#aemond/oc

[prince-aegon-targaryen]

Btw I finally have time to read fanfics so what’s the best Aemond or Aegon love interest fics in the fandom, lmao? I straight up barely read any

[maryaandmorevna]

A Song of Swan and Dragons VIII.

Summary: Baela arrives at King's Landing, Aemond has a plan, and Arianne deals with gossip and an uncomfortable discovery.

Words: 102, 950 tw: none for this chapter

Previous chapters: I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII.

Ao3 link, also tagging @lacebvnny , and I've used the phrase 'kivio zȳrys' to mean special one/mate (not really soulmate as they probably soul bond with dragons), which I learned from here

VIII. Jēnqa

“There is no escape — we pay for the violence of our ancestors.” - Frank Herbert (Dune#1)

(Baela)

The wind lashed against her face like a whip.

Baela Targaryen flew high, the gray-green wings of Moondancer slicing through the pale blue sky, trailing just behind the crimson blaze of Meleys.

Loktys, clinging under her riding cloak, gave a pitiful squeak. He had been a gift from some pompous Volantene trading envoy trying to flatter her grandmother — but the monkey ran up to her that day, not Rhaenys.

And now he was hers.

“We’ll be there soon,” she murmured, adjusting the thick strap across her chest to secure him better.

He screeched again and burrowed deeper into her warmth.

Unlike her, he was not so fond of the air. The cold bit at her cheeks and stung her lips, but she only grinned into it.

When Princess Rhaenys decided they'd come to King's Landing, she was rather excited to explore the capital after so long.

She'd dreamed of horse races through the Street of Sisters, sailing up and down on Blackwater Rush, and crossing it to go hawking, of course, of trying all the different ales her grandmother considered inferior to wine and of dancing until her feet ached.

For the last six years, Driftmark had been her home. Her chambers were splendid, across from the ones her mother occupied before Baela had been born.

Spacious, sea-scented, full of light, and cold during the last winter. A tall pine tree, which she had made use of many times while escaping her annoying Septa, grew just under the tall, wide window.

Baela used to sneak off to the village docks to challenge boys and girls to race barefoot through tide-slick sand. A few times, she had been accused of wrestling with fisherfolk’s children, but it was a lie. She only wrestled with squires of knights serving House Velaryon.

Sitting still had to be some form of art, quite elusive to her.

Baela never could do it, even as a babe. Supposedly.

Only one thing had ever truly held her attention for long — her father’s stories. She’d perch on his knee, eyes wide, as he spoke of Valyria before the Doom — of the twisted, topless spires, of dragon armies and their generals, of fire and blood.

He'd grin at her insistence to hear more about the dark, terrible beauty of it, it was what they had in common. Rhaena would get quiet, hoping her egg would hatch so that she, too, might share in their ancestral glory.

She missed that version of her father. She missed Pentos sometimes. It had smelled of spice and citrus and fresh ink.

Of her mother's warmth.

Baela remembered the ship that carried her across the Narrow Sea to Driftmark — remembered the wet wood, salted rope, and resin; the rhythmic thud of waves below deck. It had also carried her mother’s body, shrouded in velvet, back to her parents to be buried as befits a Velaryon.

Uncle Laenor followed soon after.

With her children gone, Princess Rhaenys had requested that her granddaughters be sent to her.

Her father had agreed, too quickly, Baela mused, still salty about that.

Freshly wed to Rhaenyra and more interested in his new family than in them.

It was customary, of course, but she knew he cared little for customs.

Baela observed the river currents mixing with the sea of Blackwater Bay, holding tightly onto Moondancer's reins.

It had been her mother’s funeral — of all places — when she realized her father’s moping, mercurial moods, and obsession with purity of Valyrian blood and his legacy were his longing for her.

Rhaenyra.

His mirror. His match.

Kivio zȳrys.

His longing for the ugly chair she'd sit upon one day.

She had always imagined hearts to be vessels, to be filled. But her father’s heart had never been whole.

It had cleaved itself into pieces: one for her, one for Rhaena, one for their mother… and more than half for Rhaenyra.

The rest of them had been left to scavenge the scraps.

It was an unpleasant truth to swallow.

Baela’s gaze drifted to the rooftops ahead, trying to blink the sting from her eyes.

It had been Rhaenyra who objected. That, Baela remembered clearly. She hadn’t wanted the girls to leave and had looked at her and Rhaena not as burdens, but as daughters in truth.

Baela still wasn’t sure if it had been affection.

Or strategy.

Was she worried that Rhaena and she might supplant her sons as heirs to Driftmark? Everyone with eyes could see Jace and Luke were not of salt or sea. Yet the dragon sisters were unmistakably daughters of Laena Velaryon.

If Rhaenyra could be the King's heir, why wouldn't Laena's daughter be House Velaryon's heir?

Laena was the firstborn.

Her daughters certainly had more right than the grasping grand-uncle Vaemond.

'Yet, if grandmother truly meant to press my claim, instead of simply opposing Vaemond's, she'd make the situation even more complicated for Lucerys.'

Baela bit into her plump lower lip, thinking of her stepbrothers.

Whatever blood ran in them, they had treated her kindly.

Jace and Luke had defended Rhaena fiercely the day that vile son of Alicent Hightower laid claim to Laena’s dragon like it was his by right. They stepped in after Baela herself was hit, not like two mere boys but like two knights, two true kinsmen.

Luke had even exacted a payment in blood, as true dragonlords do.

Like an eye was enough to pay for Rhaena's heart. Vhagar had been their mother's...

And Luke was now betrothed to Rhaena, a decision made by her father and Rhaenyra, much to her grandmother's chagrin.

"They seek to tie my hand..." The Queen who Never was had grumbled once she had read that particular letter from Dragonstone. Baela had thought someone tattled on her grandmother's ideas about the Driftwood throne passing to Laena's daughter whilst Lord Corlys was several seas away.

Now, Baela didn't know what to think. Her grandmother had her reasoning, but Luke was far from the worst option when it came to marriage for Rhaena. He was of Valyrian blood through his mother.

He had a dragon.

Besides, Baela had liked Rhaenyra's sons, they weren't poor company. Jace had even devised the plan for Rhaena to have a fair chance — between Silverwing and Vermithor. They were sneaking toward the caves when the dragonkeepers caught them.

Everyone assumed she had come up with it. Baela, the instigator.

Then and there, an accord was reached.

Dragonless Rhaena was to stay on Dragonstone, where eggs were abundant, and Baela would take Moondancer to Driftmark, becoming a ward to her grandmother.

And so she did.

There, she had learned what it meant to rule.

Her grandmother sat on the Driftwood Throne in her husband’s absence, and Baela had sat beside her, watching. Land disputes, tithe negotiations, trade deals... Driftmark was no sleepy seat.

Especially not when her family visited her.

She knew Rhaenys held no love for Rhaenyra, or her father, The Rogue Prince. There were rumors...awful, dark tales about her uncle's death. She didn't think they had done it, but she knew her father was capable of much and more to achieve his ends.

No, it was not any fondness for them that made her grandmother denounce Vaemond's ambitions.

It was the love for her husband that stayed her hand. It was likely that she would not deny his wishes - that Luke inherit Driftmark, even if Baela had witnessed her true desires several times during the last six years.

"It should be you, Laena's eldest. My true grandchild."

So, ruling anything was rather like trying to keep your head above water. Everyone had their own goals, everyone wanted something, and everyone plotted.

But it bored her senseless.

Rhaenys had tried to make her see the honor in it. And Baela had tried. Truly.

Vaemond's endless bickering had at least provided some amusement. She learned how to smile politely when merchants pushed too far, how to read a ledger, and how to sniff out a liar from the first word out of his mouth.

Dull business, all of it.

Flying, now that was a joy.

She leaned into Moondancer’s neck and adjusted the reins.

“Let’s overtake them.”

The dragon surged forward, arrowing past the larger Meleys. Baela caught a flash of her grandmother’s profile atop the Red Queen — regal, tall, with long, ivory strands flying behind her like a gonfalon.

The Dragonpit loomed atop the Hill of Rhaenys, its great domed roof shadowing the city below. She would see her sister soon.

She exchanged letters with Rhaena and Jace. Sometimes she felt a twinge of envy reading about all the fun they had on Dragonstone. Rhaena wrote about playing tiles, the dragon eggs, the long walks through smoky caverns. And always, now, about her new friend, Arianne. She had met her as well, though only briefly.

Jace mentioned her, too. More than once.

She’d seemed sweet — charming, in that overly careful way. Baela had broached the subject of her grandmother to her, Princess Saera, half-joking, and Arianne flushed crimson and pivoted to monologue about some scribe named Gessio and his theory on who founded Pentos. Baela, who had lived there as a child, barely kept herself from laughing.

Who cared about stone foundations when there were dragons in the sky and legends in your blood?

Still… there was something compelling about Arianne. Not quite dull, but strange. Rhaena liked her.

Though that wasn’t a ringing endorsement — Rhaena liked mushrooms and embroidery — but Baela was curious. She would have to get to know her better at least.

Arianne had opinions about dragons that were… bizarre, frankly. But they made for good entertainment.

So was Jace fond of her.

It was obvious from the way his letters were constructed. Every fifth sentence was about something involving Arianne.

Grandmother warned Baela that her father would try to tie her to Rhaenyra's eldest son (who was, for all intents and purposes, her grandmother's grandson). She had thought her father would sooner push for little Aegon and Viserys, his sons, to inherit, despite their three older half-brothers.

Maybe she was wrong, and her father esteemed her just as highly.

It...was fine, Baela supposed.

Once she was Queen, she would do as she liked, but...

Baela promised herself she would never find herself besotted with Jacaerys Velaryon. She liked him well enough, but she liked herself much more.

She would never end up like her mother — loving a man who chose her only because the woman he truly wanted was beyond reach.

A second choice. A spare.

She would not be the consolation prize in anyone’s story.

No.

Baela Targaryen would have a Valyrian man who adored her.

Who saw her and burned for it.

If Jace thought to simply woo her because he needed her to survive, he better think again. He would have to court her properly, and she was not as easily impressed as some marcher girl.

Besides, what if he were a poor kisser?

She'd had some delightful kisses and would not settle for less. She’d once kissed a Braavosi envoy’s son at a feast — she'd dared to while he was spinning her between the dancing figures. It had only lasted a moment before her grandmother's ladies dragged her away. He had tasted of cloves.

She thought of the other one, that boy, or man rather, who had not tried to kiss her at all.

It was in Hull, during one of those days when the sea was murky from the rain. She had escaped her tutors, again, and gone prowling down the docks beneath the castle, her riotous hair cropped to her chin, leather boots scuffed from salt and sand.

She saw him before he saw her.

Tallish. Bare-armed, muscles taut from hauling rope, soaked shirt clinging to his back.

Baela thought couldn't have been much older than she was, perhaps a year or two. Dark, clear skin, hair shaved close to his skull, though there was a faint sheen of silver there.

She stopped, openly staring.

The salty wind played with her cloak.

When he finally noticed her, he didn’t bow. Didn’t stammer.

Just looked up with a scowl decorating his face.

"I'm working, my lady. 'Tis no place for you."

Baela laughed at that, unbridled and unapologetic. She swung herself up onto a rusted bollard, one leg dangling over the dock’s edge.

“Are you telling me to leave? Don’t you know who I am?”

His lips twitched, like he wanted to smile but thought better of it. She realized he muttered something inaudible and went back to coiling rope.

He ignored her.

That never happened.

She was a Targaryen.

Close to Gods.

Every squire, knight, page, and pompous young lord she’d ever met had tried to impress her. Even some ladies, if she were honest about it. They puffed up like peacocks, reciting feats, offering poems, pretending to spar while really showing off.

They gazed at her like she was fourteen flames in flesh, or worse, a prize to be won.

But he turned away.

As if he didn’t care.

As if she were... ordinary.

It was rather insulting.

Baela had cocked her head, watching the corded forearms, the sure way his fingers tied knots.

It made her blood hum.

With his hair, he was surely one of the Targaryen or Velaryon bastards.

He was called Alyn, she would learn later. She had been so shocked that someone would shave off the hallmark of their Valyrian blood, as if it weren't something to be proud about.

The idea was preposterous.

Moondancer circled once, wings slicing low above the Dragonpit, before plunging down like a dagger. The great stone yard shuddered beneath the weight of her arrival, talons scraping and tail snapping as she skidded across the dust.

Baela slid from the saddle before the dragon had fully stilled, landing hard on booted feet, pearlescent hair wild — it was growing back, already touching her shoulders, after she'd cut it a few months ago.

Loktys shrieked in protest and clung tighter to her collar.

She patted him absentmindedly.

"Jiōrna, Ābrāzma Baela." (Welcome, Lady Baela.)

The dragonkeepers greeted her, already preparing to usher Moondancer inside.

The young dragon hissed, smoke trailing from her nostrils.

"It must be the stink of King's Landing making her so," Baela retorted in High Valyrian with a crooked smile.

Behind her, the great shadow of Meleys descended upon the landing area, graceful like a falling star.

Her red wings folded with dignified ease as her claws clicked to the ground.

Already, the guards and servants were running with a prepared carriage, eager to welcome the Queen Who Never Was and the Rogue Prince's daughter.

Baela glanced towards the city proper, wondering if she could steal a horse without her grandmother noticing.

She loathed carriages.

.

.

.

(Arianne)

"Stop scowling, it's unbecoming." Prunella Celtigar's contralto tickled her ear. They had been seated with the younger children in one of the banquet halls, while all the important folk occupied the other end of the long table.

Princess Rhaenys held a seat of honor, though it didn't seem to soften the harsh contours of her face.

Arianne stabbed at the honey-ginger partridge piled on her plate.

The holy week of the Maiden had already begun, which meant she kept to the fast. No meat, but poultry was permitted as per the Queen's edict.

Princess Rhaenyra had not followed it, of course, for she was far along in her pregnancy.

Growing babes needed nourishment.

Her princess aside, no one seated at the other end of the table seemed to care for the Maiden's Day.

Prince Daemon, in particular, scorned the Seven with almost gleeful irreverence, and Jace had a helping of the same suckling pig that Lady Baela ate. All procured under the Queen's nose by Arianne's own effort!

For which Rhaenyra simply smiled, thanked her, and called her efficient.

Efficient!

Like...a steward, not a future daughter-in-law.

Well, at least it was a compliment. Perhaps it meant her princess forgave her for the book mishap. Which had been his fault.

Arianne frowned, taking a sip of her hippocras. Her evening was miserable enough, she needn't think about Aemond Targaryen.

Her mind kept pestering her with him and his firm hands — particularly the way they settled securely around her waist, until a melodious baritone coming from the other end of the table interrupted it.

Arianne glanced up, her lips absolutely not tightening at the sight of Jace laughing, so humorous must've been some bawdy joke coming from the older of Daemon's daughters.

She was certainly not observing Baela's beautiful, thick, silver curls that were chopped scandalously to just above her shoulders.

Nor that...ludicrous monkey of hers that was currently hanging off Jace's arm and throwing roasted almonds at chagrined Rhaena.

The creature, whose name was Loktys, Baela had insisted, greeted her by pulling on her hair!

Arianne had been stunned mute, firstly because she had expected a carriage with both princess Rhaenys and her granddaughter inside, yet Baela arrived on horseback, riding hard across the stone bridge with the reins steady in her gloved hands.

No squire at her side, no guard to aid her dismount.

She slid from the saddle with a quick, fluid motion and hurried towards Rhaena.

The hairy, little thing wiggled out of the cotton strap while Baela embraced her sister, and jumped on Arianne.

"Ah, Loktys likes you! He does prefer ladies." A blithe grin spread on her lovely, oval face.

Arianne swallowed and attempted a smile of her own, though her instincts screamed to swat the thing off and run.

Thankfully, the attack had lasted mere moments before Loktys lost interest and switched to tormenting Rhaena's ladies in waiting. She had three, two picked by Rhaenyra, and one sent by her grandmother, a cousin named after Queen Alyssa, Jaehaerys and Alysanne's Velaryon mother.

"Lady Arianne." Baela had greeted her with strange warmth, looping her left arm through hers, her right holding her sister's, as they entered the castle. Arianne had to quicken her pace because Lady Baela's stride was brisk and assured.

She moved as someone who had not tripped once in their life.

"Rhaena enjoys your company, so we might be friends as well. Though I'm much more fun than she is." Her sister scoffed at this while Arianne struggled to formulate an answer.

"Ah...eh...I'd be honored." She stammered, wondering what kind of ploy this was.

Didn't Baela wish to marry Jace?

Now that she thought about it, she did not know. It felt foolish ever to ask Rhaena about it, considering they were sisters.

It would've been intrusive, or even disloyal.

'If she did want Jace for herself, was she attempting to befriend me as per one of those stratagems which stated it would be beneficial to keep one's enemies closer than even friends?' Arianne decided she would have to think on it later.

It was enough that she had one Targaryen for an enemy, she did not need two at this moment.

As Baela left her arm to reunite with her father and family, Arianne thought of Aemond. Of the utterly foolish way she had declared her plans for the future to him, and how he was probably laughing at her now, when everyone knew Jace was Baela's escort for the Ball.

In that irritating voice of his, with that infuriating tilt of his shapely lips.

Unfortunately, Aemond was right about one thing, she couldn't simply end him. Not by taking up swordsmanship or commanding an army from her solar — though would an army even make a difference when he had Vhagar?

Oh, he'd be doing the scorching, Arianne imitated his resonant baritone in her mind. Because he was such perfect dragonlord, and, ohhh did he mention he was a Targaryen, well, he was closer to Gods than men in case someone failed to notice. 

She scowled.

He was so aggravatingly vain and spiteful that he couldn't accept an honest bargain.

"Will you tell me a story, Lady Arianne?" Little Aegon pulled on her sleeve. She blinked owlishly at him.

"Ah...now? Perhaps after dinner."

"Well, you're sad." He noted with a brutal, childish honesty.

"You told me once that when I'm sad, I should remember stories about bravery."

She stared at him, searching his indigo eyes.

Was it that obvious? Transparent even to a boy half her age?

Arianne's gaze shifted to Princess Rhaenys, sitting stiffly and ignoring the succulent cuts of meat and glazed vegetables. She did not seem to enjoy Daemon or Rhaenyra's company. Not at all.

Arianne pondered the implications.

Would Rhaenys support her brother-in-law, Ser Vaemond Velaryon? If Luke were truly to be stripped of his inheritance, what would it mean for Jace? Her Prince would have his legitimacy questioned, which was not good for his standing with the court, nor his claim.

What would it mean for Rhaena, who was betrothed to Luke? Would their betrothal be rendered void? Arianne assumed not, as betrothals were father's prerogative, and Daemon seemed content to wed her to Lucerys.

But why would Rhaenys side with Vaemond? She had nothing to gain by handing Driftmark to her husband's brother.

Unless...those ill-conceived rumors about her princess having a hand in Ser Laenor's death were true.

Arianne had a hard time believing Rhaenyra would ever commit such a thing, yet something inside her bones told her that Prince Daemon absolutely would.

"Perhaps you should tell him the Seven Sorrows of envious Thayla." Lady Prunella offered, with certain pointedness.

"It's all about what happens when one lets jealousy fester."

Arianne flushed.

It was a tale of maid Thayla of Cornfield, golden-haired and comely beyond words, the youngest of her siblings. She held a love for a fair lord of her lands — Arianne always thought it had to have been a Swyft, their house ruled Cornfield — but when he came looking for a bride, it was her own older sister who sent her to do errands and wed the man herself.

Now, a lady wife of great importance, her sister offered her in recompense any of the dozen neighboring lords to choose for a husband.

Enraged, Thayla stole a carving knife from the kitchens and slit her older sister's throat.

Cursed by the Seven, for it was the worst sin of them all, Thayla fled with rot in her soul. For seven moons she wandered, feet blistered and bloody, until she leapt to her death from the cliffs near Crakehall.

"I am not jealous." Arianne muttered tersely.

Besides, it was just a tale, one did not need seven moons to reach Crakehall from Cornfield.

She peered up from her plate to look at Jace.

Their eyes met briefly, verdant moss and rain-damp earth, before her gaze dropped back onto the caramel glaze coating her partridge.

Great, now Jace will think she was staring at him!

Pining like a sad, dreadfully pleasant girl.

Complete opposite of what Johanna was advising in her letter.

"You should not be." Prunella dabbed a napkin over her thin lips.

"Rhaenyra will broker you an advantageous marriage once this matter of inheritance is settled. Do not harbor some foolish hopes. There are many comely young lords who befit your station."

Arianne held in the grimace.

She did not want some comely lord! She wanted Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, and to marry him and have his children. 

It was mightily unfair!

Baela had nearly everything.

A dragon, a Targaryen name, and locks the color of pale stars in the firmament!

She had a lovely and wonderful sister, Rhaena, while Arianne had her annoying older brother, who only ever mocked her.

Baela's grandmother took her in, cared for her, and loved her.

Arianne didn't think her own grandmother knew she existed at all.

If only Princess Saera had been less awful, perhaps her father would've been considered more seriously during the Great Council, perhaps Arianne and Robb would've been raised at Court, dragonriders both of them, and properly schooled in the arts of governance. Perhaps she would have been betrothed to Jace long ago, her fate stitched to his like a golden thread.

Since none of those things were a reality, couldn't she have this one thing?

Her Prince.

(And a beautiful golden crown like Queen Alysanne's. One day.)

She would make a good wife for him, Arianne knew it. She had taken it upon herself to study Septon Barth's Great Code, Lord Massey's Rullings of Jaehaerys, and any histories she got her hands on.

She took care to dress finely, and her penmanship was neat.

Arianne was a poor dancer, she was well aware of it, but she was halfway decent with a high-harp. Her mother often said her voice might not enchant the noble coteries, but it carried well. She knew the correct hymns and rites for each of the Seven’s feast days.

She had learned which blessings a Lady of the House was expected to give, and how the Faith might be used to silence dissent when need be. Numbers never daunted her, nor did the logistics of fund allocation.

She was even making a progress with her High-Valyrian.

Her hands greedily gripped every tome on ethics they could find. She pestered Jace's tutor on governance and diplomacy until he gave her the recommended scrolls.

Yet, if she were honest, there was another glaring problem: her complete lack of charm.

Arianne knew she was missing that unstudied spontaneity, that careless elegance which drew people in like moths to oil lanterns.

There was something about the soft, airy way Rhaena moved through the Court that made ladies and lords wish to share her company.

She did it rather effortlessly, a water flowing over smooth stone.

On the other hand, Arianne felt like she was constantly arranging herself.

She sighed, eyeing the salad of turnips, fennel, and sweetgrass.

At least she had been following Rhaena around for months now, so something had to have rubbed off on her.

She could also ask Johanna for further advice.

It wasn't as if Baela Targaryen was perfect, Arianne frowned, and she was completely impartial, of course, it hadn't been jealousy seeping through her veins.

Baela supposedly wrestled with men, cut her beautiful hair, and did all sorts of things the Seven did not approve of.

Arianne concluded that Daemon's older daughter clearly did not care to perform the duties of the Queen one day as properly as her.

"I am not. It gladdens me that Lady Rhaena is reunited with her sister. She missed her terribly." The words rolled off her tongue like a polished recital. They weren't entirely fabricated, because she truly was happy for her friend at least.

Across the table, Rhaena lifted a finger in mock-threat toward the monkey still using her as a target practice.

"Oh, she is not jealous." Mathilda Strong interjected merrily, giggling as she tried to coax a spoonful of mashed beets into Prince Viserys's mouth.

"Our lady Swann has consoled herself already."

Arianne blinked twice, her fork pausing above the turnip.

What?

"I've heard the most salacious gossip earlier today." Mathilda turned toward Lady Celtigar, dark eyes alight with mischief.

Arianne sensed the lines of her face forming a deep frown. What possible gossip about her?

The Fires of the Freehold incident was old news by courtly standards, and not so salacious besides. Did someone see Jace and her in the Godswood? They had been careful!

He hadn't even touched her inappropriately or any such thing.

Oh no.

She couldn't mean —

A bout of nausea racked through her stomach before Mathilda opened her mouth.

"That our dear Arianne visited the tiltyard and... swooned!"

"That is clearly false!"

"Into a man's arms!" Mathilda continued, unperturbed by her denial, soft hand pressed to her mouth as if she'd just uttered the contents of Nymor Martell's letter to King Aegon.

"Who is spreading those calumnies?!" Arianne stabbed at her turnip with vehemence. 

Swooned?!

She'd sooner swoon herself into the Smoking sea than into that condescending twat's arms.

"Who is the man?" Prunella asked mildly, pretending to inspect the gravy.

Mathilda grinned.

"Prince Aemond, supposedly."

All the ladies seated nearby glanced at her, not discreetly at all. Little Aegon's pale eyebrows knitted together.

"That is not true!" Arianne's voice rose an entire octave, her hands growing damp.

"I've never been in the yard."

"Really?" Mathilda attempted to take a sip of wine while the toddler in her lap swatted at the cutlery within reach.

"Lady Ruskyn swears it was you. As does Prince Joffrey's guard."

"They're mistaken."

Mathilda raised one dark brow. Arianne downed her remaining hippocras, not very ladylike at all, while her brain worked through the explanations that would kill this exaggerated mockery in its crib.

"Sometimes we mistake one person for another. Just yesterday, I realized one of my cousins was serving as a lady in waiting for Lady Fell, you wouldn't know her, Cyrenna Dondarrion. We look much alike. Perhaps it was her."

Viserys chose that moment to slap the spoon from Mathilda's hand with a chubby, beet-stained fist.

Arianne sank into her chair. She did indeed have a cousin named Cyrenna, but she was nine.

"I wouldn't mind." Mathilda leaned towards her, whispering conspiratorially.

"He's very handsome, despite that...unfortunate scar."

A muscle in her cheek twitched. 

Handsome? No, no, absolutely not! She would never think that again lest sin find her once more.

Did that evil bore have to be so tall? With those sleek, silver tresses, pronounced cheekbones, and hollows beneath them? With splendid hands, large and sinewy, and warm — and she was now cursed to know exactly how they felt against her.

Prunella shook her head resolutely, cleaning the beet off the little prince's chin.

"You should mind. There is no love lost between our princess and her younger brothers. It is not a union she would support."

Arianne felt her face burn, all along her hairline.

A union. With Aemond.

She wouldn't wish that upon her worst enemy.

Well, if she thought about it, her worst enemy was Prince Aemond.

Mathilda leaned onto her shoulder in a mock surrender.

“But Arianne swooned into his arms,” she sang, low and gleeful. "Like in a ballad about Ellenei and King Durran."

"I didn't —"

"And he saved her. It’s the Gods’ will—”

“There was no swooning!” Arianne hissed, rising to her feet before her brain could stop her mouth.

Down the ornate table, several heads turned her way. Jace. Rhaena. Baela. Luke. Her silver-haired friend frowned slightly.

The other three just appeared confused.

Arianne dropped back into her seat, cleared her throat, and gave her goblet a small, nervous tap.

“I just tripped. And if you had bothered to read that ballad till the end, you'd know the gods were mightily angry about that union.”

A long beat.

Viserys chose that moment to begin wailing.

Thankfully, Princess Rhaenys rose just then, murmuring something dry about farces and Rhaenyra’s desperation, before sweeping from the hall with her guards in tow.

Arianne drew her brows together, observing how Rhaenyra interlocked her fingers. Tightly. So tight they turned sickly white.

Mathilda refilled her cup.

"So you tripped into his arms, then?"

.

.

.

...My dearest daughter,

This letter will reach you from Fellwood. Robb has been sent ahead to King’s Landing on horseback, accompanied by a third of the guard. You might think your mother's and mine's delay as something unfortunate, but do not. She has taken ill along the road. Lady Fell’s maester suspects she is with child, several weeks along, though no one dares confirm it just yet... I have arranged everything for her to return home, but she won't have it, citing your betrothal as a reason. Jeyne is still miffed about my refusal to give your hand to that insipid Caron boy, she imagines it would solve the grudges between our houses. Considering how fond she is of calling you her pearl above the ocean, she should find you, as I do, better suited for far more illustrious matches. Arianne, this ill-conceived petition over a settled inheritance should not daunt you. I know you will not disappoint me.

                                                                                                          Donnel Swann, Lord of Stonehelm, Lord of the Marches

Arianne balked.

"Mother is carrying again." She turned to Miriam, who had been sitting on a window ledge and nibbling on a piece of soft-cheese, one stockinged foot tucked under her skirts.. She paused mid-bite, eyes drawn to the parchment in Arianne's hand.

"Oh..." She exhaled.

"Truly?"

Arianne only nodded.

It wasn't that she was unhappy, but there was unease biting at her gut.

Her mother had lost more babes than she wanted to count. Arianne had had a little sister, once, a decade ago, born too early and tiny as a kitten. She had adored her for all six weeks she drew breath. They'd named her Carellen, and Arianne would collect wildflowers to leave at the stone marker beneath the willow tree. Wallflowers and forget-me-nots, and blue chicory that grew near Stonehelm.

She needed to go light a candle at least.

Arianne glanced at her reflection in the beaten silver mirror, then at the neatly placed figurines on her lapis-lazuli board.

Her thoughts drifted to the Great Hall and the throne itself, to the high, narrow windows with stained glass, to the sheer number of courtiers, to Lady Baela and her boldness, to the petition, to Rhaenyra's disapproval, to Jace's invitation to fly with him, to Balerion's skull, to the tall walls of King's Landing and the maze of narrow streets she could see from her window, to the cyvasse game she had lost, and to Aemond Targaryen.

Someone much braver would be daunted.

Now, there was this foul hearsay about her. She could only pray and hope her parents would never hear of it. Their maiden daughter swooning, swooning, by the Seven, who even came up with that, into a man's arms. 

His arms.

The very notion brought her blood up to a boiling point.

Arianne puffed her cheeks, pouting with theatrical indignation.

She has had enough of that smug, rankling twit tarnishing her reputation! Did that spoilt one-eyed princeling have nothing better to do than test her patience? She would get even one day, she promised herself again.

Mayhap, Jace would grow jealous once he heard the gossip. One could hope at least something good could come out of the damned stumble.

"I need to do Rhaenyra's correspondence today. Then sort...Well, I assume Elinda will need some help with organizing us for the Maiden Day's Ball." She muttered, adorning her ears with small, pale pearls. The very same ones she had hurled at Aemond's head. 

Miriam raised a thin eyebrow.

“Doesn’t the lady of the house host the Ball? That would mean—”

"The Queen, yes." Arianne cut in, twiddling with her trebuchet before kicking the alabaster dragon with it.

"But Rhaenyra believes the Hightowers will use this opportunity to once again sideline her. The less visible she is, the easier it becomes to remove Luke from the succession of Driftwood Throne."

Miriam lifted herself off the sill, straightening her skirts.

“The Maiden can’t be faulted for casting her grace upon the Queen and not the Princess.”

Arianne paused, questioning eyes shifting to her maid.

"That's quite the statement, you know."

Mirriam shrugged, crossing her arms.

“The Queen visits the Great Sept at least once per week. They say she gave enough gold in her daughter's name to raise a statue of the Smith in that street where shops are. She reveres the Seven. Properly. Unlike Rhaenyra.”

A frown made its way across Arianne's face.

"How do you even know all this?"

Miriam gave her a lofty look.

“You think all we ladies handmaids do is gossip about combs and pins? Honestly.”

Arianne flopped backward onto her bed, huffing. “Well. It is different. Rhaenyra is a Targaryen. They accept the Seven, but they are not beholden to them. There’s the whole...They're exceptional. The blood of Old Valyria."

She stared at the ceiling.

Jacaerys was a Velaryon, but he would take his mother's name once he ascended. Their children would be exceptional too, silver-haired....well, maybe not silver-haired. But they'd ride dragons and rule.

"And I dislike how being in their proximity affects you," Miriam said pointedly, dragging her back.

“You read those strange books at night instead of saying your prayers—”

Arianne sat up.

"There is nothing strange about it. I want to know more about my grandmother's blood. Besides, I am studying. You can't pray your way into power, Miriam."

Mentioning her grandmother reminded her she needed to get her hands on Elysar's writings. Surely, they would contradict Aemond's horrible insinuations — ...the last time a Swann, a Mooton, and Saera played their games in Court. — that implicated her grandfather.

Perhaps she’d pen him a lengthy, meticulously sourced refutation and demand a vindication for his vile slander against her family's honor.

Idly, Arianne wondered what shape his lips would form while uttering an apology.

“You forgot to light the incense yesterday,” Miriam noted, yanking her back from her musings for the second time.

“Perhaps I’ll pray you marry someone else, then —"

"Don't you dare!"

She stood up so quickly that her world spun.

Miriam smiled, sickly sweet and cloying.

"Ohhhh, but I thought my measly prayers couldn't touch the blood of Old Valyria."

Arianne squinted, glaring at her handmaid.

"I will wed my prince, and then you'll feel bad for this mockery —"

"Bahh." Her maid exhaled, waving her hand.

"I answer to Lady Jeyne Swann, not to you. She tasked me with looking after you, so that is what I'm doing."

She sighed.

"You worry for naught, Miriam. Jace and I will enjoy the full support of the Faith. I will ensure it myself."

Even if Jace preferred to keep his distance from the Seven, he'd see reason. It was sensible and practical to have a cordial relationship with the High Septon. It would help immensely with their public image.

Arianne rushed to finish her breakfast. She couldn't be daunted now.

Plagues of Zamettar were nothing compared to her father's disappointment. Besides, the Maiden would bless her if she pursued her true love. That was how it worked here, despite what Johanna wrote. Lys the Lovely was all the way across the Narrow Sea.

.

.

.

She had almost made it to the end of the verbose import report from Lord Bar Emmon's steward when Miriam found her, arms full of rolled parchment. The solar assigned to Rhaenyra's household was quite empty today, as the princess went to be with her father, the King.

“These have been coming in for the past hour!” Miriam declared, letting them spill unceremoniously onto the divan beside Arianne. She blinked, her mind stuffed full of dock numbers and trade tariffs.

“I didn’t know what to do with them. One of the servants said something about your escort? Are you not going with your prince?"

Arianne rose from the damask settee, realizing at once what those were. Rhaena had an entire satchel full of them.

"No." Arianne shook her head, trying not to dwell on the image of Jace escorting Baela, who would look beautiful and queenly no matter the cut hair or unsubstantiated rumors. She reached for the first tiny scroll. Surprisingly, it was a name she had heard recently.

No, those were ridiculous accusations; he was simply being mean.

Arianne went for the next one.

She would probably not have half as many as her friend, but they were no less galling. One by one, Arianne untied them all, lips tightening with irritation. They were courteous invitations, flowery and flattering in the dullest way possible.

“So… who are you going with, then?” Miriam asked, careful as a cat near a new vase. She was aware that Arianne wanted to go with one man only.

“I don’t know.” Arianne had no energy to lie. She didn't know yet.

“It doesn’t really matter.”

Miriam let out a long-suffering sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“It does matter. Also — where in the Seven hells is our gold? I’ve three of your dresses to get stitched and no coin for the tailor. How am I supposed to keep you looking respectable if we’re rationing like hedge knights?"

.

.

.

(Aemond)

"She has been here scarcely a week!" Alicent gripped her fork tightly, her tone dripping with rage.

"Already she seeks to humiliate me! Rhaenys should have come to me first!"

Aemond's eye tracked the grim twist of his nephew's mouth as he inspected the porridge.

They'd been seated in the dining part of the Queen's spacious chambers.

The Keep was practically buzzing after the arrival of the Queen who Never Was and his wretch cousin Baela — who had punched him that cold night on Driftmark because he told his other cousin how things stood now. He claimed Vhagar because he dared, and snivelling little cowards like her could ride pigs, just like the one Jace and Luke presented to him.

Aemond slept soundly last night, his body granted rest now that his mind was made up. Arianne Swann was going to be his paramour, there was no question about that.

He only needed to develop his strategy for conquering her.

She had already compared herself to a castle, and he was the dragonlord and the army, which she would soon realize. Once he tore down her stone defenses, brick by brick.

How difficult could it actually be, wooing a woman?

He'd never attempted it before, but certainly not as difficult as studying the military campaigns and poring over maps for hours, or reading on cyvasse theory.

Besides, Aegon wooed women all the time, and he was a witless slob. And he was married, Aemond thought irritably. Every new affair was an insult to his sweet sister.

He had no such predicaments, and he already knew the gist of it.

Impressing her.

Of course, some would say he ought to write love letters, poems, send flowers, and ply the lady with cloying compliments, but that was beneath him. Scurrying for a lady's favor was for soft, weak men, those with nothing else to them.

What he needed to do was demonstrate his worth.

Strength.

He could break that Mooton's nose while sparring, and while Arianne was watching; there would be no point otherwise, and she'd see that she had been wasting time with lesser men. She'd see the difference.

She'd see him. 

Then he could invite her to play cyvasse, which she enjoyed — and win, of course, though she was no easy opponent, which should impress her. Perhaps, he could further prove to her that her knowledge about anything couldn't compare to his, and that she ought to submit and stop arguing.

Then, he'd take her to see Vhagar.

Let her ignorant head glimpse at what true power looked like. How could she not be awed? How could anyone resist when faced with something so ancient, vast, and terrifying, and under his command?

...Well, that was that.

She'd find herself haplessly besotted and proceed to invite him to her bed.

"Give it rest, daughter. There has been another dispute in the Riverlands that the council will have to debate on today." Otto Hightower offered mildly, pouring himself a cup of mint tea.

Aemond pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

He had meant to share a quick breakfast with his mother, but it appeared his sister, along with his grandsire, had the same idea. So now he was stuck listening to another pointless courtly maneuver between his mother and her opponents. What did it matter what his whore-sister ate or fed others? Cole was right, she was an irredeemably spoilt cunt.

Aemond had the perfect solution to all his mother's woes, but she would not like it. It would go against the Seven. Or something of that sort.

Alicent Hightower fumed.

"Rhaenyra sent one of her ladies to bribe my seneschal!" His mother hissed.

"Into serving lamb and suckling pigs during the holy week of the Maiden, no less! I had thought the years might have brought some maturity to her, but she continues to make a mockery of everything!"

Truthfully, Aemond was glad his mother was fixated on his whore-sister, it left her with less time to remember she could order him to play the escort to Lord Redwyne's daughter, or one of the Costayne sisters, or whomever was now her favorite.

"When I had him questioned, several kitchen maids made testimonies about donations for the celebration of the Maiden, in Rhaenyra's name! She does not care about —"

Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra...

Aemond let the name slide past him like a knife through butter. His mother had the strangest obsession with her. Both she and Cole — as if the whore were a second Maegor.

Couldn't they comprehend that it was not Rhaenyra they ought to fear?

That if they wanted to deal with his half-sister, they only needed to deal with Daemon.

He was the true dragon, fueling her designs.

Rhaenyra was merely a woman, and if it came to a conflict, it would be his uncle who'd command armies in her name. Though from what Aemond had gathered, his grandsire rather thought the conflict could be avoided.

Of course, it couldn't.

There would be no peace as long as they contested Aegon's right as the King's trueborn son.

Aemond would rather disembowel himself than kneel to that licentious harlot and her brood of bastards that stole his birthright.

Alicent continued her tirade.

"It is a clear bribery, despite what they all say. I will have it further investigated!"

He knew she meant to send that slimy lord Larys to...investigate. Why in the Seven's name did she keep that toad around? What possible use was there for a crippled kin of Rhaenyra's bastards?

Otto sighed.

"We must focus on the petition. I've received another letter from Ser Vaemond, he is to set sail in a fortnight."

"Well—"

"Daughter," He cut in with patronizing gentleness.

"It would not serve us well to punish one of Rhaenyra's ladies for giving donations in the name of the Seven. Even if it was bribery. Perhaps you ought to learn from it."

Aemond felt the corner of his mouth curl into a sneer. 

Learn from it? What right did his grandfather have to lecture his mother about the Court? He was the one who got himself dismissed and left her alone to fight for herself and her children. As if Aegon and he didn't spend their entire childhoods watching how favored by the Court and the King the bastards were. It was only Ser Criston who always defended them steadfastly.

"Learn what?" The Queen questioned tightly.

"That you should've placed a lady as astute as that one at our Helaena's side. Someone sharp and capable to advance her cause instead of the simpletons you've surrounded her with."

His sister glanced up from her piece of bread, generously topped with blackberry preserves.

"I like my ladies."

Aemond's pale eye flicked to her, then back to soft-boiled eggs and smoked fish filling his plate, still untouched. Rhaenyra's astute, sharp lady? Could they mean —

His lady Swann?

He relaxed his jaw into placid neutrality.

Surely not.

His whore-half-sister had older ladies, much more suited for those...tasks? Perhaps, it was the Celtigar one, considering the amount of gold one needed to bribe half the Keep's kitchen staff. He could consult Lord Beesbury on the matter.

Or better, Ser Tyland, because unlike that old fool, the Lannisters weren't kissing Rhaenyra's shrivelled cunt.

"And who is this lady serving that wh...that half-sister of mine?" Aemond asked, and to feign disinterest, reached forward to give Jaehaera the oatcake she was eyeing.

"Saera's granddaughter," his mother scoffed offhandedly, but before Aemond could react, or not react, she interlocked her fingers and leaned on them.

"And since when does this interest you, Aemond?" His mother was now focusing her large, brown eyes on him. For a moment, he felt terribly seen, as if she knew all his thoughts.

"It doesn't, mother. Merely asking." He leaned back into his chair.

Cool as the Night's King.

"Perhaps it does now that you're playing the gallant knight in the courtyard? Who was the lady they told me you've helped?"

He felt the tips of his ears burn.

By they, she had to have meant Cole. Aemond would have words with his mentor. Firstly, to explain to him that he was no longer a boy, but a man grown, and that his affairs in the training yard didn't need to be reported to his mother, even if she were a Queen.

"How would I know? I didn't linger long enough to find out." The lie slipped off his tongue.

He held her longer than necessary, apparently too long if his actions were now parroted around the Court like some sordid affair.

Aemond could already imagine Lady Arianne fuming about it, her soft cheeks pink from frustration, her lips pursed into that particular shape they took while she was arguing, prepared to profess her innocence in the matter, invoking Gorghan's treatise on accidental happenings, or something similarly defensive.

Perhaps, she'd attack him again, seizing a practice sword in those dainty hands and flailing with it like a hysterical hen.

His fingers flexed around the fork.

Gods, she truly was a nettlesome tart to trouble him so.

Idly, he pondered what philosophical concepts held her interest. Did she study the Volantene elections?

Or perhaps the legends about the Old Ones from the island of Leng or the Great Empire of the Dawn? They were, of course, myths and fables, as the Citadel noted. And Aemond was ready, having prepared several arguments should she try to claim otherwise.

Was she pragmatic? He supposed she was, considering she wished to rise — saw herself as queenly, saw her blood carried in future heirs — and one cannot do that with a meek heart.

No, underneath that coy, fluttery facade she presented, there was a tangible essence of steel, of obsidian, mingling with her blood. He could practically smell it on her, it was the Valyrian warmth underneath the Marcher wildlands.

She would fit perfectly underneath his sheets.

The tales of Saera Targaryen's depravity were as numerous as there were starving stomachs in Flea Bottom, and Aemond couldn't help but wonder if, secretly, his little swan was just as lewd.

He wasn't so irrational as to consider marriage, though Arianne Swann was better in some aspects than most maidens his family had in mind for him. She had at least a smidgeon of Targaryen blood in her veins.

It would ensure their children became capable dragonriders.

But no, if given the choice, Aemond would not wed anyone. Not a Lannister or the Dornish princess, not a Redwyne daughter with a fleet, not even one of the Baratheon sisters. Certainly not Arianne Swann. 

Mind was mind, flesh was flesh.

This was a weakness of flesh. 

His mind was still sovereign. 

Or, if he really had to pick, he'd wed the girl who had given him his lucky handkerchief, on the premise that she'd bring him more good fortune still. If he were forced to share his space and life, give his protection, and endure her name being attached to his, at least he should get something out of it.

He'd imagined that, back when he was nothing more than a maimed boy, because it couldn't have been a coincidence, the Grandmaester declaring the daily cleanings of his wound, which included boiled wine, scouring, and bone-shattering pain, were no longer needed that same night he met her.

He shouldn't have called her a toad.

Even if she had been a foolish, meddling girl-toad. 

His lady fortune.

Aemond's nostrils flared slightly from the inhale.

If she really had been novice back then, she was surely a Septa by now.

Besides, had never been just a maimed boy. Vhagar was the proof of it, and she was worth a dozen eyes. A hundred. Thousand.

He needed nothing capricious as luck.

The One-eyed Prince debated whether he should do something about this irksome gossip. He was not someone the tongues should freely wag about.

"It is a good image for us." His grandsire interjected, severing his train of thought.

"The gallant prince who rides the largest dragon in the world. The smallfolk will adore you."

Aemond scowled.

As if.

.

.

.

(Arianne)

The afternoon sun was high in the sky when Princess Rhaenyra returned from her father's sickbed and was ready to make her way around the Great Hall, and to see the decorated gardens. Long, golden shapes danced on the marble floor while she paused here and there for a practiced pleasantry.

Arianne followed in her wake, trailing demurely behind Lady Elinda Massey, clad in a matching dress of fine, black silk. She adorned her waist with pale, milky moonstones set in the elegant silver chain.

It was rather fortunate that Rhaenyra's supporters often wore black, because this way she could honor her own heraldry.

Arianne had spied Lady Wylde from across the Hall.

The woman was much younger than her husband, and while she could hardly be considered a great beauty, she was tall and willowy.

Even though her house was also in the Stormlands, just on the northern tip of Cape Wrath, Arianne had been dispatched to make pleasant conversation with Lady Buckler and her daughters instead.

Well, Bronzegate was an important castle on the Kingsroad to Storm's End. By the time she was done complimenting one of the daughters' azure dress, Lady Wylde had found her, and, after a short discussion on the cyvasse game they played, had pressed a small note into her palm.

It was a dinner invitation for tonight.

"Do be careful, Arianne. She is the Queen's creature." Elinda Massey warned her, the words catching her by surprise.

"What do you mean?" She was chary to learn the reason, because she quite liked Lord Jasper's wife and they shared a fondness for cyvasse.

Jasper Wylde was the Master of Laws, and law was not partial to anyone. It was the essence of it.

Not to mention, if she was going to consider having Lady Wylde's stepson Jorlan as her escort, at least she could pry some information about him. His name stood out to her from the offers, due to Aemond's scathing remark.

How could she possibly have seduced someone she talked to once?

"You really ought to read less and pay attention more. She is Alicent Hightower's lady in waiting."

Oh.

Arianne pressed her lips together. It was not like they were obligated to argue or discuss the Princess and the Queen.

They could delve into the intricacies of the dragon's gambit, discuss the defenses based on a heavy horse rather than trebuchets and catapults, or even play tiles, which Arianne realized was rather popular with the ladies of the Court.

She just hoped Lady Wylde wasn't into embroidery, because it would not do to present herself poorly through her meager handiwork.

The afternoon wore on, heavy with polite laughter and the slow decay of small talk.

She was drained from all the mingling, but glimpsing Lady Elisa Stokeworth, who always had that easy smile on her face, made Arianne's own lips quirk.

Her joy didn't last long once her new friend entwined their elbows and led her into the gardens.

Between Mathilda's already inaccurate fable from yesterday and what Elisa was animatedly recounting now, the gossip grew, as thistle root does through dry earth, to contain the vilest of lies.

Arianne Swann now not only had swooned, but had also thrown herself at the Prince, overcome by his masculine gravitas and the failings of her sinful blood.

She had apparently acquired a taste for powerful men, just like the infamous Black Swan of Lys, her grand-aunt or a cousin, you know, and Aemond Targaryen was just the scrumptious opportunity she couldn't pass on.

The soft contours of her face twisted into a furious rictus.

Wonderful.

She was going to murder whoever opened their yapping mouth first.

"Is he the one you wish to marry? That's why you dressed so prettily the other day." Elisa twirled the golden bracelet around her wrist as they promenaded between the cypresses and the fountains. The gardens were splendidly adorned with ribbons, garlands, and flower arches that were in full bloom for the Maiden's Day.

"Seven! No!"

Elisa nodded, seemingly in agreement with her outburst.

"He does seem a little...harsh. The Queen's second son spends all his time in the library or the tiltyard. 'Tis a bit strange."

Arianne was taken by the calm waters of the Blackwater Bay, her mind reasonlessly wondering why would diligent pursuit of knowledge or dedication to swordsmanship be considered strange. Was it not then better for a husband to be a strange man, then, rather than a wastrel or a drunken lecher? 

She had already admitted that Aemond had some qualities, his unfairly handsome visage aside, but they were vastly overshadowed by his appalling manner and his complete lack of gallantry.

He was discourteous, unkind, and argumentative in the worst way.

Not to mention, a terror.

"I assure you, the Queen's second son is the last man I'd ever consider marrying." Her answer came, clipped and resolute.

"Oh." Elisa's dark eyes widened.

"Then, the gossip is untrue?"

"Of course it's untrue!" Arianne insisted, resisting the urge to yank at her hair. Miriam had made an effort in pinning it in an elegant updo, with two braids left to adorn the side of her neck.

Her companion shrugged, waving towards the group of courtiers from Crownlands. Arianne realized Elisa was quite well-regarded for an unwed lady with no clout like the one Rhaena Targaryen had. Her thick, almost-inky hair fell obediently behind her shoulders.

The purple brocade dress she wore suited her.

„Well, I imagined so. See, I’ve visited the Keep often since my family lives so close…You wouldn't want a husband like him. Prince Aemond is always so solemn. Not rude, but he seems so taciturn and morose. I would be too afraid to speak to him!"

Arianne held in the urge to scoff and laugh in that brazen, unladylike manner.

Not rude?!

Were they talking about the same One-Eyed Prince? 

"He never asks any lady to dance during feasts. Or, I've heard that he never even invited any lady for a walk! You know...to speak to her. Supposedly, he hates the frivolity of the Court, but..."

The muscle in Arianne's cheek spasmed .

He had asked her to dance. However, it had sounded more like an order than an invitation. Well, he'd asked her to walk the gardens too, but she was not so naive to believe that he didn't have some ulterior motive — like naming her the culprit when all the flowers wilted, or the fish in the pond died.

Elisa leaned in, gripping her arm tightly.

"Claris Costayne thinks he prefers the company of men."

Her breath tickled the fine rim of Arianne's ear.

"What?" The word tumbled forth before she'd shaped the thought. Arianne blinked, eyes flitting confusedly between all the cypresses.

It was not the claim that struck her but the soft, sinking twist it gave beneath her ribs.

She couldn't quite pinpoint the reason why the idea of Aemond being completely indifferent to her, well, not her, of course not her, but women, was so dispiriting. His hold on her waist had been enticingly tenacious, like a girdle of firm hands. It invoked sinful thoughts.

She'd be rid of those once she performed the purification rites for the Maiden.

Elisa's voice lowered into a conspiratorial murmur.

"Prince Aemond was her escort for the Maiden's ball last year. Yet, he��did not wish to dance or hear her sing! And Claris has such a pretty voice, you know? Instead, he asked her about Walgrem or Walgrim or something, and poor Claris…well, she thought it was some Essosi delicacy, but apparently it was something he had been reading about. He hadn't spoken or looked at her after that, as if she were a lemon tree!"

Arianne narrowed her brow. The pebbles beneath their shoes gave a dry, cracking protest.

"You mean...archmaester Walgram? He wrote The Reckoning of Time."

Elisa's eyelids fluttered several times, mouth forming an 'o'.

"You...Well, my point is...." She appeared as if waiting for Arianne to turn what she'd said into a jest.

With a small huff, she gave up.

 "I had no point. But what do you think about him?"

"Oh...I think he was right to note the often overlooked aspects we must consider when studying old records. Walgram gives several valid examples." Arianne clapped her palms enthusiastically.

She turned to Elisa.

"Some important events seem to be happening years apart when they should only be months, because the time is not noted the same in various sources. Take Braavos, days are counted differently there—"

"Arianne, I meant about Aem—" Elisa interrupted her, only to halt midway.

"Oh, Your Grace." She sank into a curtsy with practiced ease.

Arianne followed her gaze to where Jace emerged between two neat rows of cedars that led into another part of the castle grounds. He paused, dismissing the two guards who were shadowing him.

Arianne took the chance to quickly straighten her skirts and fix her earrings.

"Forgive me the interruption." Jacaerys Velaryon smiled, and it was one of those boyish, utterly disarming things.

"I do not believe we have been introduced." He turned to Elisa.

Arianne noted the Velaryon blue doublet he wore complemented his dark hair.

"I'm Elisa Stokeworth." Her friend offered, lowering her head. "Ah, nothing to forgive, my prince. We were just talking about Walgrem."

His eyes shifted, briefly, to Arianne, inquisitive.

"Walgram's The Reckoning of Time." She clarified.

Elisa's cheeks colored like bruised raspberries.

"Yes, him. I mean, his book."

Jace shook his head, chuckling.

"I do not fault you for mangling his name, Lady Elisa. Between us, I couldn't read through the first page of that torture on paper." He shrugged and raised his arms slightly, palms up, as if we were confessing to a crime.

Elisa laughed, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

Arianne observed him and understood, suddenly, what it was — that thing that she lacked and Jace had in abundance. That was a charm.

Not the flashy kind, but one that mended things quietly and made allies of strangers.

He’d made Elisa feel better. She, however, knew he had studied through three or four first chapters before his interest in the criticism of record keeping waned.

Perhaps she should've done the same? Elisa was kind to her. She hadn't meant to be unkind in return!

She made a mental note to apologize for her gaffe later.

"Unlike my dear lady Arianne here." Jace turned to her, mischief tugging at the corner of his full lips.

" The more tedious the book, the deeper her devotion. Stubborn swan."

Arianne wished to retort something, but that tiny phrase — my dear lady, dried her mouth. Elisa seemed to pore over her face for a moment before something shifted in her expression.

She reached out and gave Arianne’s arm a soft, knowing squeeze.

"I am dreadfully, unforgivably late for my errands," Elisa announced suddenly, dropping into a polished curtsy.

Arianne stared after her for a few seconds before fixing one of the pins holding up her hair.

She hadn't really been alone with Jace since the Godswood. Well, they weren't alone here, as every now and then the guards, the ladies, and even servants passed by.

"Would you walk with me, Arianne?" Jace was already offering his elbow.

The right one, and she just realized he carried a square-shaped parcel beneath his left armpit.

"Briefly, my Prince. I am awfully busy today." Arianne found it much easier to follow Johanna's words if she remembered that her prince was escorting Lady Baela and not her. Feigning serenity, she glanced past him, to the rare blooms just beginning to open along the trellis — mauve, delicate, vaguely decadent.

Unabashedly, a thought of how she should be just like Johanna if the Court thought her a courtesan anyway drummed against her skull. If only she were like Johanna, her prince would dream of her already.

Alas, such wicked musings would only ever stay musings, because Arianne could never disgrace her family so, earn her father's scorn, or break her mother's heart. She was only using bits of practical advice, to not disappoint them. She would not be daunted.

Placing her fingers onto his forearm, she attempted what she thought was an intriguingly distant ladylike smile.

"The weather is agreeable today, my Prince."

Jace paused mid-step, his arm tensing underneath her palm.

"Arianne..." He uttered her name so carefully, like it was something sacred.

"Have I done something?"

Arianne tilted her head, batting her lashes demurely.

"No, my Prince." She declared, pretending to peruse the details on the nearby fountain instead of the way his riotous dark curls were combed today.

She should not give him all her attention or be dreadfully pleasant.

Jace frowned, having had enough of their play-pretend already.

"Then why am I 'my prince' now, and not Jace?!" His voice came out louder than either of them expected.

He took half a step back, not enough to let her hand fall.

"Is this about the ball? I swear that is purely political, Arianne. My affections for you are unchanged, and yet ever since I've declared them, you...You ignore me! Is your lady's heart truly so cruel?!"

Arianne froze, being unused to such sizzling heat covering his words.

His brows, the color of black walnut, were drawn together, not in rage exactly, but in what appeared to be some wounded disbelief.

Jace huffed, trying to rein in the torrent of words and remain princely, though in vain.

"You spent half the morning with that squire! That...nobody! During dinners, you only whisper with Rhaena or one of the other ladies and ignore my existence! Even Luke noticed you were cross with me!"

Arianne inhaled.

Her heart bloomed with the realization of what had just happened. Tender petals opening through her ribcage.

Jace was jealous, and if she hadn't had to deal with his terrible uncle, perhaps she would've noticed it sooner. She caught the way his fingers curled and uncurled, just like Johanna described it.

"Well, I have been overwhelmed with everything..." Arianne recited after forcing her incessant pulse to obedience.

Jace caught the word and threw it back.

"Sooo overwhelmed that you faint into the arms of my uncle?! And he, what, just happened to be there?"

The words stung worse than she let on. A small, sharp needle behind the neck — clean and precise and all the way to the bone. It hurt. She didn't care if that one-eye twat thought her a wicked, scheming hussy, but Jace! Jace couldn't possibly believe she would do something so indecent?! Oh, she would join the Silent Sisters out of her own will, then!

Anger flared in her throat.

That utterly idiotic slander.

The next time she saw Aemond, she was going to throttle him!

Arianne straightened.

"That never happened!" Her small hand dropped from his arm.

"And...Seven, help me, I hate this...this place!" She cried, pulling at her earring.

"No matter what I do or say, it is twisted to fit everyone's already formed opinion of me. As despicable as my grandmother, am I? Do you think I dress like a Lyseni harlot, too? Or...Or like a fruit tart, a cherry pudding or something equally stupid —"

"You dress fine! What are you talking about?" Jace shook his head in disbelief, his cheekbones flushed.

Arianne wiped the lone tear from her lower lashline.

"Jace, do you really think I fainted and threw myself into a man's arms?"

For several seconds, her prince didn't speak. He only stared, his symmetrical face oddly pink, lips parted as if he’d lost the thread of whatever clever thing he might’ve said.

Jacaerys Velaryon appeared even more handsome like that. Pouting without knowing he was.

"No." He answered finally, reaching for her hand.

He pried it away from her ear to interlock their fingers.

"Of course, not. The Red Keep isn't my favorite place either." Arianne felt her breath reach her lungs now. Though they now walked holding hands and which wasn't exactly the most proper thing in the world. She tried to ignore the little warnings at the back of her mind, constant little nagging about conduct, duty, and sacrifice for the betterment of one's family.

Jace squeezed her hand.

The air smelled of rosemary and thyme, despite the flowers.

"And I, too, know what it's like to fight against the gossip. Like carrying a stain you didn't earn." There was a melancholic trill in his tone before he masked it with a grin.

His umber eyes met hers again.

"Besides, you're not the girl who faints." He teased, as the lopsided grin pulled at his mouth.

Arianne grinned back.

"I'm glad you think that."

They resumed their walk in somewhat companionable silence, her dark sleeve brushing his blue one.

"Look," Jace gestured ahead. "See that part of the gardens? With the statues. There's a stone bench behind them."

Arianne lifted her gaze.

"Ah, there's so many..."

A coterie of sculptures stood on a raised plinth, set in a broad circle. The older ones were decorated by the passage of time, a faint green moss covering them partly. At the center, newly scrubbed and more finely carved, stood the Seven: Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, and cloaked Stranger, arranged in the pointed star. The details on the Warrior's armor were exquisite.

Jace let her observe before tugging her between them.

"The Valyrian deities. I believe they were commissioned after Maegor finished the Holdfast."  He explained, adding wryly:

"I am surprised they didn't remove them."

The comely lines of his face twisted into a scowl at the central piece.

"But I see the Seven are added in the place of honor."

Arianne had to laugh at that.

She feted the Seven, but there was unmistakable pettiness in adding them here, and placing them in the center no less.

"That one is beautiful." Arianne nodded towards the sculpture closest to the bench. It depicted a beautiful, plump woman with a gentle, knowing smile. Her hair cascaded in long waves down her back like a cloak, and though carved from pale stone, her lips looked soft, almost warm.

"That is Syrax. Worshipped for love and fertility." He explained once they sat down. She enjoyed the undisturbed view of the bay, the sea calmly licking at the shores.

Jace reached under his left arm and set a wrapped bundle into her lap.

"You mentioned it to Rhaena." His voice lowered.

"Elysar's original writings. If you truly wish to read them —"

She tore at the twine before he finished speaking, unwrapping the parcel and flipping open the aged pages.

It began in the year 60 AC, when Elysar took office, but she searched until she found the first mention of her grandmother.

Jace was quiet.

He only nodded when she asked, offhandedly, if he’d read it.

Apparently, Saera Targaryen had been an unruly, albeit clever child. Arianne went through that quickly, stopping only after reading that during the tourney for her fifteenth name day, Saera had been crowned a Queen of Love and Beauty by the —

Her breath faltered.

With his father's recent passing, the young Giulian Swann was now Lord of Stonehelm and the most comely of Saera’s admirers. Having won a tourney in her name, he joined her favorites. Green-eyed and raven-haired, oft he was seen at the Princess’s side — dancing, hawking, and staging mock matches to entertain her.

Arianne glared at the passage as if it were some form of Ghiscari language no one knew. This was...this had to have been a lie!

Her palms dampened profusely, so she had to release he page lest she ruin it.

How could this be?

This could not be! Didn't they send Elysar away from the Citadel precisely to be rid of his cruel tongue?

Something pricked behind her eyelids.

"My father lied to me." That was all she could manage to say before sniffling.

"He said grandfather had never never met Saera before the wedding."

Jace shifted beside her.

"Arianne..."

“I always thought— how did grandfather even marry her?” She turned the page, but her hand trembled.

“A Targaryen princess. That’s supposed to be...”

“A blessing?” Jace offered gently.

Arianne bit down on her lip, chewing it.

“But marrying Saera…” Her voice trailed off.

"A punishment?" His tone was bitter and sweet both, like a bruised fig.

He moved closer, his shoulder brushing hers.

She had read through it all — through her grandmother shamelessly boasting she could marry all of them, a Mooton, a Swann, a Connington, as Maegor the Cruel did his brides, to one of her girl companions being pregnant out of wedlock, to the King himself slewing Braxton Beesbury. Through Saera weeping for once in her life and begging the King to spare Giulian. And then the King's mercy, if mercy it was, offered on one condition: she would marry tomorrow.

Through a few short sentences depicting how, after a year of marriage, as even love was not to hold Saera bound to propriety, she boarded a ship to Lys and later to Volantis. The debaucheries mentioned, that pertained to her time on Lys, made Arianne's mouth dry and her cheeks burn.

She started bawling.

Loud, gasping, raw sobs, the kind she hadn’t cried since she was a child and still believed her father incapable of lying to her. His only daughter and his favorite child.

How could he not tell her this?

She had grown up believing her grandfather was just, moral, steadfast — a true Marcher. Not one of her grandmother's playthings!

That foul Aemond knew all this, and that was why he hated her.

Because there was wickedness in her blood.

"Arianne...I'm sorry." Jace looped his arm gently around her shoulders.

"It doesn't really matter. At all. Not to me." He murmured, his fingers tracing soft, soothing circles into her shoulder. Tender as rain.

"D-did you know, too?" Arianne searched his face.

Her lashes clumped together from tears.

“I read it a while ago,” He admitted. When she gasped, he raised his free hand, placating.

“I was only curious. You said it yourself...It seemed odd, the Good King forcing a young, promising lord to wed his most wayward child.”

She wiped at her cheek with the sleeve of her gown, the dark cloth darkening further.

"Why didn't you tell me? You should've told me, Jace." Arianne sniffled again.

"I didn't wish to hurt you. Being confronted with truths you don't really want to know isn't easy. It's horrible."

There was a mountain of something in his voice. Arianne could agree that this was horrible.

How many times did her father scold her for inquiring about her grandmother?

Naming her a blight, a stain, a blemish upon their proud house. It had always been Saera's fault, or the Old King’s.

Never her grandfather's.

He had been the victim, the good Marcher boy dragged into fire and ruin by those blasphemous dragon lot.

Much as Arianne disliked Saera, her grandfather was four years her elder; he should've known better than to lie with an unwed princess!

If he was brought up properly, like all marchers were, on moors and plains, with a sword in his hand before he could walk, how could he have been seduced by the haughty, ill-mannered, Valyrian sinner like Princess Saera?

Where was his honor?

Where was his duty? Discipline?

"Don't let this affect you so much. You're you, Arianne." Jace reassured her, though something in his voice strayed close to fragility.

Arianne knit her brows together, gaze sharpening.

"Father deliberately lied to me! Giulian Swann was dishonorable too, and our blood matters!" She fumed.

"You wouldn't be...you without your parents. They made you and raised you. So who made my father, who in turn made me?"

Jace's lips parted open before he closed them tightly together.

A flicker passed over his face — barely visible, like a shadow.

He glanced away, jaw clenched.

"I'm still going to be me regardless of all that." He proclaimed, nodding to no one in particular.

They sat closer than before, pressed to each other's side, the birdsong wrapping them like a shawl.

"I'm glad...you're you." Arianne leaned into him ever so slightly. Jace perked up.

"Even if I'm not Myles Mooton?" His shapely mouth curved into an exaggerated pout.

Arianne couldn't stop the laughter bubbling from her throat at that.

"You...sound jealous." She dared, because his earlier outburst confirmed it to her.

Besides, Johanna urged her to forget timidity.

She could follow her advice now, if she were already so corrupt.

Jacaerys Velaryon removed the tome from her hands and then turned to her, eyes bright like polished hematite.

"That is because I am." He confessed without hesitation.

"I dislike seeing you with other men. Be it him or Aemond or—"

Arianne choked on nothing.

"Aemond?" She repeated the name as if it personally offended her. Well, it did!

Jace shrugged.

"You enjoyed playing cyvasse with him. Why do you think I...? You also danced and talked awfully long. And I just—"

"He is the last person you should be jealous of." Arianne interrupted his veritably mad rambling.

A small frown slid over his features.

"He fights well. He was always ahead in studies." Jace complained. Then, as if he were considering not saying it at all, he added:

"He looks more like...You know what I mean."

Arianne shook her head.

The only thing he looked like was a sin, a Valyrian, wicked, terrible sin.

She would never be like her grandfather. Never.

Ever.

Not even if the moon cleaved in two.

She stared at Jace.

"He is a vain, mean bore. As charming as a Skagosi cannibal."

That made him laugh, boyish and unguarded and melodious, and he caught her hand in his. His other arm was still draped across her shoulders, steady, warm.

Safe.

He pressed their palms together, his was wider, fingers longer and thicker. Arianne thought her hands might look better if she wore rings like Rhaenyra.

"Who are you going with?" Jace cleared his throat after a while.

Arianne shrugged, eyes following a ship in the distance.

"I don't know yet. It should be someone my family would approve of."

She could absolutely not be associated with any Mooton after reading Elysar's account. Or any other house name among her grandmother's entourage. She didn't have that many options.

Perhaps Ser Jarlon Wylde, then. The only problem was that she barely knew him beyond one brief conversation. His father was Master of Laws on the small council, though. His stepmother invited her to dinner.

"Baela suggested we go together, the three of us." Jace smirked, nudging her shoulder.

"She thought you were going to cry yesterday."

Mortification erupted cold up Arianne's spine.

"First, I swoon, now I cry at dinner!"

She lamented.

"Besides, how do you mean the three of us?"

Jace grimaced.

“She wants us to go masked as Aegon and his sisters. But only if she gets to be Rhaenys. Apparently, everyone expects her to pick Visenya, so she wants to keep them guessing.”

Arianne paled.

She what?

"That is against the...propriety. Against everything! The Queen would have us banished."

Jace chuckled, brown eyes glimmering.

"Then I won't mention that her alternative was her as The Conqueror. I'd be gallant and let you pick between the other two."

It was so absurd that Arianne laughed again. She'd pick Rhaenys, of course. It would leave Jace as Visenya, yet she couldn't imagine him as her.

Jace was warm, like the sun. Or a fire.

Visenya was solemn, cruel, and so unpalatable that Aegon supposedly went to Dragonstone while she oversaw the construction of the Red Keep just so he would be rid of her company. Her harsh, Valyrian beauty equaled her harsh, unforgiving heart.

Lady Baela was bold and beautiful — her pearlescent hair strikingly contrasted her dark, clear skin, so that she appeared as if she stepped out of a tale — but Arianne didn't think her cruel, and she certainly wasn't solemn. 

If anyone would make a good Visenya, it would be Prince Aemond. He was unpalatable. And...harshly beautiful, too.

It was Jace who spoke first, retrieving her from her musings.

"Sometimes I wish I weren't me."

Arianne blinked.

Then her gaze snapped to him. He was the heir to the Iron Throne, there was no one anyone would rather be.

He rolled his eyes at her horrified expression.

"I just meant, If I were in Joffrey's place or...I don't know, even uncle Aemond's...there wouldn't be all this..." He gestured vaguely, then brushed his curls back.

"I'd fly Vermax with you to Essos." His voice turned playful.

"We'd visit those wondrous caverns north of Norvos, the triple walls of Quarth, and even Asshai. We'd drink sweet wine in Lys, and eat only cake until we're too fat to climb on Vermax. They'd have to haul us up."

Arianne pressed a hand to her mouth, laughing.

"So, we'd be adventurers like Lomas Longstrider?"

Jace beamed, the grin lighting up his face with something utterly, hopelessly boyish.

"More infamous. We'd have to elope first."

Elope.

She laughed again — though this time, it came out thinner, nervous, because the word itself was tender and too real.

"Elope? You'd be risking your position."

Of course, they couldn't elope. 

Jace was to be King one day.

"Well, I'd have a new position." He quipped with mock seriousness.

"I'd rest my head on your lap while you sit under a peach tree, reading about roads in Myr, or something equally tedious."

She swatted at his chest lightly.

"My father would renounce me if I eloped!"

Perhaps, she really should, Arianne scrunched her nose, it would serve him right for lying to her! Why could he disappoint her but not vice versa?

Tilting her face back to him, she'd expected another jest at her expense, and she had excellent taste in books, mind him, but not the way the golden light caught in his unruly hair, or the way his deep, dark eyes became lakes to drown in.

They were close. Too close.

"Would he do that,” Jace murmured, voice bleeding with molten fire.

“If I kissed you?”

Her lungs collapsed.

A kiss.

Her first kiss. First. First. Veryfirstkiss.

Her thoughts disintegrated, and for a fraction of a moment, all she could do was to settle her gaze on his impossibly full, ruddy lips.

Arianne swallowed.

"He wouldn't know." Her response was so quiet, she wasn't sure he heard her. She could hardly hear herself over the fierce thumping of her own heart.

His irises darkened, flecking with unmistakable resolve. Jace heard her.

Oh, he heard her.

Arianne felt the heat leave her knuckles as he slowly lifted his hand until his fingers touched her jaw. Brushed so gently over it, as if she were something to be revered.

The pulse in her neck leapt at the contact.

Jace tilted her chin gently, his thumb grazing the corner of her mouth — featherlight and tentative. His other arm remained firm across her shoulders, holding her in place.

And then he leaned in, slow as the land during winter.

Their noses nearly touched.

Arianne’s eyes fluttered shut. She could feel the heat of his breath against hers — shallow, uncertain, laced with the faint aroma of sweet cider he had sipped earlier.

So close.

So —

A thump.

Then, a child's cry startled them both.

Arianne jolted to her feet, skin fevered, scorching, sizzling from her neck to the roots of her hair.

They glanced in the direction of the sound.

Princess Jaehaera Targaryen had tripped over the stone foot of a statue and now sat inspecting her palm, wide-eyed and frightened. Her lower lip trembled.

"Are you alright?" Jace managed to find his voice first, though it was still a little rough.

The girl glanced up, tears welling in her sea-blue eyes.

She was pale as the rising moon.

“Is she—?” Jace turned, half-toward Arianne. His cheeks were tinged with pink.

“I’ll see.” Arianne drew closer carefully, passing two statues and kneeling down near the princess.

“Let me look.” She urged gently.

Jaehaera held out her tiny hand, palm up.

“Oh, it’s an ouchie,” Arianne nodded gravely, slipping a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressing it to the scratch.

"I have one of those, too."

She went to lift her skirts just as Jace asked about the girl's ladies or septas, making Arianne halt.

"She runs from them...Jace, turn around."

"I — What?"

Arianne glanced up at him sharply.

"It is the confidential business of ladies." She insisted, raising a brow.

With a suffering groan, Jace spun towards the Blackwater Rush.

Satisfied, Arianne gathered her skirts and rolled down her stocking, revealing a faded yellow bruise on her knee.

“See? They don’t last long.”

Jaehaera’s tears dried, her gaze inquisitive. Then she smiled softly and glanced at her own scraped palm.

“I ran too fast,” She concluded solemnly.

“That always brings trouble,” Arianne agreed — then promptly lost her balance and thumped backward onto the grass with an indelicate yelp.

It wouldn't have been the end of the world, because the grass was soft, but her reaction, coupled with Jaehaera's startled gasp, prompted Jace to turn back.

His gaze initially landed on her face, worry written across his brow.

But then it dropped.

And stopped.

Her skirts had ridden high, tangled around her hips. One stocking was still bunched uselessly around her ankle. And the curve of her bare thigh was shamefully, brazenly visible.

Jace seemed stock-still, eyes glued to it. The apple of his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

His lips parted.

He blinked, then dragged his eyes back up to her face — slowly, reluctantly, like it pained him to do so.

Arianne fought the urge to scream bloody murder.

Her skin went up in flames as if someone had doused her in wildfire. She yanked her skirts down in one frantic motion, nearly toppling herself again in the process.

He saw.

Mother!

"Arianne, my apologies, I thought —"

Gods, please no! Her reputation was in tatters already.

She was punished for her grandparent's sins! This hadn't been deliberate! She'd sinned by accident!

"Arianne, I saw nothing!" Jace insisted, but she couldn't look at him.

Her breath was shallow and was failing her.

Jaehaera laughed with airy innocence, and the sound was so jarring, so out of place in the molten silence between them, it broke the spell. His eyes, rich brown like the land itself, fell to his shoes, and Jacaerys Velaryon had no choice but to remain silent, red blotches painting his cheeks.

He looked like a boy caught stealing fruit preserves from the kitchens.

Arianne sat stunned, her legs tucked beneath her, skirts firmly down now.

Then she remembered —

She failed to have her first kiss.

Again.

“Princess, must you do this every day?” Lady Mullendore’s voice rang out, exasperated, as she finally caught up with them.

Jaehaera shrugged and offered back the handkerchief to Arianne.

“No, keep it.” She insisted, managing a smile as she stood and dusted off the back of her gown.

“I know my embroidery’s not very pretty, but I always have the Septon bless them with the seven oils. Maybe it’ll help your ouchie.”

Jaehaera nodded gravely, cradling the cloth like a talisman.

 Arianne resolutely stared after the small, silver-haired retreating figure, ignoring that she would have to face her prince eventually.

After this horrifying blunder.

Jace cleared his throat.

"Elysar also wrote about the Myrish Bloodbath and exiles who occupied Tarth." He still avoided her eyes. "There's a story about Prince Aemon's death and how my great-grandfather avenged him. If you'd like to...read with me?"

Yes, Arianne thought, she could read.

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[thembohux]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63092395/chapters/161570518

I have FINALLY finished and posted chapter 1 of “No Grave,” my HOTD Aemond/OC fic.

Thank you to @theold-ultraviolence for letting me yap so much about the blorbos in your DMs.

I hope y’all enjoy and heed the tags before you read!

Chapter 2 is completed as a draft and will hopefully be up in two weeks. Unless I get impatient and feel generous

[multifandomfanfiction]

Mastermind

TITLE: Mastermind PAIRING: Aemond/OC RATING: T CHAPTER: One-shot SUMMARY: Jacquelin has one goal in mind. Marry Aemond.

[A/N - Inspired by “Mastermind" by Taylor Swift.]

Ladies and Lords of noble houses and the royal family filled the dining hall of the Red Keep. The Greens had successfully usurped the throne from Rhaenyra and were celebrating their victory.

Jacquelin entered the dining hall and glanced around.

The royal family were seated at the head of the room with Aegon in the middle in between Criston Cole and his mother Alicent. His sister-wife and brother sat a few seats down from the king.

As Jacquelin waded through the crowd, her eyes caught the one-eyed, Prince Aemond. She had seen him as a child once or twice when they visited her family’s castle, but he had grown into a fine young man.

Aemond looked up and met her gaze.

Jacquelin held his gaze as she started dancing, paying no mind to her partner.

A smirk crossed Aemond’s face. Very few noble ladies met his eyes so boldly.

Aemond finished the wine he was drinking and stood up, to the shock of his family. He stepped out onto the dance floor and slipped into the crowd. He stepped up behind Jacquelin and took her hand, replacing her dancing partner.

She hazarded a glance back at him and found herself caught in his lilac gaze. Inwardly, she was smirking. She had him right where she wanted him.

None of this was accidental. She had planned this.

Jacquelin had convinced her mother and father to attend this celebration just so she could put herself in the prince’s way. She knew her mother and father wanted to marry her off, so who better than the second son and brother to the king himself? She couldn’t have asked for a better match and frankly, neither could her parents. At least this was a marriage she wanted.

“You’ve been watching me,” Aemond said.

“I have, my prince.”

They turned so they were face-to-face now.

“Why?” he asked.

“You are very handsome, my prince. Why wouldn’t a lady want to stare?”

Aemond sneered. “There’s no need to lie to me.”

“Any woman who doesn’t find you handsome is simply a fool.”

This made Aemond smirk. He knew she was trying to feed his ego. He knew his brother would be trying to marry him off to some random lord’s daughter in return for his support. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Jacquelin Anzalone.”

It was a house that Aemond had never heard of and maybe that could be to their advantage.

“My father has always supported your brother Aegon and his right to the throne.”

Aemond pulled her close. “What do you want?”

Jacquelin’s eyes drifted to Aemond’s lips. “What does every woman want?”

Aemond snorted. “A husband?”

Jacquelin smirked. “What do you stand to lose, my prince? My mother and father are expecting me to make an advantageous marriage. Is your brother not doing the same? As a woman, I am simply a pawn on a chessboard to be played. I would rather make my own move.”

Aemond pulled away from her. Jacquelin half-expected him to stalk off like the moody prince he was known to be. But he simply took her hand and kissed the back of it, very clearly showing everyone his interest in her.

Jacquelin blushed, playing the part of the innocent, sweet, young, and naïve girl who couldn’t believe a Targaryen prince was interested in her.

Aemond sent her a smirk before he disappeared back into the crowd. She had about a second before her mother and father descended on her, asking her questions about when Aemond was going to come calling on her.

Aemond took a seat back at the table and sipped his wine. He knew his mother would have questions later and Aegon would tease him, but for now he wanted to sit back and consider his options.

He could marry a girl of Aegon’s choosing and be forced into a marriage he didn’t want…or…he could marry Jacquelin.

Jacquelin’s family would bring support of smaller houses, but they needed the numbers anywhere they could get them. Jacquelin was also ambitious.

It was not lost on Aemond that she had planned their entire meeting. She was a mastermind and that turned Aemond on more than he was willing to admit.

[uramakimochi]

me for the past week and i'm so fucking maddd

STOP👏TAGGING👏XREADER👏IF👏YOU👏USE👏AN👏OC👏NOBODY👏 FUCKING👏ASKED👏FOR👏THAT👏OKAY???

The wrong thing is not the fact that you write a story with an oc, no, that's not the real problem, really.

IT'S JUST THE FACT THAT YOU USE THE WRONG TAG SO YOU HOPE MORE PEOPLE READ YOUR STORY. BUT BELIEVE ME IT'S JUST FUCKING ANNOYING 'CAUSE WE AREN'T ABLE TO FIND THE RIGHT FICS IF YOU KEEP DOING THIS!!!

There are people who like to read more stories with ocs than reader inserts, so use the fucking right tag go reach that community and stop spamming your stories among ours.

I don't think you get it but, you know, the purpose of fanfics with reader insert is to make the reader imagine her/himself as the mc of the story. The best part of these fics is the fact that EVERYONE can be included in them.

SO WHY THE FUCK DO YOU HAVE TO RUIN THEM BY MAKING THE MC A PERSON THAT LOOKS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FROM THE READER AND EVEN HAS A NAME THAT IS NOT THEIRS?

Not to be dramatic but i hate y'all.

And the fact that it's always the same fandoms and we all know who we're talking about...

[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 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

@buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @eddieslut69 @emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa

@hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust @minholy223 @mochi-rose

@natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics @primonizzutto @qyburnsghost

[venusbyline]

HEADCANON: HOTD characters most likely to be in love with their older sister (reader)

TARGTOWERS BROTHERS & STRONG BROTHERS VERSION

(this includes Aegon II Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Daeron Targaryen, Jacaerys Velaryon, Lucerys Velaryon)

— type: smut, light dark (Aemond & Aegon II parts)

— tags/warnings: female!reader, Targcest (younger brother/older sister), DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, vaginal sex, dubcon, rough sex, oral sex (female & male receiving), missionary position, cowgirl position, doggy style position, loss of virginity, underage sex, breeding kink, marriage of convenience, referenced underage non-con, manipulation, infidelity, argument, light dark content (but kinda fluff too), referenced Baela Targaryen/Jacaerys Velaryon, referenced Gwayne Hightower/reader, dom!Aemond, sub!Lucerys, dom!Aegon II, soft dom!Daeron, brat sub!Jacaerys, canon divergence. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— author's note: I didn't write about Joffrey Velaryon in this type of HC because the character and the actor are very young in the show.

❥ HOTD masterlist • ASOIAF headcanons

❥ about me • main masterlist

1- AEMOND TARGARYEN

• No surprise, right? Everyone knows that Aemond is a man who tends to like older women. But you cannot blame him. All the female companions in his life were women older than him. Alicent, mother of both of you, who always raised him as her dearest son. Helaena, your twin sister, has always been one of the few people along with you who truly understood him despite being different from the rest of the family. Madam Sylvi, who Aegon persuaded him to fuck in the brothel when he was still just a little boy. Even Vhagar, the dragon he claimed, was one of Aemond's few companions and was a female being over a hundred years old. Even Aegon used to make fun of him a lot about that.

• It did not come as a surprise to you that Aemond was in love with you. Despite the age difference of only one year, since childhood Aemond had seen you as his protector, someone he could trust and who would do anything to keep him safe. You were there caressing his hand when Lucerys gouged out his eye in Driftmark. You were there when he was only thirteen and came back from the brothel with Aegon, completely embarrassed, lying on your lap and sobbing something about not being pure for a future marriage anymore. You were there to calm him down when he returned after killing your nephew Lucerys.

"I was... I was not thinking straight, sister." Aemond murmured in a shaky voice, his head resting on your thighs and sighing lightly while he felt your hands caressing his hair as if the strands were made of gold. "The eagerness for revenge was consuming me. I could not help but remember the look on our Mother's face and on yours after Luke ripped out my eye. All those... All those nights you stayed up helping me with the fever..."

• In fact, it was not a surprise to you when your younger brother entered your chambers during the night after becoming Prince Regent. You were still angry and hurt with him for what he done to Aegon, but he could not stand more time away from you. You were his older sister and he needed your comfort for the rest of the war.

"Look at me." Aemond growled between thrusts, pulling your chin roughly so you were forced to face him. Face the sapphire shining in the darkness of the romm, lit just by the flickering shadows of the candles. "Look at me, sister. Look at your brother."

There was a touch of vulnerability in his voice that made you obey without a fight or more crying, the way he finally called himself 'Your Brother' and not 'The Prince Regent' clenched your heart, reminding you the little boy who sobbed every night because he did not have a dragon. Now, all that innocence was gone. He was fucking you like an animal, claiming you as his, taking your maidenhood. And yet, he was desperate for your loyalty and your understanding. The same loyalty and full understanding you promised him since your childhoods.

2- LUCERYS VELARYON

• Lucerys is definitely the kind of guy who would be into older ladies, but not for the same reason as Aemond. Due to the fact you were Jacaerys' twin sister, Lucerys always feared that he was getting in the way of something between the two of you. The Targaryen and Velaryon families always considered betrothing you and Jace during your childhoods, since you were very close in your early years. However, after the incident in Driftmark, something changed. Both you and Jacaerys became even more protective about Luke and wanted to share his attention. With Jacaerys, Luke could have fun in ways that were more considered masculine for the Court, like training with swords or something like that. But at night, Lucerys would always sneak into your private chambers, wanting to lie in bed together and hug you from behind then he could smell your hair.

"How was your day, big sister?" Lucerys asked, wrapping his hand around your waist and placing his face in the crook of your neck, nuzzling the dark curls and inhaling your natural scent.

"It was good... I had a few High Valyrian lessons in the morning, but I spent the whole afternoon excited to see you again.' You confessed with a playful smile, placing your palm over his, which was still holding you against him. The words and the soft caress made his cheeks turn pinker than they already were, and Lucerys could not help but chuckle.

"I was excited to see you too... I always am."

• It would take him a while to confess his feelings. Inside Luke's mind, even if the bond between you and Jace was not as strong as it was in childhood, your little brother kept afraid of ruining any potential romance. Because of that, Lucerys showed his love for you in discreet ways, really not wanting to be caught. He would let you comb his hair, sit with you in the library to learn more about Old Valyria history, fly together with your dragons...

• But despite everything, his eyes were never able to hide such feelings. He would stare at you all the time during balls or banquets. And when Rhaenyra realized that her dear son already had a true love in mind, she would arrange a betrothal between Jace and Baela and you and Lucerys. The idea of separating the twins instead of marrying them would be a shock to many lords and ladies, but not to Lucerys. He was grateful that your mother turned the situation easier so that he could be happy with you without feeling guilty again.

"O-Oh, Gods... You are so tight." Luke tried to control his whines while you rode his cock after the wedding ceremony. The movements were uncoordinated and intense at the same time, a perfect demonstration of your inexperience. Just like you, Lucerys did not know what to do, his hands went over your hips, holding himself back from squeezing hard your flesh, helping you move a little slower. "Slow, sister... P-Please. I do not know if I can hold out much longer."

3- AEGON II TARGARYEN

• Born a few years after Rhaenyra, you were also young when Viserys married for the second time and had Aegon and the other children. Although Alicent did not like you so much at first and Rhaenyra despised almost all of them, you developed a good relationship with your half-siblings. During their childhood, you helped Helaena catch some bugs, let Aemond pet your dragon before he claimed his, played funny sword fights with little Daeron... And Aegon? Well, you helped him disperse the guards then he could have night fun. However, what made Aegon fall in love with you was noticing all the times you comforted him after Alicent or Otto's long lectures. With you, Aegon did not have to pretend to be perfect. He could be himself, even if it meant looking inadequate in the eyes of the rest of the family.

• Aegon never tried to hide his attraction to you. During the first years of his youth, he called you "big sister" to tease you, he joked around trying to kiss you, making it clear that he wanted you even after the marriage out of duty with Helaena. You always thought it was nothing more than pure sexual attraction. Well, that was until Alicent managed to convince Viserys to marry you to Gwayne, one of her brothers, arguing that you were already too old and would not be able to have another interesting betrothing proposal. Aegon spent the entire wedding ceremony in a bad mood, drinking and embarrassing everyone.

"Well, now you are married to my dear uncle, big sister? What a shame." Aegon mocked, his voice slurred by the wine he had drunk. He did not know how Gwayne agreed to let you dance with him in such state. He was almost knocking you over with every step. In fact, Aegon never knew how to dance appropriately, always more focused on drinking alcohol and flirting with random ladies at the realm's balls than participating in the dances with them. "This is very unfair, you know. You deserve a better man. Like me, perhaps."

• When Aegon usurped the Iron Throne, the first thing he did was demand Ser Gwayne's presence and yours, not caring if you were angry with him. Everything Aegon needed was to see you, see how you were after your pregnancies and also show you how he had grow up, no longer just a teenage boy with a crush on his older sister, but now a powerful King.

"Imagine how your children would react if they knew you were here... Fucking with your own brother while your husband is fighting for my cause with the other knights?" Aegon purred in your ear, one hand on your neck to pull you closer to him and the other releasing your hip and grabbing your breast now, heavy with breast milk from your last pregnancy. "I could give you one more child. Uncle Gwayne would never suspect that I bred you."

You looked up at the mirror in front of you, watching your own face flushed with pleasure and embarrassment, your breasts bouncing and a few white drops running down your chest due to his aggressive caresses. And then your eyes focused on Aegon, the beautiful crown he wore seemed almost like a punch to your stomach. You were betraying your sister Rhaenyra's trust, becoming the whore of the Usurper King, your younger brother.

4- DAERON TARGARYEN

• Do not get me wrong, please! Daeron did not grow up with his entire family for many years, so he probably would not be the kind of Targaryen who would be into incest practices at frist. Despite the discomfort about it and Otto's idea of betrothing you two to each other in the future, he was feeling lucky and relieved when Alicent sent you along with him to Oldtown. Two years older than Daeron, you were raised just like your mother, focused on the Faith of the Seven and never imagining that you would give in to the sins involving the other part of your bloodline before the real marriage with Daeron. At least that was until the boy started to mature a little more, becoming taller and more handsome as he got older and becoming stronger because of the knight training.

"What do you think, sister?" Daeron smirked at you, making your heart race as he showed you how his arms muscles looked more noticeable and hot.

Your throat went dry at the sight, and even though his chest was all sweaty, you soon cleared the throat and forced yourself to keep looking only at the freckles on his cheeks, which matched perfectly with the freckles on his shoulders. "I think you should put your tunic back on, idiot. You are getting in the way of my studies."

• You fell in love first, always trying to deny and hide these feelings. Daeron only found out about his true romantic interest in you when other knights in Oldtown started teasing him, asking whether he would let them try their luck with his older sister and betrothed. At first, Daeron would get angry and argue with the boys, but he still thought the jealousy was just brotherly. It took years of forced betrothal until Daeron realized that what was happening inside his heart was not so simple as he thought before. He was a Targaryen, after all.

"We... We should not have done this. Not here..." You whispered with your eyelids closed after the best orgasm of your life, a part of the Sept's altar pressed against your bare back. Both of your consciences weighed on your heads and your bodies burned for more touches. It was wrong to commit such a sin, especially in a sacred place, the two of you knew about that.

"It is fine, sister..." Daeron kissed your inner thighs, avoiding thinking rationally and continuing to lick the juices that had run down there when he pleasured your cunt with his tongue.

5- JACAERYS VELARYON

• Among the five characters, I see Jacaerys as the least likely to fall in love with his own older sister. I think Jacaerys is a person who likes to have control over situations — not with a toxic way, but he is a person who prefers to give orders rather than be told what to do. The problem would not be that you are older, his sister, or naturally bossy like most firstborns daughters already are, but rather the combination of these three things. Jace would certainly take a long time to realize that he had romantic feelings for you, and of course... He would take a long time to confess that he was in love with you.

"You were born just two years before me. That does not mean you know everything." Jacaerys shouted furiously after the High Valyrian class together, annoyed about the fact that you corrected his pronunciation and received compliments at his expense. "Your ego is too damn inflated, this is annoying!"

• You were arguing most of the time, disagreeing on everything and often he would even curse you saying that you would be a bad queen in the future and that he should be the heir. Yet, Jace was always defending you from the people who claimed your legitimacy and said that the two of you, plus Lucerys and Joffrey, were bastards. Also, he was stubborn and proud like a child, he would certainly complain when Rhaenyra betrothed you two to each other and he would pretend that he hated the decision, even though his heart was racing with excitement.

"You seem less stubborn this way, little brother." The mockery tone caused a snort angrily on Jacaerys, his gaze fixed on the ceiling afterwards, moaning loudly again when you put his cock deep into your throat with an ease that almost made him questioned to himself if you lied all the years about being a maiden.

Jacaerys should not have let you kneel on the floor to give him pleasure. When your brother agreed to this, he thought it would be the excellent opportunity to have control over the entire consummation of your marriage. And he was completely wrong. "Do not forget that I fucking hate you, my wife." He tried to mock your new title, moaning almost like a pathetic boy one more time while you dug the nails into his thighs and went back to licking his entire cock, paying special attention to the vein at the bottom.

[councilofcastamere]

WINTER NIGHTS | CREGAN STARK X TARG!READER ꧂

a b r i d g e m e n t : With tensions rising, your elder half-sister Rhaenyra arranges for you to seek asylum in the freezing land of the North. And fortunately for you, Cregan is there to show you how Northmen operate.

TW: penetration, loss of virginity, breeding kink, mentions gender roles but in a sexy way, sexual tension, sibling jealousy, childhood neglect, mentions of death by birth, shitty character development

A/N: I know the girly portrayed is Visenya but her body is tea in this so maybe I do know best…

The second daughter. The oh-so passed over maiden. Not belonging to anything, nor belonging to nothing. Not the first, and not the last. An ever enduring memory to a passed over era. Nothing significant. Never anything significant.

That’s what you were. Insignificance. A beautiful insignificance, if you could see beauty in tragedy. Beauty in all the ways of life. All the little horrible things that make up a big, beautiful, picture. People shan’t look close, you’d assure yourself.

But you were you. Born to the everlasting way of royal life. To the peaceful Viserys, and his second wife, a woman whose name is not all that important. Another maiden from a noble house that perished to childbirth. Lost her life, giving life.

And as it did not to many maidens, the Gods did not grant you the chance to grow up with your mother. The blood that dripped down her thighs had covered you from head to toe as you came into existence, and she had naught of you in her arms before a deep and long slumber overcame her. The stranger had come for her, and he did not slow down on its way. He’d taken her as quick as she’d given you to the world. A quick exchange, you’d suppose.

Now and then you think about her. What she might have looked like, what she might have liked, what she might have been had she survived the wretched burden of your existence. You’d often wonder if infants who survived childbirth ever felt as deep a burden as she did. To have your very first breath of life tainted with the death of an innocent. Tainted with tragedy.

Growing up in King’s Landing hadn’t been all that as it sounded. You’d never really been that happy, as ungracious as it sounded.

You had an older sister - Rhaenyra - who’d occasionally humoured you. You’d never seen much of her, really. Perhaps it was your own fault as well. For not actively seeking her out. For not being the younger sister one was supposed to be. Some people - as close to you as they may be - are just unattainable in your mind. Your kin aren’t your kin until you allow it.

You have better companions than her, you figured. You had your lady-in-waitings. Lady Vievenne of house Swann. Lady Laycie of house Oldflowers. Lady Claere of house Ambrose. Lady Evelyne of house Hightower, who was, by all accounts, a gift from your newest stepmother, Alicent of the house Hightower.

What you also had was younger siblings. Such as Aegon. Though he is naught but a skirt enthusiast, swimming along the sea of young maidens at his whim. But he cares not whether they are, does he?

And oh, do not get yourself started on the one-eyed prince and that smug little smile on his sharp-featured face. Nonetheless, he was gentle. Oh so gentle with his touch. And oh so sinister in the way that made you feel important enough to be in his good graces.

However, you chose to distance yourself from all parties involved as fate made it clear what it had in store. A great slap to the great Targaryen dynasty. A dark cloud looming over the already curse-clad clan.

For even you knew that the only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon, was itself.

“Sister.” you greeted one late evening, having taken flight to Dragonstone on your she-dragon, Starfyre. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“…y/n.” the elder sister called out, a small smile on her lips. “I… am glad for your visit.”

“…I’m certain you are,” you say, trying with all your might to contain a frown.

You eyed her awkwardly as she wiped her sweaty hands off her dress, letting out a sigh as the elder royal wasn’t quite certain how to approach the topic.

“I… understand… things quite haven’t been… that active, in our kinship,” Rhaenyra speaks up, taking a step closer. “And for that, I apologise.”

You could only nod, a small smile gracing your lips at the heartwarming confession of absent love.

“I apologise, also.” you smiled, your hands finding each other behind your back. “I suppose I should have been the one to seek your company and counsel as well.”

“Good.” Rhaenyra smiled awkwardly, a silence engulfing the echo-ridden chambers. “The reason, as to why I called you, might be surprising.”

You froze slightly, heart pounding as the possibilities of implications travelled through your mind. The goosebumps on your arms grew more prominent as a cold breeze passed through.

“Oh?” you answered, cocking a brow. “And what might that be, sister?”

“I ask of you to travel to the North,” Rhaenyra admits, a tone of seriousness overshadowing the warm moment. “I have already sent a raven to Lord Cregan Stark, and he has agreed to host you. If it pleases you, of course.”

No answer came out of your lips, save for your a mere breath. You felt a pang in your heart, consuming your every emotion, making certain you cannot detect how you feel about the news.

A dragon in the north? What a jest. You’d do better in Dorne, surrounded by sun-kissed squires and stable boys than laddish lordlings and Northern butchers.

“And… why should I?” you asked, respect in your tone. “Pardon me, my sister, but why have you made this decision for me?”

“Tensions are rising, y/n. You know that as well as I do.” Rhaenyra sighs, her body language giving up on its tense posture. “And I am aware of your… complex feelings on it. But to the North you must. I’m sending Rhaena to the Va-”

“Yes, because Rhaena gets to be hosted by a relative of yours, in safety. Meanwhile you sent me off to some Northern stranger!”

“Y/n.” Rhaenyra warned, raising a brow. She took a step closer as you composed your words. “You are my sister, and I will have you safe in the North. The Northmen are honourable men, and in time you’ll know.”

✫彡

And so you were, clad in thick fur, lady Vivenne and lady Evelyne at both sides of yourself. Across from you sat three servants, and somewhere else sat your sworn shield.

“It will be splendid.” Evelyne beamed, properly adjusting her hair, tied up in a bun, similar to the ones the older maidens wear. “We shall meet every dusk, and speak about our day. In front of the fire.”

“Not if I can help it.” you sighed softly. “Apologies, my ladies, but I’ll let you two get at it. I’d love to explore the North in solitude.”

“Right…” Vivenne nodded, looking through the small peep holes as the carriage slowed down, just outside the gates of Winterfell. “We’ve arrived, I suppose. You’ll have to greet Lord Stark. If he’s anything we’ve heard of and more, I wish you luck.”

You only nodded, watching as your ladies exited the carriage, standing at the side of the door. Their faces are cast down, as if in mourning. Perhaps they’re mourning the life of luxury provided at King’s Landing.

You could not blame them for it, really. From growing up in their own house, to growing up in the Royal house, to trade it again to live to see the snowy winters of Winterfell.

You shook slightly, the cold air hitting your face in an instant as you slightly lifted your dress, taking a step out of the three provided for the carriage.

You looked ahead of you, eyes locking on the noblemen and women, standing straight and proud. The women bore clothes of low quality, so obviously sewn to fit any class. The men wore dark furs, contrasting to the blue clothing of the opposite sex.

And in the midst of it, stood Cregan Stark, accompanied by a mere little boy of just two years of age. Your eyes locked upon his stormy-grey ones, his face etched into a stern expression, eyes focused on yours.

You maintained the eye contact, taking each step closer to him.

“Princess Y/N.” Cregan greeted formally, taking your soft hand in his. “Welcome to Winterfell. I am Lord Cregan Stark.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark.” you smile, curtsying in a fashionable manner. Your eyes stood glued on his as his lips brushed against the palm of your hand. “I’m truly honoured to be here.”

“…I’m certain you are.” Cregan answered, eyeing you skeptically.

Hearing false compliments wasn’t out of the ordinary for the wolf of Winterfell. He knew well enough that you weren’t suited for the North. You were a Southern lady, used to the life of feasts, luxury, and sparkly dresses.

“Let us go inside, shall we?” you smiled charmingly, looking up at the tall castle with dread in your eyes.

“Aye, so we shall.” Cregan nodded, his broad shoulders most notable as he sauntered into the opened gates.

✫彡

The first night went unfamiliar to you, the harsh blows of the cold weather creating a prominent presence looming over the already melancholic times.

You sat in your chambers, sitting at the stony window sill as you watched Cregan from above.

The lord was overlooking young squires on the courtyard, engaged in conversation with the knight in charge of guiding the young to-be-knights.

All dressed in fur, shoulders looking as if they were padded. Cregan’s hair was tied up, with two front strands escaping and hanging loose. His grey-blue eyes stood glued at watching the young squire’s techniques, and you could only sigh as you got lost in his appearance.

Ever since stepping foot into the North of Westeros, you’d developed a strange sense of interest in the beauty of Northern men. How they all dressed so grimly, but intimidating. How they’re oh-so honourable and hard working. How they always seemed so clean shaven but rugged all at once.

And you could not help but wonder what it would be like had you wedded one of them.

Being completely honest, you’d never really been the sort of maiden to stay inside of her chambers, waiting for her husband to return from his duty, deprived of affection.

With any Southern lord, being a doting unappreciated wife would never cross your mind.

But with Northern men, however, you had the feeling your efforts wouldn’t go unnoticed.

Before you could continue your vulgarly confusing thoughts, you saw Cregan’s eyes shift to yours, finding your gaze.

You could only lean against the window, a hand on the stony side as you gazed back at him. Your hair was loose, and you were dressed in your creamy beige nightdress.

You held his gaze for a moment, until ultimately turning away, leaving the implications of that gaze to his imagination.

✫彡

By the third day, you’d been reading in the old library belonging to House Stark. You’d sat on a plush seat, the dusty book on your lap as your gentle fingers flipped through the pages.

But you weren’t alone.

Cregan Stark sat near you, his knees in almost touching proximity to yours.

“Aye, the North is cold, but it’s honest.” he tells you, gently shutting his own book. “The snow doesn’t lie about its intention. No courtly games like they play in the South.”

“Oh, please.” you smiled, shutting your book as well. your body shifted so it was facing his, resting your head on one hand. “The courtly games are what makes it so fun.”

“Now, riddle me this.” You smiled, noting his full attention on you. His body language exuded calmness, and you felt secure in the knowledge that his comfort lies with you. “How do you not like courtly games? Personally, it makes my life all the more amusing.”

“I suppose it’s all jesting for you, princess.” Cregan said, his eyes resting on yours. “Amusement or not, I’d rather know where I stand…”

“With you, however…” His eyes trailed down to your bare shoulder, the white nightdress you’re wearing very much a sight of sore eyes. “I think I know.”

“Oh, do you?” you teased, cocking a brow. “And how so, pray tell?”

“Well…” he grunted, shifting in his seat to tighten the proximity around you two. “You’d do well not to cross any Northern man. They don’t take well to… courtly games.”

You only smiled at that, your upper body instinctively leaning in, albeit torturously slow.

“And, uh, suppose I… marry a Northern lord.” you teased quite coquettishly, a hand moving to rest on the thick fur coating his body. “What am I in for.”

You watched as his smirk only widened, gently taking the hand that rested on his fur, and taking it in his.

“Marry a Northern lord like me, and have your nights warmed under the thick fur of blankets.” he says, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles. “Northern loyalty runs deep, princess. That’s what you’d be in for.”

You nodded slowly, and you could not help but notice those coloured eyes of his descending onto your perky breasts.

Great, this was all going well so far. “I’d imagine… do you think he’d gift me a pup? I’ve always wanted a tiny pet, to keep.”

“Yeah?” The lord licked his lips, a hand resting on your waist. “You think you’d handle a wolf properly?”

“Well, I would.” you smiled, nodding in agreement. “I’m a dragon… and dragons do not surrender that easily.”

You smiled, shifting in your seat again as Cregan amusedly indulged you in your silly thoughts. “Just imagine it, my lord. I’d be holding that pup every night trying to get it to warm to me.”

Your hand slowly, but surely, trickled down to his clothed thigh, trying to maintain a sense of quiet intimacy.

“You’ll have your work cut out for you, then.” his voice lowered, bordering on husky. “Wolves aren’t so easily tamed, not even by someone with…”

He paused for a moment, a hand gently taking the one you placed on his thigh.

“…your charms.”

You’d have a cheeky comeback on the tip of your tongue, had it not been for Cregan’s lips descending upon yours, clashing together like Blackwoods and Brackens.

You let out a soft breath as you eased into the kiss, feeling his large hands grip your waists as if his life depended on it.

Your hands moved from his shoulders, to his neck, and then to his armoured chest. The armour he carried felt cold to your hands, yet it made it all the more sinful.

“Did you have this in mind?” you murmured against his lips, tongue circling his as you so sloppily attempted to kiss him. “Seducing me?”

The silence engulfed you two for a moment, only being overshadowed by the sound of soft breaths.

“You have it wrong, princess.” he breathed, firmly planting you upon his lap, your back pressing against his chest. “Do you take me for a halfwit?”

You smiled, looking over your shoulder as you attempted to chase his lips with yours again.

“No, but I certainly did not take you for a man so easily seduced.” you teased, guiding his hands to your clothed breasts. “You don’t seem the type to give in that easily.”

“Because it’s untrue.” he spoke up, lips brushing to against your neck. “But do you honestly think nothing would be done about the way you saunter around, looking as you do?”

His hands slowly tugged against your nightdress, pressing a hard kiss to your achy jaw before pulling away.

“Lay yourself down on the carpet.” he commanded, hands shifting to peel off his fur coat, along with his armour and tunic.

All you could do was nod and watch on as his armour went discarded on the floor, the metal material cranking against the stone ground.

His bare chest was now visible, the defining abs illuminated by the glowing fire. His hair messed up when he threw his tunic over his head.

“Cregan, I-"

And in one moment, you felt his large body overshadow yours, clashing lips again. Cregan lifted his body as to not crush you, hands on either side of your head.

You only permitted yourself to breathe unevenly, stead of moan. Your hands found his shoulders, desiring to pull him closer than possible.

“Ever since you’ve arrived you’d been nothing but trouble.” Cregan murmured, lips finding your throat. “Sauntering around with your ladies, endlessly teasing me.”

Your legs only shifted to wrap around his waist, back slowly arching at the kisses.

He took notice, and let one of his hands pin you down, lips descending towards your perky breasts.

“Gods, you’re wrong for this.” he grunted, swirling his tongue around the nipple. “For provoking me, as you did yesterday, and the day before that.”

“For thinking you have the authority to do this to a lord.” he breathed, your small breast fitting into his large palm.

“For…” he continued, kissing down your stomach, before ultimately glancing back at you “…thinking you’d get away with this.”

“I did not think I’d get away with this.” you tease, watching as he moves face-to-face again. “Which is why I did it.”

Your hands find his muscled arms, squeezing it gently. “I want to know how Northern men do it.”

You’d think you were jesting, but were you truly?

You’d have opened your mouth to say anything else, looking up at him, if it weren’t for the Northern lord himself roughly flipping you to your stomach.

“You wish to know, my princess?” he murmurs, unlatching his breeches. “You’d have your first time be with a Northman?”

You nodded, cheek resting on the carpet fabric without surrender. “Yes. Gods yes.”

He hiked your skirt around your waist, your plump ass visible to his peering eyes.

“You’ll be ruined for other men, aye.” He grunted, his hand wrapping around his rock hard cock.

“That’s good, because I desire no one save you.” you smiled, allowing him to lift your hips up and arch your back.

“Yeah?” he smirked, the tip of his cock rubbing against your damp hole. “You’ll have me make you my wife?”

You nodded, impatiently moving your hips. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

“You’d be a good wife, wouldn’t you?” he grunted once again, head finally pushing into your unloosened clit. “No Southern games, no poignant looks of yours.”

“You like that about me.” you painfully breathed, feeling the uncomfortable ache of his cock in your newly penetrated cunt.

His head descended, placing gentle kisses upon your shoulders. “A maiden. Perhaps you aren’t as well-equipped to handle a wolf as you said you were.”

“I am.” you protested, pushing your hips back. “Move your hips. I wish to prove myself.”

He only speeded up his thrusts, and as you allowed the moans to fill your lips, his hands found a way to push your head down.

“You’d carry my pups?” he asked, thrusting into you aggressively, pumping his cock in and out. “Wait on my cock every night?”

You only moaned incredulously, asscheeks clapping along with every snap of his hips.

“Yes.” you breathed, gasp and claps filling the room. “Fuck, put a babe inside of me. I want your children.”

“We’ll have to wed sooner, before the babe gets born in wedlock.” he grunted, hands gripping your hips, pushing you back onto his thick length. “But that’s what you wanted all along, was it?”

You gripped the fabric of the carpet, cheeks burning as it rubbed against the irritating carpet.

“For a thick cock such as this.” he teased, tugging at your hair.

“Yes.” you moaned pathetically, cheeks flushed as you felt a knot forming into your stomach.

Your lips parted, your eyes rolling above-ways.

“Yes, yes!” you moaned loudly, feeling his hands grope your breasts. “Fuck, you’re moving fast.”

“Never fast enough.” he murmurs, member sliding against your wet slit.

He could feel your tight walls clenching around him, milking his cock for all it is worth. His grip on you tightened as he thrust down to meet your upward motion.

And with one sharp thrusts, you felt the knot loosen and the cream dripping out your twitching clit.

Yet, he didn’t stop, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he rode you through your orgasm.

The feeling of your walls clenching around his cock was enough to send him reeling as well, burying himself deep inside of you.

Hot spurts of cum dripping out of your hole, you completely got yourself spent, closing your eyes and deciding you could just fall asleep on this carpet.

“No sleeping in the library.” he scolded lightly, putting on his fur coat, covering his naked physique. “Come here.”

You exhaustedly crawled over to him again, and snuck yourself into his coat, the clothing covering both of your naked bodies.

“I’m taking you to your chambers.” he sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “And for the next time, do not attempt to get so exhausted. I went easy on you this time.”

[multific]

Of Lit Fire and Silk Sheets

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Aemond arrives back to his room late at night, when you are already long asleep.

When Aemond came into your shared bedroom it was already very late.

His duties as Prince kept him up almost all day, barely allowing him to take a break or even eat.

Aemond let out a long sigh as he took off his jacket.

The fireplace in his room was lit, illuminating the room.

On his bed, you slept.

You, his beautiful wife.

Aemond stopped by the end of the bed and looked at you. He has seen you sleeping plenty of times, but he was always right next to you, or he was too tired and went to sleep immediately as he got back. 

But now, even if he was tired, he still took a moment to just stop and look at you.

You looked breathtaking, the warm light from the fire illuminated your face and shoulder as you slept on your side, facing his empty side. Your arm reaching towards his side, trying to find him but failing.

Aemond allowed a small smile to form.

Oh, how you both hated the idea of being married, and yet here you both were, completely and undeniably in love. 

Aemond could still recall the moment your eyes turned from hatred to the soft look that you now have for him.

He could also recall the moment he realized he was in love with you when a Lord dared to speak ill of you and as a result, lost his head.

Aemond takes no chances when it comes to you, his wife.

He believes it is his duty to fully protect you from anything. Let that be his own family, a few lords with choice words or even himself.

Aemond takes no chances, much like a predator, he prefers to act first and think next.

He didn't use to be like that.

He was always very calculated, just not when it came to you.

Love, as they say, is a stronger force than anything, greater than fear or even dragons.

You stirred slightly in your sleep and Aemond moved. Removing his clothes and putting on the comfortable pants and shirt he preferred to sleep in, he quickly moved back to you and laid down.

His muscles relaxed against the silk sheets and comfortable pillows.

He wanted to pull you closer, but he was afraid to wake you.

Aemond just laid there, watching you sleep as he contemplated his next move. He knew he would not be able to sleep fully without having you in his arms or have you closer.

But he didn't have to, you instinctively still asleep, moved closer to him, placing your hand on his chest as you continued to sleep. 

Aemond let out a long sigh as he closed his eyes. He felt you moving beside him as you soon placed your head on his chest, got comfortable under the covers and fell right back to sleep.

His hand moved to find yours on his chest as he fell asleep.

Not even the howling wind outside would hurt you, he will make sure of it.

Taglist: @castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse  @jacalineiscomingforyou  @mandoloriancookie @brascaris

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[realmsofdreams]

bastard

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader

summary: three moons have passed since the devastating revelation of alys rivers’ letter, and your once-loving marriage to aemond targaryen has crumbled into a cold, distant ruin. you’ve moved to separate chambers, treating him with icy indifference.

warnings: intense emotional angst and marital breakdown, themes of betrayal and rejection, verbal confrontation with hurtful language, no physical violence, but heavy emotional weight.

author notes: read part 1. well, i know it’s kinda short, but i hope you’ll enjoy part 2 as much as part 1! i actually want to hear your thoughts on this. i personally feel sad for daeron, but honestly, aemond deserves it, so i don’t mind at all lol. hope daeron gets to have a great and lovely life at winterfell… and with cregan stark then ;)

not a taglist, but still tagging you guys since everyone loved part 1 so much!! hope you enjoy part 2!

@dc-marvel-girl96 @ylva-syverson @immyowndefender @palomarv @sweetstrawberrianne

three moons had passed since that night, the night the letter from alys rivers tore your world apart. the red keep felt colder now between you and aemond. you’d moved to your own chambers the very next day, unable to bear the sight of him in the bed you’d once shared. daeron, your sweet boy, stayed with you, his cradle a constant in your new chamber.

today, though, you couldn’t avoid him any longer. you’d made up your mind, and he deserved to hear it. you stood in the small solar of your chambers, daeron napping in the next room, when aemond entered. he looked worn, his silver hair unkempt, the lines around his eye deeper, as if sleep had eluded him as much as it had you.

“you sent for me,” he said, voice cautious, hopeful even.

“it means i’m done,”

your tone flat but firm. you crossed your arms, steeling yourself against the pain in his face.

“i want to end this marriage, aemond. i can’t do this anymore.”

he froze, the air between you thickening with the weight of your words. he stepping closer.

“no, you don’t mean that. we can fix this… i’ll fix this. i’ve kept my distance, given you space, but please—”

“aemond.”

you held up a hand, your voice trembling now, though you fought to keep it steady.

“there’s nothing left to fix. the moment you laid with her, did you ever think of me? of how it would feel to know my husband, the man i loved, gave himself to someone else while i carried our son?”

aemond’s eye widened, and he shook his head, desperation creeping in.

“it was a mistake, one night, nothing more. i thought of you every day after, hated myself for it. i never wanted her, never loved her.”

“and yet she carries your child,” you snapped, the dam breaking as your voice rose.

“you hated bastards so much, aemond, preached about purity and honor, and now you’ve made one with her, a bastard carrying your bastard. did you think of that when you scorned others for the same?”

he flinched as if you’d struck him, the words cutting deeper than any blade.

“i’m not proud of it,” he said, voice cracking.

“i’d give anything to undo it. but you, you’re my wife, my heart. i can’t lose you.”

then, to your shock, he dropped to his knees before you, his hands reaching for yours.

“please,”

he begged, his pride shattered, his eye glistening with unshed tears.

“don’t leave me. don’t take daeron from me. i’ll do anything anything you ask.”

you stared down at him, your chest aching with fury and sorrow. once, you’d have melted at his vulnerability, his love but now it only deepened the wound.

“you should’ve thought of that before,”

you said, stepping back, pulling your hands free.

“i gave you everything, aemond. my trust, my love, my son. and you threw it away for for a bastard. i deserve more than this.”

he stayed there, on his knees, head bowed, as you turned and left the room, your heart pounding in your ears. the decision was made, and no amount of pleading could sway it.

the next day, you stood before alicent and queen helaena in the throne room, daeron cradled in your arms. the iron throne behind them, a stark reminder of the power they held and the power you sought to reclaim over your own life.

alicent’s face was stern, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

“an annulment?”

she said, her tone sharp.

“you’d cast aside a targaryen prince, my son, so easily?”

“not easily,” you replied, meeting her gaze.

“but necessarily. he betrayed me, your grace. alys rivers carries his child, conceived while i carried daeron. i’ve borne this in silence for months, but i won’t anymore.”

alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering with anger, or shame.

“marriages endure worse,” she said.

“you’re of a kind house, famed for strength. can you not find it in you to forgive?”

“i’ve tried,” you said, voice softening but resolute.

“but every time i look at him… i see her. i feel the lie. i won’t live like that.”

helaena, seated beside her mother, tilted her head, her pale eyes studying you. she’d always been quiet, strange in her way, but there was a knowing in her gaze now.

“i felt it too,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“the weight of a love that falters. it crushes you.”

alicent turned to her daughter, frowning, but helaena continued, her voice gentle.

“let her go, mother. she’s suffered enough.”

a long silence followed. alicent’s resolve wavered, her shoulders slumping slightly.

“i’ll consider it,”

she said at last, though her tone suggested reluctance.

“but this is no small thing.”

“it’s decided,”

helaena interjected, surprising you both. she stood, stepping closer to you, her hand brushing daeron’s silver hair.

“take your son north. lord cregan stark will shelter you. i’ll see it done.”

you blinked, gratitude swelling in your chest.

“thank you, your grace”

you whispered, and she offered a small, sad smile.

in moon turn, you rode north with daeron, the wind was cold, biting, but it felt like freedom. you were no longer lady targaryen, shedding the name like a heavy cloak, leaving the pain and the title behind. winterfell rose ahead, its grey walls stark and lord cregan stark greeted you at the gates. his dark eyes steady as he took your hand.

“you’re welcome here,”

he said simply, his voice a low rumble.

“you and the boy.”

“thank you, my lord.”

you nodded, daeron fussing in your arms, and followed him inside. cregan offered a chair by the fire, and as you sat, watching the flames, you felt the first stirrings of peace.

the north was harsh, unforgiving, but it was a place to heal, to rebuild.

[prince-aegon-targaryen]

About to be done with The Fool and the Dragon

Tales of the Ales - Aegon obsesses over a book about a minor Lord’s journey through Essos to visit every tavern he can. He runs away from his duty as “heir” to recreate the journey - paying the deceased lord’s daughter to be his guide.

Tales of the Ales - same shit except instead of an oc it’s Aemond tracking his ass down angrier than the devil about Aegon’s escape of responsibility.

The Other Alyssa - Baelon HAD remarried after the death of his first wife Alyssa. Through his marriage to his younger sister Viserra, he gives birth to Alyssa Targaryen. She is betrothed to her older brother Daemon early on - who resents her with a dangerous hatred.

Butcher’s Daughter - Aegon befriends an old kindly butcher in Flea Bottom after the man rescues young drunk Aegon from thieves. Aegon uses the man’s shop as a safe haven from his real life whenever he is stressed. There - an intense obsession with the man’s daughter begins to take root.

Wins and Losses - Two of Aegon’s favorite bedmates grows bored with the eldest prince and makes a dangerous game. Whichever of the two girls first to seduce Aemond wins. What started of as just a way to pass the time and earn some laughs quickly becomes scarier than the two bargained for.

[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?

[desireangel]

Bad Things | Aemond Targaryen

Summary: Aemond is plagued with doubts and seeks refuge in the one place where he is at peace with himself; between his beloved wife's legs.

Pairing: Aemond x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only!! this is so in Aemond's thoughts, self doubt, lack of remorse, smut, oral (f receiving), talk of sex, slight breeding kink, Aemond is lost in his head and obsessed with eating his wife out, Aemond may be prince regent of Westeros but he is king of eating pussy, unedited, hmm kinda just porn really - let me know to add anything if need be!

Author's Note: Came home drunk (typos??? potentially. unnecessary droning on??? potentially.) after a couple cocktails and had the urge to erm write. About oral sex specifically, of course. Anywayssss, enjoy (I hope!) - xoxo kisses!!! <3

Masterlist!

Sometimes Aemond let his mind wander to all that could have been and all that could come to be had he only made his decisions differently. He seldom felt regret - never felt as if he would change the things that have led him towards the path of greatness he was on. But what ifs and the memory of failures are as stubborn as a newborn plague and Aemond was just as vulnerable to illness as those whom he revered and those whom he detested. 

It was warm under the light of the setting sun, a kiss on his skin as Aemond rested against the balcony at the window and watched over what he longed to have for himself. If things had been different, at any time and any place, where would he be now?

The thought of living his life without his injury had come to sicken him but it lingered at the back of his mind. Had certain moments taken a different turn, would he still feel the need to drive people to respect him through fear and prove himself worthy at every chance he could find? Aemond swallowed at the thought. And he stood there, looking to the skies as if the clouds could free him from the suffocation of the feelings that had haunted him since the night he lost his eye. 

Feelings of failure, feelings of defeat, feelings of fear and feelings of humiliation. 

Even after meeting you, and understanding that loving you meant different things - things he wasn’t familiar with, things he wasn’t sure he was capable of becoming familiar with - the lingering thought of what if was all consuming.

Aemond could hear you coming seconds before you were beside him. He was thankful you stood by his side, silently and wordlessly as your eyes dragged across his face, analysing what you could of his thoughts from his perfected emotionless expression. Quiet moments like this, where Aemond got lost in his mind grew fewer at each move he made within this war.

But here you both were, silently in each other’s company. Aemond was a passionate lover. But he was also at times a cold and imperfect partner. And some of those times where he retreated into himself, although he had rarely lost control of himself in front of you, left him vexed at your presence.  

Because to Aemond, you were perfect. Frustrating at times but that was often the fault of his own lack of patience and tolerance. You were, at the end of the day, too perfect. He saw your compassion, your empathy, your kindness. And he saw your strength, your wit, your fearsome loyalty.

And here Aemond was, unable to even regret many of the times he acted without any of those perfect things. After the fate that Lucerys had met, Aemond found he could not find it in himself to feel remorse for much else. 

You let your fingers graze along the leather sleeve on his arm, your light touch burning into his skin through the fabric. He closed his eye and kept it closed for minutes of silence that felt like hours before he spoke lowly.

“I have done bad things.”

You sucked in a breath. “Would you be here today if you had not done those things?”

“No, you do not understand me. I cannot bring myself to care for some of the vile things that I have done. That I have caused. I should care, should I not?” 

Releasing a long sigh, you shifted on your feet. Aemond knew that you were different to him. You didn’t agree with many of his actions and decisions but you knew there was nothing you could do except to be there when he needed you. It had taken time to realise you couldn’t change the way he thought, the way he felt, the way he reacted to things - you weren’t sure if you truly, deeply wanted to take on that burden. 

As Aemond grew more honest with you, you had come to realise that when it came down to it he was not a completely good man. But he was good to you and while Aemond saw your strength, you knew you were weak when it came to him. Loyalty and love for your husband burned painfully in your chest no matter his imperfections and you never bothered to try to justify it. 

“Perhaps if I had acted differently, somewhere,” Aemond’s words were rushed, a switch from his normally slow drawl. He would curse himself tomorrow for his moment of weakness but he couldn’t ignore the pit in his stomach. “Then I would not be the way that I am now.”

You stared at him for a moment. His expression was of ice and had you not known him the way that you do, then you would never have noticed the confliction in his eyes. “There is no use-”

“I know there is no use in thinking about what may have been, I know,” Aemond spat. 

“Alright,” you paused. “But you will never know what could have changed. You made your decisions, you were the author of your own fate, Aemond. ‘Tis the way things go - we must face it. What difference would it make if things could have been different? You cannot undo what you have already done.”

Aemond’s jaw ticked and he moved so that his arm hung at your waist. You briefly glanced back inside at the servant who prepared your nightly cup of tea at your bedside. Aemond seldom made a show of your relationship when you weren’t entirely alone. Nevertheless, you didn’t let your mind linger on that fact. 

He gazed down at you, his ocean-strong eye never failing to make your breath hitch and goosebumps to rise on your skin. You were relieved that he seemed to agree with your words. Aemond’s shoulders had lost much of the tension they held and the start of the sweet smile that was shared only with you played on his lips. 

He had to try hard to believe what you had told him. Because here you were, no matter what he did and no matter his lack of conviction, at his side and wrapped around his finger. You were the calming breeze that cooled his heat, you were the shade that gave him relief from the scorching sun and you were the water that flushed the burn from his skin. Aemond was not one to be an emotional man but he knew that he had love for you and your endless, boundless support. And he dreamed of how he would share with you the world that will one day be at his feet. 

“I shall share your bed tonight, my love.” Aemond’s words were as they always have been; smooth with honey but laced with venomous promises. You bit back a smile as he pulled you inside, addicted to whatever venom dripped from his words, from his eye, from him.  “And that shall serve as all the reminder that I need to be sure I have not been so misguided that I have lost my way to no return.” 

When he pressed his nose into the crook of your neck, dragging it along your soft skin, he inhaled deeply. Aemond thought for a moment of how perfect it would be if he could bottle your scent and keep it with him forever. A reminder of the woman for whom he wished he could become a good, honest man. 

Your body felt so familiar to him that it made his mind turn quiet and Aemond could only think of having you closer, closer, closer. And it was never close enough, no matter how hard he squeezed at the flesh of your hips to pull you in, no matter how your breath tickled his skin and  how your eyelashes fluttered against his hair as he dragged his lips over your shoulder and along the side of your neck. 

If there were no roof atop your heads, you would have thought that it rained flames onto the both of you and to relieve the burn of it, you melted into Aemond, pressing yourself further into him and squirming for more as he grabbed at your nightclothes to toss them to the floor. 

You tugged hopelessly at the buckles on his tunic, whining. “Get it off, Aemond.”

Aemond didn’t need to be told a second time because hardly a moment later he was as naked as you were, pushing you until the back of your legs hit the edge of your bed and you fell onto it gently. A strained groan fell from his lips as he let you pull him down with you, holding his face in your hands as he held himself above you with an arm beside your head. You gently removed the leather that covered his glimmering sapphire, sighing contently. 

Admiring Aemond as he was, bare and honest and beautiful had become your favourite way to see him. Without the need to hide any part of himself from you. 

Smirking, he let his lips graze yours softly. It was a stark contrast to the way Aemond’s other hand was roughly grabbing at whatever flesh he could hold, squeezing you and sending shockwaves straight through to your core. 

You could barely get the words out of you. “Kiss me–Gods, kiss me.”

And he did kiss you, his lips desperately clashing against yours with a new kind of vigour. Aemond rarely kissed you with such force, such rage and such raw, unfettered need. But as his teeth knocked against yours, catching your lip in between and drawing blood, he entertained the thought that maybe he did regret something. All of the kisses he never had the chance to give you. 

The air between you was charged with something sharp and electric, a primal energy that clouded your head and had you gasping Aemond’s name at the way he brushed his knuckle against your core. Normally, he would have taken his time with you. But despite the fact that you had the entire night ahead of you, Aemond was rushed and impatient. 

“Always so ready for me,” he murmured, taking in a sharp breath as his fingers rubbed through your slick folds, pulling a soft whine from you. Aemond’s cock twitched at the perfect sound and he ground his hips against the plush of your thigh. He dragged the pads of his fingers teasingly up from the slit of your hole to the hood of your clit, drawing teasing circles so softly you could have been convinced his touch was a figment of your fantasies. 

“Aemond, please-”

He shushed you softly. “Patience, my sweet.”

Aemonds lips, wet on your jaw, travelled down the expanse of your neck and over your collarbones. He nibbled at you, amused at the way you arched and squirmed, replacing his fingers with his cock and sliding it against your clit. When his lips met your nipple he sucked harshly with a flick of his tongue, giving your right breast hardly enough attention before turning to the other. 

It sent shivers down your spine and you were sure Aemond felt you shudder against him when his lips travelled lower, leaving a wet trail down your skin until he was finally just below your naval. Aemond turned his head, his teeth pinching the flesh of your thigh harshly, just above where your thigh curved into your pelvis. You squealed. 

“Hm,” He chuckled darkly, smiling up at you and shaking his head with a deep tsk when your legs instinctively moved to shut. His hands groped at your thighs and pushed them up so that you were folded yet entirely spread in front of him. “I will fuck you with my tongue first. And my fingers. Then I will fuck you with my cock and fill you with my seed, only after I have made you quiver and shake from the pleasure of my mouth on your perfect cunt.”

Aemond’s eye dropped to your sopping cunt and his words coiled in his throat, coming out as a muffled moan. You gasped as he lewdly spat, his head falling downwards in an instant, wave after wave of pleasure stealing the oxygen from your lungs as he sucked on your pussy, tongue weaving across your clit and back down. 

All of the loud doubts that plagued his mind turned into whispers of incoherence the moment his mouth met the velvety skin of your womanhood, Aemond’s favourite place to lose himself when his thoughts became unbearable. The tangy, sweet taste of your arousal pulled a deep growl from his chest and when your hips jerked against his face, he wrapped a strong arm over your hips to hold you in place. 

As Aemond’s tongue dipped into you, his lips latched on the expanse of your cunt, you let out a cry, your hand falling to his hair and pulling hard. Your body was hot with desire, thighs squeezing your husband’s head as he greedily feasted on the most intimate parts of you. He pulled away for one quick second to catch his breath before burying himself in you once again, the obscene smacking sounds of how he relentlessly sucked and lapped at your slit. 

For such vulgar noises, they had become increasingly beautiful. 

“I dream of staying here forever,” Aemond’s words were muffled, difficult to hear over your own whimpers and the movement of his lips on your folds had you bucking to follow his mouth. He hid his grin in your wetness. “I can do no wrong with the taste of you on my tongue.”

The pleasure that Aemond always submerged you was almost becoming overwhelming and you lost the ability to form sentences, muttering and mumbling in response. He could decipher his name, falling for your flushed lips so many times, and his eye flickered up to watch how your body climbed to the highest point of satisfaction where such a sinful act became heavenly. 

You were always beautiful, Aemond thought. But you were at your most beautiful when you came undone for him, lost in the throes of bliss and grasping at him as if you could not live for another second without his touch. He carried you through your orgasm, unrelenting as he greedily devoured every part of your pussy, looking up at you with his darkened eye and shining sapphire, strands of his hair that had come loose sticking to the wetness on his jaw. Aemond relished in the strangled, melodic sounds that you made for him. 

When you jerked away from him with a squeal, so sensitive when the tip of his tongue flicked against your clit that your hips bucked suddenly, Aemond pulled away while chuckling and placing featherlight kisses along your shaking thighs. He watched how your cunt continued to clench around nothing as you came down from your orgasm, the messy mixture of his spit and your arousal glistening under the light from the lamps. 

You let yourself relax into the bedsheets and moved to close your legs, tugging Aemond to meet you for a kiss and giggling when he stopped to quickly wipe your slick from his face. But before your knees could come together, he caught them, settling himself in between and you could feel the steady heat from his hardened cock grazing across the outside of your slit. 

“I think my pretty wife believes she is going to have a restful night,” Aemond teased against your lips, sliding a hand down between your bodies and spreading your folds once again to make way for his fingers. You shuddered against him with a mewl. “You are mistaken, my love, if you believe I will not have you full of my seed by the time I am done making love to you. I am a man of my word, am I not?”

[multifandomfanfiction]

Little Dragon Chapter 3

TITLE: Little Dragon Chapter 3 PAIRING: Aemond/Niece!OC RATING: T CHAPTER: 3/? SUMMARY: Daella Velaryon is the only true-born heir of Laenor and Rhaenyra, but after Aemond’s maiming at Driftmark she elects to stay with the royal family. Over the years, she and her uncle Aemond grow closer. So close that not even the threat of war will tear them apart.

Daella’s handmaidens dressed her for dinner in a deep blue gown with her hair done up in intricate braids. When she arrived at dinner, her family was already there. Instead of taking a seat next to her brothers, she sat next to Heleana.

Aemond sat at the head of the table. He reached over and took Daella’s hand in his, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “You look beautiful, Little Dragon.”

“I must thank you for the gown, my prince.”

“You are to be a Queen one day. You must dress the part.”

Aegon snorted into his wine and his younger brother glared at him.

Everyone quietly talked amongst themselves as they waited for the King to arrive. Viserys entered, carried on a litter, and everyone stood up. He was placed in his spot for the evening and they sat down.

���How good it is…to see you all tonight…together,” Viserys said.

“Prayer before we begin?” Alicent asked.

“Yes.”

Daella, who had grown up in the Red Keep, still felt awkward when Alicent brought up the Faith of the Seven. Daella herself still believed in the old gods and often found herself talking to the Weirwood tree.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mind the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

“This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bong between out houses. A toast to the young Princes…and their betrothed,” Viserys said.

“Hear, hear!” everyone chanted.

“Well done Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman,” Aegon said.

“Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys, the future Lord of the Tides.”

“Hear, hear.”

“And to Princess Daella and my son Prince Aemond, who have been betrothed for some years. You have been patient and I think now is the time to reward that patience. You will be married in a week’s time.”

Rhaenyra was taken aback. She knew Daella had always favored her one-eyed uncle, but she never imagined they would marry.

Daella turned to Aemond and smiled. She had been waiting for this day.

Daemon was staring Aemond down as Aemond kissed Daella’s hand again.

Viserys struggled to stand. “It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.” Viserys reached up and pulled his golden mask off.

Daella averted her eyes, not wanting to see her grandfather in such a state.

Aemond’s thumb stroked her knuckles in an effort to comfort her.

Even Aegon lowered his eyes.

“My own face is no longer a handsome one if indeed it ever was. But tonight I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king, but your father. Your brother. Your husband and your grandsire. Who may not, it seems walk for much longer among you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dargon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

Viserys collapsed into his chair and Rhaenyra stood up.

“I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude and my apology.” Rhaenyra sat down.

“Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow,” Alicent said. She stood up. “I raise my cup to you…and to your house. You will make a fine queen.”

Rhaenyra smiled at her.

Aegon got up to fill his wine glass and whispered something to Baela, causing Jacaerys to stand up.

Aemond stood up, ready to defend his older brother.

“Aemond,” Daella said, “Please.”

Aemond stared at Jacaerys, waiting for him to do something.

Jacaerys turned to Aegon and playfully punched him in the shoulder before raising his glass in Aemond’s direction. “To Prince Aegon…and Prince Aemond. We have not see each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles. And…to my beloved sister Daella. I regret that we did not get to spend that much time together, but you have grown into a fine woman and I pray that our uncle will make you happy and that you will have many children together.”

“Thank you. And I pray that you and Baela are happy together,” Daella said.

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” Helaena whispered.

Daella reached over and rubbed her arm.

Helaena suddenly stood up. “I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

They were a few snickers and Helaena sat down.

“Was that okay?” Helaena asked Daella.

“Yes, you did very well,” Daella told her aunt.

Aemond smiled at their interaction.

Helaena was very grateful to have Daella to talk to, since people mostly ignored her.

“Good. Let us have some music,” Viserys said.

[dragon0queen]

OMG HIS ROOM IS PERFECT AND COZY AAAA

This is perfect for my daydreaming.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Beneath a Dragon's Gaze

Summary: With Madame Sylvi indisposed on the evening Prince Aemond comes to visit, he requests someone different | Word Count: 1.7k~ | Warnings: sex work, smut, hair pulling, biting, titty sucking, darkish Aemond

A/N: saw ep 3 and felt silly 😁 not proofread an inch

“The Prince has asked for you.”

She could not help the wide-eyed look and the familiar flipping of her stomach, now feeling entirely different with the words that had come from her fellow woman’s lips. The Prince. Well, it could have meant either of them only weeks before, but no longer. They frequented this establishment quite often, as an upper-class brothel, with only the finest whores and service, it was only natural, and they had the coin to pay for it.

Suddenly, she felt quite cold in the sheer dress she had chosen that evening, doing very little to conceal the flesh that hid beneath, her nipples having formed peaks against the satin. What could she possibly say to that? There was no possibility of refusing. 

“Very well,” she responded, knowing it was not her place to question. There was no question as to which now, it was most certainly the very same who frequented for the warm embrace and soothing voice of Madame Sylvi, who spent hours in her company and paid her a hefty price for it. For secrecy. But she knew just as well that the only reason Aemond had requested her instead, was because on this night, his usual appointment was indisposed. 

Her heart raced as she slalomed through the scantily clad crowd, each step bringing her closer to the corner where the prince awaited. The halls were dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows that danced along the walls, alongside those of curved figures, twisted with pleasure. She could hear the muted sounds of such from the other rooms, but they did little to quell the nervousness that gripped her.

When she reached the curtain, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady herself. The Prince. Aemond Targaryen. Known for his fierce demeanour and sharp intellect, he was not a man to be trifled with. Yet, beneath that cold exterior, she had heard whispers of a man burdened by the weight of his family.

Sliding the curtain across, met with the Prince, eyepatch already discarded and down only to his breeches, sat with cup in hand on the plush settee, his lone eye raising to her as she dipped for a curtsy. She felt her throat close at the sight of the sapphire, somewhat mirroring what was happening between her thighs.

"Madame Sylvi sends her apologies, my prince. She is unable to attend to you this evening."

Aemond's gaze lingered on her for a moment, and she felt her cheeks flush under his scrutiny. "I did not call for Sylvi tonight," he said finally, his tone giving nothing away. "I called for you."

Her lips parted to question. But she dare not let the words free. She was not one to ask about his intentions, a mere whore.

“Undress.”

The Prince’s eye never wavered as he watched, flesh revealed as she bared herself to him. He stood as if uncurling himself, finishing what was left in his cup before moving his hands to unlace his breeches, his head gesturing to the settee.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

His commanding tone made those flutters awaken once more. She had been employed at this establishment for so long, of course being naked and bared to an abundance of men was second nature. But there was something about the way he wanted her, the way it seemed not spurred by desire of any kind, but a need, like air, that ignited her nerves that she had not felt since her first few days in this line of work.

Still, bare arsed and exposed to a Prince, was a different matter entirely.

She felt his presence behind her, knowing he was naked as his thighs brushed against hers. He nudged her knees apart and pushed gently on her spine, encouraging her to arch her back. Though she could not see his face, the rippled design of the copper in front of her reflected enough for her to sense the detachment in his actions. So, she remained silent.

Prince Aemond guided himself to her centre, barely wet, and pushed his cockhead inside. He had barely breached her when his hands gripped the flesh of her buttocks, watching intently as his cock slowly slid deeper into her cunt, being swallowed by her body. She closed her eyes, the lack of preparation making the act more uncomfortable than pleasurable, but she hoped that with time, her arousal would ease the discomfort.

As Prince Aemond continued to push himself inside her, she focused on her breathing, trying to relax her body and ease the discomfort. The room was silent except for their breaths, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced on the walls. Each inch he gained felt like a stretch, a challenge to her body's readiness, but she bit her lip, determined to endure.

His hands, firm on her buttocks, began to knead her flesh, his grip alternating between gentle caresses and possessive squeezes. The friction built steadily, her body slowly acclimating to his presence. The initial pain started to fade, replaced by a growing warmth and the stirrings of pleasure.

Aemond moved with a deliberate pace, his thrusts measured and controlled. He seemed intent on watching every inch of his cock as it disappeared inside her, his breathing heavy and laboured. She could feel his intensity, the way he held back his own urges to maintain that slow, torturous rhythm.

Despite the initial discomfort, her arousal began to build. Her body responded to his movements, her inner walls slickening and accommodating his length with increasing ease. Soft moans escaped her lips, unbidden but honest, as pleasure began to mix with the remnants of pain.

Aemond's hands slid from her buttocks to her hips, pulling her back against him with each thrust. The new angle allowed him to go deeper, hitting spots inside her that sent jolts of pleasure through her body. Her fingers clenched the sheets beneath her, seeking some anchor as the sensations intensified.

He leaned forward, his breath hot against her ear. "Do you feel that?" he murmured, his voice husky and edged with restraint. "Do you feel how you take me in?"

"Yes, my prince," she gasped, her voice trembling with the effort to maintain composure. "I feel it."

Aemond's pace quickened slightly, his control slipping as his own desire took precedence. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, a rhythmic, primal music that spoke of need and release. Her moans grew louder, her body arching and pushing to meet his thrusts, seeking the pleasure that now consumed her.

With a sudden, possessive grip, Aemond's hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck. His lips found her skin, teeth grazing lightly before he bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to claim. The sensation sent a shiver down her spine, her body responding with an involuntary clench around his cock.

He groaned against her neck, the sound vibrating through her. "Take me, all of me," he whispered, his voice filled with approval and satisfaction. 

She surrendered to the sensations, her body melting into his as pleasure overwhelmed her. Every thrust, every touch, every whispered word from Aemond drove her closer to the edge. The discomfort was a distant memory now, replaced by a wave of ecstasy that built with each passing second. His movements so erratic, his stones clapped against her womanhood with every harsh push, slapping against her bud in a steady, unyielding rhythm.

The sensation pushed her over the edge, her own climax washing over her in a powerful, all-consuming wave. She cried out, her body convulsing around him, every nerve ending alight with pleasure. Finally, with a deep, guttural moan, Aemond drove himself to the hilt inside her once more, his body shuddering and then withdrawing quickly as he found his release and coated her buttocks and thighs with his pearly spend.

They stayed like that for a moment, both catching their breath, their bodies still joined. Slowly, Aemond released his grip on her hair and hips, his hands soothing over the marks he'd left. He pulled out of her velvety walls gently, leaving her feeling both spent and fulfilled.

She expected him to leave, to gather his clothes and slip away into the night, as most men often do with a flick of their coin into her lap. But instead, Aemond surprised her. He curled into her body, his head resting against her chest. His lips found her breast, mouthing at her skin with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the intensity of their earlier encounter. His hand moved to her other breast, caressing it with a gentle, almost reverent touch.

She looked down at him, her fingers threading through his silver, moonlit hair. He seemed to take more pleasure in this simple intimacy than she did, as if seeking comfort rather than mere satisfaction. His eyes were closed, his breathing steadying as he continued to nuzzle her chest.

"I hate it," he murmured after a long silence, his voice muffled against her skin.

She blinked, unsure of his meaning. "Hate what, my prince?"

Aemond shifted slightly, his hand stilling on her breast. "Sometimes, I think Madame Sylvi just says anything to appease me. She tells me what she thinks I want to hear, not what she truly believes."

There was a bitterness in his tone that caught her off guard. "Why do you think that?" she asked softly, her thumb stroking the back of his neck.

Aemond's grip on her breast tightened slightly, and she felt a shiver of unease. His lips brushed against her nipple, then his teeth grazed it, sending a jolt through her body. "Because it's easier for her," he said, his voice lower, more dangerous. "Because I'm a prince, and she fears offending me."

She gasped softly at the sensation, the mix of pleasure and pain reminding her of the precarious balance between comfort and control. "But you deserve honesty, my prince," she managed to say, her voice trembling.

He bit down a little harder, enough to make her wince. "Do I?" he asked, his tone a warning. "Or do I deserve the truth, no matter how it feels?"

Her heart raced, the threat in his words unmistakable. "The truth, my prince," she whispered, trying to maintain her composure. "Always the truth."

Aemond's teeth released her nipple, his tongue soothing the sting. He looked up at her, his eye fierce and unyielding. The sapphire lodged in the other piercing and dark. 

"Good," he said, his voice a soft growl. "Because I have no patience for lies, no matter how pretty they are."

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