#aemond/reader

[sapphire-writes]

Doomsday

Part 5 (finale) of The Campaign

modern!Aemond x Reader

summary: The polls have closed! Time to see the results of the election– and those saucy little photos that someone leaked.

word count: 4.6k

rating: explicit/18+/MDNI

warnings: language, kissing, yelling, dom!reader (we're topping tonight baby!!), crawling, begging, humiliation, degradation, praise, face sitting, oral (fem receiving), dom!Aemond (the top didn't last long), primal play if you squint, Counter® shenanigans, riding, teasing, overstim, hair pulling, mentions of infidelity

The waiting was going to kill you. 

Rhaenyra had told you to arrive at nine. Sharp. Nothing else was in the email. Nothing else needed to be.

You knew why she wanted to see you.

The pictures of you and Aemond had been plastered everywhere. The Daily Lion, The Sunspear Herald, and even Beyond The Wall Times. Everywhere.

Not right away of course, oh no. Aemond was much too clever for that to have them leak at an inconvenient time. No, he’d waited and held onto that ticking time bomb until the proper moment.

A week before the election.

That’s when the world came crashing down. 

You hadn’t seen him since the Hamptons. Months ago. He’d tried calling, texting, and sending emails. It was better to ignore him. You had nothing to say anyway.

You glance at the clock that ticks outside of Rhaenyra’s office in Dragonstone Tower. 

9:17

Rhaenyra is nothing if not punctual. She’s probably coming up with the proper way to let you go. It's not an easy feat– you’re easily one of her best. 

Were. You were one of her best. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. You take out your phone, mindlessly scrolling to pass the time. Polls close at eight. You get off the news and go to your messages. Still nothing from Jace. You hadn’t heard from him since the drop. It was easy to assume things were over between you two.

“Ms. Targaryen will see you now,” the assistant at the front desk tells you and you slip your phone into your pocket.

Rising on shaky legs, you take a breath to steady yourself before straightening your shoulders and heading into the office. 

Rhaenyra sits behind a large desk, one hand incessantly clicking her computer mouse, the other playing with a crystal sphere. She rolls it under her palm, the sound echoing off the wood. You’ve been here a few times before; the office is open and inviting, with large windows bathing the room in golden afternoon light. 

She still doesn’t speak, and you nervously wet your lips, preparing to verbally flagellate yourself before her. 

“Rhaenyra–” you begin, but she silences you with a hand, not looking away from the computer screen in front of her.

“Do you see what they’re saying now?” she murmurs, hand under her chin, “Rhaenyra the Cruel… did you know what they called me when my father was alive?” 

You’re not sure if the question is rhetorical or not so you remain silent. Rhaenyra glances at you then and you shake your head. 

“The Realm’s Delight. Quite the fall from grace if you ask me,” she clicks her tongue and closes a tab, leaning back into her chair, “Take a seat.”

You do as you’re told, sinking into the leather armchair positioned in front of her.

“So,” she begins, bringing her hand under her chin, “Quite the predicament you’re in.”

Your chest tightens as you meet her lilac eyes. 

“Rhaenyra I am so sorry,” the words spill from your lips, “I never meant for any of this to happen. The embarrassment I’ve caused you– to Jace. I completely understand asking for my resignation or dismissal. I deserve to be dismissed I–”

“Sweet girl, I’m not dismissing you,” Rhaenyra says, her brow furrowing, a soft expression on her face. 

Your heart hammers in your chest, face flooding with warmth. 

“You’re not….” your voice trails off, sounding smaller than you’d like, “you’re not firing me?”

The corner of Rhaenyra’s lip tugs upwards in a small smile.

“That would be quite hypocritical of me, now wouldn’t it?” she says softly, leaning her elbow on her desk, “You haven’t done anything that warrants that.”

“But Jace—”

“—knew exactly what he was doing when he hired the photographers in the first place,” she finished, cutting you off. 

Your heart nearly stops beating altogether.

Jace.

“He’s smarter than he looks,” Rhaenyra tells you, absorbing your flustered expression.

“But…why—”

“You were a loose end,” she tells you, “And you were getting sloppy. There’s enough scandal my family deals with. Jace is my son. My first child. You’ve got a smart head on your shoulders, invaluable to our campaign….but you don’t love him.”

The truth of her words cuts through you like a knife. A dull ache forms between your ribs, and that horrible thought appears in your head, the one you’ve been trying to push away for months now.

I’m a bad person.

No, that’s not true. It just wasn’t Jace. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been him.

“I could have,” you insist, “Maybe.”

Liar.

“Don’t,” Rhaenrya says with a small shake of her head, “Don’t do that. Don’t settle for duty’s sake. Don’t dismiss your desires for that.” Her voice is rough and thick with emotion. 

She did, you think to yourself. She still does. 

“You’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement of course,” she says, rolling her eyes, “It’s being drafted as we speak. Necessary, of course, not a slight against your trustworthiness.”

“I understand.”

“I had no doubt you would. There is greatness in you, raw talent,” she continues, “With or without him.”

You can tell from the look she gives you it’s not Jace whom she refers to. Your lips part, but no words come out. Rhaenyra presses her lips together, nodding to herself.

“I’ll expect you here tomorrow, regardless of the results,” she says, going back to her computer. Her eyes flicker across the screen for a moment before looking back to you. She waves a hand, dismissing you, “That’s all.”

Jace is waiting when you leave Rhaenyra’s office. His head hangs low as you approach, brown curls longer since the last time you’d seen him. He offers a forced smile, avoiding your gaze. 

“Why?” 

You know it's unfair of you to ask. The scorned lover selling pictures of his scandalous cheating girlfriend. Revenge served cold on a silver platter. Everyone was siding with Jace, as they should. You knew you were in the wrong. Jace opens his mouth to speak, then closes it once more.

“You could have–,” you struggle to find the words, “You could have talked to me–”

“I just can’t end up like my dad,” Jace admits, “Married to someone who doesn’t….who isn’t..” his cheeks turn pink, “I care about you, Y/N, I do…..and I want you to be happy. And being with me won’t bring you that.” Jace lets out a deep sigh, “And as much as I care about you, I’m not in love with you.”

Your heart drops into your stomach and your blinking rapidly increases, “I didn’t–”

“What?” Jace asks with a small smile, “I’m not completely clueless.”

It’s your turn to blush as he reaches for your hand, gently squeezing it. 

“It’s alright to be selfish,” he says softly, his brown eyes warm and kind as they hold your gaze, “You deserve to be.”

You inhale a shaky breath and return his smile with one of your own. He gives your hand a final squeeze before letting go–letting you go. 

As he turns down the hall you call out to him.

“Jace!”

He turns on his heel, walking backward.

“Thank you.”

He shrugs, “Don’t thank me yet,” he warns and you don’t have time to ask him why before he rounds the corner, disappearing from your sight. 

“You lucky bitch.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” you chuckle at Sara’s reaction to your news, propping your phone on the counter.

Sara shakes her head in disbelief before the Facetime cuts, a small warning signal replacing her smiling face. 

“Where are you?” you ask, tapping the screen.

“Can you see me?” she asks.

“No.”

“Goddammit,” she groans, “I’m at Kingsroad Station. Mr. Stark paged me– he’s working late to watch the election results at the office.”

“You’re a dutiful assistant, trudging to Direwolf at this hour,” you tease, glancing at the clock. Election results should be out within the hour.

“Oh you know it,” she barks out a laugh, “I had to go downtown and pick up his dinner.”

“You wanna rain check our evening?”

“Fuck no!” she insists, and you can practically hear her pout, “I’ll Uber from Direwolf, and be there by midnight.”

“If you don’t get caught up,” you continue to tease your best friend.

“For the last time, I am not sleeping with him.”

You frown. Something was definitely up with them. 

“You know you can tell me,” you press, “I’d never judge you.”

Sara sighs, “Yeah you better not, you tart. I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”

“Love you,” you tell her, and she returns the sentiment before the Facetime ends. 

You place your phone face down on the counter, glancing at the TV in your living room. You’ve had the news on all evening, on mute of course. There’s no need for commentary. You just want to see how Rhaenyra is fairing in the polls. 

The green and black bar at the bottom of the screen looks about equal.

Wandering around your kitchen you open the fridge pulling out a half-empty bottle of wine. Pouring yourself a generous glass you take a long sip, letting the alcohol warm you.

It’s been a waiting game all evening. All year, truly. 

A knock startles you, and you put your glass on the counter and towards the door. It’s so like Sarah Snow to show up early when she says she’ll be running late. 

“I thought you got caught up–” Your words die in your throat as you open the door revealing Aemond. 

If you weren’t so surprised you would have slammed it shut in his face, but the pause gives him the leverage he needs. You’re a moment too slow and he presses his foot between the door frame as you try to shut it, his hand slamming against the wood keeping it open.

“Go away,” you tell him, continuing to push.

“Just listen to me–”

“I have nothing to say to you–” 

“I’m not asking you to talk. Just listen,” Aemond insists, his voice breaking with desperation, “Five minutes. Please.”

Reluctantly, you remove your hand from the door. With a frustrated sigh, you turn on your heel, walking down the hall. Aemond follows close behind, shutting the door behind him. 

“Three,” you call over your shoulder, grabbing your wine glass. You take a sip for courage, beginning to turn to face him, “And if you so much as–” you nearly drop your glass as you face him.

Aemond’s hand is held out before him, Jace’s necklace dangling from his slender fingers. The diamond J catches the light, sparkling. Your mouth goes dry, cheeks warming at the sight. Eyes lifting to meet his, you can’t find the words to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, “Look….I never…this wasn’t…” Aemond takes a deep breath, steadying himself, “I’m not good at this.”

The J swings from the chain, a pendulum on a string.

“I knew it,” you whisper, hand reaching up to your throat, feeling where it should lay.

“It was just a game,” he insists, “Until it wasn’t.” Your eyes lift from the necklace, meeting his gaze. “That night on the beach….” He lowers his arm. The pendulum swings. “Look if you don’t feel the same–”

Your stomach turns.

“Go,” you breathe, barely audible.

Aemond tilts his head to the side and murmurs your name causing your eyes to squeeze shut.

“I want you out.”

“What can I do?” he begs, “Please.”

“Go grovel to someone who cares,” you snap, eyes opening, “Storm’s End, perhaps? Seems like you have some making up to do with Floris.” 

You step forward, snatching the necklace from him, and throwing it against the wall. It bounces off with a small noise before dropping to the floor. Aemond’s tongue pokes his cheek, his eyes flashing with anger.

“I don’t fucking want Floris!” he snaps, “I want you.”

You freeze, watching his chest rise and fall with anger. 

“You didn’t want her?” you ask and he shakes his head, “Did you fuck her?”

Aemond’s eye widens, a fraction of an inch but it's noticeable. A bitter laugh leaves your lips.

“It was before we–”

“You men are all the same,” you seethe, glaring at him, “Pretty words and no action. Of course, you fucked her.”

“Y/N, it was before us, before we ever–look I haven’t so much as touched her since we–”

“Well then here’s your chance!” you interrupt, “I’m sure she’s a wreck. Wallowing on her yacht just waiting for you to jump her bones.”

Aemond flinches as though you’d slapped him.

“Stop it.”

“You’re so talented with that tongue, useless apologies included. It’d be a shame to let it go to waste–”

“Seven hells enough!”

His yell silences you. You stand before each other, chests heaving with anger. 

“You want forgiveness?” you ask, cocking a brow at him, “Get on your knees.”

Aemond’s eyes widen at your words.

“What?”

“You heard me,” you snap, cheeks warm with rage, “On your knees.”

There’s a moment where you think he’ll leave. Where he’ll say to hells with you and storm out of the apartment, go to Floris, and leave whatever happened between you in the past. 

Instead, he drops to his knees with a soft thud. Your lips part, admittedly surprised by his sudden submission. He doesn’t put up a fight and doesn’t give a tongue-in-cheek retort. He simply raises his gaze looking up at you between silver lashes. 

You take a few steps back just as his hands begin to reach for you. You revel in his confusion, as his eyebrows knit together, and a smirk appears on your face.

“Crawl.”

His Adam’s apple bobs and you hold his gaze, violet and blue eye watching you closely. It takes a moment, but Aemond slowly lowers his torso until it is parallel with the floor; his palms splayed across the wood floor. 

Aemond releases a shuddering breath, glancing up at you between silvery lashes, long hair cascading in front of his face shielding the redness that blooms on the apples of his pale cheeks. Blood roars in your ears as he begins to move, crawling towards you. His movements are slow and purposeful and you grin triumphantly as he reaches you. 

“Satisfied?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

The corner of your lip twitches. Aemond meets your eye at your continued silence. 

“Beg.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” you tell him, surprised at the dominating tone in your voice, “You’re sorry? Beg me. Beg my forgiveness.”

Aemond pushes himself onto his knees, leaning back on his haunches. He swallows, eyes watery.

“Please,” he says softly.

You reach for him and brush the hair from his face. He closes his eyes at your touch. 

“Please, what?”

“Please forgive me,” he says through gritted teeth.

You hum, letting your fingers trace the scar that mars his face.

“I don’t know if I’m convinced.”

Aemond groans as you trace his jawline, letting your fingers press against the pout of his lips. He parts them as you push forward, pressing down on his tongue.

“Please,” he says, though he struggles to around your fingers.

You huff out a laugh, removing the digits. 

“Pathetic.”

“Please! Let me prove how sorry I am,” he insists, hands gripping the back of your thighs as you attempt to step away, “Please…please let me.”

You raise an eyebrow at his desperate plea.

“Let you what?” you ask innocently.

“Let me eat your pussy–baby, please–”

“You think you deserve to?” you cut him off, placing two fingers under his chin.

“No, no I don’t,” he says, shaking his head, fingers digging into your thighs, “But I want to make you feel good, please–”

You tilt your head to the side, taking in the man beneath you. 

“Lay down then,” you tell him, “On your back.”

Aemond eagerly obliges as you remove your sweats. Nothing remains underneath. You choose to leave your oversized t-shirt on. It’s your turn to kneel, sinking to the hardwood floor. 

“Don’t move,” you tell him, crawling over him until your pussy rests above his face, “You touch me with anything besides that tongue of yours, and I’m getting off, and you’re getting out. Got it?”

“Yes,” he says softly, warm breath fanning across your soaked center. 

“Good,” you praise him, lowering your cunt to his eager mouth. 

Aemond moans against you as he spreads your wet folds with his tongue. He greedily laps at your pussy as you grind against him, pleasure crawling up your spine and warming your belly with every stroke of his tongue. 

Your hands reach up to play with your tits, pinching and tugging your sensitive nipples as he works his magic. His tongue stiffens below you, dipping into your clenching center and you can’t stop the whine that claws its way out of your throat. Head thrown back, you lift your hips, ignoring the burn in your hamstrings as you ride his face as his tongue explores deeper inside of you.

You’ve never had him like this, completely at your mercy, lying stiff and compliant below you with his hands curled into fists at his sides. The veins on the back of his hands are bulging, as though his control might snap at any minute. 

You simply can’t help but taunt him a bit. 

“So good,” you moan with another roll of your hips, “Feels so good Aem–”

A muffled broken whimper sounds from below you and he picks up the pace, tongue eagerly fucking up into you, meeting the movements of your hips. His nose cascades against your clit so pleasantly stoking the fire building in your belly, the tightening of your release soon to follow. Your knees ache pressed against the hardwood. 

“Fuck–fuck!” your legs shake around his head as you fall apart, fingers tangling in his hair as his lips suction around your clit. Pleasure crackles through your veins like fireworks exploding in the night sky.

You wait a moment, Aemond not moving, before swinging a leg over him and crawling off his face. You scoot backward, tugging your oversized t-shirt down over your ass as your back meets the wall. You try to even your breathing, wiping some sweat from your brow as he sits up, the bottom half of his face shiny with your arousal. 

“Better?” he asks, pushing himself into a standing position, and offering you his hand.

You chuckle breathlessly, but accept all the same, letting him pull you to your feet.

“Fantastic,” you answer. Aemond nods, wiping his mouth with his middle and index finger before sucking them into his mouth.

“Had your fun?” he murmurs, watching you.

“For now,” you tell him, smirking again.

He reaches for you and you dip out of reach. A dangerous glint appears in his eyes as he reaches for you again. You avoid his reach, dipping under his arm and hurrying into the kitchen. Aemond follows, a wolf stalking its prey. You’re sure he’s allowing you this chase, he could catch you if he wanted to. 

You press your back against the island as he rounds the corner, fingers dragging across the marble countertop. You don’t move, don’t breathe as he slowly walks closer.

“You done?” he asks, his mouth hovering over yours.

“I’m never done,” you whisper, leaning forward and nipping his lower lip, “You better get used to it.”

Aemond groans, his hand cupping the back of your head and molding his lips to yours. 

Everything that follows is shrouded in a desperate lust-filled haze. His hands cup the globes of your ass, lifting you onto the island. You tear his shirt from his chiseled frame, and he does the same with yours, leaving you bare on the counter. 

“Should I?” he asks, dipping to kiss the spot between your shoulder and neck. You bite your lip, raking your nails against his scalp, “Shall I assume you’ve forgiven me?”

“Just fuck me Targaryen,” you tell him breathlessly, “Then we’ll see.”

He needs no more convincing. 

You pull at his belt, shove his pants down releasing his thick cock, reveling in the way his jaw slacks as you squeeze him in your hand.

“Fuck,” he murmurs as you guide him towards your dripping center, “Gods you’re so beautiful.”

You bite your lip, humming happily at his praise as he slowly sinks inside of you. Your eyebrows concave, tears welling in your eyes at the generous stretch. It’s been a while since you’d had him–since you felt this deliciously full. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed him, how hungry you’d been for this feeling until now.

Aemond bottoms out, not moving for a moment, simply resting his forehead against yours. His blue and violet eyes meet yours as you steady your breath.

“You alright?” he asks, his lips brushing against yours.

“Yes,” you breathe, “Feels..” You lose your train of thought as he moves his hips, dragging his cock along the sensitive walls of your cunt. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he slowly rolls his hips against you. “So good.”

“You know how much I missed this pussy?” Aemond murmurs, capturing your lips in a heated kiss, “It’s all I fucking think about. This pretty. Little. Pussy of yours.” He punctuates his confession with several hard thrusts. 

One of your hands falls to the counter, holding yourself up, the other thrown around his neck, a fistful of his silver hair trapped in your grasp. Aemond’s hands hold your hips, hard enough to bruise as he continues his hard, even strokes. 

“Fuck,” you mewl arching your back, pressing your chest closer to him. Anything to get closer.

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” he admits, a muscle in his jaw twitching, “Since the benefit. The hotel. The fucking Hamptons.” His head dips to your neck and he bites down causing you to cry out, “You like that? Driving me crazy?” You clench around him, walls fluttering.

You’ve never heard Aemond so emotional, so raw. Almost vulnerable. 

“Then you don’t speak to me,” Aemond says, placing a kiss on your collarbone, “Fucking brat.”

“Fuck you,” you snap, tugging his hair and forcing him to look at you, “You hurt me.”

Aemond stills, holding your gaze.

“You hurt me,” you repeat, feeling him throbbing inside of you as you keep him warm, “What you said, on the beach….” Your eyes water, “I believed you–”

“I meant it,” he says suddenly, “Every word. Every word, and more.”

“More?” you ask.

Aemond tilts his head to the side. 

“I’m in love with you,” he says, as though it should be obvious. As if your world hasn’t just completely tilted on its axis. “I’ve been in love with you. And I don’t plan on stopping.”

Your lips part.

“I’ve tried. Tried to ignore it, to do what is expected of me,” he admits, “It’s no use. There’s no getting over you. It’s you.”

“I love you too,” you tell him, and his lips crash against yours. 

Aemond lifts you from the counter then, still nestled inside of you before bringing you to the couch. He sits and you push yourself up, bracing your hands on his shoulders as you begin to ride him. All the while he doesn’t stop kissing you, smiling as he does so.

“That’s it,” he praises as you roll your hips against him, “Just like that baby, that’s my girl.”

You whine at his words and grind down against him, taking him as deep as you can. Aemond breaks your kiss momentarily to wet his fingers, dipping them between you to massage your sensitive clit. Your body tightens, your jaw slacking at the additional stimulation as your thighs begin to shake.

“I can’t–” you insist, legs tiring. Aemond flips you over immediately, laying your back on the couch and slinging your legs over his broad shoulders.

“Poor baby,” he teases, his tone boarding on condescending, “She just wants to get fucked, doesn’t she?” He quickly sets a brutal pace, the head of his cock rubbing against your G-spot with each thrust.  

Stars appear behind your eyes and you can’t help the sob-like moan that leaves your mouth. Aemond’s open-mouthed grin is answer enough to how fucked out you must look and sound. 

“This all you need?” he taunts, “Just need me to fuck you real good?”

“Yes!” you cry out, nearly choking on the word. 

“I got you, baby, I got you,” he murmurs, “Let me do all the work. You just lay there and look pretty.” 

“Oh gods–” you cry, “Fuck!” Your pussy spasms around him as you come, clenching around his thick cock with a vice-like grip. Aemond’s jaw slacks and he moans, finishing inside of you. The warmth of his release fills you.

He pulls out slowly, letting your legs fall gently to the couch. Aemond leans back, dropping to the floor in front of the couch, his large hands holding your thighs open. Your head feels like it’s full of cotton and you watch him as a fucked out smile appears on your face. Aemond’s fingers gently spread through your outer lips, watching as his spend drips out of you.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, leaning forward and kissing your pussy. You squeal in surprise as he holds your thighs open, lewd slurping noises filling the room.

“Aemond! Seven hells–” you whimper as your head lolls on the couch. Your hand finds his hair once more, holding onto it for dear life as he slips two eager fingers inside of you.

“I can’t help it,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your clit, “You’re too pretty when you come.” He curls his fingers against your g-spot, a man on a mission, “Show me, pretty girl. Come on, come for me again.”

His mouth latches onto your clit and he hums as he suctions it between his pouty lips. Pressure builds quickly in your stomach and it's all too much, your third release barely through you knocking the wind from your lungs. 

“There it is,” he murmurs as he feels you tighten around his fingers, “There’s my pretty, pretty girl.” 

You finish with a cry, tears spilling down your cheeks at the overwhelming ecstasy. Aemond presses soft kisses against your thighs as you come down from your high. He removes his fingers carefully before helping you. He wanders around your apartment before finding the bathroom, returning a moment later with a damp washcloth.

“You have a nice tub,” he says softly, “Would you like a bath?” 

The thought is so enticing that you nearly melt into the couch.

“Later,” you murmur, “I want to see the results.”

“Later then,” he agrees, watching you closely.

You don’t want to speak, don’t want to ruin the moment between you, but you can’t help it. Anxiety pools in your belly as he kneels between your legs, dragging the washcloth against you gently.

“What now?” you ask softly, avoiding his gaze.

“Now….” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, “I’m not sure.” He reaches toward your face, forcing you to look at him. “But whatever is next, we’re in it together. If that’s alright with you.”

You lean into his hand, pressing your lips against his palm.

“That’s alright with me.”

After several minutes of Aemond cleaning you up, you return to the couch dressed back in your sweatpants and t-shirt. Aemond has retrieved his pants from the kitchen as you glance at the television. 

“Holy shit,” you say sitting up, eyes glued on the television, “Holy fuck.”

Aemond turns following your gaze and looking at the screen. His eyebrows raise.

“Well fuck,” he says suddenly, and you hear your phone begin to buzz from the kitchen. Aemond’s as well; the vibrations buzzing against the floor where it must have slipped out of his pant pocket. “Son of bitch did it.”

You meet his eyes before staring at the screen once more. At the blond man popping champagne at his victory party. At the green letters across the bottom of the television. 

Aegon Targaryen wins!

note: thank you for the love with this series that wasn't supposed to become a series- I appreciate you all sticking it out for this one and hope you enjoyed it! lots of love MWAH 💋 Jo

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as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated but never expected. appreciate you reading no matter what!

[superprincesspea]

Ghost

Aemond is sick and you give him comfort.

Aemond/Reader

Fluff, Oneshot, 1322 Words

Masterlist

~~~

When you're chosen to be Prince Aemond's chambermaid, you're grateful. He's not like the others at court. He's quiet, studious, and well regarded as a man of few pleasures except for his books. If that wasn't good enough, his room is always kept immaculate. So, all you have to do, is change the bed linens, clean the fire, and dust.   

You never even see him, at least, you never see him in his room.   

You see him in the halls, sparring in the courtyard and eating dinner at the high table. But he doesn’t see you. He doesn’t even know you.   

You’re like a ghost. Sneaking into his private space every single day yet leaving no real trace of your existence. Only hints.   

The straight stack of books, lined from tallest to shortest. The perfect shine on the gold sigil emblazoned on his chest plate. The sheets tucked so tightly over his mattress that you like to think he must battle with them every time he goes to bed.   

By now, you’ve haunted Aemond’s chamber for almost an entire year, and you’re thinking today will be no different, until it is.   

You’re quietly humming to yourself as you enter his room, your arms bursting with fresh linens and there he is, lying in the bed, his chest bare, the sheet sliding down his narrow hips.   

You almost scream in fright, dropping the linens to the floor before bowing deeply, respectfully. “Please forgive me, your grace, I did not mean to disturb you.”  

“Come closer,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse and you realize the room smells stale, the air thick.  

Still, you do as he’s asked and tiptoe towards him.  

Sweat glistens on his brow, his white hair plastered to his skin.   

You gasp, not really thinking before you place the back of your very cold hand against his very hot cheek.   

“You're burning up,” you say, snatching your hand away, but he holds your wrist, pressing you fingers back against his cheek and relishing your touch.

“I shall fetch the maester,” you insist, wanting to turn towards the door and leave as quickly as possible, but his grip is like a shackle.  

“No, stay-” he coughs, his voice as weak as a kitten despite the strength in his fingers.   

You give up trying to fight him and consent to stay. Perching gingerly beside him on the very edge of the bed and even this feels like an intrusion.  

Trying not to let your eyes stray down the length of his body which is still barely contained by the sheet, you pick up the jug of water from his nightstand and pour him a cup.   

Bringing it to his lips, he takes small but satisfied sips, his voice a little less husky when he says, “thank you.”   

No one you serve has ever thanked you for anything before, and a bubble of pride swells in your chest as you reach tentatively to brush your hand against the other side of his face.   

He nuzzles into it with a sigh, and you wonder what the other maids would think if they knew you had the prince in the very palm of your hand. But he’s too sick for you to really enjoy it.   

“I’m going to fetch a cloth,” you warn before standing and returning to your bundle of linens which are still spread across the floor.  

You find one of the rags you usually use to dust his bed frame. Its clean and fresh enough for you to dunk it in the jug of water before bringing it to his face, allowing the coolness to soothe the heat.   

Aemond’s breathing deepens, relaxed as you move the cloth from head to cheek before dunking it again and moving to his neck. Finally, you draw the cloth across his chest, but you dare not sink any lower than that.   

“You need medicine,” you tell him instead and he seems to concede to this, his head giving the slightest nod but his hand regaining control of your wrist.  

“Send the guard,” he whispers, and you do as he says, feeling frightened to issue an order to the men standing outside the door.  

They look at you as you’d expect, laughing, thinking you a stupid little girl, but no matter what they’re thinking, they still do as you have told them, and you find a certain pleasure in that.  

Returning to Prince Aemond, you offer him another sip from his cup and resume the press of cloth on hot skin until two maesters arrive.  

Ignoring your presence in the room, they squabble over the best course of treatment before procuring a glass vial filled with an unknown cure.  

“One drop every hour on the hour,” the oldest of the maesters warns as he hands the responsibility over to you.   

You want to tell him ‘no’, that you cannot possibly do this, but they are turning to leave, and they are shutting the door.  

Staring at the vial, you consider your fate if the prince were to die while you were caring for him, and perhaps that is exactly why the maesters were so quick to leave.   

You could leave too, but you take one last look at Aemond, who looks so pitiful in the bed, and become determined not to lose your head for such a thing as letting him die.   

“Open your mouth,” you order, taking out the little glass dropper to give him a dose of whatever will cure him.   

Afterwards, he falls asleep, and you wait for the hourly tolling of the bells to give him another drop, every hour on the hour.  

Before long it is dark and his fever has not broken so you stay, sitting in a chair which you’ve pulled to the bed and flicking through the books though you cannot read them. Instead, you imagine their stories and the stories are always the same.   

Ones where you are the person who sleeps in such a grand room. Where you do not need to clean linens or sweep soot from the fire because you are the wife of a prince instead of his chambermaid  

When the bell tolls for 5am, Aemond stirs and you lean in, meeting his eye before pressing your hand to his head.   

“How are you feeling?” you say, thinking his temperature feels much cooler.  

Aemond rolls his shoulders with a groan before sitting up on his elbows to grab his cup of water.   

“I feel like I’ve been swallowed by a dragon and shit out the other end,” he says, his voice still croaky before he takes a long drink, and you suppress a laugh.  

When he places the cup down on the side, his eye meets yours before falling to the chair pushed up beside his bed, and there is a sudden shift in the room.   

You can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, you just know that you don’t belong here anymore.   

Ghosts are not supposed to be seen.   

You stand, picking up the chair to place it back beside the desk and, though this room is as familiar to you as your own, you feel like an intruder.   

“Will that be all, your grace?” you say, your head bowed so he cannot see your face.  

“No,” his tone is stern, and you meet his eye, nerves pricking at your skin.  

“I want to thank you for today,” he says, much clearer than before, and that same swell of pride fills up your entire chest. 

You can't say anything, only smile bashfully and feel as though you might be walking on air as you scoop the linens from the floor and leave. Only this time, you don’t leave without a trace.   

Prince Aemond knows exactly who haunts his room and he starts to see you everywhere.   

In the halls, in the courtyard, from the high table.   

It only baffles him that he never really saw you before.   

[two-white-butterflies]

WAITING FOR A BUS MASTERLIST

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Reader, Daemon Targaryen x Reader (MODERN Alternative Universe)

Description: A new promotion at work prompts you to move into a small modest town with your boyfriend, Aemond Targaryen. There you meet a few friendly faces. It seems like life is going where it's supposed to. That is until you meet your new boss, Daemon Targaryen, who is your boyfriend's estranged uncle.

It doesn't help with the fact that you've been having dreams about him since birth.

chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five

chapter six chapter seven chapter eight chapter nine chapter ten chapter eleven chapter twelve chapter thirteen chapter fourteen chapter fifteen chapter sixteen chapter seventeen chapter eighteen chapter nineteen chapter twenty chapter twenty-one

playlist

[adderess]

Find me where I am most ruined, love me there | Ao3 | inspired by this post

Aemond x fem!Reader

Spicy (but soft), blowjob, handjob, PIV sex,  choking (Aemond being choked), breeding kink if you squint, soft!Aemond, hurt/comfort, Alicent being a good mother, Aemond being jealous but portrayed in a different way than usual, Aemond’s childhood trauma explored, internalised ableism, Aemond reciting poetry to Reader, seeing his sapphire for the first time.

*Lykirī, Vhagar, umbās – be calm, Vhagar, wait.

*Sȳz riña – good girl

*Avy jorrāelan - I love you

*Iksā se olvie gevie qēlos. Iksā se ōños hen ñuha ābrar - you are the most beautiful star. You are the light of my life.

*Avy jorrāelan sīr olvie - I love you so much.

*Iksā se jorrāelagon hen ñuha ābrar - You are the love of my life.

*Percy B. Shelley

*Ñuha ōños - my light

*Ñuha ābrar - my life

*Iksā ñuhon - you are mine

*Kessa, hae bisa, kostilus - yes, like this, please

* Chaucer

*Ñuha jorrāelagon syt ao zālagon jehikagrī hae perzys isse ñuha prūmia - My love for you burns brightly like fire in my heart.

@enchantedpendant @blue-velvet-valentina

_______

It’s the Night of Ghosts and Aemond is a haunted man. He wears a mask over a mask but it’s not enough to hide from others – from himself as his fists clench in his lap painfully, white-knuckled. 

The prince doesn’t need to wear a mask to be terrifying, what with that eye of his, he heard earlier, two men standing with their backs to him and he relished in walking up to them and saying, his voice laced with danger: careful, he might hear you. 

But it’s the Night of Ghosts and the words come back again and again to haunt him as he watches you dance with Ser Lannister. Recently, Ser Lannister has lost his wife and rumours have it he was searching for a new lady wife. He is handsome,  Ser Lannister, his face unmarred by scars, golden hair falling about it and you laugh as he spins you around.

Aemond is a haunted man; feelings long buried in the tomb of his childhood grab him with their cold fingers and he can barely breathe. He wears a mask over a mask but underneath them, he is little again and hears Aegon say: the whores won’t mind you are a cripple, they’re paid well, don’t fret. Aemond remembers, after that whole disgusting affair was over and he was in his bed, crying himself to sleep over Aegon’s words. The whores won’t mind you are a cripple, they’re paid well. For someone to deign to touch him, they needed to be well paid. 

Ser Lannister is no cripple and you laugh again as he whispers something in your ear.

Aemond clenches his teeth behind his mask, a dragon-face made out of scaly gold, separating him from everyone around him and he wishes, in a moment of absurd, detestable weakness, that it could stay on his face forever.

Ser Lannister’s hands are at your waist now and Aemond almost doesn’t feel his fingernails piercing the skin of his palms. 

“Aemond?” His mother’s voice, soft, worried, pulls his head towards hers like by reins.

“Yes, mother?” he asks, his throat tight and it bleeds into his voice. His mother frowns.

“Are you quite alright?”

Suddenly, the truth bubbles up in his throat, scalding, and he swallows. He wears a mask over a mask but underneath them, he is little and he craves to be embraced by his mother. Aemond wants to shed that need like old skin, one that doesn’t fit him anymore, doesn’t fit onto his bigger, stronger body.

“Yes, mother,” he replies, taking a sip of his wine and catching Aegon’s sly gaze. Aegon leans towards him, splashing his own drink, and giggles. He is well into his cups and he eyes Aemond with uncharacteristic boldness.

“The Dowager is looking to have a lion between her legs tonight,” Aegon purrs in his ear, then adds: “Ladies like her grow bored, moving onto new prey. Just look at them, how well they fit together…” Aegon trails off and Aemond’s eyes find your silhouette and his throat constricts. At that moment, you look up from entertaining the Lannister and your eyes meet.

Rage runs through his veins like dragonfire and he is burning. There is something else beside the fury in his chest, the same thing that had been there when the whores touched him, something small and powerless, and he rails against it. He doesn’t know if he wants to rip it out of his heart or rip your heart out of your chest. Aemond abruptly stands up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, and he walks quickly to the entrance as the crowds part before him. Once he is in the hallway, he rips the mask off his face, breathing sharply.

He is a dragon, he reminds himself, and nothing can hurt him unless he lets it.

Aemond desperately latches onto that truth as he walks to his chambers but he still feels like a corpse on the Silent Sisters’ table, cut open for all to see. He reaches his chambers and slams the door shut behind him, leaning against it and something squeezes itself through his throat and he gasps.

The whores won’t mind you are a cripple, they’re paid well.

He rides the largest fucking dragon in the world and the court fears him. He is a warrior, a dragonrider, and he is formidable. He saw power and took it for himself because he is a dragon and a dragon takes what’s his or the world burns.

He is a cripple and a second son and even his own father doesn’t love him.

Aemond bites his lip as he feels something wanting to escape through his mouth. His throat is tight and something big is stuck in it. 

What violence it is, to be thrust into the childhood you tried so hard to kill.

A knock at the door startles him.

“Aemond?” He hears your voice and something in him splinters like a plank under too much weight.

“Go away,” he snaps.

“No,” comes the stubborn reply and rage rises in him like a fire kindled and it’s the dragonrider’s death. He yanks the door open and sees you standing behind it, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe. “Has something happened?”

Aemond steps up to you, crowding you, and glares, wanting so many things: to rip you open until you bleed out, to take you right then and there and show you you are his and no one else’s, to pour himself into your heart until nothing is left in it but him.

“Have you grown bored of the Lannister? Or perhaps he has grown bored of you and now you’ve come to me like a cat comes for yesterday’s scraps?” he spits out and the words go through his chest like blades.

He is not the preferred meal but one that would do when one is starving. 

He has never been preferred, not once in his life.

“What are you talking about?” Your confusion has him bare his teeth and walk further into your space. He feels so much rage he is certain you will burn in it as surely as if he said dracarys.

“I am just a plaything to you!” he snarls and the truth of those words has his voice breaking.

You raise your hand and go to touch his cheek, the one with the scar, but Aemond’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

“Don’t,” he grits out through clenched teeth, clenched so tightly he hears a thunderstorm in his head. And there is a storm raging in his mind and he feels like a child caught in it in a bare field, nowhere to hide from the lightning.

“Aemond, let me touch you,” you say calmly but you have not denied his accusation and he feels raw as if he was scraped in the bath one too many times.

He wants you to touch him. He hates himself for it.

Aemond breathes out shakily and lets go of your hand. You delicately brush his jaw with your fingers and Aemond closes his eye, your touch tearing him in two and he feels rapture and devastating pain both.

He wants what is between you to be true.

“You’re not just a plaything to me,” you say after a while and your fingers are now at the strap of his eyepatch and Aemond tenses and moves away.

“Let me see you,” you whisper and his whole body is rigid as if you’ve just pulled a knife on him.

Maybe you have come to slay him. 

He would rather die than let you see him as he is.

“No,” he bites out, his heart beating in his throat, and there’s nowhere to hide from your gaze; he is laid bare before you, all his disgusting weakness, all the love he holds for you that you don’t reciprocate. He lashes out in a blind panic and says coolly: “go back to your Lannister! Or perhaps your eyes have grown tired of shooting him adoring glances? I expect it must be exhausting to work so hard.”

“What adoring glances? What are you talking about?”

“You stared at him like a desperate bitch in heat!” Aemond snarls, feeling small, small, small.

Your face melts from shock to fury and you take a swing and slap him so hard his head swivels to the side. He stays like this, his cheek smarting, his eye stinging.

“Fuck you, Aemond.” You turn away from him and start striding down the corridor but he catches your hand in his.

“Let go of me,” you say with such calm coldness he’s never heard from you before that he can only comply, startled and frozen to the bone. He watches you walk away and he calls your name but you don’t turn around, don’t spare him a glance and he is choking. Closing the door, he leans his forearms against it, his head bent as he pants, then he growls and walks to his nightstand, snatching the book he carefully put there and throwing it across the room. He takes the candle in its candleholder and hurls it against the wall and the candle falls out of the holder and breaks in two.

He is an animal caught in a trap as he demolishes his room, all the trinkets, books, even the mirror standing in the corner of his chambers and his right hand is bleeding.

His mask lies on the floor and Aemond laughs bitterly – some dragon he is – then, with the brutality of a sword torn out of a wound, a sob escapes him. He falls in a heap to the ground.

He loves you and you don’t love him back.

Aemond feels more sobs spill from his mouth. How could you love him, he thinks, crippled and disfigured as he was. You are just a worthless cripple and no woman will ever want to touch you, Aegon once told him in a fit of drunken fury before spitting in his face.

He allowed himself to believe you wanted him. When his head lay in your lap and you stroked his hair and told him with a smile he was beautiful, he almost believed you meant it.

My pretty boy, you would whisper in his ear whenever he was close to coming and it would unfailingly send him over the edge every time.

For all his intelligence, he was blind and stupid.

You are just a worthless cripple and no woman will ever want to touch you.

Aemond weeps, years of resentment and fear and hurt pouring out of him as he sits curled in on himself and drowning in shame. He feels like the little boy who was worthy only of a pig again. Small and defenceless and humiliated.

“Aemond?” He startles as he hears his mother’s voice but he can’t answer, choked by the sobs. The door opens and he turns away from it but, to his mortification and endless humiliation, he can’t stop crying. “Oh, Aemond.”

His skin crawls with shame and he hides his face in his palms. He feels so fragile and weak and he jerks as his mother gently lays her hand on his head and strokes.

“Shh, my child, I’m here,” she says, sitting down and pulling him to herself.

“Lea-leave,” Aemond sobs out and everything hurts. He doesn’t want to exist, not after his mother has seen him like this. He doesn’t want to exist, not when you don’t love him. He doesn’t want to exist, a scorned son who isn’t even worthy of being defended by his own father.

Alicent shushes him softly, carding her fingers through his silver hair and her touch burns. He craves it, he craves it, he craves it, he is unmanned.

“Come here, turn around,” she says gently, embracing him with one arm and he tenses like a stray cat grabbed by a warden but doesn’t fight her. “My child. What happened?”

His mind is spilled entrails and nothing can put the unsightly mess back in its place.

“Why is it like–like this, mo–mother? Why am I an un–unlovable cripple? After I’ve–I’ve been trying so–so hard to be some–something more,” he weeps, desperately trying to breathe through the sobs. He feels his mother’s embrace tighten and hears her exhale shakily.

“You are not an unlovable cripple, my child. You are a brave man, a strong man, and you inspire awe wherever you go,” Alicent says, then adds, in a kind tone: “look at me. Look at me, Aemond. Yes, very good.”

His skin sears with the shame of his tears but his mother’s eyes are soft and sad.

“You are not unlovable,” she repeats with a loving conviction and gently brushes his good cheek.

“Father–” Aemond chokes out and the wound that never healed splits open again and pained words gush out of his mouth like blood: “father doesn’t–doesn’t love me, he’s never–never had. He didn’t even–even care that my eye was–was gouged out!”

Something in his mother’s face breaks and it’s all the confirmation he needs as he curls into Alicent, sobbing so hard it hurts. 

“Shhh, my sweet child,” Alicent soothes, gathering Aemond in her arms and swaying him, kissing his head, then resting her cheek on top of it. “My sweet, brave child,” she whispers, her voice breaking.

“Mother,” Aemond gasps desperately and Alicent shushes him gently.

“Do you remember the story of Symeon Star-Eyes, the blind knight with sapphires in his eyes? He was crippled but achieved much, known as a great knight forever hence. You, too, can be great. You’re a dragon and I am proud of you.”

“You’re proud–proud of me?” Aemond sobs and the words taste peculiar on his tongue. Alicent pulls him more tightly to herself and he clings to her like a babe, his hands fisting in the fabric of her skirts.

“Of course I am, my sweet boy,” Alicent responds and brushes his hair off his face, kissing his forehead.

Her admission shocks him out of his crying fit and his lungs expand around the tentative happiness he feels. 

You’re a dragon and I am proud of you.

His mother’s words taste of patches of sunlight their cat liked to lie in and of the azure of the sky as he flew with Vhagar, his hair wind-swept. They taste of strawberry cake his mother and he used to share under the tree in the courtyard and of chasing Jaehaerys and Jaehaera across the verdant grass. They taste of his favourite fruity wine shared with you after you made love for the first time on the hills beyond King’s Landing and of the scented soap your handmaidens wash your clothes and hair with.

His mother’s words taste like a good memory and he lets himself smile tentatively.

*

The sky is a sea of grey frothing with sea-foam clouds of white and Aemond stands by Vhagar’s side, determinedly cleaning her flank with a hard brush. Time swam and a week has passed ever since he last talked to you and he felt not like a man but like weathered bird bones washed ashore, brittle and faded. All week, he left flowers and poetry tucked underneath your door and once tried to brush along your hand as you strode past him in a hallway but you ignored him. Whenever he thinks about your indifferent face, he is awash with pain so strong it’s like a wave hitting him.

Vhagar suddenly moves, raising her head.

“They told me I’d find you here.” He hears your voice and sucks in a startled breath, turning around. Vhagar’s great neck extends towards you.

“Lykirī, Vhagar, umbās*,” he says and Vhagar shakes her head, aborting her movement. “Sȳz riña*,” he adds, patting her flank hard. He faces you and takes you in, your light coat and breeches and long boots all hugging your curves. Your hair is braided off your face and your expression is guarded.

“Do you think poetry and flowers are enough to make an apology? Or maybe you think there’s no need for an apology?” you ask coldly when you come to a stop in front of him, your arms crossed in front of your breasts.

“No, I…” he hesitates, then ploughs on: “what I said and how I treated you was reprehensible and I apologise for that. I should have never hurt you like that. I didn’t mean to, I was just–”

“Jealous,” you interject firmly. “You were jealous and instead of talking to me about it like a grown man, you decided to insult me.”

Shame and guilt well up in him like a river overflowing.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. You narrow your eyes at him and his heart is measuring the stretching seconds of silence. Finally, you sigh and the tension in your shoulders melts away.

“Fine,” you say and come closer to him, slipping your hand underneath his chin and gently caressing his jaw. “Just because I danced with another man doesn’t mean I’m in love with him, Aemond.”

His eye flutters closed as you brush the right corner of his mouth with your thumb, then stroke along his lower lip. Your touch is tender and loving and his heart clenches.

“Do you…” he starts and stops, wanting to ask do you love me? but he is too scared.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to ride Vhagar? We could go to that meadow where we drank wine in the spring.”

“And do what there?” you ask slyly and he can hear the smile in your voice. He opens his eye, wanting to see it and his heart stutters. Your smile fills him with so much light he forgets how dark nights in King’s Landing can be.

“Whatever you want,” he answers, then hesitates and leans towards you, kissing you gently, once, twice, thrice, murmuring between each kiss: “your… wish… is my… command.”

He wraps his arms around your waist and draws you into himself, deepening the kiss and he moans when your tongue licks into his mouth. Your hand snakes between the two of you and he feels you cupping him through his trousers and he is burning.

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper against his lips and it hits him like a punch, reminding him this is only sex for you. He pulls away from you, his chest filled with blades, but you follow him and pepper kisses along his jaw and he shivers, his hand slipping onto your cheek and angling your head so that he can bow down and kiss your neck.

You’re mine, he wants to whisper and he sucks the skin of your jaw into his mouth, leaving a mark where everyone will see.

“Come,” he says, drawing back. “I will saddle for two.”

*

The ride to the hill is exhilarating as always but especially now, with you in his arms, and he dips his head down to kiss your shoulder. 

He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. You’re a song, you’re a poem. You’re art that is meant to be lived.

Aemond puts his lips against your neck and blows into your skin and you laugh and twitch to the side. His arms tighten around you to keep you from falling off.

“Avy jorrāelan*,” he says into the nape of your neck, breathing in the rose soap scent in your braided hair and the wind snatches his words away. “Iksā se olvie gevie qēlos. Iksā se ōños hen ñuha ābrar.*”

Vhagar lands on the hill, taking up the entirety of it, and curls up like a big cat, tucking her wings to her body and Aemond helps you dismount. You climb down, his hands at your waist and when your feet touch the ground, he pulls your back into his chest and kisses your cheek.

“Avy jorrāelan sīr olvie,*” he murmurs into your ear and kisses the curve of it. You sigh against him and raise your hand to cup his cheek. Aemond leans into your touch, his entire body tingling from the tender gesture and his heart swells. “Iksā se jorrāelagon hen ñuha ābrar.*”

Flowers sway on their stems in the light breeze, opening their faces to the sun that peeks from between the clouds. He sits down, relaxed and tender-hearted, and you follow him as he watches you with a slight smile on his face. You are awash in sunrays, shining like a magical creature out of legends who grants the wishes of lost men like him. Aemond leans towards you, brushing your hair behind your ear and, as he looks at your face, love sharp as dragonglass pierces through his heart.

“The fountains mingle with the river/ And the rivers with the ocean,/ The winds of heaven mix for ever/ With a sweet emotion;/ Nothing in the world is single/ All things by a law divine/ In one spirit meet and mingle./ Why not I with thine?*” he whispers, staring into your eyes, caressing your lips with his thumb. 

He lives for those stolen moments, those glittering moments of gentleness, when he is not a prince, not Aemond One-Eye, not a Targaryen but something else entirely, something that wounds him and elevates him both. It is sweet torture, to love you so deeply, to turn onto his back and show you the soft underbelly where you can either drive a blade or touch him with a gentle hand. With you, it’s both, your gentle hand holding a blade.

You kiss his thumb and catch his hand, peppering his palm with soft sweet kisses and you look at him through your lashes. Your lips open as if you want to say something but you close them again and he moves to you and kisses you.

“Ñuha ōños*,” he whispers, your lips touching, his eye closed. “Ñuha ābrar*.”

Your hands fly to his face, fingers biting into the soft flesh cushioning his teeth, and you kiss him fervently, licking his lips open as he moans into your mouth. You push him towards the ground and your hand slides down to his neck as you wrap your hand around it gently. This soft touch, this sign of ownership has his cock straining against his trousers and he grinds his hips up into you and catches your groan. His hands are at the buckles of your coat and he unclasps them, then slips his hand underneath your tunic, along your stomach up to your breast.

“Iksā ñuhon*,” he growls, pulling your coat off with your help, then yanking your tunic off. He slides down, kissing your shoulder, marking each stretch of skin as his and your body is a land for him to conquer; your lush hair he cards his fingers through, the plains and swells of your neck and jaw he gently bites, the fells of your breasts he kneads. “See the mountains kiss high heaven/ And the waves clasp one another;/ No sister-flower would be forgiven/ If it disdained its brother;/ And the sunlight clasps the earth/ And the moonbeams kiss the sea:/ What is all this sweet work worth/ If thou kiss not me?” he murmurs against your neck and you pull his head up by his sharp jaw, bowing down and kissing him. He hums into your mouth appreciatively, then sighs as your fingers sink into his hair, stroking his scalp.

“You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” you say quietly and he is overcome, feeling full of warmth like the sun, fire in his belly as if he really was a dragon, as if he was a fire eater in the night-cloaked market of King’s Landing. He doesn’t need the Seven, you are his goddess; you are his justice, his mercy, his courage, his strength, his innocence, his guidance, his death. Most of all, his death, and it’s slow but sweet.

“Let me worship you, my prince,” you murmur and soon you are both naked, lying among the flowers, and he moans as you kiss his nipple and pull it into your mouth. Pleasure shoots through him and his abdomen tightens as you brush your finger down his twitching cock. He mewls helplessly as you start stroking him and his hips cant up, thrusting into your hand as moans spill from his mouth and his neck arches back. “You are precious.”

“Please,” he whimpers but he doesn’t know what he is begging for. You suck on his nipple hard and his back curves up as desperate gasps leave him. He is dripping precum and you slide down his body, then lick the tip of his cock. Aemond props himself up on his forearms and groans as you stare into his eye, gathering the drops of his precum on your tongue as if his cock was the sweetest honeycomb. He gasps as you wrap your mouth around him and his hips stutter as he tries not to thrust too hard into it. It is a hard task, though, as his belly hollows out when you suck on him and start bobbing your head up and down. His hands sink into your hair, not pushing your head; he just needs to feel you. 

“Kess-kessa, ah!, hae bisa, ah!, kost-kostilus! *” he sobs and your tight heat around his cock nearly drives him to madness. You speed up, fucking him with your mouth and he melts, a high-pitched moan leaving him when you squeeze the base of his cock. He loves it, he loves, he loves it, he loves being taken by you like this. He is at your mercy and he can only wail. It is rapture as precum seeps out of him into your mouth and he is close.

“Wait, wait,” he gasps, spasming, and you stop, pulling his cock out of your mouth with a pop and he almost goes feral at the sight of the string of spit and precum connecting your lips to him. “I want to come inside you, fill you up with my seed. Come here,” he says and gently tugs at your hair. You crawl up his body with a smirk that has his belly twisting and he sits up, taking you into his arms and kissing the crook of your neck. He longs to be inside you, he longs for you to take his cock and he positions you above him as you grasp his length. Rocking into you, he feels himself sinking into the heat of your cunt and he bites through your skin like an animal wanting to claim as you yelp. Your blood tastes like absolution and he hears you whisper: you’re mine, my prince and his cock pulses inside you as he moans. 

“Say-say it again,” he whimpers, his forehead on your warm shoulder and your cunt is stretched around him, taking him so well.

“You’re mine,” you growl possessively into his ear, tugging at his hair and pulling his head backwards and he mewls as you bite him, breaking skin. 

“Yes, yes, I am yours! Only yours!” he gasps, his hips thrusting into your hot core and he grasps your hip bones and angles you so he can hit that sweet spot of yours and when he does, he is rewarded. You clench around him and arch your back, moaning his name. Your fingers tighten in his hair and you ride him with animalistic ferocity, your hips rolling against his. But he wants to make sweet slow love to you and his hands on your hip bones grasp you tightly, aborting your movement and you growl. His cock aches, unmoving inside you, and he pulls out and slowly sinks into you in a long stroke, pushing into that spot again and watching your mouth fall open. Your face is beautifully flushed. Aemond wraps his arms around your waist, then lowers you to the ground, covering you with his body, your chests touching. His blood sings with how intimate you are and he loves it, he loves feeling so close to you, as if he could touch your heart with his. Propping himself up on his forearm, holding up his weight so he doesn’t squash you underneath him, he laces the fingers of his other hand with yours and puts your hand next to your head. Staring at you looking into his eye, your pupils blown wide, the thin sliver of colour around them like a ring of precious stones, he rocks his hips into you. The nails of your free hand sink into his back – you’re brutal even when you’re making love – drawing blood and his hips stutter as he fights with himself not to slam into you. Your cunt is pulsing around him and it is sweet and tortuous.

“Upon my word, I tell-tell you, ah!, faithfully/ Through life-life and after death, ah!, you are my queen*,” he gasps out into your neck, thrusting into you, and you grant him the loveliest long moan and claw at his shoulder blades.

“Aemond,” you slur and he raises his head to look at you. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth red, and you’re beautiful. He tells you that and you close your eyes.

“Open your eyes, look at me,” he says, wanting you to see him, wanting you to know who is taking you. Not Lannister, not some other lord, but him. You are his, only his and his fingers tighten around yours. You are disobedient, as always, always wilful like a wild dragon and he knows it is a gift that you are letting him fuck you. “Come, open your eyes.”

Your eyes flutter open and air is smitten from his lungs as he stares into them, pretty obsidian swallowing them up, framed by a ring of crystals, set in opal. You are a vision of the old gods, wild and fierce and exquisite, and he worships you. He kisses you, inhaling your breath into his lungs; he would let you take his life, his life is yours, you are his life.

“Ñu-ñuha jorrāela-ah!-gon syt ao zāl-zālagon jehi-ah!-jehikagrī hae-hae perzys isse, ah!, ñuha prūmia*,” he moans, words slurred together to the point of being incomprehensible and he mewls as your walls tighten around his cock.

Suddenly, he is on his back and you are riding him, your throat exposed as your head falls back, your breasts bouncing. But it is not enough and he wants you close, he wants your bodies touching as if you could be melded into one. He pulls you towards himself but you resist.

“Please,” he whimpers and you raise your head to look at him. The sharp smile you send him nearly has him coming. 

“Come here,” you say and he obeys, sitting up and grabbing your waist. He kisses you but it’s sloppy as he is nearing his peak, sheathed in that maddening warmth of your cunt, your hands clasping the crook of his neck, so close to where he wants them to be.

“Choke me,” he moans and your hand wraps around his throat, squeezing. His neck angles back and he is floating, elation filling his veins and his mouth falls open as he wails. Your walls clamp down around him and your entire body seizes and you are coming around him.

“I love you,” you cry out and this pushes him over the edge. He drives deep into you and stays there, shooting you full of his warm seed. Aemond mouths your neck, keening, and your cunt milks his cock until the last drop of his cum. Spasming, he slouches against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as you both pant. He wants to stay inside you forever.

Minutes pass, his soft cock still inside you, and you’re as close as two people can be. He nuzzles into your cheek and asks:

“Did you… did you really mean it? Do you really love me?”

“Yes, Aemond, you idiot,” you laugh and he grins, his eye closed.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your cheek.

“You idiot,” you chortle and he pushes you to the ground, pulling out of you and his seed drips out of you as he attacks you. He tickles you and you laugh hysterically, writhing, and an evil cackle escapes him.

“No, stop, ahahahah, stop!” you cry out but he doesn’t relent.

“Say it again,” he repeats, grinning and you howl with laughter.

“I love-ahahaha-I love you! Stop!” It’s better than flying Vhagar, it’s better than fighting, and it goes through him sharp as a blade, soft like flower petals. To be loved back is as terrible as it is delightful; to be seen and loved as terrifying as it is perfect. He leans down and slips his fingers under your chin, kissing you softly.

You stretch next to each other on the grass and he takes your hand and kisses the inside of your wrist.

“I…” he hesitates and you open your eyes to look at him. “I love you, too.”

You reach out with your hand and brush your fingers against his jaw.

“I know, my love,” you reassure him and he feels you know how hard it is for him to be vulnerable like this. Your fingers stroke up the side of his face and pause at the strap of his eyepatch. He tenses, his heart beating in his throat. “Let me see all of you,” you say so gently his heart clenches.

“It’s not a pleasant view,” he warns, hoping you would relent, fear choking the air out of him.

“Let me be the judge of that,” you reply and his skin crawls at the thought you will judge him and find him wanting. 

Ugly. Disfigured. Monstrous.

He closes his eye as you slide the eyepatch off his head, careful not to pull his hair. Your fingers go back to his jaw and there is tenderness in your gesture as you stroke his skin. There is silence, you say nothing, and his hands start shaking and he can’t stand it.

“You are beautiful,” you finally murmur and the worshipful tone takes him aback. “Open your eye.”

He licks his lips, then obeys and your face is so soft and there is reverence there. His heart stutters in his chest and he is shocked out of his ability to speak.

“I think you look better without the eyepatch. It adds to your mystique, makes you look like a powerful warrior – which, of course, you are,” you state, then add: “the sapphire is beautiful, the way it reflects and scatters sunlight like the surface of the sea… You are beautiful and I love and cherish you very much, my pretty boy.”

It feels monumental, the way you speak about him in the same awed tone one has when looking upon a sculpture and he can’t believe he invoked such feelings in you. He whispers your name and you shush him, kissing him and he knows you will be the death of him – and he knows he will welcome it.

[dumbgothbunny]

Aemond chasing you through the woods or the keep. You put up a good effort. Hiding and sneaking, but Aemond can literally smell you. He endures this cute little game of chase with you because he knows it will end with him hunting you down and absolutely obliterating you

A/B/O possible?

[dem0ans]

As a highborn Tully, you have grown up and spent your blooming years in King Viserys' court. Amidst the growing tensions between the Queen's Party and the Princess' Party for the Iron Throne is Prince Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen. Despite your proximity over the years, you can count on one hand the interactions you've had.

Until he finds you with one too many glasses of Dornish wine at a feast.

RATING : M

[itshelia]

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling???? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

[nnarellia]

*being obsessed with fictional blonde psychopaths is a crime*

me:

[stillinracooncity]

that feminine urge to read something that makes you cry, get angry, scream, laugh like a hormonal teenager, turn up the heat, feel like the most unique and beautiful human being on earth. *sighs*

[barbieaemond]

Lykirī

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

WARNINGS: loss of virginity, fingering, oral sex (f and m receiving), handjob, we ride him bitches, dom/sub tones if you squint

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

Author's note: an early Christmas gift for those who celebrate!! For those who don't, just a regular smutty piece. This was based on a request where wife!reader rides Aemond. Merry Aemondmas :)

MASTERLIST

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @chompchompluke @arcielee

"You are to marry the King's second son. Prince Aemond Targaryen."

Those were your father's words. Your sister had looked at you almost with pity and a hint of relief since that fate had befallen you and not her. You had simply nodded, accepting the fate decided by your father, just as thousands of other daughters before and after you would have done.

Your mother had come to comb your hair before going to bed, and without much ado, she had told you what would happen after the wedding, after the banquet.

"All you have to do is try to relax your nerves, and I promise it will be less painful.”

The thought had stuck in your brain until the wedding day. And the aura emanating from the prince didn't help. He was stoic to the point of looking like a statue, his posture rigid as a spindle, and there was something unsettling about him that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand when he took your hand to recite the wedding vows. Fear, but also a foreign giddiness prickling your skin upon feeling his calloused fingers around yours.

The banquet had not helped either. Prince Aegon had behaved like a court jester, drinking to the point of wondering how he could stand upright, poking his brother with cruel jokes about his eye and a whore who had made Aemond a man many years before.

You didn’t know what kind of unpleasant memories your good-brother had just summoned in his brother’s mind. That woman and her cheap perfume, that way it had clung to his skin, to his thoughts for days after his only ever trip to Flea Bottom.

Then the elder Prince had approached you with his breath stinking of Dornish and it was then that Prince Aemond broke his icy silence, standing up abruptly and looking down at you. "Come, wife. It is time for us to retire."

Prince Aegon had clapped his hands as if in front of a hilarious show, saying "Finally some fun! The bedding!"

The entire crowd present at the banquet had escorted you to the prince's chambers. The servants had removed your dress, leaving you in your underskirts; you had unconsciously covered your chest, crossing your arms to hide from the greedy eyes of the men peering in the doorway, Prince Aegon in the front row with yet another cup of wine clutched between his fingers.

Master Mellos invited you to lie down on the bed, and you obeyed, swallowing, while a host of servants shielded you from view as the Maester made his humiliating inspection.

"All is in order, your Graces," the Master informed the Prince and Queen. And that was enough for Aemond to completely slip the iron mask off his face and go straight to the door. "The show is over. Get out."

"Oh, come on, little brother. Let me watch, at least. I could give you some tips."

Aemond had towered over his brother, and from your seat on the bed, you were able to see the eldest brother shrinking by the moment. "This is not some common whore you're speaking of.” Aemond seethed “She is my wife, and you will owe her the respect she deserves. One more lewd word from your mouth, and I will rip your tongue with my bare hands. Am I being clear?”

"Gods, brother, are you already so cunt-struck?"

He never got an answer, only the door being slammed right into his face.

You stood in the middle of the room, torturing your hands as he looked at you from the door. He seemed unsure of what to do, until he cleared his throat and took a few tentative steps in the room.

“You could have some wine, if you wish. It may…help you.” He said, but as he said this, he seemed to regret his own words, given how his mouth twitched as if he had just tasted something sour. Memories could come just like that, sudden and sour.

“You must relax, my prince. Have some wine, maybe? No need to worry, I will take care of you just as a prince deserves to.”

“I’d like to keep my mind clear, my Prince.” You said, keeping your gaze down, hearing his fast and deep sigh. “Fine.” he said, straightening his back as a soldier. After all, wasn’t this just another duty?

It wasn’t just that though. You were his wife now, the future mother of his children. It was his duty and his right to claim you as his own.

“Lay on the bed.”

With your heart pounding in your ears, you did as you were told but when the mattress dipped under his weight, you did not expect to see him with his clothes still on, the eyepatch firmly in its place. More so, you did not expect the harshness of his gestures as he held your waist to turn you around. The air hitched in your throat as your face met the mattress and a strange sorrow gripped your heart. Did he not want to look at you? Did he not like you?

“Try to stay still and it’ll be over shortly.” he said. He was trying to sound reassuring, but his voice came out cold and flat. His fingers latched on your underskirts, hiking them up, filling you with embarrassment as you grow completely exposed beneath him.

Aemond knew what to do. He may not have been as depraved as his brother, but he was still a man. And once in a while, when his hands would not suffice, some maid or servant girl would’ve had to bear, quite keenly on their part, his intimate attentions.

As his hands began to glide on your thighs, you shivered and said “Wait…”

Slowly your head turned to look at him, cheeks red and breath slow and anxious. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”

Your words seemed to stun him for a moment. The mere thought of you wanting to look at him made him realize how wrong he was behaving. You were his wife, not a common whore to bend over and have his moment of bliss. He had even told Aegon. That was not his intention, but there was a gap between how he felt and how he acted, a limb severed by years of pity looks and feelings trapped in his mouth and swallowed.

Almost gently, he made you turn but once you were facing him, he pinned your wrists on the mattress, unable to touch him even if you had gathered enough courage to do it. You tried to brace yourself for what your mother had told you. But she had not told you that he would touch you there, that all your senses would go numb except for that one brand new feeling between your legs. But he seemed enthralled by it just as you, his mouth parting to let out slow puffs of air as you grow wet and swollen against his fingers.

Your breath was labored, coming out in soft pants that made your cheeks purple. More so because he kept circling his deft fingers on your core while looking straight into your eyes, reveling in the way you were answering to his call, in the way he was shaping your need, your desire.

“You never touched yourself, did you?” he asked in a husky voice.

You barely shook your head and his eye glinted with something dark as he brought his face close to yours “Good. I shall be the only one inside you.”

He swallowed your shaky breath with this mouth, kissing you for the very first time, apart from the shy, almost prude peck exchanged after the wedding vows. Your lips moved shyly, trembling with the coiling pressure between your legs. And just when you thought this heat, this delicious aching couldn’t grow more unbearable, he sticked a finger inside you, spilling a loud moan right against his mouth.

One of your wrists twisted in his harsh hold, willing to touch him, to grip on something, but he didn’t let you. “Easy…” he blew on your lips “Relax. It’ll feel good, I promise…”

It surely felt good to him, to feel the tightness of your cunt squeezing his finger. He curled it and you squinted your eyes, choking a gasp that made him smirk proudly against your jaw. “Gods, you’re so tight…” he breathed as he kept rubbing slowly against your walls.

“It’s—it’s too much—“ you cried out with pain and pleasure running together, breathing his scent of ash, leather and a hint of something minty.

“How will you take my cock if you can’t even take my finger?” He whispered with benevolent cruelty, moving his finger faster and deeper.

Certainly your mother had not told you of the obscene wet sounds you would hear, of the uncontrollable moans coming out of your mouth, of his soft growling next to your ear when his breeches became too tight.

He had lined the tip of his hard manhood to your entrance, catching your breath away as tried to still your nerves, but the pain came altogether. You felt like he was cutting you from the inside. Tears filled your eyes, squinting for the painful stretching. You knew he was restraining himself; he didn’t want to hurt you more than he already was. And you almost felt affection for him, most men would not have bothered.

Then he had started to move, you felt that stranger body rubbing over and over against your walls, and finally the pain soothed, but not completely. You could tell he was enjoying it, his ragged breath and faint moans told you so, as well as the curses hissed through his teeth in a language you guessed was Valyrian. And then he had stilled completely, gripping your hips hard and firm while you felt a hot wave pulsing through your core.

The next morning, you could barely sit down for breakfast, and your aunt had looked at you with concern and a hint of amusement in her eyes. She was a veteran at court, a long-time widow, and quite happy to be so. It was her who suggested your betrothal to the Prince.

"How are you feeling, sweet niece?"

"Awful." you said promptly, shifting your weight on the seat.

"Well, this is the kind of anguish all women must go through."

"I thought that was giving birth to another human being."

"Oh Gods, no. That is the ugly part. This is the good one," she said with a sly smile "I suggest you enjoy it as much as you can."

At the time, you didn't really understand what she meant. The first night with the prince had gone...well, you thought. But he certainly enjoyed it more than you.

The second time was better. Your muscles were still sore, but the pain was but a faint discomfort compared to the pleasure you felt for the very first time in your life.

The third time he went down on you, bringing you so close to the edge only to deny your release, with cruel enjoyment on his part, making you whine with shame at the loss of his mouth and tongue on your folds.

The fourth time he bent you down on the breakfast table, all things falling in a mess of cutlery. He had pulled up your skirts and lowered his breeches just enough to thrust in, unraveling a special spot deep inside of you that had you mewling like some primitive beast.

The fifth time he had you writhing in bed, hair stuck to your head with sweat and hands clenching the sheets while he had you peak three times in a row.

It was then that you started to think your aunt was right.

That was indeed the good part.

“Are you afraid?” he asks, with a soft taunt on the tip of his tongue. You drag your eyes away from the gigantic beast before you and almost scoff. That is enough for him to laugh, quietly, but still not quietly enough for you to not notice and wonder at the view.

It’s been merely one moon since you’ve been married to Prince Aemond, and you could count on the fingers of your hand the times you have seen him laugh. It was eerie at first, you feared all the things you heard about the One Eyed Prince were true. That he was cold as stone and just as hard. And he was. But the more you spent time together, the more you were able to make cracks, and let light through.

“I’m equally afraid as any little mortal of right mind would be in front of the largest dragon in the known world, my dear husband.”

His lips stay quirked up, but his eye widens, as it always does when you call him that. He steps close to you, a few of his long strides are enough for him to tower over you, and the ground below your feet shifts.

“Come.” He says, taking your hand, “I promise she won’t eat you.” This time you deliberately glare at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “Do you need some other kind of persuasion to trust me? Perhaps like the one I used this morning?”

The early afternoon sun makes his face almost hurting to watch, or maybe it's just his bold gloating that makes his appearance so exhausting.

“That was not persuasion.” you remark, hiding the tinge of red on your cheeks “It was coercion.”

“Hmm. You didn’t seem so hostile when I made you come twice before breakfast.”

"I was hostile to the chance of the maid assisting with what we were doing."

"The maid should know better than to enter while my wife is undressing."

His eye roams over you just as he had done that morning, hunger clouding it, making your insides shrink. "Perhaps it's best if she knew. Someone must be aware of how cruel my husband is." there's a soft tease in your tone—something you are still learning, but true nonetheless.

He had ripped your nightgown with his bare hands when the maid entered to help you dress. She fled hastily, but you barely spared a glance at her, already lost to the fierce claim of his hand between your legs. He had taken you, twice, and then ordered you to dress, forcing you to have breakfast with the Queen and the Princess with your thighs still sticky with sex, sticky with him.

And he had been there, sitting just in front of you, with a piercing and delighted gaze.

He pulls your hand, and you follow, getting closer to that living relic that is Vhagar, Queen of All Dragons. She raises her monstrous head and looks straight at you with her amber eyes.

It is the first time you step so close to her, and even if you thought about it a lot, your heart is pounding fast, and your breath comes out slow and labored. She's a dreadful wonder.

She flares her nostrils and smells you, making a low rumble which results in a gust of hot wind that ruffles your hair and skirts.

“Lykirī, Vhagar.” Aemond says quietly “Issa ñuha ābrazȳrys. Kostā pāsagon zirȳla.”

You look at him questioningly, and he answers. “I told her you are my wife. And she can trust you.”

You cast a curious look at the dragon and then back at him “Is that all it takes? You tell dragons to trust you, and they resist the urge to turn you into their meal?”

Aemond curves his lips and makes you step closer, standing behind you and guiding your hand on the old green scales. “It takes much more than that.” he whispers in your ear “You have to surrender to them, completely. A dragon is no slave.”

You feel the heat beneath your palm, but it’s not that that makes you swallow; it’s the heat of his breath on your neck, right into your ear, scorching his way into your brain and inflaming every thought.

“What does Lykirī mean?” you ask, and you hate how your voice cracks on the edges.

He smirks because he knows, he always does. But he does not answer. Instead, he pulls your hand again, and you follow, circling the beast until stopping before the intricate ropes that lead to the saddle.

“Aemond, I don’t think—”

“You are my wife and you will ride with me on dragon back.” He said, commanding.

Truthfully, you gladly want to obey; there is just a slight difference between picturing riding a dragon and doing it.

Even the climbing to get in the saddle is a challenge on its own, but he helps you until you firmly seat yourself in it. Aemond sits behind you, and you look around with widened eyes, as if you are looking down from the highest tower ever built, except this is a living one, made of fire and breathing fire.

He leans over you to grab the reins, and you tense, waiting with bathed breath.

“Dohaeras, Vhagar. Soves!”

She lets out a loud screech that makes your ears hurt, but you have no time to even register it because she's already moving. You grip Aemond’s arms and brace yourself against his chest when Vhagar lurches onward and opens her huge wings to take flight.

She goes up and up, above the clouds, and your head is dizzy, with fear, with euphoria, until you are laughing like a child, like you never did in your entire life. Aemond lets go of the reins and laces his arms around you, angling his head to look at you, his silver hair violently ruffled by the wind. “How does it feel, my sweet wife?”

There are no common words to describe it. Now you know why they say Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. No man could claim a dragon or rule the skies.

“I feel like I’m close to the Gods.” you say, and he tightens the hold on you “Dragons do not answer to Gods.” he says, burying his nose in your hair “Where does this leave us?”

You turn your head to look at him, and you feel like you are looking at one of them. And yet he looks like he’s beyond any God.

“Above them. Above the Gods.”

“Hmm.” He croons, breathing your scent through his nose, and then his right hand grabs your skirt and dips underneath, until you feel his cold fingers grazing your skin. “I will make you feel like one.”

He cups your core through your small clothes, and you whimper, gripping his arm harder. He feels your heat through his palm, hotter than Vhagar’s own fire, and he sets the fabric aside to properly touch you. “My sweet wife.” he whispers, sliding a finger between your folds “Always so ready for me.”

“Aemond.” You say, holding your breath, trying to oppose but your voice cracks, and your body with it, already answering to his call. You see clouds before your eyes, but it’s all a blur, all your senses are enslaved by his touch, rubbing lazy circles on your bud. Too slow for your liking, for your need. Your hips arch and buck, chasing his hand for more friction, and he laughs, darkly. “What is it? What do you need, sweet girl? Tell me.”

He takes your chin with his free hand and forces you to turn your head and look at him. His hold is ruthless, but his tone is almost pleading. “Tell me.” he orders and you feel like he’s smothering you, sweeping away all the air from your lungs. “I-I need more…”

“More of what?” he asks, stopping altogether. “Show me.”

You look him in the eye and swallow, heat inflaming your cheeks, but there’s no place for shame, not here. It is just a faint ghost passing through you, and then it’s gone. Your hand pulls the gown up, and you place it on his, like a feather. “Here.” You breathe on his mouth “Inside.”

The howling wind does nothing to muffle his growl, and then he’s kissing you, harshly, teeth clashing and biting your lips as he accepts your plea, sliding a finger inside of you.

A strangled moan escapes you, and he swallows it, darting his tongue in every corner of your mouth. He releases your chin only to grab your leg to further open them and then he adds a second finger, moving them deftly until reaching that special spot. Your head falls back on his shoulder, gasping loudly, digging your nails into his hand.

Your breath is ragged and fast, and you uselessly try to stifle moan after moan even if there are only the skies to hear.

“Don’t.” he says grazing your lobe with his teeth “I want to hear you. I want you to scream for me.”

Your mind goes blank, as does all your restraint. You feel the tide coming to crash you, hips moving on their own accord, chasing and chasing. And then you’re drowning in it, mouth falling open and flesh and bones clenching and trembling.

He grunts softly when your nails scratch his skin and his fingers slip out, glistening; he raises them to his lips and tastes every drop of you. Still panting, he takes your chin once more with his sticky fingers and licks your lips, so you taste yourself on his tongue.

Your head is still dizzy when Vhagar lands in a clearing in the King’s Wood, but this has nothing to do with altitude. Your limbs are heavy when he helps you dismount, your legs buckle. There is a tautness knotting your bones, itching your fingertips.

You wish to touch him, because you have never, not as a wife would touch her husband, not as he has done with you.

It is only a moon and yet he has taken you almost every night and every day. He has touched you everywhere, he has molded you to his liking, and you let him do it with giddiness, undoing yourself like clay in his hands. He had put his mouth on you, and you have discovered he particularly enjoyed it, because he has done that at the most inopportune times, even in some dark corner of the corridors.

And you wondered if you could do the same with him—not because you have to, but because you want to. You want to claim him just as he claims you, relentlessly.

And he really is. He is relentless, he doesn't give you the time to wander with your hands, to discover, to touch. Fire burns him quickly and you are ashes before you realise you are burning with him.

“I didn’t know my wife had claws.” He says at one point, while you are going back to the Keep.

You wake from your thoughts and turn, watching him raise his hand to show the red marks on the back of his hand, and the sight makes you almost proud—proud to have left a mark of you on him. But you want more, and he wants more. You know it; it takes a brief look at his breeches to know that he wants more.

You dart your eyes around, but there's no one. So, you stop. Trying to gather all the boldness you never had, you step closer to him and take his hand in yours. Your eyes look up slowly, glinting with uncertainty and bravery. "Then let me soothe your pain, husband."

Aemond’s eye widens, and the air around you turn heavy, forcing you to open your mouth to breathe. You take one more step and bring the back of his hand to your lips, kissing it gently while your eyes stay fixed on his face. The other hand goes tentatively to his chest and then slides down, and for once, just once, he’s the one answering your call. His eye darkens and his lips part when your hands bashfully grab the laces of his breeches.

But you should have known better. Targaryens and their desires. Doomed to take whatever they want, whenever they want, answering neither Gods nor men.

You barely blink and he grabs you by the wrists and forces you to the ground. Cold grass and bushes stinging your back make you gasp, but Aemond is already on you, watching you like a century-long thirsted man who takes a glimpse of a water spring, as if you could evaporate from his sight at any moment.

“Aemond, please.” you beg “let me—“

But his tongue is in your mouth, hot and scorching you alive. Your eyes flutter shut, and he hikes your skirts up, taking hold of your hips. You feel his bulge against you, hard and ready, and you can do nothing else than wait, pinned down like prey, all bravery a distant memory.

Suddenly he lowers himself down, lifting your skirts with haste until you’re completely bare half down. “No—Aemond, please I want to—”

“You want what?” he asks with a wolfish grin “Deny me your sweet taste? Iksā ñuhon, ābrazȳrys.” He said that already, you know what it means. You are mine.

“You belong to me. And this…” he swears placing your legs on his shoulders while looking at your aching core as a man who found the greatest treasure in the world. “This belongs to me as well.”

He runs his tongue up and down your wet folds, humming with delight as he tastes you and sees you squirm, arching your back on the stingy bushes. You moan loudly when he slowly swirls his tongue, not able to keep track of your hips starting  to move on their own, thrusting into his mouth and the sight of you like this, makes him even wilder, pushing him to open his mouth and put it entirely on your cunt, sucking harshly until anything before your eyes becomes blurred.

Your legs on his shoulders begin to shake and curl, caging him further against you, but just when you are about to come straight into his mouth, he pulls back. A weak sob leaves your mouth as your hips keep bucking against nothing and he smirks at that, untangling your legs from his shoulders, running his tongue over his lips, to taste what's left of you on him. You look at him through dazed eyes and a tinge of annoyance for the denied release. “What?” he has the boldness to ask with a sly smirk “Did you not enjoy it?” he runs his thumb on his glistening chin and swiftly licks it. "Hmm. I most certainly did."

“Aemond, please.” you claw desperately at his shoulders and forearms, forcing him to lie on you, feel something that could soothe the aching between your legs. He seems keen to grant you this mercy, molding his crotch against you so you can feel how hard and desperate he is.

“Please.” you beg in a thin voice.

“Speak it plainly, my love. I want to hear it from your pretty mouth.”

You look at him straight in the eye and what you say next is not a request nor a plea. Your mother would be ashamed of you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You are not begging. You are demanding. “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t need more than a few moments to get his cock out of his breeches, and not a moment later he’s pushing inside of you, your back arching on the bushes and your throat fighting for breath. He groans and starts a relentless pace, lifting his weight from you just enough for him to look at his cock going in and out, the sight only pushing him to thrust harder and harder. “Look at you.” he croons, sweet and rough “You were born to take me, to be mine.”

Your face twists with pleasure, teeth biting your lower lip while he takes you higher and higher, higher than any sky a dragon could ever take you.

He soon becomes messy and sloppy, cursing under his breath, but you can barely hear him. Your mind is sluggish and everything comes muffled: him, the birds chirping on some tree, your wet flesh slapping against his in the lewdest and most blessed way.

He curses some more, and then he’s spilling inside you, his arched mouth opening and his eye closing like a man absolved.

And yet, he does not stop. He has not claimed enough.

“Māzis, dōna ābrazȳrys. Come for me.”

Your hand clutches something on the ground, something with thorns that pierces your skin with pain, but you can’t even feel that, because you are falling, legs trembling around him, and heart stopping for an endless moment of pure breathtaking bliss.

“Gevie.” he coos with his lips on yours, falling with his body on you, still clenching and pulsing around him. He stays right where he is, nesting inside of you, and now it is the only chance you have been granted to touch him. You put an arm around his shoulders, catching your breath, and look at the skies above, thinking you are indeed above them.

It was easy to explain the dirt and grass stains on your dress. It was a little less easy to explain the twigs in your ruffled hair when you and Aemond returned to the Keep only to meet the Queen Mother along one of the corridors. Alicent merely smiled at you with a tight smile and did not spare from giving a look full of daggers to her son.

"Seven Hells" you mutter when you go back to your rooms and catch a glimpse of the mess you are in the mirror.

Aemond stays on the threshold to close the door and grins, or rather, gloats.

You step out of your muddy shoes and start to pull the laces of your dress.

"What are you doing?" he asks, and you playfully glare at him. "Am I allowed to take a bath now? Or do you want me to go around all sullied? I fear there are no believable excuses for the state I’m in."

"You can tell them the truth." he says, walking to you and replacing your hands with his to help you pull the intricate laces.

You smile softly with your back turned before raising an eyebrow, asking "Which is?"

He keeps his eye focused on the dress, a slight furrow in his brow, and stoically serious, he says "That your husband fucked you in the King's Wood."

"I could tell the maid. I'm sure she won't be stunned after what she saw this morning."

He makes you turn so you can look at him, and the sight before you makes your heart sing. His eye roams on your face softly, a rare sight on him, always stoic, always sharp, like all the angles composing this beautiful sculpture of black glass.

You always thought of marriage as a strategic deal for men, and a way for women to prove their value to the world, giving those same men sons and daughters. But you care for him. And he cares for you. That look on his face is enough for you to know that he cares for you, not merely as a brood mare.

“Gevie.” he says, quietly, and he touches your cheek, softly, making you wonder how those same hands can be so delicate and yet so merciless at the same time.

“What does it mean?” you ask, even if you are sure he will not answer. You observed that when he speaks in High Valyrian he does it almost to himself, as if to protect something he does not wish the others to know.

But this time, he meets your eyes and lowers his hand. “Beautiful.”

You look at him with your heart pounding in your throat, and then you stand up on your toes, crashing your mouth against his, almost catching him by surprise. But he is all too deft at turning the game on his side, and a few seconds later, his hands are gripping your hips and his tongue is licking the roof of your mouth.

When the door suddenly opens, you pull back, spotting the same maid from that morning who, this time, can do nothing but suffer the Prince's wrath.

"Can't you just fuck off for once?!"

You hold back a laugh against his chest and the poor maid flees in a hurry. But when he pulls you to him, tilting his head to pick up where he left off, you step back and say, "I'm afraid the Queen has requested your presence. You should go, my dear husband. I promise that by tonight I will be completely clean."

"Tonight?" he asks, raising his eyebrow. "What is happening tonight?"

You shrug your shoulders and hold back a smile. "Innocence doesn't suit you, my Prince."

"Neither does you."

"I'm afraid this is your fault. You are sullying my soul as well as...everything else."

"You won't be of the same mind when you have my child growing in your womb," and he smirks, looking at you as if he's taking a sacred oath, and then walks away.

You finally manage to take a bath and change clothes, and then you go to visit your aunt. She spends most of her time alone, sipping tea in the gardens, partly because she can't stand the other court ladies, partly because the court ladies can't stand her. Truthfully, you cannot blame them, your aunt speaks plainly—too plainly at times.

You sit down with her for tea, which you end up swallowing like salt, because your aunt takes it with a whole squeezed lemon, and no sugar.

"I saw you with your husband earlier. I may be too old for new fashion but mud on your skirt and twigs in your hair seem a bit too brazen, even for me."

You stifle a smile, recalling what happened. If only she knew he was brazen enough to have you utterly undone on dragon back, thousands of feet up.

Your eyes go distant while you fumble with some tablecloth threads, but your Aunt stares at you piercely, and grabbing her cup of tea she says "I love that look on you."

"What?"

She sips the sour liquid and puts the cup down. "That look. The I'm in love look."

"I am not!" you counter, cheeks going red.

"Of course you are. I've watched you two. I dare say he's falling way faster than you."

You look at her puzzled. Many things have changed in a moon. And you are sure you are utterly infatuated with him. But you did not know what to think of what he actually feels for you, if he even feels something. You know he cares for you, you know he loves spending time with you. You know he's passionate, possessive, almost soft at rare times. But in love? That seems too soon to consider, or to hope for.

"It is too soon to talk about love."

"In fact, I did not, my sweet niece. Falling in love and love are beasts of different species. Why do you think we say "falling"? You can't stop from falling. To love a person is an entirely different matter. Love is a choice."

You let those words sink but you prefer not to question your heart right now. There is a reason you have come here to talk to your aunt, even if you don't know how to address the matter without melting from embarrassment.

But in the end, who could you ask for advice? Your squeamish maids? The Queen Mother? Definitely not.

"Listen, I...I wanted to ask you something..." you start "It is uhm...a matter of somewhat intimate nature."

"Ah, my favourites." your aunt says, beaming "I am all ears."

You shift uncomfortably in your chair and swallow another sip of that dreadful tea "My mother...she explained to me what would happen between husband and wife to...consummate the marriage. But she didn't tell me...well, everything else."

Your Aunt is quick to raise her eyebrow "I gathered that your marriage had been consummated by now. Thoroughly."

"Y-yes, of course. But I...discovered...that there are other ways for a husband to please his wife...and I was wondering if...if I could…do those same things to please him."

Your aunt looks utterly puzzled for a long moment, and then, almost stunned, she says "Oh Seven Hells, child. You are telling me you never sucked your husband off?"

A few court ladies walking near turned their heads, going white as sheets, while you, on the contrary, take a nice purple shade.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, prissies. We all did it eventually." she dismisses them, waving a lazy hand, and looks back at you. "You should do it, if you wish. Men love it. Your uncle used to ask—"

"I don't want to hear that, auntie, I'm begging you." you say squinting your eyes.

"Listen to me, child. Men love to think they rule everything, everywhere. But it is not always like that. And if you want to rule your husband's heart, you must rule in his bed first."

That evening, Aemond wanted nothing more than to lock himself in his room with his wife and forget all the hateful political talk he had had to endure at dinner.

You had not attended, and that had bothered him. Never would he have thought of marriage as anything more than a duty, yet there he was, wondering where you were, who you were with, and why you weren't in his rooms when he set foot in there.

"Where is my wife?" he asks the maid, and she keeps her eyes glued to the floor, saying "The princess spent the evening in the library, your Grace. She told me that she would be—"

"I am here," you say, appearing behind the young maid.

You see his chest sag as if a weight is leaving him, and he casts an icy glance at the poor maid "Out."

He is rarely kind to servants, but you can tell by his tense shoulders that something is wrong.

"Aemond, what is the matter?" you ask as soon as the door closes, walking up to him with a hand behind your back.

"Where were you? Why weren't you at dinner?"

"I was in the library."

"For four hours?"

"It was a tough read—"

He grabs your arm, gripping hour wrist harshly, and you flinch. "Aemond, I swear to you.” you say watching his eye on fire and a sneer twisting his mouth “You can ask Maester Mellos." 

Suddenly he lets you go, and looks down, closing his eye for a moment. But he doesn't apologize, he never does, and not because he is a Prince. It's just the way he is. He doesn't apologize, he doesn't say thank you, he doesn't say please.

"Aemond, what's going on?"

"I don't want to talk about it now. In fact, never. Not here."

You watch him carefully, and you nod as he moves to pour wine into a cup. You watch him gobble it up greedily, which is unlike him. So, you get close and move your hand from behind your back and say, "Anyway, I wasn't lying. I really spent four hours in the library...trying to decipher this."

You show him an old book, and the title catches his eye, cup held in midair. "Tales of the Dragonlords?" he asks frowning. "This is in High Valyrian."

"It is." you confirm as you move closer, and you steal his cup before saying, "Would you read it to me?" and you take a sip, of wine and courage.

He watches the liquid flow down your throat and then accepts the invitation, taking the book—the one he has read so many times he can recite it by heart. He opens it to the first page, but you say "No. Page 72."

There is a slight imperative tone in your tone of voice, and it thrills him, given how his eye glints under the candlelight. He drops it on the table, looking at you from head to toe, and says, "I'll read it to you later, sweet wife."

He steps closer but you back away saying, "Fine, then. I'll tell you what I understood so you can correct me or not." and at the same moment your own hands go up on your corset and you start pulling on the laces.

The gesture catches his eye like a moth to a flame and he stays silent as you pull all the laces and then slip off your dress, remaining in your underskirt. His gaze roams over you slowly, and with a soft smirk, he decides to play the game.

“Page 72, you said. How Dragonlords claimed Dragons.”

“Yes.”

"And why did it capture your interest? Do you wish to do it? Do you wish to claim a dragon?"

"I wish to conquer, not claim."

He comes closer and looks at you, breathing through his nose, restraining, always restraining, and then he's raising his hand to reach a lock of your hair falling on your shoulder, but you stop him, air as heavy as moss.

"The Valyrian sages say a dragonlord must surrender himself completely to the dragon. But it works both ways. The dragon must submit his will to their rider."

He looks at you without blinking, and you take his arms, guiding him closer until you turn and push him lightly on the bed. He sits and you slowly climb on his lap, knees caging his hips, heart is pounding in your throat like a hammer. You hear him taking a swift breath and pride pools in your bones because for once you have caught him off guard.

You can feel his crotch hardening by the moment, but the look on his face is not one of hunger or lust. It is pure and blessed devotion.

You wonder at the view, and your eyes roam on his face until...

"Can I take it off?"

There's no need to say what. His face goes hard as stone, eye looking away with discomfort, with shame.

"Please, Aemond." you whisper. "I want to see all of you. I want you to bare yourself to me as I did to you."

"It is not pleasant."

"I don't want pleasantness. I want you."

He stares at you for an eternal moment and then he caves.

A flash of sparkling blue catches you completely and you can do nothing but watch with lips parted, while he keeps his eye down.

You wrap an arm around his shoulders and lean your head against his to breathe one single word in his ear. "Gevie."

His arms are all around you, holding you so tight you might gasp for air. Instead you are smiling, breathing through his long silver hair. You are not sure if you aunt is right, if love is indeed a choice. You can't bring yourself to care because you are doing it already.

And then he's kissing you, seizing your tongue with his in a fierce consuming way. He slightly hikes up your hips, and his hand tries to slide between your legs, but you lace your fingers around his wrist, breaking the kiss with panted breath.

"No." you whisper, and he looks at you almost questioningly, mouth open and chest heaving.

"Lykirī."

His eye widens and you smile, secretly. "I know what it means now."

He smirks at this and does not miss the chance to be the ever diligent scholar. "But you said it wrong. The R is hard."

“Lykirī.” You say again, following his lesson, and in the same moment your hand leaves his wrist and goes down to his breeches. He dips his chin to look at it, at your hands unsure, and he too looks unsure.

“You don’t have to—“

“I want to.” You say, and your voice comes out firm and clear. “Please, Aemond. Let me…let me touch you.”

He realizes now that in all the times you have been lying together, you never managed to lay a hand on him. He likes to keep people at distance. Too many wrong hands have been on him. The Maesters’, inspecting, debating, healing without healing. That whore, taking what it was not hers to take, not yet.

But he wants you to touch him. He has dreamed of it, in any way a man could dream of a woman’s touch.

He looks at you for a moment, chest rising slowly, and then, without taking his eye off you, he pulls the laces of his breeches and guides your hand around his cock. You look down, exhaling a long breath at feeling his hard and hot flesh already pulsing.

He knows you don’t know how to do it, so his hands guide you at first, going slowly up and down, and the air comes out of his mouth slowly and labored. You look up at him, his eye is pitch black, lid growing heavy with pleasure, and your core clenches, desire pools in your belly and flows down.

He must hear the call of your body, because he releases your hand, still stroking him, and goes right between your legs. You gasp loudly, and he hums, delight dripping from his voice just as you are dripping on his fingers. He starts to pump his fingers and you can do nothing but moan, clutching his shoulders with your free hand, the other still around his cock, but the act is growing lazy, your mind can’t focus properly on what you are supposed to do.

“Listen.” he orders you, fingers moving faster and faster, and you do listen. Your soaked flesh coming undone at his scorching touch. “Who else has you like this?”

But this is a question he’s asking himself. Because no one else will ever have him bare like this.

“You. Just you.” you say hoarsely, eyes closing and hips rocking on their own accord.

“And who am I?” he whispers just as hoarsely, and yet his voice is like a whip on all your senses.

“My husband.” you cry, feeling the wave ready to drown you “Ñuha zaldrīzes.” My dragon.

You cannot care less about how you said it, because then your mouth falls open, nails digging into his shoulder while your trembling hips keep riding his fingers, clenching them like a vice.

Your head falls onward, leaning against his forehead, and you try to catch your breath. You watch his wet fingers go straight into his mouth while he looks at you, humming with pleasure. “You look so pretty like this.” he says with the ghost of a smile on his lips “I should fuck you in Throne Room with the whole court watching, so they know how pretty you are when you come for me.”

You laugh with your cheeks flushing, and he slides an arm around you, and you know he wants to pin you down on the bed and fuck you until you are muffling nonsense in the pillow. But this is not his game. This is yours, and even if you don’t know how to play, you will win.

“No.” you say, climbing down from his lap, and he looks at you with hunger and a tinge of thrilling curiosity. “It is my turn to claim.” You say with all the bravery you possess.

Not a moment later, you are going down on your knees.

Another small victory, because his eye widens as he had never done before, and you can see that this, the sight of you on your knees before him, is something he has been craving for, even dreamed of it.

His breathing is slow, and you are not even touching him.

You place yourself between his knees and you lean closer and closer, anxiety twisting your insides, but you want to do this. “Lykirī, nuha zaldrīzes. Surrender.” you take him into your hand, tugging slowly, and your lips linger on the tip, heart pounding in your ears and eyes fixed on him. “Lykirī.” You say one last time and then you are swallowing him.

He hisses loudly and his lips part, hands clutching the covers until his knuckles go white. He’s like burning metal inside your mouth—hot and hard. At first, you just taste him, running your tongue over the head, and he’s cursing under his breath. His hands twitch on the covers, restraining and restraining, but there’s no need. You take his hand while looking at him and you release it from your mouth to say “Teach me.”

It’s like you have just poured fire on more fire. His eye goes wild, he takes hold of your head and starts to guide you again, making your mouth engulf him once more and deep down to the base and then up to the tip again, filling the room with a wet gagging sound. You get the gist of what you’re supposed to do, so your head starts going up and down and up and down, and he actually moans for you, head falling back for just a moment before looking back, he can’t help but watch as you fiercely claim him.

You watch his chest heaving fast and your jaw is starting to hurt but you don't care, you are too absorbed by the view before you. You are too thrilled by the fact that, for once, you have made him speechless.

He's always so bold in the bedroom, so cruel in deciding when and how to give pleasure, and now he's utterly speechless. He can only curse without breath, and gasp and groan.

“Kelītīs.” he manages to say at one point, voice all husky and cracking. You don’t know that word, and you have no time to ask because in a blink, he’s slamming you onto the bed and he’s hiking up your skirt, but you get on your elbows pushing him on his back and climbing on him.

“I’m not done, valzȳrys.” you say feeling his hard length inflaming your core, so you lay your hips on it as firmly as possible. “I claimed, but I did not conquer.”

“You are fucking torturing me.” he points out, bucking against you.

“Conquests could last for centuries, dear husband. You above all should know that.”

“All I know now is that I need to fuck you.” he says placing both hands on the sheets to pull himself up.

“No, I will.” you promise, rocking your hips once more “This is my conquest, not yours.”

You keep rubbing your drenched core on his length until a sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead, and he's so hard he's leaking from the tip. "You are twisted, wife." he says with a dazed tone and you smile even if you can't take it anymore, but you rock some more, saying "I'm a quick study. And I'm learning from the best."

Finally, when you are so wet you are dripping on him, you raise just enough to slide his cock inside of you.

You gasp together and you brace on his shoulders to start moving. You both know you are not going to last long, so you start rocking your hips slowly, taking him to the hilt until you struggle for air.

“Move…” he orders but you just take the opposite road, slowing your hips in a delicious torturing way. “Do you know what else the Sages said? A rider must know their mount, feel their heat below them.”

But Aemond does not have a single drop of blood in his head right now to give you an answer, let alone play your game; he's just fire that burns and burns and burns and just like the Sages said, you can feel his heat, burning below and inside you. He grips your hips and starts to thrust inside you like the wild beast you are supposedly claiming, until you are moaning so loud your throat hurts.

“Yes—” he growls as you bounce on him “Just like that—you’re gripping me so well—fuck"

You both turn sloppy, a mess of sweaty limbs and teeth biting, clutching at each other with bruising grips, pulling at the roots of his hair when you’re about to fall from the highest sky.

"Come on, my sweet girl. Let go for me." he breathes into your mouth, forcing you to move even faster "Let go fro your dragon. Seal your conquest." And you do.

He follows right after, spilling inside while digging his teeth into your neck like fangs on a prey, muffling his loud groaning.

And you are smiling like a fool, a lovestruck fool, but most of all, a conqueror. 

Thank you so much for reading!! 💞💞

[valeskafics]

"My Strong Girl" - Dark Prince Regent!Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader

a/n: in honor of WHATEVER THE FUCK YESTERDAY WAS AHHHHHH prince regent aemond is coming (and so am i hehe). this is also a late bday present for my babe @hoosbandewan ilysm boo!!! 🩷

Summary: The Prince Regent consummates his union in a rather... Unorthodox way.

TW: HEAVY DUBCON, canon typical incest, profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, afab reader, dark/yandere behavior, PUBLIC sex, period typical misogynistic attitudes, asshole aemond, fingering, overstim, loss of virginity, p in v sex, breeding kink, degradation, humiliation kink, dumbification, filth, i'm going to hell

Word Count: 2,810 words

Rating: 18+, MDNI

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

Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated 🩷

The silence is deafening as you are led from your cell in the dungeons to the throne room. Your mouth tastes of ash and blood as you hold your head high, refusing to let Ser Criston treat you as anything less than you are.

The eldest surviving child of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

You know it is not your Uncle Aegon who sits the throne now. He is not who you are being led to. No, it is his younger brother, Aemond, the Prince Regent. You see him, sitting there on the Iron Throne. Your mother’s throne. The Conqueror’s crown rests upon his brow, his lips curled up into a smug smile, the greatsword Blackfyre resting at his side. You maintain eye contact with him, refusing to shrink away, something which seems to amuse him. With the way he stares at you, cold and calculating as ever, you feel naked under his gaze. Like your body and soul are bared to him. Never have you felt so uncomfortably vulnerable.

Ser Criston shoves you to the ground in front of the throne, demanding, “Kneel before your Prince Regent.”

You look up at Aemond, seeing that he’s still staring down at you, and rather than kneeling, you spit at his feet, lips pulled back as you snarl, “I will not.”

Aemond arches a brow at your display of defiance while Ser Criston glares at you, “I will not repeat myself, bastard. Bow to your Prince Regent.”

The prince has to catch his breath when you look up at him, that fire in your eyes which he has loved since he was a boy, your voice as sharp as Blackfyre’s edge, “No matter how the wind howls, the mountain will not bow to it. I will not yield to this usurper. This murderer.”

Criston unsheathes his sword, raising it above his head as he declares, “Then you will kneel in pieces.”

Aemond raises his hand, giving Criston a stern look, stopping the knight in his tracks. He descends down the steps, staring down the bridge of his nose at you before bringing Blackfyre to your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“A fine blade, is it not?” You remain silent, glowering at him in a way that has his breeches uncomfortably tight. “Would you care to test your mettle against steel?”

“I came here to avenge my brothers,” you retort, “To watch your blood spill upon these floors and to retake the crown for my mother, you treacherous snake.”

He purses his lips, clicking his tongue in a show of mock chastisement before replying, “Such harsh words from such soft, pretty lips. We’ll need to change that if you are to be the bride of the Prince Regent.”

The word makes you feel as though your heart has stopped beating entirely.

Bride…?

Before you can say another word, you are dragged away by Ser Criston once again, delivered into the hands of two chambermaids. He instructs them to get you ready, that the dress will be waiting when they are done bathing you. Your eyes are wild as you look around, realizing what is happening. You kick against your captors, screaming wildly, looking at the knights that were once loyal to your mother, your grandsire before her, as they stand by and do nothing.

As you are carried off to be married to the man you hate most in the world.

The Royal Sept feels every bit like a tomb, each step you take toward Aemond feeling like a step closer toward your doom. And he just stands there, with that infuriating smirk on his face, knowing that he has won. It is your mother’s former childhood companion, your grandmother of sorts, who walks you toward your husband to be.

You whisper to her under your breath, “For a woman of the Faith, you seem content to allow your traitorous sons to do as they please, breaking all bonds of family and loyalty. You sanctimonious, hypocritical-”

“You had best be quiet. As a good wife is,” Alicent cuts you off sharply with a warning look, “This is not your mother’s keep anymore. You would do well to remember that.”

Your voice is dark as you glare at her and respond, “This will always be my mother’s keep, you traitor.”

The septon says his words, extolling the value of love. Of duty. Of family. And it takes everything in you not to laugh in the man’s face. Where is love? Certainly nowhere in this sept. Where is duty? Where is family? Your family is scattered to the four winds. And you are here, your hand being tied to that of the man who murdered your beloved little brother. You think of Luke as Aemond puts his cloak around your shoulders, bringing you under his protection.

Kinslayer. The most cursed of all things a man can be.

And you are married to him.

He leans in and presses his lips to yours, the hunger in his kiss intense and almost terrifying. His hand threads in your hair, pulling you close to him as his lips move against yours. You hear whispering around the sept, but no one is brave enough to say anything to stop this madness. To save you from this man.

You’re taken by surprise when you are not led to a feast nor the bedchambers you are likely to share with your newly wedded husband.

Instead, you are led to the throne room, the nobility of Westeros surrounding you. You feel their eyes on you, some pitying, some amused, as Aemond drags you by the elbow up to the throne, pulling you onto his lap. You let out a shocked yelp, doing your best to squirm away from him, but he keeps you in place. You wonder whether he plans to address the highborn folk, why he has brought you here.

But then, it becomes glaringly obvious to you what his plans are as his long fingers move to rest on the nape of your neck. You shiver, your eyes closing as you feel his other hand tugging at the laces of your wedding gown. He cannot be serious.

He cannot truly intend to consummate your union in the eyes of all the nobility, on the throne.

“Your parentage has been a topic of conversation for years. You and your bastard brothers.” Aemond’s breath is hot against your ear, his teeth grazing against your skin as he inhales your scent, “I will not have the same happen to my children. I will breed you in front of the entire realm so they know the whelp that grows in your belly is mine, that it is my seed that quickens in your womb and none other’s.”

Anger brews inside you at his words, your fists clenching as you resist the urge to lift your elbow and strike him in the jaw, if only barely. You hate him, you hate him so much, and you remind yourself of the fact as he tugs your wedding gown down your body, leaving you in only your smallclothes. Your jaw sets and you do your best to ignore the feeling of his fingers tracing your upper arms. Aemond pulls you closer to him and you can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against your flesh, the thought making you want to retch. One of his hands caresses your throat while the other moves to your thighs. He squeezes your soft flesh, letting out a low hum of pleasure, fingers trailing up toward your cunt, lifting your shift as they move.

You press your lips together, refusing to make a sound as you feel his fingertips grazing against your bare, sensitive core. You hate the way his touch, how feather light and almost ghostlike it is against your skin. You hate the feeling of wetness pooling between your thighs as Aemond teases you, chuckling in your ear as he feels your slick on his fingers.

“For someone who claims to hate me so much, niece, your body betrays you. Your sweet little cunny is practically begging to be fucked by me.”

Aemond’s words make you shiver. And you despise the fact that he’s right. Your body is responding to him in a way that shocks you. Though you want nothing more than to shove him away, to look out at the crowd and plead for someone to help you, all you do is rest your back against his chest, allowing him to spread your legs, his fingers pushing inside your center. You have touched yourself before, but gods, it is so different when it is the touch of another, when it is they who set the pace. Aemond drags his fingers along your walls, your cunt tightening around him, body reacting viscerally to his touch. You can hear the murmurs of the crowd and turn your face away in shame, but you feel his hand move from your throat to tug harshly at your hair, forcing you to face the observers.

“Look at them,” he snarls in your ear as he begins pumping his fingers in and out of you at a pace faster than anything you could do on your own, making you let out a gasp of pleasure, “They are here to see us consummate our union, wife. Let them see you writhe against my fingers, moaning my name like a little whore as I prepare you to take my cock.”

In spite of yourself, your hand moves to rest over his, urging him on, a silent plea for him to move faster as you face the crowd, the slight tug at your scalp only enhancing your desire. Aemond happily complies, feeling the way you squeeze around him when he brushes a certain spot inside of you, focusing his attention on it, listening as you let out a breathy moan of his name, your free hand grasping at his thigh for purchase. His thumb rubs at your pearl, the bundle of nerves devastatingly sensitive to his touch, and he feels you spill yourself against his fingers, your body going lax as you fall back against him.

The Prince Regent has no intention of stopping, however, shocking many of the nobles present as he continues, the wet noises of his fingers sliding in and out of your cunt quietly echoing, along with your little pants of breath, your plea for him to slow down.

“And you call yourself the blood of the dragon,” Aemond mocks, pinching at your sensitive bud, making you cry out, your thighs shaking as he continues, bringing you closer and closer to your second peak, “Where’s my Strong girl? Hm? You can give me another one. I know you can.”

You shake your head, writhing against him just as he predicting as he continues fucking you with his fingers, not a trace of mercy in his touch. His free hand leaves your hair to grope at one of your breasts, sliding your shift down to expose you to his greedy gaze, along with that of the perverted noblemen watching you.

He wants them to see you, the sweet princess once known as the Realm’s Jewel, defiled and debauched by him, the second son who no one thought would amount to anything. Everyone was under the impression that you were to be married to Jacaerys. That is, until the day your family returned to King’s Landing and Princess Rhaenys announced that he was to marry Baela. Aemond saw the way your face fell with despair, you and your twin exchanging looks across the table. Your mother then stated that you were to be sent off to Riverrun, to be wed to Kermit Tully. Aemond knew that he would not allow this to happen. He knew that no matter what, he would have you. The little bastard girl who had haunted his dreams since he was a boy. You showed him kindness that neither his brother nor yours ever did, with your warm smiles and your gentle words.

And now, as far as he is concerned, he is repaying the favor, bringing you to the edge for a third time, listening to you mewl his name like a bitch in heat as you squirm against him.

“Where is that willful girl who was brought to me earlier today?” Aemond chuckles, lifting your hips, moving you back and forth on his thigh, the feeling of the coarse fabric of his breeches against your abused cunt making you let out a choked gasp, “I thought you would never bow to me. But here you are, sweet niece. My wife. Ready to be fucked like a little whore.”

You whimper slightly, and the sound prompts him to turn you around to face him, your back now to the crowd. He pulls his dagger from its sheath and slices open the fabric of your shift, your body now entirely bare before him. To add to the humiliation of it all, Aemond keeps his clothes on, only undoing his breeches to free his cock. Your eyes go wide as you realize what is about to happen. And the worst part is that the aching between your thighs intensifies. You want this. You want to fuck him.

Aemond sees the shame in your eyes and pulls you close, watching your teeth bite into your lower lip as you sink down on his cock. His hands move to squeeze at the flesh of your rear, kneading it between his fingers. Your entire body is taut, growing accustomed to the intrusion, but soon the slight discomfort gives way to pleasure, a fact that does not escape the one-eyed prince’s notice.

“Does my pretty little wife like being split open on her prince’s cock?”

You hate that his words excite you. You hate that the feeling of him thrusting up into you, setting a brutal pace as he holds you in place drives you to the brink of madness with how much you desire him. You close your eyes and try to pretend that you are anywhere but here, but one of his hands moves to hold your jaw, squeezing just enough to get your attention.

“Look at me, niece,” Aemond snarls, his eye trained on you, “Look at me as I fuck you. Look at me as I spill my seed inside you. And worry not, if it does not take tonight, I have every intention of breeding you every night for the rest of our lives.”

Gods, why does that excite you? You reach your peak, with how many times he brought you to it before, this came faster than the others. He has not spent himself yet, so you are surprised when he lifts you off of him, only to turn you around and pull you back onto his cock, forcing you to face your audience as he continues fucking you.

“They are about to see the next king of the realm being conceived,” Aemond whispers in your ear, “It is the most exciting thing that will ever happen in their pathetic lives. What a gift we have given them, my strong girl.”

“Aemond, it’s too much,” you say, your voice cracking slightly, your toes curling as his fingers move to deftly circle your pearl, bringing you closer and closer to the edge once more.

“You can barely even speak, hm?” Aemond coos, “My poor, empty-headed little wife. Head empty, save for how good my cock feels inside you.”

You can feel the metal of his crown against your temple as his hips begin to slow, knowing he is close to spilling himself inside you, that this humiliation will soon end. He pinches at your sensitive nub once more, feeling you spill yourself against him, reaching his own end moments later, breeding you, filling you with his seed just as he promised. 

He snaps his fingers and the cloak he put on you during your wedding ceremony is brought forth and placed on your shoulders. He turns you to face him, holding your trembling form in his arms, tears spilling down your face. What will your mother do when she hears of this? And Daemon? The thought is too much to bear.

As if he can sense what you are thinking, Aemond tugs on your hair, pulling your face close to his, lips crashing down onto your own in a searing kiss.

“You belong to me now, zaldrītsos,” Aemond rasps against your ear, low enough for only you to hear, “Just as I always wanted. I have the crown, permanently once I do away with my fool of a brother. And I will have the perfect queen.”

A shiver goes down your spine at his treasonous words.

Though it shocks you that it is not one of fear.

It is one of excitement.

[sapphire-writes]

Pretty Little Thing

summary: After finding yourself at a holiday party you hadn't wanted to attend in the first place, Aemond Targaryen makes it worth while.

pairing: modern!Aemond x Reader

warnings: 18+/NSFW/MDNI - smut, oral fem receiving, fingering, spanking, praise, slight dirty talk, overstim, kissing, love bites, hand over mouth, titty play, allusions to Aegon being a creeper, alcohol, smoking, langauge

word count: 7.2k

note: im back! grad school didn't kill me! hope you enjoy!

link to other stories from me!

To be notified when I post something new, be sure to follow @sapphire-writes-updates & turn notifications on 💙

—

Be there soon.

Alysanne had texted you nearly an hour ago, and with each passing minute you became more doubtful she’d be making an appearance at all.

You hadn’t even wanted to come. It’d been her idea and now she was blowing you off.

“We’re just exchanging the last of our things,” she’d promised on the phone several hours earlier, “You go on without me and I’ll meet you there.”

Yeah. Because it takes three hours to give your ex-boyfriend his stuff back. Totally.

Alysanne and Cregan Stark had been on and off again since you’d known her; this time was no exception. You knew from her first running later than I thought text that the night wasn’t going to go as you’d hoped. 

You decide to like her most recent message instead of replying, unable to stop the wave of annoyance cresting inside of you. 

You hadn’t even wanted to come.

An end-of-semester holiday party. Thrown by the elder Lannister siblings; twins Jason and Tyland. The kings of Casterly Rock are well known for their extravagant get-togethers and the unimaginable generational wealth that funds all their exploits. 

They’d long graduated from King’s Landing University, but you and Alysanne scored an invite courtesy of Cerelle Lannister, their younger sister, whom you’d been trying to avoid since you arrived. If Cerelle didn’t see you, perhaps you could escape the party unscathed.

That hope proves too good to be true as your name is called from across the room. You slide your phone back into your pocket as Cerelle approaches you. Her blonde hair hangs in effortless curls down her back, the emerald green top she wears accentuating its golden hues, along with her bright green eyes. 

You’re not exactly close with Cerelle, though she appears to enjoy your friendship, at least on a surface level. She’s part of the weekly book club you attend. Her grin widens as she reaches you, eyes drinking you in. 

“Darling!” she muses, pressing a kiss against your cheek.

“You wore it!” she says, fingers ghosting across the cashmere cardigan you’d chosen to wear that evening. Cerelle had bought it for you a few weeks ago, though you’d begged her not to; the price was more than you made in a paycheck.

Alysanne once referred to you as Cerelle’s Polly Pocket.

“She pulls you out of her pocket and plays dress up. It’s fucking weird,” she’d said. 

Cerelle’s lips curve upwards in a Cheshire cat grin as she slings an arm around your shoulder, bringing her glossed lips next to your ear.

“Stop moping in the corner like some dreary wallflower,” she purrs, brushing some hair behind your ear, “Have some fun! It’s winter break!”

Goosebumps break out on your skin at her affections. You laugh breathlessly shrugging away from her touch causing her to frown. 

“You haven’t had enough to drink,” she insists, reaching for another glass, “You’re much too antsy.”

“Alysanne was supposed to be here,” you tell her and she nods understanding, looping her arm through yours and giving your forearm a comforting pat. 

“Fashionably late as always, I suppose,” Cerelle drolls, pointing across the room, “There are lots of fascinating characters here who’ll distract you. Shall I spin a bottle to decide?”

“Hilarious,” you tell her, shaking your head.

“I never joke about a good shag,” Cerelle argues, gaze flickering about the room, “From the looks of it you could use it.” She turns back to you, matching your pout. “Don’t frown, you look too lovely.” She places her hands on your cheeks, thumbs tugging the corner of your lips upwards.

“Much better,” she praises as you hold the smile she’s decorated your face with, “Come on let's find you someone…don’t look at me like that! Someone to flirt with, that’s all. A bit of harmless fun.” 

You roll your eyes earning a pitch on the arm and you swat Cerelle’s hand away.

“There’s no one here I want to flirt with,” you insist, following her gaze around the room, “Let alone shag.”

“You’re too picky,” she muses, tapping a manicured nail against her chin as she scans the room, “What about Greyjoy?”

A shiver rolls through you, “No thank you.”

“Heard he’s good in the sack.”

You’d heard a lot of things about Dalton Greyjoy. None of which made you want to spend an extended period of alone time with him. You glance at Cerelle giving her a firm look. She sighs, returning to her mission.

“You need someone,” Cerelle insists after you shoot down several more options, “You haven’t been with anyone since—what was it again?”

His face flashes through your mind before you can help it. 

“Unimportant,” you quip, “Cerelle, I just want to—” Your words die as two new guests bound up the stairs into the main hallway. 

Suddenly, it’s as if all the air has been sucked from the room, your heartbeat echoing in your ears the only sound you can hear. You tug Cerelle closer, eyes wide.

“You invited them?” you hiss, as Cerelle frowns, following your gaze.

“Not me. Jason must have,” she answers, “It’s not a party without Aegon. Jay swears he has the best coke on this side of the Keep.”

Aegon Targaryen is relatively harmless as long as you keep your drink close. You’re more concerned with the tall figure who lurks closely behind him. Though the younger, Aemond Targaryen towers over his brother; his presence makes the room feel smaller, colder than it was moments ago. He’s dressed in all black, as he usually is, the silver chain around his neck the only other color. His long snow-white hair is braided down his back, an eyepatch securely covering his left eye.

He never takes it off.

Aegon pushes by his brother making a beeline for the kitchen where most of the chaos is localized. You can tell a new drinking game has begun by the sound of cheers and the echo of glasses clinking together. Aegon’s eyes lit up as he disappeared down the hall, eager to join the miscellaneous fun.

Aegon loves a good party.

Aemond watches his brother but lingers behind in the living room leaning against a wall. He extends a long arm to the bookshelf retrieving one with his long fingers. He flicks open a few pages, lips pursing. He glances up, violet eye meeting yours for the briefest moment. 

Your lips part and you look away, warmth flooding your cheeks. You had shared a couple of classes with Aemond, nothing more nothing less. He was quite mysterious. 

“Anyway,” Cerelle says, her attention wavering with each passing second, “Back to you drinking. I’ll get you another glass. Loosen up, pet.” 

—

You try to, you really do. No matter what her intentions are, Cerelle has been nothing but nice to you, so you allow her antics. An hour has ticked by and Alysanne has yet to respond to your latest text message. Squeezed between Cerelle and Sabitha Frey during another round of quarters you decide to plan your escape. 

“I’m going to get some air,” you tell her, rising from the couch. Cerelle rolls her eyes, “I’m not leaving, I swear!”

“You better not!” she says, perfectly sculpted eyebrows knitting together, “I’ll come to fetch you if you’re gone too long—you know I will.”

She’s telling the truth. 

“Five minutes,” you insist, forcing a smile.

Cerelle’s nose twitches but she lets it go and nods, returning her attention to the game.

Weaving through the sea of people you make your way outside letting the door shut behind you as you walk down a few steps of the front stoop. It’s colder than you expected, you can see your breath in front of you. 

You stand shivering, trying to decide what to do next. Reaching into your pocket, you check your phone for the time. You could leave, make your escape down the steps, and catch the last bus back to Maegor’s Holdfast. 

If you stay any longer, you’ll be forced to spend the night or dip into your savings to splurge on an Uber. It’s always crazy expensive on this side of town as if the drivers know the neighborhood is full of rich kids. 

The door opens and noise from the party fills the cool night until it slams shut once more. You roll your eyes expecting Cerelle as you turn your head. 

Only it isn’t her.

Aemond Targaryen lingers on the top step, reaching into his jacket pocket and placing a cigarette between his teeth. He finds a lighter a moment later, a nice expensive one, flicking it open with a sharp click. Fire blooms in the palm of his hand and you can just make out the three-headed dragon branded on the side of the silver lighter before it disappears into his pocket again.

He releases a cloud of smoke into the air, mimicking the one your breath makes. You turn away as he walks down a few steps, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. 

“You were in my class,” he says suddenly, his head tilting to the side, “History of The First Men, right?” 

You force your lips together. “Mhmm,” you answer, surprised he recognized you.

Aemond Targaryen didn’t seem the type to remember a random girl in his class. Smart as hells, he focused solely on his grades, paying little attention to the rest of the student body. He seemed to be the antithesis of his elder brother. Though incredibly different, supposedly they had similar lustful appetites. 

One for pleasures of the flesh, the other for academic validation.

Aegon Targaryen was a known party boy and ran in multiple social circles. He didn’t care about class or popularity; if there was sex, liquor, and drugs around, Aegon Targaryen would be there. 

However, there were stories about Aemond too that made their way around campus. 

“You alright?” he pressed, the silence laying heavy between you. 

“I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now,” you breathe, chuckling slightly as you rub your arms as the frigid air bites into your exposed flesh. 

Aemond quirks a brow at that, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Why’s that?”

“You’re sort of a banned topic at book club,” you admit, causing his lips to curl into a small smirk. 

“Am I?”

“Mhmm.”

Another moment of silence goes by before his curiosity gets the better of him. “Because?”

“Maris runs it,” you tell him, and he clicks his tongue, nodding to himself before taking another drag of his cigarette.

Maris Baratheon, the elder of a pair of Irish twins. Floris Baratheon, once the object of Aemond’s affection for about a half second, was royally screwed over when he left her for none other than Alys Rivers. Adjunct Professor. It was quite the scandal at the time.

You’re not exactly friends with Floris; closer to Maris if you had to choose. But it's the principle of things—girl code. 

“Floris and I were never exclusive,” Aemond comments.

“Yikes.”

So maybe Aemond Targaryen is just like every other guy. Though, you’re mostly sure he’s telling the truth. The story you’d heard was that he ghosted her. 

“She shouldn’t have assumed,” he continues, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

You roll your eyes, blood boiling at his statement as annoyance begins to quicken in your belly. Aemond Targaryen seems more like his elder with every word that leaves his curved lips. 

“Right, of course not, how dare she,” is your sarcastic reply. 

Aemond tilts his head toward the sky, speaking around the cigarette. 

“You seem rather upset,” he accuses, “Funny, Floris never mentioned you.”

You turn to face him fully and he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. Folding your arms across your chest you jut your hip out. “We’re not friends. It’s the principle of it all. I don’t like assholes.”

His perfect lips curl slightly. “I’m an asshole?”

“Mhmm. At least Aegon owns up to his behavior, he doesn’t pretend he’s some suave guy doing nothing wrong.”

You swear a smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he plucks the cigarette from between them.

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“Sure seems like it.”

Aemond takes a step closer then. You have to tilt your head to look him in the eye. Something about being this close to him is almost unnerving, your stomach drops slightly as you focus on his prominent cheekbones. 

“It’s not my problem if a girl gets her hopes up after getting fucked properly,” he counters.

Your breath hitches in your throat and you back up, slightly slipping against the icy railing. Aemond reaches out, his hand curling around your bicep to steady you. It’s warm, almost hot; the heat seeps through your thin sweater in the shape of his fingers. 

There’s a tension between you as he holds your arm for a second too long, before the door opens and several partygoers stumble down the steps, forcing you to break apart. Aemond takes another drag of his cigarette from across the stairs as they laugh tumbling into the street. You’re grateful for the distraction, taking a moment to slow the frantic beating of your heart, and the slight flutter in your stomach. 

“So,” you begin, trying to break the awkward silence the partygoers left behind with their departure, “How do you know Cerelle?”

Aemond looks at you quizzically.

“How do I know Cerelle?”

You jerk your chin up in a hasty nod. Aemond chuckles, shaking his head and taking another drag.

“Family friend,” he answers, “Old money likes to stick together.”

You nod again, unsure of how to answer as he observes you. 

“Surely you’ve heard of the Westerosi Seven?” he asks.

You haven’t.

“The what?” 

“The seven families,” Aemond says, his tone indicating that this is somewhat common knowledge, “Generational wealth that can be traced back to medieval times. The higher lords and ladies. Near royalty.” He takes another drag.

“And you’re one of them?” you ask, crossing your arms. 

“My family, yes,” he answers, “And Cerelle’s. The Baratheon girls. Stark. They’re all quite close.”

“Interesting,” you tell him, glancing down the street again, “You sound like the mafia.”

Aemond holds your gaze, not denying your allegation. You release a breathless laugh, but unease settles in your gut. 

The door opens as if on cue, and Cerelle pops her head out. 

“Darling! Come back inside you’ll catch your death,” she calls, waving you forward. She spots Aemond out of the corner of her eye, and you don’t miss the look of interest that gathers in her green eyes as they flicker between the pair of you, “Targaryen.”

“CeCe,” he politely greets, choosing to use the nickname Cerelle often kept reserved for her family only. She doesn’t comment on Aemond’s choice. 

“Hope you’re being nice to my girl,” she says, the words clipped.

“Of course,” Aemond comments and you can’t help but feel like you aren’t there. 

Cerelle glances back at you, a smile decorating her face once more. 

“Come on, pet! In the kitchen.”

Her blonde hair disappears in the door. Aemond walks down the remainder of the steps tossing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it beneath his heel. 

“Best run along,” he muses, not turning to face you, “She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Annoyance prickles under your skin.

“She’s my friend—”

“You have got a very generous friend,” Aemond comments, turning to face you. He motions at your sweater. “Myrish, isn’t it?”

You cross your hands over your chest. 

“Mhmm,” Aemond hums glancing up at you from the bottom step, “I’d just be careful if I were you. Accepting gifts from rich strangers is a lot like Persephone eating the pomegranate seeds.” 

You scoff at the implication before turning away and heading back into the townhouse. Aemond does not follow; you don’t hear the door open as you hurry back up the stairs. 

The party has since moved completely to the kitchen, sans a couple making out on the living room couch. You enter the crowded space and crane your neck to see what everyone is cheering at.

It’s something happening on the marble island, but you don’t see what—that is until Cerelle sits up, her blonde curls cascading around her face, a lime between her pearly white teeth like a cat with a mouse. 

She smiles curling her finger, beckoning Aegon Targaryen forward. He leans against her, bringing his mouth to hers and stealing the lime. The juice flows down his chin before he lets it fall, pressing a sloppy kiss to Cerelle’s lips, earning several cheers. 

As she breaks away she notices you, eyes lighting up as she slips off the counter. 

“Good, you didn’t leave!” she says giggling, “It’s your turn.”

“My turn?” you ask, heart dropping into your stomach. 

“Mhmm,” she says, dragging you forward, “Up now!” 

“Cerelle, I don’t—”

“Hush! Qyle Martell is doing it,” she says biting her lip suggestively, “Let the sexy Dornishman take a shot off you, alright?”

Your cheeks darken as he appears before you, arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you onto the counter like a lamb for slaughter. The crowd cheers and your eyes widen as you meet Qyle’s warm brown eyes. 

“Your sweater,” he says, motioning to it with his hand that clutches a bottle of tequila. 

You glance at Cerelle and she nods encouragingly. Over her head and in the doorway you spot Aemond. He didn’t leave after all. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, observing the chaos with a curled lip, as if the entire thing is beneath him.

Qyle whistles, drawing your attention back to him. He motions to your sweater yet again.

“Oh,” you tell him, moving to unbutton it. 

Thank goodness you wore a tank top underneath. Your fingers slip with nerves as you struggle to unbutton it. You’re the center of attention, peers cheering and chanting around you as you struggle with the bottoms. 

Quite the sacrificial lamb you are. 

“Here, can I help?” Qyle asks, reaching toward you, his fingers bumping against your own. The bottle of tequila sloshes. 

“No—no I’ve got it—oh!”

You’d moved wrong, done something wrong—or perhaps someone pushed him you’re not sure. Your head is buzzing with the noise of the room and suddenly the front of your sweater is doused in tequila. Qyle’s eyes are wide as Cerelle pushes him to the side as the smell of alcohol fills your nose. 

The room quiets momentarily until Cerelle’s bell-like laugh pierces through the silence. 

“Qyle you idiot,” Cerelle sneers, nose wrinkling with playful distaste, “You’re supposed to wait till she’s laying down—”

“It was an accident!”

“—and her sweater!” Cerelle growls in annoyance, “Go upstairs, pet, my room. Pick anything you like.”

You slide off of the counter, hurrying from the room, leaving the sound of music and chanting behind as you move deeper into the labyrinth of the Lannister home. 

—

Cerelle’s room lacks color and warmth. 

You’d spent the night once here before, crawling into the white feather bed after too much mulled wine. Cerelle had stroked your hair until you’d fallen asleep, only to awake the next morning with a severe headache and a churning belly. 

Popping the rest of the buttons, you peel the soaked sweater from your body and throw it in the hamper. You then walk over to Cerelle’s closet—double doors—and open it. Expensive. Perfumed. You’ve already ruined one pretty thing. Though Cerelle could hardly care about the expense, you do. You sigh, gently pushing through the soft fabric.

“Playing dress up?” a voice calls, and you turn to Aemond at the door. 

You close the closet door. You’ll just have to survive in your thin top. Aemond holds a glass of whiskey between his long fingers.

“Well, I suppose that was a given,” you answer him, sitting down on the bed.

Aemond watches you from the doorway, his arm raised above his head, fingers tapping nonsensically against the frame. 

“D’you want to see how you’re supposed to do it?” he suddenly asks.

“Do what?” you question, tilting your head to the side. 

“What Qyle was going to do,” he answers, and you understand his meaning. 

Aemond walks over to you, the ice rattling against the glass he lazily grips between his fingers, coming to stand in front of your legs. You’re not sure why he’s asking, what interest he has in you. But something in your belly tightens the closer he gets.

“Alright,” you give him a quiet answer, the word barely slipping past your lips. 

Aemond purses his lips, glancing down at your legs. 

“Spread them,” he says softly, motioning with the cup. Warmth creeps up the back of your neck and blooms on the apples of your cheeks. You lock eyes with him, focusing on the ring of violet that surrounds his pupil. You do as you’re told, knees parting; his gaze hypnotizing. “Wider.” 

Your skirt tightens against your thighs as you do so, but you spread your legs wide enough for him to stand between them. He takes a step forward and you’re forced to look up at him.

“Lean back,” he instructs. You’re beginning to notice how easily he slips into the domineering role. Again you follow his instructions, cheeks burning as you lean back, propping yourself on your elbows. 

You’re much more exposed without your sweater, the tops of your breasts visible in the thin top you wear. Aemond steps closer, looming over you, heat radiating from his tall form.

He reaches out, fingers caressing your cheek. You hope he can’t feel how warm they’ve become, feel your pulse fluttering against his fingers as they trail underneath your jaw and down your neck until they reach your collarbone.

“You’re to put salt here,” he murmurs, pressing against the dip of your collarbone for emphasis, “That’s first.” He leans down then, fingers trailing over your shoulder and down your arm leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “Though we’re without.”

You swallow as his fingers continue to trace your collarbone. His violet eye watches you carefully before he pulls his hand away. He brings them lower, ghosting down your ribs until they reach your waist.

“May I?” he asks, fingers at the hem of your shirt. You give him a wordless nod, not able to trust your voice. Aemond pushes the fabric up slightly, revealing your navel. He holds the glass above your stomach; a drop of condensation falls causing you to flinch at the cool sensation.

Aemond flicks a brow at the constriction of your abdomen, “You’re quite sensitive.”

“It’s cold.”

“Mhmm,” he agrees, turning the glass so more condensation falls; little raindrops begin to adorn your skin, “The liquor goes here.” His fingers ruin the pattern he’s created, rough fingertips swirling the dew drops around your navel, “Tequila.”

“We haven’t got any,” you breathlessly tell him, his touch leaving a scorched trail across your belly. 

Aemond brings his glass closer, pressing the edge against the beginning of your belly button, letting some whiskey pool there. Your hands clenched into fists as the cold liquid fills you up; you watch as it shakes slightly, overflowing. Aemond leans forward, catching the spill with his mouth causing a gasp that sounds more like a moan to leave your mouth. His mouth covers your navel and you can feel his tongue swirl around, collecting the liquid he poured there with hot, calculated strokes. 

His violet eye peers up at you from behind silver lashes, half-lidded as he hollows his cheeks sucking harshly. He reaches toward the side table, mouth never leaving you, to place his glass on the edge freeing his hand. You can feel his tongue circling your navel, gently probing the sensitive skin. You can’t help the giggle that escapes you at the ticklish sensation. Aemond presses his hands against your obliques before releasing you with a pop, his chin and lips shining. 

“That’s how it's supposed to be,” he murmurs, not moving from the spot between your legs. Some of his silver hair has fallen across his brow, and on instinct you reach forward, brushing it from his eyes. 

“There’s one more part,” you tell him, fingers grazing the beginning of the scar that mares his left brow before disappearing behind the patch.

“What’s that?” he asks, his gaze revealing he knows the answer. 

He just wants to hear you say it, you realize. 

Your lips part, fingers still somewhat tangled in his hair; the strands soft as silk between your fingers. 

“There was a lime,” you tell him, “The person….holds it in their mouth.”

Aemond pushes up then, his hands sliding up your sides until they’re pressed into the bed on either side of you, his face inches from your own. 

“Have you got a lime on you?” he asks, his breath warm on your face, the scent of whiskey strong between you.

“No,” you murmur, not knowing where to look. He’s so close you can see the flecks of blue and gold in the lilac iris of his eye, count his silver lashes, and notice the small indentation on the tip of his prominent nose.

He hums again, his eye dropping to your lips.

“Pity,” he says, lips down turning into a pout.

Your heart is nearly beating out of your chest with the way it's pounding incessantly against your ribcage. He’s so close your chests are practically touching; your nipples straining against the fabric of your top. His chain peeks out from under the collar of his shirt and your resolve crumbles. Your eyes flicker to his lips, tongue darting out to wet your own and he leans forward, capturing your lips in a heated kiss.

Your hands wrap around his neck as he kisses you; his lips so soft and firm against your own, skilled tongue parting them with ease to deepen the kiss. A moan doesn’t make it out of your throat as his hand cradles your jaw, the sound of soft kisses is the only thing you can hear besides the muffled hum of the music playing downstairs. 

Aemond pulls away then, the look is his eye ravenous as he lowers himself between your legs once more. For a minute you think he may grab his glass and do the party trick all over again, the kiss just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Instead, he pushes your skirt up, fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs. You realize a moment too late what he’s doing.

Riiiip!

“Aemond!” you squeak, as he rips the seam of your tights, “These were a new pair!”

“I can buy you another,” he says, pressing a kiss against the smooth newly exposed flesh, “Or perhaps CeCe can. You’re her favorite plaything, aren’t you?” 

Your cheeks burn at the statement, your mouth pressing together in a tight line. Aemond grins, nimble fingers undoing the zipper of your skirt and wiggling it down your legs along with your ruined tights.

“Oh she doesn’t like that,” he says, clicking his tongue, “But it’s true, isn’t it?” His hands are roaming higher now, grazing against your clothed center. You’re certain he feels the evidence of your arousal but he stays quiet about it. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? A pretty little plaything.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, humiliation seeping into your veins, though it does little to quell the desire pooling in your belly. 

“No shame in that,” he says, shaking his head, “I understand Cerelle, entirely.” His fingers tug your panties down your bare legs, exposing your wet center. Aemond’s eye locks on it, lips quirking upward. “I like pretty things as well.”

“So I’ve heard,” you quip as Aemond’s second-hand joins the first. He swirls a finger low against your entrance and you clench as he drags it upwards.

“Have you?” he muses, circling your clit with minimal pressure, “And what have you heard?”

“That you’re as insatiable as your brother,” you manage to choke out as his thumb continues to tease your clit, “You just hide it better.” 

Aemond cocks his head to the side in silent agreement before pressing his face against you. A sharp cry leaves your lips as his tongue explores from your entrance up to your clit, the tip circling the sensitive button. 

Eyes rolling back in your head, Aemond nuzzles his face against you, tongue slipping down and pressing into your clenching hole. He hums in approval as you make another desperate noise as his tongue curves upwards inside of you. 

Seven hells, how is anyone’s tongue long enough to do what Aemond’s is doing? Your toes curl as his tongue hooks upwards against the front of your pelvic bone, thrusting against the sensitive patch of nerves that resides there.

“Oh gods—fuck—fuck!” you cry as he continues the repetitive movement of his tongue, waves of pleasure lapping up your spine, sending shivers through your whole body. “Hells Aemond…”

His nose presses against your slippery clit, rubbing against it in a way that stokes the pleasurable fire burning in your belly. His hands hold your thighs open and you throw your head back against the bed as the pressure inside you builds and builds and builds. Your back arches and your thighs tremble in his bruising grasp.

You lean up on your forearms to watch him, his violet eye intently watching your face, studying your reaction. You can tell he’s smug at the effect he’s having on you. He would often get that same look in his eye in class after he proved someone wrong or made a more intelligent point. How you must look to him now; all spread out before him, flushed and slack-jawed, dewy-eyed and pretty. 

You’re a pretty toy to play with. Just want he wanted. 

His tongue leaves your fluttering pussy and you whine at the loss of contact. He mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like needy before two fingers sink inside your warmth to replace what he took away. 

Aemond’s tongue returns to its place around your clit as his fingers curve upwards replaying the motion from before. The stimulation now is much harsher, the pads of his fingers dragging effortlessly against your spongy walls, curling with brutal intention; relentlessly pressing against the swelling spot inside of you. 

His warm, wet tongue against your clit only hastens the tightly winding ball of pleasure in your gut and you feel your walls swelling around his fingers as your release knocks the wind out of you. 

You come with a strangled cry, hands gripping the bed sheets as your abdominal muscles contract to the point of pain, all your muscles going taut as warm waves of euphoria rush through you. 

Aemond releases a choked chuckle of appreciation as he feels you tighten around his fingers. He fucks you through it, stretching out the wave of your orgasm until your legs are trembling and the overstimulation causes you to hiss at him.

“Stop, stop, please.”

“Alright…shhh,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your mound and gently pulling his fingers from your fluttering walls, “There you go, that’s a good girl. You did so well for me.”

You can’t help but warm at his praise, the ringing in your ears fading as your chest swells. Aemond is on you once more, lips pressed to yours the mingled taste of whiskey and you hot on his tongue. 

“Are you going to let me fuck you?” he murmurs between sticky kisses, “Hmm?”

“Aemond…” you breathe into his mouth, hoping that is enough for him.

You can feel him smirk against your lips and know instantly it's not. He tuts disapprovingly, pushing you back against the mattress, his face dipping into the crook of your neck.

“What would Floris say?” he teases, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. Your hands wind around his neck, fingers digging into his scalp. His braid is all but ruined. “I thought you said something earlier,” he continues, nipping and sucking at different spots on your neck, humming with pleasure when he locates a spot that has your back arching. 

“I don’t—”

“Loyalty, I recall,” he purrs, his hand snaking down your side, gripping the meat of your thigh and hoisting it around his waist, “Something like that.”

“Aemond,” you whimper helplessly as he grinds against you, the feeling of his hard cock concealed by his trousers driving you close to madness, “Aemond please.”

“You’re going to have to say it,” he insists, kissing your cheek, “Come on, say it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you tell him, “Please Aemond—gods.” 

“They can’t hear you,” he taunts, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, “You’re all mine.”

You frantically nod, nose bumping against his as his lips curl into a greedy smile. He removes his shirt with one hand before he rolls off of you and onto his back, motioning to you with his hands. 

“Go on then,” he says, “Take what you want.”

With shaky hands, you undo his belt above the sizable tent in his pants before dragging the zipper down and releasing his cock. He’s bigger than you expected, both in length and girth, the reddened tip already weeping in anticipation. You stroke his velvety shaft once before he grabs your wrist, pulling you toward him. 

His hands pull your shirt from your body as you straddle him, his cock nudging at your folds. Aemond’s hands slide up your back, undoing your bra and freeing your breasts. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, hands cupping the sizable mounds, “Gods, you’re so lovely.”

Your face burns at his praise as you raise your hips before gripping him in your hand and guiding him inside of you; gently letting yourself slide down his length, inner walls fluttering around him at the new sensation. Shuddering on top of him you whine at the stretch. “Gods—”

“You can take it,” he murmurs, squeezing you softly in encouragement, “Come on baby, that’s it, just like that.”

Slowly you let him bottom out in your warmth, happily seated on his cock feeling incredibly full. You brace your hands on his chest as he pinches both of your nipples, your jaw slacking in response. Aemond lifts his hips slightly, gauging your reaction as your eyes screw shut.

“That feel good?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper.

“Yes,” you breathe, slowly starting to ride him, hips lifting and returning to his with a soft smack. 

“There she goes,” he murmurs, hands dropping to your hips, squeezing, “Take what you need, gevie.”

A breathless moan escapes you as you ride him, his hands guiding you through the movements. The hum from the music downstairs matches the ringing in your ears. 

Aemond drops his hand from your waist bringing it to the apex of your thighs. His lips part as he watches you rise and fall on his cock, his length coated with your arousal. 

“That’s it,” he coos, his tone bordering on one of condensation, “Just like that—there’s a good girl.” His thumb brushes against your clit as he says it, a broken moan leaving your lips as pleasure ignites your veins. 

His movements are soft, tantalizing, and brutally calculated as he circles the sensitive button; his other hand clings to your waist, hard enough to bruise. Surely they’ll be memories of his touch when you wake; dark purple petals blossoming on your soft flesh at first light. He guides your movements as they become sloppier the closer you get to your release. 

It sends tingles up your spine, your chest and neck growing warmth as you edge closer to the precipice of pleasure.

No other man has made you finish before.

“Are you close?” Aemond murmurs, never stopping his attention to your clit, the subtle movement of his hips thrusting up into you, “I know you are—can feel you clenching around me.”

Your head falls back, mind foggy as you desperately grind against him, trying to ignore the burn in your hamstrings. Aemond’s hand leaves your hip crashing down against your ass with a loud smack. You yelp in surprise, head jerking forward, nails clawing into the hardened muscles of his chest. Aemond’s hand remains where he’d spanked you, fingers curling into the meat of your ass as he releases a breathless laugh; his eye flickers to where your nails dig against his pale flesh, leaving a trail of red behind as they scrape down his chest.

“Answer me,” he demands, and you quickly nod earning another stinging slap, “With your words gevie. Use those pretty lips.”

“Yes,” you practically gasp, “Yes, Aemond I’m close—”

“And you want to cum, don’t you?” he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk, “Do you want me to make you cum?”

“Yes, Aemond please—” the sentence dies with a moan as he plants both feet on the mattress, bucking his hips up against yours at an inhumane pace. Your eyes screw shut, mouth hanging open in ecstasy as all the muscles in your body tense followed by a sudden burst of euphoria pulsing through you. 

Aemond hums in satisfaction as you ride your high, blood rushing in your ears as you shake on top of him, clenching around his thick length. He’s careful to pull his thumb away from your sensitive clit as your eyes flutter open, eyebrows scrunched together at the overstimulation. But his compassion is short-lived as he hooks his arm around your waist, flipping you onto your back and slotting his body on top of yours. 

His cock is removed for merely a moment at the switch of positions before it’s stretching into your once more earning a sharp gasp. Aemond’s hand covers your mouth in an instant, his face buried in the crook of your neck once more. 

“Shhh,” he coos, placing a kiss under your ear, “Hear that?” he asks, thrusting gently into your warmth causing your eyes to roll back in your head. “Listen.”

His hips continue their gentle roll against yours, slowly stoking the pleasurable fire that is reigniting in your belly. Limbs still tingling from your previous orgasm, you blink rapidly trying to focus on what he’s asking. 

The music downstairs has died.

“Everyone’s going home,” he murmurs, through another kiss, “We’d best be quick. Would hate for lovely Cerelle to find her pet in such a position.”

Embarrassment burns your cheeks and he chuckles, keeping his hand over your mouth as he slings your leg over his shoulder, deepening the angle of his thrusts. The head of his cock bullies against your sweet spot almost lovingly as he drags his cock in and out.

“Keep quiet,” he murmurs, the sound of silence deafening with the lack of music, “Can you do that?” He’s rather cruel with his question, delivering a particularly harsh thrust as he asks, then clicking his tongue in disapproval at your muffled moan. “Thought not.”

So his hand remains as he plows into you, the sounds of your pleasure muffled but still desperate as you claw at his shoulders. 

“That’s it,” he encourages, “Cum for me again, just like that.” His pelvis grazes against your clit, the friction only aiding in his efforts of making you reach your release once more. His violet eye scans your face before he dips to your collarbone, nipping the sensitive flesh with his teeth and you cum with a desperate cry against his hand. 

“There you go,” he coos, the words breathy and broken his hips faltering as your walls clamp down around him, “Squeezing me so fucking tight—fuck.” He regains his pace with renewed enthusiasm as your walls continue to flutter around him. Aemond removes his hand from your mouth pressing it into the mattress beside your head. 

Nerves raw from the continued stimulation a tear rolls down your cheek as he chases his own release. Aemond leans forward, hot tongue darting out to catch the salty stream as he hums in satisfaction. 

“We’ll have more time next time,” he whispers the promise against your cheek, “I want to explore what other pretty noises you make.” His lips capture yours then, swallowing the whimper you release. 

“I’m very curious,” he murmurs against your lips, slinging your other leg over his shoulder, pushing your knees back beside your ears. “And I’m very thorough.” A silent scream leaves you as he slams back into you, toes curling as you cum again, vision going white with the force of it. 

Aemond’s hips meet yours a few more times and then you feel his cock pulsate inside of you before the warmth of his release fills you to the brim. You’ll need to make a trip to the pharmacy, but you’ll think about that later. He stays like that for a moment, buried to the hilt inside of you as you both try to regulate your breathing. 

Aemond lowers your legs gently from around his shoulders and brushes some sweat-soaked hair from your forehead. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, and you nod as he kisses you sweetly.

“Just fucked out,” you assure him, a pleasurable ache radiating down your thighs. Aemond hums, carefully pulling his softening cock from your warmth.

The emptiness takes your breath away as he stands. “Wait here,” he orders, walking towards Cerelle’s bathroom. He returns a moment later, washcloth in hand. You push yourself onto shaky forearms as he carefully cleans the mess between your thighs.

“Thank you,” you tell him, face burning from his attention.

“No need for thanks,” he insists, “It’s the bare minimum.”

“For you maybe.”

Aemond flicks a brow toward his hairline, his violet eye meeting yours. His expression is curious, but you sense he’s not going to push you to elaborate. You hold his gaze. 

Not tonight.

“Are you staying here?” he asks, standing when he’s done, handing you pieces of your clothes.

“I think I have to,” you answer, putting your skirt back on and glancing at the clock, “The last bus is long gone.”

Aemond frowns, reaching for his phone.

“I’ll have my driver take you,” he says, unlocking his screen.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s no trouble,” he insists, placing the phone against his ear, “Cole. Ten minutes. Thank you.” He hangs up quickly leaving no time to argue.

“Thanks,” you mutter awkwardly while finishing dressing. You walk to Cerelle’s large mirror and attempt to fix your sex hair. Your eyes widen in horror as you tilt your head to the side, leaning closer to get a better look. 

“Aemond,” you hiss, fingers pressing against the three red marks sure to bruise, “I look like I’ve been mauled by a bear.”

Aemond walks up behind you dragging his fingers down the curve of your neck and over your collarbone. Goosebumps appear in their wake. Three more red marks lead a path down to the top of your right breast. Several sizable mouth-shaped love bites. 

Aemond rests his chin on your shoulder, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“Think of them as a gift,” he tells you, the curve of his lips pressed against the skin of your neck.

His hand curves around your waist, the other slinking up to turn your face towards him. He hums appreciatively, kissing your lips, then your cheek. Down your neck to your shoulder. You glance in the mirror once more, catching his eye. 

There’s something new there. Almost possessive. 

His grip on your waist tightens and he presses his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder.

Outside, snow begins to fall.

[superprincesspea]

Chapters: 13/? Fandom: House of the Dragon (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen/You, Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen/Original Female Character(s), Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen/Lady Baratheon, Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen & You, Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen & Original Female Character(s), aemond Characters: Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen, Reader, You, Lady Baratheon Additional Tags: Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Forced Proximity, Possessive Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen, Smut Summary:

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

[two-white-butterflies]

WAITING FOR A BUS

I'm a traveling man straight from a can, I'm a thousand miles away from my number one fan.

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Reader, Daemon Targaryen x Reader (MODERN)

Description: A new promotion at work prompts you to move into a small modest town with your boyfriend, Aemond Targaryen. There you meet a few friendly faces. It seems like life is going where it's supposed to. That is until you meet your new boss, Daemon Targaryen, who is your boyfriend's estranged uncle.

It doesn't help with the fact that you've been having dreams about him since birth.

masterlist | chapter eight

Aemond was fucking pissed — there was blood running down his face, his favorite shirt was now stained crimson. Harwin was standing in-front of him, barring the door close, eyes simmering with rage. "Did you have to do that?" he questions curtly while standing up, using his arms for balance. Harwin crosses his arms, not moving an inch away from the door. He was a fucking giant of a man, with broad shoulders and dark chestnut eyes. He was scary, but Aemond knew better.

"You deserved it." he replied plainly.

"I'm sure the family wouldn't think that," Aemond asserted while attempting to push through the doors. Harwin pulls him back, staring deep into his eye. "Oh, you're not telling them." he answers in a matter-of-fact manner much to the displeasure of the one-eyed boy.

"What's stopping me?" he threatened — it was easy to kill a man, he merely needed a gun and a dug-out grave. "Me," Harwin responded not taking the little boy seriously. He was a little boy in Harwin's eyes. One that wasn't raised properly.

"You and what army?" he hissed, preparing himself for another fight. Although he must admit there was little chance that he'd win.

"Just me," the man answered, certainty radiated from his voice. Knocking Aemond out was a walk in the park. Harwin could do it in his sleep. Harwin leaned on the doorframe, "Here's what you're going to do," he began while towering over his brother-in-law.

"You'll make no mention of what happened — let's call it a little truce for the meantime. I know that Alicent has a little announcement planned, and you wouldn't want to ruin it for your mother, wouldn't you?" Harwin beckoned to Aemond's pure need to please his mother. There was no way the boy would disagree now.

Aemond rolled his eye. "And what do I get in return?" he inquired, needing something of his own to seal the deal. Harwin's eyes darkened for a second. "You get to live — you little fucker." the man cursed before pointing at the drawer beside the bed.

"There's a shirt there, make sure to wipe the blood off your face." he commanded and the boy had no choice but to comply. This wasn't the time to settle his losses, it was the time to cooperate with his enemies. He'll get his revenge soon. There's no need for rushing.

He opens the drawer — he could hear his brother-in-law exit the door. He sighs loudly, before opening the glass door to the bathroom. Aemond had to give it to his uncle, his house wasn't that bad. The bathroom could use a little work though. It felt claustrophobic inside, the green-walls did little to quench his anger.

He opened the tap, and water flowed loudly. He stares at himself through the rectangular mirror. His face was bloodied. He could taste the familiar copper in his tongue. The punch ruptured something inside of his mouth. But he didn't give a fuck about that.

He gathers the water in his palms, gently flicking the blood away from his face. The entire sink was stained red. "I hate those fucking assholes." he cursed to himself while gargling a little water. He couldn't believe that they were all fighting against him. Who the fuck was Harwin anyways? He was nothing but a cunt who fathered his sister's bastards. Not even a real Targaryen.

HONEYBUNCHSUGARPLUM🫦 5:21PM it's been an hour, where are you?

PUMPKINSPICELATTE🎃 5:21PM Just had a little problem with the wine.

HONEYBUNCHSUGARPLUM🫦 5:21PM pls come here soon !

He decides to leave it at that. He wanted you to think about him the entire time. He places his phone down on the marble-counter, before removing his white-shirt. He curses again, knowing that there was no way the stain would come out even after a dozen washes. He opens the automatic bin, and throws his shirt down the garbage. He'll write Daemon a check soon. He looks at the shirt that Harwin left him. It was vintage Armani — those cunts wanted to flex their wealth on him.

PUMPKINSPICELATTE🎃 5:30PM Coming right down 😍😄

HONEYBUNCHSUGARPLUM🫦 be careful

———

Daemon's shoulders were tense, and there was a heavy weight on his shoulders. This was his first day-off in years, he most bounced between charity work and monitoring the schools that he founded. When Rhaenyra suggested a dinner with you, he was more than ecstatic. "You seem a little more stressed today," he offers you a glass of wine, and you greedily accept. There was a migraine forming at the top of your skull. There was little conversation made between you and the Targaryen Family. They mostly kept to their own cliche's, leaving you with kids for company — that was until Daemon arrived.

"I'm thinking about the kids, it's not really appropriate to have their aunt as teacher." you mumble, taking a soft sip of the bitter merlot. He chuckles softly, his voice transported you to a time long ago. His laughter was familiar, it was velvet and sweet. His voice wasn't a sensation, it was a memory.

"You aren't their aunt yet — that is until Aemond places a ring around your finger." he gently avoids the topic, finding the thought of you married to be uncomfortable. He remembers the day that you married him. It was a valyrian ceremony. There was blood, obsidian, and pure love. Even when you couldn't remember him, he finds himself running home to those memories.

"Soon, I think — but I might decline his proposal. I love my class." you laugh while watching the kids run around the living room. There was silence. The kind of silence that people share when they know each other. "It's rare to see a teacher actually love their work." Daemon smiled, while playing with the ring on his pinky-finger.

It was a ring made from his memory. It was a replica of the one you both shared. It had diamonds on its sides with silver as the base. It looked simple, but staring at it made your head hurt. He notices your gaze on his ring, and he smiles a bit — hoping that you'd remember in that very moment.

"I like your ring," you complimented.

His eyes softened, hearing your soft voice. He removes the ring from his finger. "Take it!" he offered enthusiastically. You shy away from his touch, a blush forming on your cheek as you realize that he was serious. "I can't take it. I'm sure that it's very important to you." you take a step away — it was rude to accept something from him.

"It's fine," he shakes his head while reaching for your hands. You move away again, but his grip was really tight. "No, I'd feel bad." you try to wriggle your way out of his hands. He stares at your eyes again. E/C orbs that felt like coming home.

"This is a family heirloom, you're gonna have it anyways." he lies, and you stop moving at that moment. "Alright, but if anyone asks — you forced me to take it." you joke and he places the ring on your pointer finger, but it doesn't fit. He moves it to the middle finger, but it doesn't fit there too. He looks at you again, and the ring fits perfectly on your ring finger.

"Perfect fit." he comments while letting go of your hand. You try to take the ring off to return, but he moves to the other side of the room. Why are these feelings igniting inside of you?

———

Aemond descended from the wooden staircase with difficulty. His organs felt rearranged. His face felt battered and bruised, but his eyes light up at the sight of you. There was a glass of wine on your right hand, and you were standing motionless staring at Daemon.

His jaw clenches and his steps became faster. "Pumpkin," he purred while finding his way beside you. He couldn't stop looking at your face, failing to notice the silver ring on your left ring-finger. "Hey," you smile, taking your eyes off Daemon.

"I missed you, what were you doing up there?" you inquire while pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. "I got wine on my shirt, then Harwin decided to make a dog-crib up there." he reasoned easily, while wrapping his arms around your waist. "This is why we never buy from IKEA, that shit is hard to build." he complains while burying his face on your neck.

"You poor thing, that was too much hard labor for your gamer fingers." you joke, earning an eye-roll from him. "These fingers are the sole reason you have a skincare routine." he chuckles on return, while pressing more kisses on the top of your head. "Sure, whatever makes you happy." you roll your eyes, wrapping an arm around his body.

Rhaenyra peeks through the door, smiling at the both of you. "Get in here lovebirds, dinner is about to begin." she announces and you laugh, quickly leaving him behind in search of the dining room.

next chapter>>

tags: @namelesslosers @immyowndefender @ammo2022 @perihelioneclipse @gracielikegrapes

[cinnamoodles]

getting into a fandom and reading all the top fics >>>>>

[dumbgothbunny]

I want daemon and Aemond to be fueding over me and it comes to a head one night and they decide to share me