#aemond x OC

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

In the Wake of Silence

Aemond x unnamed wife | HOTD Big Bang

Summary: Aemond and his wife endure a loveless, arranged marriage. His wife, haunted by bearing witness to the events of Blood and Cheese, seeks respect and support from her indifferent husband. The Prince, troubled with his own demons that triggered the Dance, struggles to meet her basic needs. Political intrigue and personal grief threaten to tear them apart, but his wife demands recognition and partnership, a fraught path, hoping to find respect where love has failed. | Word Count: 8.8k~ | Warnings: angst, child death, spoilers for hotd s2 ep 1, dub-con, mentions of miscarriage, canon-typical violence/misogyny

A/N: my submission for this year's HOTD Big Bang! Thank you to the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs for the artwork, and for organising the event alongisde @emilykaldwen. Please do show all the love for other lovely writers/artists over @hotd-bigbang, you're all in for a treat!

The first light of dawn barely touched the horizon as Aemond Targaryen slipped back into the Red Keep. His movements were stealthy and deliberate, the echoes of his footfalls swallowed by the cold stone corridors. The scent of the brothel, flesh and sweat, still clung to him, a reminder of the night’s escape from the relentless pressures of court and marriage.

As he approached his chambers, the atmosphere within the Keep struck him as strange. It was too noisy, too chaotic for the early hour. The usual stillness of the dawn was replaced by the frantic rustling of armoured feet and the distant, muffled cries of distress.

Turning a corner, Aemond's sharp gaze took in a disturbing scene. Members of the Kingsguard were dragging servants and courtiers from their rooms, shouting orders and spreading panic. The confusion and terror were palpable, a stark contrast to the serene darkness he had left behind.

"What in the Seven Hells is happening?" he muttered to himself, quickening his pace.

Aemond's mind raced, trying to piece together the reason for such commotion. He rounded another corner and saw more guards, their expressions grim and unyielding as they secured the doors of the royal nursery. His heart skipped a beat, an inexplicable sense of dread washing over him.

His steps became more urgent, the clamour growing louder as he neared his chambers.

He pushed open the doors and immediately noticed something was amiss. A draught hit his face, a wall he had never known was in fact a doorway was standing ajar. His eye scanned the room, taking in the disorder. His belongings had been disturbed, gold coins taken haphazardly from the table. Papers were scattered, and the lingering scent of unfamiliar presence clung to the air. Something rancid.

His expression remained impassive as he made his way through the halls. Kingsguard rushed by him, towards Helaena’s chambers as well as maidservants with newly washed blankets. When he reached his mother’s chambers, Ser Criston gave him a grave look, but stepped aside. Inside, his mother was bent over her table, her long chestnut hair falling in waves either side of her face to hide her moist eyes and sheer exhaustion. His grandfather, Otto, was seated, his spine as straight as his face. 

At the sight of him, his mother paused, her eyes filling with a mix of relief and fear.

“Aemond,” Alicent began, her voice trembling.

His eye flickered about the room, a habit, taking in the darkness that lay within her chambers, in his blind spot the drapes still pulled tight to push out the sun, the rumpled bed sheets. 

“Mother,” he answered, “what has happened? My wife–”

Alicent’s face paled at the thought of having to revisit the hellish night she had only just left behind. “They came in the night. For Helaena’s boy…” she trailed off, “Jaehaerys is dead.”

Aemond’s blood ran cold, the weight of her words sinking in. His mind flashed back to his ransacked chambers and the passage he had found ajar. A passage even he had not known existed.

They had come looking for him.

And when they could not find him…

“And my wife?”

Alicent wiped her cheeks gently, inhaling as if to draw strength, “she was there, with Helaena and the children…”

The realisation hit Aemond like a blow. The assassins had been mere steps away from her. The thought of his wife in such proximity to danger, witnessing the horror of Jaehaerys’ murder, was almost too much to bear. The indifference he had maintained toward her now felt like a cruel and taunting weight.

“We must not be shaken by this,” Otto insisted, somewhat firmly, coldly. “We need to remain strong and act decisively."

“Not be shaken? They murdered my nephew, and my wife was there. This is no small matter.”

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his tone becoming sharper. “And that is exactly why we must remain composed, Aemond. Panic will only serve our enemies. We need to show them that we are not easily broken.”

“They came for me, Grandfather. When they could not find me, they killed an innocent child. My nephew. My wife could have been next.” His words were like arrows, laced with poison. “And how fares the King? Is he as composed as you wish?”

“The King’s composure is of no concern to you, Aemond. Your duty is to protect this family and this realm, not to question the King’s state of mind.”

“You speak of strategy while my family bleeds.”

There was a marked silence. Aemond was wound tight. His grandfather, while known for his clever strategy and had served many Kings as Hand at this very moment, was as detached emotionally as one could possibly be, and only saw how this tragedy might benefit their claim.

“And where was our Kingsguard while all this took place? Where was our vigilance when they slipped through our defences?”

He noted his mother’s still stance, her eyes unmoving from a single spot in the room, her hands, needing something to do, rose to her necklace, tight with worry and anxiety.

Otto said nothing for a moment. “We shall not be caught off guard again. Every measure will be taken to ensure our security.”

“I am sure your grandson will thank you for it now,” Aemond shot back.

“We will protect the ones who remain,” Otto retorted. “But we must do so with clear minds and steady hands. Emotions will not serve us in this fight.”

A tense silence hung between them, the air thick with unspoken words and clashing wills. Alicent stepped forward, her voice a fragile thread of calm amidst the storm. She took his hand, so large in her own it seemed near impossible that he could possibly be her son. Her large brown eyes were misty with tears. 

“The Hand is right. We must be united in this,” she uttered quietly, trembling. 

All Aemond could manage was a tired sigh. There was no use argumentation. For better or for worse, his grandfather was the King’s Hand, and if the King was indisposed, incapable of making rational choices, the members of his court had no choice but to obey.

“Where is my wife?”

Alicent hesitated, her expression pained. "She is with the maester," she finally replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“She is hurt?”

"No,” was her quick answer, “but do treat her gently," she said softly.

His frustrations at that moment were only tempered by the knowledge that she was not harmed. The relief briefly gave way to unease at the knowledge of what his wife had witnessed a night he himself was pressed to another woman’s flesh.

He moved, walked, existed, for some time without really realising.

"She witnessed the attack, my prince," the maester began, his voice steady despite the gravity of his words. "She was with Queen Helaena and her children when the assassins struck. It was a brutal and sudden assault. She managed to escape physical harm, save a small cut on her neck I have treated, but the emotional toll is severe."

"She is in shock," the maester continued, his gaze sympathetic. "Physically unharmed, thankfully, but emotionally... she has endured a great trauma."

Aemond nodded tightly. His mind raced at the thought that he had been out of harm’s way while his family and blood suffered horror beyond comprehension in their own home.

"Is there anything else?"

The maester hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "There was some... spotting," he finally said, his tone gentle yet hesitant. "Not indicative of her cycle. It may have been due to the stress and trauma she endured."

He couldn’t deny the slight sinking of his heart at the implication. Understanding the maester’s unspoken words, that his wife may have even been with child, added yet another devastation to the evening’s toll.

The maester nodded towards a door. "She requested to be alone. I advised her to rest, but she insisted on waiting for you."

Aemond swallowed hard, steeling himself for the sight of his wife, knowing that the rift between them had deepened with each passing moment of his absence. Of his continued absence, in their marriage.

He entered the chamber as if navigating a dragon's lair. It was dark with the curtains drawn, the only light coming from the dim glow of the hearth. Her figure was seated by the mantle, her back to him, still in the same dress she had worn the evening before.

He called out to her, but she did not face him.

“How kind of you to return from your nightly excursion.”

Aemond felt the hot frustration at the nape of his neck, his defences prompted. His jaw tightened at the accusation in her tone. “I had matters to attend to,” he said coldly, not bothering to disguise the edge in his voice.

“Matters,” she echoed in disdain.

“What I do in my leisure is my business. You know this.”

She finally turned to face him, her eyes blazing with anger and hurt. “While you tended to your 'business,' I was here, witnessing the murder of our nephew. Is the first thing you have to say to me a poor excuse for your absence? And not perhaps a soft word in grief and comfort?”

Aemond’s expression remained stony, though a flicker of unease passed through his eyes. “I know what happened, and it should never have come to that. But do not think to judge me for seeking solace elsewhere.”

Her face crumpled somewhat, the pain evident in her eyes deepening, “I do not judge that, Aemond. I simply ask for respect and loyalty–”

“I have given you my name and protection–”

“It is not enough!” She rose her voice, which seemed to suck all the energy from her lungs, “not when I am left to face these horrors alone. Your sister lost a child. As did I–”

Her mouth pulled shut, her eyes drifting as if she had said too much for her frail heart.

His eye narrowed, a mixture of shock and defensiveness flashing across his face. “I did not know.”

She looked away, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Of course you didn’t. You were too busy with your whores to notice.”

“Mind yourself–”

“Or what?” She snapped, “you will ignore me? As you always have done? Ignore your responsibility to your family? To me?”

It was rare she was ever able to best him with her words alone. But her next ones rendered the tall Prince completely silent.

“You have never been here, truly. I have been married to a ghost, a shadow that drifts in and out of our chambers but is never truly present.”

The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, the silence between them filled with the echoes of their shattered relationship. Aemond’s expression softened for a moment, a flicker of something almost like regret in his gaze, but it was quickly replaced by cold resolve.

“I am a Prince of this Realm. My duties extend far beyond you. This marriage. You will have to accept that.”

It was a neat trick Aemond did often, he would open his mouth and Otto Hightower’s words would slip out between his lips.

She closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “Then go. Do what you must. But do not expect me to wait for you, not anymore.”

Aemond hesitated, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out to her but didn't know how. The door closed with a resounding thud, leaving her alone in the darkness, the weight of their broken marriage heavy on her shoulders.

Why must it solely have been her burden to bear.

So she remained, the dim light from the hearth casting long shadows on each wall and tapestry. Her mind wandered aimlessly through her grief, reliving the horrors of that fateful night. The sounds and visions of her memories fueled the terror that gripped her even still. The pain of her own lost pregnancy, discovered too late, was a dull, constant ache in her heart. The exciting, blossoming swell of motherly intent had been snuffed out as quickly as it had been lit.

And the loneliness of her failed marriage only deepened her sorrow.

“The Mother knows.”

She blinked hard, but still heard the firm knock at the front of her mind. Two foreboding men who clearly did not belong in those parts of the Keep, one pulled harshly at Helaena’s arm, the other  grabbed her from behind, yanking her to her feet. A cold blade pressed against her throat, and she gasped, her eyes wide with terror. Helaena let out a muffled scream as Cheese, smaller but no less menacing, held a knife to her neck. Two pairs of frightened white eyes flickering terrified in the darkness.

“She’s the Queen,” the smaller figure, dark curls stuck to his forehead, sneered against Helaena. 

“A son for a son, he said. Well, does she look like a fucking son to you?”

She winced, his palpable violence felt through the pressure of the blade to her throat. Her breath felt like fire, her throat dry, the words spoken between the two men felt as if they were conversing in a language unknown to her.

“Prince Aemond ain’t here,” the other let out a cruel laugh, gesturing to the two cots with Helaena’s twins somehow sleeping deeply through the struggle. “We need to get our head and get out.”

Helaena could barely utter words, just winces and whimpers for mercy.

The man behind her was reluctant to release his grip. And through her body, an equally trembling voice broke loose.

"If you wish to hurt Aemond, take me," she said, her voice steady despite the terror coursing through her veins. "I am his wife. My death will wound him deeply."

She felt her breath still, two fierce blue eyes, shimmering with violent need, met hers from over Helaena’s shoulder. “So much loyalty for a man who is not even here to protect you. How touching.”

The man behind her peered at her face, his foul breath hot against her skin in a way that made her skin crawl. “So, you are the wife," he sneered, the cruel smile returning. "But we were promised a son. One who carries Hightower blood. You are useless to us.”

Helaena whimpered, her eyes darting to the cots where her children slept soundly, unaware of the nightmare unfolding around them. The smaller of the two pressed his blade a little harder against Helaena’s neck, drawing a thin line of blood. "Maybe we should kill them all," he suggested, his voice dripping with malice. "Just to make sure we don't miss the right one."

The larger laughed behind her, a low rumbling sound the deepest in the Seven Hells. “Imagine his pain when he finds her body cold in his bed." He loosened his grip slightly, letting her feel a false sense of relief before tightening it again. "Or maybe we should kill the boy first, let her watch the consequences of her husband’s crimes.”

She was only let go then, her neck aching as blood rippled to the surface, a superficial cut, but one that stung nonetheless. She watched with wide eyes, unease. The blade that was at her neck caught the light of the candles briefly.

“They both look the same. Which one’s a boy?” he asked with a trembling excitement. 

No.

Two hooded eyes, craving bloodshed and death, turned to Helaena, who stood similarly vulnerable. “The Mother knows.”

The room seemed to tilt and sway, the walls closing in around her, sounds muffled as if her ears were submerged underwater. She saw Helaena’s tear-streaked face, the anguish in her eyes as she was forced to point out which of her children was the boy. The assassins crowded the bed, dark shapes looming over the small, innocent form lying there.

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a painful reminder of her helplessness. She wanted to shout out, to offer herself in place of the child, but the reality of her situation silenced her. Perhaps the smallfolk knew too well that Aemond cared little for his wife. That her sacrifice would mean nothing.

It felt like a nightmare, each moment stretching into eternity. She followed behind Helaena, Jaehaera hugged to her tiredly, limbs heavy with dread. The corridors blurred together, each step a struggle against the overwhelming sense of doom. As they neared her chambers, she broke away, her heart pounding with a desperate hope that Aemond had returned.

She burst into her chambers, the door slamming against the wall with a resounding crash. "Aemond!" she called out, her voice trembling with panic. The silence that greeted her was deafening, a void that swallowed her cries. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of the night's horrors pressing down on her. "Aemond!" she screamed again, her voice breaking with desperation.

But the chambers stood empty. She stood there, the cold emptiness of the room closing in on her, offering no comfort, no solace. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a painful reminder of her solitude. She stumbled forward, calling out his name once more, her voice echoing off the walls. "Aemond, please!"

The darkness seemed to close in around her, her hopes extinguished like a dying flame. She sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself, trembling violently. The silence was unbearable, a stark contrast to the chaos that had engulfed her only moments before. "Aemond..." she whispered, her voice barely more than a choked sob.

The tapestry on the far wall was slightly askew, the ends flailing in the draught. A cold realisation washed over her. This was where they began. This is where the assassins had come in. A sick sense of vulnerability swept over her, making her stomach churn. They had been here. She was not safe anymore.

Her heart raced faster, and she felt a sudden, sharp pain shoot through her abdomen, doubling her over in agony. She gasped, clutching her stomach, the intense cramp sending waves of nausea through her body. The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt, a searing agony that stole her breath and left her gasping for air.

"No," she whispered, her voice breaking with a new kind of desperation. "Please, no."

But the loss was immediate.

She whispered Aemond's name one last time, her voice a fragile thread in the vast emptiness.

A gentle voice broke through her trance, pulling her back to the present. “My dear, can you hear me?”

She blinked, the room coming into focus. Alicent, her mother by marriage, was seated before her, concern etched deeply into her features with a drink cradled in her hand. Her dress was different, her hair braided in a manner that did not resemble that terrible evening.

How many days had passed? What had she eaten? Had she seen Aemond since that morning?

It was frightening, to exist without remembering.

Alicent repeated her name softly. “I’ve been calling your name.”

She turned to look at her, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I apologise, I... I was just thinking.”

Alicent sighed. “I know, dear. I cannot imagine the pain you’re in. But you mustn’t let it consume you.”

She nodded, but couldn't help but feel both frustrated and powerless. How could she not allow this to consume her, when she could still feel the twisting in her chest and the hollowness that had deepened since that night. “Of course.” Was all she said.

Alicent gave her a sympathetic smile, reaching out to gently squeeze her hand. “You’ve endured so much. More than anyone should have to bear. And I know it feels impossible now, but time will help.”

It felt as if ‘time’ was merely Aemond's mother's way of shifting responsibility. As if the effort were not needed in this mortal realm, and decided entirely by the Gods.

It was unfair, she thought. To have been abandoned by them in her time of ultimate need.

Alicent retreated, shrinking as she felt her despair, “Helaena is deeply hurt. She is sensitive, and this tragedy has cut her deeply, naturally,” Alicent trails off. “Perhaps you might go and see her. It might help both of you.”

Would Helaena even want to see her? She had not tried, reasoning that she and the King had enough to deal with. The death of their child. One another. The dark omen that loomed over the Keep.

She had not wanted to intrude on her suffering, despite feeling it so profoundly herself.

“Aemond has his own way of dealing with grief,” Alicent added suddenly, “it may not be the way we wish, but he is still young and finding his path. His responsibilities weigh heavily on him.”

She could have laughed. The only decent smile she would have broken in an age. Responsibilities.

It seemed the Dowager Queen truly had no idea what any of her own children were thinking or doing at any given time. And for that, she could not help the simmering resentment.

She masked it simply with a polite nod, acknowledging but not believing. Alicent’s face tightened with the strain of balancing her loyalty to her son and her compassion for her.

“I understand your grief, my love. I truly do. But you must try to understand his burdens, as difficult as that is. He has a duty to the realm, and sometimes that means... sacrifices.”

Her eyes were dry from nights of endless crying, and she felt them strain as she turned her head to Alicent, as if she could not quite believe what she had said. As if Aemond's words were perfumed and spilling from his mother's mouth.

“And that is what I am?” 

“You are a part of this family, and we must all find a way to support each other. I cannot excuse his actions, but I can ask for your patience and understanding. For all our sakes.”

It was not an answer to her question. Merely a dismissal. She swallowed hard, the bitter taste of resignation settling in her throat.

For a moment, she stared down into her cup of warm tea, untouched. Watching the rich brown ripple, for she could not stand to look into the bitter shade of Alicent's any longer.

“It is all I ask,” Alicent uttered gently, as if she was aware of the tentative string she walked upon. 

She nodded slowly, the weight of expectation pressing heavily upon her. She forced herself to meet Alicent's gaze, searching for any sign of genuine compassion or understanding. There was some, but it was overshadowed by the stern duty that ruled the Dowager Queen.

Alicent gave a sympathetic smile, “you have shown great strength, my love.”

She nodded again, though she felt anything but strong. The days had blurred into nights, and each moment seemed to stretch endlessly before her, a relentless parade of sorrow and duty. She was exhausted, worn thin by grief and the constant strain of maintaining a facade of normalcy.

Where was strength, in witnessing a brutal crime?

Where was strength, when losing a child that had barely lived?

Where was strength, in the waning tide of a failing marriage.

She had said to Aemond that it felt as if she were married to a ghost. But the more time went by, Lords and Ladies tiptoeing around her, their glances quick and measured, she felt very much the ghost herself. As if they see her, feel her presence, but do not hear her speak or breathe as if she were alive.

As much as she did not value the Dowager Queen's opinion of Aemond and their marriage, she struggled to cope with the unending trauma of her presence for Prince Jaehaerys’ murder. The nightmarish memories haunted her days and nights, an ever-present shadow that refused to fade. Each scream, each drop of blood, each moment of terror replayed endlessly in her mind. The palace that had once been her home now felt like a prison, its walls closing in around her.

The loss of the pregnancy was distant, but she still felt the fresh kick of it as if it were recent. It was a silent, aching sorrow, compounded by the knowledge that Aemond, the father, remained indifferent. The possibility of what could have been gnawed at her, the child a symbol of hope now lost forever.

With the child, she could at least have been useful, she reasoned. Her duty would remain paramount. But as Aemond grew less and less present, slipping into the arms of those he would rather share the warmth of his flesh with, it seemed less and less likely he would wish to try for another child with her.

Yet another thing her husband could take away from her. Her purpose.

The absence of this feeling had made her desperate for reconnection. She visited Helaena's chambers every day, requesting the Kingsguard stood straight at the door if she might speak with the Queen. But every time, he said the same thing.

“The Queen requests to be alone at present.”

Each visit, each attempt, ended in heartbreak. The closed doors and silence were a painful reminder that while she was not alone in her suffering, but also not welcome in her attempts to bridge their mutual anguish.

She felt her heart lurch into her chest when she returned to her chambers, finding an unfamiliar presence rummaging around the ornate oak cupboards. The figure, however unseen in this part of the Keep, possessed the silver moonlit hair she knew so well, but short, unkempt and choppy.

Her shocked gasp seemed to draw the King’s attention, and he turned, his clothes askew, face swollen and sunken from tears and wine consumption.

“Y-your Grace–” she found her words, giving a polite curtsy, trying to calm the hammering of her heart.

“Apologies for the intrusion,” he muttered, twirling a newly found decanter of wine in his hand. “The servants will no longer allow me to have my fill.”

She swallowed, her hand dropping from her chest, away from her thrumming pulse. “Of course, Your Grace. Help yourself at your leisure.”

Aegon’s gaze finally met hers, and for a brief moment, she saw the depth of his anguish. The loss of his son had shattered him in ways that wine alone could not mend. He took a long, unsteady sip from the decanter, the liquid sloshing slightly as his hand trembled.

“Is there anything I can do to help, Your Grace?” She asked softly, unsure if her presence was a comfort or a burden.

Aegon let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Unless you can bring back the dead, there is little anyone can do.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and poignant. Aegon’s words lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the shared grief that bound them both. He realised, too late, that his careless remark had cut deeper than intended. He had lost a son, but she, his sister by marriage, had also felt a profound loss.

Aegon cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “I... I apologise. That was thoughtless of me.”

She shook her head, her expression softening. “We all speak from our pain, Your Grace. I understand.”

Aegon leaned against the table, his eyes bloodshot. “Where is Aemond?”

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the floor. And that seemed an answer enough. She felt her cheeks get hot, in his presence, the guilt seemed to grow and grow.

Why could it not have been her that night. She has mulled over the question several times.

“I am sorry…” she choked out, wiping her cheeks when moisture nipped at her sensitive skin. “I could— could have done more—”

Aegon’s expression softened, the bitterness in his eyes giving way to a rare moment of understanding. “It was not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

There was a beat of silence as he approached, the decanter hanging lazily in his grip at his side. He looked exhausted, as if all the fight had left him.

“I thank you…for being there for Helaena and Jaehaera,” he murmured, as if the Keep’s walls had ears, “my sister has a gentle temperament, and you are much like a natural born sibling to her.”

The silence that followed was heavy with shared pain and an unspoken understanding. For a moment, their grief became a silent bond between them, a fragile thread of connection in the midst of their suffering.

Her voice broke the silence softly. “I only wish I could do more, Your Grace.”

Aegon opened his mouth to reply, but the appearance of Otto Hightower in the doorway halted him. Aegon’s eyes widened slightly, and he quickly hid the decanter behind his back, trying to conceal it. With a curt nod to her, he slipped out of the chamber, leaving her alone with Otto.

She surmised perhaps, Otto had given the King a sharp gesture, inviting him to leave. And she steeled herself for the man's oppressive and yet firm presence, and turned to face him.

Otto stepped into the room, his gaze sharp and calculating. He glanced at her, noting her flushed cheeks and the way she quickly composed herself.

“I hope I am not interrupting.”

She shook her head, the brief moment of awkwardness fading. “Not at all.”

Otto’s eyes swept over her, lingering momentarily before returning to her face. “I came to ensure you are managing well under the circumstances.”

Just what reaction might he expect from her? To be scaling the walls with madness?

“It is said that people often find unexpected strengths in times of hardship, though it seems some have less experience in harnessing them.”

Her fingers tightened where she held them in front of her and tried her hardest not to mirror the feeling in her expression. “The weight of grief is heavy.”

“Indeed. It is important to remember that appearances can be deceptive. And, it would be unfortunate if this…response were to become an impediment rather than a motivation.”

Her shaky exhale did little to ease the tension in her body.

“I appreciate the reminder, Lord Hightower.”

Eager to see the back of him, she made no attempt to offer wine or tea. She did not want this emotionless, self-serving attitude to further darken the doorway of her chambers.

And she thought as she listened to the Lord Hand’s footsteps echo softly down the hall, that she now realised where her dear husband inherited this trait.

Aemond lay in the dimly lit room of the brothel, the scent of incense mingling with the faint aroma of sex and wine. His eye drifted shut at Sylvi's fingers through his hair, running the silver strands through them as if it were silk illuminated by pale moonlight.

Sylvi, with her deep, knowing eyes, watched him closely. She had always been good at reading him, understanding the depths of his turmoil without needing words.

“You are troubled,” she said softly, her voice a soothing balm in the quiet room.

“None more than is usual.”

“Tell me,” Sylvi countered, not letting him evade the truth.

“Daemon sent them to kill me,” Aemond’s voice was low, but his attention seemingly elsewhere, “I was out.”

“You were with me,” Sylvi reminded him, her fingers still tracing soothing patterns on his scalp.

“In truth, I am proud that he considers me such a foe. That he seeks to murder me in my bed.” Aemond’s voice held a mix of pride and bitterness, the conflicting emotions evident in his eyes as he looked up at her. “He is afraid of me.”

“As well he should be,” Sylvi said with a sickly smile, her fingers pausing for a moment, her body leaning closer to brush her breath against his lips. “The boy has grown into a man.”

“No. Not here.” Aemond pulled away from her intimacy, creating a physical and emotional distance. Sylvi sensed there was another truth Aemond was not displaying, and there was a thin, tentative line she had to tread as the man before her curled his legs to his chest.

“And what else?” she inquired, making no attempt to touch him.

Aemond’s gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if trying to grasp an elusive thought. The room felt colder, the flickering candlelight casting long, unsteady shadows on the walls. His usually composed facade was cracking, and the turmoil within him was evident in the tension of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. He struggled to find the words, each breath he took seeming heavier than the last.

“They came for me. When they couldn’t find me, they killed my nephew. And my wife... she was there to witness it all.”

"That must be an unimaginable burden to carry."

Aemond continued, his voice growing harsher, as if he expected Sylvi to be more…insistent of his guilt. “I was supposed to be there, but I was not. I was here. And she... she suffered because of it. My sister also.”

But there was little the other woman could say to quell the storm within. It was a complicated one, as it was always with Aemond she had begun to find out. While it was clear there was no love in this tumultuous marriage, the thought that she had endured such trauma while he was away, seeking solace in the arms of another, gnawed at him relentlessly. His absence had cost his family dearly, and the weight of that realisation was almost unbearable.

“And how do you feel?” she asked softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“How do you think I feel?” he snapped. He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. “I am angry. My wife slips further into grief, not that she was ever truly close to me. And I do not know how to reach her.”

“Anger is natural, given everything that has happened.”

He shakes his head, the words seem empty. “And what is to be done about it. She lost a child that night,” he recalled bitterly.

Sylvi regarded him with a knowing look, her eyes glimmering softly in the dim light. Her voice was gentle, almost melodic as she spoke. 

“Perhaps, if she were to fall with child again, it would lift her spirits.” There was no recognising the subtle manipulation in her voice, nor did he realise the depth of what he had just revealed. He simply nodded, lost in his thoughts.

Sylvi’s fingers traced patterns on his arm, her touch light and soothing. She was planting a seed, one that could lead to healing or further heartache, depending on how it grew. “You have the power to change things, Aemond. You can give her hope again.”

“I do not know if I have hope to offer her.”

Sylvi tilted her head slightly, her eyes studying him with a blend of sympathy and curiosity. “She is your wife. She is still your responsibility. Even if you don’t love her.”

Aemond’s face hardened, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “Love is for peasants who wish to fuck without sin.”

Sylvi's gaze softened, though there was a hint of steel beneath her calm exterior, and perhaps a catching of some offence. “And what of duty? Even in the absence of love. And perhaps, through fulfilling it, you might find something worth holding onto. New life can often pave a new path.”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed, but the weight of her words hung heavily in the air, the hollow ache of his failure sitting like a stone in his chest. 

“I suppose duty is all that remains.”

The conversation with Sylvi weighed heavily on his mind, her words about duty and new life echoing in his thoughts. As he reached the door to his wife's chambers, he hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the handle before he finally pushed it open.

She was sitting by the window, staring out at the darkened sky. She didn’t turn to look at him as he entered, her grief-stricken face illuminated by the moonlight. The room was silent, save for the soft rustling of the curtains in the night breeze. He watched her for a moment, noting the listlessness in her movements, and he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation he had been avoiding.

“I need to speak with you.”

She looked up from where she sat by the window, her eyes dull and unresponsive. “What is it, Aemond?”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “We need to try again. For a child.”

Her reaction was immediate, her eyes flashing with a mix of disbelief and anger. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am,” he replied, his voice steady. “We have a duty to our house, to ensure its future.”

“Duty,” she spat the word like it was poison. “Is that all you ever think about? Our child, the one I lost, does it mean nothing to you?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened. “It is not about that. It is about moving forward. We cannot dwell on what we have lost forever.”

She stood, her hands trembling with the force of her emotions. “You think I have not tried to move forward? Every day I wake up and try to put the pieces of my shattered life back together. But you... you have not been here. You do not understand what it’s like.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. “I have my own burdens. My own ways of dealing with them.”

“By disappearing to the brothels every night?” she shot back, her voice rising. 

He had never seen his wife like this, never. With her, there was an element of submission she had always offered, and she never complained, not once, before. Her eyes were so expressive he could read them like a tome. And in this moment, when she had said what was at the forefront of her mind, something she would dare not voice mere moons ago, he watched as her mouth slipped shut and she shrank back in on herself, sensing her words had widened their ever-expanding emotional chasm.

She looked upon him as if she were afraid of his response. But expectant.

Aemond took a step closer, his expression hardening. “This is not just about us. It is about our family, our legacy. We need to try again.”

Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her. “I cannot snuff my pain out like a flame, Aemond. I cannot…pretend everything is well and start over like nothing happened.”

“I am not asking you to forget,” he said, his tone softening slightly.

But he was asking her to cast it aside. And for what?

“Why, Aemond…” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Why do you care so much about an heir when you cannot even care about me?”

The silence that sat between them was an ugly one, borne of years of regret and guilt, like a festering wound that refused to heal. It stretched and twisted, warping the air between them, heavy with unspoken truths and broken promises. The weight of it was suffocating, pressing down on their chests and stealing the breath from their lungs.

He opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him, leaving only the bitter taste of unspoken confessions. He could almost hear the whispers of the smallfolk, the cruel gossip that had spread like wildfire through the castle walls, rumours of her inability to bear a child, seeded by a careless word in a brothel. The knowledge of it gnawed like a disease, a constant reminder of her perceived failure, exacerbated by Aemond’s apparent indifference.

Aemond’s gaze was hard, his jaw set in a rigid line. The vulnerability he had shown moments before was gone, replaced by the cold mask he wore so well. “Because it is what is expected of me,” he replied, the edge in his voice returning. “We all have our roles to play. I must ensure our future, whether I like it or not.”

He began taking off his doublet, the heavy garment sliding off his shoulders with a practised ease. The action was mechanical, almost detached, and it sent a shiver down her spine as she realised his intention.

"So soon...?" she said quietly, blinking the moisture from her eyes. Her voice was barely above a whisper, heavy with the weight of her sorrow.

Aemond paused for a moment, his hands stilling on the laces of his shirt. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and for a fleeting moment, something akin to regret flickered in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced once more by the cold determination that had come to define him.

“We cannot afford to wait,” he said, his tone softer but no less resolute.

Her heart ached with a sorrow so profound it felt as if it might swallow her whole. She wanted to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all, but she knew it would be futile. Instead, she simply nodded, the movement small and resigned. She moved to the bed, the weight of her grief pressing down on her with every step and when Aemond joined her, the distance between them became palpable even in their proximity. There were no tender words, no gestures of comfort; just the cold, stark reality of their duty. His touch, impersonal.

She tried to steel herself against the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, knowing that this act was not born of love, but of necessity. And in that moment, the chasm between them seemed wider than ever, a silent testament to the love they had never truly known.

He did not look at her, did not seek her eyes. His mind was elsewhere, already thinking of the future he was so determined to secure. When it was over, Aemond pulled away, the silence between them more deafening than any words could have been. He dressed quickly, his movements efficient and unfeeling. She remained where she was, her body and spirit drained.

Her own form felt nothing like her own as she righted herself to sit up, pushing her skirts back down her legs, armouring her skin as if she needed protection over every inch of her. Aemond stood, his back to her, barely a silver hair out of place, fastening his breeches with a meticulousness that seemed almost cruel in its precision.

“Do you find comfort in their arms because you cannot stand to be close to me?”

Aemond's shoulders tensed, but he did not turn to face her. “I do not know what you want of me,” he replied, his voice distant and cold, like the draught seeping through the cracks in the ancient stone.

“I want to be respected as your wife. Your equal.” Her plea hung in the air, laden with the weight of unmet expectations and unfulfilled promises. 

“I cannot change what has happened. I did not know how to be there for you then, and I do not know now." He finally turned to face her, his gaze meeting hers with a mix of frustration and resignation. “I do not know how to be that man. I have failed you, and I may continue to fail you. But I will try to respect you as my wife, if nothing else.”

Her shoulders slumped under the weight of his words, the fight draining out of her. The acceptance in her voice was tinged with a profound sadness, the acknowledgment of a life destined to be lived in the shadow of duty rather than the light of love.

“Very well. If that is all I shall ever be.”

Some time passed, each day blending into the next in a haze of routine and muted sorrow. Servants and guards whispered as she passed, their sympathetic glances and hushed tones adding to the heavy silence that surrounded her.

The bloom of spring flowers went unnoticed, their colours a stark contrast to the grey fog that seemed to envelop her mind. She was supposed to track the days, to know when her moon blood should come, but time had lost its meaning. The markers of her cycle were swallowed by the same darkness that claimed her thoughts. 

“The summer of a woman's years is a short season. It passes by in the blink of an eye. Toyed with by this momentary value.”

Her mother had always been blunt about her words. But now, more than ever, with the taunting explosion of colour and vibrancy outside, she felt as if her season was closing in, like a prison she could not fight.

Some evenings, as she sat alone in her chamber, she felt a familiar ache low in her abdomen. It was a dull, persistent pain, one she knew all too well. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she tried to steady herself. Was it her moon blood, or was it something else? The uncertainty gnawed at her, but she could not bring herself to seek answers, to go to the maester to confirm. The prospect of hope was too painful, the fear of disappointment too great.

Life or loss. There was an element of control she could grapple to, by simply not knowing.

As usual, her Lord Husband remained absent from her life. Perhaps it was just as well she did not know, and that he did not inquire.

It was a pleasant enough evening in any case, spent mostly by the fire, the light of the flames serving to assist her in the delicate art of her embroidery. A pastime she would otherwise spend with Helaena in days passed. Since calling to her chambers most days in the immediate aftermath, in truth, she had rarely tried to urge her to accept her presence. Reasoning that in time, perhaps the troubled Queen would make her way back to her, in body and soul.

She felt her whole jump in her seat in shock, the door to the chambers swinging open and then shut with a loud thud. For a short moment, it brought her back, the horror making her heart hammer against her ribs, fully expecting to see two figures darken her doorway once more. 

But her wide eyes only looked upon the lone figure of her husband, his face a mask of anger and humiliation. As usual, he had ignored her presence entirely and went straight to the decanter on the table, pouring himself a generous measure of wine. Unusual behaviour from her distant husband. He sat down heavily in the chair by the hearth, taking a long drink, his movements tense and jerky.

She knew better than to ask, given the state of their fragile bond. Fearing perhaps the reaction she would receive. Instead, for a moment, she watched him silently from the corner, her own heart heavy with grief and pain. Despite her suffering, she felt an irresistible pull to reach out to him, to try to soothe the anger radiating off him in waves, almost palpable in its intensity.

Her steps were soft and deliberate as she approached him cautiously, each footfall muted on the cold stone floor. The air between them felt charged, thick with tension. Aemond didn’t look up from the drink in his hand, his gaze fixed on the swirling crimson liquid. His fingers gripped the glass with a white-knuckled intensity, as if the drink was his only anchor in a sea of turmoil. She reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder. The contact was gentle, but he stiffened, his posture becoming rigid under her touch. Yet, he did not pull away, a silent sign that he was at least willing to tolerate her presence.

“You do not have to,” Aemond muttered, his voice low and strained, a mixture of resignation and weariness. “I have given you no reason to.”

“I know,” she replied softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of her empathy and unspoken concern.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, the movement slight but significant. A flicker of something unidentifiable crossed his features, perhaps it was vulnerability, or perhaps a fleeting moment of regret. She met his gaze with unwavering softness, her eyes reflecting a deep understanding that transcended the barriers between them. The lines of her face were etched with sorrow, yet there was a tender resolve in her expression.

With a hesitant motion, Aemond took her hand, his grip warm against her chilled skin. He turned his face into her hand, not kissing it, but letting the skin rest against his lips in a gesture that was both intimate and detached. As if he was silently thanking her for her presence, for her effort to reach out despite the emotional chasm that lay between them.

She let her hand fall away slowly, stepping back to give him the space he seemed to need. The small, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, a release of some of the tension, indicated that her gesture had made a difference, however slight.

Aemond took a deep breath, the sound escaping his lips like a weary sigh. The tension in his body eased slightly, and he became aware that while they might not be aligned in love, his wife understood him in a way few others did. She grasped his pain and anger, and she reached out to him despite everything that had transpired between them. He gave her a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of her attempt to bridge the gap between them, a gesture that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

She returned the nod with a gentle inclination of her head, her eyes meeting his with a flicker of hope and understanding. They didn’t need many words; the shared silence between them was enough to convey their fragile understanding, a tentative first step toward mending the rift between them. The quiet was a balm, a soft promise of potential reconciliation, though it remained unspoken.

Her heart seemed to lift, the rest she received later that evening somewhat fruitful. And though Aemond left in the early hours of the morning the next day, she recognised that he no longer visited the brothel, busying himself instead in the library most evenings. It was a small victory, but one she clung to, rightly or wrongly. 

The servants were even more palatable that morning, with sweet words and even sweeter smiles for her. Dressed in a gown she favoured the most, she felt her mood ripen.

She was gently roused from her reverie by the sound of quiet footsteps approaching her chamber door. A soft, hesitant knock followed, and the door creaked open. Standing in the doorway was Helaena, the Queen, accompanied by her only living child, Jaehaera. The sight of them was a poignant reminder of both the life and loss that threaded through their lives.

Helaena’s eyes were red-rimmed but held a glimmer of resolve and determination. Her composure was fragile, but there was a soft strength in her presence. Her heart ached at the sight of them. 

“Sister.”

She rose from her seat, her movements slow and deliberate, a sign of the emotional and physical exhaustion that still clung to her. Helaena stepped into the room, her gaze meeting hers with a quiet understanding.

“I thought we might spend the day together,” Helaena said, her voice steady. “As we used to.”

Her eyes softened as she looked at Helaena and Jaehaera. The gesture was more than kind, it was a lifeline extended in a sea of shared sorrow. 

“I would like that very much,” she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet imbued with genuine warmth.

For a while, the three women sat together in silence, the room filled with the soft murmur of their breathing, the occasional rustle of fabric and the icy dropping of a needle. It was a quiet that spoke of shared pain and tentative hope, a small balm for their wounded souls. Helaena rarely spoke, apart from the quiet mutterings she herself was used to in her dreamy presence.

They, Helaena and Jaehaera, were a reminder that there were still threads of connection and understanding that bound them together. The day held the promise of comfort and perhaps, slowly, the possibility of healing.

From the doorway, Aemond watched them, his face was an unreadable mask, but his expression betrayed a depth of emotion, regret, longing, and a faint glimmer of hope. His gaze lingered on his wife, who held Jaehaera with a tender protectiveness, and on Helaena, whose hazy mutterings were soothing musings to the silent exchange of grief and solace.

He took a step back. For the first time in a long while, he felt a stirring of something he could not quite name, a hint of what could be if he only allowed himself to reach out and grasp it.

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@emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

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@qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @sheshellsseashells

[desireangel]

Dark Cherry [4] | Aemond Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Summary: after months of a marriage that hardly harbours the passion that you'd dreamed about, you stumble across the reason for your husband's indifference and decide enough is enough. Aemond will learn just exactly what he's been missing out on.

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: MDNI 18+!! canon divergence!!! I fucked the timeline and nigly bits bc this was an impulse fic ok soooo it was mostly unplanned, almost smut, angst, let the grovelling happen babyyy, unedited, mention of alys x aemond but not in a good way :((, infidelity, talk of sex, guilt, mentions of Aegon x reader, hmmm I ramble, little vulnerable Aemond, bad language, let me know if I've missed anything!

Author's note: y'all I was never done with that man like there's no easy out for him :llll. Anyways I wrote most of this instead of studying which I needed to do. Perhaps I'll have my hand at another idea I'm cooking before part 5 but I'm alsoooo unsure about how keen we are to keep this one going - like is it getting too much??? either way, I enjoy writing this. and idk how to shut up, clearly, because I love that internal mind talk shit. Drop your thoughts in my inbox or PM me because I love to yap!!! xoxo, kisses!!! <3

Masterlist

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He was a fool. A spoiled, arrogant and entitled fool. You often thought about whether Aemond actually recognised the effect of his actions on anyone else. It was always ‘I did it for us’ or ‘I did it because I had to do it’.

So after your confrontation the day before, it had surprised you that Aemond had truly believed he was forgiven. Maybe it shouldn’t have. You had, after all, sat beside him and laughed with him. Shared a moment as if things were better. But it was nothing more than a lighthearted acknowledgement that whatever game was being played was entirely ridiculous yet you could feel how something had changed. There was a newfound intensity between the two of you and Aemond had clearly understood that he had made a mistake

But that wouldn't be enough for forgiveness. Things would never really be the same. You will never forget. The nameless woman had made a home in your unconscious mind and everything would remind you of the woman your husband had chosen to take to bed over you. She was beautiful, she was experienced and free of burden. Based on that alone a part of you could see why she could have been a better choice–a part of you that ached and pained ceaselessly. 

And you weren’t sure you could carry on as if Aemond hadn’t thrown your entire world into the pits of ruin. Because that is exactly what he may as well have done. All you had was your marriage to him–a fact that was as painful as it was true. If it all fell apart because of him only you would suffer from it. 

Your name, your family’s name. A Lady born to a house of remarkably lowly nobility with little more than your marriage to the prince. A charity case marriage to tell the realm’s people that the Crown was not so prejudiced as to be above uniting with the likes of your house. That the Lannisters and Baratheons were important but they were not everything. A fabrication only made necessary to cover up the fact that it was a lie–the Targaryens (and even the Hightowers as you had come to realise) really did believe they were of better blood. 

A failure to fulfil your duty to the Targaryen crown as Prince Aemond’s wife would destroy your family name. And you would have no prospect of happiness after it. What else did you have aside from this?

Aemond would never understand that. Because not only was he a man but he was a prince. A privilege, a safety and a security he had inherited through birth. 

Aside from the pressures of society, he had hurt you. Badly. 

Despite your own confliction about it, you did have love for Aemond–how could you not? Love came from many things and while yours may have come from your dependance on his word, on the duty he performed to be your protector as he was to the Crown and its subjects, on his polite affections as limited as they were, it still found its way into your heart. Perhaps it was foolish to allow it entry into your existence when you had already known that there was no love to come from Aemond. 

It didn’t change anything. Betrayed your trust, taken you for granted and destroyed the sanctity of a husband’s loyalty as if he were as dishonourable as any other Lord. 

You would never say it out loud but it had broken your heart. And heartache is a consuming, suffocating and painful thing to feel. A constant lump in your throat, something always weighing your chest down, a disastrous, aching discomfort in your belly. Tears had stained your pillow at night and dried by the morning, the fabric of the linen acquiring the same unphased facade that you would wear as you plastered on a mask of ignorance so that you could continue to live through your day. 

All because you had wanted him. Aemond, who was doomed to disappoint and destroy merely because that is all that princes do. 

For him to have mistaken your truce–the end to the back and forth game that had been wreaking havoc in its wake-as forgiveness was infuriating. He had no idea. 

Well, maybe he did. Now that he had seen you with another just as you had seen him. And you recognised your own experience in the moment he had realised what was happening. 

Aemond’s call to breakfast made you want to laugh. But you had turned him down for afternoon tea just the day before only to be found swallowing his brother’s seed. You winced at the shamefulness of your thought, muttering a quick prayer for the sake of your piety whether it was genuine or not. 

He was seated lazily in the chair he favoured, an array of food spread across the table. There was a book in his hand. The same one he had taken from you the last time you had shared your morning meal together. Aemond had a smirk playing on his lips. 

You cleared your throat, curtsying before sitting down at the other end of the table to him and with as much distance between you as you could muster. “Good morrow, my Prince,”

“Formalities, I see,” He looked at you through his lashes. It was odd seeing him so relaxed, the tension that was always in his shoulders had been lost and there was a playful glint to his eye. You wanted to smack it out. “I believed we were past titles and distance for the sake of propriety, my sweet. As well as rigid greetings.”

All you responded with was a stare. 

Dropping the book to his side, Aemond sighed and leaned forward, pouring tea into a cup. He stood, taking a couple steps forward to hand it to you. “We have fixed-”

“We have fixed nothing.”

“I am trying to turn a new leaf,” he commanded. You took the cup and saucer from his hand, the warm waft of vanilla and rose giving you a slight reprieve from the threat that rolled off his tongue. “If you do not recall, dear wife, I as well have every reason to resent you. The image of you sucking on my useless brother’s cock is not one I can easily bare. Yet I have chosen to let it be. I could have easily decided otherwise.”

“That would make you a hypocrite.” You glanced at him over the rim of your teacup. 

“It does not matter much if I am a hypocrite, does it?” Aemond sat, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He wasn’t bothered with the food in front of him, focused solely on you. “I hardly see how that would change anything.”

You squirmed under the intensity of his stare, picking up a cherry from the bowl of fruits and rolling the stem between your fingers. “It matters to me. Certainly, it matters for your reputation among the smallfolk. Nobody cares for a selfish prince, my dear.”

Aemond hummed, smirking at the venom you spat at him. You noticed the coin that he rolled between his fingers, nimble and thoughtless as if it were like breathing. Not so much a nervous habit but a thoughtful one. 

He couldn’t lie and say that he didn’t enjoy your confidence. It was refreshing. But there was a dip in his gut at the thought that there was no hope for the two of you. Aemond, ever logical, knew he had no one else to blame but himself with his lack of foresight and failure to see beyond the now and here. 

Because Aemond had not even considered how things would go on should you not forgive him. He had assumed that you would if not merely on the basis that there was little lost from a relationship that hardly existed in the first place. You had love for him and he was so convinced that such a thing would be impossible that he didn’t consider that it would cause you heartache beyond slighted offence and jealousy. 

A violet eye lingered on the cherry that remained between your fingers. Aemond was good at putting on an act. He thought for a moment that he would rather take lashes to his back than have you know that he had no idea how to love someone properly. A part of him was persuaded that he was incapable of being a good lover. The lashes seemed like a blissful gift compared to the self-loathing that simmered in his belly at the probability that he had ruined any chance your marriage had of recovery.  

It crossed his mind that it was his ignorance towards you right from the beginning that had damned your relationship. 

Either way, it did not help that you had turned to his brother for intimacy. Aemond felt his blood scorch whenever that invaded his mind. He wanted to crumble the walls of this fortress when he wondered if Aegon had enjoyed your womanhood. Jealousy did motivate him well, he realised, and Aemond had the murderous urge to feed Aegon to Vhagar. 

Nonetheless, he feigned amusement. “It seems as if you care for one.”

You ate the cherry. It was sweet and rich. All you replied with was an upturn of your chin as you gracefully held a small embroidered towel to your lips.

“So I am not forgiven?” Aemond had to break the silence before it cut him open. “Are we not even?”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you held back a surprised laugh. “You never apologised. Not that it would make any difference.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“Of course you are not forgiven,” you sighed. The tea cup hit the table with a clang. Your disdain for his actions and his ignorance gave you an unfettered confidence around him which you weren’t accustomed to. It made it very difficult to control yourself. “And no, we are not even, my Prince. And since you have brought it to my attention, I am of half a mind to find Aegon and offer him a meal between my thighs. You see, I have often wondered how it would feel and I expect that our King would be happy to indulge my… curiosities.”

Aemond sneered, a silent one that was more visible in his intake of a breath, the curl of his lips and the hardening of his eye. Bullseye. 

It took him less than a couple seconds to be on his knees in front of where you sat, a strong hand tightly gripping each side of your thighs over the thick fabrics of your dress. He had shoved the table aside, unphased as tea spilled and fruits and cheeses toppled to the floor. Something in the look of bewilderment on your face had Aemond ready to both grin at your clueless innocence and frown at your shock.

Aemond didn’t let himself dwell on the fact that you had given up on expecting such pleasures from him. He was your husband; nothing about what he was clearly intending on doing to you should surprise you. Cursing himself to perdition would not be enough for how he has failed you. 

“I feel obliged to remind you that we had agreed,” he grazed his nose across your knees, looking up at you through his eyelashes, jaw clenched tight as he all but growled his words. “That there will be no more of this foolishness. Not from you and not from me.”

It was an onslaught of different things that had rendered you still and silent. The way Aemond looked at you like you were the only satiating force for his eternal hunger, the wordless mixture of desire and anger in how his fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, the desperation in his voice, strained by the fear that you would. Or was it the overwhelming feeling that Aemond was finally taking some accountability and that maybe he recognised not what his actions were but the meaning that they carried?

For a moment Aemond just looked at you, conflicted and fragmented and unguarded. The sight of him like this reminded you of a vulnerable child. But it didn’t last long before the menacing, cautionary glint was back in his eye, his posture becoming rigid as shuffled the fabrics of your skirts. 

A new kind of anxiety overcame you. Not like the insignificant nervousness you had felt that night when you had wandered into his chambers or used his leg to make yourself peak and not like the clueless apprehension with Aegon. It formed a ball in your chest and made it hard to breathe. 

There was no chance he would ever admit it but you could see Aemond’s vulnerability and desperation within the hardened facade he had perfected. He wanted nothing more than to seem strong and powerful at all times, worthy of acclaim and reverence. But here he was, willing to stay on his knees and worship you forever, all under the pretence of rageful infatuation. 

It was too hot. Even with the cool of the shadows cast by the dark net curtains that only let in enough daylight to see clearly and not enough to cause Aemond irritation from sensitivity in his eye, it was so warm you worried you would have to rip the sleeves off of your dress.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when Aemond let out a soft, dark groan, running his fingers across the expanse of your legs over your stockings, your skirts already bunched at your hips. Skin burning at his touch, you couldn’t help the way you whined and squeezed your thighs together, squirming under the intensity of his gaze. 

His voice was heavy with the burden of lust and regret. “I will be better. In all the ways that I have failed you and more. Your forgiveness, I realise, is not as easily granted as I presumed but I will show you that I am worthy of it.” 

There was a moment of weakness in your mind before you caught yourself. You didn’t quite believe him. It had clearly been too easy for him to give you empty promises and there was no reason why things would be different now. 

It was odd. Seeing Aemond weak like this. 

What would it mean if you let him continue? It was clearly different this time. You couldn’t put it into words exactly but there was a rawness, a blitz of different emotions that set things ablaze and made you want to both weep and mewl for him. 

You couldn’t spare a thought about why it was different. Aemond was right there, a weaponised Prince on his knees for you, a lowly Lady with nothing more to offer him than yourself. Since when did you hold all this power over him? 

That night in his bedchambers and last night when you had shared a laugh despite everything that had unfolded felt detached in a way. When you had allowed yourself release over his leg it was simply that. A way to ease the tension he had put in your body and a way to leave him wanting.

Aemond’s eye swam with a tenderness you had not seen from him. He continued to look up at you waiting to gauge your response. It was a slight nod of your head which had his hands tearing at the soft fabric of your stockings, his lips instantly meeting the skin of your knees before you had the chance to even gasp. All the while, he kept his eye on you as if his heart would cease to beat if he could not watch the way you reacted to him. 

It became increasingly harder to breathe. There were so many thoughts, so many sensations that you struggled to put it all together. Your flushed with anticipation, your cunt throbbed at the wet plushness of his lips on your hot skin and your hips squirmed at what was to come. 

Your mind, however, flashed with the image of Aemond, exactly as he was now, between another woman’s thighs. A woman who didn’t flinch at the unfamiliar touch, who didn’t jerk away at the foreign feeling of being pleasured. You wondered if he would be so angered at the prospect of another man’s mouth on her womanhood, if her skin felt softer or more rough on his lips and if he looked at her with the same heated need.

It made you feel sick. 

Aemond let himself enjoy the way your thighs tensed, pulling your smallclothes off of you as much as carefully as he could under the restriction of your skirts. There was an urge to rip the entire dress off but he knew it would be a step too far. He couldn’t help the low sounds that left him, sounds he couldn’t recognise. The expanse of your thighs and the sight of your flushed, hot cunt in front of him made his mouth water with a hunger that would have shocked him had he not been so distracted by your scent. 

Without complete vision, Aemond had learned to train his sense of touch, taste, smell and hearing to make up for the disadvantage he was stuck with. They were always slightly heightened compared to those who never needed the compensation of senses but in the cloud of desire and lust, he was sensitive. 

You whined at the way his tongue glided over your skin, biting down hard but not hard enough to be painful on the flesh of your upper thigh so close to where you needed to feel him. But Aemond was always remarkably patient and he merely made way to your other leg, repeating his ministrations and licking you from your knee to where he bit you at your thigh. 

The haze that had possessed you made you lose track of your thoughts so easily. Still, they fought their way to the forefront of your mind at every chance they could and you were reminded of her. 

Aemond’s mind was overwhelmed by you. There was no power in the realm that could make him think of anything else, not with the way you were trembling under his feathered touch and making such beautiful sounds for him, and not when he desired for anyone else apart from you. 

A heavy breath of shame and excitement tumbled out of you at how lewdly he dragged the tip of his nose across your thigh, pressing it into the flesh that sat above your slick, aching cunt and inhaling. You clenched around nothing, your clit twitching at the sound of Aemond’s unabashed groan. 

He grasped at your hips and your legs, his fingers burying into your flesh and tugging as if there would never be enough of you in his hands. It would have driven you into a similarly desperate state had things been different. 

The prince between your thighs was a sight to behold. Aemond’s skin was flushed pink, his eyepatch slightly out of place and his hair tousled from the way your legs clenched and unclenched against his head. He was almost drooling, mumbling about how good you smelled and how perfect and pretty your cunt was for him. His cock had never been so hard, constricted by the stiff leather of his training attires. 

Aemond enjoyed being a tease but there was only so much he could handle himself. While he wanted you to crave for him the way he was craving you so unbearably, Aemond needed to taste you. He needed to make you feel the blinding pleasure he should have been giving you at every chance he had since the night you were married. He needed to show you the ways of unbridled human desire and to show you all the ways your body could come undone and fall apart only to feel completely whole and fulfilled. 

There was no changing the past but Aemond would make up for how completely inattentive he had been. He would show you all the more fervently. When Aemond placed an open mouthed kiss just above your slit, letting a string of his spit glide off of his tongue onto your sensitive pussy, you shuddered.

All at once your mind was once again taken over by unsavoury thoughts. It had your eyes welling with tears, a familiar lump lodging in your throat, threatening to come out in a devastated sob. There was a ringing in your ears and you were back at Aemond’s door, peeking in only to see him giving that woman the same touch he was giving you right now. He had seemed so enthralled by her and the way she must have tasted. It was as if he’d been there before, indulging in her with so much passion it rivalled how eagerly touched you in this moment. 

Did her smell fill his veins with fire as yours was? Did her scent alone make his cock as painfully hard as yours did? Did her cunt drip for him the way yours did? Was the hunger in his eye shining for her too?

It was terrifying to consider. 

Aemond would spend hours here, he had decided. His duties for the day could be damned to the hells for all he cared. There was a rumbling in his chest for what he saw in front of him, inviting him to indulge and filling his mind with senseless ardour. Aemond let himself enjoy just the scent of you, his eye fluttering shut and his nose gently resting above your folds as he breathed you in, caressing your thighs softly with his hands. As if he were starved for years, Aemond salivated and with no patience left within him, he brought his lips downwards to meet the precious cunt he had been dreaming of. 

With a whimper that you couldn’t hold back, you jerked away from him. Aemond pulled away in surprise, his gaze full of confusion and lust and insecurity. “Wait, my love—“

You had slipped free of his grasp, a strangled cry escaping no matter how hard you tried to keep it in. There was one tear that slipped free, followed by countless more and you couldn’t look at him anymore, couldn’t bear to see that he was hurt before scrambling away from him. 

She was stuck in your mind. The memory of Aemond’s little trysts with her replaying behind your eyes no matter how hard you tried to shut it out. It was clear that there was nothing you could do to get ahold of yourself because everytime you looked at him, so enthralled in you and your sex, she was there. 

Laughing at you in the back of your mind, as if she had taken residence in a permanent place in your head, enjoying the state of despair and madness she and Aemond had led you to. 

But she couldn’t be in your head. Not really. Not in the way it felt she was. 

You barely glanced back at Aemond through your tears, struggling to even your breathing and calm the rapid beating of your heart. He hadn’t moved much; just simply stayed there frowning at the space that you had once occupied on the chair. 

There was nothing he could do to change things. Aemond knew that as well as you did. But there was a pain in your heart at the way he looked so defeated, so guilty that it almost seemed like he would melt into a puddle of remorse. A far stretch from the usual stoic warrior that you had known him as.

“My prince, I–” you swallowed, your voice catching when he looked up at you with a wide eye and furrowed eyebrows. For a moment you remembered that he had no right - but he was trying, was he not? “I cannot continue with this knowing that you had touched her like this. It angers me and it upsets me and it pains me to think of it but ‘tis beyond my control.”

He stayed silent, observing the way you hid yourself from him and struggled to meet his gaze. There was a sullen look to you, one you had not entered with and it stuck needles in his flesh to think that he had been the cause of it. Aemond’s entire body felt hot and he was itching to tear off his leathers. He wished the gods would strike him down as he was for hurting you so.

You had turned away, disappearing from his quarters swiftly. You would never forget the image of how you had left him there–it was both satisfying and devastating. 

Aemond, still on his knees for the ghost of you, his expression tortured and his shoulders tensed. It was a pathetic sight, should anyone stumble upon it, but you considered it beautiful. Beautiful in a lethal, catastrophic manner. Not unlike himself; a weaponised source of destruction who had a tendency to bring torment upon those he loved. 

The rest of your day had been spent alone in your chambers. You hadn’t cried so much over any of it until now. The tears and sobs that you had held inside of yourself for weeks had forced themselves out, along with the emotions you had pushed down until you could no longer. 

Aemond had a certain control while you were sitting in that seat, skirts bunched to your stomach and quivering for him to have his way. Regardless, the power was still yours and you knew that it was Aemond who was wrapped tightly around your finger at that moment. He would have listened to anything you had said–done anything you had told him to do. 

Perhaps you had become too stubborn in your anger to have let yourself feel anything else. A retributive anger; one that sprouted from the lack of love that existed in your marriage and reached a climax at Aemond’s brazen adultery. And it only grew stronger in whatever back and forth Aemond had encouraged by dangling his whore in front of your face. 

Whatever it was, you were feeling so much more now than you had before. 

Or perhaps it was because you could see that Aemond was remorseful. He would never yet admit it but you knew from the way he had behaved since you had visited him in his bed. It was no act of redemption and definitely no apology but it was impossible to ignore the change in him. You had never seen Aemond the way you had seen him this morning. 

Vulnerable, gentle, tormented. 

A knock on your door had you sniffling and wiping away any tear stains that may have lingered on your cheeks. You had stopped crying for some time but the need to wallow and lament had stayed. When you called out to ask, the guard at your door notified you of the Dowager Queen’s presence. 

Oh, seven hells. 

There was really no chance you could refuse her so you merely let her in and called a servant to bring some refreshments. Queen Alicent sat herself down but remained tense, carefully watching you as you took a place beside her. 

“Have you been crying?” Her concern was comforting. “I believe I know why.”

You straightened, not meeting the eye of the woman who reached a tender hand to your knee. Hiding behind a forced smile, you let out a breathy laugh. “I am certain the entirety of the Red Keep knows, Your Grace.”

“It has been known for some time,” Alicent was gentle, her cautionary gaze telling you that she was apprehensive about bringing her son’s misadventures up. You held your breath. “Since the first time he had summoned that Alys woman-”

“Alys? Is that her name?”

“You do not know?” There was a tense silence. Alicent couldn’t meet your gaze, pity swimming across her features. Aemond was her son and there were many things that she had let her sons get away with but her heart pained at the broken quiver in your voice. 

Alicent had noticed the change in Aemond since the night that you had found him with Alys. The second time. He had never paid much attention to you aside from what appearances required yet Alicent knew her son far more than he would be willing to accept. She had known that there was something in his heart for you, no matter how small and no matter how it dwindled until set alight. 

Aemond had done the wrong thing. She had no doubts about that. Alicent would have words with him once she figured out what to say to him. But he was her son and there were certain misdoings that she knew she had to defend them through. To protect his marriage, his image and his happiness. The Queen Dowager cleared her throat and reached for your hand, eyebrows furrowing at the way you stared down at your lap, the anguish you felt in your heart written clearly across your face. 

“I understand that you are hurting, my dear. Although my husband remained faithful to me until his death and I cannot quite imagine the pain in your heart–I see how you have love for my son, even if you nor him have known it, I do understand,” Alicent took a breath, closing her eyes. “This is the way of men. And princes–”

“Please, Your Grace, I mean this with utmost respect for you but I do not wish to hear your excuses,” you whispered. There was a prickly, breathless worry that had settled in your gut. What did you not know? Was this Alys someone who mattered? “But I would like to know what you are withholding from me about this woman. I believe I deserve that at the very least.”

Alicent stared at you for a moment, examining you. She could drive her son further into the ground with what she was about to say. “Aemond had a paramour–at least it was rumoured, he never spoke of such things with me. Alys Rivers, a wetnurse and servant woman from Harrenhal.”

“A paramour?”

“It was before you were married,” Alicent was quick to clarify. “I had assumed that Aemond wanted nothing more to do with her when she left–at his order, I believe. Some say she was a witch. Perhaps she enchanted him.” 

You couldn’t look at her. She was more than just a whore? Had he lied to you right from the beginning? Bile rose up in your throat. There was a thrum in your ears, the sound of your own heartbeat and you feared that you would be sick from the drop in your gut. 

“Did he love her? Could he still?”

Alicent sucked in a breath. “I do not know, my child.”

All you could do was nod pathetically. Alicent was a woman of great strength and dedication; you had once wished to be much like her one day. But as you sat beside her now, you wished she had been a liar and a cheat and a meddling gossip. That you could find a way to fault her words but you could tell it caused her great difficulty to speak of Aemond’s actions honestly. 

Ever poised and elegant, Alicent only leaned forward to you, her posture straight as a needle and her touch soft as linen. “I did not mean to upset you further. I only meant to speak with you about returning to Courtly activities, with the other Ladies and Helaena has been asking for you. And the Ladies speak–”

“They speak terribly of me,” you scoffed, allowing a humourless laugh. “I understand, Your Grace. I will return to spending my days in company other than my own.”

Alicent hated to pry but she felt that she must, now that she had dealt her cards against Aemond’s fate. “Perhaps you should speak with Aemond. He cares for you deeply. It would be a shame for your union to fall apart over such misunderstandings.”

If not for formality, you would have rolled your eyes. Again, you simply nodded, your mind reeling back to the woman that Alicent had given a name to. You would ask Aemond about her. It would be the less damning option rather than turning to Aegon once more but the idea of speaking to Aemond about a woman he may once have loved still made you want to crawl underneath the sheets of your bed and disappear. 

You thought of the woman who you had seen through the crack in the door and wished you had taken extra care in looking at her. There was little you could recall other than the darkness and length of her hair, the paleness of her skin and the perfection in her curves as she pleasured Aemond and as he did the same for her. 

As if she was familiar with all the things that made him weak. All the things that made Aemond weak. How she had touched him like she was an expert in his body. And you thought of Aemond, bare and comfortable with her. Aemond with his sapphire glimmering under the lamplight instead of an eye, a rawness and trust that you had never seen of him until that night. 

He trusted her.

Alys Rivers. 

.....................................................

Tagging: @padfooteyes @thedyingwriter @mamawiggers1980 @queenofshinigamis @ewanmitchellfanatic @nurtargaryen

[flowerandblood]

The Price of Pride (15/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, unprotected sex, targcest stuff, smut, the angst, humiliation, sexual tension, abuse of power ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

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

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

He thought that the pain he felt in his eye socket as a child was a torture, however, the inability to take the woman who aroused his lust when she was at his fingertips proved just as unbearable.

At one moment he was furious with her for refusing him – as he pressed her against the stone walls of the Red Keep he could clearly feel under his fingers that her womanhood was leaking all over with desire – only to find later that he admired her self-denial and strength of will.

He thought that if her desire to remain his faithful and devoted wife was as strong, he would be satisfied.

The time of his greatest trial came to him in the evenings, when he lay alone in the cold, empty bed – he could feel the tension in his loins pulsing through his veins, his lower abdomen and erection, swollen and impatient, knowing that his relief was asleep a few steps from his chamber, across the hall.

He closed his eyes then, fighting with himself, not wanting her to look at him the way his mother would.

With sadness and regret.

So he waited, dying each day at the thought of her bare body, at the thought that she longed for him – he could see it in her gaze, hear it in her hitched, heavy breath as his lips brushed her neck, as he grasped her sweet breasts in his hands, wanting to feel her even for a moment.

He knew she was his, but he couldn't have her.

So that's what madness is, he mused.

He was relieved to hear that his grandsire, to his surprise, had no objections regarding his chosen one.

"She is a wise girl, bound to you with her heart and mind. Both she and her dragon will be of great use to us. With her help, we might be able to pull at least some of the Lords of the Vale over to our side – they are more likely to listen to someone of their blood, someone who knows and understands their concerns, who will not threaten them with dragonfire like Daemon." Said Otto, sitting beside him at the table in his chamber – he nodded, looking to the side with an expression devoid of emotion, not wanting his grandfather to see any sign that he felt satisfaction at his words.

She is bound to you with her heart and mind.

He felt shame and contentment that Otto thought he was not indifferent to her – he believed his grandsire was capable of seeing more than he did.

The truth was that he feared to hear something from him that would destroy her image in his eyes, deprive him of the object of trust and affection that he so desperately needed.

"The King is awake, but he is in great pain, so we have given him large amounts of poppy milk to ease his suffering." Said the Maester.

He hummed, towering over his brother's bed with his head cocked to one side.

"Mmm. See to it that he can spend the next few days in the comfort of blissful sleep." He said, glancing at the Maester, who swallowed hard and nodded, understanding what he meant.

He couldn't regain the sobriety of his mind until the nuptials officially took place.

After that, their marriage, performed in front of crowds of witnesses, united by the gods themselves, would not be able to be dissolved by anyone.

He also decided to make minor changes in the Small Council, wanting to surround himself only with people who actually wished their family victory.

His mother, though he deluded himself into thinking it would be different, was not one of them, trying to use the weakness he had for her against him, as did Larys Strong, who, true to his betrothed's words, poured poison into his ears.

Stripping Larys of his function was easy and gave him great satisfaction, with his Hand, meaning his grandfather, taking over his role.

He knew, however, that the conversation with his mother would be difficult for him and he prepared for it for a long time.

"You have served the Kingdom faithfully for many years. It is time for you to rest." He said after ordering her to stay, once the Small Council meeting was over, looking ahead with a blank stare, knowing that if he looked at her face he would feel something he didn't want to.

He swallowed hard as her figure leaned over him, as her familiar, smooth hand touched his cheek, her thumb stroking his skin.

Why couldn't she bestow such a touch on him when he needed it?

Why did he only deserve it when she wanted to soften and manipulate him, exactly like Sylvi?

"Has your loss not yet been sufficiently avenged?" She asked him in a way from which he felt a squeeze in his throat – he looked at her, into her warm brown eyes, in which he so longed to see recognition.

However, all he saw was pain.

She suffered looking at him, at her own son, at what he had become.

Was he really such a bad person?

He lowered his gaze and placed his hand on hers, stroking her skin with his thumb, wanting to remember this moment, his mother showing him something he could call tenderness, something he would be able to cling to for years to come, deprived again of her closeness and warm words.

"This is my final decision."

His mother swallowed hard and took her hand from his cheek – he seemed to feel an almost physical pain when she did so, when an unpleasant chill surrounded his skin where her familiar fingers had been only moments ago, as if someone had forcibly torn him from her safe, warm womb.

After all, it wasn't his fault that he had been born.

"Who will take my place? Another man pushing for war at any cost?" She asked with a disappointment and bitterness from which his lower lip trembled, his stomach clenched so tightly that he found it difficult to take a deep breath.

"My betrothed."

The sight of her serene, calm expression at his grandfather's side was refreshing – her gaze, unlike that of his mother, was filled with warmth and trust.

He thought with shame that he had given her a seat in his council just to look at her.

However, as he found out moments later, he had judged himself too harshly.

"Everything is ready for the nuptials and a small wedding, which will of course take place in the Throne Room. The ceremony itself will not be grand and lavish, but I think everyone sitting around this table understands that in a situation of war we cannot afford to wantonly empty our treasury." Otto said, and he shifted his gaze from his grandfather to her – she smiled lightly when their gazes met, giving him a look full of reassurance that pomp was the last thing she wanted.

He felt a pleasant warmth in his chest at the thought, the realisation that she shared his values, his love of simplicity and, of course, unabashed modesty.

His grandfather, hearing no objection, continued.

"On that day, all the guards and sentries will be on duty – such occasions are always a good opportunity for the enemy to attack, because they take advantage of the chaos that then prevails. That's why we can't afford to deviate from the day's schedule and changes – I've also appointed my few trusted men to keep an eye on the cooks and how the food and drink is prepared."

"Nevertheless, I think it will be appropriate for me to try both the wine and anything else the Prince will want to taste." He heard her voice and looked at her, shocked.

The thought that she cared for him, that she was so concerned that someone would try to take his life by trickery and poison him, touched him.

Otto smiled under his breath and nodded.

"I appreciate your concern for my grandson, my Lady, however, I will assign a person to try the dishes for the two of you. We do not wish for anyone's death during this joyous occasion." He said softly, clearly pleased as he was with her faithfulness and devotion.

"No." She said, looking at his grandfather, then at him. "My father, and for sure all of Dragonstone and their allies, think this wedding is a further part of my abduction, independent of my free will. They will continue to spread rumours and stories that I am imprisoned by the Prince and that he, in his cruelty, forced me to become his wife. Many Lords will be present during the ceremony, and word will spread through the Kingdom like the wind. Let them, as well as others present, see the two of us forming a united front that evening, let them see me try my husband's wine."

His grandfather raised an eyebrow and readjusted himself in his chair, as surprised as he was by her words and how thoughtful they were.

"It is an intriguing approach to the matter, I admit – indeed, a demonstration of unity and solidarity can only strengthen support for our cause among the Lords. I will leave the final decision to you, my Prince." Said Otto, and he mused, looking at her with a piercing gaze, playing with the gold coin between his fingers.

"I appreciate my betrothed's devotion, however, I will not allow her to endanger herself – instead, as a symbol of unity and union, I propose that we fly over King's Landing together the next day, showing our might and strength at the same time." He said calmly – his cousin merely sighed and nodded, throwing him a gentle look indicating that his rejection of her idea did not cause her any pain.

He swallowed hard, feeling his manhood pulsate aggressively in his breeches, screaming with longing, having her at his fingertips.

After speaking to his mother, he felt disheartened, and she was not by his side.

His desperation caused him to do something he was sure he would never do in his life, considering it to be behaviour beneath his dignity.

"Accompany me on my stroll through the royal gardens. I want to breathe some fresh air and take advantage of the good weather." He hummed, passing her as he, like the others, moved towards the door after the Small Council meeting was over.

He knew she was surprised, but she moved after him immediately, having trouble keeping up with him now that she was wearing a gown, making it difficult for her to move freely.

He wanted to hide between the trees as quickly as possible, so that no servants or guards would notice them, not wishing to be the cause of mockery and gossip later.

Again.

He slowed down as they finally stepped out into the part of the Keep surrounded by shrubbery that formed a plethora of alleys – he took the only one he knew, which was the main one, hearing behind him that she followed him with the quiet rattle of stones beneath her feet.

He put his hands behind his back and looked at her over his shoulder – she smiled at him, walking a few steps behind him.

He stopped and she did the same, her head cocked in happy curiosity.

"Don't I even deserve to have you walking by my side? That kind of closeness is unkind to the gods too?" He asked dryly, frustrated and dying of longing, needing her like never before, feeling rejected and alone.

He swallowed hard, feeling remorseful when he saw that her expression changed, as if he had slapped her in the face, her eyebrows arched in pain, her eyes big and sad, her lips parted slightly in surprise full of terror.

"– n-no –" She muttered, playing with her fingers on her womb, coming closer to him with a quiet rustling of her gown. "– usually outside of our quarters you prefer it when I give you space – if you desire me to be close to you, I will –"

He felt the sudden wave of rage and grief that had surged through his body weaken, leaving him with a sense of sadness and emptiness.

He didn't want to ask or beg for such things, on the other hand, in fact, when he knew someone might see them, he preferred not to give anyone reason to comment on their behaviour.

He himself didn't know what he felt and needed, and he required her to understand him and his needs more than he did, he thought with shame.

Seeing how tense he was and hearing his silence she took a few steps towards him, standing so close that he felt her wonderful scent tease his nostrils, her delicate hand touched his chest and then was joined by another, his heart beating hard under her fingers.

He dared to look at her, and it was a mistake – her gaze was filled with a heat that both terrified him and brought him to the state where he felt like throwing himself at her, pulling her skirt up and taking her like a whore, wanting nothing more than to fill her with his seed.

"– may I kiss you, my Prince? –" She asked in a trembling voice, being formal at the same time, afraid to frustrate him, not knowing what behaviour he expected of her.

He couldn't answer anything – his hands simply caught her suddenly at the waist and pulled her closer so that her body slammed against his, her sweet moan echoing in his throat as he sank into her fleshy, luscious lips with a sigh of relief.

He murmured as her fingers stroked his jaw and neck, and her lips responded tentatively to his caress, showering him with lazy, deep, loud kisses. He felt her whole body tremble as the tip of his tongue ran invitingly over her upper lip, her hands clenched on his shoulders as if she were struggling with herself.

Something between a groan and a murmur escaped his lips when he felt her slick tongue come out to meet his in a slow, wet lick.

He clasped his hands in her hair and on the material of her gown, pressing his completely hard erection against her stomach, ready to take her here, in this place, on the grass, under the sun.

However, as soon as he grabbed the ribbon tying her dress at the back, she pulled away from him and shook her head, breathing loudly, her cheeks pink with emotion, her lips puffy and glistening from his caresses, her gaze filled with nothing but desire and lust.

"– no – please, lēkia – it's only three more days –" She muttered pleadingly, and he pressed his lips together, feeling rejected.

"– don't I even deserve the embrace of your arms? – to be able to snuggle against your breasts, to experience solace now that sleep does not find me at night? –" He almost wailed, filled with grief and frustration, thinking with shame that he had acted like a small child.

He saw her swallow hard, surprised, all red with shame at his words.

"– I'll let you – I'll let you touch and cuddle against my breasts – if you promise not to take me –" She mumbled, and he nodded, desperate.

She held out her hand to him, and he grasped it, moving behind her through the grass between the trees – he blinked, surprised, when she lay down under one of them in such a place that they were covered by shrubbery on all sides, and even if someone had passed that way, he would not have noticed their lying silhouettes.

"– come –" She whispered, reaching her hands into the back of her gown, loosening its entire structure so that it slid off her shoulders.

He knelt down in front of her, feeling the aggressive pounding of his heart and the painful pulsing of his manhood as his fingers slid the material even lower, finally exposing what he so desperately craved.

She moaned far too loudly when he leaned in suddenly and his lips clamped greedily around her hard nipple, beginning to suck, his other hand closing on her other breast, so wonderfully warm and soft under his fingers.

He sighed with delight and murmured as her familiar, safe arms cuddled him into her chest and he settled comfortably between her thighs.

"– I miss you –" He muttered like a little boy, releasing her nipple from his mouth with a quiet plop, feeling ashamed that he was letting her see his vulnerability – he nuzzled his cheek against her firm bosom, watching enthralled as his fingers squeezed and played with her other plump, lovely breast.

He closed his eyes as she leaned in and placed a tender, long kiss on the top of his head, stroking his hair and back with her hands.

"– I miss you too – try to sleep and rest, brother –" She whispered, and he snorted, shaking his head.

"– with this in my hands – I'd sooner die of tension than fall asleep –" He grunted, on the other hand pleased and fulfilled to feel her so intimately again, to be able to breathe for a moment and find the peace he so desperately needed.

Despite how confidently he said it, in the end the slow, gentle rhythm in which she stroked his body made his eyelids grow heavier and heavier, and when he finally closed them, he fell into a peaceful, deep slumber amidst the rustling of trees and grass, enveloped by her wonderful scent.

They spent every afternoon like this until their wedding day.

On the day of their nuptials, he was tense – he feared an attack from Dragonstone just as much as that his brother would want to call it all off at the last moment.

Some part of him didn't believe that it could work out for them – that there was a future in which he could get what he wanted without making a sacrifice for it for once.

He had to pay for everything with blood.

He shuddered, startled, when, while his servants were helping him put on his emerald tunic, the door to his chamber opened and his mother stepped in.

"Leave us." He said coldly, and the boys bowed and left them alone.

The Dowager Queen approached him with an uncertain step, looking down at her hands, his heart pounded harder in hope, begging for her blessing and at least one tender look.

Her eyes finally lifted to his, and her hand touched his arm, stroking it in a gesture of comfort.

"I wish you, my son, to find with your future wife only the peace and understanding as I experienced at your late father's side." She said softly, and he swallowed hard, feeling discomfort in his stomach.

"You didn't love him. And I don't want my marriage to look like yours. Quite the opposite." He said coolly, pulling away from her, disappointed and dismayed that she was telling him what she thought she needed to say, rather than being honest with him.

Alicent sighed, as if his words and reaction caused her pain.

"We did not always agree, it is true. But our King was a good man, just as my son is." She said finally, and he grinned under his breath as he stood with his back to her, running his fingertips over the top of his table.

"If I remember correctly, he cut open the womb of his beloved wife while she was still alive. While I lost my eye, he cared more for the good name of his first-born daughter than for my suffering or your humiliation. I also know that he did not arouse your desire, for after Daeron's birth you spent each night in separate chambers." He said lightly as he walked over to the window, looking at the servants busying themselves, hanging ornaments and fresh flowers in the courtyard of the keep.

He wondered if his bride regretted her decision.

The thought that he would finally spend that evening sunk deep into her body filled him with fervent desire, and his mind drifted away from his mother and her attempts to salvage the image of his father in his mind.

"No one is perfect. Your father wasn't either. But I respected him and held deep affection for him." She replied finally, and he only hummed, losing the urge for her to give him anything.

Her tenderness, her warm word, her motherly gaze.

He was sick of begging on his knees for her to give him something that was real.

He had to create something like that himself with the woman he had snatched from the gods and made his own.

The tension in his muscles intensified as he stepped into the Great Sept and climbed up the stone steps to the top, standing next to the Septon – the sight of the crowd that had gathered in the temple and the knowledge that everyone's eyes were on him made him feel small and vulnerable.

What if he misspoke the words of his oath?

What if the cloak he had thrown over her shoulders slipped off?

What if she humiliated him in front of everyone, shouting in his face that she despised him?

He swallowed hard and looked to the side, feeling his heart pounding hard as cheers and loud conversations sounded outside the gates – he knew this meant her carriage had arrived and indeed, he saw his grandfather come out to meet her.

He felt his lips part involuntarily in disbelief as she and Otto walked into the temple – holding her hand in that of his grandfather's she walked with her head held high in a beautiful gown composed of blues and browns, from a distance he could see the sparkle of sapphire stones in her necklace and in her hair.

A sigh and pain squeezed his throat at the thought that, contrary to what he had thought, she had not taken on green, the colour of his faction, but his colour, blue, something only he could understand, her personal expression of affection and devotion, a wordless assurance of her fidelity and of what she desired.

He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself, feeling himself tremble all over with nerves and excitement as she slowly climbed the steps to the top, standing at last before him, looking more beautiful than ever, all flushed with emotion.

He longed to touch her hand or her face, longed to feel the softness of her body, to speak the words of his vows with his nose nestled in her warm cheek.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection." Said the Septon loudly – he blinked and looked at him, snapped out of his reverie by the realisation that this was it.

He grunted, trying to remain calm, and turned away, nodding at his uncle, extending his hand to him.

It was only when he threw the cloak bearing his family crest over her shoulders that he understood why this tradition had been upheld for centuries – there was something about this protective gesture, of a husband surrounding his wife with a cloth to protect her from the cold and danger, while also being a symbol of the fact that now what would be would overshadow what was, and his house would become her home.

He swallowed hard, thinking with tenderness that they would now truly become a family.

Their shared lie before the eyes of the gods had become truth.

"We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder." The Septon said, and he held out his hand, doing his best not to show how much it was quivering.

He felt relief when she looked at him, when her fingers touched his skin, in her gaze at once terror and warmth, the certainty of a feeling he feared was merely a figment of his imagination, her way of subduing him.

And yet, he could see it exactly in the depths of her beautiful dark eyes.

He pressed his lips together as the priest wrapped their hands several times with a long, wide, bright ribbon, symbolically entwining their fates with each other for eternity.

Are they about to hear the dragon's roar, to learn that Daemon and Rhaenyra have seized the opportunity, their nuptials to burn King's Landing?

This, her by his side, her body and her gaze meant only for him for the rest of his days could not become true.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words." The Septon said, and he swallowed with difficulty, feeling his lips dry with emotion.

They looked at each other before opening their mouths, the words leaving his throat seeming to come out of him without the participation of his will.

"Father,

Smith,

Warrior,

Mother,

Maiden,

Crone,

Stranger

I am hers | I am his

and she is mine | and he is mine

from this day, until the end of my days."

He stared at her dully, waiting for the ground to part, for him to hear screams or someone's defiance, for some guard to run into the Sept, shouting that they had been attacked.

But only silence answered him.

She was his wife.

This thought, the fact that in front of witnesses they had spoken aloud the words of this vow, that the whole Kingdom had heard and seen it with their own eyes, that neither his brother nor anyone else could undo what had happened anymore, made him cup her rosy cheek in his hand, leaning over her.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love." He whispered only to sink a moment later into the sweet wetness of her full lips, her innocent sigh of delight making his manhood throb softly in his breeches.

He broke the kiss and pulled away, looking closely at her beautiful, bright face – she blinked and smiled, so tenderly and sweetly that he felt the corners of his mouth lift upwards too, in something that was not a grimace but an expression of his genuine happiness.

They were married.

They returned to the Red Keep on horseback, upright and proud, surrounded by hundreds of guards – no one, however, thought to curse or attack them – his grandfather's trick had worked, and the food he had distributed to the smallfolk before their nuptials had made them shower them with flowers.

They did not look at each other during their journey, however, he felt her presence beside him and that was enough for him.

When they reached the courtyard of the Red Keep he jumped off his mount and approached her mare, dismissing the guard, extending his hands to her, wanting to help her get down on the ground. She welcomed his hands reaching out towards her with a sweet smile, leaning on his shoulders, jumping directly into his arms.

He managed to place a quick little kiss on her warm cheek from which she blushed, looking up at him happily, placing her hand on his.

They stepped into the Throne Room first, followed by all the guests. He remembered little of his grandfather's toast and the words of the Lords who, one by one, stood before their table, wishing them happiness and prosperity.

He merely nodded, stunned and tired, dreaming only of escaping with her to his chamber and sinking between her warm thighs.

He looked at her as he felt the fingers of her hand, extended towards him on the armrest, brush his in the air – he hummed under his breath and his knuckles ran over her soft skin in a gesture of reciprocation.

In keeping with his grandfather's desire, the servants tasted everything before it was served on their plates – still, when the wine was finally poured for him and his wife, he surprised her by taking her cup from her hand, taking the first sip from it.

It was sweet and tasted as usual, so he handed the goblet back to her – her look of affection and gratitude told him what she thought of what he had done and how she intended to reward him later.

He swallowed hard and took another sip of wine, this time from his own goblet, feeling that his erection was all swollen, throbbing with lust in his breeches.

He craved her so badly.

They all raised their gazes upwards when a guard stood in the doorway, a drop of cold sweat ran down his back at the thought that they had been attacked after all.

"King Aegon Targaryen, the Second of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." He called out, and he and everyone around him froze.

Aegon stepped with difficulty, with one hand supporting himself on his staff, the other having thrown over the neck of Larys Strong, who was careful not to let his brother fall.

That fucking viper, he thought.

The burnt part of his brother's face was covered by the golden mask his father had worn towards the end of his life – their resemblance, their raked silhouette struck him so much that he simply sat and looked.

"– stand up – stand up, you fool –" Otto hissed and jerked him – he rose immediately from his seat, and with him his wife and all the others gathered.

His mother ran up to his brother, asking loudly how he could get out of bed while he was in such a state, whose idea it was to strain his weak body, but Aegon did not even look at her, his gaze fixed on him.

"Put a chair for His Grace right next to mine. My brother wishes to dine with us." He ordered loudly, feeling like he was a small child again, his heart pounding like mad with terror.

Aegon was brought to his seat by the guards – he himself held him down as he nearly fell over, panting heavily, pale and shivering all over from exertion. His brother exhaled loudly as he finally collapsed into his chair, and he and the rest of the room also took their seats.

"I have come to personally congratulate my brother and my cousin." Aegon said loudly, breathing hard, his words echoing through the chamber. "Though I must admit that their marriage comes as a surprise to me."

He stared dully at his plate, wanting to disappear, to melt into the ground, to not exist, feeling that his heart was about to leap out of his chest.

"However, the Kingdom cannot be left without an heir – I, because of my condition, will beget neither son nor daughter, so we must rely on my brother and his strong seed. I hope that on this night, I, as well as the rest of the court, will witness how the future Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms will be begotten." He said, lifting his wine cup – no one responded to his toast, but Aegon did not seem to mind – he drank the entire contents of it in a strangle.

That night, I, as well as the rest of the court, will witness how the future King of the Seven Kingdoms will be begotten.

"No." He hissed, their mother, trying to change his mind, took Aegon's hand in hers.

"My son, that's not appropriate, that's…"

"It is the King's command." His brother replied, not even looking at them – Otto leaned towards him from the other side, trying to intervene.

"Your Grace, I am not a supporter of this tradition myself – it is not conducive to neither marital intimacy nor the said begetting of offspring." He said, and Aegon laughed out loud.

"I don't care, you old fool."

Standing in his chamber in the company of his grandfather, Aegon, his friends, the would-be members of the Kingsguard, and the few Lords his brother had forced to watch this pathetic spectacle, he felt tears under his eyelids, even though his face was stony.

He had the impression that everything inside him froze while he looked towards the three-door screen, behind which Lysa was helping his wife undo her gown.

He thanked the gods that his mother left the chamber, unable to look at it.

He wondered whether, if he fell to his knees before his brother and begged him for forgiveness, he would take pity on them.

He shuddered, snapped out of his reverie, panicked and terrified when her beautiful, girlish figure clad only in a thin, snow-white nightgown came out from behind the screen, her long hair loose, her gaze fixed on him gentle and warm.

He swallowed hard as she reached her hand out to him, walking over to his bed – the sight of her not being as terrified as he was, of her not crying gave him strength – he moved towards her, and when he finally stood in front of her, she sidestepped him and walked over to the pillars of the bed, untying the curtains, pulling them all the way open so that they covered what was to happen behind them.

She wanted to give them a bit of privacy, he thought with gratitude.

"No. We must see that Prince Aemond has done his duty." Said Aegon, their grandfather, however, immediately protested.

"Looking at the bare bodies of someone other than one's spouse is a sin, Your Grace, and we will not be sanctioning such practices in this keep." He said in a voice cold and final, and his brother fell silent.

He felt some kind of relief when at last the silhouettes around them disappeared behind the cream curtains, indistinct and distant, seeming to him to be only a bad dream.

His wife, his hāedar approached him with an expression on her face as if she was ready for battle, and as soon as her hand brushed his jaw, his nose sunk into her warm, soft cheek, his arms embraced her at the waist, seeking refuge.

"Don't give him the satisfaction. Make it so you peak as soon as possible and don't worry about me. I've been wet for you for days and I'll take you inside me with ease." She whispered tenderly, and he felt his manhood pulsate hard, a pleasant shiver running along his spine, giving him hope.

She was on his side.

She had strength and courage when he lacked it.

His wife.

"Come." She whispered further, undoing his belt and the fastenings of his tunic with quiet clicks, while he pulled at the ties of her nightgown in one gentle motion, loosening the whole material, which slipped from her shoulders.

In some natural, affectionate reflex, they began to kiss – her puffy lips were wonderfully sweet and familiar, warm and moist, her saliva melting on his tongue.

He felt a pleasant warmth in his heart and the fact that his erection grew hard at the sight of her naked body, reminding himself of the tension he had felt for days.

He thought that by the fact that it had been so long since he had experienced fulfilment, a few sure thrusts deep into her warm flesh should allow him to do his duty and end it.

He was comforted by this and by the tenderness of her hands, by the way her fingers stroked his hair and neck, pulling off his tunic, his shirt and his breeches, allowing them both to finally remain completely bare.

As she lay on the bed on her back and gave him one, comforting, sweet smile, reaching out her hand to him, he just lay on top of her, looking at her face for a moment, their hands stroking their cheeks tenderly.

"– forgive me –" He whispered in trembling voice, wanting her to know that he was furious that they'd been forced into this, that like her he'd imagined it completely different, that as much as he'd wanted this, he hadn't been able to protect them.

He was afraid that if he resisted his brother, he would take revenge on him, or worse, on her.

"– shhh – put it inside me – make me whole again –" She gasped softly and they both sighed as she spread her thighs in front of him, her hand gently grasping his throbbing erection, directing it to her small slit.

They kissed tenderly, their naked bodies pressed against each other as he slid between her dripping walls with a soft, slow push of his hips – her cunt, true to her word was wonderfully wet and warm, offering him no resistance.

The thought that even if he didn't give her fulfilment, he wouldn't cause her pain either was comforting to him.

He thought he would make it all up to her later.

She moaned softly as he nestled his face against her cheek and began to thrust into her fleshy, throbbing core, the quiet slapping of their naked bodies against each other, her familiar arms, her wonderful scent, her sweet sounds made a pleasant wave of heat surge through his loins, making him completely hard.

He breathed a sigh of relief, thinking only of how long he had waited for this, imagining that he had taken her in the royal gardens on the grass, that she had been unable to resist him despite her determination.

"– hāedar –" He gasped as he felt her fingers clench tighter on his back, sliding down to his buttocks, her hips rolling in response to his increasingly aggressive stabs, her whimpers vulnerable and filled with pleasure as he hit her sweet spot again and again.

"– yes – yes, lēkia, right here –" She mumbled softly into his ear, and he restrained himself with difficulty not to moan, chasing his peak with the loud clicks of her small little cunt.

He was so, so close, he thought with relief.

"– woof, woof – what's that supposed to mean? – I was hoping you'd demonstrate to us how the hound fucks –" He heard his brother's amused voice and froze, feeling his whole body tense up, the pleasant warmth in his lower abdomen turned into a cool wave of humiliation that ran along his back.

"– Your Grace – it's not dignified –" He heard the frustrated voice of their grandfather on the other side.

He felt himself begin to quiver, his lips parted in horror as he felt his erection become half-hard again, unsure what to do, hot tears of despair and shame gathered under his eyelids.

He sighed as he felt her hands simply press his face into the crook of her neck, giving him shelter, her lips placing warm, gentle kisses on his head, her fingers combing through his hair.

He just wanted to fall asleep in her embrace and never wake up again.

"– I'm just worried about my cousin and whether she'll experience pleasure – both she and I know how selfish my brother is – what he's capable of doing to get what he wants –" Aegon said, making heavy, burning tears run down his cheeks one by one, his eyebrows arching in pain as her arms hugged him tighter to her body, wanting to protect him from what was happening.

"– do you trust me? –" She asked so quietly that only he was able to hear her.

He swallowed hard, choking on his own tears, trying not to make a sound.

Did he trust her?

He wished he did.

He nodded and felt her arms push him away, as if she was trying to force him to change position, finally turning him onto his back, sitting on top of him with his soft manhood inside her – she leaned over him, pressing her palms to the sides of his face as if she just wanted to cup his cheeks, while doing it so hard that he stopped hearing anything.

His heart pounded harder when he heard his brother's voice again, but as if from afar, unable to understand the words he had spoken – his wife kissed his forehead and then brushed her lips gently against his, lazily rolling her hips back and forth, teasing him.

His hands rose to her body, to her back, her waist and her hair, stroking her bare skin as if it were something delicate and precious, her sweet breasts pressed against his torso.

Her insides were wonderfully warm, her lips moist and full, her gaze tenderly fixed on his – her thumbs stroked his cheeks, but her hands stayed in the same position, keeping him from listening to what was happening around them.

A pleasant shiver ran down his spine again as the tip of her slick tongue slid invitingly between his lips, licking him in a way from which his cock pulsed aggressively inside her.

She moaned, feeling it, rocking her hips with quiet clicks of her moisture – he bent his legs at the knees, responding to her movements with tentative thrusts, feeling her walls growing tighter again, a quiet sigh escaped his throat as his hands clamped down on her firm breasts.

"– yes – yes, just like that, my sweet husband –" He heard her voice, her face pressed against his neck as her spine curved into the letter s, allowing him to admire the shape of her plump buttocks.

He clamped his hands on them, imposing a fast, rough pace on her, panting hard, trying not to think or be, only to take what was familiar and desired, what he had waited so long for.

He pulled himself up and sat down, wanting to feel her from a different angle, and she put her arms around his head, again covering his ears – he heard them both moan loudly as he began to thrust into her anew, his face snuggled between her beloved, soft breasts, making him feel at home.

"– Aemond – ah, g-gods, yes, yes, yes –" He heard her whimper, her thirsty, leaking cunt soaking him completely every time he slammed into her again and again, opening her violently on the fattest part of his cock, all throbbing with pain.

He was wonderfully close, he knew that – he looked at her, at her beautiful, sweet face, and she kissed him so tenderly and softly that tears ran down his cheeks – he felt the familiar tightness in his stones and breathed a sigh of relief as, with his groan of pleasure, his seed finally spilled inside her, her fleshy walls giving him a few more squeezes, sucking his spend deep inside her.

He heard her breathe a sigh of relief as she placed small, soft kisses on his hair, as if to tell him wordlessly that she was proud of him.

As her hands stroked his head and back, he heard someone's slow footsteps and hisses of pain – he exhaled loudly as the door to his chamber opened and those gathered began to leave.

And then there was silence.

"– are we alone? –" He muttered at last and felt her kiss the top of his head, cuddling him into her body.

"– yes, my love –" She whispered and wanted to say something else, but she didn't, because he burst out in a loud, childish sob.

He snuggled into her, choking on his own tears, feeling them flow and flow and flow, unable to stop it – he heard her hush him tenderly, pressing his face between her breasts, hearing how much he was suffering, how humiliated and weak he felt.

"– shhh – I know – you were so brave –" She whispered, and he wept loudly, thinking that he wasn't a man, that surely she herself would now look at him with pity.

"– forgive me –" He mumbled wearily, and in response her lips kissed his forehead, sweaty from exertion and stress.

"– I have nothing to forgive you for – the King put us in an impossible position, we couldn't behave any other way – your task was much more difficult – a woman can just lie down and wait it out, but it is the man who must desire her despite what is happening around him – Aegon wanted to humiliate you but he failed – calm down, brother, breathe – there is nothing more he can do to us –" She said and he just listened to her, panting hard, needing her words, her reassurances like air.

"– he did it again – mocked me again –" He blurted out with difficulty.

"– he heard that what you were doing to me gave me pleasure, and that's why he said all those awful things – he is jealous, brother, because he knows that no woman will ever desire him again – that it is your children who will sit on the Iron Throne –" She said tenderly and he swallowed hard.

"– ours –" He corrected her and heard her smile, stroking his head tenderly.

"– ours –" She hummed and he nestled closer to her, brushing her bare back with his fingers, his soft erection still deep inside her.

He didn't want to slid it out of her yet, because he felt safe in her warm, fleshy body.

"– I ruined our wedding night – I didn't give you fulfillment –" He whispered, and she shook her head.

"– we both know that our wedding night was the night before you flew out to Rook's Rest – that's when I lost my maidenhood and became yours – my fulfillment can wait, just as you patiently waited for me for many days –" She said softly, and for some reason he felt relief.

He sniffed with his nose and let her go when he felt her wanting to get up from his lap, gently sliding his warm, soft manhood out of her – he immediately turned away from her and lay on his side, curling up so that he lifted his knees almost under his chin, embracing his legs with his arms.

He was not a man or a lover, he was nobody, he thought, whooping with tears again, unable to calm down.

Woof, woof.

He pressed his lips together when he felt her soft body lay behind him, her breasts pressed against his back, her arms embracing his waist, stroking his musclar stomach – he closed his eyes as her mouth placed a moist, loud kiss on the back of his head.

"– iksan kesīr, valzȳrys (I'm here, husband) – aōha ābrazȳrys iksis ondoso aōha paktot (your wife is by your side) –" She whispered, and he exaled, gently taking her hands in his, entwining their fingers together.

He swallowed hard when he heard her open her mouth, her fingertips stroking his skin soothingly.

Sleep my baby on my bosom Warm and cozy will it prove Round thee mother’s arms are folding In her heart a mother’s love

There shall no one come to harm thee Naught shall ever break thy rest Sleep my darling babe in quiet Sleep on mother’s gentle breast.

He felt that this time it was a tears of emotion that ran down his hot cheeks – his chest was rising and falling in heavy breaths, hearing how warm and melodious her voice was.

He wasn't sure if his mother had ever sung lullabies to him, but the fact that she did it now to soothe and comfort him, made a wonderful, warm feeling spread through his heart.

He swallowed hard as silence fell around them – his thumb brushed the soft skin of her hand, only three pleading words leaving his mouth.

"Sing some more."

[perfinn]

"The realm may never see a queen of love and beauty more deserving of the title."

such a privilege to have commissioned @lonelymagpies for this gorgeous piece of cecily and aemond 🥹 thank you so so much. i'm going to stare at this for the rest of my life

[series masterlist]

[celtigxr]

The Pink Dread (Master List) - - - - - ch. xii: High Horse

Chapter Summary: A tragedy is struck at Dragonstone, urging the King, Queen, and a few others to leave for the week. At the same time, the Baratheons and the Starks have made it to King's Landing, adding a bit more to the already simmering pot of problems at court.

Word Count: 3728

Sneak Peak: “Lady Valeana,” Ser Criston greeted with a stagger, “Why are you out this late? If you are lost, I can show you back–” “That isn’t necessary, Ser Criston,” Valeana resisted the urge to bite back that she used to live at the Red Keep, and knew it well. Her eyes flickered over his shoulder, where the black stallion still remained, and his silver-haired rider still perched on top. “I need a word with Prince Aemond, if he allows me.”

Warnings: Miscarriage mention. A G N S T

T H E   R E D S

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Valeana bit her nails down to the tips of her fingers, undoing the weeks worth of growth she had been trying to achieve. It had been three days since the fiasco at the library, and Val had been pacing and tossing and losing her mind over her decision. She had nearly flipped on it, deciding to take on Aegon’s opinion of how Aemond didn’t deserve her forgiveness nor her apology. It was greatly out of character for Valeana to fold like that; usually her stubbornness and ferocity rivalled the crabs that littered the beaches of her ancestral seat. All hard and sharp edges, ready to pinch and attack anything that tried to come close to it. 

A ghost of a smile came to her face at the memory of a crab that somehow escaped its inevitable death from a boiling pot in the kitchen. It had grabbed the knife the cook was trying to use to stab him with, and started to wave it around comically. Clement had pointed it out and said: “That’s you whenever you get into an argument with someone, and you are clearly losing”. 

Eventually the crab won its freedom and was brought back to the beaches, knife and all. 

A loud screech above her head snapped her out of her nostalgic reverie and back into reality. Vhagar flew above the Red Keep, with a distinct black figure on her back. This was the only time she was able to see Aemond after these past few days. From what her father had told them, The Cannibal had been sighted coming more west than he was known for, and they had Aemond fly Vhagar around the city a few hours in the day and nights to deter him from trying to reach the Pit. 

Val had been waiting for an opportunity to cross paths with the prince, hoping to get her apology over with so it no longer weighed so much on her mind. With all this time waiting, however, her resolve was waning with every thought of doubt that passed her mind. It was nearing the hour of the bat, and the members of court will be shut in their apartments, eating their final meal of the day over a lavender tea or a mulled wine before bed. She felt too nauseous to eat, so she went for a walk through the parapets that overlooked the couryard, the gardens, and the Godswood. Aemond would return at any moment, and with the Keep being quiet and near empty, this would be the perfect opportunity to intercept him before he reached the Holdfast, where eyes and ears were keener to personal conversations. 

Valeana walked through the parapets and towers until she made it down spiral stone stairs that lead to the corridor that would then lead her into the Throne Room. After all these years she still felt a sense of unease everytime she was met with them, and unfortunately, they were in abundance in both the Keep and at home. She took her time walking down the steps, as she always did, eyes glued to the ground, one hand lifting her skirts and the other bracing the wall as he watched one foot after the other. 

By the time she reached the Throne room, the sun had fully settled under the horizon and the braziers were fully lit, giving the large room a foreboding glow as the shadows of iron and steel swords cast upon the ground. She stopped in the middle of the chamber to look upon it, as did everyone who passed through the grand room. It was difficult not to. Terrifying, beautiful, ancient, like the family that owns it, that created it with fire and blood. 

When she exited the Throne Room, a gust of wind greeted her on the top of the grand stairway, forcing her to hug her arms as she descended slowly. A few gold cloaks looked at her curiously as they passed by, some nodding their heads and muttering a ‘my lady’ out of respect. About halfway down the main gate opened and a horse trotted through, his rider unmistakable even from her distance. 

Valeana picked up her skirts and carefully sped down the stairs, which were blessedly wide, and less likely to threaten her life. Her eyes glanced from her feet to the black stallion, who stood in the middle of the outer courtyard with Aemond still atop, as a white cloak stood nearby. It looked like they were conversing about something, likely about the whereabouts of the Cannibal. Under normal circumstances, the dragon’s appearance would interest her more, but her mind had been otherwise occupied with more pressing issues. 

She made it down the steps without tripping, and then took long swift strides just as the knight left the horse’s side and turned around once she was within earshot. 

“Lady Valeana,” Ser Criston greeted with a stagger, “Why are you out this late? If you are lost, I can show you back–”

“That isn’t necessary, Ser Criston,” Valeana resisted the urge to bite back that she used to live at the Red Keep, and knew it well. Her eyes flickered over his shoulder, where the black stallion still remained, and his silver-haired rider still perched on top. “I need a word with Prince Aemond, if he allows me.”

Cole’s eyebrow quirked at this, and he turned to look over his shoulder at the Prince. Aemond wasn’t looking in their direction, instead he was facing forward, lips pursed as he considered his response. 

“You may go, Ser Criston. I’ll ensure the lady is returned to her apartments safely,” he slowly pivoted his head towards them, eye finding hers. When violet met green, she found herself taken back, speech caught in her throat even after the knight bowed his head and bid them a good evening. 

Aemond was staring at her in complete indifference. 

Swallowing thickly, Valeana took a step forward towards him and his horse, but as soon as she did, Aemond kicked the side of the animal gently for it to walk at a slow trot. She stared at the back of his head in confusion, and opened her mouth to ask him to stop, but he already cut her off before a word came out. 

“Keep up, Celtigar.” 

“Keep up, Celtigar!” Aemond laughed as he sped down the Serpentine Steps.  “Oh c’mon, Aemond! You know I can’t run as fast as you! I got little legs, Godsdammit.” Val huffed, holding up her skirt, her face red and brow sweaty as she tried to keep up with him.  He slowed to a stop about halfway down and looked up at her, “Alright, alright. I’ll wait for you. But we’re going to be late!” “I rather be late than break my leg on these stupid stairs.” 

With an irritated huff, Valeana picked up her skirts and jogged next to his horse, being careful to keep her distance as she approached behind. She had already been kicked more times than she can count back home, and had since learned what not to do. 

“What is it you wish to speak to me about?” His voice was stone cold, with no use of her formal title. 

“About the library,” she replied, out of breath as she struggled to keep up with the gait of his horse. “About that night. And– and, well, everything.”

They were approaching the drawbridge, forcing her to get closer to his horse to fit the width. Trying to keep up with him was making her left knee and her stump start to ache, but she swallowed it down. 

“Hm,” the noise that filtered through his nostrils was a bit like a laugh, though humourless and barely there. “Everything. That is a lot of ground to cover, and I am a busy man, Celtigar. Speak swiftly.”

When they passed the inner gate towards the main courtyard that led to the stables, two gold cloaks flanked the entrance and both exchanged curious glances at the odd pair. They, however, didn’t say anything, or offered to help her. Briefly, she thought about Ser Harwin Strong, and how gallant and chivalrous he was. He would have helped her, surely. 

Shaking her head free of depressing memories, she scrambled to continue, to find the right words. 

“I wanted to apologize,” she rushed, a huff filtering through her lips. With a brief glance up at him, she saw that it was enough to catch his attention. He merely peered down at her through his lashes, his chin raised in the way he always did when he was trying to appear superior. Valeana was overcome with the desire to quite literally knock him off his high horse, but she viciously reminded herself she was here to make amends, and broker peace. 

Still… It would be incredibly easy just to slap the horse’s rear and cause him to buck.

When he didn’t say anything she continued, “You tried to be civil initially – kind, in your own way – with me, and I acted like a juvenile.”

“Hm, yes, I’d say running off crying after being gently shoved is quite juvenile,” his comment made her head twirl up to him. He wasn’t looking at her again, eyes trained forward as they slowly approached the stables. 

Valeana’s trot slowed down, her chest heaving in deep breaths and beating wildly from a heart that was struggling to stay in one piece. 

“That isn’t– That’s not—” She cut herself off by running her fingers over her eyes in frustration. When she pulled them away from her face, Aemond was dismounting and landing gracefully next to his horse, whilst a stablehand took the reins from him. She remained where she stopped, legs exhausted and knee in pain, and it was starting to feel like it was all for nothing. “Please don’t make this difficult.”

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip curling upwards derisively, “That is rich.” Then he slowly closed the space, but stopped short at three feet, “Is that all you have to say?” 

“No,” she licked her lips, and failed to notice how his eye flickered to them for a brief moment. “What you did to me when we were children… It destroyed me, Aemond. Quite literally.”

He turned his cheek to her, looking about the courtyard, at the servants and knights that filtered through the castle and its grounds. His blind eye was facing her, possibly by design, given now she had no way to read him. 

“And I did not want to forgive you, for a long time, but I have grown tir…of…– Are you even listening to me?” Valeana took a step forward when he still wasn’t gracing her with his attention. She peered around the area for a split second, wondering wildly if there was actually something of more importance or he was just being a jackass on purpose. 

Aemond pursed his lips, slowly turned so his good eye could look at her through the curtain of his lashes, “Save your breath, Valeana. You’re almost out of it.”

“.... Excuse me?”

He continued, “There is no need for you to apologize… You have every right to your bitter resentment over a decades old childish blight. I also do not need your forgiveness… I did not apologize for it, and I have no intention to. My earlier attempt at reconciliation was merely a favour for my father, the king, who I am obligated to please. But I will tell you what I told him: I was a child who acted the way a child would after being cornered–”

“Cornered?!”

“--And now I am a man grown. I have no desire to dawdle in the past, like you may do.”

Her mouth was agape, completely gobsmacked by everything he said. From the blatant delusions of what he had done to her, to his complete apathy for everything. She did not know why she let Helaena convince her to reach out to him… Valeana was right all along; Aemond was too far for her to grab. She should’ve listened to Aegon, which was almost laughable. Aegon, the wiser one.

Valeana swallowed the pit that was forming in her throat, and immediately shook her head when she felt her nose tingle and her eyes sting. She was trying her best not to let her sensitivities get the best of her again, but Aemond was not done driving the dagger in her back. 

“Gods,” he rolled his eye, and stepped back from her. “If you want pity, Celtigar, go run back into the arms and pillows of my brother. You shall not find it with me.”

“Wh-what?” She blinked wildly at him as he stomped past her, confusion joining the party of her emotions.   

“I’d prefer you cease seeking me out, Lady Valeana,” he called out to her once he was a few yards away. “I do not wish to be the villain in your story any longer.”

She watched him walk away, eyes marbled wide, tears freely lining her flushed cheeks. Her anger peaked as the distance between them grew. 

“TOO LATE!” 

T H E  G R E E N S 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The Baratheons had arrived the same day they received a letter that Princess Visenya, Aemond’s only niece, had passed away from a fever that she had been battling for a fortnight. The Targaryens were then plunged into mourning for a child they had not met.

King Viserys met with Borros Baratheon with sorrow in his heart and an apology on his lips. He needed to get to Dragonstone, to be with his daughter, to be there when they cremate his only granddaughter. Borros understood of course, and gave him and everyone his condolences. 

The King and Queen, as well as Lord Bartimos, his Lady Wife, Clement and Helaena had left to attend the funeral. The rest remained behind, but they all wore dark clothes in respect. 

Borros’ lady wife had remained at Storm’s End, being pregnant with hopefully their fourth child and heir. From what Aemond had learned, they had been trying relentlessly for a son, but after four daughters and a few miscarriages, they were unsuccessful. So, the Storm Lord was being overly cautious. 

With him though, he brought the Four Storms, his daughters, and the five of them resided in the northern tower of the Keep, which had been furnished and made into suitable apartments for their honoured guests. When questioned why the Baratheons were made accommodations, but not any other great houses, Otto simply said they would not be in King’s Landing for the entirety of the Conclave, and it would make little sense to set up pavilions when they could find temporary accommodations. 

The truth, of course, was because Borros Baratheon and his four daughters had sensitive egos, and would not have taken kindly to the Celtigars (a lesser house) being treated grander than them. Aemond would have to agree, even if the Celtigars were of purer Valyrian blood, when the Baratheons merely had a drop in the bucket. 

 Shortly after, the Starks arrived while the King was still at Dragonstone. It was a smaller party, with only Cregan and his sister, Wylla, but they had no issues with residing in a pavilion on the outskirts of King’s Landing. In contrast, the Manderlys that arrived with them were a large party, with two sons and a small army of young daughters, all to be married. 

With their arrival, it felt the Royal Conclave would officially begin, but no events would truly start until the King returned. It would begin on Maiden’s Day, which would be followed by a ball, where all the unwed, of-age maidens of the Realm will be formally presented. 

The Baratheon girls and Wylla Stark were a good distraction for the Celtigar daughters, it seemed. After the uncomfortable conversation he had the other day, Valeana had not made her presence known to him. The same could not be said for her step sister, who would happen to be just around every corner, anywhere he would be. 

Floris –Grafton, not to be confused with the younger, far more prettier, Floris Baratheon– had somehow found out about her sister approaching him in the courtyard that evening. He wasn’t entirely sure how, but there were many guards and servants about, so he wouldn’t have put it past her to bribe them into being her little bird.

“I told you she was going to try something,” Floris strode next to him, a modest distance away from his left shoulder, his blind side.

“And what was she trying to attempt? I am still trying to understand what she gains by trying to reconcile.” 

“She is attempting to be a martyr, because she knew you would not have accepted it,” she replied with contempt laced in her tone. “She even puts on quite a show in our apartments, walking around like a pitiful ghost. I don’t know what’s more pathetic, her charade, or how easily it sways my poor father and mother.”

“Your sister–”

“Step sister–”

“--Can put up an act all she wants. I have washed my hands of her, and kept my distance. Should she try to solicit reactions from others, they will find that there is no evidence of my involvement in her distress.” 

Floris pursed her lips and remained quiet for a moment before concurring with him, “Quite right… Though, I do have a thought.”

As they exited the corridor and onto an empty parapet, Aemond turned to her, and she to him. 

“Mayhaps simply avoiding her is not enough,” Floris put her hand on the stone balustrade, peering down at the gardens below, where chatter could be heard. “She will continue trying to get her petty, infantile revenge. If you wish to truly portray your non-involvement with her, then you must conduct your own charade. One that would not only convince the court, but will also paralyze her in fear and anger. She will not know what to do.”

Aemond tilted his head at her, attention now glued to her next words the moment she said ‘paralyze her in fear and anger’. It was not enough to just put Valeana Celtigar in her place publicly, he wanted to drive the sword right through her. If he was of a rational mind at the moment, he would be taken off by his own animosity for the girl, when she quite literally had done nothing to him… 

Aside from making him think of her in all hours of the day and night. Aside from unearthing his decades old guilt he tried hard to bury. Aside from using said guilt to manipulate him, making him feel weak and look foolish. Aside from haunting him with memories, and reminding him of his true feelings for her… Aside from breaking him in two when she laid with Aegon. His own fucking brother. 

“And what do you have in mind?” 

She smiled wickedly, “Court a lady. Preferably one that… has potential. That the King and Queen would approve of.” 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Later on that day, Aemond found himself back in the comforts of the library. He had a small supper by himself in his solar, and decided to resume his attempts at finding a Celtigar relation in their family histories. He had been unsuccessful thus far, but he was determined to find at least the mere mention of a name.

From behind him, he could hear the large library doors open, then followed by Maester Artos’ gruff, aged voice. 

“Is there anything I can help you with at this late hour, my lady?”

Aemond froze like a statue in front of the tome’s podium. All he could hear was feet on carpeted floors and his own breathing. 

“Actually, yes, Maester,” came a feminine voice, foreign to his ears. Aemond’s shoulders relaxed. “I am curious to see your collection on herbology and flora life. I saw some interesting plants and flowers in the gardens that I’ve never seen…and I’d quite like to identify them myself.”

Aemond slowly turned his head as he heard feet move further into the library. 

“Of course, my lady, right this way,” Artos shuffled in his direction, and the feminine form of the lady in question followed suit.

Aemond now fully turned around, not just because he was curious, but because he did not want to appear rude by ignoring their presence.

“Oh, my Prince,” the brunette startled, then bowed deeply in a curtsey. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.” 

“You didn’t,” Aemond assured, moving his hands behind his back. She was one of the Baratheon daughters, but he wasn’t entirely sure which one. They were all somewhat similar, and near in age. The only one that was identifiable was Floris, simply because her face was still round and soft with youth, and she was known to be the prettiest of the four. The thin, lithe creature before him was not her. 

She swallowed thickly, her hands clasped in front of her and fingers fidgeted, “Oh, good.” 

Maester Artos, oblivious to the nature of the interaction, went on a head to collect books from shelves for her. 

The Baratheon looked over her shoulder, her eyes widening at the size of the tome behind him, “What is it your reading, my Prince?”

Aemond looked over his shoulder briefly, “A bibliography of my ancestors. All members of the House of Targaryen since the Age of Conquest.” 

“Oh, gods,” she smiled softly, “It must be quite extensive… Are– Are there any Baratheons mentioned?”

“As a matter of fact, I had just been reading about Jocelyn Baratheon, my cousin’s mother.”

“Oh, my father’s aunt,” she smiled, “I was told she was quite tall and beautiful.” The lady then cleared her throat, and as if suddenly realizing something she curtseyed again, “Apologies, my Prince. I realize I did not introduce myself.”

Aemond gave a half smile, “I gather you are one of Lord Borros’ daughters.”

“One of four. We often get confused with each other,” she smiled to herself. “I am his second eldest, Lady Maris.” 

 “Court a lady. Preferably one that… has potential. That the King and Queen would approve of.” 

Aemond smiled wryly, hand reaching out to grasp hers and brought it to his lips to kiss.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Maris.” 

Note: Guys, he's still cooking. It's a crockpot, okay, it takes a while. The more you hate him, the more satisfying it's gonna be, trust.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

[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 One Hundred & One

“Your Grace?”

The Grand Maester’s chambers were dimly lit, the only light coming from a few flickering candles scattered across the room and the muted glow of a small hearth. Shelves lined the stone walls, filled with leather-bound tomes, jars of herbs, and countless vials of strange, murky liquids. A faint, musty odor clung to the air, a blend of old parchment and medicinal concoctions. The room was cluttered but organized, each item clearly having its place, from scrolls stacked neatly on the desk to tools used for various experiments.

Vaegon sat at a sturdy oak desk near the center of the chamber, quill in hand, scratching away at a letter with quick, deliberate strokes. As soon as he noticed Maera at the entrance, he rose immediately, setting aside his quill.

He bowed his head in respect. “I am surprised to see you here.”

The Queen’s gaze wandered as she stepped inside, trying to distract herself from the unease that had followed her into the chamber. Her eyes landed on one of Vaegon’s juniors in the far corner, hunched over a small table. The apprentice was carefully dissecting a dead toad, its insides laid bare as he poked and prodded with a tiny scalpel. Maera shuddered involuntarily, a wave of revulsion washing over her at the sight.

Vaegon’s voice pulled her back to the present, his words cutting through her discomfort. “Is it your collarbone that troubles you, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice laced with concern. His gaze dropped to her shoulder, recalling the wound she had sustained in battle.

Maera’s hand instinctively brushed over the spot, her fingers tracing the faint scar hidden beneath her dress. “No,” she replied softly, shaking her head as if to dismiss the thought. “It’s fully healed now, thanks to your care.” She paused for a moment, steadying herself before continuing. “I’m here for another matter entirely.” Her voice was calm, though a current of anxiety underlined her words, the reason for her visit still weighing heavily on her mind.

The Grand Maester’s violet eyes remained fixed on Maera, studying her closely as she stood before him. The Queen fiddled with the sleeve of her green and black dress, her fingers twisting the fabric as if it might anchor her swirling thoughts. She hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath, her chest rising slowly as she gathered the courage to speak.

"My moons blood has still not returned," she said, her voice measured yet betraying a hint of vulnerability. She paused, her gaze dropping for a moment before she continued, her tone softer now, almost as if admitting a weakness. "And…I’m concerned about my ability to have more children."

Vaegon scratched at his beard, his fingers moving slowly through the wiry silver strands as he considered her words. He hummed thoughtfully, the silence stretching for a beat before he spoke. "You are still feeding your daughter yourself, Your Grace," he began, his tone steady, almost placating.

Before he could continue, Maera shook her head sharply, cutting him off. "I know," she said, her frustration seeping through. Closing her eyes, she sighed, her fingers still tugging at her sleeve as her green eyes flickered with uncertainty. "I just need to be sure there’s nothing to worry about."

Maester Vaegon gave a slow, understanding nod, his expression softening. Without a word, he turned and called over to his junior, who was still hunched over the dissected toad, his concentration unwavering. The young man flicked his eyes up, his brow lifting slightly in question. At Vaegon’s command, he rose from his seat, carefully setting down his tools.

"The Queen requires an examination," the Grand Maester ordered, his tone firm yet respectful. The junior apprentice nodded quickly, setting aside his previous task and washing his hands in a basin nearby. He approached Maera with caution, his demeanor professional, though the faintest flicker of nervousness crossed his face as he stood before the Queen, preparing for the task at hand.

As the junior beckoned Maera to a nearby bed, she heard Vaegon clear his throat. “I will give you privacy, Your Grace,” he said with a respectful nod, before turning to walk toward the door.

But before he could take more than a few steps, Maera called out softly, “Wait.” Vaegon stopped in his tracks, turning to meet her gaze.

Despite the tangled feelings she still wrestled with regarding her estranged grandfather, Maera knew she could not deny his skill. He was one of the most learned Maesters in the Realm, and if anyone could provide her with sound advice, it was him. She stood still for a moment, the words catching in her throat, but then she gathered herself. “I would value your opinion as well,” she said, her voice steady but carrying a hint of vulnerability.

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of Vaegon’s lips, though he quickly masked it with his usual stern expression. “Very well, Your Grace,” he replied, his tone formal, though there was a warmth beneath it. He moved back to his desk, settling in quietly as the junior prepared the examination.

Behind a modest screen, Maera lay on the basic bed, the fabric of her dress hitched up to her hips, her smallclothes discarded. The cold air of the chamber chilled her exposed skin as the junior Maester began his work, his hands clinical and detached but still foreign. Maera clenched her jaw, her breath coming in shallow, controlled bursts. On the other side of the screen, Grand Maester Vaegon’s quill scratched steadily against parchment, the rhythmic sound a strange comfort amidst the invasive touches.

The sheet beneath her fingers crumpled as she clutched it tighter, her knuckles turning pale. Her body tensed, each sensation drawing her further into herself, her mind seeking solace in thoughts of duty and legacy. All had to be well; there was no other option. For the Realm, for her husband, for the future she was meant to secure.

As the junior Maester withdrew his hand, Maera hissed at the sharp discomfort that followed. He looked up at her with a blank expression, offering no immediate reassurance. She frowned, trying to read his face, but there was nothing there. "I am finished, my Queen," he said stiffly, stepping back from the bed.

Her heart sank slightly. There was no way to tell what he was thinking. Was there something wrong? He made a quick, nervous bow before adding, "I just need to consult with the Grand Maester," and hurried away, disappearing behind the screen.

The Queen sat up slowly, her body still tense as she readjusted her undergarments and smoothed the folds of her skirts. The room felt colder now, and her anxiety surged as she strained to hear the conversation between the two Maesters. Their voices were low, barely above whispers, but her senses were heightened. She heard fragments of the junior's voice, followed by Grand Maester Vaegon’s quiet but firm, "Are you quite sure?"

The junior continued to murmur, his tone cautious, and Maera’s patience wore thin. What were they saying? Why weren’t they telling her? The uncertainty gnawed at her until she could stand it no longer. Without a word, she hopped down from the bed, her shoes hitting the stone floor with a soft thud. The modesty screen scraped loudly as she moved it aside, the sound echoing through the chamber.

She strode toward them, her arms crossed, her green eyes flashing with frustration. "Well?" she asked, her voice cool and demanding, though her heart pounded with dread beneath the surface.

Grand Maester Vaegon glanced at her before nodding to the junior. "Thank you," he said, his tone measured. "You may study in the library for now. I expect you to read up on this.”

The junior’s eyes flicked nervously from Maera to Vaegon before he quickly bowed. "Yes, Grand Maester," he said, turning on his heel to leave.

Before he could step out of the room, Vaegon’s voice followed him like a command. "And remember," he said sternly, "this does not leave this room." The young Maester nodded, his face pale, before scurrying out through the heavy wooden door, leaving Maera alone with her grandfather.

She remained rooted to her spot, her arms still crossed, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. His expression was frustratingly unreadable, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his violet eyes—the same shade as her husband and daughter—betrayed little. She searched his face for any hint of emotion, wondering why he had sent the junior away to study instead of revealing what he had discovered.

“What does he need to read up on?” she asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

The Grand Maester didn’t answer immediately, his eyes drifting down to the parchments strewn across his desk. It was maddening. Anxiety crept up on her like a shadow, tightening around her chest with each passing second of silence.

She studied him more closely, trying to decipher what lingered beneath his calm exterior. His age had weathered his face, but beneath the lines and stern expression, there was something else—an echo of protectiveness, almost familial. It struck her how much he reminded her of her mother in that moment, the way his eyes softened ever so slightly, but still held something back.

“Is something wrong?” Maera asked, her voice more fragile than she intended, a crack in her usually firm demeanor.

Vaegon remained quiet, his silence gnawing at her. Her nerves wound tighter, coiling into a knot of dread deep within her belly. She chewed on her bottom lip, her mind spiraling. It was too much to bear—the waiting, the not knowing. The thought of not being able to bear more children clawed at her, turning her fear into something raw and aching.

“Is it—” she began again, her voice barely above a whisper this time, “Am I… unable to have more children?”

Finally, Vaegon sighed, a deep and weary sound. He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and for the first time, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “On the contrary, my Queen.”

Maera’s brow furrowed, confusion mixing with the relief she desperately wanted to feel. The Grand Maester stepped forward, his gaze gentle but firm as he delivered the news. “You are with child.”

There was a silence in the room following the news. After some time, the Queen found herself sat at one of the wooden desks, her elbow propped on the desk, her chin resting on her hand. Her eyes were distant, unfocused, as her mind grappled with the news. With child. The phrase echoed in her thoughts, tangling with the myriad emotions surging through her. It should have been simple relief, yet it wasn’t.

Across the room, the soft clinking of metal and glass caught her ear as Grand Maester Vaegon prepared a tray of refreshments. She heard the jug being carefully set down, the faint chime of plates being arranged with precision. The mundane sounds of his work contrasted with the rapid heartbeat in her chest, grounding her, even as her mind raced.

The news had landed like a stone, sending ripples through the carefully constructed calm she had built for herself. Now, those ripples threatened to become waves. She was with child again. The Realm would get its heir—or so she hoped. She traced small, idle patterns on the wooden surface of the desk with her finger, her thoughts swirling in sync with the repetitive motion.

Happiness... relief...But also fear. So much could go wrong, she knew that all too well. The pressures of the crown, the expectations of the Realm, the fragility of pregnancy—all of it weighed on her, heavier than any crown she had ever worn.

The soft thud of footsteps approached, and Maera looked up as Vaegon came to her side, the tray now in his hands. He placed a plate and cup gently in front of her, his old hands steady despite their age. Maera glanced at the offering as the Grand Maester poured water into her goblet, his movements careful, deliberate, as if trying to soothe her with the smallest of gestures.

A slice of pie was placed on her plate—small, simple, but a kind reminder that she should eat. Maera stared at it for a moment, her appetite absent despite the gnawing hunger in her stomach. She exhaled slowly, the enormity of the situation beginning to settle, but the knot of emotions in her chest refused to unwind. Vaegon sat beside her now, his presence steady and unintrusive, allowing her the space she needed to process the news. The silent support of her estranged grandfather was unexpected but appreciated.

The Queen picked up her fork, her fingers trembling slightly as she brought a piece of the pie toward her mouth. But just as it was about to reach her lips, she stopped. A wave of confusion swept over her, and she slowly placed the fork back down. Pushing the plate away, she looked at Vaegon, her brow furrowing.

"I don’t understand," she murmured, her voice quiet but laced with frustration. Her eyes fixed on the Grand Maester, seeking clarity. "My moons blood hasn’t returned. I thought... after childbirth, its return meant a woman was fit to conceive again. How could I be with child if—" She trailed off, her hand resting on her abdomen, the weight of her uncertainty pressing down on her once more.

Vaegon chewed thoughtfully, finishing the last bite of his food before swallowing. His violet eyes softened as he considered her words, but there was no surprise in his expression. Instead, he offered her a small, almost nostalgic smile.

"I have seen this before," he began, his voice calm, measured. "Among the lowborn women, those who have no choice but to nurse their babes themselves." He seemed to recall memories of his earlier years, his smile growing faintly as if remembering the simpler days when he worked among the common folk. "The womb can prepare itself for another child before the woman is even aware. Even without the return of the moons blood."

Maera nodded slowly, taking in his words, though the confusion still lingered in her mind. She picked up her fork again, this time without hesitation, and took a small bite of the pie. The savory taste of mushroom filled her mouth, and despite everything swirling within her, she found herself appreciating the flavor.

For a brief moment, she let the food ground her, allowing the familiar taste to bring some semblance of normalcy back to her. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, her mind still whirring, but the edge of her anxiety had dulled. She had to admit, for all her misgivings about Vaegon, the man’s extensive knowledge was invaluable. Despite the complicated nature of their relationship, she understood that he was definitely well-suited for his role, and was glad that she had selected him.

Lost in her thoughts, Maera barely noticed the gentle brush of a hand against her own. Her green eyes flicked up, meeting the violet gaze of her estranged grandfather. Vaegon quickly withdrew his hand, as though startled by his own action, his expression betraying a rare flicker of uncertainty. Clearing his throat, he leaned forward slightly, his voice lowered to barely a whisper. “If this is not something you want…”

Maera furrowed her brow, unsure of what he meant at first. But then, with a sudden clarity, she realized what he was asking. Judging by her earlier reaction—her confusion, her silence, the shock in her eyes—it must have seemed as though the news of the pregnancy had unsettled her deeply, perhaps even as though she did not welcome it. Vaegon, with his quiet voice and thoughtful gaze, was giving her a choice. He was subtly offering her an out, something she hadn’t expected, and the understanding dawned on her that he would handle whatever decision she made with the utmost discretion.

Her heart quickened for a moment, but then she quickly shook her head, her voice breaking the silence that had settled between them. “No, no, that’s not it.” She spoke quickly, almost stumbling over her words in her haste to correct him. “I… I’m just in shock, that’s all.”

She let out a shaky sigh, feeling the weight of the situation settle more heavily on her shoulders. Maera leaned back in her chair, rubbing her forehead as if trying to ease the tension gathering there. “The King needs an heir,” she said, her voice firmer now, as though she were reminding herself of her duty. “And the Realm needs stability.”

However even as she said it, her thoughts drifted to Aemara, her baby girl still so small, still so dependent on her. A pained expression flickered across Maera’s face, and her hand instinctively moved to her chest, where her heart ached with the thought of being pulled in so many directions. “But Aemara… she still needs me.” Her voice softened as she spoke aloud the thoughts that had been haunting her since Vaegon had delivered the news.

Her eyes clouded with worry, the enormity of what lay ahead threatening to overwhelm her. As a Queen, she was bound by duty to the Realm. As a mother, her heart belonged to Aemara. Would she able to love another child as much as she loved her daughter? Would this pregnancy hinder her from being the best possible mother?

And then of course there was the war. Aemond would surely worry about Maera riding in this condition, but Ēbrion was a crucial tool in battle strategy. If the Blacks sensed weakness, they would surely take advantage. This was all so frustrating. How could she balance all of this, especially when each role demanded so much from her?

She heard the soft sound of a chuckle from across the room, unexpected enough to draw her out of her spiraling thoughts. She glanced up to find Grand Maester Vaegon looking at her with a rare softness in his violet eyes.

"I remember when my wife fell pregnant," he said, his voice carrying an almost wistful note. “It was something she always wanted and yet she was still so nervous.”

Maera furrowed her brow, her curiosity piqued. It was the first time he had ever spoken of his personal life. Of the blood that bound them. Of anything beyond their duties and relationship as Queen and Grand Maester. She had always known little about him beyond the fact that he was her estranged grandfather, a truth he had only recently confessed. She shifted slightly in her chair, the tension in her shoulders tightening. Now, with this small opening, it seemed as good a time as any to explore further.

"And you?" she asked, her voice quiet but firm, as if unsure whether she was crossing a line. Vaegon quirked an eyebrow at her question, his expression neutral but clearly considering her words. He tilted his head, and Maera reworded her inquiry, her own curiosity pushing her to press on. "How did you feel? When you found out she was pregnant?"

The Grand Maester let out a sigh, leaning back slightly in his chair. "I felt relieved," he said after a moment. "There was... less pressure. Less need for the marital duties required of me." His voice was calm, but there was a detachment in it, as though even now he held those memories at arm’s length, viewing them as part of an obligation rather than something emotional.

The Queen’s heart tightened at his words, and without warning, a quick, hot flare of anger surged through her veins. She could feel it boiling just beneath her skin, ignited by the coldness of his reply. Her hands clenched into fists on her lap, and her green eyes flashed sharply.

"Yes. And once you completed your duties," she said, her voice cutting through the space between them, "and your wife died in childbirth, you abandoned your daughters the moment they were born."

Her words were a whip, cracking with the bitterness and disappointment she had long buried. The raw truth of her accusation hung in the air between them, both of them knowing there was no way to soften it.

Vaegon’s face didn’t change much, but there was a flicker in his eyes, a shadow of something deeper than the impassive facade he normally wore. For a long moment, there was only silence, the weight of her accusation settling heavily in the room. Maera waited, her pulse quickened with her frustration, unsure if he would even respond to something so deeply personal.

“You did not like my late grandmother then?” She hissed, narrowing her eyes as they fixed upon his face.

She expected indifference, perhaps even some curt dismissal of the woman who had given birth to her mother, but Vaegon immediately shook his head. “It wasn’t like that,” he replied, his tone firmer than before. “She was not to…my taste.”

The Queen gasped at the sheer disrespect in his words. “How dare you—” she began, her anger flaring up, ready to chastise him for speaking so callously of the woman who had borne his children, who had played a vital role in their family’s lineage.

But before she could unleash her full fury, Vaegon raised his hands in defence. “The fault was with me, not her.”

Maera rolled her eyes, folding her arms tightly across her chest, her frustration with the Grand Maester barely held at bay. He continued, his voice a little quieter now, his eyes flickering with something she couldn’t quite place.

“Lady Edme,” he began, “wanted more. A loving marriage. A husband who could give her… everything.” His voice wavered for a moment, and Maera noticed the way his fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of his gown, a nervous tic she’d never seen from him before.

He took a shaky breath, one that seemed to catch in his throat before he muttered, almost too quietly for her to hear, “But due to my affliction, I couldn’t give it to her.”

The Queen’s brow furrowed, confusion replacing her anger. “Affliction?” she asked, genuinely puzzled now. Vaegon, though old, had always seemed healthy enough. He still performed his duties as Grand Maester with precision and focus. He had never shown signs of any illness or physical impairment whilst at Dragonstone, and she struggled to understand what he was referring to.

The Grand Maester rose from his seat with a slow, deliberate movement, his hands clasped behind his back. His steps were measured, almost hesitant, as he paced the chamber. “My brothers had died within a few years of each other,” he began, his voice low and distant. “Naturally, my father was concerned for the succession.”

Maera nodded slightly, knowing the tale well. Aemon, King Jaehaerys’s eldest son, had been next in line to the throne. But Aemon had only conceived a daughter, Princess Rhaenys, with his wife before his untimely passing. And then Baelon, Jaehaerys’s next son, had died a few years later, despite fathering two sons with his sister-wife, Alyssa.

The tragedy of their deaths had thrown the Realm into uncertainty. The question of who would succeed King Jaehaerys had ignited fierce debates and created divisions across the Seven Kingdoms. It was a story Maera had heard many times, but this was different. She had never heard Vaegon’s part in it.

“He said that…” Vaegon continued, his voice strained with something more than mere recollection. “He said that my appetites would change if I just married the right woman.” He paused, and his eyes flicked over to Maera, searching her face, as though the words he was trying to find were buried in her expression. “But I knew they never would.”

His words hung in the air, charged with something Maera could not place at first. There was a vulnerability in his tone, something raw and unspoken. His voice, though measured, trembled with a fear laced beneath the surface of his carefully chosen words. The pacing stopped, and Vaegon stood still, staring at the floor as though the weight of his confession pressed down on him.

Maera’s brows furrowed. She felt the same confusion from earlier tightening in her chest. What did he mean? His appetites wouldn’t change? She had always known him to be a distant figure, cold in his marriage, but now there was something more—something deeper that he was confessing.

And then she saw it, the look in his eyes as he glanced up at her. It was familiar. The same guarded, pained look her elder brother Dermot had worn all those years ago when he tried to explain to her, to their closest siblings, why he would never marry, never father children. A realization slowly dawned on her as the pieces began to fall into place.

The Queen watched as Vaegon threw his head back, a sudden burst of frustration replacing the vulnerability he’d shown moments before. His hands trembled slightly as he rubbed them over his face, clearly agitated by the memories. “I begged Jaehaerys,” he muttered, his voice low and biting. “Gods, I begged him to let me join the Citadel, to live a life of study and purpose, one where I could be of use to the Realm without…” His words trailed off, and he shook his head. “But he wouldn’t allow it.”

Maera’s green eyes followed his every movement, watching the tension in his body as he paced before her. His tone was sharp, clipped, every word laced with years of frustration. She could see the weight of his past in the lines etched across his face, the conflict in his violet eyes.

Vaegon rubbed his face again, the sound of his rough skin scratching against his beard filling the silence. His tone softened, almost bitter now. “The old King matched me with a young lady of noble birth, and expected me to produce heirs for the sake of the crown and the succession.”

Maera nodded slightly, allowing him the space to speak, her confusion ebbing, replaced by understanding. Vaegon had never been able to fulfil the expectations his father and the Realm had placed on him—not because of a lack of desire for power or duty, but because he simply wasn’t made for the life they had wanted for him. His detachment, his coldness toward his wife, toward his duties as a husband and father, all stemmed from something more intrinsic, something he had hidden for years.

The Maester’s pacing slowed, and finally, with a deep, exhausted sigh, he approached the table once more, sitting down heavily in the chair beside her. His earlier anger drained away, leaving behind only sorrow. His violet gaze grew distant, as if he were no longer in the room but trapped in some painful memory. “Edme knew,” he said quietly. “She wasn’t a fool, and she was not happy. How could she be? Her marriage was a sham.”

The Queen observed him in silence, giving the elderly man the chance to continue. She could see the sadness pooling in his eyes, the regret that clung to him like a shadow. Vaegon, for all his faults, had been bound by a life he had no control over, his choices made for him by others.

A small, almost wistful smile crept onto his face. “But the Gods took pity on me,” he said softly, as if speaking more to himself than to her. “Jaehaerys, in his final days, knew his death was near, and in those moments of urgency, he finally named Viserys his successor. And when the old King finally died, I did not feel sadness. Only relief.”

The Queen silently empathized with him, feeling the weight of his words settle into her chest. Her thoughts drifted to her own father, Lord Jasper Wylde, whose controlling hand had shaped so much of her youth. How many times had he tried to mold her into something she wasn’t?

He had banned her from sparring with her brothers, insisting it was unbecoming of a lady of noble blood. When her reputation had been tarnished by a scorned suitor, it was she who was blamed, not the man who had slandered her name. Her father’s chastisements had been relentless whenever she spoke out of turn or dared to question his authority.

It was exhausting, the constant weight of his disapproval, the way his gaze would cut her down with every word that slipped from her lips. She had loved him and tried to earn his favor, to be the daughter he wanted her to be, but nothing was ever enough for him. In a twisted way, she too had felt her own sense of relief when he died.

Vaegon’s voice interrupted her thoughts as he continued to share his story. “Edme unfortunately passed away in childbirth, but had given me two daughters. No sons to continue the legacy, no sons for the throne. In the eyes of the Realm, a daughter could not be an heir. And they were therefore disposable.”

Maera felt a pang in her chest at his words, thinking of her own daughter, Aemara, so small and vulnerable. She wondered if her own child was to be viewed the same by the world; not as valuable as a son, her worth determined by her marriage and the children she produced. The Queen shook her head, keeping her worries to herself and said nothing, listening intently as the Grand Maester continued.

“I named them both after my sisters,” Vaegon went on, his lips curving into the smallest of smiles. “Gael and Viserra. I ensured their future, made sure they were safe with their mother’s family. They were better off with their grandparents.” He paused for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the wooden table as if he were measuring the weight of his next words. “And after that… I approached the new King.”

Maera watched as the old man grinned at the memory. “I could immediately tell that my nephew didn’t want to be king,” he said with a quiet chuckle. “Not really. He accepted it, of course, but I always knew he’d have been happier with less. We were close in age, you see, and in many ways, I think he understood me more than my own father ever did. After presenting my case, he allowed me to join the Citadel, no questions asked.”

The Queen studied him as he spoke, taking in the details of the old man before her. Vaegon had led a complicated life, one filled with expectations he had never wanted, duties he had fought to escape. And yet, despite running from the responsibilities that had been forced upon him, here he was, at the side of his granddaughter—the daughter of the very daughter he had abandoned all those years ago.

Maera couldn’t help but wonder if the Gods had intervened once more, drawing him back into her life as if to make amends for his past. The same man who had once fled from the burdens of his birthright now served her, the Queen, with quiet loyalty and wisdom. Perhaps it was fate, or perhaps it was the Gods, tying the loose threads of their bloodline back together in this strange, unexpected way.

Vaegon let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his confession. “I know this is probably not what you wish to hear, nor are my reasons excuses.” His violet eyes, usually so composed, flickered with a vulnerability she had never seen in him before.“I only wished to be honest with you.”

The Queen remained silent for a moment, her mind swirling with thoughts. As she looked at the old man before her, common themes began to thread themselves together in her mind like a familiar, haunting pattern on an ancient tapestry. Fathers who could not accept their children for who they were. Men and women forced into roles they never wanted. Daughters discarded, thought of as less than sons. The same stories, repeating through the generations, an endless cycle of pain and rejection. When would it finally end?

She reached out across the table, her fingers brushing against Vaegon’s hand. The old man’s gaze lifted to meet hers, his breath catching in his throat. Maera’s grip was firm but gentle, her green eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made him hold his breath. “You speak of an affliction. Like it is an illness. A disease. Something to be disgusted by or to be treated.”

Vaegon’s expression froze, fear and uncertainty swirling in his eyes as he awaited her next words, bracing himself for whatever judgment might follow.

But Maera’s gaze softened, her lips curving into a faint, compassionate smile. “Yet you could not be more wrong,” she told him firmly, squeezing his hand for emphasis. Vaegon exhaled, the breath he had been holding escaping shakily from his lips.

The Queen held his hand tightly, the warmth of her touch reassuring as she continued. “My brother, Dermot, needs no cure,” she said quietly, her voice filled with conviction. “And neither do you. We are how the Gods made us. And the sooner the world stops trying to change us, the better a place it will be.”

The anger Maera had harbored towards her estranged grandfather had lessened, but it hadn’t entirely disappeared. The weight of the pain and betrayal he had caused her family still lingered, and she knew it would take time for her to truly let it go. She watched him carefully, the tension between them easing, yet still present.

"Whilst I don’t excuse your actions towards my aunt and mother," Maera said slowly, her voice steady but softened, "I understand you better now." Her green eyes searched Vaegon’s face, watching as the old man nodded in quiet acceptance. He didn’t attempt to justify himself any further, and Maera could sense that he wasn’t expecting forgiveness, only acknowledgment.

The chamber fell into a comfortable silence, something new and unspoken shifting between them. Maera realized that her relationship with Vaegon had changed—improved, even. The weight of their past wasn’t gone, but it was lighter now, and there was a mutual respect where only resentment had existed before.

Vaegon cleared his throat, breaking the stillness. "Can we keep what I have told you in this room?" he asked, his voice cautious but not pleading. He was asking for her trust.

The Queen nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips, but before fully agreeing, she paused. "On one condition," she added, watching as his brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "That you extend me the same courtesy."

The old man tilted his head, unsure of what she was asking. "You mean you don’t wish to tell the King?" His violet eyes, still sharp despite his age, studied her carefully.

Maera hummed softly, the corners of her lips curling into a smile as she glanced down at her stomach. She placed her hand gently over it, feeling the warmth of her body, the quiet stirrings of life within. "Aemond is protective. I do not wish him to worry," she explained, her voice light, though there was an underlying seriousness in her words. She lifted her gaze to meet Vaegon’s again. "I will tell him when the time is right."

Vaegon nodded, understanding the weight of the secret she was choosing to carry. He had spent a lifetime holding onto his own, and though he had never been free of it, he respected her decision. His lips curved into a rare grin, a flash of warmth breaking through his usually stoic demeanor. "It seems," he said, his tone light, "the future just became a bit more hopeful."

Notes: gay grandpa 🏳️‍🌈 pregnant queen 🤰🏻 smut next chapter 🔥

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

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

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (19)

The Petition

When Vaemond Velaryon petitions the Crown to grant him succession of Driftmark, Arianwyn is faced with her worst fears.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: Partial beheading

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Arianwyn was woken the following morning not by Brynna, but by her half-sister Rhaena, who had snuck into her rooms to lay a gown at the foot of her bed. Unfortunately, Arianwyn was so unsettled by her father’s threats from the night before that even the gentle sound of fabric on fabric startled her from sleep.

“I'm sorry," Rhaena said, wincing when Arianwyn burst awake and scrambled out of bed, banging her knees against the stone floor. "I didn't mean to wake you. Rhaenyra asked that I bring this dress for you to wear today, and I couldn't find Brynna."

With her heart still pounding, Arianwyn shook her head. "It's fine. I… I was having a bad dream."

"Do you like it?"

"Like what?"

"The dress."

"Oh," Arianwyn had, in truth, been so startled that she hardly processed Rhaena's words, much less see what she was holding. Then, pulling the sleeve of her nightgown back over her shoulder, she stepped to the end of the bed to examine the dress.

It was one she recognized – a red gown with open, flowing sleeves and gold wrist cuffs. Rhaenyra had favored it when her children were young, but Arianwyn thought it had been retired when the brocade had begun to fray. Indeed, when she looked closely, she could see where hasty repairs had been made. But, from a distance, it looked as beautiful as ever.

"She wants me to wear this?"

Her half-sister smiled, holding the gown up to try and see how it would look. "Isn’t it sweet of her?”

Arianwyn grimaced. As she had sent a message to the court with her gown yesterday, Rhaenyra would do the same today. To clothe her in a dress that once belonged to the princess would indeed create the image of a united family that Rhaenyra desired to present to the court.

Rhaena was still waiting for an answer, but Arianwyn could not say anything she knew her sister wanted to hear.

“Red doesn’t suit me,” she said instead. Not an agreement, but also not an insult.

“Well, I think it will look beautiful on you,” Rhaena chirped, far happier than Arianwyn had ever been so soon after waking. “May I help you dress, or shall I find Brynna?”

Begrudgingly amused by her sister’s unrelenting cheer, Arianwyn smiled and nodded. “I think Brynna would appreciate a morning to rest.”

Rhaena immediately set to work, beginning with her hair. Having been born with even thicker curls than Arianwyn, she had become quite an expert in caring for wily hair. And while she tried very hard to convince Arianwyn to let her use a new braiding technique she had learned, she eventually relented to her desire to wear her hair unbound.

Arianwyn’s warming mood waned when she donned the dress. It was far from a perfect fit. Her well-developed curves were apparently inherited from the Royce line rather than her father’s blood, for the gown strained around her chest and hips but hung loosely over her waist.

A shame. She had been hoping the dress would not close.

After giving herself a distressed look in the mirror, Arianwyn turned back to Rhaena. “See, I told you I would look horrid in red.”

“I have never seen a person look so pale,” Rhaena agreed. “It is as if you’ve been rolled in flour.”

Both girls immediately gave in to laughter, wheezing and snorting in a very unladylike manner.

It was then that Brynna finally entered the room, mouth falling agape at seeing the girls in such a state. “By the Seven, what are you doing?” she asked, failing to keep her voice stern. “And Aria, why in the world are you wearing such a wretched dress?”

Arianwyn’s laughter immediately stopped, and she glanced self-consciously down at herself. “Princess Rhaenyra requested that I wear this today.”

Brynna gave her a pitying, understanding smile. Rhaenyra’s ‘request’ was to be obeyed as an order. “I’ll see if I can find a belt somewhere, try and salvage some semblance of beauty.” With that, she gave a quick curtsy and went back through the door.

Sitting back at the vanity, Arianwyn fiddled with the gown's sleeves. The heavy cuffs on the wrists were already grating at her patience, and she would surely be cold all day and have to resist the temptation to cover herself with her arms. But the awkward dress was the least of her problems. After what Daemon said to her the night before, she did not know how he would react when Otto Hightower called her to the throne to petition for her release. Her hand trembled as she brought it up to her neck to finger a necklace that was not there.

Rhaena stepped up behind her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What did our father say to you last night?"

Arianwyn met her sister’s violet eyes through the mirror. “Do you really want to know?”

“No,” Rhaena answered. Daemon had long been the one source of discomfort in their relationship. “But if it is the reason you are so nervous this morning, I must.”

“They scolded me for being alone with Prince Aemond,” Arianwyn admitted, “warned me of the consequences should rumor spread.”

It was a very generous summary of the conversation. Long ago, perhaps Arianwyn would have given her the unvarnished truth. Taken a cruel pleasure in seeing Rhaena’s perfect image of their father shatter to reveal the monster beneath. But the scratches she had once inflicted upon her had long since faded.

Neither of them were the same girls they had been in that tunnel. Those girls would hate each other forever. But now, Arianwyn and Rhaena were sisters.

And that meant that Rhaena could tell when her sister was lying.

“Was he very cruel to you?” she asked, though, from the look of dread on her face, it was clear she already knew the answer, or at least suspected it.

Arianwyn nodded, blinking tears from her eyes. “Even more than usual.”

Rhaena surged forward, clutching her sister in a tight embrace. “I am so sorry, Aria. I wish there were something I could do.”

“There is nothing I would ask of you,” Arianwyn assured. “Just know how much I have valued your kindness – your sisterhood. And that I love you. I truly do.”

“I love you too, Aria.”

Rhaenyra was the last to arrive in the Throne Room, likely a strategic move on her part. Aemond only saw it as arrogant and disrespectful, though not nearly as much as placing Aria in the back of the procession. From her letters, he knew that it was just another of Daemon’s small cruelties. She had even told him that when little Aegon and Viserys were present, she was made to walk behind the nursemaids carrying them. Still, it stoked enough anger in him that he had to cross his arms behind his back to conceal his clenched fists.

Once Aemond saw Aria, it was hard to look away from her enchanting beauty. It took him a moment to recognize the dress she wore from his youth, when Rhaenyra would visit the nursery. Why was Aria wearing it now? He knew she didn’t like to wear red – or rather, Brynna did not like it – and she must be freezing with her shoulders and arms bared.

Several other men were watching her as she followed Rhaenyra and Daemon to the front of the room. Logically, Aemond knew it was perfectly normal for men to enjoy the sight of a beautiful young woman, especially one dressed so ostentatiously. Still, it felt like they were lusting after something that was his.

But she was not his to protect, as he was reminded when Daemon met his eye. His uncle dared to flash a smug grin, setting Aemond’s blood aflame. Clutching his fists tighter, he suppressed the urge to go to her, to shield her from both her father and the leering eyes of the gathered men.

He turned back to Aria, hoping to catch her eye, to no avail. Her gaze was trained on the ground, eyes flitting back and forth as they always did when she was nervous. One of Daemon’s other daughters stood next to her. Was it the one that had wounded her face? No, that was the elder, who now stood with Princess Rhaenys. This was the younger, Rhaena, who had endeared herself to Aria in the past years.

Indeed, Rhaena was holding Aria’s hand. How he wished he could do so. That he was the one to stand by her side and comfort her, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, leaning in to whisper something in her ear.

When Aria smiled shakily at whatever her sister had said, his fantasy shattered, the lust clearing from his vision in an instant. Gods, she was afraid.

Her free hand trembled, even as she bunched it in her skirts. Her bare shoulders were taut with tension as they rose and fell with each quick breath she took. The ease and grace she showed when they were together yesterday were gone, replaced by barely concealed fear.

What had Daemon done to her?

Whatever it was, Aemond would make him regret it.

But before he could move to her or speak, his grandsire called the court to order.

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survives his wounds,” Otto boomed from atop the dais, “we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters.”

Daemon scoffed as Otto Hightower sat upon the Iron Throne.

Arianwyn raised her eyes from the floor to watch the proceedings, shaking as she tried to steady her breath. She had nothing to fear, she reminded herself. In less than an hour, she would be free to cross the throne room to stand with her true family – with Aemond.

“The crown will hear the petitions,” the Hand continued. “Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

Vaemond stepped to the center of the room. “My Queen,” he said, bowing his head toward Alicent before facing the throne. “My Lord Hand.”

“The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria,” he began. “For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Old Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name.”

In the corner of her eye, Arianwyn saw Daemon and Rhaenyra exchange a look. She shuddered to think what it might mean.

Vaemond dropped his arms, standing tall and proud even as Daemon scowled at him. “I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin – his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

“As it does in my sons,” Rhaenyra interjected, “the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No, you only speak for yourself and your own ambition.”

Arianwyn clenched her jaw as she glared at the back of Rhaenyra’s head. She was fast approaching her limit on her stepmother’s hypocrisy. Had she not lied to the court about the true parentage of her sons for years to protect her ambitions? Only last night, had she not stood idly by as her husband revealed his intention to whore out his own daughter to further their shared ambitions for the throne?

Perhaps sharing Daemon’s words would sway the court in both Vaemond's and Arianwyn’s favor.

But before Arianwyn could even loosen her jaw, the Queen spoke. “You will have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra,” Alicent scolded. “Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.”

As Vaemond turned to face the Princess, Aemond, at last, caught Arianwyn’s gaze. But rather than smile, as she expected, he frowned, widening his eye as if to ask if she was well.

She smiled softly, nodding her head. Though nervous, she was well. Aemond’s shoulders drooped slightly with relief, and the corners of his lips turned upward. Something about that smallest of smiles made Arianwyn’s stomach turn loops.

“What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess?” Vaemond asked Rhaenyra, who refused to even look at him. “I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn’t recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.”

With an angry glance at Luke, Vaemond again turned to the throne. “My Queen, my Lord Hand. This is a matter of blood, not ambition,” he declared. “I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor. The Lord of Driftmark, and the Lord of the Tides.”

“Thank you, Ser Vaemond,” Otto said from his seat atop the Iron Throne, dismissing the knight. “Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, striding lazily toward the center of the room as if she had been asked by her nursemaid to clean up after herself rather than formally address the Hand of the King as he sat the Iron Throne.

“If I am to grace this farce with some answer,” she said, her boredom and disdain clear in her voice, “I will start by reminding the court that nearly 20 years ago, in this very – ”

Her words were cut off when the throne room doors burst open, and the King, with a gold mask covering half his face and leaning nearly all his weight on a cane, began to hobble into the room.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

No, Aemond wanted to shout as he watched his father enter the Throne Room. He wanted to storm up to him, seize the cane, and watch him fall and delight in it. The old fool had not left his rooms in weeks, yet now he emerges, walking under his own power?

Any hope of Driftmark now passing to a rightful Velaryon heir was gone, as was Aria’s chance to escape Daemon.

Aemond had needed nothing from the king. Had asked him for nothing. But it did not matter. Rhaenyra had obviously done so.

Viserys would summon a miracle for his eldest daughter and her bastards.

Yet for his other children, he couldn’t even do nothing.

Arianwyn could not tear her eyes from her once-beloved uncle as he made his way, ever slowly, toward the Iron Throne. His back was so deeply hunched that he now stood no taller than herself. What little hair he still had hung in long, limp tendrils around his sunken, blemished face. He gasped for breath as he walked, revealing his many missing or rotted teeth.

This was not the king Arianwyn remembered. Seeing him in this state, she understood the exhaustion and worry on the queen’s face.

The king was dying. Had been for a long time, it seemed.

He stopped at the base of the dais, facing Otto Hightower, who had come down from the throne to meet him. “I will sit the throne today,” he rasped.

“Your Grace,” Otto said, nodding as he stepped away from the throne. It seemed the Hand was as surprised as anyone by the appearance of the poorly king and nearly as reverent.

When Viserys stumbled on the first step of the dais, Ser Erryk Cargyll leaped forward to catch him. But the king waved him away.

Arianwyn turned away from the heartbreaking sight. She had held on to her anger at the king for so long – for his treatment of Aemond on Driftmark and for allowing Daemon to take her. But she had never wanted to see him suffer – certainly not like this. She had loved him dearly, once.

She looked to Aemond, hoping to find answers or reassurance in his gaze, but he did not look at her. His eye was focused on his father. Though his expression remained unreadable, Arianwyn could see the rage simmering within his eye – the hatred.

The clattering of metal drew their attention back to the throne. The king’s crown, the same his grandsire wore when he was king, had slipped from his brow onto the stone steps.

Arianwyn tensed as Daemon stepped forward. With Dark Sister at his side, he could easily kill the king here and now and place his wife on the Iron Throne. But he did not, and the steel remained sheathed.

Daemon knelt by his brother’s side and picked up the crown. He wrapped his arm carefully around Viserys and guided him up the steps to the throne. And with a tenderness Arianwyn had never seen, her father crowned the king and retreated from the throne.

Seeing that her father was capable of love, that he had the capacity to be gentle and kind to those he truly cared for wounded her long-damaged heart. To know that when he could be so caring, he still chose to hate her so fiercely.

When Daemon again took his place beside Rhaenyra, Arianwyn felt a familiar cold settle in her veins. But, this time, she was sure it was there to stay.

“I must… admit… my confusion,” the king rasped. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.”

“Indeed, your grace,” Rhaenys answered as all eyes turned to her. She gazed with a guarded expression at Vaemond before stepping to the throne.

“It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon.” the Princess’ voice held hesitation, though few noticed it. “His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Arianwyn turned to Rhaena. “Did you know about this?” she asked.

Rhaena shook her head, genuine shock in her eyes. Though she did not seem displeased by the prospect.

The king smiled. “Well… the matter is settled,” he declared. “Again. I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

Silence fell over the hall. Arianwyn’s own heart sank as she realized what the decision meant. The king was still as stubborn as ever. He still favored his firstborn daughter and the cost of the plain truth. Even if Arianwyn pleaded with him as she had planned and shouted the truth of Daemon’s crimes for all to hear, she was sure he would deny her and send her back to Dragonstone with her father.

Where Daemon would be free to punish her for insulting him in front of the court.

But Arianwyn was not the only one crushed by the King’s choice.

“You break law and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir,” Vaemond Velaryon spat, stalking towards the throne as a lion to its prey. “Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.”

“‘Allow it?’” Viserys hissed. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

No one in the room dared move, or even so much as breathe as they stood in wary anticipation at what the would-be heir would do next.

 “That,” Vaemond shouted as he turned on Lucerys, pointing an accusing finger at the nervous young boy. “Is no true Velaryon. And certainly no nephew of mine.”

Rhaenyra stepped in front of Luke, “Go to your chambers. You have said enough.”

“Lucerys is my true-born grandson,” Viserys said with a strength greater than his withered body would suggest. “And you are no more than the second son of Driftmark.”

Pity burst within Arianwyn’s heart. Vaemond was right. They could all see it. Rhaenyra was stealing his birthright in broad daylight, and no one would defend him.

“You,” Vaemond barked at the King, “may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine! My house survived the Doom, and a thousand tribulations besides! And gods be damned, I will not see it ended on the account of this…” He bit back his words as he turned to Rhaenyra, righteous anger twisting his face.

“Say it,” Daemon whispered. A challenge and a threat.

It pushed Vaemond over the final ledge.

“Her children are bastards!” he screamed, “And she is a whore.”

A furious whisper echoed around the room. No one had dared voice such an accusation for years, let alone so brazenly in front of the King. Aemond smiled – an involuntary gesture. Surely Vaemond was not so foolish as to think Viserys would ever admit the truth. He had learned that for himself the night he lost his eye. The left side of his face seemed to pulse with pain as a reminder.

Indeed, the king raised himself from the throne and brandished his Valyrian Steel dagger in a shaking hand. “I will have your tongue for that.”

Aemond’s smile fell when he heard Aria scream.

Her shriek pierced the ears of everyone in the room, drawing their eyes not to her but to Daemon. And the near-headless body of Vaemond Velaryon falling at his feet.

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon quipped.

Aemond did not see his sister clap her hands over her ears and turn away. He did not hear Otto shout for Daemon’s disarmament. He did not see his father collapse on the throne. He did not even see the growing pool of blood on the throne room floor.

All he saw was Daemon wiping the blood from his blade as he turned back to his family, eyes locking with Aria’s. He saw her face blanch and her lips tremble as she fought her tears and the bile rising in her throat. He saw the hope fade from her silvery eyes as she turned and ran from the room.

Not caring who saw, Aemond pushed past his brother and followed.

Aemond caught up to Aria as she fell to her knees in an empty courtyard far from the throne room. He could hear the clanging of the metal cuffs on her wrist as they scraped through the gravel, and his heart wrenched as she listened to her agonizing sobs.

“Aria,” he whispered as he knelt beside her, gently laying a hand on her bare shoulders. “Aria, I’m here.”

When she turned to face him, her face softened with relief. But when he laid a hand on her cheek to wipe away a tear, another cry tore through her. He took her in his arms as she fell into him, and before he could stop himself, he bowed his head forward and laid his lips on her soft cheek, kissing away another tear.

But she did not recoil from him. Rather, she seemed to melt into his touch. Grasping the side of her face in one hand, Aemond ran his nose along her face, unwilling to break the connection, and pressed another kiss to her forehead.

Aria leaned into his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground as her tears came harder and faster. He did not know what to say, how to calm her from her frantic state. So, he simply pulled her closer, cradling the back of her head and whispering sweet words into her ear.

After a long while, her breathing finally slowed. She tightened her arms around him and whimpered against his neck, “He killed Vaemond.”

“I know,” Aemond said, gently rocking her in his arms.

“In front of everyone. He killed him. And no one did anything.”

“I know.”

“What will they do when he kills me?”

Aemond froze, utterly paralyzed as he heard his worst fear spoken aloud. The world seemed to disappear, leaving only him, Aria, and her horrible words.

He felt his jaw twitching as he struggled to appear calm, for Arianwyn’s sake. “He will not kill you,” was all he could bite out.

“He will,” Arian declared. “He said so himself.”

Aemond pushed her back so he could see her face. Her cheeks were flushed, and the rims of her eyes deeply red. Tears still fell from those beautiful eyes, and her lip trembled as she stared back at him.

“He told me that all I was worth was my ‘virgin cunt,’” though her voice was shaky and weak, she did not stop when Aemond hissed at her words, “and that if I did anything to jeopardize him selling me off, he would have no reason to keep me alive.”

She didn’t give him even a heartbeat to reply before she grabbed the collar of his coat and whispered, “He killed my mother.”

“What?”

“He hated her. He wanted her gone. So, he killed her.” She was rambling madly, the story spilling forth without control like fire from a dragon’s maw. “He paralyzed her, broke her back and so many bones. And he raped her. It was his final insult. He raped her, and then she bore me.”

Aemond brought his hands up to cup her jaw. Her gentle voice and the feeling of her blood flowing beneath his palms were the only things keeping him from racing back to the throne room and gutting anyone who stood between him and Daemon.

“Gerold and her Maester offered her moon tea,” she halted when Aemond’s hands tightened on her cheeks. How could she even say such a thing? That a single decision made the difference between him having Aria here, with him, and her having never existed made his stomach hollow. What would his life have been without her?

“She refused,” she explained, and he relaxed slightly. “She knew she would not survive the birth, but she did not want him to forget her. So, she had me as her revenge. That is why he hates me. I am a living reminder that he could not break her.”

Aemond growled, leaning forward to press his forehead into Arianwyn’s. “You are not a revenge nor a reminder,” he rumbled. “You are a person. A beautiful, wonderful, kind, and unbearably good person.”

He stood, raising her with him and wrapping his hands around her waist to hold her steady. “You are so much more than…” he could not bring himself to repeat Daemon’s cruel and crude words, “than whatever your father says you are. You are the Lady of Runestone and a daughter of House Targaryen. If anyone dares harm you,” he hissed, all his hatred and rage alight in his eye, “I will burn them to ash. I would reduce the whole world to embers to protect you, Aria.”

Aemond’s declaration shocked her into silence, though she was unsure why. He had made many such threats when they were children, once even promising to feed her future husband’s head to Emrys if he dared hurt her. But somehow, this threat felt different.

It felt real.

Because it could be, she realized. He was no longer a dragonless little boy playing at ferosity, but the warrior prince who rode the largest dragon left in the world who had helped Aegon and his sisters conquer the continent. If he wanted, he could follow in their footsteps and conquer whatever lands he wished.

Perhaps it should make her afraid, that he was capable of such violence. But it only made her feel safe that he would do so on her behalf, and proud that he was now the man he always wanted to be. She stepped forward, resting her head on his chest, saying with her touch what she could not say with her words. Thank you.

Neither she nor Aemond noticed Princess Rhaenys stalking toward them. Not until she grabbed them by the shoulders and tore them apart.

“By all the gods,” she scolded. “Can the two of you not even try to act as though you are guided by your minds and not your…” she examined Arianwyn with an appraising gaze.  “Your hearts,” she finished.

Aemond released one hand from Arianwyn’s waist as he stepped protectively in front of her, his free hand drifting over the dagger he had strapped to his belt. His mouth was a hard, straight line, and the fire in his eye could have boiled the Narrow Sea to vapor.

“Oh please,” Rhaenys scoffed. “If you really think she has anything to fear from me, you’re even stupider than your drunken fool of a brother. Aegon, obviously. I hear Daeron is quite well-behaved.”

When the attempt to defuse the tension with her wry humor did not sway Aemond for a moment, Arianwyn pressed against Aemond’s shoulder, pulling his hand back from the pommel of his dagger. After only a moment of hesitation, he relaxed from his defensive posture, leaning back into her touch.

 “What is it you want, princess?” While his voice was soft, Arianwyn could still hear the threat buried beneath his words.

“I would like to speak with Arianwyn,” she answered. “Privately, if you would permit it, my prince.”

Aemond glanced down at Arianwyn and every so slightly raised his brow. A question. Depending on her answer, he would either stand aside or whisk her to safety. She squeezed his arm, giving him a slight nod and a weak but reassuring smile. A moment passed, and she nodded again, a harder set to her grey eyes. Then, hesitantly, Aemond released her from his hold and, after a moment spent looking at her with an intensity that made her heart race, stepped away.

Arianwyn did not say anything or even move until Aemond was out of sight. When she finally turned to Rhaenys, she felt her eyes start to water once more, though she did not know why. “What is it you wanted to speak to me about, Princess?”

Rhaenys held her arm out for Arianwyn to take, “Come, let me walk you to your rooms.”

The women walked in silence through the long halls of the castle. Whenever they passed courtiers who tried to stop and engage them in conversation, Rhaenys masterfully brushed them aside without insult, allowing them to make it through the doors of Arianwyn’s rooms without ever breaking their stride.

With the door shut and locked behind them, Rhaenys deposited Arianwyn on the edge of the bed. Still silent, she began tracing the walls of the room with her hands, brushing curtains and tapestries aside in her search. When Arianwyn was finally about to give in to her curiosity and ask what her cousin was doing, a muffled “thud” echoed throughout the room.

Turning to her with a victorious smirk, Rhaenys pushed gently on the stone next to the vanity. Much to Arianwyn’s surprise, a large section of the wall seemingly detached, swinging open a hidden door into a dark tunnel.

“What is that?” she asked, unsure whether to be impressed or afraid.

Rhaenys gestured for her to stand and examine it for herself. Arianwyn obeyed, drawing her arms around her when a cool wind from inside the tunnel swept into the room.

“Maegor had these tunnels built throughout the Keep,” Rhaenys explained. “I’m not sure whether it was genius or paranoia, but they have proven very useful to me in the past.”

Arianwyn looked at her cousin with a questioning gaze. Rhaenys chuckled, “I don’t know where most of them lead. The only path I have committed to memory is from my old quarters to the kitchens. I was not sure there would be an entrance here, but I am glad there is.”

“Why are you showing this to me?” Arianwyn asked, though she was fairly certain she knew the answer. Though Rhaenys had sided with Rhaenyra and Daemon at the petition, she had done so reluctantly. And after Vaemond was killed…

Her ever-collected expression fading into worry, Rhanys cupped Arianwyn’s cheeks in her hands. “Rhaena told me that something happened last night. Something that made you terrified of Daemon.” Her eyes hardened, and her lips tightened. “I know what he is capable of, more than most. I will not let what happened to my children happen to you.”

“What are you saying?” Arianwyn asked, wrapping her hands around Rhaenys’ elbows.

“I have never believed, not for one moment, that Ser Qarl killed Laenor on a whim.” Speaking of her son, her confident air began to waver. “Laenor was a good man – loved by his men. None of them would have turned on him like that without someone else pulling the strings.”

“My father.”

Rhaenys nodded. “Daemon lusted after Rhaenyra for years. Laena was his second choice, and he treated her as such. Once she was dead, only my son stood in the way of what he had long desired.”

Arianwyn’s heart sank, realizing the deep pain she had always felt was not hers alone, but one shared. “Ser Laenor was not the first to die.”

“I always suspected Rhea had not been injured by accident,” Rhaenys said as she pulled her hands from Arianwyn’s face. “I am so sorry you have had to live with that burden.”

“It is not my burden to bear,” Arianwyn replied. “I had as little choice in the matter as my mother. I was seeded by his cruelty. Now, it seems I may die by it as well.”

As she said the words, Arianwyn was surprised to find they no longer sparked tears or a sense of dread. Rather, they nearly brought a sense of peace. After all, it was a good story, if tragic. It was one she could imagine among the gilded pages of a storybook. She always wanted to live a fairy tale, though she had hoped hers would have a happy ending.

Rhaenys grabbed her again, harder this time, her fingers digging into Arianwyn’s skin. “No!” she hissed. “Do not resign yourself to that fate! There are too many people who care for you too much to see you gone so soon.”

Her eyes darkened as she continued, “Our family is heading for dark days, Arianwyn. We will not lose one of the few lights we have left.”

“So what do I do?” Arianwyn begged. The king would surely not grant her release from Daemon. He could hardly walk on his own, let alone stand against his brother. After what he had done in the throne room, she was sure that if Alicent or Otto tried to grant her release, she would face a fate similar to Vaemond Velaryon's.

Rhaenys turned the girl to face the tunnel. “Escape! Follow these tunnels until you find yourself in the city. Keep your hair covered and find a market. Sell your jewels, your clothes even. Make yourself unrecognizable. As soon as you can, leave King’s Landing. Go to Runestone. I will write to Ser Gerold to expect you, and we will find a way to keep you hidden until you are of age. But you must go. Now.”

Arianwyn’s mind raced. She could not deny the appeal of Rhaenys’ plan, of disappearing until she could actually wield the power she needed to fight her father. But even as her legs itched to race through the tunnel, her heart pulled her back into her rooms.

“I can’t,” she whispered, all too aware of the disappointment on her cousin’s face. “I cannot leave Aemond again.”

Rhaenys scowled, “Would you rather him weep over your corpse?”

“No!” Arianwyn shot back. Just the image caused her heart to ache without ceasing. “But if I disappear without him knowing, I cannot predict what he may do. I will not see him hurt, or worse.”

“Fine,” Rhaenys said, biting her lip. “Say your goodbyes. Say whatever you need to.” But promise me that you will run at the first sight of danger.”

Arianwyn steeled herself, trying to show confidence she did not feel. If she did run, would she even be able to find her way out of the castle? Would she survive just one night alone in the streets of King’s Landing? Would she make it to the Vale without being caught, or worse?

Would she be able to bring herself to leave Aemond?

“I promise.”

[xxnymeriatargaryenxx]

being aemond’s wife consists of sitting on his lap and stroking his hair while he comes up with battle strategies 💜

also — the way this chair is designed is kinda perfect for riding him…. dont you think?

[nalyniavadelletargaryen]

*After Rooks Rest*

Aemond: I hate seeing you like this brother…

Aegon, in pain, and on the brink of death: Like what…?

Aemond: Alive.

[inknopewetrust]

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞, 𝐈 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝.

Summary: After days of uncertainty, you catch Aemond in the throne room and envision the future of what power can hold. [Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader] [WC: 2.8k]

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, smut, oral (f receiving), public sex, exhibitionism, overstimulation, enemies to lovers dynamic.

Quick Links: Masterlist | gif by @vizual-demon

“Knee deep in the [throne room] and you’re eating me out… is it casual now?”

“Do you always look so smug after killing your own blood?”

In your shadows, Aemond Targaryen stared at the Iron Throne in the storm.

Thunder eclipsed the skies over the castle. In the late evening, you could feel the shocks of lightning beneath your fingertips as they grazed the columns of marble that flanked the room. Each scream of anger echoed through the stones, you could hear it so clearly.

You could see him in the shadows of the throne.

Aemond Targaryen had returned from battle two days ago.

In those two days, the world had changed drastically compared to the one that it was before. A King incapacitated, a legend buried in the rubble of a fallen house, and two sides burning as bright as the cascading terror above.

The tide was shifting and the power in the halls was striking.

Aemond’s arms hung limp at his sides. For someone so thirsty for the power the room held, his apathetic nature would bury him. He could see the darkness of the swords; twisting and bleeding each person dry for their aspirations.

He wanted to be someone who was remembered.

Aemond Targaryen did not want to be immortalized in history as a weak member of the greatest family to ever exist in this world. In his dreams he saw a man of profound strength and terror—someone who reigned a fearsome government with unyielding standards.

In his cruelty, he wanted people to see a person who would not sacrifice his name for peace.

So yes, he was a bit smug at Rhaenys’ demise and ultimately Aegon’s injury. He would not be in this position now had he not done what was asked of him.

But he didn’t answer you—Aemond did not feel the need to acknowledge it because he knew you understood. Even if you were to be cutting and cynical, Aemond knew you rationalized his beliefs in a similar fashion.

And that enticed him.

You had always enticed him. So simple yet cunning, an outsider amongst the other ladies in your class. You were not a whore, you were not a mother, and yet he wanted to know what it felt like to be a feign of your touch.

How would your hands feel on his body? Your delicate fingers wrapped around him?

“Ah,” you ticked at him, pushing off the stone pillar and moving in his direction. “You see, My Prince, when you allow a dragon’s head to be paraded for the city to see, people are going to notice.”

“Power is power. We needn’t parade it unless it was necessary to remind them who they should bend the knee to.”

“At the ill will of a sacred creature?”

Meleys was once a beautiful dragon. It was such a shame that the second time you were able to witness her beauty it was in the butchered attempt of showing off. The grandstanding sickened the soil.

“It does not take a Targaryen to understand that.”

“What would you know of Targaryen customs?” He spoke back. His voice was thin and dry. “You will never know.”

“I apologize… for my lowly status is not on par with such a great house. I am sure my Lord Father would appreciate the sentiment.”

You have a coy, playful smile that he could feel in his bones. The kind that would chide him, never take him too seriously, and one that rarely doubted him.

It was an uneasy feeling. One he would never quite get used to.

“His ambitions are not unknown. How people without power seek it.”

“Is that not why there are whispers of what you have done?” You questioned and his hands turned to fists quickly. “Small folk talk, Aemond. Power is power but when you misuse it, the omen may come true.”

The omen hovered like the storm above. The God’s were battling in the realm in the sky; giants of proportions unfathomable in their richness of blood. They scorched and rattled in the sky as cracks of thunder rumbled throughout the Keep.

“Yet I speak nothing of it,” he eyed you solemnly. “You talk of rumors and fallacies as if they hold truth. Perhaps it is I who should ask where your loyalties preside? Does war scare you?”

Aemond approached you with long strides. His hands lingered at his sides but never held onto his hilt, threatening you with violence or harm for your disagreements.

He could see you did not fear war. Your father would have called on your return if the prospect of war scared a house with the name of your own. A prominent family in the Vale—to the Greens you were a key.

And he could play you a fiddle if you let him.

“No,” you replied, keeping your head tall. “I live in a gilded tower.”

“That has been infiltrated before. It has seen death before.”

“They do not seek me,” your eyes ran along his face as the sky illuminated his sharp features. “But you know that.”

Aemond hummed and in a moment of faulted want, his right hand reached to brush your own. The electricity of shock pulsing through your veins as though it was as important as blood itself.

You swallowed the nervousness that built in your throat at his actions. He was so sure of himself, so different from the man you had known before.

He took his sins and bathed in them. Aemond let the water dry in confidence of himself as Prince Regent. If he was going to rule in his brother’s stead, he needed the reverie of power to seep inside of him.

“Men will seek anything if they are given the chance.”

You traced the direction of his eyes to your hand, how he ghostly itched to touch you again.

“And what is it that you seek?” You questioned quietly. “Is being a ruler not enough?”

In the lull, your ears filled themselves with the sound of your heartbeat. Pumping and beating to the thrills of anticipation you sought in the sordid walls of an ugly Keep. To please a King, well… It was a dangerous thing.

Aemond’s hand touched yours loosely again. His fingers gently grazed yours with a profound intent that was something he sought.

“No,” he admitted. “It is not.”

His hand bypassed yours and rested lowly on your hip. The touch stilled you. In the darkness of the hall, the world stopped moving and your vision tunneled. His hand moved higher to rest upon the crux of your hip and stomach, thumb caressing the fabric of your dress. He stepped closer.

Without thinking, you took a step back out of the chills that erupted on your skin, not out of want. He took the space you created and closed it again but followed you as you moved backwards and backwards until your back hit one of the marble columns you had hid behind not twenty minutes earlier.

One of your hands caught yourself on the column and the other wove itself around a post. The wings of the throne room were elevated for spectators that were nonexistent now.

Aemond’s other hand mirrored the other and he held you there.

“If someone came looking for you,” he huffed, tilting his head to the side which allowed his eye to narrow. “What would you let them do to you?”

You furrowed your brows yet the feel of his hands burning through your dress allowed your mouth to run dry.

Nothing. You would let them do nothing to you. You would fight to the death to defend yourself but if it were Aemond, you would let him devour you.

“What about me, hm?” There was a faint smile on his lips. “What would you let me, your Prince Regent, do to you while the Gods watched over us?”

His hands slithered up your torso, drawing a staggered breath from you as he cupped your breasts over your dress and groped hard to feel the flesh. Aemond saw your chest stutter under his touch.

“Tell me,” he whispered, pulling his head in close to yours. His lips became a mere centimeter from yours; breath lingering in the space between you heavy and taught.

“I-I-I,” your nerves got the better of you. Stumbling over your words like a dolt, his hands moved back down and began to gather your dress in his hands. 

“Poised to stick pins where the plans now lie but a stuttering fool now.” 

“I am not a fool,” you huffed as the cool night air began to make itself known against your ankles, then your shins. “I know what I want.” 

Aemond leaned in, knocking his nose gently with yours. 

“Tell me,” he repeated. 

“I want you to touch me,” you instructed him. “I want to feel the mouth of a King on my lips and under the Gods I do sin, but I wish to feel his lips elsewhere.” 

“Oh?” Aemond hummed as his hands continued their path. “I may not hold the title of King-” 

“You are a King, Aemond,” you said assertively and his hands stopped. 

“You rule in the place of Aegon’s incapacity and by all law and rules, you are the one to carry the heavy sword. You speak the actions and see them true.” 

His Adam’s apple bobbed at the reality. 

Aemond’s power lingered. It lingered in this great hall but it was a shell. The Aemond he felt in his bones was still as scared as the one who killed Lucerys. 

“I wish to feel your lips elsewhere,” you whispered, breath fanning his face. He tilted his head upwards and for a split second, his lips touched yours. 

Intoxicating; you would have fallen to your knees had you not already wished to see him on his. 

“I want to see a King on his knees.”

Aemond could only smirk. He planted a quick, brief kiss on your lips before bunching up the skirt of your dress as he knelt down to the floor. A beckoning, ethereal call from above led him to his knees to worship. With his hands collecting the material of your dress, Aemond’s hands met yours and opened them the best he could for you to grab onto it. He used the leverage of your assistance to bring down your stockings, clear the way of his alter as the thunder roared from above.

You let your head fall back against the pillar as his hands roamed your thighs, inching higher and higher but still skimming past the now unguarded temple.

You could not help but look at the exits in view as though someone would walk through them at this hour.

This late hour when all of the good, pious Lord and Ladies, Prince and Princesses, laid in their beds asleep—sans the King he would never fault himself for burning.

“Aemond,” you spoke with a voice that shook. “What if someone were to see us?”

He stopped his hands, gazing up at you from the ground on which he knelt.

“Let them see then,” he kissed the front of your thighs. “If they see, then I will marry you.”

Fuck. It made your heart leap in your chest. A frog in your throat, the honesty in his eye was enough for your anxieties to settle but your excitement to grow.

He would marry you. What a world you wished you lived in.

If all were true, it would have happened the first time he touched you. 

“Drop your dress,” he ordered.

Without hesitation, you dropped the skirt of your dress and he vanished before your eyes.

But you could feel him.

You could feel the breath of his body releasing itself just beyond where you ached for him the most. His grip on your thighs was bruising. Aemond used his position to prop one of your legs on his shoulder, sending you off balance and into the bannister behind you.

But then his hot breath met where you wanted him and the feeling melted you from the inside. Aemond peppered kisses on your mound, waiting until the perfect moment to lick a stripe through your folds and with it, you folded yourself. 

Daydreams of his hands on yours was not enough. The feel of your hand in the solitude of night where the sins of pleasure were trapped behind heavy doors could not compare. Aemond attached himself to your flesh and sucked, hard, before lapping again in a more gentle fashion. He repeated it again and again until the wetness began to gather more audibly. 

There was no stopping the breathless pants escaping your lips. 

You gripped hard on the marbled post. If you were the strongest woman in the Seven Kingdoms, you could have crushed it beneath your fingertips. Aemond’s tongue laded the wetness and gathered it in a lewd slurping noise to your clit only to run his tongue over it in brisk movements. 

“Aemond-” you swallowed your moan. Knees threatening to buckle, you wanted to grip onto him. Your hands sought his shoulders, his head or hair, and a soft bed. 

The Iron Throne was taunting you in the background. Power so divine, so close yet a million miles away. 

Aemond wouldn’t marry you, but in the moment, you would live sinfully until the Gods caught you in truth. 

He let out a low hum that made your senses tingle. He too was enjoying the pleasure he could bring, growing his own in his trousers that begged for its own mercy. Aemond could feel you palm at his head from the fabric that fell over his head—a delicacy; the rapture of someone he could love one day if he let himself. 

Your helpless want forced you to roll your hips against his face as though his tongue was not enough. Aemond gripped your hips tightly to guide you against his mouth. 

“Shit.” The words fell from your lips freely. 

“Aemond, I don’t think I will fare much longer,” you admitted to him and felt yourself burn from the inside. His accommodations to your wants, the fluidity of his tongue against you in need was sending you barreling toward the edge. 

Your mewls became whines that rivaled the thunder. 

In an instant, he removed his mouth from yours and appeared from under your skirts. Your clit throbbed as the blood began to rush downwards and a sickening wetness that was not your finish began to trickle down your leg. 

“Wha-” 

You could not speak before his lips met yours aggressively. You could taste yourself on his lips and for a second, you wanted to recoil at the thought but his hands cupped the back of your head softly and everything melted into you. 

You wished he would marry you. 

“I am not done,” he broke the kiss and admitted. “But I could not hold that in any longer.” 

His sentiment took you aback. Your eyes searched for a lie; begging for a fallacy to come true and reveal itself in the ugly colors of night but there was nothing. There was nothing but truth and in it, it broke your heart in the slightest. 

Aemond wanted to kiss you. He wanted to please you, pleasure you, hold you tightly as a husband would do but he wouldn’t marry you. 

He couldn’t marry you. 

But he would love you in the depths of darkness as his power soared for a brief moment in time and the hands of a fair lady, opposed by his mother, warmed his bed in the evening. May the throne be his witness, Aemond Targaryen was a sinner. 

He kissed you again before falling to his knees once more. 

As promised, he worked in quick licks to ignite the spark. It lit up the room brighter than the sky as the Gods boomed in discontent but they worked to drown out the sounds of your elation the closer you became. Aemond let you gather the dress back in your hands so you could see him as his tongue circled your clit and he pierced your cunt with two fingers sliding in the wetness easily. Your legs trembled. His other hand ran soft strokes along the muscle to sooth you but it was fruitless. 

His fingers curved inside of you, massaging your walls as they clenched around him and swore to the heavens for a release. 

“Fuck, Aemond.” 

He enjoyed hearing the words no Queen would dare mutter. It dared him to move faster, to move more heavy against your walls, against your lips as he continued to lap the juices that made the ghosts in the halls look away in a blush. 

It was building to a precipice inside of you. As though a volcano was erupting, you let out sounds he had never heard. You were not trying to be quiet. You were letting the castle hear your pleasure that would send you to a horrible fate. 

And you begged him to bring you to the end. His name lost its true meaning as it became lost in the night, falling from your lips breathlessly and your eyes shut tightly as the chills in your spin sent you spiraling. 

He was no God, but Aemond Targaryen gave what he had as a God should. 

“Darling,” he murmured from below. “Let them all see what a King can do.” 

And you did. 

A/N: thanks for reading! As always comments, reblog, and likes are always appreciated. I love hearing from all of you and thanks for letting me write this little self indulgent fic.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Unabashed

Summary: Aemond wonders whether his pretty new wife is as shy in her sleep as she is awake, and intends to find out | Word Count: 1.6~k | Warnings: somnophilia, dubcon, oral (f receiving), feelings of shame

Thank you to @targaryen-dynasty for organising the event! <3 Make sure to check out the others!

The early dawn light filtered through the gossamer curtains, casting a soft glow across the spacious chamber. Aemond Targaryen, with his stern demeanour and battle-hardened visage, stood at the edge of their grand bed. His gaze softened as it fell upon his wife, a gentle and shy creature, who seemed out of place amidst the grandeur of a Targaryen prince's bedchamber.

They had been married but a few weeks, and her timidity was still evident in her every movement. She lay there, her breaths even and soft, her face relaxed in sleep. Aemond's heart swelled with a mixture of affection and protectiveness. He knew she struggled with the expectations placed upon her as his wife, especially when it came to intimacy.

He thought back to their wedding night. She had blushed deeply, her cheeks a rosy hue as she avoided meeting his gaze. Her hands had trembled slightly as she undressed, her shyness palpable. Aemond had taken her hands in his, his touch gentle, hoping to reassure her, but with a deep desire to claim her as his. Her skin had been warm, and he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse under his fingers. He had moved slowly, each touch deliberate, wanting to make her feel safe and cherished. Despite his efforts, she had remained tentative, her actions hesitant and reserved.

Many at court whispered that she was ill-suited for the intensity that came with being bound to a man like Aemond. They said she lacked the fire needed to stand beside him. Aemond had often wondered if there was another side to her, one hidden beneath layers of gentleness and timidity. A side that perhaps only he could reach, given time and patience.

This morning, he found himself wondering again. As she lay there, serene in sleep, he considered the possibility that in her dreams, she might be free from the constraints of her waking shyness. Perhaps, he thought, he could gently coax that hidden side of her into the light.

The sheets framed her form in his plush bed, her hair in somewhat disarray, a few pieces having escaped her careful and perfect braiding the night before. It had been hot in King’s Landing since their wedding night, and so as his eye drifted over her, he could see the gentle rise of her chest, and her perk nipples forming peaks against the near-translucent cotton bedding. A shy thing she was, but most certainly not without allure.

Aemond's breath caught at the sight, a primal part of him stirred by her unintentional seduction. The stark contrast between her modesty and the sensual image she presented tugged at some place usually kept hidden. She was a puzzle he was determined to solve, a delicate flower he was eager to nurture.

Before he knew it, his fingers bunched the sheets in his grasp, watching with deep satisfaction at the way her body was slowly revealed to him, inch by perfect inch. A map of unmarked territory he was determined to explore. The fabric slid against her skin with such ease, as if she were made of water and they were simply a ripple in her perfection, until eventually, once she was bared to him and she gave a quick breath-like shudder, he was able to take his time in forming his plan.

Aemond leaned closer, his breath hot against her skin. His lips pressed gentle, reverent kisses along the smooth expanse of her stomach, moving lower with each caress. Her body trembled slightly beneath his touch, her breath hitching in her sleep, as if her dreams were becoming more vivid and enticing.

When he finally reached the apex of her thighs, he paused, glancing up at her face. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted slightly, a soft sigh escaping her. Taking a deep breath, Aemond pressed a tender kiss against her inner thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his lips.

His tongue flicked out, tasting her, a heady mix of sweetness and desire. She stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips as her body responded to his touch. Encouraged, Aemond continued his ministrations, his tongue moving with careful thought, exploring every inch of her glistening slit with the precision he afforded everything else in his life. 

Her hips shifted slightly, a subconscious response to the pleasure building within her. Aemond's hands gently gripped her thighs, holding her in place as he deepened his efforts, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Each moan, each soft gasp she made was a testament to the pleasure he was giving her.

There was a deep, primal part that glimmered in his eye at the way she responded, her subconscious sounds and movements a stark contrast to her demeanour when she was awake. Her slumber seemed to lower her carefully built walls, imprisoning her sexuality inside. Her hands gripped the sheets the same way he gripped her thighs, the warm muscle of his tongue dragging over her sex up towards her bud, enclosing his lips around it, the smirk he wore hidden in his actions. 

The sounds were so sweet to his ears he could stay between her plush thighs all day. A part of him was surprised she hadn’t woken yet with the way her hips were chasing his lips and tongue, and her fingers carding through his loose hair and pulling lightly at the roots to ground herself. Her movements were by no means erratic, enough for him to know without looking that she was still in whatever sleep-addled bliss she imagined, but it appeared his little wife was more and more an exciting enigma with every passing day.

Her breathing grew a fraction more erratic, her stomach clenching and unclenching with the warm, numbing climax that was steadily rising. She would blush and apologise profusely if she could see the way she was acting right at this moment, moaning and writhing with her cunt on his mouth. Aemond worked in rhythmic, intoxicating strokes, taking everything she was giving to him, the tartness of her arousal was addictive in a way he had never imagined. 

His little wife’s body arched only slightly off the bed, her grip tightening and thighs trembling, her release washing over her in powerful waves. The only sound she gave was a breathy, elongated moan, too sweet for the carnal, forbidden act he was performing on her sleeping form. Aemond watched with satisfaction as she slowly relaxed, her breathing returning to a more even pace. He placed a final, tender kiss against her sensitive skin before drawing back, his eyes lingering on her peaceful, contented expression.

He found it almost comical that his wife hadn’t woken to her husband devouring her sweet cunt, but that she had woken to the feeling of the mattress dipping as Aemond righted himself, looking down at her bare form, her chest shimmering with a dew of sweat. 

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she blinked up at him, her gaze initially hazy with sleep. As her awareness sharpened, she noticed her state of undress and the lingering warmth between her thighs. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, a mix of surprise and realisation dawning on her features.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling with both shyness and residual pleasure.

He wiped his face, a victorious, cat-like smirk on his features, as if to emphasise her embarrassment. “Good morning, my love.”

She averted her gaze, her hands moving to cover herself instinctively, but Aemond's firm yet gentle touch stopped her.

"There is no need for that," he said softly, his smirk fading into a more tender expression.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of emotions, embarrassment, curiosity, and a budding sense of trust. "Did I... did I embarrass myself?" she asked hesitantly.

Aemond chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound that made her cheeks flush even more. "Not at all," he replied, his voice filled with genuine amusement and pleasure. "You were perfect, and it was a delight to see you respond so…unabashedly"

Her blush deepened, but she managed to meet his gaze, her curiosity overcoming her shyness. "I did not wake up," she murmured, almost to herself. “I thought it was a dream.”

"A dream, perhaps," he said, brushing his fingers gently along her jawline. "But one that I was more than happy to make real."

Feeling her cheeks burn at his brazen behaviour, she tugged the sheets to her chest to cover herself, her expression pleasured but shy. “Such actions will not result in a child.”

"No, it will not," he agreed. "But there are many ways to show my desire. Not all of them are about creating heirs."

“Well I know that.”

His expression took on a predatory gleam, moving swiftly to hold her wrists down to the bed with ease. “You might know,” he murmured, “but you will feel it, every day and every night.”

Her breath hitched, a mixture of fear and excitement. The hardness in his gaze tempered by the affection she saw there. Something shifted in her eyes, a spark of defiance and curiosity he hadn't seen before. She reached up, slipping from his hold, her fingers trailing lightly over his chest, her touch both hesitant and bold. Her lips curved into a small, sweet smile that almost dared him to do more.

His innocent little wife had a hidden fire, one that both intrigued and excited him. He felt his desire flare even stronger, spurred on by the need to explore this new side of her, to see just how far she would go.

“And I intend to make certain you never forget.”

General Taglist: @1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04

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[humanpurposes]

Nightblooms

It was a single night, such a trivial moment, two children sharing lemon cakes in a brothel, but she has not forgotten it. He will not recognise her, surely? // Main Masterlist

Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, angst, sex work, unresolved childhood trauma, implied underage and non-con (not explicitly depicted), mentions of war, violence and death

Words: 9.7k (she's a bit of a monster)

A/n: my humble offering of another Aemond brothel fic. I hope you like :) You can also read this on AO3 if you feel so inclined.

He remembers the bed, the thin curtain draped around it, the slight breeze that drifted in on the night air and made it flutter. The throw was richly decorated, red, black and brown, and he picked at the thin threads of embroidery with his fingertips until his skin was red and white. 

The heat in the room was unbearable, the stench of wine, incense, his own sweat clinging to his bare skin. He was weary to breathe the air in, to tarnish himself any further than had already been done. 

He flinched as the door opened. The madam was back, now wearing a gown and all her gold jewellery. A silhouette stood behind her, he couldn’t see them properly, concealed in shadows. 

“You are shivering, my Prince,” she said. 

He could feel it, his knees brought up to his chest and his arms clinging around his legs. His clothes were neatly folded in a corner, his eyepatch atop the pile, he just hadn’t managed to reach for them yet.

“Have some wine if you like,” the madam said. 

The silhouette stepped into the flickering candlelight. In years to come her face would fade from his memory, but she was young, perhaps as young as him. She was dressed like the other whores, in a loose gown of blue silk that exposed glimpses of her skin, her shoulder, her thigh through a slit in the skirt. She held a pitcher of wine and a cup in her hands.

“She is undertaking her own education,” the madam said, noting how long Aemond’s eye had lingered on the girl. “She’ll help you bathe and dress.”

He made no sound of protest. The madam took the pitcher. He could smell the sour scent of the wine as she poured it. Already a few cups deep, the numbness of alcohol was starting to wear off and a pulsing pain was blooming in the back of his head. The madam placed the cup on a table and then she left.

The girl took a single step towards the bed. She lifted her arm, holding out her hand to him, as if he were some street dog to be tamed.

He scowled. His left eyelids were sewn shut back then, his wound mostly healed after three years, but still hideous enough that people would stare in shock at the sight of him, the ailing King’s maimed son. The Lords and Ladies of the Red Keep averted their eyes when they saw him. His mother looked at him with tears in her eyes. His father… the last time his father must have looked him in the eye was on Driftmark.

But this girl looked at him unabashedly.

If he had his wits about him he might have scorned her. Smallfolk like her should know their place, they should revere their Princes. He shouldn’t inspire pity, he should inspire fear and awe.

His stomach was turning. Anger coursed through his blood. His eyes were hot and stinging but he would not allow any tears to fall. And he was restless. It was all familiar to him, the frustration, the humiliation. He couldn’t bear to sit on the bed anymore, cowering like a child.

“I have a bath drawn,” the girl said. 

He had heard her, but he could not find the will to move, not for a few moments at least, moments which felt like hours.

“I have some cake as well. I find it helps me regain my strength… afterwards.”

He felt his head nod.

“It’s lemon, do you like lemon cake?”

“Yes,” he muttered into his knees.

He watched her fetch a robe from the back of a settee by the fireplace, draping it over her arm. “We only have to go to the next room, not far at all.”

He blinked as he looked at her. He felt the dampness on his cheeks, the stinging cold left in the trail of his tears as another breeze swept into the room. 

All the faces around him this night were unnerving. Aegon had been far too delighted with his so-called “gift”. He’d entered Aemond’s chambers with a snarling smile before he’d gripped him by his shoulders and dragged him through the stairways used by servants to stay out of sight. “You are a man now, Aemond. Time to get it wet.”

The madam had a calm gaze, soft lips and small eyes which considered him intently once she had taken the purse of coins from Aegon. The scent of her perfume was sharp and he could still smell it in his nostrils. His stomach lurched again. 

“Come,” the girl said.

Hers was the only face he found any ease in, and he could not explain why that was.

She held out the robe for him and asked before she secured the tie at his waist. She went to a small door in the corner of the room which he had not even noticed until then. It led into another chamber where the air was hot and humid but not as suffocating.

A basin stood in the middle of the room. She took out two small brown bottles and let a few drops of oil fall into the water, filling the room with a gentle, fresh scent. “Lavender,” she explained, “and rosemary. They are meant to be calming.”

He stepped into the water, glad to find it just below scolding. 

The girl kneeled by the basin, gently pouring cups of water over his hair, running it through with a sweeter smelling oil. She took his hand and allowed him to settle, scrubbing his skin with sugar, cleansing it with an amber soap.

When it was done she rested her chin in her hands at the edge. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

He’d stopped crying now, his limbs felt steadier, more his own. He nodded.

“I don’t feel myself until I’ve washed it all off. It makes me feel as though my skin is truly mine again,” she said.

He felt his hands over his arms, the sweat and the fluids rinsed away, the dead skin scrubbed smooth.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was thick, unnatural in his own throat.

“Do not thank me yet,” she said with a small smile, and suddenly jumped up to her feet. She walked out of his sight, past his blind spot, but she soon returned with a small wooden box. She kneeled beside the basin and opened the lid to reveal three small cakes, dusted with sugar and topped with thin slices of candied lemons. “Take one then,” she said.

He bit down on the inside of his lip to hide his amusement at her impertinence. He did as she told him and ate half of one cake in a single bite. A pleasant sourness burst on his tongue, not like the wine, sweeter, zestier. She was right, his mind was starting to feel a little less numb, the life flooding back into him with every breath he took, lavender, rosemary and lemon.

“You have one too,” he said.

“I’m not meant to,” she said, “they’re for the patrons.”

Aemond lowered his chin to look at her. “Take one.” Now it was his turn to deliver the orders.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting between him and the cakes.

“If anyone reprimands you I’ll feed them to my dragon.”

Her expression ignited. “Alright,” she said with a sly smile.

They devoured the rest of their cakes and shared the remaining one. She insisted that he should have the other candied lemon.

“Do you really feed people to your dragon?” she asked, wiping the crumbs from her mouth.

Aemond licked the sugar from his fingers. “I’ve not done it yet.”

She seemed stunned at his answer, then she giggled. “Yours is the big one, isn’t it?”

“Vhagar. She was Queen Visenya’s mount during the Conquest.”

“I see her sometimes, flying over the city.”

“She is too large for the Dragon Pit,” Aemond explained, “she nests along the shore of the bay.”

“And roams where she pleases?”

“Never too far from me.”

“No,” she said, her voice wilting, “of course.”

He suddenly wondered what this sad, sweet girl kneeling beside him would do if she had a dragon. He could picture her on Dreamfyre, the mount of his sister. Helaena adored flying and would often guide her dragon to glide above the waters of Blackwater Bay and the hills surrounding King’s Landing. This girl would take her dragon further, he thought, she would soar up above the clouds. Perhaps she would take her dragon over the seas, to Essos, to the Summer Isles, to the far corners of the world.

He did not flinch from her when she offered him a towel and patted his skin dry. She fetched his clothes from the other room, the awful room where he could not breathe, buttoning his shirt with swift fingers, doing up the buckles on his jerkin.

She was not much shorter than he was. She stood close enough that he could smell the lemon cake on her fingers, and there was something sweeter and richer underneath. It made him think of fresh fruit and vanilla, rose petals and nightblooms.

Her eyes drew slowly up from his collar to his face, to the wound slicing through the space where his eye once was.

“Does that hurt?” she asked.

He was no stranger to pain. It had persisted since the incident itself, stinging and shooting through his skull. It once made him cower like a child, but of late it had lulled into more of a passing irritation. Had the extent of the pain subsided, or was he simply used to it now? “Sometimes,” he said. 

“How did it happen?”

The years had passed quickly since then. He remembered the joy he felt flying before the moon and the stars over Driftmark on Vhagar, the faces of his nephews and cousins in the dark. He spat cruelties at them. They shoved him, punched him, kicked him. He remembers the taste of his own blood, the crack of Lucerys’ nose under his knuckles, the dust in his eye and then a pain like fire piercing through to his brain.

Three years and he still felt clumsy in his movements. He would often lose his balance or misjudge his steps. He would miss objects as he went to reach for them, and he was still not quite used to turning his head so that he could see past his blind side.

He’d never had to say it out loud before, not all of it. It had been enough for Lord Commander Westerling to find his face covered in blood and the remains of his eye. He had told his father he had been attacked, but it went unheard to the pleas of innocence by the bastards and their mother. The maesters studied his wound. Cole told him he could regain his strength if he worked for it. Everyone else tended to avert their eyes altogether.

She was looking at it, trailing her fingertips over the edges of his scar and the twisted flesh of his eyelids. 

“It was the night I claimed Vhagar. I was returning to Hightide and they came at me, Jace, Luke, Laena’s daughters–” he suddenly realised these names meant nothing to her, but she did not seem discouraged.

“Go on,”

“Rhaena, well, Vhagar was her mother’s dragon. She wanted her, but I claimed her first. I was not afraid of them. Baela struck me first. Then Jace and Luke came at me, and Jace had a knife.”

She breathed a small gasp.

“Luke took up the knife. It all happened very quickly.”

“They did that to you, over a dragon?” She said, trailing her touch lower, over his cheek. 

He remembered the cool surface of the rock in his hand, hovered over Jace’s head. One of the girls shook her head, begging him to stop. And he did—  or he was going to stop…

That’s when Luke had slashed the blade at him.

“I was weak,” he said, brushing her hand away from his face. “It’ll never happen again.”

She tilted her head at him. Her eyes were glassy, like she might cry. Guilt tugged in his chest. He had not wished to upset her.

Then she took a quick breath and went to take up his cloak and his eyepatch. He placed them both on, covering his silver hair with his hood.

She beckoned him to follow with her fingers. They weaved through the close corridors and the few women and men they passed, some fully dressed, some wearing nothing at all. It felt ridiculous and somewhat unbelievable to see how unashamed they all were, women with their breasts out, men with their cocks hanging between their legs. 

His stomach turned again.

He reached for the girl’s hand. Her head whipped around and she held onto him, firmly. He didn’t want to lose sight of her, he couldn’t bear the thought of being alone in this place.

Neither of them let go when they reached the doors. People were passing though so they kept close to the wall, face-to-face. 

“Can you find your way back to the Keep from here?” she said, only having to whisper.

Aegon had long since disappeared. Aemond had rarely been out into the city, save to accompany his mother to the Sept, or his siblings to the Dragon Pit. He was alone now, no guards, no wheelhouse, but the Red Keep with its turrets, battlements and flickering lights in the windows would not be difficult to locate. He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What for?” 

“For what happened to you.”

His stomach turned again, less nauseating, more unsettling, uncertain. He supposed this would be the last time he saw her.

“Will you be alright, here?” he said.

She took in a sharp breath and she frowned as though she were in pain. “Yes. The madam is good to me. She keeps me fed and clean.”

But the things they must make her do…

“Go, return to your royal castle and your servants,” she said with a grin. “Far better that I am here and not starving in some gutter.”

So he did. He slipped through the door, his last memory of her being obscured by shadows, perhaps that’s why he could not recall the details of her face. 

Walking through the streets of King’s Landing, he had never felt so aware of his body, his skin under his clothes, shifting over his bones. His limbs felt slightly numb, his feet moving of their own will while his mind… was clouded. His head felt heavy and the noises around him were distant. No one paid any mind to the boy trudging over the dirt and cobbles, but he felt the eyes of the gods on him and it made him shiver. They had seen his sins. What if his mother knew where he had been, the things he had done? He imagined her brown eyes, filled with disgust rather than grief.

He could not look at Aegon for weeks afterwards. He shied away from his mother’s touch, especially on his legs, his knees. In the Sept he begged the gods to forgive him. He begged to forget it.

Years went by. Some nights when he felt a certain tension in his stomach and a stirring in his breeches, he’d think of it, the heat and sweat and incense. And after there was no relief, just an emptiness in his chest.

He could wash it all away, with drops of lavender and rosemary oil in his bath, with sugar scrubbed into his skin.

If there was one thing he wished to remember of that night, it was her. He still thought of that girl, a face obscured in shadow, when the servants brought out lemon cakes after supper, when Helaena insisted on walking through the gardens at sunset and the air was sweet with nightblooms. She pointed them out to him, the silvery white flowers growing in the leafy green bushes lining the path, their petals like little moons in the foliage. 

“How curious are these,” Helaena had said one evening, “they retract in sunlight, but in darkness they flourish.”

Daylight dies with a golden sunset and night blooms with a sky of red and indigo clouds. 

The King’s body is now ash. Sunfyre had the honour of being the dragon to do it. It was a hasty affair, in the hours after Aegon’s coronation, when the chaos at the Dragon Pit still had their family and the Small Council stunned to silence. Aegon wore the steel crown as they stood on a cliff over the bay, waiting for him to give the order. The heads of his mother and his sister hung heavy, but Aemond did not avert his gaze from the flames. He felt the heat on his face, seeping through his skin. 

At long last, his father is gone. Aemond has not wept for him, nor does he feel a desire to. His father was once a young man, well loved, so he is told, but to Aemond he was always a frail old man. Save for the few times he ever proved his strength, and even then his strength was only ever resolved for his dearest child. 

Rhaenys will have made it to Dragonstone within a matter of hours, and Aegon’s ascension will not come without consequence. 

On the morrow he will fly for Storm’s End and secure the allegiance of Lord Borros Baratheon. His mother has assured him this will be a simple enough feat, swords for a marriage pact with one of the Baratheon girls, but a crucial one. His brother will not hold the throne long without Lords to uphold his claim and men to fight for it. 

He wonders if the Stormlands will live up to their name; how dull the entire affair will be if it only amounts to flying Vhagar through a downpour of rain. This is the war his mother and grandsire wish to fight, with letters and diplomacy. He is sure the dragons will become restless soon enough. Rhaenyra has been steadfastly sure of her own importance her entire life, and with Daemon at her side, she will not bend the knee without a challenge.

And what of Aegon, is he ready to fight for his crown?

When Viserys breathed his last and the pieces were all finally in play, Aegon had not been where he needed to be. Not in his rooms, not within the walls of the castle. He was squandering his duties, evading the position he was born to, as he always has done. Aemond himself was the one to drag him from the streets of King’s Landing to the Red Keep. Cole had spent hours with him, convincing him to take up the crown rather than fleeing on a ship across the Narrow Sea, to Pentos, to Yi Ti, some far corner of the world where the burden of being their father’s son would not weigh so heavily on his shoulders. 

The first place Aemond had thought to look for his brother proved to be a fruitless endeavour. The establishment was a familiar one, and with every step he took along the Street of Silk his memories phased into reality. The knocker on the door was the same. The madam was the same, the same long, auburn hair, the same gold jewellery, the same knowing smile on her lips and a gleam in her eyes. 

“The Prince is not here,” she had said. “His tastes are known to be less discriminating.” Of course. Aegon could pay for the most expensive, sweetly perfumed whores in all of King’s Landing, but instead he sullies himself with the scum of Fleabottom, rolling around in the dirt like a pig.

The madam’s gaze then turned to Aemond. She remarked how he had grown. It felt an obvious thing to say. He was no longer the child he was when Aegon first brought him there.

While he and Cole wandered the city in search of his wastrel of a brother, a thought passed through his mind. He thought of a face in the shadows of the brothel, steam rising, gentle hands, the scent of lavender, rosemary, rose, nightblooms…

She could have been there, on the other side of the door, within the walls of the establishment. She would be a woman just as he was now a man. Or she might have left years ago, to a better life, or perhaps a worser fate. Are the lives of the smallfolk not meant to be brutish and short? 

A hollowness settles in his chest, restless and hungry, like it’s writhing under his skin. He paces his chambers, reads until the hearth has died and the sky beyond the windows is black, but sleep will not come to him.

In the hour of the wolf, he dons a cloak and retraces his steps.

Men are all the same. They strut into the establishment like peacocks, with an ego that outweighs their purse. They flash a few coins and ask for wine rather than ale, a symptom of refined taste. They run their hands over her body, her waist, her hips and her rear as though she should be grateful for their attention. They tell her uninteresting stories while they drink themselves into a stupor. They convince themselves that it is their charm and decent looks that have her leading them to a bed in a quiet corner of the pleasure house, or falling to her knees and undoing the laces on their breeches. The truth is that she will do what is asked of her, so long as they have gold. It is only motions of the body, and afterwards she can wash it all away. 

Until the next night… and then the next… and then the next…

Madam Sylvi has promised her to a Lannister tonight, a man of Lord Tyland’s household, no doubt paid well by the family he serves. He is supposed to be waiting for her but first she must pretty herself for him. She wears a gown of blood red that bares her back and her arms, that will easily fall away with the undoing of a clasp at her neck. She lets her hair fall freely and tints her lips and cheeks with rosewater. Finally she dabs her perfume into her wrists, her neck, on the insides of her ankles, a scent she has worn for years, sweet, rich and floral.

She descends the stairs by the door. At the darkest time of night the pleasure house is alive. Music hums over the laughter, the moans, the cries. The air is thick with the sourness of alcohol and the smell of sweat and sex.

A man with silver hair stands in the entrance hall, Sylvi beside him. They speak with their heads close together, as familiars? As lovers? Sylvi strokes his arm affectionately, with a look glinting in her eye that means she intends to bleed this Targaryen of all the gold he has.

It does not sink in until he looks up, his single eye meetings hers. He wears an eyepatch over his left eye, dark leather obstructing his hair and pale skin.

The eyepatch… it cannot be…

Sylvi had always said men come here to take their pleasure on their own terms. This had not seemed to be the case when last she laid eyes upon Prince Aemond. She had seen them enter, the young Princes, one taller, merrier, with purple wine stains in the corners of his mouth. The other was solemn faced and unsure, ushered into the arms of the madam before she led him upstairs. Sylvi had other patrons to attend to once the deed was done, leaving the burden of caring for the young Prince on her equally young shoulders.

She still remembers him hunched over himself and shivering, the distant look in his eye, frozen in a single moment of time. The most she had been offered after her first time was a cup of moon tea and an order to change the sheets for the next patron.

It was a single night, such a trivial moment, two children sharing lemon cakes in a brothel, but she has not forgotten it. He will not recognise her, surely?

“Her,” the Prince says, “I will have her.”

Her heart drops. She has reached the end of the steps and freezes, looking to Sylvi for instruction. Anticipation stirs in her gut, somewhere between terror and curiosity.

“I’m afraid she has been spoken for tonight, but I would be glad to–”

“I will pay double what any other man has promised,” Aemond says with an air of finality. This is an offer that cannot be refused. Perhaps the minor Lord will be disgruntled, but he will be compensated generously. Defying a Prince is treason. 

While Sylvi has gone to deal with the outbidded Lord, her legs carry her down the last few steps until she is face to face with Prince Aemond.

He is taller for a start, at least a head above her. His hair is longer, his face is slimmer and sharper, his lips are settled into a slight pout. He carries himself differently, proudly. Her eyes move over his leathers under his cloak. She is not meant to admire the men who seek her services. She is meant to take their coin and fulfil their desires.

“Some wine, my Prince?” she asks, nodding towards the inner chamber, the heart of the pleasure house where the musicians play and bodies mingle out in the open or behind drawn curtains. 

He offers her a cryptic “hmm,” and follows her inside.

One of the other girls stands in a corner, carrying a tray of full cups. She passes one to Aemond, his fingertips brushing over her skin as he takes it. 

The Prince studies his surroundings like a hunter looking for quarry, lips quirked, jaw tight, somewhat amused but silent. Something tells her he has not returned to the pleasure house in the years since his first visit. This is all unfamiliar to him. He sips his wine and takes a slow breath. No doubt he will prefer somewhere a little more secluded.

She takes his hand and weaves through the room, to one of the adjacent chambers lit by candlelight, large enough to fit a bed and little else.

With the curtains drawn the other sounds fade into nothing. She takes Aemond’s wine and sets it aside, coming to stand before him.

She keeps waiting for him to lean into her, to grab greedily at some part of her flesh, to claim her lips with his. Instead he stands stoically, his chest rising and falling from underneath the thick leather of his tunic.

“Are you not awfully warm, my Prince?” she says in a honeyed voice, one she has practised for years that usually feeds the lie she actually wants what’s about to happen. She trails her fingertips over the shiny silver buckles that conceal him from her, his body stiffening under her touch.

She takes a breath to steady the erratic beat of her heart and the wanting stirring in her belly. It is not often that her own forwardness seems out of place. 

She remembers the boy with silver hair. She remembers the scowl on his face, how it melted into confusion and fear. He had needed patience then and she was happy to give it. Because she was ordered to. Because she pitied him. Perhaps because she recognised something in his expression and the way he seemed unsure in his own skin.

She places a hand on his shoulder, testing the waters of how close she can get to him. He does not protest. His nose twitches as he inhales deeply and exhales slowly. “Perhaps we should make ourselves more comfortable?” she says.

He places his hand over hers, guiding it to the top buckle at his collar. His expression is stern, his face bathed in golden candlelight and the shadows caught in the angles of his face. His eye is somehow soft but intent.

Undressing him is not to be rushed. She takes her time with every buckle on his jerkin and pushes it slowly from his shoulders. She untucks his undershirt from his breeches and he pulls it over his head. His skin is smooth, mostly unmarred, save for a small scar in the crook of his elbow that had not been there the last time they met. He is all muscle, lean and lithe. She places her palms at his chest and lets them drag down his abdomen, to the waist of his breeches.

He holds her wrists to stop her.

She looks to his eye, terrified that she might have overstepped.

Instead he kisses her. It’s gentle and chaste, his hand against the bare skin of her back, pulling her against his body. When she teases his tongue with hers he chases it, only for the kiss to become messy and clumsy. She cannot bring herself to dislike his inexperience.

“Wait,” she says, pulling away, putting her hands on either side of his jaw. “Follow my lead,” she whispers, leaning in to capture his lower lip between hers. They find a rhythm then. She shows him to move slowly, to be firmer. As their kiss deepens she allows herself to melt into his arms. Her hips are rocking against his, his hand trailing over her skin until he finds the clasp of her dress. The material falls away as simply as it should, leaving her bare before him.

He studies her the same way he studied the room. How many men have laid eyes on her since she came to this place? Too many to count, insignificant men, who have no names or faces in her memory. She has no shame in her nakedness, but there has never been any doubt in her mind that those men found her desirable. Being under Aemond’s scrutiny makes her tremble. She wonders if the sight of her pleases him. He has enough gold and enough pride to be selective. 

He had asked for her though. Why?

He’s staring at her. “They crowned my brother today,” he says.

It is not what she was expecting to hear. “I saw.”

“You were there?”

“No.” The gold cloaks did not empty the whorehouses when they were ordered to fill the Dragonpit with witnesses for the King’s coronation.

Aemond’s attention is on her body now. He reaches for her arm, tracing circles over her skin with his thumb.

She had not seen the King himself but she had seen the crowds flocking. She had heard the tremendous noise of crumbling stone, people screaming, a dragon’s screech. “I saw the dragon. People say it is an omen.”

Aemond’s face darkens but his attention is still on his own hand, now at her waist. With the other he pulls the eyepatch from his head and tosses it towards his discarded shirt. She does not get much of a chance to refresh her memory of his maimed eye before he leans into her again. His lips are at her shoulder, then her neck and it leaves her utterly weightless. 

“Your perfume is the same,” he mutters into her skin.

He remembers.

Aemond seems content enough following her lead. He lets her slip his breeches past his hips and take him into her mouth. He lets her sit atop him and grind her core against his hardened cock until her peak washes over her, blissful and warm.

When he starts to buck his hips and dig his fingertips into her hips she decides to give him respite. She sinks herself onto him with a soft sigh. It is a rare opportunity to chase a feeling rather than letting herself go through a rehearsed set of motions. 

His eye moves between her face and the space where their bodies meet, as if he cannot decide which is more fascinating. She is pleasantly surprised when he places his thumb at her pearl and circles over her sensitive flesh.

She loses herself in it, how deep he reaches, pleasure rising and tightening until it releases suddenly, violently. She falls forwards on her hands to steady herself. 

Before long Aemond lifts her off his cock, finishing himself with a stuttering groan and his seed dripping through the folds of her cunt.

He holds her close, caging her in his arms and bringing her into his chest. There’s a numbness that follows pleasure and she cannot bring herself to care that he is crushing her ribs. It doesn’t matter. She basks in the heat of his skin and the smell of him. 

He makes good on his promise of payment. The purse of coins he leaves on the bed before he leaves is worth ten nights with any other patron. 

There is less pretence the next time he visits her.

It is only a day later. He comes in the middle of the night, his hair, coat and leather gloves soaked, but there is no rain in King’s Landing. They tear at each other’s clothes and kiss like starved dogs devouring scraps. Aemond holds her by her jaw and her neck. When she draws his teeth over his lip he grins.

Once he is bare she realises his skin is cold and he is shivering.

“You should sit before a fire and warm up properly–”

“No,” he insists, “I just want you.”

She chases her pleasure once more, Aemond’s hands bruising into her hips as he thrusts up to meet her, the coldness of his palms seeping through her skin. This newfound urgency is thrilling and she finds herself curling over her body as her peaks tears through her.

Aemond is not finished with her yet. He positions her beneath him, spreading her legs apart with two wide palms before fucks her with a brutal precision, and he does not stop until he has reached his own end, painting her belly and the tops of her thighs.

After, he takes her into his arms, positioning them both so that he lies under her arm with his head nestled on her chest, between her breasts. She strokes her fingertips through his damp hair, over his skin, all the places where lovers touch each other, his cheek, his neck, underneath his ear, his shoulder. With his arm draped over her stomach he clings to her like he may never know such intimacy again. His skin is still cold and yet she holds him close, determined that she will draw some warmth from him.

Hours pass. Days could pass and she’d be content to lie with him.

“The dragon was an omen, you said,” he mutters.

It takes her a moment to rouse herself. Her eyes had closed, her mind half asleep. “That’s what people are saying. A coronation marred by death must surely only lead to more death.”

She feels his arm tighten over her stomach.

“You’re cold,” she says.

“I was instructed to fly to the Stormlands.”

“Why?”

“To secure the support of Lord Baratheon. He has pledged his banners to my brother’s cause and in return I am to wed his daughter.”

His state suggests to her that he has not yet returned to the Red Keep.

“Is there to be a war?” she says. 

He remains frozen for a few moments.

“I believe war may now be inevitable,” he says. She feels his lips brushing over her skin.

“How so?” she says on a quiet breath.

“A boy is dead because of me.”

The coldness of Aemond’s body has decidedly taken root within her, like a fist closing over her heart and throat.

“Lucerys was there, at Storm’s End. Lord Borros shunned him from the hall but I… it wasn’t enough. I pursued him on Vhagar. His dragon is nothing to her, they didn’t stand a chance.”

She is not sure she wishes to hear of this, but a new kind of stillness has settled over her. She is too afraid to move, to disturb him. 

“He is the one who took your eye,” she says.

Aemond hums. “He never paid for what he did to me. My father was more concerned with the slanders against my sister than he was with me, with my blood spilled by my own kin.”

She closes her eyes, imagining the little boy from all those years ago is curled up in her arms. She runs her fingers through his hair, undoing the knots and tangles. She cradles his head in her arms so he knows he is not alone.

“His debt is paid now, I suppose,” Aemond says.

It is in the early hours of the morning when he finally leaves, the first glimpses of sunrise chasing night from the sky. She helps him dress and fastens his eyepatch over his head. He leaves another purse in her palm, a more than generous amount. 

He comes to her nightly. He is an unhurried lover and fucks her slowly, hovering his lips above hers so that they share the same air, keeping their bodies pressed tightly together as if he wishes to smother her, or else crawl under her skin. She’d let him do it.

It is not simply her body he wants. When they are done he wants to be held, and then his thoughts slip from between his lips. 

He had not expected to return to the Red Keep a hero for slaying his nephew, but now he says his mother can hardly look at him. His grandsire, the Hand of the King scorns him for his recklessness, for his impulse for violence that now means the false Queen may strike at any moment. Vhagar circles the city during the day, she sees the dragon when she goes to the market. Aemond insists that his dragon could make short work of destroying any other who would seek to oppose her, but Rhaenyra has dragons to spare. He sits in meetings of the Small Council and watches in despair as the Hand and the Dowager Queen advocate for patience and diplomacy. 

“We should be marching,” he says one night, tracing his fingertips over her stomach. “We should secure the support of the Crownlands, adding their numbers to our host. Rhaenyra is isolated enough on Dragonstone, but we could cut her off from her allies completely.”

“And none would stand against you and Vhagar,” she says. Assuring him has become a learned skill these last few weeks.

“Alicent wishes for me to remain here, to deter an attack on the city.”

“That is sound logic,” she says. “The people of King’s Landing will be grateful for your protection.”

Aemond hums irritatedly.

“I for one would despair at the loss of our Prince,” she adds, ghosting her lips over his cheek, where his scar cuts through his skin.

For a little while he entertains her, turning his head to kiss her properly. She slips her hand between their bodies, taking hold of his hardening cock. He melts into her, chasing his pleasure as she strokes him.

“I am ready for more,” he says breathlessly. “I’m ready to fight.”

“As you have proved,” she says, coming to kiss his throat. 

In a single breath he is above her, pinning her hands by her head. He positions himself against her, rocking his hips so his leaking tip pushes against her pearl. He knows this about her now, how to draw her pleasure from her body. “Storm’s End was no battle,” he hisses into her ear. “Luke was a child. I want fire and blood.”

“Your time will come,” she says, her voice catching in her throat as he quickens his pace.

“The war must be inevitable,” he pants, “the realm will realise it soon enough. Aegon is the King and yet he is hostage to those with weaker wills.”

“You are his brother,” she sighs as Aemond slips lower to her entrance. “You can convince him to act–”

“Not now,” Aemond says, pushing into her with one sudden thrust. “Just take it, that’s it…”

He fucks her slowly, deeply, with his face buried into her neck. His desperation fuels her own desire, his hot breath against her ear, his pants and his groans. When he is finished he does not leave her wanting, trailing his lips and tongue down her body, her chest, her stomach, driving her towards her own peak with his lips and tongue.

“My grandfather takes my aspirations as insolence,” Aemond mutters to himself as he dresses. “He thinks me weak. He thinks I am still a child.”

“Then he is a fool,” she says, still buried beneath the throw on the bed.

“My mother and grandfather seized the throne, now they will not do what needs to be done to hold it.”

“Perhaps they fear what a war might bring.”

Aemond tuts. “The first blood has been drawn.”

“Do you not…” she pauses when he looks at her, his eye wide, anticipating something he will not wish to hear. “What if Rhaenyra comes for you? What if she seeks vengeance for her son?”

Aemond smiles like he has a secret and stalks slowly towards the bed, her stomach tightening in anticipation. 

In some ways, Aemond terrifies her. He has a presence of danger and bloodlust which fades away when she peels away the layers of his leathers. Without his eyepatch, in the warmth of the candlelight, he is the picture of Valyrian beauty, a man who belongs in histories and legends, not the living, breathing realm she exists in. 

He leans into her, taking her chin between his fingers to kiss her. She relishes it for as long as she can, knowing it won’t be enough to charm him back into the bed.

He pulls away, reaching into his pocket for a purse of coins. “Let her try,” he says as he places it beside her, “but I will not be easily ended.”

The girls all share chambers, bedrooms and a washroom with basins and baths. She rises early in the morning to bathe, to drop her lavender and rosemary oils into the tub and scrub away the remnants of last night. Before, she would not allow herself to fall asleep until she was clean. Lately she finds an odd sense of comfort in the reminders of her royal patron. Her skin is littered with love bites and bruises, her neck, her collar, her breasts. It shouldn’t be like this. Usually she does what she can to forget the men she has been with.

They share their duties. This morning she is to help wash the bed linens, and find cheap grain and cuts of meat from the markets.   

The clothes she wears are modest, covering her arms and her neck, unflattering to her figure. Some people still eye her with disgust, with hatred. You can always spot a whore. What can strangers know of her? Can they see through her skin and see her sins as the gods judge them all from the seven heavens? It was not as if she had chosen this path for herself out of an endless number of possibilities. 

Sometimes she remembers the life she had before, a woman’s laugh, a particular taste on her tongue, a tune humming in the back of her mind she can’t quite piece together. She used to think the gods had forsaken her, but now she thinks they do not concern themselves with the lives of people like her. So she finds little point in looking to the past, of imagining a future for herself. She survives and that is enough.

Summer is nearing its end. There is no warmth to be found in sunlight obscured by clouds. People walk quickly, keeping their belongings in deathly grips. A woman with a babe in her arms begs the baker to accept one copper instead of five for a loaf of bread. A man despairs that the apothecaries cannot offer him a medicinal herb from Lys for his sickly daughter. The shipping lanes are blocked by the Velaryon Fleet holding the Gullet, and no ship can get in or out of King’s Landing. A woman cries for her son, a rat catcher, his body hanging from the walls of the Red Keep. 

She gets what she needs to, grain she will bring back to the kitchens for the cook to turn into plain tasting flatbread. A butcher sells her tough cuts of beef for a reasonable price to go into a stew. He worries that there have been no imports of salt or sugar. How is the city meant to preserve food for the fast approaching winter? 

“It’s the fucking war,” he grumbles, “why can’t the King just burn the ships so the rest of us can eat?”

In the distance she hears drums, the clatter of horse hooves against the cobbles. She keeps her basket tightly on her arm, not stopping to make eye contact with the people she passes, past the stalls, mules, the buckets of sewage and dirty water falling from windows above her head.

As she emerges from one of the side streets her way is suddenly blocked by masses of people. She had guessed some sort of procession was afoot. This is no celebration, it is lamentation. People weep and wail around her, a mass mourning that she does not understand, and yet she feels it in her chest and behind her eyes, an urge to cry.

Over the sea of bodies before her she sees two women in an open carriage, richly dressed with black veils over their faces. Petals fall from windows and footbridges. People cry the name of Queen Helaena and Dowager Queen Alicent. 

She finds a small ledge to lift herself onto at the base of a statue. What she sees could stop her heart. This is a funeral procession. Queen Helaena’s carriage follows the body of her son, wrapped in a green and gold shroud, with flowers woven into his white hair. For a moment she tells herself the boy is an effigy, that he could be made from wax or porcelain. 

“Behold the work of Rhaenyra Targaryen!”

The whispers follow her as she scurries back to the pleasure house. The Prince was slain in his sleep. Two assassins cut his head from his body. They made his mother and twin sister watch. 

Bile rises in her throat as she hands cook the cuts of meat, blood seeping through the wrappings. She swallows it down.

When Aemond comes to her that night he is more subdued than usual. He pulls her into his arms and she strokes her hand over his hair.

“My nephew is dead,” he utters. He sheds no tears, he seems confused more than anything.

Rhaenyra’s retribution had come then, swift and brutal, a son for a son. 

She undresses him but he leans away when she tries to kiss him. They lie back on the bed and Aemond settles his head on her shoulder.

“My brother is in a rage and wants Rhaenyra dead. My sister has not left her rooms; I tried to go to her but she would not speak to me,” he says.

“How did it happen?”

“There were two. One was a gold cloak. They found him at the gate of the gods with Jaehaerys’ head in a sack. He confessed the other was a rat catcher.” 

Now the bodies of a hundred men hang by their necks, though only one of them is guilty.

“Daemon sent them to kill me,” Aemond says, “but I was out.”

She rests her fingers at the pulsepoint on his wrist to remind herself his heart is still beating. “You were with me,” she says. She feels the guilt weighing in her chest. While she and Aemond had kissed and fucked and held each other, a boy had a lost his life, the very body she had seen paraded through the streets.

“In truth I am proud that he considers me such a foe, that he would seek to murder me in my bed.”

She cannot tell if she admires him for it or not, to gamble with life as though it means nothing.

Aemond is watching her, his hair loose and framing his face. “Do you think he fears me?”

She has never seen Aemond wield a blade. She’s never seen him ride his dragon, not up close. She’s never seen him fight with his fists. She’s never seen him slur his words and throw away threats in a drunken argument. He is always composed. He is always softly spoken, and in a way that terrifies her more than it should. They say the blood of the dragon runs hot. Aemond’s blood does not seem to burn, rather it simmers under the surface of his skin. 

“Perhaps he fears what else you might be capable of.”

Aemond is the closest she has ever seen him to tears. His eyelashes are damp and heavy, his seeing eye vibrantly blue and glassy. “You think me a monster,” he utters.

She could never say it, could she? But this is a man who took the life of his own kin as a reparation for his eye. Violence is carved into his face, beautiful, set with a gemstone, but it is there nonetheless. 

She brushes her fingertips over his cheek and plants a delicate kiss to his lips. After only a few moments he shrugs her off and repositions himself, curling into her lap like a child, clinging to her limbs and the fabric of her gown. 

“I lost my temper that day,” he says. “I should have known Vhagar would not relent. I am sorry for it.”

Her blood runs cold. Should she be glad to hear he is remorseful? He may not be a cold hearted killer, but destruction lives at his fingertips. 

She reaches for his hand and he takes it. His touch is gentle and hesitant. “There was no justice in what happened to you,” she says, “blood has paid for blood…” but where does it end? With Lucerys? With Jaehaerys? With the next?

Aemond says nothing. She feels his tears slip onto her legs, his fingernails forming crescents in her skin.

Remorse will not return Rhaenyra’s son to her, it will not bring back the little Prince paraded through the streets of King’s Landing.

She clings to him, hoping she can ease whatever torment plagues him, and banish what darkness consumes him.

She never tires of the sight of him. His body bare, his hair tied away from his face, the uneven edges of his sapphire glinting in the lowlight, laid out beneath her. She runs her hands over his chest, tracing the lines that are familiar to her now. “I want to taste you,” she says sweetly, knowing he’ll already be desperate for her. 

He hums quietly to himself. By the slight smile threatening to break in the corners of his mouth, she knows he is content.

“On your knees then,” he says, and positions himself to sit at the end of the bed.

She runs her tongue over his length first, finishing with a teasing lick at the tip where he’s already weeping. She takes him into her mouth gradually, pushing a little deeper with every bob of her head. He is her Prince, he takes his pleasure from her and holds her hair from her face but it is she who sets the pace, who revels in his moans as his mind lulls. 

But he pulls her head away by her hair before he finishes. Suddenly she’s on her back and he’s kneeling over her with his fist moving furiously over his cock. He reaches for her breast and squeezes. In the morning when she bathes, she’ll look at the bruises and remember how he touches her. Her own had slips between her legs, tracing circles over her pearl at the thought.

This pleases Aemond. His brow hardens and his jaw falls. “Fuck, are you going to finish with me?” he whispers.

She nods in reply, her breath catching as a whimper in her throat. 

His grip on her breast tightens. She winces at the pain and it only fuels her own pleasure. She succumbs to her senses, chasing the feeling in her gut that only wants for release. Her fingers work frantically over her wet and wanting cunt.

“Make yourself come for me, that’s it,”

She obeys him with a cry, her body reduced to a shaking, dazed mess as Aemond reaches his own end. She watches his seed spurt from his cock, warm as it paints her skin.

He has habits, she’s noticed. He does not spill inside her. Of course, with the nature of the establishment there is no shortage of moontea, but she never questions him when he removes himself. He prefers to see it on her skin. 

Targaryen bastards are not uncommon in King’s Landing, commoners with silver hair. It is said Prince Aegon himself has sired many on the women of Fleabottom. Perhaps the idea is distasteful to Prince Aemond. He is discreet. He does not bring drinking companions with him to the pleasure house and he keeps his hood up as he enters and exits. 

He takes a cloth and wipes his seed from her skin. She bites back another jolt of anticipation in her spine. She would take more from him, but instead he lies beside her, curling into her embrace, tucking his head into her chest. 

He could fuck her quickly and be done with it, it would be more efficient. He could take a different girl each time. He could have one brought up to the castle. Yet since the day of the King’s Coronation he has found his way into her arms to her each night. In these quiet moments she lets herself think there is a reason for it.

They trace their fingertips over each other’s skin and he tells her things she shouldn’t know, that the King has named a new Hand in Ser Criston Cole, that while Queen Alicent seeks to avoid open war, Aegon wants to fly headfirst into it.

“It’s not his place. He’ll not stand a chance against Meleys or Caraxes.”

The names are strange to her. Sometimes it feels like a cruel joke, a reminder that some Silk Street whore is not meant to understand the realm he exists in. Other times it feels like an honour, like he’s gifted her a part of himself, a glimpse into his mind.

“He is no warrior, but he wishes to live up to his namesake. He wants for glory alone; it is a reckless pursuit but he would risk his life for it.”

“He is the King, is it not his war to fight?” she says. 

“He is not capable of it,” Aemond says, “but I…”

It is not a thought he dares to finish.

King Aegon wears the crown of the Conqueror, or so people say. She’s never seen a real crown. She’s seen paper ones worn by the mummers in the square, and she’s seen girls wearing wreaths of flowers on their heads for the festival of spring. They are only delicate things. Real crowns are made of gold, silver and steel. As Aemond’s eye flutters shut he looks divinely peaceful, but unsettled where his sapphire continues to stare at her. She pictures a crown of spring flowers fashioned from steel and imagines it upon her Prince’s brow.

Footsteps thud upon the stone floor, too close to the curtain, closer than anyone should dare to come near. She lifts her head as it’s drawn back.

It takes a moment for them all to realise what’s happening. Several faces stare at her– at Aemond. One of the men has silver hair, shorter and choppier than Aemond’s. He bares his teeth as he grins.

She sees a flash of fury in Aemond’s face as he turns to face them.

The silver haired man starts to laugh, the sound shrill and unpleasant. His friends do not join him. “Aemond the fierce!” he cries, pointing, staring.

Ameond parts himself from her instantly. He retreats as far as the edge of the bed, hunched over himself, his knees in the crooks of his elbows. He keeps his head hung, not looking at the men and the leader of their pack. He does not look at her, he does not look at anything. 

She sees the child he once was, frightened and confused. 

The man staggers towards the bed, clearly half out of his mind by the smell of wine drifting from him when he perches on the bed. On instinct she covers her breasts, devastated to realise her robe is out of reach.

“And here I thought you were as chaste as a fucking septon! You know,” he says to his companions, “I brought him here for his first too. And how far you’ve come, curled in the arms of a whore like a greenboy!”

There’s a bite to his– the King’s words, a cruelty that only makes Aemond shrink further into himself. Her heart aches for him, that she cannot help him. 

“Are you tired, brother? Did you fuck her like a hound?” An idea he emphasises with an impersonation of a hunting dog.

Aemond doesn’t move or speak.

Still in hysterics, Aegon turns his gaze to her, unashamedly lingering on her chest and her legs. “Hard luck for your squire, Ser Martyn,” he says, drawing his tongue over his lips, “as pretty as this one is, she is very much occupied.”

His laughter is the only sound in the chamber and it pierces her skull. 

Aemond starts to shift. Helplessly she reaches out her hand, unsure of what it is she intends to do. He doesn’t take it. He doesn’t even look at her.

He stands before the King and his companions. His humiliation has melted away. In the place of the boy is a man who speaks calmly and clearly. “Your squire is welcome to her. One whore is as good as another.”

He strides from the chamber and she is entirely forgotten.

Or so she wishes that were true. There are still four men in her midst. And she is still, for all the hours she has spent in Aemond’s company, a whore in a pleasure house. 

I've kinda given up on taglists, sorry <3

A/n: I'm quite happy with this! I've been playing with the idea in my head for a few weeks, then I saw episodes 2 and 3 and it just had to happen. Would be very cool if you wanted to let me know what you think :)

[sapphiresandferrari]

His sweet girl

Summary: Aemond catches feelings for one of the girls at the brothel and his brother, Aegon, almost ruined everything

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x ocf!reader

Warnings: emotionally constipated Aemond, cunt Aegon, implied smut, lactation kink if you squint, fluff

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: Hello everyone, I'm Rosie and this is my first fic ever

Likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated, feel free to give me advices or suggestion, just be polite

English is NOT my first language, so apologies if there are any mistakes

Gif credits: @aegonx

Enjoy 🫶🏻

Aemond doesn’t know exactly when se became so important to him.

One night he went to the brothel for his usual service, the last weeks has been hectic, everything was overwhelming, his father’s death, Aegon’s coronation and Luke’s death, so he had to find a way to release the stress that it wasn’t training with ser Criston Cole.

So, when he arrived at the pleasure house, he thought that Madame Sylvi was waiting for him like she usually did for the last weeks, instead, one of the servants informed him that Madame was unavailable for that night, but that she had chosen another girl that would satisfy him as much as she did.

Hearing those words, made him want to turn around and leave, not comfortable with the idea of opening himself with a different woman than the one he was used to, yet something inside of him didn’t want to leave, he thought that if Madame Sylvi has personally chosen this girl, then maybe he should’ve give it a shot and try, see how it was.

After all, she knew him and his needs, especially with all the times they laid together, so he decided to trust her judgement, and let the servant guiding him to the secluded area prepared for him.

Once he moved the curtain, he found a girl, no more than few years older than him, laying on the bed, surrounded by pillows and candles: she was wearing a sheer robe, her hair down, thick and long dark locks were covering her, in her eyes an expression he was having a hard time to decipher, a mix of excitement and fear.

She was staring at him, taking her time to admire the beautiful and stoic man in front of her, he was exactly as the girls at the brothel and the small folk described him: his long silver hair, his purple eye, his fierce aura, he was a mesmerising sight.

As he approached her, he thought that he never saw her before at the brothel, he was trying to remember her small face but he simply couldn’t so he figured that she might be a new addiction there, yet if Sylvi chose her specifically, this means she wasn’t someone new.

He started to undress slowly, taking his time to look at the girl in front of him, her appearance was pleasant, she wasn’t exactly what he was searching, but she still had something magnetic in herself, she had a soft body, with plump breasts and wide hips, her body was different from the one of Madame, yet she still had something comforting that made him at ease right away.

She stood up, taking few steps and stopping in front of him, slightly bowing her head “good evening, my prince, Madame Sylvi apologise that she can’t serve you tonight, but she thought I might be a good enough substitute for you tonight”.

She extended a hand for him, which he took after few moments of silent, noticing how small it was compared to his, slowly walking him to the bed in the middle of the room.

“I’ve never saw you before, when did you start working here?”, he asked, curious to see if his assumption was correct

“Oh, I don’t exactly work here, my prince. My father sold me to Madame when I was a child and she thought I was too young to work here, so she kinda raised me like a daughter, usually I stay upstairs or I serve refreshments, I only work when she specifically asks me to”

So, she wasn’t a whore, not entirely at least, and this awakened something inside of him, he started wondering how many men she slept with, how many she pleased, if she was indeed able to please him as she said.

“Did you sleep with many men before? Are you sure you can serve me properly, child?”

“Not many men, but I’m sure you’ll be very satisfied my prince, and if you don’t trust my words, trust Madame’s judgement”

And so he did, and while he was thrusting inside her soft and warm flesh, he thought how different she was than Sylvi, how tight and wet she was, how her whimpers and moans were shy, how full she was making him feel.

He stayed there after he came, his head placed on her soft breasts, her hands caressing his hair and forehead, their breaths steady, her heartbeat calming, he felt well, satisfied with her service, his thoughts and troubles away for the time she was embracing him.

He told her about his worries, about his dreams, and what shocked him the most, was that she wasn’t afraid to tell him what she was thinking: she spoke calmly, without fear, but still in a respectful manner, not wanting to disrespect him nor his family, it was a rare thing, usually people lie to him or tells him half truth in order to not upset him, Sylvi included.

When he came back evenings after, he hoped to find her again, and he was slightly disappointed to see that Sylvi was waiting for him and not her once again.

Madame realised it too, she could feel a shift in his behaviour, at first thinking it was because of everything it was happening with the war and his family, but when he asked her where she was, her doubts became certainty.

“You don’t want my services anymore, my prince?”, she asked as they laid together after their highs, his head on her lap, curled up like a babe.

“Is not that, I like you and you help me a lot, but it was different with her, she understands me, she is not afraid to tell me the truth and actually gives me advises, she listens carefully and tells me what she thinks, it is a rare thing nowadays, everyone too scared to offend me and have me lose my patience

That’s why I want her to serve me from now on, you were good to me, but I think I found a better match”.

Sylvi wasn’t too pleased about this decision, she enjoyed the evenings with the prince, he treated her with respect, making her feel desired and appreciated, but he was still a prince, and if he didn’t want her services anymore, she had to accept it and move on, at the end of the day, he was still a paying costumer like everybody else, and her last goal was to please him, whether it happened personally or not.

Aemond kept going to the brothel almost every night, gently fucking her and then laying on the bed, his head on her chest, talking about his days, about his dysfunctional family, his plans for the war, and she stayed there, listening to him and caressing his head, and when he wasn’t talking, he was listening to her, talking about the books she was reading or about something she did that day, his lips sucking on one of her nipples lazily, eyes closed, eyepatch discharged somewhere on the bed, hand kneading the soft flesh of her hips.

He loved those moments, he felt at peace, somehow invincible, wondering if he will ever feel like this with another woman, but deep down knowing that no noble woman would be so understanding of him, especially not his betrothed.

It was during one of these nights that his brother, Aegon, had found him, ruining the only good thing he had in his life, Vhagar excluded.

They were there, entangled after their highs, the comfort of her arms making him feel so well, when his drunk brother opened the curtain, revealing himself to him and his mates, not wasting a second to humiliate him.

Aemond immediately got up, sitting there, looking somewhere on the floor, trying to steady his breath, listening to his brother rambling about him “fucking her like a hound”, watching her trying to cover herself for the embarrassment, shielding her body from his brother’s eyes.

He decided to leave, being too angry and humiliated, his brother rambling about searching for Madame to “make a man out of one of the white cloaks” but he found a better amusement after he saw his brother there

“You can have her, brother, one whore is as good as another” he said before taking his leave, the look of disappointment and heartbreaking in her face.

He couldn’t sleep that night, he kept seeing her disappointed face over and over again.

He knew he hurt her, that she had no fault for what happened, his brother was a drunken cunt, and she had to suffer the consequences for his stupid actions.

For days he contemplated about going there and apologise, explaining that he was not expecting for his brother be there, that he hasn’t gone to the brothel in years and he thought it was a safe space for him, away from his brother’s mess, yet he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t go there, relieving the memory of that night again.

In the end he decided to go, he was longing her touch, her softness, her sweetness, ha had to admit to himself (with an enormous amount of strength) that he needed her, so he went there one morning, when he knew anyone would’ve gone there and disturb them.

As he walked the street of silk, he kept thinking about what he wanted to tell her, trying to find the words to explain to her that he was sorry, that he understood if she didn’t want to be with him ever, but that he was still hoping for her forgiveness, since she knew how complicated his relationship with his brother was.

He knocked on the door, Sylvi opening it as he thought, looking at him hostilely

“What are you doing here, my prince”

“You know what I’m doing here, I want to speak with her”

“You hurt her, deeply, I don’t know if she wants to see you”

“Just…just ask her, please? I will leave if she does not want to speak with me”

Madame Sylvi looked at him one last time, before moving towards the rooms upstairs, allowing him to enter the brothel.

She came back a while back, telling him that he can go talk to her, but also to be quick, she didn’t want to give him too much time, she was very hurt by his actions.

He went upstairs, anxious and excited, wanting nothing more than explaining to her, his heart beating fast and hard in his chest at the thought of seeing her sweet face again.

His sweet girl, sited on the bed, a book between her hands, looking beautiful with the sun light, certainly different from the candlelight he was used to

“Good morrow, I know my visit is…unexpected, but I had to come, I had to talk to you”

“Good morrow, talk then, but make it quick, I will have to get ready for work soon, I have clients to take care of”

“Clients? I thought you weren’t fully working at the brothel, I don’t understand”

“After what happened that night, your brother’s guard told everyone how good I was, so a lot of men asked for me and Madame couldn’t refuse them, so now I work full time”

“I’m sorry, sweet girl, I really am, I didn’t want to treat you in such a way” he walked towards her, sitting slowly on the bed besides her, taking her hands on his and leaving some kisses on them “I swear I wish I said something that night, but my pride took the best of me; my brother was there, mocking me like he did when we were children, I couldn’t stay any longer.

Forgive me, sweet girl, you’re the only one I didn’t wish to hurt that night, yet you’re the one who suffered for my lack of temperament”

She stayed there, their hands still entwined, listening to his pleadings, wondering what was the best thing to do, reminding herself that he hurt her deeply, but also that he loved this man so much, that she couldn’t stay away from him any longer.

She kissed him while he was still talking, needing to feel his lips on hers once again, his hands on her once again, his cock deep inside her, feeling her to the brim with his seed, making her his and his only.

As he thrusts inside her, hips snapping, his hands kneading the soft flesh of her hips, they never felt so good in their life, so at peace, so happy.

They kissed and bit and marks each other, and in Aemond’s mind, the only thought was that she was his and he wasn’t going to let any man take her from him, the only good thing in his life.

She was his sweet girl, only his.

[lionneee]

Aemond had been welcomed at the council

English is not my first language, be kind.

•Warnings: incest, p in v, smut, kissing, taking of sexual themes, smut, chocking.•

OC!Aemond x Sister!Reader

“You’re so good– So good– Fuck, Aemond!” She moaned loudly, as she arched her back, her hands tucked up her head on her mattress, held tight in his hand.

“Fuck– You’re so tight– You’re fucking sucking me in–” He growled as he started moving faster, meeting her skin with harsh hard thrusts as he felt himself loosing in the feeling.

“My big brother is part of the council now?” She moaned as she widened her legs more, looking down at his cock entering her so furiously. He let go of her wrists, grabbing her throat to make her lay back her head.

“Such a dirty sister I have, mh?” He growled against her temple. “Aegon simply welcomed me.” He said as he trailed his other hand on her chest.

“Aegon–” She pants as she tries to speak despite the overwhelming pleasure. “Aegon trusts you– You’ll find yourself being his hand in no time– Fuck! Aemond!” She threw her head back as he hit one particular spot inside her, that almost left her breathless. He put his hand over her breast, squeezing it in his hand. 

She reached his face with one hand, but he pulled away for a moment, a flash on challenge flashing his eye, but she quickly reached again, tearing off the eyepatch from his eye.

He chuckled as he felt her clenching around his cock at the sight of his scar.

“You’re a freak. Fucking freak.” He groaned as he thrusted faster, trying to angle himself to hit that sweet spot inside her once again.

“I’m a dragon–” She panted. “I’m your dragon–” She choked as he tightened his hand around her throat.

“Mine.” He growled in her ear, as he loosened his grip around her neck, leaning down to suck her breast in his mouth.

“Oh, Gods– Aem– Fuck– You’re so good to me–” She placed a hand on the back of his hair, keeping him close as he licked herr nipple, sucked and bit, wettening with his own saliva.

“You like when your brother takes care of you? Mh?” He squeezed her tit again, licking it all over, as his hips pace never faltered.

“I’ll kill them!”

The sound of skin slapping was filling the room, Aemond and his sweet sister too engrossed with their own pleasure to care about what was happening outside her room.

Careless if the world was about to fall apart.

If some head was rolling around.

“Yes– Fuck!” She moaned loudly again as he hit that spot again.

“There it is– Yes!” He leaned back up as he gripped tightly her hips, pulling her back against him as he started thrusting in her like a mad person, watching as her tits jumped up and down by the force and speed of his hits.

“I’ll kill them all!”

She moaned loudly in despair, as she started leaning back on the mattress.

“Fuck! Aemond!” She leaned back enough to make him slip out, as she panted, looking up at him as he growled, his eye fixed on his core, as his sapphire glistened, reflecting the light of the candles.

“Don’t you dare–” He pulled her back and slipped back in, resuming his thrusts just the same, finding, to her surprise, the perfect angle again. She whined in despair, as he pulled her legs back on her chest, getting deeper inside her.

“Gods– Aem–”

“You’re so fucking loud, sister—“ He panted. “Everyone will hear you, if you keep going like this—“ He kept thrusting harder and faster. “Is that what you want? Everyone to find out how your big brother is fucking you good? Uh? Find out how much of a whore you are?”

She moaned at his words, her cunt clenching around his at the idea.

“They’d have to marry us then— Finally— Aemond!”

He shushed her with an aggressive kiss, slipping his tongue in her mouth greedily, savoring her taste. She is quick to respond to his kiss, and return it, she sucked his tongue in her mouth, forcing a moan out of him.

“This is war!”

He pulled back from the kiss, hovering over her, leaning on his elbow as he lowered his hand on her pearl, massaging it lightly.

“Ohh–” She sucked in a breath, arching her back suddenly, letting out a long whine. “Aemond! Aem– Fuck– Aemond!” She gripped his forearms tightly, digging her nails in her skin, making him groan. He could feel her clenching repeatedly around him, sucking him in in such a delicious way, all of it, mixed with her moans, the smell and the sounds of sex, and the sting of pain on his arms, he was losing control.

“Fuck– You like me being a powerful man? You like that I am part of the council?” He leaned down to growl in her ear. “That I could be the King’s Hand?”

“I declare war!”

“Yes– God!” She threw her head back. “Fuck me– Fuck me like the powerful man you are– Ah!” She kept moaning, her voice completely out of control.

“God– Yes, you feel so good, sister–” He moaned as he kept thrusting harder faster, gripping her tightly. “So tight— So fucking loud.” He could see her in ecstasy beneath him.

“Come on my cock, I can feel you clenching like crazy– Shit– Come on me– Now.” He ended up growling like an animal, but it only fit the way she was fucking her right now. She moaned again, her legs wrapping around his waist as she came undone with a long moan, holding on to him, as he thrusted a few more times, finally reaching his own release.

“Shit– Fuck–” He quickly pulled out, despite her moans and her cunt sucking him in so sweetly. He jerked off in front of her as she spread her cunt with her hands, the sight too arousing to hold back any longer.

He gasped as his sperm painted her inner thighs, his body jerking violently by the force of his release.

She smiled up at him, gathering with her hand some of his release, then bringing her fingers to her mouth to suck them clean. He looked with a moan at her movements, as he sat back on his haunches, caressing her calves.

Only then they heard the fast steps and rustle outside.

“Gōntan mirros massigon?” She asked as she looked at the door, confused. 

-Did something happen?-

He looked at her, then at the door.

“Nyke ȳdra daor gīmigon.”

-I don’t know-

Taglist: @ka1afbr @cynic-spirit @ladythornofrivia @zenka69 @queenofthekeep @adorewhatever @diannnnsss @kotadislikesthissite @iloveallmyboys @valyrianflower @dixie-elocin @gelacat0413

[flowerandblood]

Duty and desire (Oneshot)

[ canon • Aemond x niece • wife female ]

[ warnings: incest obviously, sex content, smut, angst, praise kink activated, lactation kink, fluff ]

[ description: An incident between her husband and their sons causes her uncle to completely break down. She decides to show him how deep her feelings are towards him and to comfort him. A heartbroken, vulnerable, infatuated Aemond in need of simple tenderness. ]

Author’s note: The events of this oneshot are part of the canon of The Fall from the Heavens series and feature the same characters. I couldn't sleep and that's how I mentally coped with what I saw in the second episode of the second season. You're welcome, lol. If you still didn't watch it, wait with reading it (if you don't like any kind of spoilers). It can be read as a standalone story.

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

My other works: Masterlist

_____

He had returned to their chamber earlier, tense and visibly frustrated despite the fact that he usually spent that part of the day sparring with their sons, training them in the wielding of the sword.

She smiled at him from above her book, watching as he involuntarily looked into the cradle where Visenya slept peacefully.

The birth of their first daughter was joyous news for the entire kingdom, including them.

"So early?" She asked, spreading out comfortably in her chair, curious about this change of plans. Her uncle only pursed his lips at her words, walking over to the table where she sat and reached for a cup, into which he poured himself a little wine.

He remained silent.

A bad sign.

"What's happened?" She asked immediately, seeing that hundreds of thoughts were currently running through his mind, which if they did not find an outlet would eventually explode in the form of his fury.

He took a few deep sips from his goblet without looking at her, setting it down with a loud clink of steel on the table.

"Viserys and Aegon have suggested that Ser Robert should be the one to train them today. They apparently want to become archers." He said with a sneer and anger that startled her. She swallowed hard, closing the book, understanding full well that his words were only the tip of what he was really thinking about.

"In your presence they always feel they have to prove themselves. They're afraid of being ridiculed in front of you. Maybe it's…"

"At their age I dreamt of my father doing for me what I do for them. This is our time together." He growled, looking out of the corner of his eye into the area where she sat, but not directly at her, immersed in his thoughts, memories and regrets.

"I know." She whispered and her words, something about the way she said them made his lip tremble, made him lower his head in shame and cover his face with his hand, drawing in air loudly.

"They are terrified at the sight of me. Both of them. They don't love me, they just fear me. Their own father." He mouthed, his quivering voice betraying that although he tried to control himself, something about the thought had broken him.

She stood up from her seat, shaking her head, coming up to him quickly, wanting to touch his arm with her hand, but he moved away and turned his head, not wanting her to see what was happening to him.

"If you could hear with what pride and admiration they speak of you when you are not there. They so desperately want to please you." She muttered in pain, feeling a squeeze in her heart at the thought that he might have believed he was a bad father, when they both knew how hard he tried.

"To please me? My sons, they live to please me? And if they don't then what will happen to them? Hm?" He asked and fell silent, looking at her at last, his eye red with grief and despair, his face simultaneously red and pale with emotion, his lips parted in a heavy breath.

He covered his eyes with his hand as he burst into silent sobs, as if he had not stifled the thought for a day or a month, but for years, ever since their first son had been born.

She looked at him in disbelief, stunned, at the same time hurt and saddened by his words, by the thought of how he judged and perceived himself.

"Looking into my eyes do you see anything other than love?" She asked, renewing her attempt, taking a step towards him, and this time he didn't pushed her away, looking at her uncertainly.

"– it's something else –" He whispered.

"– how can it be? – do you think I would love a man who is a bad father to my children? –" She asked further, and he swallowed hard, trying to calm his breathing, his cheeks red from tears.

"– stop it –" He said and turned away, wiping his face, walking to the other side of the room, embarrassed and ashamed of his weakness.

"– sit down on the bed, husband – I want to explain a few things to you –" She finally said.

He sighed heavily and did as she asked, making room beside himself, looking down at his hands, heartbroken. She, however, walked up to him and did not sit next to him, but on his lap, surprising him by taking his warm, red face in her hands, stroking his moist skin with her thumbs.

For a moment she simply looked at him, all helpless and vulnerable, feeling the heat in her chest.

"– you're defending our family – you're the rock that protects us – you have to show strength – be determined – and that's hard when you're king and father at the same time – the burden of the crown is great and you know it – you're trying to prepare them for it –" She whispered, with each successive word placing kisses on his red face: on his forehead, his temple, his eyebrows, his eyelid, his cheekbone, his lips, his jaw.

She felt his hands involuntarily rise to her waist, stroking her through the material of her gown.

"– so why don't they understand this? – why do they push me away? –" He muttered, focusing his gaze on her full, plump lips, his manhood hidden in his breeches pulsed softly in a natural reaction to her closeness.

"– because they are still children – children who need their father to love them no matter what – a father who will sometimes let them go their own way –" She said softly, in a gentle, light motion untying the black ribbon at the back of his head, making the front strands of his silver hair fall over his shoulders.

"– I just want to spend time with them like a father with his sons – I want them to need me –" He whispered, and she nodded, letting his broad hand move her hip closer, making her body press against his.

"– I know, my husband – my sweet, sweet husband –" She whispered and heard him draw in the air loudly, surprised, his erection pulsed hard between her thighs.

She licked her lips, wondering if he was aroused by what he was hearing.

"– my husband is so good to me –" She gasped softly, letting their lips join in hot, sticky, lazy kisses, making wonderful heat surge through her body. "– my sweet friend – my sweet boy –"

She shuddered as his fingers tightened on the material of her gown, his throat leaving a sound she had never heard before.

He moaned.

Not the way he usually did, low and deep, when it was on the verge of panting, but high, the way she did when he gave her sweet pleasure.

Their fingers tightened on their bodies, letting their mouths find each other in greedy, violent, deep kisses – his cock between her thighs swelled all over and pulsed, hot, betraying that he was now completely ready to possess her.

"– I love you – please –" He muttered, forcibly ripping her gown off her shoulders, exposing her naked breasts, all swollen with milk. Something like a sigh of delight and relief left his throat as he sank his face into her sternum, his thumbs stroking and teasing her nipples hard from the cold.

She moaned as she tilted her head back, untying the material of his breeches, feeling the wonderful, pleasurable wetness between her thighs, proving that she was ready to receive him deep inside her.

"– my sweet husband deserve to be soothed – doesn't he? – to feel his beloved wife – how warm she is – how wet she is –" She whispered, cupping his swollen, quivering erection in her palm, feeling how incredibly hard it was, its tip thick and smooth, dripping with his moisture.

"– yes –" He mumbled in shame, directing one of her breasts to his face, holding it in his hand, finding her nipple with his mouth, beginning to suck it loudly along with her milk as she guided the head of his cock against her pulsing slit.

"– ah – my husband is so hard for me – makes me feel so fucking good – so, so big –" She cooed, sinking slowly onto his manhood only to lift herself on it with a loud click of her wetness, opening her thirsty, fleshy cunt again and again on his long, throbbing erection.

"– f-fuck –" He exhaled, embarrassed, imposing a fast, aggressive pace on her at once, clearly aroused by what she was saying and how she was behaving, needing her affection, her acceptance, her closeness, everything he couldn't ask of anyone else outside the door of their chamber.

"– it's all yours, my dearest – I can ride you all night – you'll fill me with your seed as many times as I need, won't you? –" She gasped, and he groaned loudly into the skin of her breasts, clamping his hot hands on her hips, pounding into her like there was no tomorrow, panting and quivering along with her.

She wasn't sure she had ever experienced a similar orgasm, so overpowering, hot, soothing, delightful.

"– f-fuck – f-fuck, Aemond, yes –" She whimpered, throwing her head back as she felt his body convulse, his warm seed filling her womb wit his low moans of pleasure.

He released her nipple from his mouth, panting heavily, snuggling his cheek into her chest, letting her arms embrace him in a tight grip, her lips placing tender, hot kisses on his hair.

"– forgive me – I'm ashamed – I –"

"– you are my husband – let me give you relief when you need it –" She whispered, combing her fingers through his long hair.

"– but – it was –"

"– a husband can show tenderness and understanding to his wife, but a wife to her husband cannot? –" She asked in pain, and he swallowed hard, letting out a loud, shuddering breath.

"– it won't happen again –" He muttered, needing, apparently, for her to tell that lie so he could stop thinking about how weak he was, how he needed it, how pleasant it was.

That he would beg in his mind for more.

More of her tenderness.

More of her praise.

More of her love.

"– as you wish –"

[justfandomwritings]

Who Hurt You? (Aemond Targaryen - Part One)

Pairing: Aemond x Niece!Unknown Parentage

Word Count: 7.6k

Warnings: This is a "Who Did This To You" trope so the OFC was a victim. It is not described in graphic detail, but please keep it in mind before reading if that may be triggering for you. Also Targaryen-typical cest.

Summary: There was no father in her life from whom she could seek protection in that moment, no father who could rush in and save her from this evil, who could swear to her it would never come for her again. But there was a voice, quiet and gentle and caring, which called out to her "Who hurt you?" and for a moment she thought that perhaps someone cared enough to listen to the answer.

“Princess?” 

How different might the world have been if Viserys had let Rhaenyra marry Daemon that night he’d bedded her in the brothel? How different might the world have been if Rhaenyra had run away with Criston Cole when he asked her to flee with him? How different might the world have been if Laenor had not been forced to marry her mother? How different might the world have been if Rhaenyra had not taken Harwin Strong into her chambers? How different might the world have been if she knew who her father was?

“Princess!”

Her features were a mixed bag, some that may have been Daemon, some that may have been Criston, some that may have been Laenor or Harwin, some that appeared to come from absolutely no one at all. Each of them had, at one time or another, looked at her with that sense of possibility, that she might be theirs or their worst enemies. All she could pinpoint were her eyes and her hair, Valyrian to her core. Many pointed to them as evidence of Daemon’s fatherhood of her. Her mother loudly touted it as proof that she was Laenor’s. She doubted it was proof of either so much as it was proof of Rhaenyra’s motherhood. Their hair, their eyes, were exactly the same shade. From the back, many had mistaken her for her mother over the years.

“Princess who did this to you?”

Some nights, when she was feeling particularly lonely, she would play pretend in her mind, decide which man was her father and play act at him loving her. She would pretend Daemon took her up on dragonback back and taught her to fly. She would pretend Ser Criston snuck her sweets and hugs whenever the court's backs were turned. She would pretend Laenor… Well, she never had to pretend with Laenor or Harwin. They had always loved her in their own ways, as much as they could anyway. 

“Princess? Who hurt you?”

If she knew her father, if she had a father at all, maybe she could go to him now. She could run inside to find Daemon; she could slide under the wing of Caraxes’ protection where she knew no one would ever hurt her again. She could run to Criston and beg him to take her away as he’d once offered her mother; he could draw his steel and beat back those who tried to hold her there. 

“Princess, who did this?”

Someone was grabbing her, shaking her. She felt it in a sense, but in a far greater sense she didn’t feel it at all. She knew it was happening, but she didn’t feel the hands that gripped her shoulders, that tugged her back and forth. The same with the voice, calling out to her. She knew it was there, knew what it was saying, but she couldn’t process the words.

“Princess, look at me.” 

Something had happened. Something terrible. She knew that much. She knew the rest too, but by the by it would not come to her. Something had happened to her. 

“Princess, you’re bleeding.”

Yes, she rather thought she was. Not a great deal, but certainly enough to be noticed. To be noticed by… someone. Did she even want to know who?

“Alarra!”

She heard that word. She knew that word. Her name. Laenor had given her that name. He had been so kind to her all the years she knew him. He had always treated her as a daughter, claimed her as a daughter, cared for her as a daughter, loved her as a daughter… at least from what she remembered. Perhaps those memories were colored rosy by death. Perhaps Laenor would not have made this situation any better; perhaps Harwin, perhaps a father of any kind, wouldn’t have either. Perhaps Ser Criston or Prince Daemon would have only made things worse. Perhaps this was simply her fate. 

“Alarra, who did this?”

She knew that voice. She’d known it the whole time, but she recognized it now. 

Tears welled up in her eyes, and Alarra blinked them away. Her eyes, against her will, regained their focus and brought her out of her daze. They brought her back to the world around her. She didn’t want them to. She wanted to stay there, in her head where she felt nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing. People couldn’t hurt her in her mind. In her body, people could hurt her. 

She must have been crying for some time without realizing while she was stuck in her head. Her eyes were already overwhelmed with tears, and she could feel their dried tracts down her cheeks. 

Aemond was more blur than man, hunched over in front of her, little more than overlapping shades of silver and black in her watery gaze. Yet even in her current state, there was no mistaking him. The details of his face were gone, but the vague black circle where an eye should have been marked him for who he was. 

“Alarra, who hurt you?” Aemond’s voice was quieter than it had been when it called her back to her body, like he knew then that she couldn’t hear him and knew now that she could. 

Of course it would be Aemond. Of course he would be the one to find her at her weakest, at her most vulnerable. He had a way of doing that, finding her weak spots. 

“Who did this?”

In response, Alarra’s body racked with a sob. Her shoulders were shaking with the force of how hard she cried, and it made some still disassociated part of her mind wonder if Aemond had touched her at all, if Aemond had actually shaken her shoulders as she thought or if it had been her body crying the whole time.

“Alarra, I’m going to take you to the Maester now.” Aemond touched a gentle hand to her upper arm, a far gentler touch than she had ever felt from him before, far gentler than she thought him capable of. 

“NO!” She jerked back the moment she realized what he said. Her hands clutched her dress to her chest to keep it from falling as she frantically skittered back on the ground away from him. “I can’t- you can’t- they’ll- no- no- no-”

Why couldn’t Jace have found her? Or Luce? She would give anything for one of her brothers to be here. She would even take her mother or, gods forbid, Daemon right now. 

The bush at her back poked and scraped against her bare shoulders and kept her from moving further away. It reminded her of her present state, of the dress barely clinging to her form and the bruises already coloring her arms and the cuts still bleeding at her collar. 

“As you say,” Aemond held up his hands in a mock surrender. She could see him now, the panic clearing her eyes of tears. His own eye was narrowed, though not judging or angry, for once, merely cautious. 

“No maester…” He stayed there, frozen and unmoving until Alarra ceased, till her feet stopped slipping and sliding uselessly over the ground, pushing for every inch of distance she could win away from him, till her shoulders stopped curling in on themselves hiding the more vulnerable parts of her body from him in favor of her partially exposed back. 

Even when she stopped trying to put distance between them, when she relaxed with the surety that he wasn’t going to force her to the Maester, he did not move any closer, did not break the silence in the air. 

He watched her patiently, as he so often did. And she, as she so often did, looked away. 

“If you take me to the Maester…” Alarra hiccuped around another tearless sob. She felt a need to explain herself to him, to explain before he jumped to his own conclusions. 

She hiccuped again as she prepared to subject herself to the mercies of one of the most merciless creatures she knew. “If you take me to the Maester, they’ll say my virtue — He didn’t. I swear he didn’t, but they’ll say he did— What with the rumors about my father, they will say… They will...” 

Neither of them needed to address the fact that Aemond was very much included in the ‘they’ whom Alarra feared talking. 

Aemond had long questioned the Velaryons’ parentage. He had relished toying with her brothers’ features that clearly weren’t Valyrian, basked in the opportunity to avenge a childhood of mockery and wrongs. She had never before been the subject of his wrath, mercifully spared by a childhood friendship, but the gods knew this opportunity would be too good to miss if she didn’t confront it.

“They will…” She couldn’t help mumbling the incomplete thought under her breath.

When Alarra found the courage to meet his gaze again, Aemond’s one eye was already boring a hole through hers with its intensity, and Alarra thought, not for the first time, that perhaps the gods themselves had plucked out Aemond’s eye. If for no other reason than to quell a potential challenger. 

“Please,” she wasn’t sure if there was enough air left in her lungs to voice the word, but she tried to speak it anyway, pushed it out between her lips like a quiet prayer to the gods, a quiet prayer to Aemond.

Aemond looked to be calculating his own course through these uncharted waters just as much as he appeared to be studying her reactions. 

“We cannot stay here, Princess,” Aemond spoke in a very stilted, calculated tone, like one reading facts from a book. “You are injured. Your appearance is disheveled. Your dress is in tatters, and if I was as without honor as your family thought I was I could see every inch of your front simply by glancing down.”  

Alarra subconsciously clutched her torn dress tighter to her. It was true. The blade had sliced clean through the neck and shoulders of her dress as it cut across her skin. The front would have fallen off long ago if not for her hand, and the weight of the damned thing and lack of support had long exposed huge swaths of skin to the cool night air. 

Though, admittedly, up until Aemond’s arrival her dress had been her least concern. 

Alarra turned her eyes down to her dress for the first time, again to avoid Aemond’s gaze. It was destroyed. The sleeves were gone; the embroidery was pilling and torn; the skirt was caked in mud; and worst of all, what remained of the neckline was soaked in her blood.

Without warning, Aemond stood.

Alarra’s eyes shot back up and her whole body tensed for a moment before she realized what he was doing.

Aemond wrenched off his black, Targaryen cloak and in the same flourish draped it over Alarra. She grabbed for it as it fluttered down, holding it to her chest. 

“Th-Thank you,” she stuttered out the words. 

Aemond’s cloak. She was wearing Aemond’s cloak. 

Aemond ignored her platitudes, which was just as well for her since she wouldn’t have known what else to say to him. “I’m going to touch you now, Princess,” Aemond said in warning. “I won’t harm you, and there will be no Maesters. I’ll only carry you to your chambers through the servant’s halls.” 

It was a chore, to force herself to calm enough for him to touch her, but she knew it was the best course. Her dress was well torn and would trail in ribbons behind her, and she was not sure she could walk. There was no physical damage to her legs, but she did not relish the idea of trying to rise to her feet in this state. Her upper body quaked even now; her legs would no doubt collapse if she so much as attempted to use them. 

Aemond approached slowly, cautiously. He looked like a predator about to put his prey out of its misery. She knew he wasn’t going to hurt her, at least not physically, but by the gods Aemond couldn’t help looking like the hunter. There was something to his face. Power perhaps, a touch of ruthlessness, the confidence he had lacked as a child. 

His hands slipped around her, one high on her back while his other dipped under her knees. He was ever so careful in the placement of his hands, tucking the cloak around her in his grip to avoid touching any skin.  He stood with her in his arms, and she thought of anything else to help even out her breathing as she felt a man’s touch brushing against her even through fabric.

Being at home on the rocky beaches of Dragonstone. The soft feel of braiding her mother’s hair. The sound of a crackling fire in her room. The smell of the salty, ocean breeze off the water. The taste of her favorite wine on her tongue. 

Every hall Aemond turned down she made a new list, and her breathing remained steady so long as she kept thinking of things. 

Balerion’s skull on a pedestal lit by candles. The dowse of warm water as Jace threw her in the sea. Caraxes’s roar when he flew overhead. The scented oils anointing her baby brother’s skin. Luce’s piss poor attempt at roasting rabbit as they camped in the woods.

Aemond said nothing while she made her lists. Perhaps he was calculating some plan of his own; perhaps he was simply giving her the space to think. Before tonight, she would have presumed the former, but now she was unsure.

Viserys on the throne. The soft threads of her embroidery. The nurses singing lullabies. The awful smell of the stables. A morning cup of tea. 

They walked in absolute silence, and Aemond took every precaution not to be seen. He ducked down the hidden passages known only to those who had truly mastered the keep; he stopped at the sound of every approaching footstep and hid behind pillars or corners. At one point, he pulled her into an abandoned meeting hall for several minutes as two servants stopped outside to chat. 

That had been a particularly painful few minutes, and she had refocused her efforts to list those things that meant the most to her.

Witnessing Daemon and Rhaenyra’s wedding. Vermax’s rough scales under her fingers as Jacaerys introduced her to his dragon. Harwin comforting her with sweet words after a cruel bout of insults about her father. The smell of smoke when her mother took her up on Syrax. The odd tasting fish Laenor cooked for her every nameday.

“Princess,” Aemond’s voice, as surprisingly gentle as it had been before, called out to her, “would you get the door?”

It was the first thing Aemond said on their walk. 

She mindlessly pushed open the door of her chambers, not even realizing that they’d reached them. “You can right me here, Aemond.” 

Aemond didn’t hear her, or perhaps he ignored her. He did not deposit her in the doorway as she asked; he crossed the room and set her gently back on the edge of her bed. 

“Thank you,” she said, more out of habit than anything. She owed him her thanks to be sure, but her mind was too occupied with other things to mean it. 

“Of course, Princess,” Aemond fingered the edge of the cloak still covering her. “I can leave this with you,” he offered, “but people will question why you have my cloak. It is your choice.” 

Alarra released her death grip on the fabric, and Aemond didn’t tug it away until it seemed she had firm grip on the dress beneath. 

Aemond stood to his full height and turned to leave. “I will leave you to your night. We will talk again when you are well.”  

She watched his back retreat for only a few steps before she could resist no longer.

“Please Aemond,” Alarra whispered into the night air as if the silence were glass and her words a falling hammer that might break it were she not gentle enough. 

Aemond paused at her door and turned back. 

She wasn’t sure what possessed her to speak, to ask. It was too much to ask. She knew it was too much to ask, especially of him.  “If you ever cared for me at all, as friend or family… do not tell anyone about tonight?”

His eye was not as intense as it stared at her now. It was softer, more discerning. 

That, or more likely the distance buffered the spear of his gaze.

“You are owed justice, Princess.” Aemond replied as he stepped back from the door and let his hand fall from the handle.  

Alarra had expected a simple yes or no, even if the yes was a lie. But then, she hadn’t expected him to find her in the garden. She hadn’t expected him to help her if he did. And she certainly hadn’t expected him to care if she received justice. 

Aemond crossed the room in long strides and knelt down before her, resting a gentle, almost hesitant hand on the top of her exposed knee. “You are owed justice, and you shall have it.”

“But I…” 

Aemond didn’t understand. And how could he. He was a man. He could fuck his way through half of Flea Bottom, and Viserys wouldn’t bat an eye. Aegon already had, and the greatest repercussions he’d faced had been the occasional cold shoulder for his lack of decorum. Aemond was a man, and unlike women, men could demand justice when they were wronged. 

“If I say anything… the rumors… I’ll be ruined. He will say he ruined me, and no one will believe me, not over a man. The moment he opens his mouth, it will be my fault, and I will be ruined.” The tears in her were hardening into something more as her voice became more clipped, “No assurances from the Maester that I am untouched will be sufficient to quell the mongers. My first child will be a bastard no matter when he’s born or to whom, and no man will have me accompanied by such a stain.”

This, of all things, was what Alarra was complaining about, what she was forced to worry about. It made her sick. She felt the bile rising in her throat even now, and she tried to swallow it down. 

This was not what she truly cared about. Alarra wanted nothing more than time to grieve herself, grieve her pain, grieve what had been done to her, but she could not have it. And not simply for Aemond’s presence.

It would have been the same if it were any other man who found her. It would have been the same if it were the queen or even her mother. And even if she hadn’t been found at all, it would have been the same tomorrow, or the next day, or whatever day that monster of a man finally came forward and opened his mouth about what he’d done to her. 

She would be expected to be unshaken, unperturbed by any trauma. Her first and only concern would be expected to be her house, her reputation, and her family, not her own wellbeing. 

The council, monsters that they were, may even demand she marry him, to be sure of the bloodlines.

The tears began to fall again, and she mourned not just what had been done to her and taken from her, not just her sense of safety and security, not just her sense of self, but also the mask she would have to wear come morning. She mourned because she knew it was her last chance to mourn. She mourned because she knew that even now she wasn’t supposed to mourn, for Aemond was watching.

“Leave that to me, Princess.” Aemond’s hand reached up, and a thumb gently brushed away her newest tears, “I swear to you, on my life and my dragon’s. No one will question your honor.”

Alarra scoffed. Such a fond notion. If it came from her brothers she might have thought them naive enough to think such a thing could be done. If it came from her brothers she might have thought them sweet enough to try. But this was Aemond, and he was not sweet. And he was certainly not so naive. 

“You can’t promise that.” Alarra closed her eyes to avoid looking into his.

“I can. I have my ways, Princess. Do not concern yourself with such trifling things as other’s expectations of you now. I will see to those. You need only worry after how to feel yourself again.”

It was as though he’d read her mind and pulled out the exact thing she wished he'd say. If he were Jace, she would have leaned into his hand on her cheek and fallen asleep, not trusting that all would be well by morning but trusting at least that he would be by her side when it wasn’t. 

But this was Aemond, and another tear slid down her cheek from behind her eyelids. She wasn’t sure if she could trust him, but by the gods did she want to. 

“Alarra, tell me. Who did this to you? Name the man who forfeited his life tonight.”

For a moment, her breath caught in her throat before…

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

“You violated guests' rights, broke into a lord’s bedchambers, dragged him out of bed, drew your blade on him, carved out his tongue, and left him to be found by the servants who heard his cries!” 

For the first time in many, many years, Viserys Targaryen looked like a dragon.

It was enough to quell the room to a still silence. It was enough to make the young ones quake with something akin to fear.

The Targaryens and Velaryons, the family, were the only ones called into the throne room for this particular trial. It was not, as so many usually were, made known to the nobility or even the entirety of the Small Council. Even the Kingsguard, save Cole, had been asked to wait outside. The King had kept it quiet, assembled the necessary parties, and immediately begun questioning his second son the same morning the young knight had been found dismantled on the floor of his guest chambers in the Red Keep. 

Aemond stood firm in front of his father’s rebuke. Arms tucked behind his back, feet shoulder width apart, he said, as though he were discussing the weather, “I also knocked out all his teeth.”

Aemond thought he might have heard Aegon snort.

“HE IS A TYRELL!” Viserys lurched to his feet, cutting his palm on the throne he moved so quickly. His finger stabbed at the man, leaning on Ser Criston for support, looking ever the pitiful victim. “A TYRELL! AND THE GUEST OF YOUR KING!”

The pain of the blades did not seem to register to Viserys, and even the usually attentive Alicent did not move to help her king as blood ran down the tip of Viserys’s finger.

On Aemond’s eye’s side of the hall, the Velaryons formed one strong line in his peripheral vision, ever the picture of courtly decorum even as Jacaerys and Lucerys no doubt wanted to jump with glee. They were all quelled to a state little more than statues by the severity of the moment.

Only Alarra stood out of line. Only Alarra was not frozen in stone. She stood behind her mother, peaking out at him between Rhaenyra and Daemon’s shoulders, watching him with a gaze that flashed between awe, pity, shame, and something akin to desperation.

Aemond looked away. He did not let his gaze linger long on her. Much as he wanted to dissect the moods haunting her every feature, he refused to draw the kind of attention to her that observing her would require. 

“Not an important one. Second son of a third son,” Aemond shrugged nonchalantly. “I assure you House Tyrell will not be greatly aggrieved by his loss.”

Viserys’s frame shook as though it could not contain his rage within his body. “On what grounds, Aemond!” 

Aemond stood firm. Truly, his father could yell all he liked. When he wanted to be, Aemond could be a terrifyingly patient man. His patience would far outlast his father’s anger. Not merely for the fact his father was too physically weak to maintain this rebuke for long. 

“I apologize, my King,” Aemond endeavored at civility, “but the grounds are not mine to say.”

That seemed to take Viserys back. Something cold, dark, came into his tone. “You would dare refuse your King.”

“I do not refuse my King. I have freely admitted to what I have done.” Aemond answered with an equally deadly calm.

A pin could have been heard dropping on the stones as Viserys took a shaky step down from the throne. “The Tyrells will make you take oaths for this, and I will not refuse them. They will ask to send you to the Wall.”

Aemond swallowed down his pride, swallowed down the urge to rage that it was the Tyrell who should be sent to the Wall, swallowed down the urge to cut through his father’s presumptions about the night. 

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Aemond bowed his head, “If my king commands.”

“Aemond,” His mother finally broke the silence of the rest of the room as she hissed at him, “Defend yourself.”

Aemond’s eyes stayed straight ahead, watching his father. 

“You heard your mother! Explain yourself boy!” Viserys commanded. “You have dishonored this house; you will give your reasons for this!”

“My reasons are my own. If the Wall is the price of his tongue so be it. I will not-“

There was a commotion amongst the Velaryons as all eyes turned to see Alarra pushing past Rhaenyra and jerking out of the grip her good father tried to clasp her in. 

“He was defending me, your Grace,” Alarra called even as she crossed the room. Daemon and Rhaenyra’s attempts to stop the girl halted as she loudly made her declaration.

Alarra dropped into a short curtsy next to Aemond before taking a similar stance to his beside him. Awaiting judgment. 

Aemond clenched his jaw tightly. He thought he might’ve felt a tooth crack. He did not glare down at his niece, much as he wanted to, nor did he chase her back behind her parents, much as he wanted to. 

Resisting the urge was not without complaint, and a huff slipped past his lips. The whole point of cutting out the man’s tongue had been so he could not speak of what he’d done to her. And now she loudly declared it in open court.

Was she trying to save him? Really, did she think Viserys would actually send him to the Wall? He would order it done then change his mind and settle for some brief exile or other. He would go to Essos, fight a war, become the next Daemon. 

“You must forgive Aemond for any impertinence.” 

Yes. She was trying to save him. 

Alarra’s head was hung as she addressed her King. “It was merely for the sake of protecting me. Ser Wendell attacked me in the garden last night, your Grace. Aemond was my rescuer. That is how Ser Wendell came to lose his tongue. If the Tyrells demand an oath, let me give it in his stead. Aemond has acted with nothing but honor.”

There was a quiet after Alarra finished speaking. Somewhere outside, knights in armor were walking past the throne room. 

The first sound to break the silence was a wordless, toneless groan.

Ser Criston had let go of Ser Wendell, and Wendell had swayed on the spot for a moment before Ser Criston had kicked the man to his knees.

“Attacked you!” Viserys stumbled back to sit in his throne, breathing heavily, seemingly exhausted as the anger within him at his own son quelled in the face of this new revelation. “In what way, dear girl, has this knight attacked you? Has he dishon-”

“No,” Aemond cut off the King before he could finish voicing the word. He had promised no one would question her on this. “I saw what was transpiring from the balcony. At first it seemed nothing more than a spat. When I realized he’d drawn a blade…” He was cut off by his sister’s loud gasp. “I came to her aid as quickly as I could. I am sorry to say I could not prevent all of what transpired, but I assure you my niece’s virtues remain entirely intact. I would swear to it. His honor was the only thing destroyed last night.”

Wendell, on his knees in front of Cole, made loud, wordless noises and gestured wildly in the direction of Aemond and Alarra. 

Aemond sneered and rested his hand back on the hilt of his sword, the blade letting out a threatening ‘shink’ noise as he unsheathed the first inch. Wendell shrunk back, his arms freezing though his mouth still blubbered on. “You can still lose your hand, Ser Wendell.” 

“Or your head.”

All blubbering ceased.

For all of his bluster and rage and shouting and for all the silence and fear it evoked, there was nothing Viserys could do to chill a room like those three words said by that voice. 

“Why does he live?” Daemon continued. His voice was as cold as the Stranger’s embrace, and his eyes glaring across the hall at Ser Wendell just as steady.

The question was for Aemond, he knew, but Daemon made no move to address him directly.

“The coward fled even as I arrived. Alarra was quite merciful in her pleas that hunting him down to slaughter was not justice. So I quelled my anger with his tongue.”

“And his teeth,” Aegon muttered under his breath. 

Aemond’s head jerked around, and he sneered at his brother. “His teeth were incidental. If he hadn’t so resisted losing his tongue, he’d still have them. They had to be gotten out of the way.”

Daemon paid no mind to the bickering between the brothers. He sauntered forth, like a lion stalking its prey.

“Alarra wished to have justice?” 

Daemon stopped then, in front of Wendell, staring down at the man. 

Aemond’s eyes flitted to the woman in question. 

Alarra was watching Ser Wendell almost as intently as Daemon watched him. The way Aemond remembered she used to watch the bugs that frightened her as a child, like she had to know where he was at all times, like she had to keep him in her sights or he may sneak up on her some other way, even tongueless and on his knees with the man visibly pissing himself.

“Yes, she did.” Aemond answered for her.

“He has no tongue,” Daemon mused. His head tilted to one side, and from where he stood Aemond could see the tug at the corner of Daemon’s mouth. “I suppose the only fair trial he will have is by combat.” When he wanted, Daemon’s smile could truly be a thing of evil. 

Alarra looked ready to be sick.

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

It had been a chore to escape her rooms that night. Her mother had posted two guards to her door in an effort to make her feel more comfortable, but when the unfamiliar faces introduced themselves and took up their station it only made her feel more cut off, more alone. She felt suffocated by the presence of these strangers she did not know or trust blocking her primary exit from her room. 

Climbing out the window had seemed the logical thing to do. 

She could not sleep and had not eaten at dinner. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to do either, but she was sure she didn’t want to feel trapped. 

Her feet took her around the back halls of the palace, wandering paths where no one would dare to look for her. It was around the fourth or fifth hall, in front of the room they had stopped for minutes on end, that she realized the path her feet had been carrying her along. She made no attempt to stop it. Or maybe she did and her feet didn’t listen. 

The garden was beautiful, if a little more terrifying. The moonbeams that had always made the water in the pool seem to glint now only seemed to cast shadows under the hedges. The flowers which were so beautiful and richly hued at twilight had bigger thorns this week than last. 

“I would have thought wandering the keep at night was not to your taste anymore. Least of all here, Princess.”

Alarra did not so much as jump when she heard the voice. If anything, her shoulders seemed to loosen their tension.  

“I could not sleep. My feet brought me here, and I-I cannot say why I did not leave.” She answered the unasked question. 

Aemond came to stand beside her against the bannister, putting his back to the garden and instead facing her. “We all fight our battles differently, I suppose.”

“I appear to be losing mine.”

Aemond chuckled humorlessly. “On the contrary Princess, I think you are the champion of House Targaryen.”

Alarra finally tore herself away from the spot on the grass she had been trying to burn with her eyes alone. “I feel like the Queen of Fools. I keep thinking of everything I should have done, ways I could have stopped him, things I wanted to say.”

Aemond paused for a long moment, quietly considering his response.

“Even if there are things you could have done, that does not make you the Queen of Fools… though I understand why you would think such a thing.” Aemond assented. His head turned so his eye could stare out at the sky, and Alarra watched his profile in detail. He cut a far less intimidating figure tonight than he usually did in the light of day. “I am the same with my duels with Ser Criston. I berate myself for weeks after each loss, picking them apart in my mind. I play each out a hundred different ways. It helps at first, helps me become a better fighter, better swordsmen. I study it until I know I will never make the same mistakes again. But eventually, I have to move on.”

Aemond turned his eye back to her. “For one simple reason, Princess. Those are all things I know to do differently now, but I did not know them then. One day, you will wake up and realize that the only thing you could have done that night, with what you knew then, is exactly what you did. Every idea you think of you can apply if the situation arises again, but you cannot expect yourself to have known those things before you knew them.”

Alarra pulled her eyes away forcefully and stared down at where it happened. He was right, in a way. She just wasn’t sure that made anything better. 

“Do not trouble yourself with moving on now, Princess. The last fight isn’t over until I’ve stopped thinking about it, and I can’t win the next one until it is… but if it takes me weeks to move past something as petty as a lost duel, I wager you are allowed more than a night to move past this.”

“And how many nights can I go before I collapse during the day?” Alarra asked quietly. “This is the second night I have not slept, and my mother’s solution is to put my life in the hands of men I know no better than Wendell.”

That did seem to make Aemond pause. He always thought before he spoke, and the man thought hard now for what to say and how.

“I can-if it please you of course-think of one alternative.”

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

“She will not harm you, Princess,” Aemond assured her. 

Alarra stared up at the dragon looming over her. Her feet had frozen to the ground the moment she realized where Aemond was taking her, which given her distracted, absent state of mind had not been until they were standing on the beach with the dark, hulking mass of Vhagar casting shadows in the moonlight illuminating their skin.

She swallowed and shrunk back further into the meager protection of her cloak as Vhagar shifted and grumbled in her sleep. A puff of smoke floated away on her exhale.

“Princess,” Aemond stepped between her and Vhagar, his back to the creature. He caught her chin between his fingers and tilted her head so her gaze was forced to meet his eye. “Princess, do you trust me?”

“Trusting you is not the issue at the moment, Aemond.” Alarra mumbled.

“You’ve been around dragons many times.”  Aemond said it as both a statement and a question.

Alarra nodded. “Yes of course, but never Vhagar.”

“She’s no different than any other dragon.” Aemond stipulated.

“Only that she’s thrice as large and thrice as deadly. She's so large Arrax could sleep in her jaw.” Her tone was more biting than she meant for it to be. 

Alarra’s eyes wandered back over Aemond’s shoulder. She couldn’t help it. Not with her sleeping right there. 

"I'd be a fool not to be warry, Aemond. We all would be. She's conquered kingdoms. She's killed dragons."

"None of yours." 

"Well, I don't have one to kill."

Aemond rolled his good eye. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” Alarra bit back immediately. It was an instinctual answer this time. An instinct that had formed over the course of only two days, but an instinct nonetheless. If she had been thinking clearly, Alarra would have lied and said no or at least pretended to consider her answer before she tacitly agreed to trust him. Yet with the figure silhouetting Aemond, it was impossible to take time to think and consider anything seriously. 

Something softened, only slightly, in Aemond's expression as he heard her response. “Come.” She hadn’t realized till his hand dropped away that he had been cradling her chin the whole time, drawing her eyes back to his as it did. “I would never hurt you, and she does as I bid. If it helps, keep your eyes on me.” 

Aemond took Alarra’s hand in his and turned. Staring at him did help. Alarra glared daggers into Aemond’s back as he pulled her along towards Vhagar. Though, t he daggers turned to spears as her peripheral saw the beast open its’ eyes. 

“Do not look.” Alarra whispered to herself.

Aemond chuckled, shoulders shaking, and she realized she’d spoken the reassurance out loud. 

“Easy to laugh with the most fearsome creature in all the world under your control.” Alarra snipped quietly at him. 

Aemond squeezed Alarra’s hand in response, as he had so many times that night, so many times since he found her in the garden. “Tonight she is hardly mine.”  Aemond stopped a mere arms length from the head of the dragon. 

Vhagar had not moved but to open her eyes, and Alarra felt them watching her as she stared intensely at the space between Aemond’s shoulder blades. If she didn’t look, didn’t challenge the dragon, maybe she would make it out of this alive. 

“Hello Vhagar,” Aemond’s free hand reached up and trailed over the scales on the underside of her snout, the only place he could truly reach.

Vhagar huffed in response and tilted her head ever so slightly towards Aemond’s palm. Alarra clutched his hand more tightly in response.

“Konīr iksos nykeā hāedar nyke jaelagon ao naejot rhaenagon.” There is someone I want you to meet. Aemond said the words to Vhagar gently, reverently, asking her permission as much as telling her.

“Oh Aemond,” Alarra tugged at the hand he was holding. “I can’t. I’m not-“

Aemond didn’t loose his grip. He clenched down and tugged Alarra out from behind him. He pulled her under his raised arm and tucked her into his side, never letting go of her hand on the other side of her body, instead choosing to wrap his arm around her. “Alarra,” by necessity given their difference in height, Aemond leaned down towards her ear, “I know. Trust me. I know.”

Of course he knew. Everyone knew. The Targaryen who couldn’t ride a dragon. The would-be queen who couldn’t claim a mount. The undeserving heir. 

Alarra’s head dipped slightly away at the reminder. 

Aemond lifted their entwined fingers and took a step behind Alarra. For a moment her heart leapt being alone in front of Vhagar, but Aemond quickly pressed himself into her back, shuffling her forward to reach the dragon. He placed Alarra’s palm on Vhagar’s snout where his had been moments before. 

Vhagar huffed, and Alarra tried to retreat her hand, but Aemond held it still. 

“Easy girl.” Alarra didn’t know whether he was talking to her or the dragon. 

“Gīda, Vhagar. Gīda.” Aemond leaned over Alarra’s frame, pressing her even closer to the dragon, and laid his forehead to one of Vhagar's scales. 

The dragon's chest rumbled and she nudged back against him. Alarra’s hand twitched in Aemond’s grip under the shifting scales, but she made no move to pull it away. 

“Vhagar, bisa iksos Alarra.” Vhagar, this is Alarra . Aemond pulled his forehead back and began running his hands, the free one and the one trapping Alarra in its grip, over the beast. 

With the sound of his voice telling her to calm, Vhagar’s gaze shifted to her rider with a wary eye, and being out from under the dragon's gaze took a great deal of the weight from Alarra’s chest. 

“R-Rytsas.” Alarra hesitantly addressed the dragon. 

Aemond smiled appreciatively down at Alarra and let go of her hand.  She kept it there on Vhagar’s snout though she stopped her stroking. 

Alarra stayed frozen where Aemond left her waiting instruction on how to proceed while the dragonrider stepped out from behind her. Aemond stood under the edge of Vhagar's snout and held his arms out in what would have been a hug if the dragon were smaller.

Aemond's tone was soft as he spoke to his dragon. “īlon jāhor sagon ēdrure kesīr rūsīr ao.” 

Alarra’s head whipped around and her hand fell in shock. 

We will be staying with you tonight. 

Aemond paid no mind to Alarra’s shock. addressing only his dragon. “ Ziry iksos aōha āeksio sir. Mīsagon zȳhon rȳ ry. ”

Treat her as your master as well. Protect her at all cost.  

There was a pause of several moments before Vhagar’s gargantuan tail lifted from the sand and smacked back down. Whatever passed between Aemond and the dragon, he seemed to understand this as acceptance. “Thank you Vhagar.” 

Aemond scooped up Alarra’s fallen hand and tugged her down Vhagar’s length away from her snout and towards her belly. “This should do for now,” Aemond said over his shoulder. “Sand is not as soft as a bed, but it is a far cry better than wandering the keep all night.”

Aemond let go of her and dropped down on the beach, looking up expectantly at Alarra.

Alarra remained standing above the prince staring down at him in stunned silence. 

Aemond watched her shock for a long moment before he said. “You've said yourself Vhagar is the most fearsome creature in the world, Alarra. Yes?”

Alarra nodded numbly. 

“Well?” Aemond gestured around them. Vhagar’s tail had flopped in a ring closer to her head, leaving the pair of them in a nearly perfectly closed loop encircled by the most powerful creature in existence. “I assure you anyone that makes it past Vhagar won’t make it past me.” 

Alarra wasn’t bothered by that notion. No, she was fairly certain this was precisely what Daemon and his loyal guards frequently joked about as ‘overkill’ when discussing old battles. She didn’t feel safe in her room, and instead of suggesting she get to know her guards or offering her Criston for the night Aemond had taken her here, to a veritable fortress of his own making, safer than anything Maegor had ever built. 

No, it wasn’t the threats outside of the circle that gave her pause. It was those within, or rather the lack thereof. 

“Aemond…” Alarra remained on her feet even as he offered her a hand down into the sand. “Aemond…”

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “If it is being alone with me that causes hesitation, I can return for you before morning. Vhagar will keep you-”

“ Āeksio?” Master?

Something washed over Aemond then, trading the pause from Alarra to him.

Alarra spoke quietly, as though she was afraid someone would overhear what Aemond had just done. “Ao gīmigon skoros bona udir means. Ao daor gūrogon bona arlī.” You know what that word means. You know you cannot take it back.

Aemond’s brow furrowed. He seemed to think for a moment before deciding to respond, in equally flawless Valyrian. “Nyke jāhor daor jaelagon naejot.” I will not wish to.

Alarra, still as stunned as ever, took the hand he offered her then and followed him to the sands.