so much, he didn’t ever want her to doubt his love for her--- he stripped them both of their evening clothes, his amethyst eye dilated and wild at the sight of her nude form.

during those private evenings, aemond had convinced her for him to claim her as his… fully, in the ways only a man could claim a woman.

with his persuasion, his silver tongue easily convinced her into saying yes; causing him to release a purr and claim her body multiple times that night, until she was a shaking, sobbing and sweaty mess beneath him, full of loads of his seed, while he held her tightly against him in his arms--- possessively.

uncaringly, the prince left all sorts of love marks all across her skin, kissing every inch of her soft, glistening skin that he could reach, suckling on her swollen, puffy nipples, knowing her plush breasts would soon grow heavy with milk for their many babes that’d come someday soon.

selfishly, just maybe; he could persuade his little darling for a taste for himself--- fucking hells, he couldn’t wait for her to grow round and fat with his sons!

insatiably, he would fuck his already hardening, leaking cock back inside of her sopping cunt, his and her own moans of pure love and ecstasy echoing off of the walls of her chambers.

however, even with all of the bliss and pleasure and love; still came her doubts and worries.

his sweet lady, his precious love, his only girl--- was utterly terrified of someone finding out about their affair.

however, the fearsome, bloodthirsty dragon prince would always reassure her; whispering sweet words of his love and devotion into her ears, calming her by kissing her love-marked skin before he would fuck her squelching cunt once again with his cock, ploughing into her mercilessly, filling her with another load of his seed, until tears would stream down her blushy cheeks.

unable to stop herself, she’d let out the most feminine moans for him, not being able to control her sweet mewls from escaping her kiss-swollen lips, sobbing out deliriously as he continuously fucked her ruthlessly, uncaring of who heard them; for the one-eyed prince was too addicted to the taste of her and the pretty, precious sounds she made just for him.

it wouldn’t matter anyway, if anyone were to find out about their love affair--- aemond genuinely honestly couldn’t give a fuck if someone were to tell her lord father that her maidenhead was claimed by him anyone.

if anyone would dare to question his lady’s virtue or purity, he would cut out their tongues, before mercilessly killing them and feed their mutilated corpse to his mighty beast, vhagar.

aemond had always been a possessive man, especially when it concerned his sweet little lady, to the point that most of the noble lords and ladies of the court started to take notice; however, the fearsome prince paid them little attention--- nowadays, his only concern in life was his darling little bride.

some days, when the weather was warm enough and the sun was shining brightly, aemond would take his lady on long walks around the red keep’s royal gardens, right after he finished his morning training session with ser criston.

as always, it was just the two of them, together; and while he watched her instead of admiring the pretty flowers that she seemed so smitten by, he couldn’t stop the tiny grin from spreading across his face at just the mere sight of her.

her, her, her.

his--- his lady, his woman, his wife.

there was a secret, hidden alcove surrounded by various cherry trees and gorgeous pink peonies, which aemond would often bring her to visit; it was almost as if it was their special spot.

then, without warning, aemond would gently press her back up against one of the trunks of the pretty, blossoming cherry trees, kissing her so sweetly, so passionately, so tenderly; it made her swoon and see constellations on the backs of her fluttering eyelids.

“marry me.”

suddenly, she felt as if her heart had suddenly stopped beating and she felt rather faint--- for a moment, her heart felt as if it had skipped several beats, because surely… her sweet aemond did not just ask the impossible of her?

again, aemond spoke.

“marry me,” he murmured against her soft, perfumed skin (that smelled of the lavender oils they’d previously bathed in that morning together) trailing open-mouthed kisses along her sensitive neck, causing a breathy whimper to escape her pretty, pouty lips.

instantly, aemond’s ears had perked up to the sound of her breathing that was quickening, his large hands roaming and grasping at her sides as if to soothe her sudden panic, enjoying the feeling of her womanly curves against his big hands, even through the silk fabric of her pretty, sapphire colored dress.

“hmm…no,” she drawled lazily, though her sweet voice was teasing, “—my father is suspicious enough already about all of the rumors going on about us…he doesn't ask, of course; i’m afraid it’s because he is too frightened of you,” she giggled softly, batting her long eyelashes up at the handsome prince.

aemond smirked, amused by his little darling.

“besides,” she continued softly, her usual sweetened voice saddened and aemond watched as his lady’s heart was visibly breaking right before his own eye, “—my father… he will arrange a betrothal for me soon and i must do my duty, as is expected of me,” she whispered, while gently twirling a few strands of her lover’s long silvery hair around one of her fingers, her face sullen--- like a little girl having her favorite treat taken away from her.

aemond hummed; a soft, dangerous sound as his face remained stoic, not displaying a single emotion that he was currently feeling--- his natural-born eye on the other hand…was a raging storm of a dark, angry violet, screaming promises of fire and blood.

“that'll never happen,” aemond murmured softly, his voice a raspy baritone, completely unbothered, “—if your father even dares to try and take you away from me, he'll suffer a most painful death; i assure you, my sweet lady.”

her heart fluttered, both of her cheeks heating up and her head began to feel fuzzy, a dreamy expression forming on her pretty face; though she wasn’t sure if it was from the warm weather or by his loving, murderous words.

“you're so sweet,” she cooed dreamily, smiling up at him as she wrapped both of her arms around his neck loosely, her fingers gently brushing through more of his long silvery hair, feeling how silky-smooth the strands were--- curtsey of the queen, his darling mother; a sweet gift of scented oils she had gotten for her favorite son all the way from pentos.

“only for you, my beloved,” the prince promised, tenderly brushing his knuckles along one of her rosy cheeks, bending down towards her shorter height and capturing her rouge-stained lips in a sweet, deeply passionate kiss--- a deep, throaty sound of lust escaping from him.

ah, she tastes of the sweetest of innocence and strawberries.

his favorite.

‘twas as if the prince could never get enough of her taste, of her.

sweetly, she releases a little whine, high-pitched and so needy for him; the sweetness of a poisonous kiss--- oh, how he wants to love her forever and bathe in all of the glorious love she had to offer him.

gods, he loved her… only, only, only her.

“my angel, so soft and pure, so innocent; and your precious heart… it is mine,” he growled, deepening the kiss against her lips--- his large, warm and calloused hands began trailing down to cup her sweet, little ass through her skirts, bundling the silky, sapphire colored fabric in his greedy hands to fondle and squeeze the soft flesh of her asscheeks; pinching and clutching possessively.

grinning wolfishly, aemond trailed his open-mouthed kisses down her delicate neck, suckling freshly new love marks into her fading, bruised skin--- all across her neck, jawline, collarbones and the very tops of her soft, perky breasts.

“marry me,” he asked once again, sounding impatient, though he wouldn’t mind begging, if it only meant claiming her for himself.

she wrapped her arms around his neck more snugly, standing on the tips of her toes to kiss him sweetly, all across his chin and the corners of his mouth, feeling his hands roam freely all over her once more before settling still, giving her backside a loving squeeze.

“be my wife,” he pleads once more, his tone of voice more desperate than ever before, sweet as sugar and the burning flesh of corpses.

she released a small sigh, moving closer just slightly so that she could brush her saliva-coated lips softly against his own, “yes,” she breathed lovingly, feeling as he visibly shuddered against her just from her mere acceptance of his begging proposal.

“i’ve always been yours.”

fin.

[li0nn3stuff]

You see Aemond's eye

English is not my first language, be kind.

Modern!Aemond x fem!Reader 

You are in a relationship with modern!Aemond

Warnings: pure smut with a bit of fluff in the end

Aemond groans, as he squeezes her hips with his hands, as she keeps on jumping up and down his cock. He clenches his jaw, throwing back his head at the beautiful feeling of being inside of her once again. Her breasts were jumping up and down in front of his face, still covered by her bra, her hands beside his head, her head thrown back. He looks at her face, contorted in pleasure and a bit of tiredness as she keeps riding him, moaning every time his cock slips back in, rubbing just the right spot inside her.

He moves one of his hands to tug down harshly the cup of her bra, letting one of her breasts out, so he could lean towards it to suck her nipple in his mouth. She moans even loudly and she sits on his cock, swaying her hips back and forth, as she puts one of her hands behind his head, keeping him close to her breast. He grunts and grabs her ass tightly enough to be leaving bruises later, and he starts moving her so she resumes her previous movements, forcing her to take his cock in and out, as he watches how she wonderfully does so, with his mouth half open.

“Yes… Fuck- That’is, baby- Just like that.” He moans as she nods and follows his pace. He let one of his hands away from her ass to bring it to her exposed breast, squeezing it, then twirling her nipple between his fingers.

“Oh- Fuck, A-Aem-Aemond!” She moans loudly and he smirks. He squeezes the skin of her ass even tighter as he stops her movements, fixing the cup of her bra as he puts his hands back on her hips, keeping her still. He plants his feet on the bed and start thrusting his hips up, fucking her from below, his eye glued to where their bodies combined so wonderfully. She moves her hands on his chest to keep her balance and she looks down at him.

“A-Aemond- S-so good..:” she mumbles as he just keeps speeding up, going inhumanly faster. The room was filled with dirty sounds, the sicky sounds of her juices that wetted his crotch, her moans, sobs and whimpers, and his grunts or heavy breathing.

She kept looking at his face, she loved to drink up every expression of his, all the time, in bed, out of bed. She couldn’t stop looking at him, finding every single detail of his face incredibly beautiful. Except for one thing. They’ve talked before, and almost every time, it ended up disappointing for her. His eyepatch. She had asked him on many occasions why he never took it off with her, why she couldn’t see how he was underneath it, and he simply answered that she wasn’t ready, that she would have been disgusted by what she would have seen. Hearing him saying such things about himself always broke her heart, so she would just drop the conversation with a sadden smile.

“I’ll fuck you untill morning, baby- Fuck, if it feels this good it’ll be worth feeling my cock fall off-” He grunts as he grabs the back of her neck and pulls her down on his chest. She hides her face in his neck, trying to cover her moans on his skin, but he slapped her ass, leaving a red print of his hand on it.

“Don’t. Let me hear you. Let everyone hear how good I make you feel.” he growls, as she presses her forehead on his neck as she tries to get a glimpse of the sight of his cock entering her repeatedly, but due to this position she couldn’t, so she just closes her eyes and moans again, clenching her hands on the duvets under them, squeezing them in her hands as she just kept taking whatever he gave her. He takes off his hand from the back of her neck and he slips it between them, searching for her breasts again, so she takes the occasion to sit back up as he keeps pistoning his hips up.

The stamina of this guy was something she just would never understand.

She puts her hands back on his chest, passing her fingers over his nipples, and she looks back at his face. His lips parted, his rapid breathing and his expression of struggle, pleasure and determination. He grunts and throws his head back as he closes his eye, the scar wrinkling the skin around it, the eyepatch moving slightly. He probably didn’t even notice, but she did. She puts her hand on his scarred cheek, caressing it, as he immediately opened his eye to watch her attently. Giving her a few harder thrusts to warn her, that made her sob harder, almost taking her breath away. She fixes his eyepatch over his eye and she leans down to kiss his chest, keeping her hand on his cheek, sitting back up after.

Aemond’s thrusts were getting harder and quicker, a sign that he was about to cum. She looks back at his face and he sees his pained expression as he tried to hold back, feeling her walls starting to squeeze him, knowing that he was just building her orgasm up. She bites her lip as he keeps looking at his face, and even if she knew that what she was about to do was really wrong, she couldn’t refrain herself, so she moved her hand and slipped his eyepatch off. She met blue.

He was… beautiful.

His lost eye has been replaced with a blue sapphire gem, his eyelid a bit wrinkly and red at the edges. But that eye, that gem… Aemond widened his eye, shocked by her action. How could he be insecure of such a sight? God, she was so lucky, she was in heaven, she felt the highest, knowing that she get to be fucked by him, touched, kissed, by him. She was flattered to even be close to him. She kept staring at him, and after finally having revealed to herself what he looked like, all she could do was just cum. She collapsed on top of him as her walls spasmed violently, never having cum this hard in her life, she just felt wonderfully, hugging his neck close to her as she let out the loudest moan.

Aemond clenches his eye close as he moans back just as loud, her walls sucking him so wonderfully that his legs just fail him when he finally lets himself cum. She puts her hands on the sides of his face as she presses her lips on his. He sighs and kisses her back, pushing her away almost immediately. She pulls away and looks at him with her lips pressed together.

“I-I’m so sorry…” She was panting, her whole body was shaking.

“Why did you even do it?” He growls as he puts his eyepatch back on, but she grabs his wrist to stop him.

“No! Please, I’m really sorry I did it like this, but please, Aemond, don’t wear the eyepatch again.” She begs him. He growls and he pulls his wrist away from her. “What makes you think you have the right to ask this, uh?!” He was angry, he felt betrayed, and he had all the right to be, she knew it.

“Aemond… I know I-I shouldn’t have, but… You’re beautiful.” She ends up whispering her last two words. He looks at her as if she was a madwoman.

“You should be disgusted.” He hisses at her and she furrows her brows.

“Disgusted? Aemond… who told you that? Your eye is nothing to be disgusted by.” She felt her heart break into pieces at his words. He just fixes his eyepatch on his eyes and looks away from her.

“No one.” He answers coldly. She presses her lips together, feeling her eyes filling with tears. She moves off of him and lays beside him. Aemond was stubborn, what he said, he had to do. She felt it was worth it to try again. 

“Aemond…” She puts her hand on his cheek, turning his face towards her. She met his glacial gaze, the one he usually reserved for strangers. It sent shivers down her spine, mixed with pure fear. Did she just ruin everything? Only the idea of losing him made her want to cry and beg him on her knees. She takes a deep breath to not burst into tears.”P-Please… You’re perfect… you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen…” 

His expression softens as he sees her tears, and he sighs in frustration, pulling her close, making her lean on his chest as he wraps his arm around her.

“Did you cum for my eye?” He asks so shamelessly that she blushed violently, even though it was nothing she could deny. She slowly nodded her head, looking down at her hand resting on his chest. He heard Aemond moving, then his hand came in her view field, holding his eyepatch. He was giving her his eyepatch. Her head snaps up, looking up at him. His cheeks red in embarrassment, as he was looking away from her. His eye uncovered. She smiles softly, wiping away her tears, as she leans on her elbow to look better at him she puts her hand on his cheek again, turning his head to her. He was so pretty, his cheeks flushed, his gaze drifted to the side, as he refused to meet your eyes.

“You’re beautiful.” She repeated, smiling at him. His cheeks only reddened more as he clenched his jaw.

“I don’t get you. How can you enjoy the sight of any of this?” He answers and I rest my chin on top of your chest, admiring your face.

“I just do. Simple as that.” 

He finally looks down at her and he caresses her cheek with her thumb.

“I don’t think I would have ever been able to take the eyepatch off in front of you. I guess it was a good thing that you did it for me.” He says as he looks at her, his mind strangely calm. She leans towards his hand as she closes her eyes, enjoying the feeling of his soft touches.

He grabs her by the back of her neck and she brings her up to his face so he can kiss her. She immediately wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as he rolls to get on top of her. He looked at her, smirking. Her reaction to his eye gave him a huge boost of confidence.

“I won't cover my eye again when we are alone, I promise.”  She smiles back at him at his words. He smiles devilishly then he adds: 

“Especially if it makes you cum that hard.” 

[barbieaemond]

The King of Qarth I

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Qartheen f!reader (use of third perspective)

Warnings: angst, dubcon (but not really), handjob, fingering, p in v, hints at sexual trauma, self indulgent use of sorcery

Word count: 11k (i know...i'm sorry...)

Author’s note: The foreign words you’ll find are stolen from Greek. Second and final part coming in two weeks. English is not my first language.

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee @succnfuccubus @zaldritzosrose @kckt88 @venmondiese @miraclealignertlsp369 @ilikechocolatemilkh @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs

He had taken each one of them. Dragons, power, the Crown. Snatched them from whatever divine plan the Gods had concocted, for others, never for him, and perhaps this was their punishment.

Death would’ve been a far too kind blessing, he would come to realise in one of those endless days spent wandering, roaming to find some meal, a softer clod to lie on, an identity.

Prince, Protector of the Realm, Rider of Vhagar, Blood of Old Valyria.

They were nothing more than shrouds. Once stripped of them, what was left was merely a man.

And a son. That’s what his mother saw when they threw him on the ground of the Throne Room.

Crawling on her knees like some commoner, she begged and sobbed until her voice became raw and her throat hoarse, chanting obsessively the same plea over and over like a mad woman.

"Please...have mercy in the name of the Mother… my only son...” she had bent so much as to graze the toe of Corlys Velaryon's boots with her face. “you took them all...you took them all...”

Whether she was talking to the Sea Snake, Rhaenyra, the Gods or fate, Aemond didn’t know. He didn’t know the woman kneeling before him, if he ever truly knew her. You cannot know ghosts, only walk through them.

He could not look at her. He turned his head and watched over that crowd of traitors looking down on him, as if they themselves had not looted, slaughtered, and burned more innocent than guilty.

Trained puppets they were, obeying like green little soldiers to Cregan Stark, a northern savage who had taken upon himself the right and duty to do justice. Corlys Velaryon knew it well, having spent days and nights in the dungeons as an accomplice in the poisoning of Aegon the Elder. And there they were, taking over the reins of a kingdom shattered and embittered by war.

But with the promise of Alysanne Blackwood’s hand in marriage, the Wolf had been tamed. He had stopped howling about trials and executions. Now, caution moved and bogged down their decisions. But one thing was clear as a law written in stone: there had to be peace, no matter the cost. Hence, a marriage had been arranged, between two children who, for no reason, had been taught to see the other as the enemy, whose eyes had seen too much death; orphaned and thrown like marbles into a game that brought neither smiles nor laughter to their sepulchral mouths.

She was looking at him, Jaehaera, and in her empty eyes Aemond could see Helaena climbing up the windowsill and letting herself fall.   

“What happened to Vhagar?” The Sea Snake asked “Kinslayer! What about your dragon?”

"Dead.” He lied, although he didn’t know for how long that lie would remain so. That rope in his heart had loosened, weakened, but it still held. She must have crawled off to some remote place, perhaps beyond the Neck, to recover from the injuries to her neck and right wing.

Then the Sea Snake had turned his back, consulting with his council of leeches. Exile. He heard them say. Essos. And then that word he hadn’t heard for a long time. Dragonless. A kinder word for useless. Powerless.

“Let him go, Corlys. He’s always been a spoiled brat. He won’t survive for long in those savage lands.” Someone said outside the cell they threw him in, shackled with chains on wrists and ankles like some rabid dog.

He won’t survive for long.

How he wished they were right. How he wished to look into the beady eyes of the Stranger.

Alicent would curse him, perhaps she would slap him as she used to slap Aegon for being so blasphemous, not to the Gods, but to her. Aemond was no father, and no matter how much he could try, he’d never understood the fierce, unforgiving grip motherhood had on a woman.

When he saw her for the last time before being thrown on a ship to Braavos, he realized it was the only tether that kept her alive. Him and Jaehaera.

“Just a little longer, please…just a little…” she pleaded to his jailers. With the arranged marriage, cruelties had softened, and concessions became more frequent. The Dowager Queen was granted to see her son for the last time.

“Mother!” he screamed as they dragged him away “Keep your fucking hands off me!”

He needed to speak to her. He needed her to tell him she was lying.  

“Mother, there’s a woman…”

“The Strong witch? Aemond, she’s…They captured our last allies from the Reach and…they said they found a woman in the woods but…she was in pain…and bleeding….”

The Gods’ punishment flowed through the long-cowled robe of the Stranger. And he took them all.

Aegon, Helaena, Daeron. Alys and the baby.

Alicent could not bear to see the last piece of her flesh and bones being cloaked by the cold shroud of the Stranger. And so, she crawled and begged to preserve his existence.

But that, that was no existence.

It was a limbo, a hanging life for the damned. And he was one, wasn't he? He killed kin, he killed innocent men, women and children, coming from above like a heaven banished God unleashing his wrath on the world. And even gods pay for their sins.

Only he would gladly have stuck his head in a noose or waited for the hangman's blade, a death worthy of a soldier, rather than wandering like a derelict, rootless and restless, with that rope pulling and fraying day after day. Or Weeks? Moons? He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d set foot in that limbo.

He seemed to be living in a slumber, a Milk of the Poppy hallucination. And yet, the ground was real beneath his exhausted feet, as was the heat, and at some point, the hunger.

The leeches had tried to appear civil and compassionate, lying to his mother’s face about the gold they would give him, to sustain himself once reached the East. But naturally, they didn’t keep their word. If he died of starvation, he was sure they would have lit a candle to each God in the Grand Sept. They probably prayed for that to happen.

Or maybe not. Maybe there was no greater gratification and source of amusement to know that the haughty Prince Aemond was tasting the everyday humiliation of having to steal in order not to starve, of not having clean clothes, feather pillows to lie on, the disgrace of not being able to give orders to anyone, but rather having to suffer them.

He stayed in Bravoos for a short time. It was too dangerous, too close to Westeros and too wary if anyone ever caught the color of his hair under the cloak’s hood. He remembered his history books quite well. It was the only one among the Free Cities that did not yield to the Valyrian empire; indeed, it was founded by a group of rebellious slaves fled from the tyranny of the Dragon Lords.

Volantis, on the contrary, worshipped the Old Empire. But in equal measure, they worshipped slavery. The city swarmed with mercenaries and slavers, peddling men and women like meat for slaughter, ready at every corner to steal children from the streets. And in Volantis Aemond understood that if he did not want to end up in some butcher’s hands, he had to be what he had always been: a soldier. For he realized that everywhere in the world, the most valuable currency was not gold, nor castles and titles, but blood.

This man for new fresh clothes, that woman for few gold coins and a mattress to rest his back, not to sleep. Sleep eluded him, as well as remorse. Unless his body shut his mind out of exhaustion, he lied there for hours on end, with blood drying on his hands, listening to all the ghosts floating around him, and trying to find a grip—something to hold on to. Duty had been the blacksmith who forged him and the altar to which he devoted himself. Duty to his family, his brother, the crown, the throne, even Alys, yes. For all her riddles and stumps of prophecy, he wanted her. He wanted that son.

But here, he had no high purpose to serve but himself. Stripped of all honors and many more curses, he fell into a daylong stupor, made of blood, humiliations and silent cries for revenge.

Until one day, the rope went taut.

Vhagar burned away the stupor. She had found him. For the second time, she had been his salvation. And on her back, he found a fragment of who he was, but who he was supposed to be remained a distant thing, clouded in smoke.

He flew south, over the ruins of Old Valyria, and then east, crossing all of Vaes Dothrak to the Red Waste, and by the time he realized he should've veered north or south, it was too late.

He was in the middle of the widest and driest desert on the eastern continent.

The Garden of Bones, as they called it, and with good reason. For in those few times that Aemond decided to land to allow Vhagar to rest, all his eye could see were sand, devilgrass and bones. But he didn’t care about the thirst, the dry and cracked lips, the white tow his hair had become.

Vhagar was his only concern. She was starving. She could not fly too high in the skies. And so, along with all the misery and humiliation, came the dread. For if Vhagar died, the last rope, the last tether, which had perhaps kept him alive up to that point, and perhaps kept her alive, would break.

But then, just as it happens in some book of adventures, or simply in dreams, a mirage, a true oasis in the middle of the desert, surrounded by the highest walls ever built in the history of men, guarding the greatest city that ever was and will be: Qarth.

“Hmm” she ponders, pursing her lips. “I’m not sure about this one. What do you think, Nyla?”

The young maid stops her morning chore and blushes. “I think it would match your skin wonderfully, your Highness.”

She hears giggling behind her shoulders, where two of her most trusted maids are braiding her hair after oiling them with mirrh and cinnamon. “You hear that, Nyla? They’re questioning your candor.”

“I am not, your Highness.” says Dora, one of the giggling girls. “But if you were looking for a less partial opinion, let’s say a more objective one...you should have asked me or Mysha.”

“Well, as it happens, I was looking precisely for a partial opinion. Look at her. She’s changing my chamber pot and still, she thinks that shade of purple would suit me wonderfully. Oh Nyla, I think you will soon become my favorite.”

“Is that a yes then, your Highness?” the merchant wastes no time to ask, standing in the center of the room with silk drapes of several colors resting along his arm.

“Yes, Jorio. Two yards of that purple silk.”

The merchant nods swiftly, too swiftly she notices. The man is acting awkwardly since the moment he stepped into her private rooms. Usually, he’s a big talker, a true born seller. He could make believe one could heal from Greyscale if they just wrap themselves in the soft embrace of his silks. But not today. He seems in a hurry. The exhibition of his goods too quick and excited. And then the sweat, lumped in a wet sheen around his bald head.

“Anything else, your Highness?”

Her forehead creases, acknowledging a thought, new but not quite, as if it has always been there. “Perhaps something green?” she ventures.

“Green?” inquires Misha “That’s a first.”

She shakes her head in a dismissing way. “Must be my father’s sorcery.”

The shadows, kóri, they speak to you.

“What do you have in green, Jorio?”

The merchant fumbles with his silks, a turmoil moves his hands clumsily until a few drapes of fabric flutter on the ground. He stoops to pick them up, only to drop the others still clinging onto his shoulder in a chaotic rainbow of colors on the white marble floor.

“Jorio, what is the matter with you today?”

“I—Nothing, your Highness, my apologies...”

“You know if you have problems with your trades, the Salt King and I would be more than happy to help you.”

“It’s not that—no. Must be all the fuss in town.”

“Pirates again?”

“Uhm—no, it’s the…beast outside the walls.”

“The beast? What beast?”

The man swallows, visibly. “A dragon, your Highness. A huge dragon, higher than the city walls.”

“But…that is not possible...” Misha tries.

“I’m telling what I saw with my own eyes. The Thirteen gathered outside the walls. I saw the Spice King along my way here. He said they were about to parley with the Milk man, see through his reasons.”

"Milk Men don’t ride dragons.” she corrects, standing from the soft cushions piled and spread on the ground. “This man’s hair…what color are they?”

“White as midday sun.”

"Your Highness! Come..."

The Salt Queen joins Dora on one of the brightly sunlit balconies overlooking the Route of Trade. There is indeed a great bustle in the town, a motionless bustle however, gazing with open mouths and bewildered eyes at the small procession moving up the street. The City Guard is leading, with their shields and spears to protect The Thirteen, rulers of the most important trading city in the world. They are all dressed in bright colours and precious jewels embroidered in their silk tunics, hanging from their necks, wrists and fingers.

If she narrows her eyes, The Salt Queen can swear she can see the gold ring her husband wears on his nose. What catches her eye though, is not gold or any other bright color, but black, and then white.

There is a man walking down the street with the thirteen, a tall man with plain dark clothes and a mantle of silver hair, white as midday sun.

“Wife, may I introduce you to our noble guest?”

A woman comes forward to greet him when Aemond enters a lavish hall with several windows adorned with colorful drapes of silk. He is sure he has never seen so much marble in his life, feeling even more inappropriate given the state of his clothes and his whole demeanor, shamefully far from the clean, soldierly appearance that left mouth agape.

“Prince Aemond of House Targaryen, from Westeros.” The Salt King declares as the woman stops just before him. He stands tall and imposing, no matter the misery of his shabby clothes, the state of his disheveled hair falling in silver tangles down his back. He is still a Targaryen, his chin is high and proud.

“More like from the Old Valyria.” She says raising an eyebrow, and sizing him up and down. “He seems to have just emerged from the Doom, miraculously unscathed.”

The Prince does nothing but seethe his teeth behind his dry lips, a distant shame in his eye that quickly turns into a focused and unblinking rage.

“Welcome to Qarth, my Prince. I’d trust your journey was uneventful but…I can see the Red Waste takes its toll, even on Valyrian beauty.”

Aemond takes a good, long look at her, inevitably lingering on her chest, dressed as the common Qartheen fashion dictates: one breast exposed. But a lot more of her is exposed. Her shoulders, her arms and legs, a glimpse of her hips, all crossed by swirling bundles of lilac silk.

If any married woman in Westeros dressed like that in the open, he’s sure any husband would lock her up. At least he would.

“You must excuse my wife, Prince Aemond, or rather, get used to her habit of speaking her mind.”

“Come now, Xavos. Surely Westerosi women can voice their thoughts?” she moves, walking past Aemond and her husband to reach a small table inlaid with gold to pour some greenish beverage into a cup. “I had a maid once, she was from…Rich Garden?”

“High Garden.” He sternly corrects her.

“Ah, yes. A delightful creature, always smelled so good.” She says distractedly “Anyway, she fled from your lands because she liked girls and not boys and she didn’t want to devote her life to being a brood mare sucking a flaccid cock until her hair had gone white.”

Her maids snicker somewhere past Aemond shoulders, stiffening his posture at the liberties those commoners are granted. “I should hope you Westerners listen to your women more than you do your horses.”

Aemond watches as she takes a sip and laces his hands behind, slightly tilting his head for a moment. “Where I come from, women do not possess such a sharp tongue. Furthermore, and fortunately, most of them have manners. They know how to address a Prince of the Realm.”

She turns to leave the cup on the same table and glances at Nyla. “Oh, he bites.”

“This is not Westeros, dragon prince.” She says turning to face him with a righteous smile “I don’t need to ask your permission to speak. The Salt King is my husband, that is why you will hear my maids and everyone else address me as Your Highness. So, you may lower that chin and stop waiting for me to bow down to you because technically my rank is higher than yours. You might say the only one meant to bow in this room were you.”

The silence that follows is so stark that the air the Prince quickly exhales through his nose sounds like thunder, alerting the Salt King. "Come now, wife. Don't wake the beast.” he says lightly, stiffening a smile “And I mean it quite literally. You should see the size of Prince Aemond’s dragon.”

“I heard.” she acknowledges “Jorio said he’s higher than the city walls.”

“She. And twice, than your city walls.” The Prince corrects her again, just as sternly. “She’s the largest dragon alive in the known world.”  His chin remains high and haughty, simply because he can. Because she knows he could raze the entire city to the ground just by snapping his fingers. So, she looks down and says “Since you will be our guest, it is my duty as matron of this house to make you feel welcomed. If you would be so kind to follow me, your Grace.” She forces her tone to be as much as corteous, but then she smiles “Is my tongue acceptably sharp to your liking now?”

“Where are you taking me?” he asks as he follows the Salt Queen along one of the corridors, made of the finest marble with high arches of white stone and gold glittering under the midday sun.

“Down and down, to throw you in the dungeons.”

Aemond stalls for a moment and she does the same. “I was joking.”

He gives her that stern, distrustful look she starts to think he has etched on his features since his first wail and huffs. “God, have you lost your humor in the Red Waste?”

She resumes her walking, and Aemond follows, glancing around as they pass through many people, some of them are dressed like maids and servants, some others with long tunics of silk and jewels embroidered in the fabric. They speak to one another, he notices, as equals. But they stop altogether upon seeing a living Valyrian walk among them.

“God?” he asks “Which one?”

“Whichever you want. R'hollor, the Many Faced…I’m not picky. It helps me sleep better at night to know I didn’t dump all my sins on one God only.”

He is sure from his education and his mother’s faith that religion doesn’t work that way, but he has more pressing matters at heart. “Will you meet my requests?”

“About your dragon?” she asks stopping before a large wooden door closed. “Can’t she hunt on her own?”

“In the Red Waste? In these barren lands? Perhaps you should put your pretty head outside the city walls and see with your own eyes how big she is.”

The woman smirks, seizing him up and down and furrows her brows. “You seem very keen on emphasizing how big your dragon is. I should hope it’s not a compensating factor for the lack of something else.”

She pushes the door open, not bothering to wait for Aemond who just stands there for a moment, a little dumbfounded by the salt of which the Queen's tongue seems to be made. His bewilderment is only destined to worsen as he crosses the threshold and looks around.

Right in the middle of the palace, amidst all that marble and white stone, stands a wild courtyard, wild and beautiful in its unspoiled nature. Climbing plants and fruit trees grow undisturbed around a large square pool, decorated with mosaics of a thousand colors, harboring the most crystal-clear water he has ever seen; small clouds of steam rise from the surface, pinching his nostrils with the unmistakable smell of sulfur.

There are people bathing together and, obviously, much to his dismay, naked.

“Do you not take baths in Westeros?” the Salt Queen asks, faking true curiosity at the puzzlement she can read on his face, slowly turning into repugnance as he looks at her with a cutting answer.

“We have decency, in Westeros.”

She does not bother to disguise the long sigh blowing through her lips and then she turns to clap her hands vigorously, three times.

“My friends, apologies for the interruption!” she announces as everyone in the pool and outside turns to look at her “I must ask you to leave the pool for the time being. Our…prude guest demands a little bit of privacy.” 

She can feel the Prince glaring but ignores him altogether to stop one of the servants.

“Priya, fetch some oils. And some silks, fitting for a prince.” She turns her head to look at him from head to toe, as if valuing a new drape of silk or a new sculpture to put in the Hall of Trade, but then she creases her forehead, as she often does when knowing. “Blue perhaps? To match the sapphire.”

The constant scowl seems to leave his features and she hears his question before he utters a single word.

“My father is a warlock. Magic runs thick in his blood, he says, as well as in the blood of his blood. Sometimes I sense things, bits of knowledge, and sometimes they happen to be right. But you don’t need to be afra—”

“I’m not afraid of sorcery.” He cuts her, his tone flat, his features stoic as ever and she looks at him, curiously, perhaps wondering what lies behind all that stone.

“Very well. Sapphire blue for Prince Aemond.” his name slips into his ears in a strange, liquorous way; vowels are more open in this part of the world.

When they’re left alone, she signals towards the pool. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

He hesitates for a moment, but it is not as if he has never undressed in front of one of his old servants. And frankly, he is too eager to get those filthy clothes off to be bothered by a foreign woman watching.

He throws everything on the ground without too much care, and she watches without too much shame, because that's not how things go there. Bodies, both male and female, they are not something to hide, but something to be displayed and worshipped.

Her eyes linger on scars, old and new, on a lithe body that once belonged to a prince and a soldier, now marked by misery, dirt and hunger.

“Everything.” she says at one point, when he’s left with only his battered cotton pants on.

Aemond thinks he heard wrong. But she only blinks, keeping her face blank.

“Is this the common way to welcome guests here?” he scorns.

“Actually, it is. At least after the incident with the scorpion.” she doesn’t bother to wait for a question or an eyebrow rising. “My husband’s great grandfather hosted a merchant from Yunkai once. He came here with gifts of all sorts among which was a poisonous scorpion, hidden in his clothes. The old Salt King died but so did the merchant. Fell face down in his chamber pot while taking a piss. Quite ironic, don’t you think? You have to be careful when handling such vicious creatures.”

He only looks at her, and she's the one to raise an eyebrow. “I could turn away if you like.”

Aemond sighs loudly, moving his cutting jaw at the umpteenth humiliation and then lowers his pants. She stares into his eye and surely, surely he thinks, she wouldn’t dare to wander down.

But a moment later her eyes sink past his snatched waist, and she smirks.

“I believe I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“Questioning your…natural gifts.”

Aemond blinks, running on the verge between scowling, raising his eyebrows and huffing a laugh.  Certainly, it never happened to him to talk so bluntly about his cock with any highborn lady barely met, let alone a supposed queen.

“I’ll leave you to your bath, dragon prince. The Salt King and I have much to discuss.”

“Such as?” he deadpans, not really interested while he dives into the clean water.

“Well, a Targaryen Prince is not an everyday occurrence.” She says following his every move, the way water glides on his skin, silver hair floating on the surface like moonblooms. “We’ll make sure to have a feast worthy of your noble taste this evening.”

“And then talk behind my back about what to do with me?”

“Undoubtedly. And I will tell him the truth.”

“Hmm.” He hums, settling on one of the underwater steps of the pool, resting his shoulders against the rim. His mood instantly improves, so he pins her with his eye and looks her up and down. “Do you believe to know my reasons? You’re quite sure of yourself…your Highness. Unless your father’s sorcery allows you to read minds, I dare say even rather pretentious.”

“I don’t need sorcery to know that you, in the first place, do not know what you’re doing here.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

She sees that chin tilting, lifting with a hint of challenge. And she takes it. She has the truth, and indeed, she doesn’t need sorcery.

“Because Qarth is still standing.”

She gets no answer, just that diffident stern look to which she darts the faintest of smirks and then leaves the pool, under his watchful eye that stays on the door for a moment longer, before he lets his head sink underwater.

The Salt Queen gives instructions for the most sumptuous room to be given to Prince Aemond. She sees to it that he is provided with several silk suits and that food is served to him immediately when he has finished bathing. She has observed his body with pleased eyes, so scrupulously she knows the Prince has not had a decent meal in weeks.

“Did he settle?” Xavos asks when she enters his private room.  

“In time, I’m sure he will. Valyrians have an impressive disposition to make their own what does not belong to them, do they not?”

She hears him murmur something in return from where he stands, on the balcony threshold that overlooks the city and its massive port. The Queen sits on a soft armchair and starts to twirl her hair around one finger, curling her mouth into a thoughtful pout. “I was thinking goose for dinner. Or salt beef? We should save goats and pigs for the beast. Apparently, poor thing is starving.”

In the silence that follows, she turns to her husband. “Xavos?”

The Salt King turns with one shoulder and a half-bitter smile. “We have a living threat who could burn us all to the crisp walking within our palace and our city, and you speak to me of geese and pigs?”

“It’s useless to cry over spilled milk. You let him in. You let greed lure you all like a piper with a flute. I’m wondering, on which tune did he make you dance?”

He walks to her with slow feet and looks at her after a long sigh. “Dragon eggs.”

“I should’ve known.”

“Cyril began talking of an opportunity of a lifetime. Of the Greatest City that ever was and will be becoming even greater. Think about it. With dragons…Qarth might become the center of the whole world. A newborn Valyria. If we play our hand right—”

“Quit the fancy words. What exactly are you asking of me, Xavos?”

She knows he is asking for something. She has known him for more than ten years, and he has asked, has demanded, a lot of her. She knows that when his voice drops a note, he wants something, as if whispered, it becomes less degrading.

He trails his index finger on her chin and lifts it. “To make him dance to your tune.”

“You overestimate me, husband. I cannot reason with a tiger when my head is in its mouth. Besides, he might be easy on the eye, but he’s as agreeable as a plant of spikes.”

She speaks smoothly—not a flinch or a blink at her husband's hand sinking between her lilac’s folds, and then between her inner ones. “Since when you are so reluctant about who’s allowed in your bed?”

“Don’t confuse me with yourself.” she says lifting her chin to look at him, unbothered by the circling his finger draws on her dry bundle. “I fuck who I want for pleasure, rarely out of boredom, but never to prove a point.”

Abruptly, he slips his finger deep inside, hurting her. “I should have taken your tongue as well.” 

 “And still…” she forces a smile over the painful grimace twisting her mouth “it would not have given you what you so desperately seek in every hole.”

His unwanted touch leaves her and he straightens, pacing lazily behind her seat. “He’s young. He’s had a rough time. Surely, he must’ve missed the intimate company of a woman.”

“For that kind of company, there are pleasure houses.”

“Don’t play dumb, now. You saw how proud he is. How do you think he will take it if we send a whore to his rooms?” Xavos grips the back of the chair and leans down slowly, speaking to her ear. “Listen to me. Cyril is right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We must make him feel…important…coddled, even.”

“Even if you shackle his feet with gold, you cannot turn a dragon into a lamb, Xavos.”

The Salt King sighs impatiently, and his tone drops just as earlier. “Do as I say.”

Young Nyla interrupts her masters as she enters the room, and the Queen turns her head. “Nyla, what is it?”

“We have escorted Prince Aemond to his rooms, your Highness.”

“Good.” Xavos says, and then looks at his wife with a pointed stare. “Make sure he has everything he needs.”

The Salt Queen barges in and halts on the door, bewildered upon seeing her trusted friend Mysha on the verge of tears, staring at the ground as if she’s waiting for an execution.

“My deepest apologies, my Prince, I meant no disrespect.”

“What happened?”

“Uh—Prince Aemond asked for some herbs, your Highness. An ointment, for his eye.”

“Aye. I did ask for that, not for you to fucking touch me.”

The Prince is snarling, his eye wide and menacing like a hound on the brink of defense yet hunting for flesh. His face is clean now, the Queen notices, shaven; his hair is damp and pulled back, leaving his chiseled features, that infuriating chin, and high, prominent cheekbones in plain sight. Stupid as it may sound, she can't help but think of one of those marble sculptures she likes to buy from art dealers.

“You may go, Mysha. I will assist the Prince.”

“I don’t need assistance.” He hisses with threatening calm. “Leave.”

He caved in the pool, but he will not suffer another humiliation in front of these foreigners. At least not with something so delicate and private as his eye. But of course, he realizes with annoyance, this woman will not falter at any of his empty orders.

“Are you dismissing me in my own Palace?”

He looks down, sighing and fuming, and she beckons Misha to leave the room.

“You must understand, servants here are treated differently. They’re granted more liberties.”

“I see. As the ones you so generously grant to slaves.” he mutters, and starts to fidget with a tray offering ginger roots, turmeric powder, and eucalyptus leaves.

“Oh, spare me. Of all people, you Valyrians are the least entitled to give a lecture on morals.” she counters, watching his long, tapered fingers hover without touching anything. Clearly, he was used to servants doing it for him.

“May I?” she offers, but doesn’t wait for his permission to make room next to him. “There are no slaves in this palace.” she tells him "How can you expect loyalty from someone you bought with something as cheap as gold?”

“Cheap as the golden ring your husband has stuck in his nose? He looks like a fucking boar.” he says as his eye trails on her profile.

“My husband is an imbecile. This city did not become the greatest that ever was and will be with gold. Trade is our currency. We call it antallagí. Exchange.”

“A true-born merchant’s wife.”

“Or a boar’s one?”

He huffs, and she turns, feigning shock at the faintest of smirks curling his lips. “So you’re not made of stone after all.”

She studies him for a few moments—more than is deemed proper for a married woman, in Westeros at least—but she can't help it. She wonders how it is possible that exile and moons of misery have not bent this man; what drives that rigid posture, whether it is too strict an education or it is all a lie, masking an effort to keep control, to impose it on others but perhaps more on himself.

“Ointment is ready, your Grace. It may burn a little, ginger is a godsend, but it’s tricky. I could help—”

“I need no help. Leave.”

The stone is in place once more. But she won’t have it. 

She raises her eyebrows, biding all the time in the world.

Aemond chews thorns as he looks at her, swallows them, and tastes them again, piercing his tongue. “Please.”

“That must’ve cost you a lot. But it isn’t so hard, is it?”

His lips flatten in a thin line, and she smiles. “You are a second son, are you not? That’s the reason for that stubborn chin. You must stomp your feet to make anything yours.”

“Careful, woman. I’ve taken tongues for far less.”

“Why? Did you not see eye to eye with them?”

He moves like lightning, invading her space until he is a breath away from her face, and his mouth breathes fire. “Listen to me. I care not who the fuck you are or which title you make your slaves call you. I am not here to allow you to make a fool of me, Queen or no Queen. Mock me once more, and I’ll carve the word please on your vicious mouth.”

He waits for the fire to catch on, even though flames do not seem to touch her; she's unwavering and solid as marble.

“Get out.”

“I don’t—” she chokes on her words, on his hand seizing her jaw; cold fingers, leaving embers on her skin.

“I said, get out.”

That evening, the already lavish palace of the Salt King was polished and decked out duly to honor the foreign guest. The walls, lit by braziers of fire, stood like a beacon amidst a sea of marble and white stone roofs. The Hall of Trade was a treasury, crammed so full of gold that it looked like a pirate's dream. Pillows were piled on the floor, long tables held food of all kinds. A huge bowl of wine welcomed the guests, who were given a goblet they had to dip into the large bowl and drink, otherwise they would not be allowed inside. It was tradition, a sort of good omen.

It pinched Aemond's nostrils when he brought the cup to his mouth and, thankfully, drank it in small sips. Despite his prudence, by the second he felt his tongue on fire from how spiced it was. By comparison, Arbor Gold was wastewater.

He wears the sapphire blue silk tunic, with a silk belt cinching his narrow waist, but his hair is different. Mysha learned the lesson she asked, and when he gave his consent, she got to work and braided his silver hair. Most of them are loose, falling down his back in a curtain of white. Others are laced in one, two, three braids, softly meeting at the back of his head.

If he thought the Salt Queen’s hospitality was somewhat a little too forward and a lot more intrusive, he had to reconsider when he found himself cornered as soon as his silver head caught the eye of every guest. Men and women, old and young, flocked to him with eyes full of wonder, as if the Salt King had captured some wild and rare creature and called all his friends to make them look.

But they didn’t just look. They talked openly and freely, voicing thoughts that, in Westeros, would have stayed inside one’s head.

“Look at his hair! They seem like moon rays!”

“And the skin! Whiter than milk!”

“What happened to his eye?”

“If only my wife were here…she always wanted to see a Valyrian!”

He had just gotten there, and his teeth were baring.

“My friends, please! Let our noble guest breathe!” the Salt King chuckles as he comes forward among the bewildered audience, looking like the loot of some theft, for all the gold and diamonds and emeralds sewn on his orange silk tunic. “Come, my Prince. The first taste is yours.”

Aemond catches a movement on his right and there she is, the Salt Queen, in a crimson red sparkling like a bloodied dew given the little, tiny red stones woven in her silks. Her hair coils into an intricate bun crisscrossed by a paper-thin gold chain that crowns her forehead with small, rough rubies, like grains of salt.

For a moment, he’s so enthralled by her figure, and her eyes, even more piercing because of kohl, that he fails to notice the clay plate she’s holding, filled with fruits. Some he has never seen, except in books, but he has no time to take a guess.

“Your first taste, my Prince.” she chimes. “Sweet or tart?”

His gaze falls back to the plate, but not before stopping, again, for a blink, on that absurd fashion of one bare breast. “Tart.” He says tightly.

She smiles, as if she knew, and puts the plate down. Aemond watches her bejeweled fingers pluck off a grape and turn, her hand in midair but not quite outstretched toward him. He nothing but give her a pointed look, one that translates only into a stern and irrevocable I can eat by myself.

“My Prince. My wife means no offense.” the Salt King explains “In Qarth, it is deemed a great honor, given and taken, and an excellent omen for the guest's stay, if said guest is fed by the matron of the house.”

His throat bobs and the Salt Queen can’t quite decipher if the dragon prince is more humiliated or angered by the prospect of being fed by a woman like a baby who just teethed. At last, he sighs and leans in, but her hand withdraws a little, leaving him with his mouth slightly open, stretched forth like a beggar waiting for charity. It is not Aemond who bites the grape, but her who finally, after another straight stare into his eye, lets it drop into his mouth.

The crowd erupts in a cheerful clapping, as does The Salt King who goes to stand just between his wife and the Dragon Prince, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder “You see, Prince Aemond, this is one of the extraordinary gifts of Qartheen women. They know exactly how to hold...and when to let go.”

Aemond does not bother to look at him, he is too absorbed, annoyed and deep down, without him knowing it yet, enticed by the tranquil smile that curls her mouth and at the same time curls his pride, mocks it, strips it bare and outright laughs at it, goading everyone else to do so.

Behold, the pink dread!

 “Without further ado, let the feast begin!” The Salt King announces joyfully and in the same moment, a delicate and sweet melody fills the room, while Aemond chews what’s left of that grape, tasting his own bile.

An hour later, Aemond is fuming. Fuming because ruling the most important and influential city in Essos, he should’ve known the Thirteen were aware of everything that went on and was currently going on in the West. Perhaps even more than he knew. Did they know something about his mother?

He banished that thought from his mind just as he trained himself to do in all this damned existence.

They knew about the Dance, they knew about Aegon the Usurper, they knew of Rhaenyra the Cruel, the Storming of the Dragon Pit. They knew the kingdom was dreadfully impoverished and in the hands of a young boy.

But they spoke about it as if they were discussing the weather. Qartheens cared nothing about what was going on outside their impenetrable walls; whether it was a new king on a throne far away or a war that had killed thousands and thousands, it was all tittle-tattle to kill time between one cup of wine and the next. He was asked about this battle or the previous one without thinking that he had lived through that war; he made it, he carried it and perhaps he still carried it within him.

He was fuming for this, he was fuming for how women, and even men, gawk at him, for their bizarre custom of hosting a feast without a decent place to sit and eat like normal people do. He was fuming because no matter how much he tried to ignore it, a spool of crimson would always catch his eye.

Grabbing one more cup of wine, he decides to take a breath outside, standing on one of the marbled balconies of the Palace. Air does good to extinguish his fires, but it does not clear up his mind. Perhaps he should blame the wine, perhaps his head is still smoky.

Because you, in the first place, do not know what you're doing here.

As much as he loathed to admit it, the Salt Queen was right. He tricked himself into thinking the main reason for his coming here was Vhagar. She was weak, due to the wing's injuries as well as the old ones, and most of all, she was hungry. But with the promise of goats and pigs, came the clarity and the knowledge that he had no reason, no plan. He only knew he had leverage—a dreadful leverage made of talons and fire on these merchants and their city. But what to do with it?

He hears voices somewhere near, and once more, crimson pollutes his sight. The Salt Queen and her husband are talking behind a tall white pillar. He can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but she catches his stare almost immediately. The talking ceases, and Aemond knows they were talking about him, of course they were.

Xavos comes out of his hiding place with a placid and benevolent expression, walking right past him without a word. But she stays, and she looks, and then she walks to him.

“That will go to your head.” She warns as he empties the cup “I didn’t see you touch any food.”

The spiced wine burns his throat, makes his tongue sour and impatient. “Is your husband aware of your excessive concern about your guests? Or is it a thoughtfulness he has ordered you to reserve only for me?”

“I’m just being considerate since you’re a foreigner and not well acquainted with Qartheen tastes.”

“How exactly am I supposed to eat? Standing?”

She huffs a laugh and shakes her head trimmed with gold and red as she gives him a bemused, though genuine, look. “Good God, how spoiled you are? I thought misery made men humble, but clearly not men of House Targaryen.”

His jaw moves annoyingly, and he leaves the empty cup on the marble, but he doesn’t let go, holding it by the edges in a white-knuckle grip. She notices it as she leans against the marble, with her back to the city, and gives him a long, inquisitive look. “After all the misery you suffered, I thought you would’ve liked the attention…perhaps you do…perhaps…you want more.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” he asks boringly, and just as sourly, staring at the city.

“I must say, I’ve hosted so many people, from so many different parts of the world, and yet…I’ve never found myself before a face so full of contradictions.”

His eye pins her. “Need I remind you how you left my room earlier?”

“With your hand around my neck, because you couldn’t take a joke.”

“I don’t like being mocked. And I don’t like being played like a pawn. So, unless this is another one of your absurd customs, tell your husband to stop parading you around me like a whore. It looks bad when you insist on others calling you queen.”

“We all play parts, dragon prince. Sometimes, they blend. But in the end…it takes little to know the real you.”

Aemond chokes on his breath as her hand slips between them like water, cupping his crotch with a grip of steel, and fire, burning from her fingertips through the fabric. She holds it like a weapon, and his defense is low. She sees his throat bobbing down once, and twice, rejection curls his mouth, but not strongly enough to shove her hand away, to not start to harden against the flames of her fingers, brushing all his length until she cups it once more.

“Whore or queen?” she whispers, brushing his parted lips “Someone in there doesn’t seem to care.”

His grip on the cup loosens, a tremor runs down his spine, and he dawdles in the sensation, one felt before, elicited by other hands, and yet new. It’s been so long. The surge to touch, to clutch, to taste, drains his head of blood. But she eludes him, tilting her head to the right and then to the left to avoid the vise of his lips; her grip loosens, running the back of her fingers against his cock in a feathery brush, touching without touching.

He grinds his teeth to choke a whimper, but then she’s cupping again; she feels him go completely hard for her, and the knowledge washes over her like tongues of fire prickling down her back and between her thighs. The soft, slippery silk allows her to unleash her lunges more fiercely, to easily close her hand around his cock, and that same silk helps her to glide her hand deliciously up and down.

He's breathing hard, almost panting, brushing the tip of his nose against hers; her eyes are open, basking in the sight, the little twitches of his mouth as bends to pleasure, the breathing turning heavier and heavier, his hand that starts to flex. She imagines how those slender fingers would feel between her folds, how easily they would slip inside, and why, why is he not touching her?

“Do it…” she breathes. “Do you want me to say please? I would…there’s no shame in begging, dragon prince….it only makes you free…”  

“Your Highness, my apologies.” Nyla calls her Queen suddenly, and she stops her wicked ministrations, abruptly bringing Aemond back to his senses.

“The Salt King sent me after you.” The young maid says, apparently unfazed by what she clearly witnessed. “We’re playing kottabos.”

"Ah, yes, of course.” she tries to regain some control, although she was panting on the sole anticipation, and goes back inside.

Aemond stalls, taking a long sigh in the fresh air to try to stop the blood from boiling. And he follows.

Kottabos, he discovers, is quite a tricky game. The rules are simple: one has to throw the last drops of wine inside their cup to hit a white plate balanced atop a bronze pole. It requires a bit of dexterity, because the player must put the index finger through the handle of the drinking cup and throw the drops while sprawled on pillows, laying on their elbows.

The Salt Queen, it seems, is quite adept at this game. It takes her only two tries to hit the plate and she’s rising from the pillows, bowing her head to thank the cheerful audience. Aemond's eye bends as the crimson veils bend with her every movement; he slips between them and lets them wrap around him, even though he should not, even though he reproaches himself for letting the blood, the wine, the flesh, that has been starved of other flesh for too long, win.

“My closest friends know I’m very fond of sweets and cakes but…on such a special occasion, I choose a special reward.” She announces when the crowd has quieted down, and before she even turns around, he feels her gaze on him as if she had two more eyes on the back of her head. “A sweeter reward…or perhaps tarter.”

She moves towards him, and every step she takes barefoot on the marble is an unmasking. With every step she takes, it seems to him that she is touching him, as she did just before, and more; he feels like her fingers are slipping under the silk, setting fire to his skin.

She stops in front of him and yet, he still sees her moving, feels her moving like a sea creature and her thousand tentacles of crimson silk.

Maybe he should put the wine down.

Wine is not for you, brother mine, your mind’s too heavy. It’ll soak like a sponge and you'll fall into your own vomit.

What she does not put down is her aim, moving her hands diligently as she grabs his face and draws him close to kiss him on the lips, and tilt her head back to look at him, so close she’s breathing his breath. “This…is your first taste.”

“Good! The Queen has chosen her reward. Let us play another round, shall we?”

Again, Aemond does not bother to look at the Salt King, he looks at her and the faint twitch between her lips at her husband's words.

“Come.” She says taking his hand, and he doesn’t know what drives him to follow her, whether his mind is too soaked, or his flesh is crying out to be fed.

What is certain is that now her bare feet tread the marble of his rooms and he is closing the door.

“I hope you don’t mind if we do it here. I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Why?”

“I’m jealous of my things.”

“Liar.”

“What?”

“So used to play parts and yet, you look down before lying. Disappointing.”

“I’m surprised you were able to look at anything above my cleavage.”

This time, he lowers his gaze, but not to lie. He knows he has looked, many times, and the excuse of not being used to such a custom starts to creak. She walks up to him and looks at him with that knowing smile that makes him want to clamp his hand on her mouth and wipe it off her face, and maybe stick his fingers inside.

“Are you a virgin, my Prince? Did you have a wife in the West? Children?”

He swallows, and her eyes fall on his throat.

“Is that guilt you just swallowed? Or sorrow?”

“Why don’t you listen to your father’s sorcery while keeping your hole shut?”

“I told you, I am no witch. Qarth is the center of the world. Do you think we don’t know what happens in the East, West, North and South?” she angles her head and whispers in his ear “We know everything… Kinslayer, Terror of the Trident.”

She speaks his war titles in that liquorose way, opening the vowels as if she is casting a spell, but he hears the mockery. It is the same that loosened the tongue at the Strong bastards, the same one perpetuated by Alys. But Alys' mockery was different. She spoke in riddles, visions and flames. This woman speaks in truths.

“Do you regret it?” she whispers, and her tentacles thread their way through the silk “All those innocents you have burned…all the ones you have lost.” lazily, she pulls at the laces of the blue tunic and he stiffens, flaring his nostrils. “See? I don’t need sorcery. The more you stiffen, the more cracks reveal.” She straightens her head to look at him with eyes darker than tar, wandering over his face and he feels branded. “I can see them around you…ghosts…why don’t you set them free?”

“What is your fucking game?” he wants to seethe, but she’s so close to him it comes out as nothing but a hiss.

She smiles again and this time the victory is full. "The game is over, your grace. I won, and you're my reward. I will admit I never had such a pretty one...care to show me that sapphire or are you still keen on playing the prude bashful prince?”

Aemond has no qualms about touching her, grabbing her face with nails digging into her cheeks as he pulls her close, turning her chin to spit anger and all his tumbled restraints into her ear “Perhaps I should shove my cock into your mouth to make you shut it, hmm? Is that what you want? What your husband wants? That I fuck you like a whore?”

She stiffens, thrashing in his hold that she may not have expected, and manages to turn her head just enough to look at him, scoffing. “Is this the only way you know to use your hands?”

A taunt, another one. It turns his eye pitch black and he leans closer to her lips, almost baring his teeth, almost as if he wants to bite the words—the mockery, the victory—off her mouth. But once more, she eludes him, tilting back and so, any reason burns and dies into his head.  

“D’you want to play games, don’t you? Let’s play, then.”

Still gripping her cheeks, he roughly pushes her into the room, letting her go for only one fleeting instant of freedom, just long enough to grab her shoulders and force her to turn around. A gasp escapes her lips, but the next moment she’s bending on the table, he’s forcing her to. A thrill spills into her blood, making her insides clench with anticipation, and dread.

He traps her, planting his feet between hers to stop her from closing her legs. She tries to pull herself up with her back, but he scowls, pushing her head down to keep it firmly glued to the table. She whines as his long fingers pull at her hair, tearing the gold and red chain off, and she can hear him fumbling with the silks, the other hand hiking her crimson gowns up.

“My Prince, please—”

“Begging already?” snarling, he spits into his palm and gives a few quick tugs to his cock, hard and aching “I wonder who’s coming from. The whore or the Queen. Either way, you’ll get your reward, your Highness.”

“Wait—” she whimpers as she feels the head of his cock teasing against her folds, something coils in her belly, and something else, something cold, grips her heart. “Not like th—”

She chokes on her tongue as he slips inside her, easily but painfully, all the way in. Hissing, his hold on her hair tightens, a coarse exhale coming out of his parted lips as he adjusts to her walls, hot and wet, but tense. She’s tensing all over.

“Why are you fighting me?” he pulls her up by the hair, leaning his face close to hers “You wanted this, did you not? You have been teasing and mocking me since I set foot in here.”

“I—”

“No. I’ve had enough of your talks and taunts. Here’s what’s going to happen, whore queen. You will keep quiet and take it. And if I want to fuck you again later, I will. You are not in charge here—not you, not your husband, not all the fucking Thirteen. So don’t fucking push me, unless you want to die with fire skinning you alive.”

Without too much grace, he forces her back on the table and starts a relentless pace, fisting the crimson fabric and pulling to keep her low back flushed to his crotch. His pants mix with flesh slapping harder and faster as he tries to pour on her, and into her, the grief and rage, the misery and fire he’s made of. She writhes beneath him, arching and crumpling against the wooden with violent gasps; she feels like burning but inside, she’s torn in two.

She clamps her hand on the wood to grab onto something, just like that evening. She feels her, and his, arousal coating her thighs, just as blood did that evening.

The little girl wants to run, but the Salt Queen doesn’t want him to stop.

She’s sinking in her mind, but burning in every corner of her body and soul.

She can only moan, her mouth agape and dry, leaking saliva on the surface as her head bounces at each wild rut, hitting that inner spot over and over.

“Look at you, hmm?” he taunts her with purpose, perhaps vengeance “Fucked so good she lost her wits.”

Look at you, little whore. Bet you like it, eh?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she finds a raw voice hidden somewhere. “Harder—”

“What?” he slurs with a heavy-lidded eye, the braids are almost loose, dangling on his face at each thrust.

“Harder—” she pleads with her eyes still shut.  

“Greedy wanton thing—” hips start to snap brutally, in a hurtful way, just as she wants, even if it’s hard to even breathe. Pleasure overwhelms her, drives her up towards the peak. But she finds she cannot climb; her mind is holding her down.

He grunts with each snap and curses in some foreign language she’s not aware of, and she doesn’t care; she’s too focused on letting herself burn. But it’s like sitting in front of a fire and barely feeling the flames.

And then his hips jolt faster, once, twice, and he halts, gripping her hips firmly, coming inside her with a long, satiated groan.

Completely spent, he slumps on top of her, resting his head on her shoulder blades to catch his breath. However, she is quick to slip from the scorching alcove, to slide out the door with her mind drowned but her heart pounding out of her chest.

"Your Highness!" Dora wakes from her slumber, and reaches for her Queen.

"Nothing, Dora." she says in a voice still hoarse, almost scratching. "Draw me a bath, please. And fetch mint and wormwood." Moon tea.

She starts to undo her silks and feels a distant smell of smoke sticking to her skin. Like one who has bathed in fire.

The morning after brings no clarity, because truthfully, Aemond does not need clarity. Everything is drastically simple. He is no coward. However his mind was less clear than usual, he could never blame wine for how he behaved a few hours earlier. And why would he?

Whether she was acting on her husband’s orders or not, she wanted him. And he wanted her. He could concede that he'd acted in a harsher way than usual, that he’d let rage and grief guide his purpose. It was not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. But it all worked in his favor. A demonstration, a shift in whatever power game the Salt King and the other merchant Kings thought to play out. He only made it clear that he was not some precious pet to be coddled and ridiculed.

She had teased and mocked him at any occurrence. He’d only showed her the price of playing with fire.

His blue silks are fresh and clean when he sits down to have breakfast with Xavos; his long silver hair is tied up in a single low braid that starts from the center of his head and gathers lazily down his shoulder.

He has yet to get used to this strange Qartheen custom of sitting on pillows to eat; at least, however, he regains his appetite when he is served dishes once familiar to him, and less exotic.

"I took the liberty of having you prepare a breakfast akin to your old habits.” Xavos says chewing bread with olives “Ham, cheese, venison. And we have fresh fish every day. Blessed be the trades."

The Prince is sincerely grateful, though he would be a lot more grateful if the Salt King were able to shut his mouth when the sun is not even high in the sky. He goes on and on about the supposed trades, and then about the salt he so proudly sells to every corner of the world. He is just about to go on another monologue about the Thirteen and their hopeful wish to receive the Dragon Prince in their Palaces when he stops, frowning at the young maid clearing the place set next to the king. “What are you doing?”

“Apologies, Your Highness, but the Queen will not attend breakfast. She feels indisposed this morning.”

Immediately, Aemond glances up at her and she’s brave enough to hold it for a bunch of seconds before looking down and making her way to the door.

“Maid?”

She halts upon hearing the Prince and turns around.

“Tell your Queen I was promised something. She said she would see to it personally. And I expect her to keep her word.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Wait.” he stops her again, his tone almost bored, and slips a hand into the folds of his blue silks, pulling out a gold and red chain. “Take this. She left it in my room last night.”

He throws the jewel on the table and resumes his knife and fork, not bothering to look at anyone, certainly not at the Salt King who is indeed looking at him, looking as pleased as ever, like the cat that caught the mouse.

The Salt Queen did not in fact forget her word. She promised him she would see to Vhagar’s condition, ordering to save goats and pigs to feed the beast, put them on carts and send someone with the Prince to reach the desert, where the dragon was resting.

However, she should've probably assumed that such an apparently simple task would've turned out to be a lot harder to carry out.

She’s just about to finish her late breakfast with Mysha and Dora, when Nyla breaks into the parlor with quick feet.

“Your Highness—uhm—Prince Aemond is at the door, he asks to be received.”

“What is it now? He doesn’t like how the sun rises here?”

Mysha and Dora giggle, but the Queen stays serious and turns to Nyla. “Tell the Prince he will have to wait. I am sure that even in Westeros, barging in during meals stands for bad manners.”

Nyla leaves, but it’s with even quicker feet that she returns to her Queen in barely a minute.

“My Queen, Prince Aemond is quite adamant on being received immediately. He…also says that…keeping guests at the door is a synonym of bad manners in Westeros, as he is sure, anywhere else in the world.”

Tapping her fingers on the table, it takes her a minute to sigh loudly and stand up, throwing the kerchief on the table.

“My Prince.” She greets him as she stops at the door.

In his usual soldierly stance, he looks past her for a moment before locking her blank gaze. “Still adamant on not letting me in?”

“You were not that drunk last night. I believe you heard me just fine when I told you I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Hmm. But you did take me, and quite eagerly, if memory serves me right. Are we not past such formalities?”

“Gloating like some common man is not very royal of you, your Grace—"

“Tis’ not gloating. And I might say, not very royal of you either to beg me to fuck you harder, your Highness.”

“You’re right. Fucked me so good I didn’t come.”

The proud mischievous smile that kept stretching his mouth vanishes in a blink, and she has to sigh to stifle her own. “What is it, my Prince?”

“You gave me your word.”

“Indeed. And I kept it. What is your complaint now?”

“Your slaves refuse to escort me in the desert.”

“Well, I can’t blame them. Can’t you feed your dragon on your own? Or are you too humiliated by the prospect of carrying a cart of dead pigs?”

From the way he is staring at her, and having already tickled his pride when the sun is not yet high in the sky, she knows he will not yield on this matter.

“Fine. I’ll go with you.”

“My Queen, it is not safe.”

“Do not worry, Dora. I’ll take the Sorrowful Men.”

Aemond almost laughs to himself as he stands on the left edge of an enclosed inner courtyard of the palace, resembling the training yards of Westeros. There are men intent on training with spears and swords, dressed in strange uniforms made of blue drapes and a strange golden mask on their faces. The carving makes the mask weeping, with a single tear embossed on the gold.

Aemond has no idea how they can see, as there seem to be no holes in those eyes of gold. But his gaze returns at once to the Salt Queen, talking to one of those men, with a large turban on his head. Some kind of commander, he assumes.

He bows to her and then six of these mysterious men march forward and surround the woman.

The Prince glances at each one of them, standing tall and proud as ever with his hands laced behind, seeming unperturbed by these safety measures. In fact, he says “Truly there’s no need to trouble these men, your Highness. What do you expect me to do? Feed you to Vhagar as soon as we are in the desert?”

“These men are not a safety measure for me, but for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. To prevent you from having certain…Targaryen ideas.”

“Six armed men against the largest living dragon seems like a somewhat unequal battle.”

Narrowing her eyes, she watches as the same placid arrogance bathes his features, but she thinks now it’s the right time to wipe it off, and she knows exactly how to do it. “Sorrows bring sorrows.”

All at once, the Sorrowful men move, drawing their spears with impressive speed and aiming the sharp points at the prince. His whole demeanor changes, becomes menacing, she notices, but he does not flinch. She walks among the weeping men avoiding the spears until she stands in front of the prince and snatches the mask off his face, to wear it herself.

“Listen to me. These men live to serve me. They were slaves once, bought with something far more valuable than gold: freedom. And they chose to stay by my side. If I told them to take the only eye you have left, right now, they would do it. If I told them to cut your cock and bring it to me right now, they would do it. A shame, I will grant you that. So, you’re right, you may be in charge here…but if you push me…you will be dead before you have the chance to say Dracarys.”

Whatever cutting remark the prince has in mind, he does not have time to say it, as he is suddenly distracted by a strange sound, a whistle, like the cry of a bird.

Aemond turns his head and the Queen does the same, recognizing that sound at once. The Sorrowful Men lower their spears and a man steps forward, dressed in a strange purple robe. Aemond stares at him warily, wondering why, in the name of the Seven, this man’s lips are blue, like a corpse.

“Father…” the Salt Queen greets him, taking Aemond by surprise, but sounding a little surprised herself to see the blue-lipped man.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t answer to his daughter, because he can’t. He starts to move his hands in strange signs, circles and lines. And Aemond is grateful for his strict education, for he knows what that man is doing. Sign language. He is either mute, or tongueless.

Unfortunately, he cannot understand what he’s saying, but his daughter can.

“Kóri. Will you not introduce me to your noble guest?”

The Salt Queen sighs, casting a brief look at the Prince, and then she introduces him. “Father, this is Prince Aemond, of House Targaryen.”

The blue-lipped man looks at him with wide eyes, charmed to the point of looking unsettling. And then he bends into a long bow. Not even when Aemond sat on the Iron Throne, someone had bowed so low before him.

He tilts his chin down to greet him, and sees the warlock’s hands moving. “On behalf of the Warlocks of Qarth” the Salt Queen translates “I welcome you, your Grace. It is a great privilege to see a descendant of Old Valyria in the flesh. Your blood is as ancient as our beloved great city.”

Aemond cannot stop his eyebrow from raising, nor his tongue. “It seems at least one member of your family knows good manners.”

“You must excuse us, father, we have to go.” she hastens to say, but as soon as she takes one step, her father grabs her arm.

“Don’t run from me, kori. You have been knowing, yes? More than usual.” and then his hands rise and fall once more. “Trees wail. Leaves are bleeding. The doom, kori. The doom is near.”

PART 2

thank you so so much for reading!! 💕 💕

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

These Tender Hearts Beat as One

Aemond x widowed!female character

Summary: Aemond reunites with his childhood friend, a former ward of his mother || Word Count: 7k || Warnings: too much fucking backstory lol, p in v sex, breeding kink

Aemond could always tell when his mother was stressed. Out of all her silver-haired children, her second son had seemed the most adept at knowing before she even knew herself. All that remained was for him to discover the root of her worries, and calm her ever-heightening nerves if he could.

When Aemond was stressed, angered or oftentimes merely bored, nothing truly compared to the feeling of riding Vhagar, splitting through the air above King’s Landing to stretch her large, tattered wings. His beloved dragon appreciated the exercise in any case, restless from her days fought in wars, it was some consolation for him that flying was just as therapeutic for her as it was for him.

But when his dear mother was stressed, it was rooted in self-destruction, picking ceaselessly at her fingernails ‘til they were bloody and sore. And though he bit his tongue, not wishing to replicate the behaviour of his grandfather, sometimes it felt near impossible not to say anything, not to ask what was on her mind. So that whatever was swirling around her head with panic, could instead be shared out, and therefore less weight for her to carry.

Had Aegon done something perhaps?

Was there more trouble with Rhaenyra?

Or perhaps his father had said something to upset her, which seemed the most likely. Even in his sickly state, he was still capable of unknowing cruelty.

Even at five and ten, Aemond understood this.

His mother remained quiet, and it was not ‘til he sought out the company of his dear friend, that the truth became clear.

She had been his mother’s ward for little more than three years, and already Aemond had witnessed her enter the Keep as a clumsy, loud child and blossom into what many would consider a young woman already grown, though she was little older than Helaena. 

Her age in comparison to him had never once strained their friendship. In fact, at first, when Aemond was still freshly scarred emotionally by the trauma of losing his eye, he had remembered clapping his lone eye on her and scowling, thinking of her little more than a quarrelsome child. 

And, as Aegon had put it, ‘aggressively annoying’.

Which, at the time, was true enough. And yet it did not deter her from trying, Aemond would allow her the compliment of that.

She was much like him, a child created and born as a sort of secondary plan in case the first did not come to pass. A mere second daughter, and not only that, but bumped even further down the chain by her three older brothers, the eldest already wed with several children of his own. It was made abundantly clear by her own parents that she was merely another nuisance and therefore when placed into the care of the Targaryen royal family, the look of relief on their faces somewhat angered him, coupled by the manner in which they left with a goodbye that rivalled his own father’s attitude towards his children.

His empathy for her situation had drawn him to her, despite his stubbornness in wanting to pretend he did not crave friendship, especially from a girl. And her own stubbornness surprised him when he discovered she did not blindly seek the acceptance of any similar-aged child, she set her sights on Aemond alone and did not relent until eventually, he came to her instead.

He found a camaraderie with her that he had yet to find with his other siblings, feeling very much like friendship with her was more natural and spontaneous, where the ones with his family were calculated, planned and rooted in a cold necessity to keep up appearances. 

Not that she cared much for appearances. 

Her Septa berated her for what seemed like every other day for turning up to her needlepoint lessons with dirtied skirts and stray petals in her tangled hair, all from chasing one another through the bushes of the Keep to find some entertainment. Yet, even in the face of punishment, her smile never faltered, and insisted that it was all a bit of fun.

She somehow managed to inject her bright personality into his otherwise darkened life.

Because of her, there was beauty in everything. There was serenity in sitting in the Godswood and watching the petals settle in the breeze that ran past his neck and made him shiver. There was a startling allure when he introduced her to Vhagar for the first time and her hand ran across her darkened scales, seeing her expression lift in sheer wonder, experiencing her bewilderment as if it were the first time. And there was virtue in the innocence of their relationship, and how his heart began to swell with a childlike sense of belonging in her.

The unconditional power of her friendship he was sure was all he ever needed. In the way she always uttered, dragged away for her lessons in etiquette, but beaming at him.

‘My friendship is always yours,’ she would say, like a mantra.

‘Just as mine shall always be.’

He thought for a long while that he was the most hideous person in this world, not least since Aegon had dragged him to the brothels only a few years before. And yet when he shared a chaste kiss with her under the Weirwood tree. Clumsy and impractical and yet all magical all at once, he thought that when he was older, stronger, he would ask her to be his wife.

Aemond could feel the anxiety seeping off her as soon as he stepped into her chambers. Like she had a lot on her mind but not the courage to open her mouth and say it.

“What is it?”

His heart lurched into his chest when she lifted her head, swallowing her feelings and taking a deep, shaky breath.

“My sister has succumbed to a fever. She is dead.”

Aemond sighed, as if absorbing her grief. But when he took one step forward to comfort his friend, she shook her head, “there is more.”

Her tone of voice alone was enough to set every nerve on edge. Aemond stood as if stuck to the flagstone floor, and realised that the once clumsy, small girl he had once known was acting very much like a young woman now. Worlds apart, despite being stood before her.

“I am to honour the planned betrothal with Lord Lefford, under my father’s orders.”

It was the only moment Aemond remembered wanting to vomit with nausea, he had not felt such churning in his gut even on the day he lost his eye.

She sat, looking at him as if to gauge his reaction to the news, knowing perhaps in her own heart the feelings that were shared between them. And Aemond felt his churning nausea turn to anger, at how easily she had allowed her will to be broken by a command from her father, which in his opinion, she need not obey. She was, after all, a near half a decade younger than her sister, and the man in question older than her own father.

How could she have given up like this so easily.

“You will go through with this?”

He did not mean for his tone of voice to appear accusatory, but when he saw that wide-eyed helpless expression, he knew immediately it had.

“I can hardly argue with my father, Aemond.”

He felt his fists clench hard in his hand, fingernails creating crescent shaped indents in his flesh that reddened, his reply is stiff, “you simply act as if you have no choice in the matter.”

“Not all of us get one.”

“You cannot leave.”

“I must,” she insists, her voice breaking somewhat at the look of disappointment and betrayal on his face, “please do not make this more difficult than it already is, Aemond.”

“I am not the one making this difficult,” he replies flatly, his head throbbing with an incoming migraine, “If you are as much my friend as I am yours, you will not leave me.”

She could feel herself stepping towards him, drawn by some invisible force for comfort that he was not yet providing. She knew he could be capable of being cruel, but to be on the receiving end after all they had gone through was heart-breaking.

And though she was a year his senior, standing so small before him, she felt so much a child.

“Aemond, please-” she begged, reaching out for him and wincing when he pulled away, his brows drawn together in disgust.

“Marry him and I shall never speak to you again.”

Her hand dropped to her side as if limp, as if all life had drained from her body as well as the colour from her face. Her lip quivered, “you can't mean that.”

He looked in her eyes, the raw grief of watching her slip away filling him with an unmistakable bitterness, though for what? Her? Himself? Their friendship? He could not put it into words.

“I mean every word.”

That is the last memory he has of her, looking every bit as broken as he'd intended her to feel. In the days that followed, as her family arrived once more to steal her away, Aemond felt the gnawing grip of regret when he chose not to see her off at the courtyard, watching from his window as she scanned the space around for her good friend's presence and didn't find it.

It was then Aemond began to hate himself for every bit of cruelty enacted against her from him. Her carriage disappeared into the distance until it was nothing, leaving a pit of pain in his heart.

Not a day passed that Aemond did not at least think of her and wait for any correspondence to arrive, with his name etched into the paper in her curved, feminine handwriting.

But as he'd feared, she had taken his words to heart, and no letter ever arrived, and eventually, it felt no use counting the days and moons since he'd last seen her.

The guilt would eat away at him for years, the memory of her pained expression etched into his vision. Even as he grew into a man, it would never fully fade, though he was quick to tell himself that he shouldn’t care, that she was no longer the same girl he had loved so much, not since she chose her own fate.

In an attempt to fill the hole she'd left behind, he busied himself with the sword, intent with some level of obsession at becoming the most skilled swordsman in Westeros. 

Aemond would train for hours at a time, the dull ache deep within him pushed away by the strain of sparring drills and intense workouts with the sword. Though even in the midst of training, his thoughts would always be in the back of his mind, taunting him with the guilt that he felt, the shame of how he had treated her at the end.

By itself, it was not enough, but even burying his nose in books did not blur that heavy ache. But it did not mean he could not at least try.

Which is why he sighed in annoyance as he sat by the fireplace in his chambers, a large tome opened in his lap and two knocks rapped at the door.

“Enter.”

He did not tear his attention away as the maidservant entered with a short and quick curtsy, hands clasped, “Your grace, Queen Alicent has requested your presence.”

That alone was enough to draw his attention away from his reading. His mother did not request him for a small matter.

He had wondered if perhaps Aegon had managed to slip out of the Keep again, for yet another one of his excursions into Flea Bottom, and send him to retrieve his brother.

Perhaps his mother finally thought enough time had passed and he was much of a man to suggest a marriage proposal. For some reason, the thought made him ill.

“Thank you, Ser Criston,” he heard his mother say in a muffled tone once he was announced.

Aemond raised his gaze to his mother, relieved to see her calm, and dare he say, happy.

“Aemond,” she greeted softly, her smile gentle and her touch on his arms comforting, “do not look so forlorn.”

“You wished to see me.”

“I did,” Alicent beamed, clasping her hands at her front, “Come.”

He could not help but give a puzzled expression as he walked beside his mother through the winding halls of the Keep, wondering perhaps why her behaviour was so different than usual. A sort of anxiety fed through her, but not the self-destructive kind. 

“We are to receive some guests today. I would like you to greet them.”

Aemond quirked a brow, confused and somewhat annoyed in equal measure, “I am not accustomed to greeting-”

“They have travelled a long way, so remember to be courteous,” Alicent added, flashing one of her tight-lipped smiles, which only served to confuse Aemond further. His mother led him to the top of the staircase of the empty, echoing foyer and instructed quickly, “do be a gracious host, Aemond.”

He did not have a mere moment to question her, before he was watching the back of his mother disappear down the very same hallway they had just walked together. All he managed was a baffled shake of his head, as if by some miracle this was all some mad dream he had conjured. He questioned why on earth his mother would allow him to greet these esteemed guests alone, out of all her antisocial children.

But ever dutiful, he descended the stairs, hearing the low voice of Ser Westerling greeting whomever was arriving in a warm, formal tone, with their silhouettes casting blurred shadows onto the flagstone floor. Aemond’s feet were planted firmly on the step without even realising it.

This esteemed guest was no stranger to him.

Though the years had matured her gracefully, Aemond is sure he would recognise her anywhere, as she looked every bit the same as that day he regretted seeing her carriage leave King’s Landing. She stood tall, her cape fastened at her front with her house crest nestled in the middle, her dark skirts framing her womanly figure as her eyes trailed the details of the Keep that had changed since she had last been there.

Aemond stared wordlessly, the emotions so long buried resurfacing as if they had never left. His breath felt hot, his mind struggling to accept what his lone eye beheld before him. That she was here after so many years separated, in the very flesh, and yet he was unable to utter a single word.

She wandered about the space, commenting to the young woman beside her, who carried a child no older than three in her arms, how it had all looked so much larger in her youth. So he took this moment where she had not yet noticed him to look upon her with wonder, frozen entirely in place with the unexpectedness of her return. His mind raced with the thoughts of what this meeting could mean, for him, for her, and for their future; and he could not deny the strong tug of guilt in his chest for how he had treated her all those years ago, and how her renewed presence only made them more real.

Clearing his throat as he approached, the lady beside her noticed him first, “Prince Aemond,” she greeted with a curtsy, prompting her also to lay her eyes on him once more.

“Your grace,” she smiled warmly with a quick curtsy, with such a formality that made his heart ache.

He craned his head to bow lightly at her, “My Lady,” he replied with some stiffness, before gazing once more into her friendly, soft eyes and allowing his shoulders to relax, “I wondered perhaps if you would recognise me.”

Her laugh made his stomach flip, “I do not think I could ever forget you. Though I must confess, I wondered the same for myself.”

Her smile could not be described as anything less than perfect and a feeling that he harboured for her so long ago began to creep back in before he could stop it, “my Lady, I must apologise right away.”

But she shook her head, looking down at her hands, “it was a long time ago.”

He did not wish to upset her further by mentioning such an incident that had harmed his pride since, but knew that her memories of it were just as vivid as his own, “And I have not forgotten. You did what was expected for a lady in your position, and yet I was too selfish to understand that at the time. Please forgive me.”

He could not take the desperation out his tone, no matter how hard he tried. And still, she smiled sadly at his words.

“You must know that I did not wish to leave you.”

“I do,” he replied quickly, the memories of his guilt burning a hole in his throat, trying to hide the bitterness he felt towards himself, “I must confess - I have missed you greatly.”

Her hands clasped at her front, she blinked slowly and swallowed thickly, “I have missed you too.”

The silence stretched between them. Years of separation and longing had left them both yearning, but lacking the courage of knowing what to say. Aemond cleared his throat, his hands behind his back with anxiety, seeing that her ‘favoured’ husband was still not yet present.

“Are we to receive your husband as well?” he asked with some stiffness, or perhaps bitterness.

She cocked her head ever so slightly, eyebrows pulled together in confusion, until a small smile of realisation graced her features, “I regret to inform you I am recently widowed.”

In any other situation, Aemond would have been mortified at her reply. But with her smile came a rush of realisation himself, and hope swelled in his heart, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot, hoping to all the gods that she could not see the way his thought ran wild in his head, and made his breeches tighten, “Widowed-” 

“Indeed. I am sorry to disappoint you, my Prince. In truth, I have just come out of mourning,” she nodded, biting back another coy smile, showing in her mannerisms that it was no great loss to her.

“I am sorry for your loss, my Lady.”

She shook her head softly, “my husband left a suitable will, so that my child and I live comfortably and so there is no need for me to pursue future marriages should I not wish to.”

Her careful wording was not lost on him, and Aemond could not help the sense of glee at this new and recent change in her life, the bitter anger at having lost her to some decrepit old man years previous seemingly dissipating. And yet despite this, he attempted to keep it hidden, not wishing to seem disrespectful to her late husband.

“Might I present you my daughter,” she added, taking the child from the woman beside her into her own and resting the shy young girl on her hip. The child’s wide-eyed innocent expression unapologetically took all of Aemond in, as children often do, and he was reminded very much of his dear friend when she was small.

She was the image of her mother, save for the slightly lighter hair, with every feature of her etched into her daughter’s youthful face. And the reality of such similarities made him feel both joy and sorrow all at once.

“She is beautiful.” His voice was quiet, seeing the child in her arms was shy and reserved, unlike her mother, but thankful somewhat that her little one was not in the slightest alike to the man she had been forced to marry. Looking into the eyes of her child felt much like staring at the girl he once knew, and with that, a rush of affection.

Aemond thought, that in different circumstances, this child could have been theirs, a shared expression of their affections for one another. That all those years ago, had her father not coerced her into honouring her late sister’s betrothal, that she and Aemond would have their own children by now.

Before he could think too long, the small girl whined in her arms and she put her down immediately, the little patter of childish feet nearly had Aemond break into a grin, watching her run off with the nursemaid chasing behind.

“I am afraid she is a curious little thing. Like mother like daughter I suppose”, she smiled brightly.

Aemond nodded, the rush of memories bringing a wistful smile to his face, “Like mother like daughter,” was all he managed to reply, watching the mischievousness unfold. Yet, once the child and the nursemaid had left them alone, she chuckled softly, feeling his heartbeat slow in pace with hers.

“May I confess something to you, without fear of judgement?” Aemond asked, his heart thudding as she nodded in return, “You may think me foolish, but I must confess that my mind still lingers on the memories of our time together, and I have found no way to erase the feelings they carry with them - your return to King’s Landing has only reinforced them,” he confessed, looking into her warm gaze, “for now, when I look at you, I cannot help but feel just as I did then.”

He watched her swallow thickly, and take a deep, meaningful breath, like what she was going to say would be heavy, “and, what feelings are those, might I ask?”

His heart felt as it was beating so fast it was cracking his ribs, throat closing with anxiety. The feelings he had tried so hard to hide with a mask of bitterness now overflowing with terrifying intensity. Yet, to say such feelings out loud to her, someone he had trusted so much in his youth, made it feel all the more real. And as he stared into her eyes, he wanted nothing more than for her to share them, despite their years of absence from one another.

“That I love you - and have from the moment I met you.”

The words came out quickly, and as soon as he uttered them he felt his cheeks grow hot, knowing her response was either one way or the other and that he, a man so long disconnected from his own feelings, hiding them with his pride for so many years, was now opening up his vulnerability. 

He wanted her to love him. So desperately.

She sighed quietly in relief, “I have loved you as well. And I was saddened to have left you - and will forever be vehemently sorry for that.”

Though his relief was palpable, but he shook his head first, “You were right then, and always have been, that you had no choice or opinion in the matter. Therefore, I will accept no apologies.”

Her eyes glistened with emotion at his words, and when Aemond stepped forward and took her cheek in his palm, her breath hitched in such a way he was sure they would spill forth in tears. But the strong person she had always been, she held them back.

“I feared - you would not desire me,” she confessed quietly. 

Aemond smirked, “It may take more than a few years of separation to extinguish what was once there. I have loved you since that day beneath the Weirwood Tree, and I will love you until this life ends and the next one begins.”

She gave a watery smile at his sweet words, “though I have been wed once already with a child?”

He was silent for a moment as he considered her question, and not a bit of him even wondered whether it were possible, “my love is no fickle thing,” he smiled, “in time I hope I may become as close as a father to her as I may become a husband to you.”

He watched as her unshed tears formed a constellation on her eyelashes, but a relieved smile graced her delicate features. Aemond could not remember the last time he had been this close to her, able to detect the delicate scents brushed through her hair and the way her cheeks warmed at the close proximity between them, and undeniable tension.

The thought of kissing her, having her to himself, made something arousing tighten in his breeches, to his embarrassment.

He drew in a breath, leaning forward to capture her lips, but both drew back a pace suddenly.

“My Lady! Would you care to join us for supper this evening,” Alicent smiled brightly, as if knowing some great secret seeing them both stood straight and blushing. And she had to take a moment to think and stammer out her reply,

“Oh - yes, I would be delighted-”

“Wonderful! I shall see you to your chambers,” the Queen beamed, giving Aemond a sideways glance as the two women he most respected in life walked alongside one another.

He felt as if the entire evening was a true test of his will and determination. Aemond is certain Alicent meant no ill will by inviting the woman he unequivocally loved to supper with his family; but as he sat beside her, remembering how close he had been just a few hours before, it was almost as if everyone around him was aware and simply dangling the situation in front of his face.

And he cursed any god that existed that Aegon was not drowned in his cups that night, as he usually was. On this night, he was frustratingly lucid and hyper-aware.

Helaena, at first, was impartial to the sudden get-together, but as soon as she and Helaena saw one another, it was as if no time at all had passed. They were, of course, the same age when she had been his mother's ward, and as well as with Aemond, had formed a close friendship.

The princess was of course eager to catch up, and even invited her up to dance, to which she happily obliged as Aemond watched from his spot at the table. It was nice to see Helaena happy for a change.

A sorrowful thought had occurred to Aemond that both his friend and Helaena were pressured into marriages and motherhood far too young. And seeing them very much acting like young girls with one another, only exacerbated this feeling.

They talked quickly with excitement, planning to have their children meet up with one another and play in the gardens. And while they were engrossed in conversation, Aegon slid next to his brother, with a knowing smirk on his face.

“She is just as animated as I remember,” the young prince smirked, raising his eyebrows at Aemond over the rim of his cup.

“I will hear none of your depravity about her.”

Aegon threw him a faux-offended expression, “I had not even got there yet. Do you have such a low opinion of me?”

Aemond ignored him and sipped his own Dornish Red.

“You wish to marry her.”

“And you are perceptive.”

“Gods, I love it when you compliment me.”

“And insufferable.”

“What makes you think grandfather will allow you to marry her anyway? He's a dry old cunt, he will not care if you love her or not. He would have you wed to some plain-faced twat from who-knows-where.”

For one infuriatingly brief moment, Aemond had to concede that Aegon was probably right. And with one restless finger tapping against the table, he glanced over at his mother and grandfather suspiciously squished together on one end of the table, leaning towards each other and whispering in low voices, with Otto Hightower looking at his beloved friend from beneath his brow.

They were talking about her. Discussing her. And by the expression on his grandfather, analysing her.

Aemond felt his heart beat faster at the prospect that they were speaking so secretively about her without her knowledge. It seemed a stark contrast to the way the two women on the other side of the table were laughing and smiling brightly, something so rarely seen on Helaena’s face nowadays.

“She is no maiden, that is for certain. Though if you are lucky, perhaps only the first three inches of her have been tainted by Lefford’s withered old cock.”

Aemond wrinkled his nose at Aegon’s depraved quip, despite his somewhat polite request for him not too. Perhaps he’d expected too much courtesy from his elder brother. Or perhaps, more likely, with the exciting renewed presence of Lord Lefford’s widow, Aegon felt the need to perform, and exaggerate his usual unfortunate traits of his personality.

“‘Tis almost as worse as our dear sister being wed to me.”

“I am certain there is nothing worse than that,” Aemond replied quickly, behind the rim of his cup, failing to keep his gaze from forever drifting to the figure of her from across the candles and ornaments.

Aemond found himself captivated by the way she moved, the subtle grace in her gestures that spoke volumes of the woman she had become. Gone was the innocence of youth, replaced by a quiet strength and resilience that only seemed to enhance her beauty. He couldn't help but notice the way her laughter rang out like music, filling the room with warmth and light. It was a sound he had missed more than he cared to admit, a reminder of simpler times when they were just children with the world at their feet.

But now, as he watched her twirl across the dance floor with Helaena, there was something undeniably magnetic about her presence. It was as if she had blossomed into a flower, her petals unfurling to reveal a depth and complexity that left him breathless.

He attempted not to move too quickly once the festivities were over, afraid of showing her in his actions his desperation to be close to her as he offered his arm, “might I see you to your chambers, my Lady?”

She gave a shy smile that morphed into one of amusement, and Aemond is sure he felt something akin to that stomach-flipping sensation when he was flying out on Vhagar when her hand rested on the inside of his forearm, “Very well.”

Aemond chose to ignore the low snicker of his elder brother, showing him his back instead, with the woman he loved on his arm.

“You are aware I know this Keep better than I do my own home, and am perfectly capable of finding my chambers myself?” she said with a teasing lilt.

Aemond couldn't help but chuckle softly, the sound echoing in the empty corridor. "Forgive me, my Lady. It seems my chivalry gets the better of me in your presence."

Her laughter rang out, filling the silence with warmth. "Chivalry or a desire to prolong our conversation, Prince Aemond?"

He felt a surge of joy at the playful banter, grateful for the opportunity to spend even a few moments alone with her. "Perhaps a bit of both, my Lady. Though I must admit, the thought of your company is a temptation I find hard to resist."

She looked at her feet, as if to hide the rising warmth to her face, “I must confess, it is nice to once again be somewhere familiar, with the company I admire most. When my husband was alive it could often get rather lonely.”

Aemond fell quiet for a moment, swallowing thickly, trying to navigate his feelings in the midst of a difficult situation, “I hope that he was kind to you.”

She glanced up at him, her eyes revealing a depth of gratitude that stirred something within him. "He had his moments," she admitted with a small smile, "but kindness was not his strongest suit. Still, I suppose I cannot fault him entirely. He provided for me in his own way."

Aemond could sense the underlying weight in her words, the unspoken struggles she had endured beneath the facade of mere cordiality. He didn't need to ask to know that her late husband had been less than supportive.

"You deserve far more than just provision, my Lady," he said earnestly, his gaze unwavering as he spoke.

Aemond could almost feel his heart sink as he had realised they were stood before her chamber doors, her hand slipping from his arm, and yet a fire stoking fierce then at the thought of an invitation inside.

She clasped her hands delicately, her warm eyes meeting his with a gentle intensity. "I couldn't help but notice Queen Alicent and the Lord Hand engaged in such ceaseless conversation," she remarked, her voice soft and thoughtful. "I do not wish to presume—"

Aemond, catching the subtle implication in her words, swiftly interjected, "I cannot claim to know their exact sentiments." His gaze met hers, offering reassurance without a hint of desperation. "But I refuse to allow something as trivial as their approval to deter me. I've already endured the pain of losing you once."

There was a quiet determination in his voice, a resolve that mirrored the fire in her own eyes. In that moment, they shared an unspoken understanding, a mutual agreement to pursue their feelings despite the potential obstacles that lay ahead.

She nodded, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Your courage is admirable, Prince Aemond. But we must proceed cautiously. The court is a web of intricate politics, and our actions could have far-reaching consequences."

Her words were crafted in such a way that reminded him of her personality in their youth, understanding of the repercussions and yet boldly standing tall in the face of them. And with her small, mischievous smile, he knew all the same that whatever she uttered was only done so to extend her cordiality.

"I understand," he replied, his tone tinged with determination. "But I cannot ignore what my heart tells me."

"Nor can I," she admitted softly, her gaze meeting his with a mixture of vulnerability and resolve.

Silence settled between them for a moment, the weight of their unspoken desires hanging in the air. Then, with a subtle shift in her demeanour, she turned towards her chamber door. Without a word, she reached out and gently pushed it open, leaving it ajar. A silent invitation hung in the air, enticing Aemond to step inside.

Aemond's heart skipped a beat as he watched her gesture, his pulse quickening with anticipation. Without hesitation, he took a step forward, drawn irresistibly towards the open door and the promise of privacy within.

With a shared glance filled with unspoken understanding, Aemond turned towards her chamber doors, crossing the threshold into the privacy of her chambers, where their hearts could speak freely without the constraints of the outside world.

She spoke quietly, her face illuminated warmly by the soft flicker of candlelight. "I hope you do not think less of me for this," she murmured, her voice tinged with vulnerability. "You can imagine, for me there is no great ceremony in it."

Aemond's heart swelled with tenderness at her words, his gaze filled with an understanding that transcended mere words. "I could never think less of you," he replied softly, his voice brimming with sincerity.

Aemond slowly closed the distance between them, their expressions never wavering, his steps deliberate yet gentle. He reached out, his hand cupping her face tenderly, as he gazed into her eyes with an intensity that spoke of his deep affection. In that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them suspended in a timeless embrace. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across their intertwined figures, bearing witness to the union of two souls bound together by love and longing.

Her lips parted to whisper, “I do not wish for you to do all of this out of guilt-”

She caught herself when his thumb traced her cheek, waiting for him to answer, “I do not make this bid out of remorse. I wish to be with you, and I wish to make you mine.”

Aside from the crackling heat of the fire within the hearth, her breath was all that was audible between them, coming heavier from between her lips as his thumb feathered down her cheek and to her bottom lip, caressing the skin there. After that, he felt her eyelashes against his cheek flutter when he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers with a tenderness usually unbecoming of his personality.

Years of longing had each of them pressing closer to each other, lost in the sound of their soft kisses, and Aemond felt his clothing below his waist become tight with need once he caressed her tongue with his and pried her lips apart like the petal of a flower and tasting the sweet nectar within.

Her hands that had found his shoulders slid over the sleek leather to his front, tenderly and gingerly pulling the buckles apart to loosen his doublet. Her actions, instead of spurring embarrassment, renewed a deep-rooted vigour beneath, and Aemond’s new task was to pull at the laces of her dress behind her, and pull the fabric that had hidden her body from him.

He felt her shiver, pulling the heavy dress from her shoulder to pool at her waist, pushing them as fervently off her as he was able, “was he at least good to you,” Aemond asked in a whisper, his breath hot at her neck while she pulled at the laces of his breeches. 

“I do not wish to speak of him,” she answered with determination and confidence, but a breathless, wanton whisper herself, wanting nothing more than to consummate years of harboured affections masked by friendship, “I only want you.”

Her words had his heart stutter in his chest, pulling her now almost bare form atop him as he sat back onto the bed, with her hair loosened like this and her shoulders blossoming with gooseflesh, he found that he was incapable of keeping his hands at his sides and explored the shape of her feminine body beneath the shift she wore. 

Even the sheer motion of her brushing against his hardened member and her breasts filling his palms could have been enough for Aemond, but there was no returning at this point. She sighed against his lips as his fingers dipped beneath the hem of her shift to ruck the thin fabric up around her hips, squeezing the flesh of her thighs to pull her closer onto his lap.

Warmth bloomed at her cheeks, but it did not deter her as she reached between them and smiled at Aemond’s loud moan, stroking his rapidly hardening length in her palm, focussing her attention towards the velvety tip. 

She lifted herself in his lap, fingers threaded at the hair at his nape as if to anchor herself to him, and both sighed with the utmost relief of their union once he pressed himself into her, and she sank her warmth onto him, enveloping him with her body. Her lips parted at the stretch, somewhat prepared and yet the intrusion still stealing the air from her lungs.

Foreheads pressed together, Aemond's hands gripped her at her waist, pushing his hips up into her as hard as he could to sink deeper inside her, “I have dreamt of this - for so long - being with you like this -” 

A faint sheen glimmered on her collarbones as she slowly moved her hips on him, Aemond's legs parted somewhat, widening hers and opening her up more so he could rock up into her with her rhythm. The closeness of their position had the blunt head of his cock massage that sensitive patch within, her eyebrows knitted together in sweet pleasure.

“That's it -” he cooed quietly, almost watching the way she moved with admiration and curiosity, her tight, silky walls squeezing his length with every thrust of herself down. He felt her arousal coat the base of him, and the sound of their ever-quickening coupling filled the otherwise quiet chambers.

She held onto his shoulders, the amber glow of the fireplace picturing her expression in the most arousing way Aemond had ever imagined. Pulling her shift down her chest, he groaned lowly at the sight of her breasts and took one in his palm and mouthed at the other, taking her stiffened nipple between his lips in a way that made a shuddering moan slip past her lips.

“Gods - I would adore to watch you swell with my child - would you like that -”

All she could do was nod feebly, words unable to occupy her mouth where soft, sweet sounds of pleasure were pouring out. Aemond smirked, grazing his teeth over her bud.

“yes, you would like to serve your husband - give him children, wouldn't you - fuck-” his voice strained at the effort it took to hold himself back, his hands sliding down the column of her back to her plump backside, palms gripping tight and guiding her rhythm onto him, over and over.

She moaned loudly, the motion of being pulled back and forth and yet still impaling herself on him driving the fat head of his cock into the deepest and most forbidden parts of her.

“Aemond -”

“And once you have one - I'll fuck yet another one into you - keep you fat with child” his breathing grew ragged and shaky, “- take it - like a good little wife should-”

“Yes - yes-” she breathed quickly, the words slipping out without realising what they were for, her blind acceptance of being his wife, or the rising waves of pleasure coursing white, hot through her body.

He felt her squeezing him and hastened both of her rhythms, dragging her back into his lap and pushing up into her wet heat ceaselessly. Both the numbing ache of her peak and her bud rolling against his body in quick succession had her hands gripping around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck as her limbs flooded with warmth.

“That's it, ābrazyrys -”

“Gods, Aemond-” she squeaked, completely overcome and possessed by the heights of pleasure rolling through her, the endless rhythm of him fucking up into her only prolonging it.

Her tight walls squeezed him so deliciously that Aemond's heart leapt into his throat, completely surprised as he pulsed thickly and spilled within her, his lone eye tightly shut. His own fulfilment had his hips twitching, shallowly pushing his seed into her, and hoping that it took.

Even once he was completely spent and exhausted, softening inside her, neither moved, and he simply felt her tender fingertips at his shoulders in light soft circles, massaging him. And thought, that this is how it always should have been, had he fought for her.

Her breath fluttered against his skin, herself tired in exertion from their shared pleasure.

“I was a fool - for allowing you to slip from my grasp.”

She sat up, to look down at him, her face flushed, hair in messy waves, looking every bit as beautiful as the day he'd lost her.

But she smiled, her finger tracing the pattern impressed on the leather of his eye patch, “you may have been a fool,” she started.

Her finger hooked beneath it, and lifted it away, her expression unchanged as her thumb stroked the indent of the scar at his cheek. Aemond felt his heart soar in a way that almost felt terrifying.

“I never slipped from your grasp,” she uttered gently, “my heart was always yours.”

Aemond brushed her hair from her features, her words sending waves of ecstasy thrumming in his veins.

“Just as mine shall always be.”

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorskyy @emmaisafictionwhore @minholy223

[humanpurposes]

You Want This, You Need This

The only daughter of Rhaneyra Targaryen is firmly devoted to her mother's cause, and yet she finds her way through the passages of the Holdfast, to the bedchamber of a Prince she should hate // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, enemies with benefits, hate sex, degrading, angst, Targcest (uncle and niece)

Words: 3.7k

A/n: Me making a poll then doing whatever I want 🫶

There’s no use in waiting for sleep to come to her, she’s too restless for sleep.

Her bedroom is full of alcoves and adjacent chambers, good for hiding and keeping the room cool during the summers. In one of the alcoves is a mural. If she presses a particular space on the wall with much force, she can push it to reveal an entrance into the hidden passageways of Maegor’s Holdfast. 

Light is lost beyond the threshold. A gentle but piercing breeze washes over her, through the thin and billowing fabric of her night shift. There’s always this lingering excitement when she opens the doorway. She equates it to the thrill of flying, cutting through the wind on dragonback. Only she’s not in the sky, she’s staring into darkness, daring herself to take a single step.

As children she and her brothers had found many of these hidden doors throughout the castle, the perfect sort of places to hide in when they were in trouble, the perfect place to eavesdrop and move through the keep undetected. When their mother found out she had discouraged them from venturing too far, lest they end up like the piles of bones left by rats and other rodents that had never found their way out. 

The paths within the walls are treacherous, but she knows some of the routes by heart. She knows how to head down to the kitchens, she even knows a way which leads past the dungeons, to a chamber which houses the skull of Blaerion, the Black Dread, out to a beach along the shore of the bay, out of reach by any other means.

There is one particular room she has in mind tonight.

She treads carefully, tracing her fingertips against the wall so that she does not lose her way. When she comes to a series of steps she takes even more caution. She counts twenty steps, then turns another corner and keeps walking until the stone underneath her fingers turns to wood. It is a door, one which appears as part of a panelled wall on the other side. She pushes it open, hoping he has left the latch undone, and he has.

The room’s warmth is a welcome sensation. She makes as little noise as possible as she enters and closes the door behind her. 

He’s sitting by the fire, turned away from where she stands, head lowered slightly and his silver hair spilling down the back of his chair. She almost always finds him like this, practising one of his self righteous rituals. He reads until the hearth and the candles have burned out because it enforces his own belief that he is a more dedicated son than Aegon, more intelligent and more worthy than the Velaryons– than her and her ilk. 

His shoulders stiffen as the soles of her slippers tap delicately against the floor, moving towards his bed. She imagines him frowning, or perhaps smiling to himself as he closes the book in his lap.

She perches at the edge of the mattress, pushing her shoes off and letting them fall to the floor. “That was quite the display in the training yard this morning,” she says in a clear voice.

Everything he does is agonisingly slow. He grips the arms of his chair as he rises, slots the book back onto a shelf, and finally turns to face her. He is dressed in a simple black shirt and the breeches he usually sleeps in. His hair is half tied, his leather patch secured around his head, over the space where his left eye should be, sliced out by her own brother’s hand.

The low light of the hearth casts shadows in the sharp edges of his face, the lines around his mouth, the curve of his lips, proud but restrained. His remaining eye is trained on her, glaring at her like a hunter approaches prey.

“You were there to watch your brother, I thought,” he says in that softly threatening voice of his. He comes close enough to loom over her, though just far enough that their legs do not touch. “Or did you find your eye wandering?”

Jace’s first mistake had been to go down to the yard early. Aemond was always there in the mornings after flying Vhagar, to train with Ser Criston Cole until noon. His next mistake had been to succumb to Aemond’s goading. Their uncle is never one to use violence at first, not like Aegon who would brawl with a gull if he thought it offensive enough. Aemond likes to use his words to tease and probe, to lure an opponent to action, and Jace almost always falls for it. The moment her brother had challenged Aemond to a sparring match she knew what the outcome would be. Jace was a promising fighter, but he simply could not match Aemond’s height, strength, speed or skill.

Her heart sank for her brother, but it couldn’t force her attention away from Aemond. He moved like a dancer, all fluidity and control, like he already had the entire performance planned out in his head. He toyed with Jace, kept his defence up, only to knock his sword from his hands and place his own blade at his throat in a sudden flash of silver and steel.

She’d had to bite the inside of her lip to stop herself from smirking.

“You humiliated him, before spectators,” she says.

Aemond frowns in mock sympathy, taking her chin between his finger and his thumb to tilt her gaze up. “I would do it a hundred times over, for my own pleasure if not for anything else.”

She tilts her head. “And what of my pleasure?”

He hums cryptically. The corners of his mouth flicker upwards. “Your pleasure is only my concern within the confines of this room.”

He’s looking at her like that again, like he wants to devour her.

He traces his fingers down her throat, her collar, the neckline of her shift. His touch is sparse but familiar, exploring the curves of her body through the fabric, patterns she’s felt before, spaces he already knows and seems to have mapped in his head.

He leans in closer, his other hand pressing into the bed, invading her space, infiltrating her senses with the scent of smoke and lavender. She could drown in it, the scent of him.

She shudders as he runs his nose over her neck, following the heat of his breath with a lingering kiss against the sensitive spot of her skin. “What is it you want from me tonight?” 

She has an idea in her mind, one she’s been toying with since she had seen the look of pride in his face in the yard.

“Lie down, on your back.”

He stands straight. Eye still fixed on her, he does as she says, making himself comfortable against the pillows. 

She draws out every movement, just as he likes to do to her. She straddles him, settling her hips against the growing hardness in his breeches. She rests her hands against his chest, runs her fingers over his skin and the patch of silver hair revealed when she pulls on his shirt.

His hands are on her immediately, running up her thighs, gripping at her waist, bringing up the hem of her shift and tutting as though it has caused him some personal insult in hiding her body from him. He pulls it over her head and surges up to kiss her, capturing her lips with the desperation of a man starved. His kisses are always like this, slow and consuming, pulling her in closer and closer like he expects her to try to escape, like the only air he wants exists in her lungs.

It’s fast and overwhelming, and at first she’s content to just let it happen, to let herself be carried away in the currents of his wants and not her own, but once she’s a little more settled, she pushes him back against the bed.

He stares up at her, blood rushing to his cheeks, lips parted and panting. For all the times she’s seen his stoic exterior at court, she thinks he looks best like this.

“I thought you were concerning yourself with my pleasure?” she says, not bothering to contain her smile.

“I thought you liked it when I take what I want,” he retorts.

“I want you to do as you’re told.”

He huffs a laugh, but his gaze softens and his tongue wets his lips, his eye roaming appreciatively over her bare body, until he stops at her small clothes. All it takes is a few gentle rocks of her hips before his jaw tightens and his fingers dig deeper into the flesh of her waist. She swears she feels his hips twitch beneath her, but he makes no move to take what he wants.

She leans back on her haunches as she drags his breeches below his hips. By the sight of him, hard and reddened at the tip, she knows he at least finds something about this arrangement appealing. 

She discards the rest of their clothing, his shirt, her small clothes, the leather eyepatch on his head. She pauses when she reaches for it, waiting for him to protest, but he doesn’t. He gives her a small nod and she slides it up to reveal the true extent of his scar, the twisted red flesh around the sapphire wedged in his socket.

She has seen it countless times before. She needs the reminder of who he is, how much he must hate her.

Now that they are both bare she resumes her position, pleasure like a flame licking up her spine as she traces circles over her centre. Aemond grinds himself against her, breathing with a strain in the back of his throat. The sound only makes the wanting feeling in her gut tighten. She can feel herself clenching over nothing, her body begging for more friction and the release it promises.

She feels she is wet enough to take him now, and her stomach drops in anticipation.

When he whispers her name, she knows she has him exactly where she wants him.

She closes her hand around his cock, giving it a few half-hearted strokes and lining it up to her entrance, only to hesitate. “I hear your mother is intending to invite Borros Baratheon to court,” she says.

Aemond catches his lip between his teeth, staring at the space where their bodies almost meet if she would only lower her hips.

“Might he bring one of his comely daughters? He has four, doesn’t he?”

Aemond huffs and meets her eye. His hands are still on her waist, his thumbs tracing circles over her belly. “Where did you hear this?”

She tries to pretend such a simple touch from him does not excite her or tempt her to relent. 

Daemon has spies in the Queen’s household, not that she knows the specifics. Her mother had discussed the matter with her, expressing concern for the Hightowers’ intentions. It has been decades since a Lord of Storm’s End has stepped foot in the Red Keep, and Daemon believes their rivals are trying to close ranks, amass allies outside of the capital. Perhaps such a deal may be sealed with a marriage pact.

“What,” she breathes, trying to smile, “that his daughters are comely? I can only assume, for I’ve never met them you see–”

In the blink of an eye she’s beneath him.

Aemond brings a single finger to her lips. “I thought we had agreed not to discuss political matters in private,” he says.

“I did not realise the matter was political–”

He cuts her off when he snakes his hand down her body and pushes his thumb against her pearl. She hisses, her hips bucking to meet his touch.

“Are you trying to bait me, niece? Hmm? Is that what you came here for?”

She shakes her head as he circles over her. For such minimal effort on his part, it sparks something frustratingly bright in her, back arching, warmth settling between her legs and beneath her skin.

“Is that really what you want me to be thinking about? Wondering which one of the Baratheon girls is the prettiest?”

His fingertips tease over her entrance, but he doesn’t push them inside, instead they’re replaced by the head of his cock. She presses her lips together, determined not to make any kind of noise he could take for weakness, for wanting, but she feels it all the same.

“Presently, I’m only thinking about what I can see, and what I see is a spoiled little Princess, laid out beneath me. Poor thing, she’s trying to look smug, but I’m not sure I’m convinced, not when I’m about to fuck her tight, little cunt.” 

Her pleading is mindless, falling from her lips as effortlessly as her breath. “Please… please… please…”

She wonders if it is her want or his own he eventually succumbs to. He pushes in slowly, delighted at the slight moan he elicits from her, sharing her air as she gasps at the pleasurable ache of being stretched out around him.

“I’ve heard rumours too, that Rhaenyra has been sending ravens to Highgarden,” he says as he starts to snap his hips against hers. “What business would your mother have with the Tyrells, I wonder?”

Rhaenyra has her own plans for a marriage pact, plans she’s known about for months. “What indeed?” she says, trying to smile as he ruts into her.

Aemond almost growls, burying his face into her neck. As his voice is harsher so are his thrusts. “My sister will sell you to a sickly little boy, is that it? Why would Rhaenyra want an alliance with the Reach?”

Because the King is little more than a breathing corpse and who knows how much life he has left in him. Because eventually, he will die, and they both know what will come next.

She’s always known her part in this, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her brothers may well fight in battles to defend their mother’s claim, but wars cannot be won without the necessary support. The Reach, The Riverlands, The Vale, The North, they must all be secured one way or another.

With his face hidden from hers she allows herself to admire the way his muscles move and flex under the smooth, pale skin of his arm. Since leaving childhood behind, he seems to have this idea of efficiency, with no tolerance for excess. His arms are slight, but defined where he trains with his sword each day, where he hauls himself onto Vhagar’s saddle and steers her around Blackwater Bay.

“It’s always been expected of me,” she says, tracing her hand over his skin, almost perfect, save for a few marks: a burn after an unfortunate encounter with Vermax when he was just a hatchling, a scar above his elbow where he fell from an apple tree, and crescent shaped indents from their last tryst. “I will do my duty.”

“Duty?” He stops, grabbing her by the neck so her breath hitches in her throat. He leans into her, pressing his forehead against hers, caging her between his body and the bed. She sees nothing but a single eye and a sapphire, nothing but contempt. “You’re the antithesis of it, crawling to your uncle’s bedchamber every night, begging to be fucked.”

Anger flares in her blood. She clamps her hand around his wrist and digs her nails into his skin, hoping it will mark him. “I have never begged for you,” she spits, teeth bared, lips grazing over his, “and I never shall…”

Her words fade on her tongue when he resumes a punishing pace, urging her closer to oblivion with every thrust.

“Oh there you go,” he coos, “that feels good, doesn’t it?” He’s on his knees now, one hand still on her throat, the other on her thigh, forcing her legs further apart, fingertips pressing painfully into her flesh.

She tries to pull away from his grip, pushing herself further into the bed amongst the pillows, but Aemond has always been stubborn and does not relent. She has nowhere to go, no other option but to take it.

“You’ll be sent off to some castle in a miserable corner of the world, live the dull life of a Lady. Your Lord husband will trade swords and shields for you like a brood mare and fuck his children into your belly each night.”

She feels her peak building within her, the weightlessness rising and rising, she can hardly take much more. “Do you believe I will think of you?” she says with a grin, “as he touches me, as he spills inside me…”

Aemond grunts, folding his chest over hers, brushing his lips over her cheek as he hisses, “wanton little whore. I am the one you seek out, and as long as you do, you are mine.”

It tears through her quickly, a spark that turns to flame, a piece of kindling caught alight, pleasure that reduces her simply to feeling, warmth and the absence of his weight on her body. She claws her nails into nothing, empty space where she expects to find his skin.

Aemond has pulled away from her, groaning as he comes, spilling over her stomach and thighs. She watches him, jaw slack, brows angled like he’s in agony. 

She basks in the numbness her peak leaves behind as he drags his shirt over her skin to clean the mess he’s made with a touch that is soft and slow. His eye trails along her body to her face. She sees nothing in him, not amusement or satisfaction, not hatred or remorse, and yet he comes to lay beside her, turning her onto her side, settling against her back and putting his arms around her.

She allows it, too used to the feeling of lying in his bed, too used to the scent of sweat and smoke and lavender. 

Aemond’s chambers are ruled by order, every book has its place on a shelf, he does not leave papers, clothes or used cups of wine lying around. The bedchamber lies on the south side of the castle, with a balcony overlooking the bay where two of them used to watch the ships leaving the harbour. She likes the intricate tapestries, scenes of Valryian mythology, and his fondness for the colour blue. Even if she cannot see most of it in the dark of night, the silence and stillness is comforting.

“Lord Corlys’ ship was attacked,” she mutters, placing her hand over his, where his palm against her stomach. “We cannot be sure if he even survived.”

“So I’ve heard,” Aemond says, “I’ve also heard Vaemond Velaryon intends to challenge the succession of Driftmark, should the unthinkable be true.

“And I assume the Queen and the Hand will support him in this endeavour.”

Aemond’s chest stills. “They will hear the petitions and pass their judgement,” he says, quietly but finally.

“Then the decision has already been made.”

Aemond’s breathing is deep, her hair fluttering against her cheek as he exhales. Her mother has a similar way of scolding her without uttering a single word, as if to say the answer should be obvious.

With a scoff she pushes his hand away and drags herself out of the bed. The cold air stings her skin and she makes short work of finding her night shift, discarded on the floor, and dressing herself.

“Lucerys has no claim to Driftmark,” Aemond says from the bed.

“And why is that?” she says shortly, grabbing her shoes from the foot of the bed.

He won’t say it, but the word is there, in the way he teases Jace, the way his family watch her and her brothers and stare at them across the throne room with nothing but disgust. It’s there in his indifference towards her beyond the walls of his bedchamber, avoiding eye contact, muttering under his breath, insults and backhanded compliments. But the last time he said it, it cost him his eye.

She turns to face him, a defiant glare through the darkness now that some of the candles have started to burn out. 

“Coward,” she whispers.

He does claim to disagree.

With her shoes on, she moves towards the hidden door without sparing him another glance.

But she hears a ruffle of fabric, his feet against the floor as he follows her. His hand closes around her arm, hard enough it feels as though it might leave a bruise. He turns her into him, placing her back and his palm against the panelled wall.

“Stay,” he says.

“Surely you would not want to sully yourself, sharing your bed with a bastard.”

“But it’s different with you.”

“How? How is it different?”

He cups her face in his hands, begging her for something but never saying it. He leans in gradually, kissing her firmly. It’s easy to follow his lead, to let him slip his tongue between her lips, let him pull and tug at her delicate flesh, to feel him and lose herself to him. It makes her weightless all over again.

Once it was easy to love Aemond. They found friendship easily as children, even when they bickered and argued, because they could always forgive each other.

Some time ago she realised that love has always been destined to fade away, like summer changing into autumn, winter snows melting away with the spring. There is no place for it amongst the animosity between their families, causes they were born to, that neither of them will ever forsake.

Aemond pulls away but stays close to her, a hand on her waist, the other on her cheek. “I want you to stay.”

“And what then? What do you think could ever become of us?” The one-eyed Prince and the bastard Princess.

Suddenly she hates the stillness of this room, the weight of his silence in her chest. 

Aemond’s hand slips from her cheek, his expression falling from pleading to indifference. 

She leaves him standing there, bare chested and breathless, with no light to catch in the cut edges of his sapphire. She fades back into the shadows of the passageway, amongst the cold and the dark and the bones.

The rot has set in. The King will die, and both the Blacks and the Greens will seek to claim his throne. The empty space between her and Aemond can only ever grow.

Tags (comment to be added)

General taglist: @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

[flowerandblood]

Object of Desire (1/3)

[ dark • Aemond x Arryn • widow female ]

[ warnings: dubcon, hate sex, sex content, smut, angst, domination, violence, swearing, humiliation, hard chauvinism ]

[ description: Aemond is forced to marry a widow from House Arryn as part of the alliance and support of his brother in the war against the Black faction. This story is an Anon Request, sorry it took me so long. I know anon wanted it to be a softer and sweeter story, but it didn't fit Aemond's character and what I think would be going on in his head. The female character has a specific eye and hair color. Lots of humiliation, violence and chauvinism. ]

Part 2 − Object of Despair Part 3 − Object of Delight Epilogue

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

My other works: Masterlist

______

He thought the greatest humiliation of his life was behind him when he lost an eye, when his brother and nephews gave him a pig instead of a dragon. He thought that now that he was a man, rider of the greatest dragon walking the earth − he would finally get everything he deserved, a wife from a dignified, respected House, and with her an offspring, his inheritance, an extension of his lineage.

He could not hide his expression of disappointment, disgust and bitterness when his mother informed him that instead of one of Lord Baratheon's daughters he would be marrying Lord Arryn's niece − his grandfather, intent on strengthening his brother's position on the throne felt that depriving Rheanyra of the support of the Eyrie, her mother's kin, would greatly weaken her in the ongoing war.

He would have endured this change without a word were it not for one thing.

The woman was a fucking widow.

Already intimate with another man who had taken her virginity, she was worn, marked, like an overbitten apple that now someone had to eat to the end to keep it from rotting.

He imagined in the back of his mind how the court, which both feared and mocked him, would spread rumours that the One-Eyed Prince was not only crippled but must marry a woman devoid of value and her greatest virtue, for no other lady would agree to be his wife.

However, he knew what duty was and intended to fulfil it.

Despite his mother's suggestion, he did not want to see her before the nuptial day. He felt that he did not want to further exacerbate her bad enough appearance in his eyes; he feared that she was not only worthless but plain ugly, her mind empty and shallow.

Although the nuptials were to take place in the noble family, knowing that this would not be her first wedding it was decided that the whole ceremony would be modest, only the most loyal lords and relatives who supported their cause were invited.

Looking at his reflection in the mirror in shame and disgust, at his emerald tunic adorned with golden threads swirling in embroidery reminiscent of dragon's heads, he thought it seemed too refined for such an occasion, for such a woman who could offer him nothing.

He knew that there was no fault of hers in her husband's sudden passing from this world, that it was pure politics, but he could not help thinking that it would have been better if she had died with him.

Waiting for her in the Great Sept, he felt nothing − he had not even bestowed a single glance on her when he heard the sound of trumpets, indicating that she and her father had entered the temple and were heading towards him.

As he felt her presence beside him he immediately noticed out of the corner of his eye that she was dressed in a blue gown, flowers of the same colour in her hair − curiosity forced him to at least glance at her and he swallowed loudly as his gaze met her violet eyes.

The colour of the Targaryens.

He froze, feeling his heart suddenly begin to beat faster, unable to look away from her irises, from her long, dark lashes and eyebrows surrounding her eyes like a sky surrounding the sun − unintentionally his gaze studied quickly her entire silhouette and face.

He swallowed with difficulty, turning his head away, realising that her figure was pleasingly girlish, she was young, too young in his eyes to be a widow − her dark hair was tied back, myosotis tucked into her curls at the sides of her head, her gown made of some thin, smooth, shiny material shimmering blue and purple at the same time.

He couldn't focus on what the Septon was saying; he only glanced at her again when Daeron handed him the cloak with which he was to cover her − her gaze fixed on him, her eyebrows arched in sorrow as if she was in pain, her eyes gleaming, slightly reddened, as if she was barely holding back tears.

He felt like asking if she was so disgusted with him, but no sound came out of his mouth.

With a stony face expressing indifference, he threw his cloak embroidered with a three-headed red dragon over her back and then took her hand in his, small and surprisingly smooth.

She didn't look at him when, in a trembling, soft voice, she repeated the words of her vows with him. He tried to remember her doing it for the second time in her life, that she was someone else's, warming someone else's bed, but he couldn't.

She seemed so innocent.

They hadn't exchanged a word during the wedding feast; he watched from the corner of his eye her demeanour, her face − she seemed to him absent, sad, ashamed.

He thought with a squeeze in his throat, filled with jealousy and envy, that she was a beautiful young woman, and someone had her before him.

He took a loud, impatient sip of wine from his cup, its tart, slightly sweet aftertaste spilling over his tongue, dulling his mind.

He felt like his head was going to burst.

They both tried to put it off for as long as they could, however, eventually his mother suggested that his spouse was surely tired and should retire to bed.

He pressed his lips together at her words, rising silently, looking at this strange, frightened girl out of the corner of his eye, her face turned towards him, her eyes open wide in terror.

"Come, wife." He hummed coldly, without emotion and heard her swallow hard − she followed him quietly as he left the hall, heading down the dark torch-lit corridors to his chamber.

He watched indifferently as her servants helped her undress from her beautiful gown, slowly untangling the curls of her hair, one of them wanted to remove the flowers from them, but he protested.

"No. The flowers are to stay. Let at least some semblance of innocence and purity remain." He sneered, saw that the corners of her mouth twitched, her eyebrows arched in pained humiliation.

He cocked his head, intrigued that she endured his words and what was happening with such humility.

He thought that if she behaved like this, perhaps he would take pity on her and actually put his child inside her, so that she could somehow regain her dignity, to be the mother of his heir.

"That's enough." He said at last, when she was left only in her nightgown, from under which he could see the outline of the pleasing shapes of her womanly body, waiting patiently until they were left alone.

She was looking somewhere far away, sad, tired, humiliated, her face, although pale, as if filled with mourning, was smooth and pleasant, the shade of her eyes seemed to him more blue in the firelight.

Proof that they shared ancestors, a common heritage.

For some reason he felt some kind of affection for her at the thought.

He got up from his seat with a loud creak of wood, walking with a slow, lazy step towards her − he saw that she twitched but did not look at him, her lips parted slightly in an accelerated breath, betraying her nervousness.

He walked around her, looking at her as if she were an object, assessing her figure, the shade of her hair, the shape of her face from every angle. She swallowed quietly and lifted her chin, looking at him with some kind of challenge, a decision that she would accept what was about to happen and give him no reason to mock her.

He hummed at the thought, stepping behind her, feeling her flinch all over as she felt his large hands touch her waist and then slide lower, to her womb − he felt surprised, licking his lips with his tongue, that his manhood swelled hard in his breeches when, in some sudden, involuntary reflex, her small hands grabbed his wrists, yet not stopping his movements, just trying to maintain some semblance of control over what was happening.

She let the air out of her lungs nervously, closing her eyes for a moment as his nose sank into her sweet-smelling, smooth hair, his hands stroking her lower abdomen trailing over it in tender, slow movements as if he imagined she was already carrying his child, his reason for being proud and pleased with her.

"This poor man, whose name I can't even remember, died without an heir. Why?" He whispered in her ear, a note of menace in his voice, his fingers digging into the fabric of her nightgown and her stomach, forcing her to take a step back, bumping into his throbbing manhood pushing against her buttocks. He heard her gasp softly, swallowing loudly, her body quivering in his embrace.

"The will of the Gods." She replied softly, her voice melodious, warm, pleasant to his ear. He hummed again, acknowledging her answer, his hands again beginning to stroke her womb in an unhurried, tender gesture.

"Why would I need a wife who won't give me an inheritance? Hm?" He asked in a tone as if he was curious and intrigued − he felt her whole body tense up in fear knowing that he was mocking her.

She drew in air loudly, suddenly tightening her fingers on his arm as his hand slid lower, between her thighs, the tips of his fingers began to brush her there with calm, steady strokes.

His free hand rose higher, to her neck, tightening around it warningly when he felt her buttocks begin to rub against his length, feeling a pleasant wave of heat surge through his spine and lower abdomen. He looked down at his fingers between her thighs, even through the material feeling the moisture leaking through it.

"A wife is a gift. Like a sword, a book or a horse." She cooed softly, responding with a rocking of her hips to the touch of his fingers. He involuntarily chuckled at her words, charmed that she understood exactly his approach, that her mind was not obscured by bottomless female fantasies, but stood in reality.

"Why would I need a chipped sword, an empty book, or a blind horse?" He asked lowly, his hand from her neck moved higher − his fingers cupped her cheeks, forcing her to turn her head towards him, to look at him, her violet eyes misty, bright, beautiful.

She smiled and giggled softly, startling him completely, bringing him out of his thoughts.

"It's amusing to hear you speak about blindness, husband. I hope the lack of your eye doesn't bother you anymore." She whispered with a satisfaction that made him snort in fury − she squealed quietly and closed her eyes as his fingers dug into her cheeks and shook her, as if he wanted her to come to her senses and remember who she was standing in front of.

"You are nothing, whore. Do you understand? Nothing. A worn-out cup to be filled with seed. I don't have an eye, but I do have a fucking dignity that my mother deprived me of by forcing me to marry a creature like you." He hissed, shaking her head violently once in a while, wanting it to get into her little empty head what he had just said.

She looked at him with hatred, her gaze seeming darker, more dangerous to him, her tongue hitting her palate with a quiet click of her saliva as she whispered a single word in his direction.

"Pathetic."

He didn't even know when his hand tightened in her hair, slamming her head against the table that stood in front of them forcing her to lean forward with a violent gesture − she squirmed loudly and cried out, clenching her fingers on the tabletop as she tried to catch her balance − he kicked her ankle with his foot forcing her to spread her thighs wider.

"You like it rough, hm? You find yourself better at being a whore than a wife? Very well then." He growled, his free hand undoing the buckles of his tunic, untying his breeches quickly, releasing his throbbing erection, giving it a few sure squeezes at the base, for some reason what was happening, their quick, rapturous breaths aroused him even more.

"Fucking male pride. Take what you want, you won't break me." She hissed with such hateful envy that he chuckled out loud, somehow impressed by how brazen she was.

"There's a little dragon burning inside you, isn't it? We shall see. I'm a man full of patience." He sneered, lifting her nightgown up in an impatient motion, exposing what was between her thighs, her rosy, puffy folds glistening with her moisture.

She pressed her lips together, struggling to hold back the sound of discomfort as he pushed against her, forcing the fat, pink head of his cock between her tight walls. He sighed heavily, feeling how wonderfully she clenched around him on all sides, hot and surprisingly soft.

"− fuck −" He gasped out, spreading her thighs wider with his leg − she cried out loudly as he sank all the way into her with one sure thrust, her fleshy muscles throbbing againt him in panic.

They both began panting loudly as, in some subconscious, natural reflex, he began to pound into her with the impatient, aggressive stabs of his hips.

"− fucking whore −" He growled angrily, clamping his hand painfully tight on her hair, her mouth parted wide in a helpless moan as he suddenly quickened his pace, looking down, feeling a wonderful thrill of elation at the sight of his manhood opening her slick folds wide again and again with deep, brutal thrusts of his hips.

"− bastard −" She cried out, responding however to the pushes of his hips with a fierceness from which his voice stuck in his throat. He was no longer sure, groaning low with pleasure, feeling the way her walls squeezed him wonderfully, sucking him inside, whether what they were saying was true or just a test of strength and dominance, an attempt to establish who would have the last word.

"− shut the fuck up − to think you still have the strength to babble − shall I put it in your mouth so you'll finally be quiet? −" He snorted through clenched teeth, gripping his free hand over the soft, smooth skin of her firm buttocks, slamming into her like mad.

It seemed to him that they were both moaning and panting too loudly, as if they were in some kind of frenzy, his thighs slapping against her bare skin with a sticky smack again and again, barely sliding out of her.

"− fuck − o-oh fuck, stop −" He gasped out as he felt her muscles suddenly clench greedily against his manhood at his words, intensifying his sensations. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes as he heard sweet, loud moans of fulfillment begin to erupt from her throat, her body trembling all over − she whimpered when he didn't slow down, chasing his own fulfilment.

"− I know − fuck, just a moment longer − shhh −" He hushed her and groaned low, sighing in relief when he felt that wonderful, relaxing feeling, bliss in his mind and whole body, delight as his seed spilled deep inside her, right where it belonged.

His hips rocked inside her a moment longer with her mumble of displeasure, her eyes closed, her breathing ragged, her fingers trailing over the table top as if she couldn't calm down.

"− it's alright − easy − it's alright −" He whispered, panting heavily, stroking her soft hair with slow, tender gesture, her eyebrows arched in pain as she wept loudly, tears one after another began to run down her face.

He wasn't sure if she was crying from relief that she had it behind her or from grief that she had to go through this again.

"− I know − I know −" He hummed, running his fingers over her smooth, dark curls, for some reason feeling the need to reassure her, fulfilled and content after what had happened between them, his half-soft manhood still twitching deep inside her, all slick from their shared moisture.

"− I don't blame you, wife − that man was weak, as was his seed − you will soon bear me a son −"

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar

[randomdragonfires]

I'm A Fire And I'll Keep Your Brittle Heart Warm [One Shot]

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | Flowers come to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage.

WARNINGS | 18+; Mild Smut.

WORD COUNT | 9.6k

A/N | Yet another repost, yay! This one was written based off an ask sent to me by @wonderbias and beta read by the loml @humanpurposes

Their union began as a fragile, delicate one.

By all accounts, Aemond Targaryen was a fine man that any maiden in the Seven Kingdoms would be proud to be with, should he– a skilled dragonrider, a scholar, a respectful man of honor, a prince worthy of his name and blood– choose to take her to wife. 

If only he was not so stoic and dull, they said. The very jovial little lady of Highgarden will be bored of him in moments!

‘Twas the first of many whispers he heard of his apparent inadequacy with regards to his impending nuptials and marriage, and even though it killed him, he could not bring himself to disagree. The woman that he was to marry – the beautiful, kind, ladylike wisp of a girl that was to be entrusted to him– was a fair maiden who lit up any chamber she graced with her presence, a stark contrast to how he seemed to darken those that he stalked into.

Charming girl like that, she will hate him, they said. The poor thing is probably scared.

Every lady dreamed of chivalrous knights and charming princes, and Aemond knew very well that he was far from being either. They dreamed of charming men who would immortalize them in song, whose looks could thaw the hearts of the coldest women in an instant. Aemond knew very well that the Gods had refused him the chance to even try with her– what with their allowance of his mutilation at a tender, young age. 

Even with just one eye, he saw many possibilities but to his dismay, he did not imagine any outcome would be favorable to him. With the scar he carried on his face and the weight of the world on his shoulders, Aemond was never meant to be the man that his intended deserved. 

And so, he decided that he would keep her at arm's length and in consequence, save his pride. He'd reject her before she rejected him. He may not know it now, but matters of the heart are fickle– and to the utter disappointment of his pride, his little lady rose was very easy to love. 

He would not be caught dead pathetically pining after a woman who would soon be his. He would not.

And so, their courtship remained devoid of romance and scandal. His family was made privy to each of their highly appropriate conversations, with them taking turns in chaperoning their walks through the gardens. 

There was nothing that he wished to share, for he did not want to lose too much. He did what was expected of him, and she did the very same. Soon, there was respect, admiration, and a whole host of burgeoning feelings that Aemond tried hard to suppress - feelings that he clearly did not see in her eyes as she dared to look into his.

How could she feel anything for a stoic, dull, one-eyed man like him?

As he draped the red and black cloak over her shoulder and pledged to be her man of liege and limb, he told himself that he would not try. He would not give into fantasies, only to be met with rejection from a woman who was too good for him; one that may realize it soon enough as well.

After all, Aemond Targaryen had his pride. He would feed himself to the dragons before admitting to someone else being better than him, let alone be rejected by that same person. He was certainly not going to woo her, not when he knew that he would only be met with contempt and disgust.

It did not matter how badly he wanted to. He would not allow himself to succumb to such idyllic daydreams. He would not.

When night fell and the wedding feast was in full swing, his new good-father was the only one who could give his brother a run for his money with how deep he was in his cups. It was obvious how the wine-induced stupor affected the fat lord Tyrell as he bellowed for his daughter and his new good son to take the lead and join in the dancing and merriment.

Aemond was ready to retch at the thought, but what stopped him from making his irritation  clear was the possibility that she may want to dance. His wife. He had seen her dance before– as graceful as an otherworldly swan. She had a better grasp at frivolous courtly affairs than he did. 

His wife may want to dance. His wife, his wife, his wife. A little rose, his.

He shuffled his feet under the cloth-covered long table and allowed his one eye to train over his clothed boots. In spite of all the dancing lessons he had taken with Helaena, Aemond had never indulged before– and now, he was expected to entertain his bride each time a song played. The thought made him want to press his feet into the ground further than he already has, in hopes that perhaps the ground would swallow him whole.

His view of the dancing crowd had been taken from him by half along with his eye. Without the luxury of complete vision, he could not dance without bumping into everyone that was on his blind side. Now, he would have to– if she wanted to. 

He thought he could say no, but he feared that if he were to look her in the eyes, he'd never be able to. Perhaps that was why he had refused to even look at her throughout the ceremony, despite her many admirable– yet failed– attempts to catch his line of sight and share a smile.

It was her meek, mouse-like voice that brought him out of his nervous trance. “We do not have to," she said, the words falling out of her lips like a song.

“You like to dance, my lady,” he said.

“But you do not, my prince. It takes two.” Her surprisingly understanding words were followed by a timid smile, one that threatened to rip through his defenses and get to him.

In the crowded throne room, as his new bride sets aside her happiness to accommodate his preferences, Aemond worried that his self-imposed distance from her may not last too long if she kept offering him kind glances and sweet smiles– no matter how forced and dutiful he knew them to be.

He had much to lose; his pride, his heart. He would not risk it, even if she was seemingly easy to love. He would not. He would not. He would not.

After all, Aemond Targaryen had his pride. 

Soon after, her drunk nuisance of a father had called for the bedding. Aemond did nothing as his trembling bride was ushered away by the handmaidens and ladies, each of them wriggling her jewelry off as she stumbled in her steps before they carried her off.

Should he have asked for a private bedding? In hindsight, he believed he wronged her by throwing her to the mercies of the court in her vulnerability. Equally, he did not want to attempt a show of compassion– not when she may not even welcome it from the one-eyed fiend of a husband that she was stuck with.

When he walked into the chambers in his loose linen shirt and breeches, his breath hitched in his throat. Helaena had once told him that the Septas refer to women’s maidenheads as flowers. “Beautiful, ripe and ready for the plucking,” she had said, keeping her nose pointed upward in her imitations. He'd never given the words much thought. 

Until now.

There she was. His wife, his flower, his rose, ready for plucking, in her translucent white shift and now untamed hair, like a fae in a dream. How could she possibly be his? How could she possibly be happy with a man as monstrous as him for a husband? 

Her eyes, wide and fearful, flittered about his face, in his mind an expression of her repulsion. It pained him to think she did not even give him a chance.

But she was accommodating about my not wanting to dance… 

Perhaps she did like to dance; just not with him. 

These unsaid words and subsequent misunderstandings plagued their wedding night. Both believed the other did not desire them. 

That night, she offered her flower to him– as is her duty– and he took great care in taking it from her. He made sure she was pliant, so that when he took it, she would be as glad and thrilled as he was, regardless of how well-hidden his happiness was. 

He may have grimaced in disgust at Aegon's vulgar demonstrations and lessons about the pleasures of the marital bed, but he was thankful as he heard her moan out his name in a silent scream while she convulsed around his fingers. The silent sounds of her choked out moans and the heat engulfing his fingers may have very well been enough for Aemond to find release, and he reminded himself quickly that she will not want him when they're done. How could she, deformed as he was?

And so, he stopped wanting to be good for her, and simply endeavored to get it done with.

She was only more than willing to allow him to take her flower. If he was not so preoccupied with his own insecurities, he may have seen that it had gone past duty for her. Her loud moans proved the fact, and left little room for dispute (or doubt, in the minds of the prying ears that stayed close to the doors of their chambers, and the sharp eyes of the council who were now shuffling out of their seats).

He inched into her, and her tears and turned face only seemed to make it harder for him. Was he so beyond hope that she could not even look? What was it? Had he hurt her? He did not ask, lest he risk finding out that he was a disappointment. So he lost himself, drowned in his own head as he mechanically moved in and out, in and out, in and out. 

Duty. Duty. Duty.

If he had not been so preoccupied with tearing his own being to shreds in his mind, he may have heard her moans as the bright pink tip of his cock hit a rough spot in her, allowing her pleasures and experiences she did not believe she would ever know. He may have known that she desired him, just as he did her.

His self-deprecating thoughts couldn't have been farther from the truth– he may not have realized it that night, but he would soon enough.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the first ever flower she gave him– whether she chose to see it that way or not– came to him on their wedding night, in the form of her maidenhead.

Tourneys were a time of celebration for her.

There was something to be said about the romance of watching men ask women for favors and fight with all the might and grace that they possess. She had often dreamed that a dashing knight or a courteous prince would perhaps approach her for her favor, and then perhaps crown her Queen of Love and Beauty. If she was lucky, the man would court her too.

The man she married was the antithesis of all that she hoped a tourney would bring.

Her husband was not a bad man by any means– no. He was a good and respectful husband, slightly removed and isolated for her outward nature, but she did not mind. There were worse men to be married to, and even if he never went out of his way to be there for her, he certainly treated her well when they were in each other’s presence.

She tried with him, Gods bless her. 

She would try to catch his eye at the supper table, or watch him train in hopes that he would meet her watchful gaze once or twice. She would watch in a sleepy haze as he woke early in the morn, long before she had the strength or consciousness to wish him a good day, hoping he would turn to do the same. He never did.

More often than not, a curt nod and a wavering glance was all she’d get.  Still there were brief, hopeful moments that kept her active in her pursuit to build a friendship with her husband.

She would have done something absolutely obnoxious— acts that would have him sneering if it was someone else– and she’d see it. That little hint of a smile, waiting to bubble through the surface, just by the corner of his pink lips, that she would have missed if she blinked. Each time there was a tenuous beginning of a hesitant smile, she felt a tiny sliver of hope.

He was not so intimidating to her now as he was in the initial days of their union– no. In a little corner of her mind, she acknowledged that fact– that is what helped her find his hand and hold it tight in nervousness, before she could even comprehend the intimacy of the act.

The knight who had just taken a harsh tumble from his horse was carried away by servants, with his head beaten bloody and hands hanging limp by his side. If she did not know better, she would have thought him dead.

The champion then raised his hands up in victory. Thunderous clapping sounds overshadowed all else around her, but she could not bring herself to join. She was still stunned by how the other knight had fallen, and was yet to let go of Aemond’s hand.

She felt the bile rise in her throat, so she brought her other hand to her chest and bowed her head down, a feeble attempt at keeping the vomit at bay. It was awhile until she managed to catch her breath again, and by then the celebrations had moved on from celebrating the champion to the crowning of his Queen of Love and Beauty.

The eldest Lady Baratheon smiled coyly as she received the wreath of winter roses, followed by a chaste kiss to her cheek. The crowd gasped at how brazen the act was, with neither of them being married, but the high of winning makes men do the most peculiar things, she supposed. In the back of her mind, regardless of how uneasy she felt, she wished– desperately. 

How she wished it was her. 

A childish fantasy really. What was a publicly gifted crown of flowers worth in the face of what she had? She was a Princess of the realm now, married to a skilled dragonrider from a family of illustrious history and blood. Any children they may have will be immortalized in the annals.  Nothing. A crown of flowers was worth nothing when compared to what she had– or at least, that is what she would tell herself.

And yet, she craved the romance. She had always enjoyed the idea of being loved and cherished. Her husband respected her, and if she was feeling bold, she’d say he liked her– but he certainly did not love her. That much she was certain of. When she naively wished that he’d crown her, she asked if he was going to enter the lists. He had sharply turned so quickly that she feared she had angered him.

“I don’t give a sh…” He had sighed before speaking again, as though he felt tested. “I do not care for tourneys.” The sharpness in his voice had hurt her, and she did not speak of it again.

Their marriage was a decent one– but it held none of the love she hoped to have, despite all her attempts.

Did he find her so disagreeable?

All of a sudden, his hand felt cold to the touch and she let go of him like he burned her. The heat came back to her hand just as it showed on her cheeks, and his had turned cold from having lost her touch so abruptly.

“I’d like to get some fresh air, husband,” she said, and rose before he could even ask if she needed him to accompany her.

Her quick walk took her to the tent where the court ladies had been sitting, and she had stepped in right in time to hear them gossip– about her husband.

“Well he must keep it on while they… you know! It can be jarring to look at, I’m sure it is!”

“It must be terrible to see it up close all the time. I can hardly look at him from across the chamber!”

He is certainly unnerving. It does make you wonder though, do you think they actually…” the woman lowered her voice to match the vulgarity that was to follow. “Do you think they actually fuck? She cannot possibly want to, and she is not with child either…”

“Well, does it really matter if she wants to? He’s a Prince, and her husband. He’ll take his pleasure regardless.”

Regardless of where she and her husband stood, she would not stand for their marriage to become fodder for court gossip. If she stayed quiet for any longer while these empty-headed women berated her husband, she would be insulting him herself.

“Might I ask what is so amusing?”  she said with sharp eyes and a tilted head. The sweat on their faces upon her arrival was apparent, and so was their nervousness.

“My Lady, we were just–”

“Princess,” she corrected.

“Yes of course, Princess. We were just–”

“Making presumptions about my marriage?” 

“No… we just…”

“Don’t deny it,” she seethed, anger looking completely foreign on a soft, comely face like hers. Her nostrils flared and her nose went red in her current state, but there was no way she could stop now. 

“The next time you feel the need to comment on such matters , perhaps you will all learn to remind yourself that he is a Prince of the realm and I am his wife! There will be suitable punishment, and you will all be dismissed from court at my pleasure, disgraced and husbandless. Now, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Her words were cutting and sharp, and they had the younger ladies bowing their heads in fear almost immediately.

“I’ll have you all know that unlike the other men of the court, Prince Aemond’s scar came to him along with the largest dragon in the world. His bravery only makes him more handsome to me.”

She then fixed her attention onto the married lady of the bunch and delivered a questionable blow that she would certainly feel bad about later. “If you’ve been led to believe that the man takes his pleasure from his wife even if she does not want to, then perhaps your marriage is a lot worse than I thought. Your husband must have no regard for your wants, unlike mine. And for that, I am truly sorry.”

She did not wait for them to respond as she gathered her skirts and walked out of the tent, feeling largely annoyed and satisfied to an extent. But as she began her walk back, the fear of news of her anger reaching her husband hit her like a harsh and heavy wave.

Would he call her insolent and disgraceful? Has she damaged her marriage more than it already has been?

She did not have to wait long for her answer, for Aemond had been just a few steps behind her, watching the entire scene unfold. The angry flush on her face left her as quickly as it had come, replaced by a skittish nervousness that led to her shuffling her feet as she stood before him, at a complete loss for words.

She swallowed the spit gathering in her mouth, throat bobbing as her head remained facing down to the floor, awaiting a scolding from him for her absolutely inexcusable behavior; her husband was a man who knew his courtesies, after all. He could not possibly be happy with how she carried herself and disappointed him.

“You do not look well. Let me walk you to our chambers,” was all he said before he led her away with a hand on the small of her back.

She remained worried that he was perhaps leading them to privacy and silence so he could punish her while being undisturbed. She could not have been farther from the truth.

She expected him to scream at her, forget all the courtesy that he had shown her and throw his words at her without care. What she was not prepared for, was for him to hold her chin between his thumb and index fingers, pulling her face up to meet his.

He curiously inspected her, almost as though her little show of anger thoroughly amused him. She would not be surprised if it did– she had never been so outward in her anger in the two months that they had been married; this was a completely new side to her that he was now privy to.

“What was that, wife?” His words were measured and cut. 

“They…” She was stunned to find that, despite her tongue becoming loose in moments of anger,  it was hard for her to speak right now. So, she chose to gulp once more and tried to look someplace else. The uncertainty in his sharp, one-eyed violet gaze was becoming too much for her to bear– but Aemond did not give up easily. He kept her head held in place as she desperately waited for the words to come to her.

“They were being crude, and insulting you.”

He looked at her for a moment, his sharp gaze refusing to waver as the sunlight pierced through the glass windows of their chamber. He then let go of her, and handed her a goblet of wine to calm her clearly unsteady senses. He watched as she took little sips from the chalice, the restless turning of the wheels in his mind apparent on his face. 

Soon after, he made up a sham of a reason about having to leave when the cheering crowds became louder and louder. She nodded and continued to sip, completely oblivious to the change of heart that her husband was having as she wondered why he brought her back to their bed.

She did not know the thoughts that now ran fast and surely in his mind. She did not know that he thought his eye had cost him a chance at a happy marriage with her. She had no idea of knowing how conflicted he felt at the new realization, for his sculpted face gave nothing away.

He turned to face her with a hand on the door.  “Thank you,” he mumbled.

She nodded and smiled meekly while he stalked back to the festivities.

He held his hands tightly behind him as he tried to make sense of how light his heart felt in comparison to the rest of him. 

Back in the chamber, she blushed. For all her worry that he may have been disappointed, she had been completely floored by how he had responded– he was thankful. She berated herself for not considering the possibility– and smiled at the realization that for all her husband’s prowess as a warrior, in times like these,  he needed a champion too. 

That night, Aemond burned the midnight oil while reading in the library, trying to still his racing heart and make sense of how it leapt at newfound thoughts of his little wife. 

Across the Holdfast, in the soft candlelight of their shared chambers, she sat on her husband’s dear chair, looking at her handiwork– an embroidered silk tourney favor, with a little rose.

Her husband may not care for tourneys, but making the favor allowed her the luxury of thinking that should the possibility of him willingly entering the lists come around, he would do so with her gift on his lance. Mayhaps he would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty too– the thought makes her blush.

She would give it to him should he ever choose to partake someday. Until then, it would be safely hidden away in her shelves, amidst her gowns and other possessions.

Flowers have came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the second flower that was intended for him– despite the fact that she was yet to give it to him– came to him on the day of the the twins’ name day tourney, in the form of a rose, embroidered onto a tourney favor. 

They have come to enjoy each other's company.

Her coming to his defense while expecting nothing in return had lit a fire in Aemond that he could not seem to quell. What he believed she had rejected him over, she had actually taken to being proud of. What he had believed was his one big, obvious and visible fatal flaw, was something that she had taken to holding in high regard.

I’ll have you lot know that unlike the other men of the court, his scar came to him along with the largest dragon in the world. And his bravery only makes him more handsome to me.

Her words rang in his mind like the definite tolling of the Great Bell at the Royal Sept. With each chime, her assertiveness on the matter came back to linger in his thoughts, he had fallen for her – bit by bit. 

Feelings had always been a conundrum to Aemond, one that he did not entirely understand or even want to. But now, with a wife who warmed him and his heart slowly but surely, with her lovely smiles and nervous face, he found that he would like some certainty in the face of all that was uncertain in his heart.

He did not know if he loved her just yet. But what he did know was that, at the pace that she had set for them, it may be a very short while before he does. His wife. His wife, his wife, his wife. 

His, his, his.

Coming to terms with having a wife that actually desired his company– and him, surprisingly enough– had spurned his attempts to bring some sort of intimacy to their marriage. Gods knew that she had tried, only to be rebuffed rudely by him in the initial days of their marriage. It was a time that he now felt deep regret and shame for, one that he would not rest until he had made right. 

He needed her to see that he wanted to try.

He did not know how to be the charming prince from a bard’s songs. He did not know how to make women laugh like Aegon; be as sweet and kind as Helaena; or as chivalrous and perfect as Daeron. 

But what he did know was respect. Aemond understood respect as something that was earned by everyone around him, but to his wife, it should have been unconditional. It should have come to her the day he had cloaked her and made her his– but it did not. Now, he intended to make it right.

He needed her to see that he wanted to try– which is how he found himself with her on his arm, as they walked hand in hand through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast towards their chambers. Ah yes, hand in hand. Another one of the little joys that he savored like it was his last day alive. 

Their initially cold marriage had also been fueled by his blatant refusal to simply be near her, much less touch her. Why would she have wanted to be touched by a one-eyed monster, such as the likes of him? 

But the moment he realized that she did not consider him so– not in the least– led to a warmth seeping through his blood, making him crave her so much that his heart hurt. If she did not mind it, why must he not exercise his liberties? And if there was some joy to be derived from it, why would they not want to indulge?

And so he had begun. A stolen touch here, a featherlight graze there. 

His huge, calloused hand, seemed to be always holding her dainty one as he accompanied her throughout their time in the castle; on the small of her back as they maneuvered through feasts and dances; around her waist as they closed the distance between each other in their sleep, with her back to his chest; clutching onto her thigh to keep her in place for when she turned around and draped her tiny leg upon his waist.

His hands, all over her.

It was not just these fleeting, quick touches that Aemond had grown to enjoy. With their bond growing stronger with each passing moment, he had realized that their marital duties were simply not duties anymore. They had gone from believing that the other had tolerated their presence, to trying their level best so that the other would know how much they desired them. The growth of their marriage was evident in how their carnal indulgences had evolved.

Where he had held himself to hover over her so as to not facilitate any unnecessary touches, he had now taken to covering her entire being with his own. His hands around her hip as he pounded into her; her hands on his chest as the tip of her fingers grazed and pinched at his nipples. His hands in her hair as he mouthed at her heaving breast; her hands around him as she held onto him as tightly as she could, never wanting to let him go. His hands on her cunt as he drew peak after peak from her before thrusting himself into her; her hands around his cock as she pumped him before impaling herself by straddling him, just the way he liked. 

Their sounds of pleasure had been held back and muffled in the beginning, but now they were uninhibited sounds taken by the wind, made with the intent of being heard and making desires known.  

Oh yes, their marriage had grown. 

This is what Aemond had been pondering as he led her through, with servants making their way for the young prince and princess as she held onto her husband with one hand, and a piece of rolled parchment and some charcoal on the other. He enjoyed their touches now, and it made his heart soar that he did not have to doubt her want for him either. 

Yes, they could make something out of this.

“How was your time in the gardens, wife?” It made him happy that with the growth of their marriage, she had taken to exercising her liberties. So, when she had come to him requesting charcoal and bound parchment so she could begin drawing again, he was only happy to oblige. 

“Good. I managed to sit and watch the flowers flit about in the wind for a time, and I drew a bit as well. Then the court ladies came to join me as they…”

Aemond listened to his wife as he sat himself on his chair by the hearth, most intently, and with the utmost concentration that he could muster. He could not bring himself to make selfless romantic declarations of love, or speak to her more than he was able. But he could listen, and that is what he would do. 

Not a word unheard, not a moment missed. He needed her to see that he wanted to try.

She prattled on and on about her day, and how the court ladies had gossiped about each other when they thought the other wasn’t listening. He listened to the way her voice heightened when her recollections were happy, and he noted the way she frowned when she was in disapproval. He observed how her eyes widened at shocking narrations, and how her hands seemed to move like they had a life of their own. 

He kept observing, losing himself in his newfound knowledge of her, her, her… and it was not until she stood close to him, her body slotted between his legs as she held her hands behind her back that he realized she had stopped speaking.

“Go on.”

He did not expect to be given something, not when his name day had just passed. But that is exactly what happened. 

“For you,” she said. With her raised eyebrows and coy smile, she managed to place  a parchment roll into his hand. Aemond made note of how her head faced down and her feet shuffled as she stood in wait for his approval.

He unrolled the parchment, careful to not cause even a stray tear at the edges. His eyes raked over the drawing, one of clear skill and years of training of the highest level– one befitting a lady.

“I shall treasure it, thank you.” 

She smiled at his acceptance, and he nodded. He was not a smiling man, but he hoped that she knew how much he appreciated these gestures. He hoped that their marriage had grown enough for her to notice his quirks, just as he had made note of hers.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the third flower that she had given him was a charcoal sketch of a rose, into which she had poured her heart and soul.

As the days passed, their mornings became brighter.

While she had hoped that the initial days of their marriage would have some semblance of love, and if not, at least affection to some extent, her hopes had been quickly dashed with the closed off and curt behavior that her husband seemed to have made his own. Neither did he ever wish her a good morrow upon sunrise, nor did he kiss her goodnight like in the songs.

But now, there was more.

Where there was coldness, there was now warmth. It was not heat, not like wildfire, no– it was warmth, like from the calm blaze of their hearth. She might not have awoken to a smile, no– her husband was not a smiling man– but she always woke to an arm snaked over her breasts, pressing into her. Where there was distance, oceans between them, there was now a shared intimacy, one that they had both been quietly happy about. She was not put to sleep with a kiss, but whenever she slept on the chaise waiting for him to arrive, he now ensured that she was put into comfortable clothes and carried to their bed with care. 

He may not have cared for her in the beginning, but she knew he did now. Her husband was not a romantic man, but his small gestures were enough to make her feel happy and content.

The shift in their dynamic was not just visible in their daytime activities, but in the passions of their marriage bed as well. On the first night that they had coupled, he had been careful, experimental, doubtful. But as the days went by, he had become surer, rougher… insatiable.

She enjoyed this new side to him. She enjoyed being the woman that belonged to a fierce prince, the one that he so clearly desired. She enjoyed being held by him as he moved her up and down his cock, his head buried in her breasts as he breathed in the heady smell of sweat and sex. She enjoyed being impaled by him, her small body being split into two, all while having him whisper words of appreciation in her ears. 

My little wife, my little flower. Made for me… only for me, he would say. Tell me who this cunt belongs to, he would growl, hands slapping her little nub over and over until she caught her breath, found her voice again and appeased him.

You! Gods… to you, my prince, she would whine, holding his hand in place, hoping he would fuck her with his fingers once more, just the way she liked.

It came as no surprise to her that ever since they had become welcome to each other’s affections, they had been a lot more active in their marriage bed– so much so that the lewd moans and loud curses had become court gossip.

When she had addressed the matter with him once soon after they had fucked, Aemond had smiled, albeit darkly– the only kind of smile that suited him. Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep, he had said. His insinuation that she was now a dragon too, all while his warm breath fanned her neck and his large hands squeezed her backside, was all she needed to quell her worries.

And of course, as was the natural order of these things, she was now with child.

She had been overjoyed when she had found out, and a tad relieved too. The court ladies whispering about her womb was not something she appreciated– their assumptions about her being barren, even less. So when she found out, she insisted that she be the one to break the news to her husband– her time as an expectant mother would never completely be her own, given the station she had now married into. 

But this, this moment could be hers and his. It would be theirs alone.

And so, she sat in wait at the training grounds, watching him as he expertly maneuvered his sword and slashed at his mentor, Ser Cole. Dodge, lunge, slash. Dodge, lunge, slash. Dodge, lunge–

Ser Cole had bested him, having noticed the predictability in his movements. Aemond of course, being the headstrong man that he was, refused to give up. The anger in his face at being won over in a fight did not escape her, and she would be lying if she said it did not awaken desire in her once more. Before she could think further however, one of the lords in the audience had piped up. 

“Perhaps the Prince would benefit from a token of luck from his dear lady wife!” He said, and the watching crowd around them seemed to agree as they cheered and whistled. Aemond was flummoxed, not knowing how to cope with being faced with the topic of his wife while in the middle of a fight. It was only then that he noticed her, red-faced and smiling as she was– before he could say anything, she had taken the lead.

“I’m afraid I’ve come empty handed, my lord. I’ve nothing to offer him right now!” She quipped with a smile. It had warmed him to know that she was jovial enough for the two of them, allowing him the luxury of staying quiet as she became his champion during situations like these.

“Ah well, he knows you’re here now, Princess! If that does not add to his fire, I do not know what will!”

Perhaps it was her presence, or it was his own prowess as a swordsman. But Aemond was quick to come through this time around. The crowds cheered for their Prince, and so did the man who had taught him to be all that he was.

“Well met, my prince,” Ser Cole said. He patted her dragon prince on his shoulder and walked over to where the swords were arranged. Aemond quickly followed in reverence to his teacher, one that he did not freely give to most. Soon after, the crowds had dispersed, and she watched as his slender, tall form stalk towards her.

“Since when do you frequent the training grounds, wife?”

“Can a wife not seek her husband out when she wants to?” 

She could not have imagined rhetorics like these tumbling out of her mouth in the initial days of their union. But they were now closer than they had ever been, and she had discovered that it would not hurt to take initiative, especially given how quiet of a man her husband could be.

He was not the charming prince from the books or the songs, but she certainly loved who he was– inquisitive, considerate and respectful.

“Hm. Perhaps.”

Their walk back to their apartments was a slow and quiet one, with her knowing that he preferred his moments of quiet soon after his training. They soon settled into the solar, with the food spread out for them to break their fast.

As was his habit, Aemond stripped himself of his clothes as she checked the water in the tub with the tips of her fingers, water rippling as her hands moved. He was quick to step in and let his hands rest on either side of the tub, his legs ramrod straight but slowly loosening up as she ran a washcloth over him with a gentle softness that is most unlike him.

Her hands glided over his chest, arms and he caught hold of her when her hands moved to clean his neck, beckoning her to come closer. “My dutiful little flower, hm? Come to assist her husband and answer his every beck and call.”

“I am nothing, if not dutiful.” She said, playful smile teasing him as her breasts threatened to spill out of the neckline of her dress– causing his cock to half-harden at the sight. She kissed his cheek and set the washcloth down, hands traveling to his alabaster hair as she ran her fingers through it, allowing her wet hands to trudge through. When she was done, he was quick to pull at her hand from his side, causing her to bend to meet him, eyes to eye.

“You have a council meeting to get to, husband. Now is not the time.” 

She knew very well what he wanted. It was what she wanted too– which is precisely why her own protests meant absolutely nothing to her as she gave in, dress riding up to her thighs and billowing wet in the water as she straddled him. Her cunt was already soaked for him, and he was hot and ready from all the energies that training seemed to have put into him. She rocked her hips forward and backward, adjusting to his girth, while sighing and breathing at the feeling of having him in her. It did not matter how many times he’d taken her, she would never get used to feeling so full. 

Soon enough, he had her held harshly by her waist in a bruising grip, his teeth nibbling at her sensitive nipples as he moved her up and down, up and down, up and down. The water crashed out of the tub like waves crashing onto shore and she was quick to fall apart in a mix of pain and pleasure, moaning his name in her broken voice, followed by a silent scream. His release followed soon after, cock twitching in her as he drew her closer, closer and closer still. When she felt his cock soften after a time, she got up and he let her, following close behind. 

“You fought well today, husband.” She said, in a feeble attempt to coerce a conversation from him as they sat at the table. He was a man of silence, and she was not. He did not prefer it, but she would try anyway - because there were times when he indulged her.

“Hm. Thank you.”

The smell of cut fruit was intoxicating to her, more so than usual. She had heard of women craving peculiar kinds of food during their time as expectant mothers, so she supposed that this may have to do with the little dragon that she now grew in her belly. The rest of their time eating moved in a swift silence– a comfortable one. The only sounds they heard were of the servants in the corridors and the birds chirping from out the window.

When they finished, the trays were taken away and he got up, ready to leave to sit in on the council meeting that his grandfather had called him for. He was halfway out the door after nodding to her when she took his hand, and he stopped.

Her hands held onto his as tightly as they could, and she was skittish as she continued to look down at the floor. By now, he knew her quirks well enough to know that she did that only when she wanted to say something.

“Go on.” He urged her as his other hand reached for her too.

She drew in a sharp breath as she bit her lip. “I… I am with child, husband.”

She did not know what to expect from him of her news– but his silent sigh and slight smile as his hands reached down to cover her belly in his hold is enough of a reaction. “Thank you,” he said, his gratitude and happiness made obvious– to her, even if not to anyone else. She did nothing but smile as his forehead met hers in a soft touch– their touches were always passionate and rough while in the privacy of their chambers, so it was peculiar for her to be treated this way. She found that she enjoyed it, just as much as she enjoyed being roughly handled by him.

She then stretched the fingers of one hand, revealing a little silk patch, a little tourney favor with a rose stitched on it. A flower, from his little flower.

“I know you do not prefer tourneys, but… it is my hope that you would at least keep it with you while you train.”

His hands ran over the soft silk, fingers tracing the intricate patterns that she had clearly taken her time with. He was quick to smoothen it out and pocket it, following it with a kiss to her lips. 

“Thank you, for everything.” 

The favor was only meant for the training grounds. But a week later, when she found it peeking out of his pocket while they walked around the gardens, she smiled. Soon, she found out that he kept it with him all day.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the fourth flower that she gave to him, came to him in the form of a favor with an embroidered rose, one that he kept on his person at all times.

There was something to be said about the comforts of silence.

Her husband was not a smiling man, nor was he an ardent conversationalist. Being a woman who leaned towards being both, she had begun their marriage with the intent of treading lightly, lest she annoy him or risk having him dismiss her halfway through. And she did try; Gods knew that she did. 

Royal marriages were a sacred duty– those held in its sanctity would have to hold themselves to a higher standard, no matter how much it hurt them. With that being said, she was eternally thankful for Aemond understanding her preferences and trying to meet her halfway. She had been prepared for a man who would coldly dismiss her and her wants, but she had not been prepared for one that would actually want her.

One of the greatest pains of being born a noblewoman, she supposed, was that happiness in itself, was a privilege– one that she wished was not as such. She wished for it to be an easy thing to have, and as such, understood that she had been blessed with a quiet and peaceful marriage - one that did not take from her more than she was willing to give. It did not matter how many times she thought it over– she never failed to be as grateful as she was at the first realization, many moons ago. 

These were her thoughts as she accompanied her husband in the library. Aemond sat opposite her, on the other side of the table with his finger running over the texts of the Summer and Winter Annals, deeply engaged in the knowledge that the book had to offer on the now lost Kingdom of Sarnor, once a famed trade partner of Valyria. 

The fresh assortment of flowers lay haphazardly on her side of the bench, while she worked towards entwining them all onto the coir to make a crown. She often stole a glance at her husband as she repeatedly adjusted herself on her seat, one that was bigger than her usual one - to accommodate her, and the babe that she now carries. 

An heir, a royal heir. There is dragon blood in you now, he had said. 

She felt it, what with her babe’s constant reminders - boy or girl, the kicks were hard and swift, and it never failed to take her by surprise.

Aemond was a very fast reader, she gathered. His pages turned a lot faster than hers did, and his eyes never stuck to one part of the parchment for long - they flitted about and were restless, aiding him in his desire to learn as much as he can in the least amount of time. They have been married for half a year by now, and yet she manages to learn something new about him every day.

Her deft fingers worked through the stems of the flowers, piercing the sharp ends of the coir through them. In and out, in and out, in and out, she went - establishing a pattern that she ended up memorizing, whether she was cognizant of it or not.

Aemond stood up as he noticed a guard waiting near the doors, summoning him on behalf of the King. Her crown was now completely done, and she admired her handiwork as she twirled it in her finger and smiled. Aemond was now speaking to the guard as she ran the tip of her fingers over the petals. She brought it closer to her nose to smell them - the flowers were not as fragrant as they were once before, but there was a faint scent that she adored. 

He nodded, and she could not help but smile again as he approached her. It struck her harder with each moment, how the Gods had blessed her with him - him with his infinite knowledge, calm disposition and otherworldly beauty. She wondered if the babe she carried would look like him - she hopes, hopes and hopes that they would.

He took the crown of flowers in his hands and handled it with the same care that she put into making it. It looked thoroughly out of place, yet so at home in his hands - much like herself.

A mildly happy lift at the edge of his lips caused a sharp dimple - one that made him look harsh, content and menacing at the same time. She may have wished for a Prince from the songs all the moons ago - but right now, she could not help but think that she had been blessed with someone greater, even if she knew that he did not believe it himself. 

He placed the crown atop her head, crowning her. She remembered wishing he would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty at the twins’ name day tourney - but at this moment, as his fingers glided over her smooth hair to set the crown of white roses into place, she was happier than she could have ever been at any tourney.

“Escort the Princess safely to our chambers,” he ordered, after rubbing her growing stomach and giving her a kiss on her temple before going to meet the King. She stood slowly, and noticed that one unused and withering flower had been left behind. The air from outside the castle gushed through the windows, and it was purely by instinct that she grabbed it by the stem and placed it inside the pages of Aemond’s book before the pages flew - so it would be marked and he could begin where he left off if he so wished.

Long after her exit, Aemond came back to his bench after finishing his meeting with the King. He noticed the protruding stem, and he could not help but feel the warmth coarse through his chest as he opened the tome and found the withering flower pressed inside.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the fifth flower that she gave to him came to him in the form of a dried rose, one that he kept tucked safely inside his favorite book.

It was moments like these that made Aemond believe in anyone but himself.

Being able to love someone blindly was not a gift that Aemond ever found himself capable of giving. Ever since the loss of his eye, he had grown to be full of spite and resentment, believing that having his dragon was enough to make the loss of company around him worthwhile. Nobody knew how to speak to him anymore– how does one comfort a boy who could only see half the world around him?

And then, she came to him. His wife.

With her free smiles and open heart, she had made her way through into the center of his. He found that he preferred her there, where she belonged. She had made her home in his heart, and he marveled at how despite not matching up to her in any way that mattered, she had found it in herself to allow him to take shelter in hers.

It brought him shame to think of how they could have fallen in love much sooner if he had been open to her affections and not been so wrapped up in his own presumed fallacies. But with time, he learned that in a world where marriages remained cold until the bitter end, a late bloom of happiness was a gift that he should learn to treasure.

It is a girl. Do not ask me why I believe so, husband. I simply do, she had said.

The tomes say a bigger belly is indicative of a boy. I read it, he had countered then.

He stood corrected. Aemond would tell the entire realm that his worldly knowledge did not stand a chance against his wife’s intuition– the little girl he held in his arms was enough support for his claim. 

She slept soundly in his arms as he sat in his chair by the hearth. His wife, tired from her taxing labors, had taken to sleeping through most of the last three days, and he had not left his daughter’s side, not once.

He held her head as his mother carried her for the very first time, eyes shining in joy as she thanked them both for making her a grandmother once more. There were very few things that gave Alicent Hightower joy, and watching her children have babes of their own was one of them.

He rested the tip of his fingers over her smooth and frail silver hair as his grandfather took a good look at her, allowing himself a moment with his guard down. Aemond had not seen his grandfather look at anyone with such  reverence, not unless it was Helaena, Jaehaera or his own mother. And now, Aemond suspected that his grandfather, for all his cold demeanor, did have a soft corner in his heart for the women of his life.

He had towered over the crib as the twins took turns gawking at her, after spending hours begging to see their new cousin. Aemond brought them after they promised to not make too much noise– both mother and daughter were fast asleep. Jaehaera had asked him if she could braid her hair when she grew some, and Jaehaerys poked at the new babe's nose (her mother's nose) with his thumb in curiosity. Aemond laughed, for he was intrigued by her too– only, it was better contained.

He held her tightly to his chest with his hand over her head as Aegon came to meet his newborn niece– completely sober and bathed, upon Aemond’s threats of murder if he came anywhere near his babe with his foulness. He smiled as he dropped the little dragon toy in her crib, looking over at the exhausted mother who could barely keep her eyes open. Aemond’s one eye followed his brother’s then, and visibly softened at the sight of his wife. Aegon laughed and quipped, “I never thought I’d say this brother, but I suppose you do wear the lovestruck look well.”

He had rocked her in silence as Helaena cooed at her, elated at the thought of becoming an aunt to a niece. This family is in dire need of more women, she had mumbled absentmindedly once. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered and Aemond enthusiastically agreed. 

She is beautiful, and she is his. His own daughter, given to him by his own wife.

In the nights, when he was left alone with the women around whom his entire world now revolved, Aemond let tranquility take him. And it was in moments like these, that he learned to love them both with all that he had– blindly, and unconditionally. 

It was in moments like these, that he learned to believe.

Flowers have come to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the sixth flower that she gave to him, came to him in the form of his little daughter. A little flower, from his flower.

The flowers kept coming to him throughout the many years that followed, and he valued every one of them– for they had all come from her, and they were all a part of her.

His flower. His wife. His very own.

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MASTERLIST

[aemondsbabe]

The Gods and Everyone

summary: you and aemond sorely overestimate how much time you have before a small council meeting, which leaves the two of you in quite a scandalous predicament

pairing: aemond targaryen x reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, cockwarming, public sex, slight breeding kink, fingering, aemond being an absolute menace, dirty talk, aegon being a little shit but what else is new, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 5.6k

a/n: based on an anon request for cockwarming! i hope you're still with me and that you enjoy this, friend! sorry it took me so long to get to it!

creds to @bbygirl-aemond for the gif!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🌟add yourself to my taglist to be notified when i post new fics!

You watch, concerned, as your husband flits around the Small Council chamber, your eyes following his lithe form as he checks and re-checks the parchment with notes he had written for himself earlier that morning – you’d awoken in the pale hour just before sunrise to see him already hunched over the small desk in your chambers, scribbling away furiously with a quill, his pale hair glowing in the dim light of the candle next to him. All of your attempts to lure him back into bed with you had fallen on deaf ears. 

“You know you needn't do all this,” you point out, perched against the Small Council table, your eyes tracking him as he paces back and forth across the space, going over his notes for the upteenth time, “Your only job is to be on time like everyone else, husband.”

“Things will improve with time,” he rushes out, fixing you with a pointed look, “Hardly two moons have passed since Viserys…” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose, “The least I can do is ease this transition for Aegon and mother.”

“My love, it is a transition for us all,” you soothe, striding to him and gently taking his hand. His fingers, rough from all his years of training with swords and spears, instantly wrap around your own as he lets out a tired sigh, “You included. Aegon named you Master of War, not master of everything.” 

“I know,” Aemond murmurs, eye softening as his gaze traces over you, “I find it hard to be still when there is so much chaos – Dorne has yet to be subdued and there are whispers of rebellion from the North. There is so much still to be accounted for.”

“I understand,” you reassure him, your fingers threading through his long, silvery hair, lips quirking into a smile as the gesture makes his eye flutter closed for a second. “But all this stress cannot be good for you, husband,” you sigh, gazing up at him with a mournful smile, “You need rest and calm and…and I need you.” You nearly whisper, blush creeping across your cheeks as Aemond’s eye darkens. 

“Sweetling—“ He starts with a sigh. 

“Aemond, please,” you cut him off, wrapping your arms around his trim waist as you lay your head against his chest, his heart thumping in your ear, “I cannot bear to hear another excuse, I feel as if you have been away for weeks.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, wrapping his long, lean arms tightly around you as he rests his chin on your head, your breaths the only sound in the stony chamber. “I’m sorry,” he finally whispers, smoothing a hand up and down your back, “I miss you too, my sweet girl.” 

You hum, leaning further into his embrace after going without it for so long, “You haven’t touched me in weeks.” You say quietly, his touch already igniting a spark in the pit of your stomach. 

“Perhaps tonight,” his breath is warm against the top of your head as he speaks into your hair, “I will try to cut my meeting with–”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks,” you cut him off once more with a sigh, pulling back to look up at him, “I can’t take anymore, my love, I need to feel you.” You whine, nearly petulant like a spoiled child. If it were any other time, if you were any less desperate, you’d be embarrassed at your behavior. Right now, though, you could not find it within yourself to care as you stared into your husband’s darkened eye, finally feeling the passion you had gone so many weeks without. 

Aemond chuckles as he looks down at you, conflicted between feeling pleased to see you reduced to such a state while also feeling a similar fire in his own belly. “Sweetling, the meeting–”

“Is not due to start for at least another hour!” You interrupt, determined to persuade him to this. Taking you in various parts of the Keep was not new to him, both of you had plenty of memories from your courtship and first year of marriage of rutting together in all sorts of nooks and crannies of the old castle. 

Aemond gazes at you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, though his eye remains dark with desire. After a second, he nods to himself almost imperceptibly, seeming to come to some decision you weren’t privy to. Finally, finally his lips descend upon yours as he sweeps you into an all-consuming kiss, his arms tightening around your waist as he pulls you to him, groaning lowly in his throat as he licks into your mouth. You shiver in his grasp, finally tasting him properly after so long as you whimper and whine into his mouth.

“Aemond,” you gasp as you finally part from him, mewling as he immediately trails kisses down your jaw, “What–”

“Seems I can never deny you for very long, sweetling,” he huffs, halfway laughing as he guides you over to the large table, pulling you up by the waist until you’re sitting on the cool stone table, your legs bracketing his trim waist, “I’ve missed you too, my love.” He confesses, sweeping a lock of hair from your shoulder before trailing kisses up across your neck and jaw, one hand already desperately pulling up the bottom of your gown.

You huff out small moans and whimpers, relishing his warm touch. His nimble fingers finally manage to undo the knot at the front of your smallclothes and he tugs them down quickly, leaving you bare for him under your skirts as they fall to a pile on the floor just beside his chair at the table. 

“Husband,” you pant, tugging at the drawstrings at the top of his trousers, “Please, please do not make me beg today, I–” Your train of thought is cut off as a moan, louder than it should be given the location, tears itself from your throat when you feel his long fingers ghost over your center.

“Shh, darling,” Aemond grins as he feels your arousal immediately coat his fingers, a pleased hum emanating from deep in his chest as he feels it already coating the insides of your thighs as well, “I don’t have the patience to restrain myself today, sweet one,” he mutters, watching your face carefully as he spreads your folds and teases your entrance with a finger before carefully sliding it in, groaning with satisfaction at the feel of your walls already tightly clamping down on it, “Nor the time.” He adds with a slight smirk, pale hair cascading like a curtain down his shoulders as he leans his forehead against yours. 

“Oh, Gods,” you whimper, eyes fluttering shut as your hands white knuckle the dark leather of his tunic, too uncoordinated with lust to manage the ties on his pants, “M-My love, more please!” You whisper, angling your hips to try and catch another of his fingers. 

You hear him chuckle above you before he pulls his finger from you, smirking as you whine pitifully at the loss. Before you have a chance to protest, he quickly undoes his trousers, not bothering to pull them down at all and opting to merely loosen the laces at the front enough to free his cock. Your eyes widen as you watch his hand stroke over his length momentarily, taking in the way it already throbs in his grasp, the head flushed and leaking from merely having you in his hands once more.

“Ready, sweetling?” He asks, gently tilting your chin up as he captures your lips in a sweet kiss, his other hand positioning his length at your entrance. 

You part from him and nod eagerly, widening your legs and angling your hips, “I’ve been ready for you for weeks, Aemond.” 

He smiles softly, pressing one more kiss against your neck before finally pressing into you, growling as he sinks into your slick heat. “Seven,” he grunts, cradling the back of your head with one hand as his other slinks down to grab at your hip, “You feel better every time, sweetling.”

You moan hotly against his shoulder, sinking your teeth into the thick leather of the shoulder of his tunic in an attempt to quiet yourself. Your eyes squeeze shut at the feel of him sliding into you, filling you to the brim perfectly. You’ve been without him for so long that he feels enormous, your walls aching as he stretches you out, pressing in and in until he’s finally seated fully within you. 

Without another word, Aemond started thrusting into you, slow at first but quickly picking up the pace with every firm roll of his hips into you. After only a moment, he’s already grunting like a madman into your ear, holding you to him even as you cling tightly to his shoulders yourself, your legs wrapped loosely around his waist. 

You feel a fire building in your belly at a breakneck pace as he ruts into you, the hand on your hip no doubt leaving fingerprint bruises across your skin, even through the fabric of your gown. If the low groans from your husband are any indication, he isn’t doing much better. He threads his fingers through your hair, pulling you into a desperate kiss, teeth and tongues clashing together frantically as if the two of you are trying to fall into each other, to become one. 

“My love, I—,” he pants against your lips, jerking your head back by the grip he has on your locks. His eye meets yours, the light lilac almost entirely eclipsed by his pupil as he stares at you hungrily, “It’s been so long, I don’t know how long I can last.” 

His breath is warm as it fans over your lips and you nod dazedly, zings of pleasure radiating up your spine from Aemond’s grip in your hair only adding to the warmth quickly threatening to overtake you. “It’s okay,” you swallow thickly, eyes already rolling back with pleasure, “I can’t either.” 

Nodding in return, he picks up the pace, the head of his cock rutting against the most sensitive spot within you hard enough to make you see stars. He hasn’t even needed to tease your pearl and you’re already nearly unraveling as Aemond mumbles nearly incoherent praises, the hand on your hip traveling lower, nearly cupping your ass. 

Just as you’re about to warn him of your inevitable release, muffled voices sound from behind the thick wooden doors that lead into the Small Council chambers. Aemond slows within you as both of your heads swivel to the doors — just in time to hear the guards stationed outside begin to tug them open. 

You freeze, eyes widening as the doors open, seemingly in slow motion. Thankfully, your husband moves quickly enough for the both of you, nimbly scooping you into his arms before hastily dropping down into his chair, hurriedly scooching it forward until both of your laps are hidden under the stone surface of the table, before kicking your smallclothes under the table at the last second. 

Your head whips around to face Aemond and you give him a panicked, wide-eyed look just as people start filing into the room, unaware that you’re still being split open by your husband’s length. One hand, still on your hip, tightens, silently commanding you to be still as his lilac eye pleads the same; his other hand is already poised on the table, relaxed against the cool surface as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. 

“Yes, yes, we must certainly ask him once he’s back in King’s Landing,” Lord Tyland’s voice fills the chamber as he walks in, engaged in a conversation about something or other with Lord Corlys, the two sharing a laugh before finally taking notice of you and Aemond, “Prince, princess.” Tyland bows his head at the two of you with Corlys following soon after. 

You sit frozen atop your husband, gazing blankly at the two men without a word. Thankfully, Aemond has the presence of mind to bow his head politely, though he stays quiet. As they walk further into the room, you can only see Tyland and Corlys from the corner of your eye but you don’t miss the odd look they share, silently asking each other why you were present and certainly why you were sitting on Aemond’s lap. Blood rushes to your head so quickly you feel lightheaded, your cheeks stinging as a harsh blush quickly appears on your face from their attention. 

Maester Orwyle files through the doorway next, doing a double take at you and Aemond before bowing his head, a gesture that you thankfully remember to return this time as you stiffly nod your head. Thankfully, the older man simply takes a seat at his place at the table without any comment, though you can hear the two other men speaking quietly in the corner of the room, throwing glances your way as they do. 

Your walls tighten around Aemond’s length as the rest of you tenses up when Larys creeps in, leaning against his cane as he moves; Aemond thighs tense underneath you as you hear him suck in a breath, only slightly more hasty than normal — the hand in your hip tightens, warning you to keep it together. 

“Prince Aemond, princess,” Larys nods as he approaches the table, “To what do we owe the pleasure of such… intriguing company?” He questions, tilting his head as he narrows his eyes ever so slightly, his eyes bouncing between you and Aemond. 

Your head spins as you stare straight ahead, willing yourself to respond, to say anything, to appear somehow normal. Yet, nothing comes out as your center throbs uselessly around Aemond, your head cloudy with need as your eyes stare ahead blankly, though registering just enough to pick up on the small smirk playing at the corners of Larys’s lips. 

“My wife appears to have taken ill this morning,” Aemond drawls from over your shoulder while affectionately petting your waist, a gesture entirely for show, a lie to placate the men in the room, but it comforts you nonetheless. He clears his throat before continuing, the only tell thus far that your warmth around him is affecting him at all, “My presence brings her great comfort, I see no reason why she should be without it.” 

“I see,” Larys hums in response, his dark eyes sweeping over your form, sparkling ominously as if he knows the truth, “What shame, let us hope the Gods grant you reprieve from this…illness soon, princess.” 

“Yes!” You finally squeak, snapping back to attention as Aemond just barely squeezes your side, “Yes, let’s hope so. Thank you, Lord Larys.” You breathe, managing a smile small. 

You shift on your husband’s lap and immediately you know you’ve made a mistake as the head of his cock prods directly into that overly sensitive patch within you, nearly making you topple over on the spot as a small groan escapes you. Blessedly, you have enough presence of mind to cover it up with a cough, sparks jolting down your back as Aemond presses a soft kiss to your cheek, one of his hands coming up to rub soothing circles against the back of your shoulder. 

“There, there, sweetling,” he says softly, again, entirely for show as you put on your best performance, “Once the meeting is over, we will have the servants make some tea for you, that will help with that cough.” Even if it was for show, you couldn’t help but shiver at Aemond’s low voice, at how he’s being so soft and caring with you. That, combined with the incessant prodding to your sweet spot, has you throbbing around him, your heart hammering in your chest. You can hear Aemond suck in another barely there gasp behind you, a groan low enough to remain silent rumbling against your back while at the same time his hand almost imperceptibly twitches on the table; his composure makes you feel all the more lightheaded, blushing somehow deeper at the fact that he’s taking you apart this easily without so much as moving a muscle. Your thighs trembled atop his lap, the insides already sticky with your arousal as you struggled to stay still, silently thanking the Gods that at least your laps were hidden. 

“I’m sorry,” Corlys began, striding over from his spot in the corner with a sheepish look, “I really feel I must speak up, this is really most unusual.” He finishes through an awkward laugh, Tyland following closely behind him as they saddle up to the table. 

“What is most unusual?” Alicent asks, entering the Small Council chambers with Otto, followed closely after by Aegon and Ser Criston. Her eyes sweep over the room, pausing when she sees you, though she quickly corrects herself with a soft smile. “Ah, my dear,” she nods hello to the various men in the room before sitting at the table, “May I ask why your wife joins us, Aemond?” She peers at him curiously, throwing a nervous glance at Aegon who is smirking far too much for her liking as he slinks up to the table. 

“It seems the princess has fallen ill, your grace,” Larys answers quickly, slyly smiling as he turns to face the dowager queen, “Prince Aemond insisted she stay so that she may be…comforted.” You quickly look away from him as his eyes meet yours once again, piercing through you as though he can see directly through your gown. 

“Yes, which is most odd,” Tyland butted in, throwing glances between you, Aemond, Alicent, and Aegon, “She is not a member of the council, she should not be present. Surely there is some way the princess could be comforted that does not involve being privy to government matters.”

Aemond stays silent behind you, glaring daggers at Aegon over your shoulder, watching carefully as he traipses over to the table and stands at its head, his eyes never straying from his brother’s as they stare one another down. The other members, some reluctantly, take their places at the table as well, each of them standing so long as Aegon does, though you and Aemond remain seated; your eyes never stray from the marbled surface of the table.

“Aemond, please,” Otto sighs from his place next to you, “The least you and the princess could do is stand for–”

“I see him everyday,” Aegon interjects, breaking eye contact with your husband as he rolls his eyes, “I don’t give a shit if the fool stands.”

Your eyes dart up at that, shocked that Aegon isn’t taking the chance to thoroughly humiliate Aemond by putting him on the spot. The king’s violet eyes meet yours, sparkling with a mischief that makes your center flutter around your husband’s length – Aegon’s smirk grows as if he knows exactly what just happened. A thin sheen of sweat makes you feel clammy as Aemond’s cock twitches inside of you, pushing him against your sweet spot all the more. 

“Very well,” Alicent swiftly cuts in, determined to keep the peace, “Shall we get st–”

“Are we really going to allow for the presence of–” Corlys starts, only to be viciously cut off.

“She stays,” Aegon says flatly, shooting a bored look at the man, “If anyone has an issue with the princess’s presence they may take their leave.” His violet eyes pass over the room, almost daring anyone to move. Everyone remains still, though you can feel Tyland and Corlys glaring at the side of your head, and after a moment, Aegon takes his seat followed by everyone else; blessedly, the meeting finally begins. 

The Small Council meeting drones on and on, with various conversations of coin and ships, concerns abroad in Essos, and other diplomatic matters that mean nothing to you. In the back of your mind, you know it’s hardly been any time at all but it feels like an eternity has passed with Aemond’s hard length still piercing into you, twitching against your pulsing walls every so often. A part of you wonders if he does it on purpose, gives you just enough stimulation to cruelly tease you before going stock still once more. 

The small, unnoticeable to everyone but you, hitches of his breath tell you otherwise and deep down, you know he’s just as affected as you, no doubt steadily leaking into you, though you dare not consider the thought for very long. 

“Aemond,” your breath catches in your throat as Otto directs his attention to your husband, everyone else's gaze quickly following, “Any further communications from Dorne?”

Behind you, your husband clears his throat and you feel him shift beneath you, sitting up slightly straighter in his seat, both hands now clasping your waist to keep you steady on top of him. “Negotiations with the Dornish remain stagnant,” he begins as you practically wilt on his lap, the added attention from the council members making the knot in your belly tighten in a way you shudder to consider, “We received a raven from Prince Qoren some days ago rejecting any dealings with the crown, no matter the amount of coin we have to offer.” He finishes, pointedly looking at Tyland, who proceeds to butt in.

As soon as the attention shifts off of the two of you, it’s like the air around Aemond changes, becoming charged all of a sudden as you feel his chest heave against your back. At the other end of the table, Tyland begins to raise his voice, debating hotly with Corlys and Otto, drawing the attention of everyone else to them. 

“Do you think you can be still?” Aemond whispers, his breath hot against your ear although his voice is barely audible even to you. He must sense you freeze on his lap as the hand on your hip begins to move slowly, dragging your skirts up your legs until his hand can slip underneath them, making you tremble as he grips the soft skin of your thigh, “Tighten around my cock if you can be still.”

Against your better judgment, you do as he says, tensing as you clench your walls around him; his only reply is a low growl against your back. He stays still for a moment, trying with all of his might to appear as if he’s taking great interest in the ongoing argument taking place. 

Finally, once he’s positive everyone is too preoccupied arguing over coin to pay attention to either of you, his deft fingers slip through your folds before finally twirling against your aching pearl. 

You have to bite harshly at the inside of your cheek to keep quiet, trying to keep your breathing steady as you focus on not moving even though you so badly want to rut your hips against his fingers as they rub against you. 

Aemond swallows thickly behind you as he slowly circles his fingers, careful to keep his pace light and steady to not stir up any slick sounds from your wet cunt, though he longs to hear them. 

Your elbows rest against the top of the table, your hands clasped tightly in front of you. The conversation around you seems to shift as Otto begins prattling on about some Tyrell woman finally being with child. Aemond’s fingers suddenly pinch at your sensitive bud and a gasp tumbles past your lips before you can stop it, drawing everyone’s attention. 

“Is everything alright, princess?” Alicent questions from across the table, her dark eyes narrowed with concern. 

You nod quickly, coughing to conceal a moan as you open your mouth to answer her, “Y-Yes, I’m sorry,” you apologize with a weak smile, “I’m just so pleased for the Tyrells, what a j-joyous time this must be for them.” You say quickly, stumbling over the words as your core clenches tightly around your husband’s cock, his small touches driving you steadily to your peak despite the circumstances. 

Alicent gives you a curious look before quickly collecting herself, “Yes, I’m sure the family is quite thankful, children are always such a blessing,” she smiles politely before turning back to her father, “Please, continue.” 

Otto’s voice hardly reaches your ears as he picks up where he left off, though you don’t miss the horribly put out looks you garner from Tyland and Corlys. 

Aemond’s fingers just barely speed up as they swirl over your bud, though the small change is enough to drive you wild and you can feel the way his chest heaves against your back as your walls twitch around his length, threatening to milk his cock dry without him having to move an inch. 

The heat that has slowly been building within you finally begins to bubble over and your husband’s fingers show no signs of stopping as he pushes you closer and closer to your breaking point. The hand of his that has been resting idly on the table top comes over to casually rest against your clenched hands and rubs soothingly up and down your forearm, Aemond’s silent way of telling you he knows you’re close. 

Your eyes flick around the room as you feel your peak threatening to spill over you, frantically checking for any onlookers at the last possible second. You nearly jump out of your skin as your eyes finally land on Aegon, only to find him already staring at you, an amused smirk plastered across his face as he studies you. 

Aemond chooses that exact second to pinch at your pearl again and the small touch is your undoing. Your teeth bite down firmly on your tongue as your walls pulse rhythmically around your husband’s leaking cock, your eyes still locked on Aegon’s violet ones, now darkened with lust. 

Your muscles tense up as you peak helplessly, waves of pleasure lighting up every nerve ending within you. Somehow, you find it within yourself to remain quiet and still on Aemond’s lap as your eyes finally flick away from his older brother’s and you gaze, apparently absentmindedly, at some point on the wall on the opposite side of the room as your high subsides. 

Thankfully, Aemond takes pity on you and slips his hand away, his wet fingers resting gently in your bare thigh, still underneath your gown. 

You slowly come down from your high as the Small Council winds down, Aegon and Otto quickly discussing a few final points before the king formally adjourns the meeting. Tyland and Corlys practically bolt from their chairs, quickly bowing before they exit as they mumble between themselves, no doubt about the displeasure of your presence. 

Otto and Maester Orwyle take their leave soon after, each bowing politely. Aegon busies himself at the head of the table, leaning back in his chair as he lazily sips from his wine cup, the gleam in his eyes making you shiver. 

Across the room, Alicent and Larys whisper between themselves. Strangely, your mother-in-law blushes, shaking her head suddenly and mumbling a quiet, “Not here,” before glancing around the room.

Larys merely shrugs, turning to you as he shuffles from the room, “Do get better soon, princess.” He says with a feeble bow, although the look on his face makes you blush heavily. 

At that, Alicent turns to Aegon, “Would you care to come see the children with me?”

“Go on,” he dismisses her before nodding toward you and Aemond, “I wish to have a word with my brother.” He catches your eye with a quick wink. 

“Of course,” Alicent mutters, glancing curiously between the three of you, “I’ll ask the maids to bring some tea to your chambers this evening, princess. They make a wonderful lemon one that always seems to lift my spirits.” She says with a kind smile, coming around to place a comforting hand on your shoulder before she too heads to the door. 

“Thank you!” You breathily call after her, voice squeaking at the end as Aemond shuffles impatiently beneath you, his cock still prodding against your sensitive walls. 

Aegon chuckles darkly as soon as the doors close once more, standing from his chair with a wide smirk. “I must say, I’m impressed,” he taunts, eyes glinting as he looks between you and his brother, “I didn’t think either of you had that much gaul in you.” 

“What exactly are you tittering about now?” Aemond asks lowly behind you, his voice rough and choppy as his patience clearly wears thin. 

Sniggering, Aegon saunters around to stand beside you, violet eyes scanning over your laps still concealed under the table, “You’ve had your cock in her the whole time, have you not?” He teases, laughing harder still as Aemond merely hums in response, “Come brother, you should be proud of yourself,” he clasps a hand over your husband's shoulder, “She was nearly falling apart when she peaked.” He comments with a final wink as he ambles to the door, stopping to throw one last amused look over his shoulder, “You might want to do something about that bite mark on your shoulder.” He says casually before slamming the doors closed behind him. 

At his comment, you whirl around and your eyes grow wide as you spy a clear impression of your teeth marks in the leather of Aemond’s tunic, on his shoulder where you’d bitten down earlier. Your cheeks heat up at the thought of it being there throughout the entire meeting. 

You don’t have long to dwell on the thought though as your husband roughly pushes you from his lap until you’re bent over the table, cheek pressed to the cool stone surface. “Seven!” You sequel as he unceremoniously shoves his cock back inside you, his hips pumping wildly as his hands grasp at your waist harshly, no doubt leaving bruises. 

“Fucking finally,” he grunts, eyeing the way his cock disappears into your slick heat as he bunches your gown up over your ass, “‘M not gonna last.” He warns lowly, already panting with the speed of his thrusts. 

Your head spins once again as his cock moves within you, his pace nearly bruising. Your teeth sink into the skin of your forearm as you desperately try to keep quiet, another peak already welling up within you. 

Aemond growls and quickly threads the fingers of one hand through your hair, making you whine loudly as he pulls your head back until his chest is once again pressed against you, his other hand coming to rub against your abused pearl once more. 

“Aemond!” You moan, shaking your head in his grasp, one hand braced against the table as the other grabs at his forearm, feeling his muscles twitch as his fingers swirl against your center, “P-Please, I cannot keep myself quiet, I know I can’t—“ You start babbling. 

“Let them fucking hear,” he growls, eye squeezing shut as he feels his stones tightening up, “The whole keep can listen for all I fucking care, I won’t be stopping this time.” 

Your eyes roll back in your head at his words, never having heard him sound this possessed and overcome with pleasure before. After only a few more thrusts, you feel your walls twitch once more, a loud gasp rattling through your chest, “H-Husband, I’m—!”

“That’s it,” Aemond groans, redoubling his efforts against your pearl as he continues to rut into you at a nearly inhuman pace. “Peak, sweetling,” he commands, his voice low and raspy in your ear, “Peak while I breed your precious cunt.” 

His words nearly take your breath away and you whine loudly as another high washes over you, your walls milking your husband’s cock as they clench and pulse against it. 

Behind you, Aemond groans lowly, grunting as his cock twitches strongly inside you, his thick seed flooding into your heat as he finally, finally peaks, the pleasure of it making him dizzy as he leans against your back, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. 

The two of you are quiet for a moment, your tired pants the only sounds in the chambers. Finally, Aemond untangles his fingers from your hair, both of his hands coming to rest against the cool table as he finally pulls his cock from your center, soothing you with soft shushes when you whine, the emptiness in your core such a foreign feeling after being filled for so long. 

He sinks into his chair once more and pulls you with him, wrapping a protective arm around your waist as you rest your head on his shoulder. Once your breathing is steady, you pick your head up, a displeased groan tumbling from your throat as you see your bite mark more clearly up close, a finger coming up to trace over the intents in the black leather. 

“I’ll need to send this to the seamstress for repairs,” you whisper with an apologetic sigh, “I believe this is beyond my ability to fix.” 

Aemond chuckles beneath you, lilac eye gleaming with pride as he clasps a hand over yours as it still rests on his shoulder, “Don’t trouble yourself with it, my love.” 

“What?” You question, smiling despite the way you tilt your head in confusion, “Aemond, I cannot fix it myself and I’m afraid the mark will not simply go away—,” 

“You misunderstand me, sweetling,” he says, smiling as he looks down at you, “I intend to keep it as a mark of great pride. I shall wear it as a trophy for all to see.” He explains with a teasing laugh. 

You playfully smack a hand against his chest, which only makes him laugh harder, “You can’t be serious!” You admonish with a wide smile.

“Why? I simply wish to remember this day,” he chuckles, “The day I made my sweet wife peak in front of the Gods and everyone.” 

“Aemond!” You cannot help the surprised laugh that leaves you, “You’re as disgusting as your brother!”

tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @demirunner @eponaartemisa @trshngyn

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[huramuna]

firehaired, lavendereyed -- oneshot.

mean prince regent aemond x pregnant wife reader

a sequel to foxfaced, dragonhearted. it can be read as a standalone, though! its not as dark or mean as the first one and is (kinda) fluffy. thank you @echos-muses for inspiring this!

word count: 2.5k

@huramuna-fics -- follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings!

content: smut (specifics below cut), angst, fluffy, meanish aemond, prob unhealthy relationship, emotionally constipated aemond experiences emotions, reader is described w/ auburn hair, no use of y/n, not beta read, i literally went into a haze writing this there are probably mistakes, pregnancy

cloudbusting - kate bush • i bet on losing dogs - mitski

warnings: oral (f receiving), p in v, talks of choking and biting but its not in this fic, BREEDING KINK

Being the wife of a prince, a prince-regent no less, always felt like an honor. People would bow at you in the corridors, maids would bring you your favorite sweets without asking, courtiers would invite you to countless luncheons and extravagant events. It made you wonder, though– was it out of respect for your station– or out of fear for your husband? 

He was constantly your shadow now, insisting on being with you at every waking moment ever since the maesters confirmed your pregnancy. His hand would constantly be guiding you on the middle of your back, towards whatever destination you were off to. He would insist you eat more for the babe, would rub your feet and prop pillows behind your back when you both retired for the day. 

As he shepherded you into the throne room, he glanced at the courtesans and sworn lords alike– he had worn the crown since his brother fell from the sky in flames, burnt and scarred. He melded into the role like he was meant for it, as you so told him. 

‘It looks better on you than it ever did on him, husband.’

‘Careful now, dear wife. That sounds treasonous, does it not?’

It wasn’t hard to spur him on into a feral state of being lately, as he adored your body filling out, belly stretching, breasts growing as you carried his child. His, his. He was still cold, in his way, of course– that would be something you would never pull him out of.

‘Husband?’ you had mewled softly as you came back from the maester’s chambers after receiving the news. 

Aemond was sitting on the loveseat in front of the fire, one hand parting the pages of a book. He looked deep in thought, bristling slightly at being interrupted. ‘What?’

‘I’ve just come from the maester’s chambers,’ you started, walking slowly towards him like a skittish animal.

‘Why? Are you hurt?’ he closed his book with a loud snap and set it aside. ‘Come.’ he prostrated himself on the couch, legs spread slightly as an indication. 

You lifted your skirts and sat upon his lap, as you do– as he commands, usually. It was easy to know what he wanted without words. He inspected your face carefully, turning you from side to side, skin taut between thumb and forefinger. Then, the back of his hand felt your forehead. ‘You aren’t running a temperature. You aren’t sick, are you, little wife?’ 

‘N-No… I had thought so with… the issues of late.’

‘Issues? What issues?’ he pressed, his lone eye boring into you with intensity. 

‘I… ehm… have had an upset stomach– and… my…’ you blushed as you spoke. ‘My breasts have been tender.’

‘... hm.’

‘The maesters– they… inspected, thoroughly. They say I am with child… two moons.’ 

‘Pregnant. You’re… pregnant?’

‘Y-yes.’

Aemond stared at you for a long moment, not blinking. You had feared his reaction, you weren’t sure why, though. You knew your husband… liked you, didn’t he? In his own, special way. The way that he loved to call you stupid and bite you and choke you and never tell you that he loves you, except when lost in the throes of pleasure. 

‘Husband?’ you squeaked out, anxiety swirling in the pit of your stomach at his lack of reaction. Aemond was good at concealing his emotions– but you could see the pupil of his violet eye dilating like a creature in the dark.

‘Good,’ he said simply, a hand on your waist, squeezing slightly. Then, a moment of recollection came over his face and he stopped squeezing, letting his hand laze on the curve of your body. 

‘... good?’ 

‘Yes. Good. Do you wish praise for doing your duty?’ he grunted, already beginning to unlace your bodice. He wriggled it down your chemise and pawed one of your breasts. ‘Hm.’

‘W-what?’ 

‘They do seem… larger.’

He was gentle to you that night and every night after that. In touch and act alone– his words still left much to be desired.

As you both perused the throne room, approaching the iron throne, Aemond’s jaw clenched in irritation. You were well along in your pregnancy now, eight moons, and were quite round and stout, feeling all the part of a plump trout carrying eggs, trying to swim upstream– 

“Where is the chair?” Aemond barked suddenly, causing you to jump.

“T-the chair, your grace?” one of the servants mumbled.

“The chair for my lady wife, you fool. Do you expect her to stand?” He thoroughly scared the daylights out of the poor servant, who rushed off to find a chair. “Incompetent.” 

“... I pray he returns soon– my ankles are protesting this walk.” you murmured.

“If all of these prying eyes weren’t here,” Aemond whispered in your ear. “Mayhaps I’d have you sit with me on the throne.”

The thought of it sent a thrill through you, tingling all the way to the base of your spine and beyond. It was a wonderful fantasy, but you couldn’t get the logistics of it out of your head– you would certainly impale yourself on one of the unruly swords. “Mayhaps we can arrange something in our chambers after this, husband?” 

Aemond uttered a sound between a growl and a quiet moan before guiding you further to your seat, now properly prepared. You leaned back on the chair, adorned with a pillow, putting a hand over your swollen belly. 

As much as you appreciated Aemond’s… concern and vigilance with having you everywhere with him, you wished you could skip the tedious things. Your mind wondered the entirety of the session, tuning out the droning voices of the lords and only focusing on your husband’s. He sounded so powerful, commanding his lessers as if they were the sheep and he the shepherd. You didn’t lie when you thought the crown looked better on him than Aegon– Aemond was more suited towards this life. 

You know he wanted it all– the title, the crown, but not at the expense of his brother, never at his expense– so he would have to be content with what he could make for himself. That included you and your unborn child. You wished so dearly that it would be a son, a son for him to continue his bloodline, his legacy. 

Finally, the meeting ended and Aemond all but swept you off your aching feet to your rooms. He set you down on the bed and undressed you without much ceremony. “I couldn’t keep my mind off of you that entire time– if I were a lesser man… I may have not waited until our chambers to succumb to you.” he whispered, dragging kisses up from your knees, to your thighs and then your belly. 

A gentle, but calloused, hand wrought over the stretched skin. He loved touching your belly, he couldn’t get enough of it– he was a scholarly man in all accounts, secretly in wonder of the machinations of the human body and how it could vessel something like another person. He would never admit this, of course, but you could tell just by how his eye roved your form, how he took in every detail. He parted your legs, swiping a finger between your already soaked folds– as it didn’t take much for you to become feral these days, either. You had been since he suggested the idea of the throne, forced to squeeze your thighs together through the duration of the hearing to relieve some of the ache.

“So wet for me already, are you?” he hummed, gathering your slick with two fingers this time and kissing your thigh, so close, so close to your aching center.

“... y-yes, husband– you kept me waiting,” you murmured. In your pregnancy, you’d become indignant and spoiled– and he let you. “So cruel.”

“Cruel?” Aemond questioned, a brow raised. “Cruel– you know me cruel, my dear wife,” he growled, parting your folds and licking a line from bottom to top. “Cruel would be… letting you sit for hours longer on the edge and not giving it to you,” he anointed his point by roving his tongue over your pearl, eliciting a keening whine from you. “Or mayhaps, not giving it to you at all. Shall I be cruel, wife?”

You shook your head fervently. “P-please, Aemond,” you panted, the heat of the moment and your out-of-whack hormones already making you perspire, sweat beading at your forehead. You felt like a bitch in heat, every touch of him on you was like a thousand sparks from a flint, trying to light your pleasure, trying, trying– but then dying, but it was always so close, on the precipice. “Touch me– don’t tease me.”

“Hm,” he roved it over in his mind for a faux moment. “You are doing so well carrying my child, aren’t you?” 

“Y-yes, please!” 

“Mayhaps I will reward you for being a good wife, a good mother.”

“Please, my king,” you whimpered, using his title only reserved for bedplay. You wanted it bad, and he knew.

Once again, his pupil waxed and waned like the moon phases, like the ebbing and flowing tide– and then he began to feast upon you like the animal he truly was. His tongue roved over your sensitive core, suckling and nipping. Your hand flew to his hair, clenching it into your fist. He had become so expert in pleasing you with his mouth, something he only started after you became pregnant– you hoped this would stay. 

“A-Aemond, f-fuck,” you cursed, throwing your head back on the pillow, clutching his silky strands between your fingers. “M-more, your grace–” 

He lavished you like he was starved, not letting up at any point to even let you breathe– it was a constant assault on your clit, with only a few moments of relief when he caught his breath, looking up at you like the cat who got the cream, a smug grin on his face, the glisten of your essence on him. His thumb finished what his tongue started, kneading over your sensitive bud as you babbled and cried, fluttering around nothing as you came. 

You heard the sound of his belt undoing, and his hand was in yours, guiding you to his rock hard member. “Don’t you see what you do to me, hm? I quite like you round, so full of my child,” he said as he lined up with your entrance, sliding in with no resistance. “Mayhaps I shall keep you like this and we will have an entire castle full of children.” he stayed upright, hands on your thighs. You still ached for his hand around your throat, so badly– but it wasn’t good for the babe. 

He began a slow, almost lazy pace, staring down at you now as he loomed like a shadow, picking up his speed. As he sped up, he reached up and tore off his eyepatch, throwing it aside. The sapphire in his eye socket gleamed at you and you swore you could see yourself reflected into it– 

It didn’t take long for him to reach his own peak, grunting and growling, balls tightening. His hand also itched so desperately to lace around your throat like a necklace, but his hand just twitched and clawed into the sheets as he emptied himself into you. He, regrettably to both of you, pulled out and encircled himself around you, arms resting on your ribs as you were lulled to sleep by his breathing and closeness.

You awoke, not knowing how many hours later, to him speaking. “Nyke jaelagon ao emagon aōha muñnykeā's pungos.” I hope you have your mother’s nose. “Ao'll rhaenagon gūrēñare lēda iā egros rȳ izula. Iā kostilus tōma. Aōha muña kessa daor hae ziry, nyke gīmigon.” You'll start training with a sword at age four. Or perhaps five. Your mother will not like it, I know.

His head was laid near your belly, faced away from you, his hand draped over it softly. He didn’t know you were awake– he was… speaking to the baby. You could only catch bits and pieces of what he was saying– but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a conversation for you to know. You closed your eyes once more.

–

“M-may the mother… guide me… and bless me with a son,” you murmured. “Bless us with a son, please.” you groaned as you tried to get up, your knees bruised and sore. You had been praying every day for the last fortnight as your delivery loomed closer. You feared to give him a daughter– as accompanying as he’d been during your pregnancy, you knew… you knew what he wanted. And you knew it was a coin flip to give him what he wanted.

You felt heavier than usual, finding it difficult to get back up after being down for so long– you felt a strain in your lower back, then an acute pop. A gush of wetness flowed down your legs. “A-ah– ser!” you called to your sworn sword, a member of the Kingsguard picked by Aemond specifically to be with you at all times when he wasn’t around. Presently, Aemond was taking a ride upon Vhagar. “Ser!”

“My lady?” the Kingsguard rushed in, eyes wide. “Are you alright?”

“T-the… the babe–” 

–

“Why wasn’t I notified?” Aemond growled, stalking through the corridors as he paced to the maester’s quarters. 

“Y-You were in the sky, your grace– we didn’t know how to reach you–” 

“Fuck’s sake– is she alright, then?” 

“Yes– uhm…” 

“Uhm? What? Is my wife alright or not?!” 

“Yes– she and the babe are alright.”

 Aemond fumed as he opened the doors, eye zeroing in on the maester, then you. You were mortified, crying, holding a little bundle against your breast. 

“A-Aemond,” you croaked. You were shaking like a leaf.

“Congratulations, your grace,” the maester spoke. “It is a healthy baby girl.” 

Girl.

Girl.

Girl.

You couldn’t stop sobbing as you watched his face, impassive, turn to confusion, to longing, to grief, to anger, to…. Nothing. He stared at you blankly then.

“Aemond– please– I- I prayed to the Gods every day for a son, I’m sorry,” you blubbered. “I’m so sorry–” 

“Don’t.” Aemond’s voice snapped like a whip as he walked closer. “Let me see the babe.” 

You offered the bundle to him– a baby girl. She had curls of red hair like you and lavender eyes like her father. Sensing movement and a change of presence, the baby sneezed, staring up at her father. He stared back, his expression unreadable. “Vaella. Her name is Vaella.” he didn’t ask, nor suggest. He declared. Glancing back at you, he spoke quietly. “We will just have to try again, won’t we, wife?” His tone was like a fog upon you– it was proposed like a thinly veiled threat, a promise– but then his gaze softened almost imperceptibly. You wonder if you imagined it. “Kirimvose, ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys.” Thank you, sweet wife. “Ñuha hūra,” My moon. He turned back to Vaella, whispering. “Se ñuha qēlossās.” And my stars.

–

Aemond ended up getting his heir and then some, a year and a half later. You gave birth to triplets. All boys. 

Maegon, Vaelar, and Rhaelor.