#dark!aemond pov

[asumofwords]

Aemond POV: Your return to the Red Keep

A/N: I saw that a few of you wanted an Aemond POV, and as I am a benevolent ruler, I thought I would give the people what they wanted. I wanted to do the the first couple of times he saw you after the years you were separated. This is all from Aemond’s point of view and from the time where you and your family all returned to the Red Keep.

This is a Dark!Aemond POV from the fic Smoke, Fire and Ash.

Enjoy !

TW: Aemond POV. Dark!Aemond. Murder, Incest, thoughts of violence, thoughts of sexual activities. 18+

Words: 4k

Character pairing: Dark!Aemond X Reader, HOTD characters. Dark!Aemond POV.

He swung his sword roughly at Ser Criston, who leant back to dodge the edge of the sharp blade, as he and Aemond moved in tandem in the training yard. Aemond was fast on his feet but knew Ser Cole to be just as quick. 

Each swing was met by a duck, or deflection by the chain of the flail Ser Cole swung at him, the loud clanging of the chain and whistle in the air as it moved towards him, guided him back. And soon Aemond found himself dancing in a circle as he waited to make the next move, to swing the blade back down onto the knight and make him yield. 

Ser Cole swung the striking head once more towards Aemond, and he dodged, before spinning to hold the tip of his blade against Ser Cole's neck, hitting the flail away. They both breathed deeply as they watched each other, and Ser Cole finally conceded. 

Applause rang out from those who had gathered to watch the two men train, and Aemond felt the prickling sensation of three sets of eyes upon his form.

Ser Cole dropped the flail to the ground heavily, “Well done, My Prince,” Ser Cole breathed, “You’ll win tourneys in no time.”

Aemond did not lower the blade, “I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” He spoke, before allowing his gaze to roam the space to where he felt eyes watching him. Lowering his sword, Aemond let his eye land on a pair of brown headed boys, and the silver hair of a girl.

Who is she?

“Nephews,” He called out, enjoying watching the two Strong boys stiffen as they were addressed, faces suddenly uncomfortable, “Have you come to train?” 

Jacaerys mouth opened and closed like a fish, as Lucerys looked up to the girl, no, woman, beside him. How she had grown. No longer the gangly limbed child, who’s hair could rarely be tamed, but now stood a woman of the court. 

Her hair was braided neatly behind her head, as she wore a tight all black gown that hugged her curves. Grown, indeed. Her cheeks were dusted a light pink. He felt his lip twitch as he watched her, small excitement bubbling inside as he remembered fond memories of their youth together.

Was she nervous?

As he caught her gaze, she blinked, looking down and then back up at him, stoney faced and chin held higher. She looked down to Lucerys, whispering to him before moving the two Strong boys away with her, back into the Keep. 

All those fond memories came crashing down, and the bitter rage in which Aemond had tried in vain to keep in order, bubbled up inside of him. There she was, the Princess who he had been so close to, his niece who he had shared so many memories with, so many secrets, once again choosing her brothers over him. 

He could remember vividly, sitting in that room, as the Maester stitched his eye shut, feeling the sharp pain of the needle as it threaded through. No milk of the poppy was given to him. He was too young, it was too dangerous. And so instead he tried to seek comfort in someone he always had.

You.

And what had you done? 

Stuck by Lucerys, checking his face for injury, and standing firmly alongside your mother, watching him as he was berated in front of all, by his father. That was when the love shared between the both of you died.

He would do well to remind himself of that.

Aemond could not believe how much she had changed. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he watched them walk away, the Princess throwing a curious look over her shoulder to glance at him one more time. 

He supposed that he had grown too. His cheeks no longer held the plumpness of young adolescence, and his face had grown sharp and angled. Even the way he held himself was different.

He had changed, and so had she.

You were all in the Iron Throne room, listening to Vaemond Velaryon put forward a motion to be heir of Driftmark, questioning the four of you and your legitimacy, voice loudly ringing into the court.

Aemond would remember it for the rest of his days. 

You stood, back straight, head tall, hair braided tightly up, with none flowing down. A black and red gown hugging your figure with an off the shoulder look, similar to your mother as you stood beside her, mouth turned down in the corners. 

Such rage, Aemond noted.

He watched with glee as Vaemond argued with your mother, watching Jacaerys shake his head and mutter under his breath whilst his assaulter, Lucerys looked nervous. You had pushed Lucerys beside you, using your body as a shield to keep him out of Vaemond’s line of sight.

Still protecting him.

Aemond felt that bitterness curl through him as he watched. 

“Her children... are bastards!”  Vaemond yelled into the court, and yet despite it all, Aemond could not keep his eye off of you. As soon as the words left the Velaryon’s lips, he watched as your face calmed. 

It was eerie, Aemond thought. 

Your hand had moved the slightest of bits towards your side, and Aemond watched as you swayed forward, as though ready to pounce. There was no blush on your cheeks, no sneer on your lips, just a fire burning in your eyes as you watched your Velaryon uncle. 

“And she…is…a whore.” The man sneered.

“I, shall have your tongue for that.” Aemond’s father called out to the court, standing roughly as he unsheathed the blade from his side. 

Aemond would not give the old man a second glance, he knew that his father would do nothing, as he had done nothing for years. And would do nothing as he was too weak from sickness, and too faint of heart.

Movement caught Aemond’s eye, as he watched Vaemond Velaryon’s corpse fall loudly to the ground, the sound of a blade and the loud thud echoing through the chambers. 

If Aemond could laugh, he would. But it would not be proper of him. 

“He can keep his tongue.” Daemon purred, looking down at his handiwork.

Aemond flicked his sight away from the corpse and up at you. You had not jumped, nor looked away from the body on the floor. No. Instead you glared at it with rage, before suddenly your lips pulled into a small smile. 

No-one else in the court would have witnessed it, too busy looking at the body of the man slain in front of them. Your lips looked as though they were fighting to hide the sheer joy and pleasure you got from watching him be killed. A small line of blood was flecked across your cheek, but you did not notice, or if you had, you did not wipe it away.

Such a beautiful smile. 

And then suddenly your eyes were on him. And Aemond felt the air be sucked out of the room. You watched him in delight, no longer hiding your smile as you watched him. Such a smug and proud look upon your face. A threat some would say. 

The sight made his cock twitch. 

There she is.

Aemond felt awe as he watched Daemon move back, wiping his sword on his robes before he came to stand beside you. You took your gaze from your uncle, and looked up at your mothers husband, smiling proudly. 

He watched as Daemon ran a finger along your cheek to wipe the Velaryon blood away lovingly, and Aemond felt a pang of jealousy. 

Aemond noted that Vaemond was wrong when he said that they wouldn’t know what Velaryon blood looked like, because now the whole court did.

Aemond had been running late for his family feast, something that he had never done before. He prided himself in upholding his duty and being the son that Aegon should have been.

In truth, Aemond had gone straight to his chambers after the events at court, and had pulled roughly at his cock at the thought of you. He wished to touch you, to hold you, to claim you. He wanted to mark you so that everyone knew that you were his. He wanted to watch you swell with his babe.

He had never thought of you this way before and it maddened him. He found his release in his hand three times that day, picturing you on your knees before him, pleasuring him with your soft lips, or him thrusting deep into your cunt. 

You had bewitched him.

He had brushed his hair more roughly than he should have, the frustration rolling through him as he prepared to walk down to the feast. And although he had brought himself to climax three times already, he still was not satisfied. He told himself as he walked to the Dining Hall to ignore you, to breathe, to not get caught in the trap of a bastard. 

But he was already trapped.

When he entered the room, he noticed all were praying before the meal, his mother Alicent giving him a stern yet disappointing look. It made his heart sting to disappoint her. And this sting, he blamed immediately upon you.

As he walked to the table he let himself gaze at you. 

You wore quite the scandalous dress, as though you were purposefully teasing him. No. He was sure you were doing it on purpose. To get a rise out of him. To tempt him into your space.

The neckline was plunging and he could not help but let his eyes linger upon the breasts you had developed. They looked so soft, and Aemond wanted nothing more than to run his tongue over them softly, or bite them roughly.

He could not decide which one he liked the thought of better.

Aemond asked his mother for forgiveness as he sat at his seat, at the opposite end of the table facing you. He held your gaze firm, and when he saw the light blush crawl over your cheeks, he let himself smirk in victory. 

Perhaps he affected you the same way you did him.

He watched you carefully that evening, eye roaming your figure wondering if you had been spoiled yet by some man, or woman. He wondered why you had not been betrothed yet, surely a woman of your age should have been promised to some Lord by now.

And then he could not help but think perhaps the Gods were on his side for once, and the reason that you were not engaged yet, meant that you would be his. 

Aemond found that he had no hunger that evening, except for a hunger for you. He could not bring himself to eat, nor could he bring himself to take his eye away from you. He still could not believe how much you had grown. 

Your lips were fuller now, and had the softest curve to them, than you did when you were young, and the longer he looked, the more he found it difficult to look away. He wondered if you hated him. The way you caught his gaze and sneered, made him assume so. 

How could she hate me? He thought. 

What had he done to deserve this? She was the one who abandoned him. She was the one who chose her bastard brother over him. She was the one who let him take his eye, and did not care for his pain after. 

He felt that anger prickle in the back of his head as he watched her. 

He watched his niece dance, and laugh with his sister. He watched them break each other's cold masks and for one second, he thought he was looking back in time, from when they had all been children. Back to when Helaena and Y/n had been inseparable. 

Or so he had thought.

He found that as he watched them dance and enjoy each other's company, he could no longer sneer. He could no longer hold such disdain and anger. It gave him a lick of hope. A disgusting, fickle piece of hope that perhaps one day, he could have her, and she would want it.

But then Jacaerys took Helaena to dance, and suddenly he felt that anger redirected.

How dare the dirty bastard touch her like that. How dare he make her smile. How dare his disgusting Strong hands touch Helaena so gently, hold her as though he knew her intimately.

He didn’t.

His nephew could never know just how beautiful Helaena was, just how beautiful she could be. 

No one deserved her. 

Not even Aemond himself.

And as he found himself scowling at his nephew he heard the soft, yet sharp call of your voice, turning his attention back to you, hackles on his back up and ready to fight from your tone. 

You were mocking him.

“Prince Aemond, were you riding Vhagar this evening? I thought I saw her soaring up into the sky. When you didn’t arrive on time, I worried that a storm had come and taken you.” She inquired, fake concern lacing her venomous tongue.

You little bitch.

Aemond had to school himself, and so he reached out to hold his goblet, taking a sip of the spiced wine to give him time to think before reacting. He had been reacting to her all day, and found that if he did it again, he would have to take her, right there and then, before their family to show them who she truly belonged to.

“I was merely enjoying the night sky, dear niece.” 

Lie. He was thinking of your soft thighs, and sweet lips and warm-

“It's not everyday you have the world's largest dragon, and I make a habit of reminding myself of that.”

And Gods, he could not lie that when your next words spilled from your lips, and the cruel smile you gave him, he had not really listened to your words. He had not even given thought to your attempt to goad him into a fight. Because he was ready, and he had been all too ready since the day you came back. 

Since the day he saw you in the training yard. 

Aemond had been ready to lash out at you for what you had done to him. For abandoning him. For choosing your bastard brothers and whore mother over him. For ruining what could have been. For what you had made him feel. For how weak he had become.

He was almost as bad as Aegon, and that was what made it so much worse. 

He had planned to leave it, he had planned to not give in. To show who was superior, to show the grace of a true Targaryen, not a bastard of a disgraced whore Princess, who would never sit upon the throne. He clenched his teeth so hard in his mouth, that all he could do was hum in response.

But then the Gods were cruel, and fate was even crueler, and he watched in horror as a roasted pig was placed before him. He knew it was coming, he knew the cards that were about to be dealt, and he felt the slightest itch of his scar as his lone eye looked upon a stark reminder of his youth.

He listened as Lucerys snorted, just like the pig at his expense, and it all came flooding back.

The taunting, the mocking, the cruelty, his eye.

All of it. 

But losing his eye did not hurt nearly as much as watching you abandon him for them.

“Is that not your first dragon, uncle Aemond? What had you named it again? The Pink Dread?” You teased, smirking at him and Aemond heard as the others giggled from the table, even Aegon. 

Aegon was the worst of them all. 

And despite everything he had done for his brother, the years of protecting him, the years of coddling him and allowing him to be the disgusting man that he was, it still wasn’t good enough. Aegon still called Aemond a twat, and mocked him. Made a mockery of their position as Targaryen Princes. Forcing him to a Pleasure house at ten-and-three, telling him it was ‘time to get it wet’.

But he hadn’t wanted to.

And there it was. 

That anger that he tried so desperately to push deep within him. That anger his mother had tried to school out of him, the anger that only Helaena seemed to soothe with her kind words and comfort. She was the only one in the Keep who did not treat him like a monster. She was the only one he had left.

Fuck it.

Aemond slammed his hand on the table, feeling the wood sting his palm as he stood to his full height, holding out his goblet to her, watching her shit eating grin slowly fall from her face.

“Final tribute.” He began, directing that anger carefully into his next words. 

He watched as she stiffened, eyes flicking about the table, gauging the other's reactions.

“To the health of my nephew's, Jace, Luke and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise,” He paused, watching her as she began to anticipate the next words, “Hm… Strong."

Watching her face turn to frown at him, to scowl at him, to burst with such hatred, made his blood rush through his body and into his cock.

And so he continued. 

What a rush.

How good it felt to hurt her the way she had hurt him. To make her feel just as lowly as she had made him feel. How her brothers had made him feel for years. 

He heard his mother say his name but he ignored it. He would deal with the repercussions later, though he doubted he would. She had never stopped him before, and in fact was brazen with discussing the illegitimacy of the Strong boys, so why start now. 

“And to my darling niece, some cast doubts about her strength, but I can see that she is just as Strong as her brothers.”

She was simmering with rage by then and all he could think of was how glorious it would be to put her in her place. To bend her to his will, to snuff out that fire inside of her.

"Let us raise our cups, to these three Strong boys, and their Strong sister." Aemond purred, watching her clench her entire body, hands in fists so tight, her knuckles turned white.

Aemond heard the irritating growl of his nephew Jace, “I dare you to say that again.”

Aemond could not help but smile. This would be little challenge. Though Jace had grown, Aemond was still older and bigger, and doubted the younger boy trained as hard as he did with the sword.

"Why? 'Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?”

Aemond felt the dull ache on his cheek, his head whipping to the side as Jacaerys laid his fist into his face. His hand still held his goblet, and he noted to himself with great pride, that he had not spilt a drop of wine on the floor.

Turning back, Aemond used little effort to shove his nephew to the floor, watching in his periphery as Lucerys tried in vain to help, as Aegon slammed him into the table by the scruff of his neck.

Down boy.

And then you did something that had not shocked him in the slightest. You grasped the fork from the table, calling out to him with a voice that was laced with venom.

“Say that again. Say that again I dare you!” 

Seeing that tiny fork in your hand made him smile even more. He doubted you even trained yourself, and his size and strength could certainly overpower you.

And how he could not wait to bend you over the table and f-

“No. I want to hear what my uncle has to say.” She heaved a breath, “Speak Aemond, so that we may hear your treasonous lies again.”

My little dragon. Such fire.

He felt an overwhelming sense of pride as he watched you heave angry breaths, eyes wide as you clutched the pathetic fork. So proud in fact, that he found himself grinning. 

He had only seen this side of you a handful of times as a child.

Defending Helaena when Aegon would question her intelligence or sanity.

Defending Lucerys and Jacaerys when he and Aegon would call them bastards together, or taunt them once their mother Alicent had told them of the threat of Rhaenyra ascending the throne and her bastard children.

Even defending him.

It made his lips pull wider.

It was not often that Aemond grinned. Sure he smirked, and occasionally smiled, but rarely did he show his teeth. Those sharp incisors that he would have no issue using to bite down on the soft flesh of your thighs, or the stiffened bud of your nipple.

As soon as he bared his teeth to the room, you were moving and he watched in awe as you charged straight for him, much like his mother had done to Rhaenyra all those years ago. 

It was uncanny, the wildness in your eyes. Such devotion.

Such love.

And then you were before him, breasts pushing against the confines of your dress as you heaved angrily, eyes dancing across his face, demanding he answer you.

Commanding him to answer.

He felt the prongs of the fork underneath his neck and could not help but feel himself begin to harden under the tight confines of his pants.

You were so close to him, the closest you had been since you were children. He could see the purple of your eyes, and the blush on your cheeks from the wine and your anger. He could see the small freckles you had on your face, and smell the oils on your skin.

You smelt sweet, earthy, musky. It was addictive, it was arousing. It was everything he had hoped and dreamed of that day, cock in hand. It took all of his strength to not dip his head down and capture your lips with his. To taste the spiced wine that would surely be on your tongue. To drink down your essence and be full of it.

He wanted to be full of you, to taste you. To lick at your weeping cunt as you cried beneath him, begging him. More, more, please Aemond, please uncle, more. He wanted to drink your release as it leaked from you, as he brought you to climax, time and time again.

“Say. That. Again.” The little dragon spat.

If he did not preoccupy his lips with something, he would kiss you. He could not help it. You were magnetic. And enigma. A force to be reckoned with. The Gods had taken their time with you.

And so he lifted the goblet to his lips to sip, but your small hand swiped it away, causing the wine and goblet to spill onto the ground. 

As soon as your hand brushed against his, he felt an electric jolt. It had been so long since you had touched him.

Touch me again.

And then Daemon was behind you, whispering in your ear and Aemond watched as your strength wavered, as contemplation flickered across your face. As all the emotions flashed quickly and disappeared as he continued to urge you to stand down. 

How had his uncle tamed you so well?

How had this man made you so pliable? Aemond found himself more and more jealous of the relationship the two of you had. And the more he looked at you both, so close together, as you had grown into your face, the more he recognised certain features. 

Certain mannerisms. 

And then his uncle was staring him down, as he crowded his niece in front of him, whispering so lowly, that no-one else but the three of you would hear.

“Issa ñuha tala.” (She is my daughter.)

And then it all made sense.

That fire, that rogue air about you.

The way you held no fear around the Prince, the way you did not flinch, and leant into his touch. The way Daemon doted on you more than any of his other children.

You were his. 

You were not a Strong bastard.

You were fire. 

And that made Aemond more determined than ever to have you.

And he would have you.

No matter the cost.

Argh so here it is, a lil blurb of Aemond's POV from 'Smoke, Fire and Ash'. I thought it would be best to show you the beginning of his descent into pure obsession with the reader. Sure there had been a possessiveness from the start as children, but it had been innocent, until the reader came back to the Keep fully grown. The pair truly force each others hand, neither one knowing when to stop and only making things worse. It's beautiful :')

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[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Consequences | Epilogue

Word Count: 1.6k~

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading this story! The interactions with you all have been great and the comments, likes, reblogs, the insight you all have into this story, it gives me flutters, so thank you all so much. I hope this Aemond dies in a hole 😙

Series Masterlist 

They say Harrenhal was haunted.

 A most wretched, cavernous place. Said to have been built brick by brick with human blood mixed into the mortar.

 Originally, Aemond would have thought these the tales of lowly peasants, with nothing better to do with themselves than to incite fear amongst one another in the pursuit of something exciting. Something to fill their dull, miserable short lives with a sense of adventure and a morbid curiosity.

 It was true, the hallways had whispers, seemingly without anyone there. A thousand different voices, all merged into one distant, unintelligible breath. Calling out to whatever living soul had even dared to step within its walls.

 It was utterly maddening.

 Aemond knew better than to believe in ghosts and deathly whispers.

 The only whispers he listened to were those of Alys Rivers, they seemed to hold the only slither of truth, as vague as they were.

 Harrenhal had been abandoned when he arrived, and it was no wonder. If he knew, sitting right where he was now before the fireplace, what this place could do to a person, he would never have come.

 But he could not have stayed there, at the Keep.

 She was there. With her scathing, judgemental stare. As if she had any right to judge him, Aemond thought, the lowborn cunt.

 He wanted to wrangle her pathetic neck for the way she spoke to him. She was older, and more sure about her words than the other maidservants and was not afraid to show her disgust for him on her face at all times. Several times she spoke above her station and Aemond was wound tight, about to snap at any moment.

 And his mother…

 She was distant. Had been since the day she had stormed into Aegon’s chambers. Not only form her eldest but from him as well.

 Her distaste for Aegon’s actions was always apparent, though she loved him, she showed it with her hand and tongue. Several times Aemond had witnessed her strike him across the face, before he was King anyway.

 But with Aemond, she employed silence as her means to show her distaste for his actions, although she had made no obvious indication that she knew what he’d done.

 It was like being a child again. Aemond hated that.

 He was a man grown and yet here he was, being chastised by women wherever he went.

 Getting out of the Keep meant getting away from not only her and his mother. But from the memories and regrets that lived there.

 The memories of her life.

 The many, many regrets.

 He had hoped that amongst her possessions, she might at least have kept a diary. So that he might at least have known her thoughts and feelings, imagining her reading them to him in her sweet, soft voice. Only to be hit with the realisation that she, amongst a lot of other maidservants, could not read nor write. So he was further doomed into the awareness of just how far up in this hierarchy Aemond really was, compared to these meek, feeble women, who would toil for their betters ‘til their last breath.

 He would even have settled for a lock of her hair. Perhaps that one that was always free of her braids at the side of her face, curly and unbending to the will of the rest of it. All he had were the memories of reaching out and touching its soft strands, running his fingers through her tresses to her skin, warm and alive.

 Gods, he missed her voice.

 Sometimes, when he was alone, staring at the flames of the fireplace as he so often was, he would think of how she had referred to him.

 Your grace.

 Only once had she called him by his name. Clearly that is. The second time he had the poor girl underneath him, thrusting up into her. Even now, he remembered her desperate whines. But she’d said it with his title in front of it. Tainted by it.

 He so desperately wanted to hear his name from her lips, without prompting her, as if it was as natural as saying her own. All the times she had, she had been forced or obliged to.

 He missed her flesh. And how utterly perfect she felt, inside and out.

 But with her passing came another realisation. That beside her position as a maidservant, he knew nothing about her. And with how much time had passed between her passing to now, he was forgetting what she looked like, her mannerisms, her scent.

 Aemond tried so desperately not to forget her face. It was like watching someone drown. Looking down into the depths of the water at their face as they sank, until the water swallowed their features in its murky void. Until there was nothing left.

 He willed it into existence.

 But it also meant having to remember what he did.

It is a small mercy she died in her sleep. In peace. So that she did not have to look upon your face. That’s what Hedi had said once.

 He thought guilt would come to him, or perhaps a form of karma. Knowing perhaps that if this war had to end, perhaps he’d have to fight or die to end it.

 He’d done his part, as his King had requested, in slaughtering House Strong and taking Harrenhal for himself. There was but one survivor of House Strong, one he found multiple uses for since sparing her life. Alys Rivers.

 As well as using her as a vessel for his desires, he often sought her ability to see visions of the future. He hoped he could tell him what his fate might be and what would await him the longer this war carried on, but his tempers were starting to flare once more when she said she could only see obscurity. Her visions were dim, without real substance nor real clarity.

 It was like being stuck in the middle of a story, without the decency to have the plot to complete it.

 The maids came and went into his chambers, knowing not to speak to him and instead doing their various duties with caution in their step. Ser Criston had said he would deal with the staff, which could only have meant one thing.

 These girls were new to the job, having been rushed to employment from their various hometowns to start their positions, but ultimately having no choice but to be accustomed to it. They were quiet at least, went about their business with a softness in their fear of the One-Eyed Prince.

 They needn’t have bothered with their fear, he thought.

 He was long disinterested.

 Since her.

 He was vaguely aware of the maidservant in his periphery, adding more logs to the fire in front of him. It was a small victory that they did not try to speak to him. Aemond twirled the written and wax-sealed scroll in his hand, between his fingers, addresses to the King on what he had done.

 Once the maidservant was finished, she stood and brushed her sooty fingers on her apron. Her hair was braided loosely down her back which spoke to just how green the staff were, that prim and proper style adopted by the Keep was clearly not something that was adhered to in other regions of Westeros.

 He opened his mouth, holding the scroll out for her to take to the messenger, until she turned around.

 Your grace.

 Those eyes.

 Those lips.

 Her hair.

 His heart was beating fast in his chest, hot whips of panic making him break out into a sweat. And before he knew it he had retreated a few paces, the chair loudly scraping against the flagstone floor, his breathing laboured and tight against his leather doublet, insides fit to burst with utter dread.

 His eye quickly flew about her face, trying to make sense of this horror that had filled his stomach. Bile started to rise in his throat. Limbs felt as if they were not his own.

 Your grace.

 She had not said a thing and only stared at the prince with shock, wondering what she had done, the surprise of him reacting the way he did made her breathe heavier.

 Every time he blinked, behind his eye, he saw what he’d seen in his nightmares.

 But it was not her.

 But someone who looked so alike to her that it terrified him all the same. The only difference was her eyes and young face, still plump with her youth and her form which was smaller and not yet that of a grown woman.

 Aemond.

 “Your grace?” the young woman had said in a quiet, fearful voice.

He wanted to vomit. Those voices that carried down the hallways of this wretched castle had all formed into her voice. All he could see was her form, drenched in her blood as he imagined she was when she had died. The blood that he could not deny was on his hands.

 No. He couldn't face it.

It cannot be.

 “Get out”

 He was not sure who he was talking to.

 This girl.

 Or her.

 She did not move. Too paralysed by his flighty reaction. Flashes of her face and the other took his vision.

 “Get. Out”

 She eventually found her courage, almost tripping over herself to scramble to the doors. Doing as he had ordered and left.

 Aemond never saw her again.

 The shame, guilt, anger was all renewed. The flames had been fanned, and he was on the pyre. Burning alongside her.

 His hands gripped at Vhagar’s reins tightly, as if all his power and control on her would fade if he were to let go.

 He thought that by doing what he did, some of that power would come back. That perhaps some of that control would be restored to him as it slipped so effortlessly out of his grasp.

 Everything was fire.

 Fire and Blood.

 There was not a speck of green that Aemond had not burned.

General Aemond Taglist: @risefallrise @valeskafics

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*Bold means I couldn’t tag, if I can't tag you you can always turn on notifications for when I post. DM me if you wanna be removed besties

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (13)

[ dark • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, arranged engagement, violence, swearing, trauma, regret, depression, mention of a suicide attempt ]

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

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

Characters & Series Moodboard

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

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Daemon understood better than anyone what it meant to be the second son, the one who would inherit nothing. It seemed to him that, in contrast to Viserys, he was a blazing fire like a true dragon, giving warmth, light and shelter to those close to his heart, burning those whom he saw as his enemies.

Viserys was always blind, soft-spoken, lacking strong character and clear opposition when things got too far out of hand.

This trait of his had been carefully exploited by Otto Hightower over the years, putting himself in the role of his friend and adviser, playing his part with an extraordinary devotion from which he felt like throwing up.

He knew it was pure courtesy, perfectly calculated, taking advantage of the mourning of the entire Red Keep and his inattention after Aemma's tragic death he slipped his brother his daughter under his nose.

Looking at her on their wedding day, standing in a long, ornate gown he thought she looked like a child on whom someone had put layers of cloth and precious stones; overwhelmed by it all she looked down at her feet, around her nails the red wounds he had seen on her hands ever since.

On that one day, knowing what was awaiting her, he truly felt compassion for her.

After that, however, he stopped.

She could have built her independence, committed herself to the needs of the kingdom, she, however, in the company of that cunt, Criston Cole, gave herself over to prayer and mortification, obediently following her father's orders.

As a woman, she was in his eyes pitiful, weepy, whiny, merely pretending to be saintly and virtuous, having in fact nothing to do with these qualities.

His feelings about her and her father moved involuntarily to her children.

He recognised the dragon's blood in them and treated them differently from the Hightowers, yet he was unable or unwilling to bond with them, seeing how they were suckled to their mother's breasts, which did not allow them to think or breathe on their own.

He watched from the sidelines, observing from afar as Rhaenyra and Alicent's children trained together, how a divide formed between them. He knew that once they grew up and understood what was really at stake, they would throw themselves at each other's throats.

He knew perfectly well whose right to the throne he would support.

Aegon was a drunkard and a cunt, Helaena was quiet and withdrawn, Aemond was sullen and vindictive − he thought with amusement that each of them had inherited the worst from his brother and their mother.

However, he couldn't help but show at least a little compassion and understanding for his brother's second son, who had been punished by the gods, left without a dragon of his own.

Some part of him wanted to speak to him, to get to know him, to see through him as a kind of reflection of himself, but on those rare occasions when he was with Leana and his daughters in the Red Keep he never made such a gesture, which he later, though he did not want to admit it to himself, regretted.

Perhaps things would have turned out differently then.

He could see with what admiration he looked at him, how much he longed to hear at least one word of appreciation from him, any gesture of interest.

He knew that if he could decide who his father-figure would be he would choose not Viserys or Cole but him, and he pretended not to notice that.

Once though, he noticed something that surprised him; strolling through the cloisters of the Red Keep he spotted his nephew and Rhaenyra's only daughter standing side by side in the square, leaning over the table filled with the various weapons. He smirked under his breath as he walked closer, wanting to listen to their conversation.

They were betrothed.

A clumsy attempt by his brother to avoid what he felt in his bones had to happen.

He saw his niece point her finger at one of the weapons lying on the wooden tabletop, a steel black spiked ball hooked on a chain to a special handle.

"What is it? It looks scary." She said with amusement, her voice light and pleasant; he thought with surprise that his nephew's grim and stormy nature did not deter her.

Alicent's son grunted loudly, lifting his chin slightly in a gesture of superiority and intelligence that he hated so much about the Hightowers, clearly proud to be able to speak on a subject in which his knowledge was extensive.

"It's a flail. A very heavy weapon requiring great strength and agility in its use. It literally crushes the opponent." He said, forcing himself into a low, mature, masculine voice, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his hair in a slight disarray from the few duels he had already had.

"That weapon looks like the kind you die from in agony." Mumbled his niece, tentatively touching her fingertip to one of the spikes – her uncle pushed her away immediately, surprised by her gesture, grabbing her hand by the wrist.

"Are you insane? What are you doing? It's sharp after all, you could have hurt yourself." He said angrily, but she only blinked, surprised by his outburst, and smiled indulgently, showing him her finger.

"I know, silly. I wouldn't want something like that to hit me in the face." She sneered, raising her eyebrows in amusement, joy in her gaze and embarrassment at the fact that he still hadn't let her go.

She took a step closer to him, but he stepped back quickly and lowered his gaze, he noticed in disbelief that his pale cheeks had turned scarlet.

"Not here. Later." He muttered letting go of her wrist immediately. He heard her quiet sigh of disappointment as she nodded and walked away without another word.

He watched as, a moment later, his nephew cursed under his breath, pulling off his leather gloves and moved after her, grabbing her at one of the side entrances by her arm. She turned to him with a smile as if she was sure he would follow her, her lips placing a quick, brief kiss on his cheek.

He let her go, embarrassed and blushing, looking sideways, muttered something, and she nodded and disappeared behind the walls. His nephew returned to the square as if nothing had happened, a lazy, barely visible smile on his face; Aegon looked at him from afar with a look full of pity, as soon as his younger brother came closer he said loud and clear:

"What a twat you are."

He snarled under his breath as he heard Criston Cole immediately respond to his remark by saying that it was inappropriate for a prince to use such vocabulary, his younger brother only gave him a grim look indicating that he himself was torn internally, ashamed of his weakness.

He thought then, moving ahead, amused, that his brother had inadvertently contributed to something that was certainly not his original plan.

These kids really wanted it.

He felt shame because, looking at them, he wondered how he really felt about his wife. He recognised that she was his companion and lover, whom he respected and cherished, but she was not his friend, he could not allow her into the depths of his heart.

Only when he saw Rheanyra did he feel something more; he had the feeling that the air around them quivered when they spoke, he sensed that she understood perfectly the source and reason of his impulsive nature.

Despite this, he found his life peaceful and prosperous, and the death of his wife in childbirth was something shocking and painful to him. He covered his grief with laughter, the thought that he had wasted years of her life, a wonderful, beautiful woman who deserved someone to love her with all her being, giving her something more than a substitute of affection.

Then, however, his nephew lost an eye and everything fell apart like a house of cards, showing how weak their family actually was.

The events that followed wove together in his mind, the closeness of Rhaenyra and their later nuptials brought him a sense of relief, as if two parts that belonged together had been joined.

He watched her daughter from afar, the sadness and grief painted on her after all still so young and innocent face made her seem to him pale and lifeless, at once beautiful, cool and inaccessible, walking around Dragonstone like a ghost, not speaking to anyone despite how much his daughters tried to get close to her.

She was warm, helpful and welcoming when anyone approached her, but did not raise any discussions herself, eating and drinking little at suppers, immersed in her thoughts.

He knew that she was with them only in body.

He decided not to make the same mistake as with his nephew and offer her his interest, his support in the ironic and mischievous form peculiar to him, the only way in which he could show his affection to anyone.

What surprised him was how much she clung to him, how often she cried during their walks together; despite her innate vulnerability she had a strength of character that he appreciated – she was inclined to rash actions or anger, but she was also not docile or naive, she tried to find order in the chaos that surrounded her.

Only he and his niece had been invited to Aegon's nuptials to Helaena; Alicent had expressed in her letter her concern that the meeting of their children might affect them badly and reawaken old wounds, which his wife took as a reasonable argument, and indeed, albeit reluctantly, it was only the two of them who travelled to the Red Keep.

The whole ceremony in the Great Sept dragged on endlessly for him; he looked around, bored, unwilling to stare at the horrified, sad faces of his nephew and niece, testament to the fact that neither of them wanted this marriage.

The wedding supper held in the fortress was lavish with dancing and music, lords from all over the kingdom descended and gathered in the throne room at large, long oak tables filled to the brim with food. Sitting down in his seat next to his wife, he glanced sideways and noticed a figure looking at him intensely, the One-Eyed Prince staring at him coolly, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief and admiration, finding that he looked like a man, well-built and muscular, tall, his hair much longer, a black eye patch covering the left side of his face.

He grinned with amusement and mockery, wondering to what he owed his attention, and his nephew only hummed under his breath, looking away, apparently discouraged by his reaction.

He wondered, looking at him, taking a sip of wine from his goblet, if he had shown him fatherly concern then, taken him under his wing, separated him from Alicent and Otto, he would be a different man now.

Several toasts were made to the bride and groom, during each of which Aegon drank his cup to the bottom, clearly intent on fulfilling his marital duty completely drunk.

"Stop it. You've had enough." Growled his younger brother, taking his goblet from him with an aggressive flick of his hand, setting it impatiently far from his older brother's reach.

Aegon slapped him angrily on the shoulder, mumbling something under his breath; his younger brother stood up, towering over him, showing him wordlessly that if he touched him again he would regret it.

"Aemond." Said their mother, this green whore, who was looking at them in pain, her hands folded in front of her as if to pray.

His nephew rolled his eyes and left the hall by a side entrance, furious, unwilling and unable to look at it apparently; Aegon with a wide grin reached for his cup again and to his despair took the empty seat next to him that had been occupied earlier by his wife, now conversing with the King.

"Uncle! So many years." He mumbled, tapping him on the back in a friendly, masculine greeting. He rolled his eyes, amused, smelling the stench of alcohol and sweat from him.

"As you can see, everything stays in the family. I don't know how I'm going to survive this. After all, she'll surely cry. Fuck." He muttered, taking a deep, catchy sip from his cup, tilting it so that he drank it all at once.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip, feeling discomfort at the thought that he felt compassion for Helaena for what was about to happen to her.

"She doesn't seem to fully understand what I will have to do to her. After all, she's my sister. I don't want to hurt her. She's odd and I don't understand her, but I don't want her to fucking cry." He mumbled out covering his face with his hand, his voice breaking with his every word – he drew in air loudly as if he was out of breath, and he looked at him not knowing what to do.

He glanced at her sad, petite figure; she sat gazing off into the distance somewhere, dreamy.

He wondered as he watched her if she realised what awaited her.

What was he supposed to answer him?

"Be gentle and kind. Make her feel as little pain as possible. You know very well that how it will look lies in your hands. If you want her to suffer as little as possible, stop drinking because it will take you a fucking hour." He growled, taking the cup from his hand just as his younger brother had earlier, and wondered if that was what he meant then, if he knew his condition would only worsen whatever was to await them next.

"You pity yourself and you smell of alcohol and sweat. Go take a bath or do you want to lay on her like that? Give her some dignity for goodness sake." He said coolly, looking ahead indifferently; his nephew swallowed loudly, sitting beside him like a little rebuked child, playing with his fingers.

He wondered, looking at him out of the corner of his eye if his brother had ever spoken to him about it, if he had prepared him and explained to him how he should behave.

"All my life I've envied him. My brother. He had someone of his own who cared about him. I think he really loved her, uncle. Now I barely recognise anyone myself. I'm not sure any of us are the same person anymore. Only Helaena has remained the same − innocent and ignorant. That's because she doesn't step outside her mind. If she did, she would have gone mad like we did."

It turned out that he was partly right.

What he didn't expect was that when they arrived all together as a family after several years in King's Landing to defend Luke's rights to inherit the Driftmark these two would be lying in bed with each other on their very first night.

"If you tell me you still want to marry him, I will help you. I'd rather you be his wife than lead you and him into a scandal that could destroy your mother. Your betrothal has never been called off, the king will easily prove that no other plans for you can be in force against his decision. But if you decide not to, I will personally see to it that you never see him again and that no letter of yours leaves Dragonstone. Make a manly, mature decision with all its consequences, and stop wallowing over yourself."

He told her then, wanting her to understand that they could not stand in the middle, that they had to choose, or their decisions would drag them all down.

Watching them in the throne room audience, however, the greedy, desperate gaze of his nephew fixed on her as if he wanted to devour her gave him no illusions.

What this boy was telling himself was one thing, but what he was feeling was another.

It was this thought that made him decide to question Alicent's decision in front of everyone, wanting to hear his brother's opinion on the matter, the only one that really counted. He had expected nothing but objections from both sides, however, against the desperate attempts of their mothers, his nephew and his niece's daughter made a decision that did not surprise him at all.

It was enough for her to get up from her seat and walk out to make him press his lips together in rage and follow her out, exactly as he had done then, in the courtyard, when he had thrown himself after her, and she knew perfectly well that he would do so, knowing his nature.

He wondered if she had kissed him this time too, if the tension between them had eased.

He thought that this marriage might actually calm the emotions a little, especially as his brother was over his deathbed.

This union was forcing both parties to be cautious, which could be mutually beneficial.

"She has decided that she wants to stay in the Red Keep until I return." His wife said to him, putting her black leather gloves on her hands, walking beside him towards the dragon's lair. He stopped, looking at her in disbelief, furious.

This was not the plan.

"What?" He growled, looking at her as if she had completely lost her mind. "You're leaving my daughter in the care of that whore and her father-traitor?"

He saw that she smiled at his words emphasising that in his eyes she was his child, that he had taken responsibility for her and protected her as any true father should.

"She asked me to do this. I imagine they both want to clarify a lot of things with each other. Since the nuptials are to take place as soon as possible there is no need to fret, I will personally take her back in a few days." She replied calmly, and he let out a loud breath, impatiently licking his lips.

It was a bad idea, he could feel it in his bones, but he didn't protest and that was his mistake.

The next day he lost two of his daughters.

Rhaenyra, his brother's heir to the throne fell with a groan when envoys reported to her that her father was dead, that her brother had been crowned king, that they had imprisoned their daughter.

She cried out loudly in pain, clutching at her womb; at first he thought it was despair, but then he saw the pool of blood beneath her feet, her terrified gaze, her lips parted in agony.

They both knew it was too soon.

Their daughter already looked like a tiny infant, but sadly her fate was sealed; she wasn't moving or breathing, she was cold, looking more like a doll than a human being.

He felt that he had to leave the fortress; he followed exactly where he always went out with her, with one of his daughters, to the sea itself, and he fell to his knees, breathing heavily, not knowing what he was supposed to do with the rage and chaos that overtook his mind.

He wanted to mount Caraxes and burn them all.

However, his cousin and daughters had cooled his ardour, recognising that they needed to prepare, gather an army, make a plan of action.

He recognised that it was only female sentiment, a weakness that kept them from making the risky decision that his whole life consisted of.

When his wife finally recovered from her brief mourning, despite his entreaties, she did not listen to him and decided to send her sons as her representatives, wanting to extract the pledge of allegiance from those who had paid her tribute many years ago.

He had thought it nonsensical, however, when Luke returned from Storm's End it turned out that his step son had been a naive idiot.

"You flew after him? You flew after him knowing he could imprison you, use you as your mother's weakness? Fucking fool." He growled, turning away from the table with fury, massaging his face with his palm, not believing he could have done such a thing.

"Daemon." Said Rhaenyra in a voice trembling with despair; she looked at her son, trying to calm herself. "What happened next?"

"He brought her. Someone hit her, mother, and I think she tried to take her own life. There were cut marks on her wrists." He muttered, forcing himself into a calm tone of voice.

He turned towards him, looking at him with his heart beating fast.

She had done this for them, so they could attack the Red Keep without fear.

She wanted to make a manly decision, to sacrifice herself, his brave daughter, his little dragon.

"Gods." Said his wife, clutching at her womb, apparently involuntarily recalling the moments when she had carried her under her heart, the maternal tears of pain in her eyes.

"And then?" He finished for her, seeing that she didn't have the strength to get anything else out, Luke swallowed hard, afraid to look at him.

"I told her to run away with me, but she didn't agree. She told me to tell you that she loves you and that she remains faithful to you, mother." Said with difficulty, Jace slammed his fist on the table, furious.

"That fucking bastard purposely made her stay. He planned this, he never had any intention of marrying her!" He said red with anger and he glanced at him indifferently, sighing heavily.

"And then what? He let you just walk away? No one else saw you?" He asked further, pretending not to have heard his outburst; Jace pressed his lips together, furious. Luke shook his head quickly.

"N-no, I was surprised, but no. Forgive me, I had to see her, make sure that she is still alive." He muttered, and he sighed heavily, placing both of his hands on the table, leaning over it, and closed his eyes, trying to focus.

He let her see him without any other witnesses and then let him go even though he hated him, even though he could have trapped and humiliated him.

Why?

A memory flashed through his mind, the way his nephew cursed as he fought with himself to finally run after her, her smile full of reassurance as she turned to him knowing he would follow her, his blush of embarrassment and lazy smile as her lips placed a soft, warm kiss on his cheek, her proof of her devotion and affection that he craved so much.

He had never stopped loving her.

This stone-cold, dangerous man had done something for her, surely after she had tried to take her own life.

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

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

[sepherinaspoppies]

Only If For A Night (Masterlist)

pairing: Dark! Book Aemond Targaryen x Modern reader

warnings: HEAVY NON CON, maybe DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, dub con ish, 18+, tea drugging, blood magic, oral f receiving, p in v sex, kidnapping, profanity, bondage, rough sex, dacryphilia, loss of virginity, gore, forced marriage, breeding kink, overstimulation, use of knife, assault, violence, typical Westeros misogyny, Aemond being a creeper and obsessive, more as I go lol

summary: In Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead), she gets forcefully transported to Westeros and meets her favorite book character, Aemond 'One Eye'. She asks and begs for his help to send her back home after realizing this was a world she did not want to live in. Unknowingly to her, her favorite fictional man had already grown too attached to fully let her go.

notes: In Dia De Los Muertos, its usually the dead that visit the living but I added my twist into this.

PART ONE- Only If For A Night

PART TWO- Bring Me To Life

PART THREE- Me and the Devil

PART FOUR

PART FIVE

AEMOND'S POV (soon)

taglist (if you wish to tagged only in this comment on this particular post but if you'd like to be tagged on my general taglist click above!)

[arcielee]

Ours never knew peace.

Summary: On the morning of the Great Tourney of Harrenhal, Lyanna Stark's granddam visits to give her an heirloom, a necklace with a sapphire stone... Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader Word Count: 7600 Warnings: Third POV and first POV, AFAB, mentions of infidelity, graphic violence, character deaths, and there is a hyperlink for the smut, so mind those warnings too. Author’s Note:  I definitely played with the timeline of the Dance of the Dragons a lot to fit with the narrative. Also, the idea is the bloodline stems from Cregan Stark's sister, which is why Lyanna's granddam is still kicking. Also, this was not beta read, please feel free to DM me any mistakes you may find 💜 A huge thank you to my Tumblr kindred spirits: to @aegonx for this inspiring gifset, and to my darling @itbmojojoejo for these perfect dividers 🦝💜 Also, to Hozier. I started writing this in June and had not touched it until I started listening to Unreal Unearth. The title for this and the smutty one-shot are from the song Francesca.

“I have a gift for you, my dear.”

Lyanna was leaning against the ornate balustrade and watching how the sun rose above Gods Eye. She drank in the sight of how the rays danced against the blue-green gemstone surface, shimmering with the rippling waves that met with the shoreline and towards the center where the Isle of Faces jutted upwards; she saw the weirwoods shift lazily with the breeze, its red foliage breaking away and littering the laketop, like drops of blood.

She pulled her eyes away to see her granddam standing in her room, poised with her walking cane; a handmaiden was in tow, carrying a wooden box that had once been intricately carved into, though its detailing was now worn with age. 

Her granddamn was the matriarch of House Stark and the only mother figure she had ever known as hers passed away when she was very young, leaving Lyanna with her father and three brothers: Brandon, Eddard, and Benjen. Though she originally had come from a noble house in Oldcastle, she had been proud to don the grays and whites of House Stark, dignified in such a way it seemed that she was born into and not just married. 

Her reputation was notorious and though some would consider her shrewd, Lyanna knew her granddam had a sharp mind and wit, an undeniable ability to see beyond the façades of court with her storm colored eyes; she was gallant, devoted to her husband until his last breath and remained in Winterfell after, her devotion extending to the North. 

“This is my home,” she had explained as if it was the simplest thing. “Always.” 

Time now showed itself in silver streaks, a bold contrast with her dark hair that had been meticulously combed and knotted at the base of her neck, showing the severity that lined her features. This look alone had the other handmaidens–who before had been aimlessly flitting around her room, coaxing Lyanna to ready for the day’s events–quickly excuse themselves, allowing her a moment alone with her granddaughter.  

“Set it there,” and the remaining handmaiden jumped to command, placing the wooden box on the vanity before following after the others. 

There was the click of her cane with her sure steps, one hand resting on the gilded handles and the other coming to place on the edge of the wooden box, its brass hinges groaning in response to her opening it. Placed against the velvet inlay was a necklace of a peculiar silver that did not shine, but seemed to permeate a strength despite its delicate, celtic chains interwoven with one another; its pendant, a sapphire stone no larger than a silver pence, was nestled in the same style, curled around to hold it in place. 

Only the stone gleamed, just like the water’s surface–alluring, calling, but she kept her hand at her side. “It is beautiful,” Lyanna acknowledged. 

“It is reforged Valyrian steel,�� her granddam continued, and she was pleased to see how her eyes widened with a reverence for the rare medium. “This is a heirloom that has been passed down, once belonging to your thrice over granddam. It is something for you to wear today.” 

Lyanna remained rooted, only a wistful sigh in response. “This is my duty in life now, to be adorned in gems and silks and rare silvers, just to be shown off at this event.” 

“It is our lot in life, yes,” her tone cut through the self-wallow. “Lord Whent wants nothing more than to parade the money he poured into this cursed castle, to show off his simple-minded daughter to the highest bid. The queen of love and beauty,” and her laugh was sharp, “only her brothers would defend that nepotist title!” 

Lyanna felt her lips curl; she loved her granddam, dearly, especially when she was unabashed with her bold opinions. Her eyes fell back to the necklace. “Love and beauty,” Lyanna murmured. “No man has want for a clever wife.” 

It was her turn to sigh. “This can be true, but some are fortunate with their matches.” 

“Robert has no want for a clever wife,” Lyanna continued as if she had not spoken. “He wants something docile and pretty at his side while he wags his cock at every set of tits in Westeros.” She could see how the inside sagged with the weight of the necklace and a bundle of parchment that was tucked beneath, hidden in the folds of the fabric. 

Her granddam plucked the paper bundled together with string and then moved back towards one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. “My dear girl, love is always unexpected. Perhaps in time, despite the faults you each share,” she gave a knowing look as Lyanna moved back towards the bed, “you, hopefully, may have a gradual love and respect grow between.” 

“He is already convinced it is love,” she sat back on the mattress, sinking against the goose feather pillows piled at the head. “But it is with this idea of me. He does not know me, who I am truly or what it is that drives me…” her eyes were drawn again to the box, opened still, and to the glint of the sapphire. “How did this come to our possession anyway?” 

“It was a gift,” her granddam scoffed, untying the string and smoothing the letters on her lap. 

Lyanna closed her eyes a moment, her own smile playing at her lips. “Yes,” her tone forced, “but who would have gifted this to her to begin with?” 

Her granddam hummed, now her turn to smile. “How clever of you to ask, sweet girl,” but she did not answer Lyanna. “I saw how you are blossoming into a lovely young woman, especially after last night’s banquet,” and she saw that her granddaughter grinned, cheeky. “Ancestry has its weight with House Stark, and I thought now is the time to gift this necklace, just as your grandsire gifted it to me, and how it was given to your mother, who listened to me read this, years ago,” and she gestured to the letters.  

Lyanna reached for the pillows, fluffing them and sinking back into them, her arms folding behind to hold her head upright. “I would never deny my granddam of my company,” she teased.

“Yes, how kind of you,” her tongue wet her lips, her eyes flitting over the first page. “Now shut up and let my old eyes read.” 

And so she began.

It was the unmartyred act of my mother to bring me into the world. My father was a proud man, an honorable man who would never blame me, but I could see how he would wilt in my presence; perhaps it was that I reminded him of her as I grew, reminded him of the cost of her life so I may live instead. My brother, Cregan, kept his grief quiet, though it clouded his storm-gray eyes with this pain, this hurt that shadowed behind his irises. 

With the unsaid, I know my existence haunted my father, Lord Rickon Stark, the Warden of the North, to his grave. It was only then that Cregan truly recognized me with our sorrow now shared, as well as the burden as our uncle Bennard was quick to come to Winterfell, bringing his shrewd wife and his sons, our wretched cousins. 

I could only watch from the shadows with how Cregan fought to stay afloat with the smothering regency brought with them; our uncle was cunning, wishing to isolate my brother, which was why it was decided for me to be sent away to King’s Landing. It was under the promised lady-in-waiting for Princess Helaena Targaryen, though its true intention was for me to marry a Targaryen prince, for the opportunity to have a Stark within the royal inner circle and a direct line to the Iron Throne. 

Cregan hugged me farewell, the whispered promise that he would write, and I was ushered into the carriage, cramped with my trunks, and my aunt Margaret, with her wardrobe and endless idylls of how I would lure King Aegon II. 

I reminded her that King Viserys was not dead, and of the crowned Princess Rhaenyra. She bristled with her response: “No woman will ever rule the Seven Kingdoms.” She embellished this, and her inane plans to make me a princess; I had just turned ten and three with the soured taste of her words the further south we traveled. 

We arrived at the capital almost two months later, coming as the last of the daylight disappeared in the horizon, with the full moon and stars already glowing in response. I wished to sleep, but was forced to bathe, to be soaked in a gilded tub with rose petals that floated on the surface while hands flitted over combing and scrubbing and cleaning every bit of me, all while my aunt hovered with her critiques. 

The next day was our debut luncheon, allowing my formal introduction to the House of the Dragon. My aunt was peevish that the king did not join, we still met with the queen and Lord Hand, who introduced Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena. 

It was said that Prince Daeron was away in Oldtown and Prince Aemond would not attend either, but did not speak more of it. 

The prince and the princess held their old blood features, the shades of purple in their gazes and the gold-silver of their hair, a contrast to their mother’s auburn and her dark eyes that were watchful and worrisome. 

Prince Aegon already had an exhaustion lining his face, with shadows that stretched beneath his lilac eyes, something heavy for someone only two years older than myself. In time I would learn that his shoulders sagged with the forced Hightower expectation placed, and its accompanying slow suffocation. The prince responded to it as well as any adolescent with unwanted responsibility: to rebel. 

The princess–who we learned, to the woe of my aunt–was his betrothed, but that day she also became my savior, in a sense. Though she carried her own burdens, something deeply rooted within the ichor of Old Valyria that surged her veins, her company was enjoyable, nonetheless. 

I enjoyed my time spent with the princess, learning of her fascination with entomology, with a favoritism that stemmed towards arachnids; though I found it unsettling, I still knew it was better company than my aunt. I was devoted to the task to fill mason jars with dirt, leaves, sticks to create little habitats for her ever growing collection, and it became our daily ritual to walk the gardens of the Red Keep, always in search of more to add or to release others who dutifully served their time in their glass confines. 

One thing I noted was her utterances, her singsong riddles on repeat. “Be mindful,” she said with a hum one afternoon.

“Of what, princess?”

“A song of ice and fire,” her eyes were glassy, sorrowful. “It is a tragedy, again and again…” 

My evenings were held captive by my aunt and her ever growing determination to force her way into the royal social circles; her daily mantra to remind me of the two remaining Targaryen princes, how I need my focus to be on snaring one of them. 

I knew that Prince Daeron was a child and away in Oldtown, which left the second son of King Viserys, Prince Aemond, who I thought peculiar and quiet. He was isolated the first six months after we arrived, and I heard the whispered incident at Diftmark that had involved the crowned princess and her bastard sons; I also learned how it ended with the loss of his eye, but that was not learned until Princess Helaena brought me to visit with her brother. 

“It would be good for him,” and her lilac eyes sparkled. 

He was sullen, but rightfully so; he was still bandaged and refused the milk of the poppy, though I knew he was hurting, his anguish was vicariously heard with the roars of his dragon, Vhagar, whose bellows rattled the entire capital, leaving the inhabitants uneasy. 

Eventually, Prince Aemond healed enough to leave his room, though the queen was still adamant he not venture outside of the Keep. I watched him, a dragon caged, stalking the corridors, a dark passing in search of confrontation, his unbridled want for vengeance and his inability to see it through; a tormented unrest, an unruly anger from the injustice of what happened that fateful night at Driftmark.  

I had been present for over a year and would inevitably have the misfortune to cross his warpath, alone, without my shield of his sister. It was a foreboding presence that drained the air, a palpable anger that hung heavy, and I flinched, perched by the window, curled up with Ten Thousand Ships. 

“What are you doing here?” He spat. 

I remember how his anger darkened his features shown, but the rest was still hidden beneath bandages wrapped around his silver head. “Reading,” was all I dared reply, refusing to look away from the pages as if the very tale of Nymeria held me captive. 

“They educate the women in the North?”

His words were mocking and this is when I pulled my eyes away to meet with his one uncovered. “The North does not only teach their women how to read, but how to fight as well, my prince,” my tongue had a life of its own I could not control, sneering his title in return.

Her granddam paused a moment, peering over the edge to see how Lyanna had shifted; she was now closer towards the foot of the bed, curled up with one of the pillows, her eyes glowing with admiration. 

“My great-great-great granddam was fearless,” Lyanna concluded.

She chuckled in response. “It is a trait in Stark women, that is for certain,” she clucked her tongue. “Stark men also search for strong women to survive the winters. Maybe another day I will tell you about your great-great-great aunt Alysanne Blackwood.” 

Her eyes shone. “I would like that very much.” 

And then, her granddam continued. 

I would learn that Prince Aemond was just lonely; allowed out of his quarters, his mar was forever isolating with how the castled treated him with kid gloves, like an open wound that never healed despite the jagged red of new flesh mended, cutting from his brow to his cheek and peeking beneath the eyepatch he took to wearing. Though he would never apologize for that day in the library, the next time I found him within the walls I saw he was lost in the pages of Winter’s Kings, or the Legends and Lineages of the Starks of Winterfell. 

I could only assume it was all the apology that could be expected of a dragon prince. 

Our friendship was something predetermined by the gods, or this was what Princess Helaena wholeheartedly believed; for a time, we were a trio of lonely souls akin and knitted together until the princess inevitably became pregnant with the twins. And then, there was the subtle change of our dynamic with the seasons passed, an initial wariness that settled in the edges of his features that only softened whenever I took his hand and pulled him forward. 

Perhaps he believed that I would abandon him for his sister’s company, which would be expected of her lady-in-waiting. But I did not. 

Instead I indulged the prince and his company, and we became inseparable; whether we visited with his sister, playing with the little prince and princess, while Helaena budding with a third, or going to the courtyards to train under Ser Criston’s watchful eye and my aunt’s apparent disdain. It was then that the evenings became our own and spent in the library of the Keep; it was here that Aemond dared remove his eyepatch, the sapphire stone that showed brilliant from his scarred socket. 

The first time, I stepped closer so his nervous exhale fanned my cheeks; I could see the plumes of pinks to his features, my fingers ghosting his jawline as I attempted his ancient tongue. “Gevie.” 

Beautiful. 

Prince Aemond was respectful, always, but he was also fearless with me, allowing the same sense of freedom in return, to speak my mind as I always had. But I faltered with what I truly wished to say: that the years crafted him beautiful as any Targaryen prince, with sharp edges chiseled from marble stone, his lips that curled with a perpetual smirk as he voiced his peculiar insight which always led to a good natured battlement between us, leaving me flushed. 

And then the day came that he took my hand, that his palm now enveloped my own. 

It was the familiar touch now paired with a feeling, a fluttering in the pit of my stomach that I could not place, though writing these words allows a clearer perspective with the retrospect: that I was falling in love with him. 

My aunt grew more insufferable with the passing days, though I expected as much with the letters I exchanged with Cregan. I knew his every action in Winterfell, what he was learning, of his sweetheart Lady Arra Norrey, my new nephew, but mostly of how our uncle continued to tighten his hold. My brother was a wolf, restless, and spoke that his hour was coming; and meanwhile, I continued to play my role, a simpleminded girl from the North. 

My aunt tsked. “He will never see you as more than a plaything,” as if this was a cruel fate. In truth I was still so unaware of what was growing within the confines of my heart, but I knew that I only wished to remind at his side, devoted, present, always. 

So when Aemond asked that I finally become acquainted with Vhagar, I went. I remembered how my hand fit within his as he pulled me to follow his steps, moving through the ingresses that weaved with the castle walls. We broke out to follow the coastline, a crisp salt air and the clouds covering the sun, heavy with the threat of rain, but Aemond promised we would rise above them. 

I followed his long steps until we came to where Vhagar waited for her rider, diligent, alert. 

Dragons are magnificent creatures, and I swear them sentient with the bond I saw between Aemond and the she-dragon. Fear trickled my spine, but Aemond held onto my hand and I tightened in response to the massive eyes that focused on us, her pupils constricting in query. Aemond held up his other hand, the honey spill of his soothing voice of his old tongue to coax her and allow me to climb aback. 

I then felt the gaze of Aemond and refused to allow my fear to root me, moving to take the bottom rung of the rope ladder; he was pleased, a hum, the slight curl of his lips, and followed behind me with his promise that he would not let me fall. At the top, he pushed past to settle into the saddle, then reached to pull me behind and I settled against his backside. 

“Just hold onto me,” he murmured, bringing my arms around his slender waist. 

This moment I was adamantly aware that he was no longer that sullen child that sneered within his gilded cage, but against my hold that Aemond was solid, lithe, and so warm with a woodsy musk mixed with smoke against his skin. 

Pressed against, I was able to feel his low baritone command Vhagar, followed by her jolted steps forward, the beating of her wings to take flight. To feel this power beneath you is indescribable; I could not help my scream, my laughter from the exhilaration that that spate my veins; I dared not close my eyes, tears streaming, and I peered to marvel at how small the capital seemed beneath, how large the shadow we cast overhead. 

It was a newfound euphoria, and I felt my cheeks burn from the crisp air above the gray clouds, but I also knew it was from my close proximity to Aemond. I held onto him as we soared out over Blackwater Bay, and sighed from the touch of his gloved hand, from the heat that permeated through the leather when he placed it over my own. 

And I knew then that I never wished to let him go. 

He eventually brought Vhagar back to land onto the grassy knolls outside the city; the afternoon was growing late but there was still enough light to return. Aemond warned that my legs would be shaky and again he moved first, again with the promise he would not let me fall. 

I still trembled when he set me on the ground, his large palms kept their hold on my waist and my hands rested on his broad shoulders. My eyes were wide admiring the beauty of his mussed, silver braid, his cheeks lined with his dimples with his pursed grin. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Enjoy myself?” I was incredulous, I was a mess; windswept and blooming red, a grinning fool with tear-streaked cheeks, “Aemond, you showed me the heavens.” And a boldness pressed me onto my toes, my lips against his. 

It was my first kiss; it was a heartbeat’s length, it was everything, and when I pulled back, I fell solid to the earth, my soles grounded back on that gassy knoll. I looked up into his bicolored gaze, the lavender of one eye and the gleam of sapphire for the other that stared back. 

Aemond was unreadable in that moment, and I felt my blood surge from my heart and pour into my face; the quiet that settled between us the same length of the years I had spent in King’s Landing, a choking regret that burned in my throat with the thought that I had ruined everything built between us. 

Then he kissed me back. 

And I felt alive once more with the touch of his arm that curled around my waist, how his other hand followed the curve of my spine, tangling into my hair and holding me to capture my mouth. His lips were warm and soft and his tongue clever in a way that drew the very breath from my lungs. I melted against him, my fingertips soft to follow the sharp contours of his jaw, trailing his neck and grasping his collar to bring him even closer.

We only parted for air; the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his riding leathers, the crimson on his cheeks with his quiet confession, something he held close to his heart.

“For how long?” I breathed

And he thought for a moment. “Always.” 

To take his hand now was finding a piece that I did not know was missing from me; our fingers interlaced in a way that felt akin as if I held my own hand, though I knew it was him from the warmth of his skin, from the fire in his blood. By now the tendrils of dusk began to curl over the city, its amber hues bold against the blues and purples of the coming nightfall, but we continued our leisure pace back, Aemond and I. 

We were greeted by the gold cloaks at the gates and they escorted us back, and though he did not let go, I saw that it was no longer Aemond who held my hand but the second son of King Viserys, a Targaryen prince. He was stoic, but this time I could tell the other emotions that flittered beneath, his uncertainty of what awaited, but above that was his determination. 

We finally came to the barbican of the Keep where we were greeted by his queen mother, my aunt, and several White Cloaks. 

Relief washed over the queen while my aunt raged, lifting her skirts to meet us in the courtyard, her nails biting with her grip on my arm and pulling me back; the rushed spill of her words, “I cannot believe this unseemly behavior of a lady, unchaperoned with a prince! We are leaving this moment–”

I tried to twist away but she held on still, a madwoman. Aemond moved after, quick, and his anger burning from him and his long legs moved to block her path. “She will not be leaving.”

The finality of his words, the barrier his form created halted her at once and I felt my heart between my teeth. “My prince,” she stammered in response. “We must leave this very moment! We have imposed on your hospitality far too long as it is, and when my lord husband hears of her behaviors–” 

But she was unaware that Cregan and I wrote, dutifully; he shared his life within the walls of Winterfell, as well as his growing concern with the regency our uncle imposed still. She also did not know the newest letter I had received, how my brother was now the proper Warden of the North and our uncle imprisoned; my aunt paled with my words and it was commanded for her to be taken away. She did not leave quietly, her wails echoed and I watched impassively, knowing her every action was a self-serving and a selfish ploy for power for herself, her husband, for those wretched cousin kin in the North. 

And I knew I would not miss any of them. 

Ever the diplomat, the queen stepped forward with her congratulations for my brother, her condolences for the betrayal within our family, her practiced concern for my well being and its shift to confusion that knitted between her brows when she saw how I smiled at her son. She offered my escort back to Winterfell, but I was quick to decline as I knew I could not leave Aemond. 

I saw the understanding began to roll over, and she then asked her son if he loved me. Aemond responded, “I believe I always have, mother,” and I knew I loved him in return. 

It was decided that the ceremony would be held in the Royal Sept, and chaperoned until, though Aemond stole a moment to gift me this very necklace. I could feel the power of Old Valyria thrum from the metal, adoring how it was woven around the sapphire stone; he told me it was a piece kept from the same stone fitted for his eye.  

I lifted my hair and turned my back towards him, my skin prickling from his touch to clasp the necklace around my throat. 

He hummed. “Gevie.” 

Only a week later, and the service seemed surreal. I felt his warmth that held to the robe he brought around my shoulders, the touch of my palm on top of his large hand kept me grounded while the Septon wrapped the ribbon around; shy glances shared, me to Aemond and seeing his gaze on the sapphire stone beneath my collarbone. The muted words called for a kiss and I burned when Aemond captured my mouth with his own. 

The celebration after was an intimate meal with the king, who was a man withering away beneath a gilded mark, the queen, his siblings, and the Lord Hand, who seemed pleased with the idea of solidifying a truce with the North. 

But I could not think of politics this night, not with the subtle touches from Aemond, a warmth that curled in my lower abdomen when he inevitably took my hand, his low voice that tickled against my ear. “Come with me, my sweet wife,” as we walked towards his quarters.

Her granddam stopped abruptly, flushed. “Well, you understand what is implied.”

“Understand what?” Lyanna quirked her brow. 

It was a pregnant pause that allowed her eyes steel onto her granddaughter, and Lyanna returned her gaze with a cheeky, taunting grin. 

“It would serve you well to not agitate your elders.” 

“What a bore I would be if I was just another docile woman of nobility?” Lyanna countered, gleefully. “Granddam, Robert has bastards and I am no fool, I do not believe his immaculate conception claims…” 

“Yes, you are very bright,” she huffed. “Now hush up and let me read.” 

Our marital bliss that followed left me in a haze; Aemond was not one for public displays of affection and how I craved his subtle touches, his lingering hand that would have me blushing furiously in response. He would only hum, his perpetual smirk that played on his lips with my every visceral response to him. 

I wrote to Cregan and informed him of our union; he was quick to respond with his congratulations, as well as his newfound concerns, asking if it was true that the crowned princess had sired bastards with the intention to make them her heirs without ownership of her actions. 

“Our father was honorable until his last breath,” he wrote, “I would not besmirch his memory or our house, our legacy, for an oath made for bastard-born heirs to the Iron Throne.”

This was a topic I had already discussed in length with Aemond, even before we had even kissed. I was aware of his scar and its cause, and I knew of the old blood and the features lacking when it came to his nephews, something made apparent for the claimant hearings of Dirftmark, as well as the cruel response of Prince Daemon when a lord spoke out loud what the court was thinking. 

I answered my brother truthfully, knowing full well that this would sway the North behind Prince Aegon II.

And then King Viserys met his inevitable demise; the small council moved quick to announce that his final words were that he wished his firstborn son to take the crown. Aegon panicked, but my husband and Ser Criston fetched him, washed him, fed him, but also comforted him. 

It would be Ser Criston who coaxed him to the coronation, to be the one to place the crown of steel and rubies on top of his silver head, announcing: “King Viserys is dead, long live King Aegon!”

My husband would be sent to Storm’s End to negotiate a betrothal for his brother, Daeron, to one of the Four Storms. It resulted in tragedy, or vengeance on who spoke the narrative. The room stilled with Aemond’s words, the unspoken terror in the queen’s large, brown eyes, the shock that lined the severe features of the Lord Hand, but it was his brother, King Aegon wearing the Conqueror’s Crown who spoke that Aemond had shown the true blood of a dragon. 

But in the quiet quarters we shared, Aemond lamented the loss of life, the war it started, a guilt that weighed heavily, and once more I saw the sorrowful prince when I first came to King’s Landing. 

“There will be repercussions for my actions,” he rasped, unable to meet with my eyes. “I have ruined my namesake, and I have cursed our family…” 

“War seemed inevitable,” I began slowly, my hands careful to hold his jaw, to bring his gaze to my own. “And with it comes rash decisions, with impossible choices to be made…I trust it was not intentional, but even if it was, cursed or not, I am still yours, husband.” A soft kiss to seal my words. “Always.” 

War and its bloodshed was rampant in Westeros, and my brother wrote they would travel South when winter ended to help King Aegon with his rightful claim. I feared for the delay, for what would follow Storm’s End, and how it seemingly unleashed the Rogue Prince. 

Hired men with the monikers Blood and Cheese came in the night, and I knew them to be sent for me, as one repeated, “An eye for an eye, a son for son,” but followed with his slow realization, “she is not a son,” before his sword was drawn and struck Prince Jaehaerys. 

The screams of Helaena resounded against the cobblestone; Aemond found us covered in blood, his rage and his grief conflicting on his angular features. The king cried for vengeance for his firstborn son, to search for these men and place their heads on spikes; the kingdom was repulsed by the murder of the princeling, a martyr made with his blood spilled. 

Aegon’s bloodlust made for rash decisions and the battle of Rook’s Rest; though one dragon and its rider slain, its cost was the king crippled in a way that he was not fit to rule. So Aemond stepped forward to take the title Prince Regent and the Protector of the Realm, a natural role that was suited for the second son. 

The Rogue Prince struck against the Riverlands, torching until ash remained. In response, the now Prince Regent and Ser Criston left to claim Harrenhal. 

I was told to wait, to remain at the side of our grieving queen, my sister by all accounts; I watched over sweet Helaena, coaxing her to eat, washing her, sitting alongside her in the haunting silence of the quarters that somehow still echoed her screams from that fateful night. We were often left alone, as the maesters and the dowager queen never left King Aegon’s side, and I remained with her until I received the latest letter from Aemond. 

Harrenhal had been dispelled of every Strong traitor to the crown, and he spoke of a witch he wished me to meet, that I was to leave King’s Landing and be by his side, as the gods ordained. 

A quick kiss to the silver head of Helaena and I left the castle, careful to retrace our steps that led to the coast and I continued until I was back on the grassy knolls from what felt like a lifetime ago. I waited the skies until I felt the rumbled call of Vhagar in the distance, gleeful when she finally landed and watched my prince descend to envelope me in his arms, his whispered adoration, “My love, my sweet wife.” 

We returned to Harrenhal to meet with the witch he spared, a hushed reverence when he told me of her abilities. “She sees much and more.” 

I could see she was hardened by life, but her expression was kind when she greeted us; her eyes roamed around, watchful, looking through to my bones and only then did I understand what my husband meant. 

At supper, we sat around the table, along with Ser Criston, and her eyes watched the flicker of candlelight, the flames licking her irises, before she spoke: “Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

Aemond finished chewing before he asked her. “And I am which?”

Alys’ eyes were black, her painted lips curled and framed around her pearl teeth. “To be the greatness, you must end the madness,” was all that she offered, and then, “the Rogue Prince is coming.” 

Ser Criston looked uneasy, but it was a silent understanding in regards to her statement, something that pressed heavily on us both. King Aegon could only have a true chance to rule the realm if his sister lost the power she had with her husband, the Rogue Prince; it was known that he was unruly, untamed, but loyal to a fault, and willing to see it through to its brutal end. 

That night, we fell back into an intimate embrace, cherishing the feeling of skin to skin–

Her granddam was crimson. “Oh, my, I believe I should skip this as well–”

She watched her granddam a moment, the intrusive thought to take the letters for her own readthrough, but it was muted by a growing sadness that began to settle in the edges of her sharp features. Lyanna knew well the history of the Dance of the Dragons, something scrawled on scrolls and tomes, its tragedy saved in ink and tucked away.

And still, she had to know this truth.  

“Please,” and her voice was soft. “Please, continue.” 

And granddam did. 

It was the 22nd day of the 5th moon and we waited on the shores of Gods Eye, myself, Aemond, and the witch. Ser Criston rode North to meet with my brother, and we remained, waiting. 

It had been a vision for Alys, something sinister; it was no surprise when the wyrm screeched its arrival, circling above, wary of Vhagar, before finally landing. Prince Daemon had an arrogance with his dismount, with his walk towards us. 

There was a symmetry as they squared towards one another; the Rogue Prince was cloaked with the past and my Aemond embodied the future, the true hope for House Targaryen. My husband faced him, unflinching, his brow furrowed with his ever present determination, while Daemon rolled his eyes over the each of us, sucking his teeth. 

Aemond broke the silence. “You were a fool to come alone.”

“Were I not alone, you would not have come,” Daemon was amused. 

But it did not deter my dragon. “Yet you are, and here I am,” he sighed. “You have lived too long, nuncle.”

“On that much we agree.”

The prince retreated to his wyrm and Aemond looked to me, his eye pleading, the glassy lavender that bore through my skin, and the gleam of sapphire for the other. He then dipped forward to kiss me and the tears pearling in the corners of my eyes spilled onto my cheeks at the taste of him, the touch of him; I knew I could never imagine anyone else. Those words stilled on my tongue, how I wanted him to beg to stay with me, but I also knew that he must. 

“Do not say it,” my voice broke, hushed against our kiss swollen lips. “Just come back to me.” 

His two fingers pressed against the sapphire pendant I wore, before leaning forward to press his lips to my hairline, and then he climbed aback Vhagar, his lithe body quick to mount. I remained on the sand with the witch at my side, and we watched these winged beasts rise above us. 

Dragons are truly magnificent, but they are also equally deadly. I trusted Vhagar was loyal to Aemond, but also knew it matched by the bond shared between Prince Daemon and his wyrm. It was said that Targaryens are closer to gods than to men, and I believed this as I watched them on dragonback, circling above the massive lake. Their roars vibrated through to our bones, the snapping of the jaws like cracks of lighting and their flames that singed the threads of my gown from my place on the shore. 

My eyes did not leave, and I asked Alys. “Will he live?” 

She was quiet for a moment. “The memory of him will live on,” and I felt her hand reach and touch my stomach. 

And all I could do was hold onto my pendant with prayers to the old golds, to the new gods for mercy for my husband, whose child I carried. 

They did not listen.

It was a clash of scale and bone, something that reverberated to Harrenhal and rattled the castle walls that still stood. The wyrm’s screams were cut short as the massive maw of Vhagar clamped onto its neck, and its talons flailed and cut deep into the old dragon’s underside. Blood rained onto the lake and I watched, struck with mortification at the dull glint of Valyrian armor, the flash raise of Dark Sister, and I knew it was over. 

I remained on the shore as the waves created from the fall of dead dragons crashed against the sand, a blood foam that flooded and wet my skirts. I remained still as the sun tucked beneath the horizon, until I heard the call of the witch. 

“My lady, the wolves have arrived.” 

This would be the shift of power needed for King Aegon II; the Rogue Prince was dead and his men fell to the sword under the command of my brother and Ser Criston. Cregan was shocked to see me and I was stoic still, dumbstruck with my grief that did not feel real; we returned to King’s Landing with the Northern army, quick to dethrone Rhaenyra and place her in the cells with the company of all the lords who supported her. 

King Aegon was scarred cruelly with a gimp to his steps, but he made his way to the Iron Throne, his crown of rubies and steel, and greeted his mother and the queen. This joyous moment died as I was tasked to share the news of the death of Aemond, of my husband and father of my unborn child; we cried our heartbreak, but I had no tears left. 

This pivotal moment would be known as the Hour of the Wolf by our history. It will speak of the heroism of Prince Aemond and what he sacrificed to kill the Rogue Prince, of how my brother descended onto the capital with a vengeance and helped return the throne to its rightful heir. The casualties of war included the bastard princes, as well as both sons of the king. 

When King Aegon learned that Prince Daeron the Daring met his fatal end, he decided mercy on the remaining Targaryen princelings, Aegon III and Viserys II, with his solemn vow to raise them as his own, as his heirs to the Iron Throne. 

Cregan served as Lord Hand through my pregnancy, for the birth of my darling Lysara with a patch of silver that showed against her dark curls and her eyes the same as her father’s, lavender. My brother had also been widowed but met the Lady Alysanna Blackwood, a woman I admired fiercely, and Lysara was smitten with, and was thrilled when I learned I could call her sister. 

It was then Cregan asked to be relieved so he could return to the North, to his son, and I asked to go with him. My time in King’s Landing was over, with every stone haunted with presence of Aemond; I already swore I would never marry again, would not dare have another set of hands touch and taint the memory of his hands against my body, his touch forever etched onto my skin and seeded into the marrow of my bones. 

Aemond would return to me at night, a silver dream, my body thrumming with the warmth of his touch, his gentle kiss, the low murmur of his voice, but it always ended the same: my realization when my hands pressed to his chest and felt no heartbeat.

That I would never feel it again.

The pain of losing him has not dimmed nor diminished with time, but I do not mind it as it serves as my reminder that he was real, and that the love we shared was real. 

As the witch predicted, Aemond also still lived within Lysara who was solemn, brilliant, and as determined and stubborn as he had been. I made sure to do an annual trip to King’s Landing, allowing her to meet her granddam, her royal family, and so that my daughter could learn that her blood not only held that of the Andals, the first men, but also of the fire that licks within her veins. 

Which is also why I write this, along with the gift of the necklace. It holds legacy, but also the reminder of the words Queen Helaena spoke to me when we were girls, something said a lifetime ago and before I could comprehend the weight of them. 

There is something in the blood of House Stark that calls out to these dragons, perhaps an ancient power of the old gods or a kindred spirit, the disparate bond of ice and fire, a clash that is brilliant, violent, and tragic, always. 

As she once said: a song of ice and fire, it is a tragedy, again and again…

It ended with a finality that rested against her chest. This was a tragic history of the crown, something already written with facts and dates, but this was a personal storying stemming from the blood of Stark woman, and only now did Lyanna begin to understand how the stories remained so vivid, so detailed despite its years of retelling. 

But also…

“What does this mean for me?” Her voice was soft, an almost childlike naivety to her tone. “I am already engaged to Robert Baratheon.”

Her granddam watched her, a tight lipped smile in response as her mind returned to the feast of last night, to the looks shyly exchanged between her granddaughter and the crowned prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, as he played his harp for her. It left her unsettled with a hunch, an inkling about this interaction. 

Instead she agreed. “You are right,” and she sighed. “Let me help you get dressed for the tourney.” 

The new Harranhal swelled with the life for the festivities, with the kingdoms’ best sent in response of Lord Whent’s invites; the new cobblestone seemed bright against the darkened foundation that still held, its ghosts trapped still and trampled underfoot by the crowds as the seats filled, the echoing chattered excitement that vibrated. 

It dimmed with a hushed reverence to see Prince Rhaegar Targaryen entering the field on his steed; his lavender eyes scanned the masses, an intent to spot one soul in particular, and she unknowingly called to him with her sweet smile, by the glint of the sapphire that rested against her chest. 

There's not one thing that I would change.

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[bucknastysbabe]

Ser Criston is OC Princess (Rhaenyra’s younger sister) sworn protector & is in love with her but he knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help being obsessed and Rhaenyra hates it because it’s her little sister & so one night she asks Ser Criston to sneak out for a walk and they kiss & get caught by Rhaenyra idk

Hi yes I totally got carried away bc Criston has me in a chokehold rn. I hope you enjoy, I love the obsessed aspects. I also got to explore the other indications in F&B that insinuated Cole rejected Rhaenyra. Thanks for the ask🥰🥰 I don’t usually do OC’s but since it’s a Targ I mean I can only leave so much up to interpretation! But it was fun and diff

Rating: Mature

Tags: Forbidden love, unreliable narrator, Criston’s POV, oc-ish Princess reader, Sorry I made Rhae a bitch ugh, Criston’s snappy ass, Alicent is his bestie, masturbation, fantasies, dark Criston, virgin reader, clit orgasm, open ending, angst and pining galore, Religious Guilt, Harwin doing his best okay?, character study-ish, obsessive/possessive Criston

Word count: About 6k

@aemonds-holy-milk @aemonddtargaryen

Lucerra Targaryen, called Cerra, was oft said to be the spitting image of the late Queen Aemma. She retained more of her father’s demeanor, none of the resolute strength of Aemma and the fiery nature of young Rhaenyra. The fire that had entranced Criston once. He was told all of Cerra’s quirks when they made him her sworn shield.

He so much did not glance Rhaenyra’s way now, the burly Ser Harwin towering over the heir. They shared a kiss once, Criston ran, their close bond was severed. He knew down deep she coveted her uncle. It burned him, but he did his duty. The duty hanging around his shoulders like a lead weight— just cloaked in white wool. Criston found himself bewitched again.

The sweet Cerra, her gentle innocence and piousness. Something unmarred, not yet tainted by the world. The knight wondered if she was the maiden reborn, sent to test him. He prayed and prayed and confessed repeatedly to get rid of the wicked sin in his heart. Usually after touching himself.

Criston had always been weak when it came to the fairer sex. He’d fall madly in love like a boy and his first fuck. Just no fucking, more of the merest scrap of appreciation and touch had him by the vulnerable throat.

He coveted the young princess badly. Sometimes she would grab his palm when frightened, or on a walk to the Sept. Criston felt disgusting wondering how that soft hand would feel around his cock, the pale flesh clashing against ruddy. Cerra didn’t know, couldn’t know how weak he was.

Rhaenyra obviously knew of the metaphorical chink in the armor. She was becoming increasingly nosy of her sister’s doings as of late. He sourly thought to himself, ‘spoiled cunt couldn’t have me, of course she’ll make sure I part from her sweet sister.’ He frowned in annoyance at the elder’s recent interruption.

He’d merely helped her up to reach a flower in a tall bush. Certainly didn’t expect chaste Cerra to be so…close. She had wrapped her arms around his neck, startling him as she sighed, “You’re too kind Ser Criston, my white knight. What would I do without you?” She didn’t mean anything licentious, the Princess never did. Once a lordling flirted and she blushed to her ears and called for Criston to escort her away.

He preened about that for days. He’d heard the idiot boy scoff, “Stupid Dornish mutt.” Criston grinned and leaned toward the shorter lad, keeping his voice low. The princess shouldn’t hear such filth. He hissed, “This mutt would be glad to cave your fucking skull in with a Morningstar. Don’t come near the Princess ever again.” That was that. Back to his original thought.

At the moment Criston couldn’t help but sink into her soft gesture, pale white waves and lavender eyes gazing up as she laid her head on his chest. The brunette laid a chaste hand on her waist, but the moony look on his face was likely brighter than the Hightower’s beacon.

“My lady is kinder, no need to praise your sworn shield, merely doing my duty Princess.”

His cock was full to bursting at her sweet scent and wide eyes, framed by pretty lashes. Cerra closed those lavender orbs and inhaled gently, relaxing in the center of the Godswood. Criston’s hand thumbed little circles into her waist, feeling the princess relax more, leaning into his stronger frame, lips subtly parting.

“Cole! This is an unseemly position to be seen in with my sister if Larys’ spies are about,” Rhaenyra called with a smile and cocked head. Lucerra stepped back with a gasp, flush flooding her cheeks. She stammered, “R-Rhaenyra, no no, I w-was simply.”

“Simply what?”

Criston cooled his expression to state, “The princess was expressing her gratitude for me. Nothing more.”

Lucerra nodded, gesturing to the knight, cheeks still flaming and eyes downcast. She certainly wasn’t acting as if this was innocent. Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes and stepped forward to grab her sister’s hand. Casting a glare toward him she hissed, “I need her for the afternoon, you can wait outside the door.”

He stiffly nodded, anger flaring up in his chest so violently Criston feared he would yell at the heir. Instead he murmured, “Yes princess.” From a distance he trailed the two blondes, aggravated as all Seven Hells. Rhaenyra never paid attention to Cerra, especially since having her first babe. Damned bitch. Where was her loyal whore Harwin?

Waiting outside Rhaenyra’s chambers, Criston thought over her precious sister’s actions. He wondered what it would be like to touch her more. Graze over her sensitive neck, breasts, lower belly. She’d probably squeal if he suckled on a pretty tit. He inhaled sharply, catching himself on a low moan. Repentance would be in order soon.

Maybe he was being punished now— waiting outside like a mangy dog.

For hours.

Cerra came back out with a strange look, apologizing, “Sorry Ser Criston, that went longer than expected, I didn’t think my sister would want that much of the day. Shall we head to supper?”

He nodded, extending an arm forward. The princess was quiet, eyes flicking toward him a couple of times. Criston asked, “Yes princess?” Lucerra stopped on a dime and faced him, face close to tears. She warbled, “You’re not mad are you? I- I can’t deny family. Rhaenyra actually uh- helped. I was acting imprudent in the Godswood, I apologize for being wanton and brazen Ser.”

Oh. Criston blinked a couple of times. She was expressing more than mere affection? He wiped away her tear with a gloved hand, sighing, “No princess, I could never be mad at you, what’s in the past is in the past. You are anything but wanton, the picture of the maiden to me. Don’t let her scare you.”

She smiled, tipping forward on her feet some, eyes entrapping Cole easily. Then he was engulfed into a hug again. What had brought in this madness? He couldn’t complain, yet.

She breathed, “Oh, oh I was so worried you’d be mad. We should go to the sept tomorrow, yes?” The knight’s lips quirked up as he replied, “That sounds splendid my Princess, we shall go in the morn. Now let’s get you to dinner?”

She grabbed his hand again, practically skipping, chattering now about her time with ‘big sister’. Criston listened, he always did, but he needed to go jack his cock before going mad. Then wallow in guilt about it all night at the edge of Cerra’s room. She preferred him taking watch from inside her quarters. Such a frightened little lamb.

Wallow in guilt did he. While the princess slept in her grand bed, Criston couldn’t help but replay the shame in his head. As soon as he’d escorted her to dinner, he went to his quarters and stripped down heavy armor and pants. The man shuddered at the sensation of cool air hitting his achingly flushed cock.

He pictured the pristine Targaryen underneath his tanned body, writhing with pleasure. Criston spat on his hand and worked his prick, panting softly. Cerra’s doe eyes would be teary, overwhelmed with the pleasures of the flesh. She’d whine while he’d pump into her virgin cunt, “Oh, Criston, oh gods! Don’t stop!” The knight gasped and shuddered at the thought, groaning as he spilled all over his hand.

He blinked again, running a hand through his hair. Lucerra was awake, hair shining like silver under the moonlight. She spoke in a soft rasp, “Ser Cole, are you still here?” He laughed at her silly question, replying, “As always, can’t trade me out like the Cargylls.”

“Oh, good,” she pulled the covers off the bed and stretched, white nightgown pulling in the right wrong places, “I had a horrid dream. I can’t possibly go back to sleep yet.”

Criston frowned at her admission— it pained his heart to have her upset. He questioned, “A bad dream? What was it about?” She stepped onto the cold marble floor, shivering, shrugging on a thicker robe hung nearby. His eyes followed her smaller form come closer, curling up in a plush chair adjacent to his position. She wiped a hand across her face, still groggy.

“I can hardly remember now. I was alone, so alone, not even my dragon was around. I k-kept calling out for someone, probably you,” she pulled the robe tighter, “I don’t know. Maybe it was the wine.”

Cerra’s lips were drawn tight, brows pulled together. Criston wanted to pull the pretty girl onto his lap, she was still shivery. He thought of a decent response, something comforting. The knight settled on, “It was obviously a dream, I’d never desert you my Princess. That big white beast wouldn’t either.”

Her lips curled up to let out a tinkling laugh— making Criston’s sick heart skip a beat. Cerra replied, “Cloudwing is not a beast! She’s a good girl.” The brunette chuckled along with the Targaryen, smiling helplessly, such a lovesick dumb dog was he.

A beat of silence grew over them, heavy with something. The earlier revelation of Lucerra behaving with romantic intentions still lay undiscussed. Criston suggested gently, “You will catch a cold if you do not get back under the covers, princess. You won’t be alone, I swore an oath.”

One he would break if she just asked. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted that truly or not. He’d gotten quite far being the son of a common born steward.

She bit her lower lip and shrugged, “I’d much rather sit with you Ser Criston. I’ll be okay as long as I keep my feet off the dreadful stone.”

“Lucerra, please, shall I pick you up then? You need sleep, the Sept remember?”

Her gaze locked onto the white knight’s intensely. Lucerra fidgeted with her robe, the damn air growing heavier. Criston found it hard to think when she was being so confusing. She finally spoke, a meek whisper, “Yes, that would be nice, thank you.”

Lifting the blonde was easy, her squeak and grasp onto his shoulders adorable. Criston had to bat away more thoughts about how simple she was to handle. He laid her down gently, taking the coat she shrugged off. Lucerra grabbed onto his hand with a fervent tightness as he turned back to his chair.

“Please, don’t leave me so alone, I don’t care what Rhaenyra says. Just keep me warm?”

Her pretty face was achingly raw, open, eyes tinged with fear. Criston swallowed heavily. He was weak. He couldn’t run away this time. Didn’t want to run away, bask in the sweet sin. Maybe it was meant to be. Maybe it was a test from the seven.

“Criston?”

“Yes, just, just- give me a second to get my armor off.”

Now he was shivery with want, warring with trepidation. Ridding his body of armor was horribly slow. The awkward clank of each piece coming off. Each heavy noise reminded him what he was potentially giving up. Soon Criston remained in simple breeches and a linen shirt. Lucerra pulled back the covers and smiled nervously.

He climbed onto the soft bed, pulling the blankets back over their frames. Unsure of what came next, Criston simply laid on his back and gazed at her. Lucerra murmured, “Must you be the pious one now?” He raised an amused brow at the bold comment.

“What’s that supposed to mean princess?”

She frowned and nestled into his side, wrapping an arm around him and tucking soft hair into the crook of shoulder and jaw. Criston exhaled sharply, unused to such intimate touch after donning the white cloak. He reached over to grab her leg, pulling it snug across his lower belly, thankfully out of the way of his swelling prick.

Cerra gasped against his neck, giggling, “Good, now I don’t feel like a concubine.”

“Concubine? Pfft. You’re white as snow compared to my cloak,” he replied.

“It’ll be our secret, I’d fear I would perish without my white knight. I swear it upon my heart.”

He couldn’t respond, lest it be something out of control. Instead he rubbed her back and knee, squeezing once in agreement with Cerra’s statement. Soon she fell asleep, softly puffing against his neck. Criston joined soon after, utterly content and warm.

The simple action of cuddling up couldn’t slake the thirst that grew within him for the lovely princess. They had remained chaste and he arose early every morn to get dressed and step back outside the wooden door. Lucerra would seek out touches in secret, holding pinkies with him, laying her head on an armored shoulder in the Godswood.

She would share smiles with the knight across the throne room, Rhaenyra’s calculating look upon the utterly obvious pair. Criston knew one could see into his bleeding heart if they looked into his eyes. The way Princess Lucerra grew tighter and tighter into his side around the keep, lavender eyes sparkling aroused many curious onlookers.

Rumors began to swirl. Criston reluctantly stood outside her chambers a couple nights a week. One night he encountered a poorly prying Harwin Strong. The fellow knight had made one too many passes and he called out, “Get your big ass over here!” He didn’t mind Harwin, but did mind being spied on.

The hand’s son looked sullen as he walked up to Criston, flicking down a dark hood. He gave a sheepish smile, apologizing, “Uh, you know, the girls want what they want.” Criston crossed his arms and deadpanned, “Your girl wants me expelled from King’s Landing on account of rumors”

Harwin gave him a look, disgusting pity lacing his features. Criston reiterated, “The girl remains pure, she looks to me as a protector, you know how easily frightened the princess has always been.” Somehow he felt like a liar. Still her pretty lips and cunt remained untouched.

“Sure Cole. Just be careful, you know what the punishment is of breaking your oath.”

Criston’s temper flared to life, taunting Harwin with a fake smile, “You be careful too now, two Valyrians making some beautiful brown haired babes is a bit strange no?”

Harwin shoved him into the door with a snarl. Breakbones’ power at full force knocked the wind out of Criston, but he wheezed a laugh. He was no better than him— just another lovesick fool. Strong rumbled, “Keep your damn mouth shut and I’ll stay on my side, but I know you got the princess primed for your dirty lowborn cock.”

Criston didn’t want to get his face pummeled in. The raucous already probably woke his sweetling. He gave another smarmy look and hummed, “Noted, Strong.” That earned the knight another shove and the burly man stomped off to lick the bitch’s teats.

The door opened behind Criston, a bewildered Lucerra in her robe. She questioned, “W-what was that? Are you alright Ser Criston? Come in, please.”

His dark eyes scanned down the hallway once more before stepping inside, sighing as she enveloped him into a warm embrace. Criston spoke lowly, “Big sister had sent her own shield to spy on me. We should be more careful.”

Lucerra frowned, lips setting into a pout. She murmured, “We’ve done nothing horrid. Yes, unseemly, but I’m intact. Turn around, let me get off this dreaded armor.” Criston appreciated her desire to learn how to discard his Kingsguard armor— although he averted guilty eyes from the way the Targaryen would carefully hang his cloak, like it still meant something.

As they laid together, she complained into his neck, lithe fingers playing with his inky hair, “You’re right, we should be more courtly, take more precaution. Of all of my sister’s misgivings, why does she care?”

Criston played dumb, it’s what he was anyway. Lied again and said he had no clue why Rhaenyra took such a deep distaste to the pair’s relationship. He sighed, “It will work out, more careful, yes. C’mon, to sleep, sorry about the noise.”

Another night in her arms was a blessing to Criston. He would be reluctantly busy the next day. The king needed a whole retainer for his appearance in public at the Dragonpit. It was the anniversary of Aegon’s landing. Luckily the princess would be in his peripheral. Along with the conniving heir and her other eyes.

It was a banal affair, King Viserys smiling and waving to the crowds. Queen Alicent held her youngest child, Daeron. Rhaenyra and Laenor were surrounded by her bastard brood, holding her own babe Joffrey. Named after that flimsy knight who Laenor was fucking. Poor sap died in the city under strange circumstances, likely Daemon’s doings.

Criston met eyes with Harwin, vaguely disguising a sneer. He ignored the brute and turned his vision back to the crowds, the smallfolk staying relatively easy. Lucerra stood next to her elder sister, holding Lucerys, her namesake. Her smile was gorgeous, a couple of boys cheered for her, throwing a flower.

After the public spectacle, the princess gave a shy smile to Criston on his horse, cheeks rosy pink before the door was slammed shut by the cunt Daemon. He raised a brow and hopped onto the front of the wheelhouse, offhandedly commenting, “Cunt struck and you haven’t even defiled my niece, Ser Crispin.”

The Dornishman clenched his jaw so hard he feared it may crack a tooth. He rode ahead, staying silent, Daemon didn’t forget a slight and surely hadn’t forgot when Criston embarrassed the rogue prince in tournament. Pompous ass.

More annoying feast and merriment kept the knight from his pretty girl. Lords and ladies filled the grand dining hall, dancing to and fro. He stayed put against a column, watching her. Lucerra wasn’t much of a dancer, but she let the old Sea Snake guide her around some turns.

A body sidled next to him, a familiar face and scent. The Queen herself, Alicent smiled softly up at him. She stated, “You’re distracted Ser Criston.” He sighed in return, “I’m sure you’re quite aware of the rumors. Seven cursed my weak heart.”

“Lucerra’s harmless,” Alicent glared toward the non-green side of the table, “It’s her lying sister, you remained truthful. I’ve been trying to stifle the rumors. Have you stayed chaste? I hope you have on account of your neck, my dear Knight.”

Criston leaned down to murmur, “Agonizingly so. I fear I’ve been bewitched yet again. Harwin Strong was sniffing around the other night.”

Her lips turned to a foul grimace at the mention. Alicent hissed, “The realm’s delight is carting around her bastards like trueborns and she’s deadset on potentially ruining her sister’s reputation to get at you.”

“Always been selfish, hasn’t she,” Criston laughed.

Alicent smirked, placing both of her hands over the knight’s. The green queen spoke plainly, “Please be careful dear heart. You’re a valuable asset to our proud dynasty.” The long-suffering redhead disappeared into the throng of people, ever an ally for him.

Back to scanning the surroundings. Daemon was spinning with Rhaenyra, likely talking horseshit in High Valyrian. He scanned for Lucerra, finding her cornered by the tables with a noble clad in the colors of House Darklyn, known bootlickers.

His chest tightened with jealousy. Criston seethed to himself, chanting internally, ‘I will not make a scene, I will not make a scene.’ The Darklyn lad was too close for his liking. It suddenly felt too hot under his heavy armor. He was close to the brink, gripping the pommel of his sword until his knuckles whitened.

Lucerra seemed uncomfortable, face uneasy and body stiffening. The Darklyn fuck was leaning into her space, lips undoubtedly spewing disgusting things a lady shouldn’t hear. The princess gasped at something he said and turned away, getting yanked back towards the man.

That was enough.

Criston stormed forward, shoving through the nobility, snarling in anger. He yanked the uncouth prick by the collar and dragged him far away from his princess. Parts of the crowd stopped to stare, Rhaenyra perking up to look. The princess blushed and excused herself, quickly finding another dance partner in the more palatable form of Tyland Lannister.

“What are you doing? I have done nothing to the King!,” the black haired teen spat. Criston continued to haul the boy past the columns to a quieter place, anger clouding any sort of judgement. He shoved the noble bitch against an alcove, gauntlet pressed against twitching neck.

Darklyn gasped and writhed for air, eyes wide with fear. Criston hissed, “The Kingsguard protects the family and the king. You should know better than to touch the princess like that. I ought to gut you, throw you onto the spikes of Maegor’s Holdfast and watch you rot.”

The stinking reek of piss filled Criston’s nostrils. He looked down in disgust, muttering, “Weakling piss-ant. Don’t dare come near her-,” his threat was unfinished as he was whirled to face Lord Commander Westerling. His face was hard and eyes flinty— obviously disappointed.

“Come Cole, we need to have a word.”

The walk was quiet and unsettling, only the clank of their gear and footsteps sounding off as they reached the quieter area of Maegor’s Holdfast. Criston apologized immediately, “My temper Ser, I apologize, he was manhandling the Princess.”

Harrold Westerling shook his head with a resigned sigh. He rumbled, “You’ve already toed the line Ser Cole. I don’t want to have a capable fighter like you dismissed or facing the black, gelded at that.”

Criston’s roiling emotions died down into a despairing state— his chest fluttering with fear. He nodded and held his head down in obeisance. Westerling continued, “You must take a step back. You’re of the most elite of elite men, a big step from your beginnings. Princess Lucerra is an enchanting girl, I know this is hard, but as soon as you took the oath— this is your life. You must cease all feelings for the girl or request to be transferred to another.”

Criston fought back the warble in his voice. He wanted to rip his cloak off and shout his love, make someone understand. He swore, “I know Lord Commander, I know. I have never defiled the girl, I would never. This is my calling and I’m shirking it. I’ll think about requesting an exchange.”

Harrold clapped him on the shoulder and regarded him with kinder eyes, “Good. I was struck too once. I had many princesses to tend to with Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s litter of dragons. Just, please, pray on it and keep it in line Ser Cole.”

“Yes sir.”

He sulked about, Harrold ordering him to his chambers until the was called to his usual watch over his Lucerra. Criston hoped she was alright. He guiltily turned dark eyes onto his shrine of the seven. The small flail and beaded necklace awaited. He had been ignoring the faith, so entrenched in sin Criston could hardly bare to look at the Mother’s cold face.

He prayed and prayed to the mother for relief of his twisted desire, depraved lust, uncontrollable need to consume a sparkling untainted virgin. Then to the warrior to ease his temper, make Criston a calm knight, not blinded by rage so he may protect accordingly. Down the list he went until the dead skull relief of the Stranger awaited.

“If I fail, take me into your arms and punish me accordingly,” he whispered, a couple tears leaking onto his armor, shining by the candles. He would confess another time and receive his penance. Bloodletting seemed fit. Flagellation made him think clear, the pain taking away sickness in mind and body.

A sharp knocking snapped Criston out of his religious wallowing. He called out, “I’m coming.” The door opened to the queen and Ser Rickard Thorne. They both were cloaked and Alicent’s doe eyes looked worried. The younger knight questioned, “What? What is it?”

Alicent shushed him and murmured, “Our dear Lucerra and…the heir,” she spat the word like it was bile on her tongue, “Had some intense words after the feast. Ser Thorne escorted Cerra to her chambers.”

Thorne’s gravelly voice was low, “It was quiet and I checked in as she was in quite the state. She’s not in her chambers and the servant’s passage was left slightly ajar.”

Alicent frowned, “I know she’s upset and frightened. I would rather you find her. No one knows of this. I doubt she would leave the keep but gods forbid. We checked underneath the keep and Thorne most of the passageways. I will keep this at utmost secrecy, dear Criston.”

He nodded, quickly gathering his gear and a dark cloak to cover the white of his garb. While fastening his belt he quickly thanked the pair, “I will find her now. Thank you my queen, Ser Thorne. You may rest now. She will be returned.”

He chastely kissed the queens ring, patting his fellow knight on the shoulder and strode forward, urgency at his tail. Criston was fearful, dreadfully so. What did Rhaenyra do? He bit his lip, worked his jaw, making his rounds around the shadows of the outer courtyard. The goldcloaks were obviously not doing their job, playing cards up in a tower.

He worried she finally broke the princess, told Lucerra of the past. She would be heartbroken. He sped his pace, deciding to check the Godswood. Somewhere she would still feel safe. He knew Cerra wouldn’t run anywhere outside the walls, she’d have a fainting spell.

Speeding up he decided to take a turn and clamber up the wall into the Godswood. He must not be seen. Especially after tonight’s mishap. Swinging a leg over the thick red stone, Criston shimmied down and landed with a dull thud. The clouds covered the moon— making it dreadfully dark. Lucerra must truly be upset. He swallowed down a tightening throat. He needed to be the protector, not a weeping craven.

He scanned around the dark trees and arches to the left. It seemed empty. He moved forward, keeping to the brush, listening. Closer towards the heart tree he heard the familiar little hitching of breath. His Cerra. The fear of what came next shivered his spine.

Criston called gently, “Princess, Princess, is that you?”

He slowly approached, holding out a hand like he was soothing a skittish foal. He could barely see her, just the white of hair and a shadow of a figure. He took another step, stopping when she wept, “No Ser Cole, go away, I wish to be alone.”

All of his fears had come true. She’d turned against him. He shook his head. No. This wouldn’t do. The knight would change her mind. Lucerra Targaryen needed him, not Ser Cole, not the loyal dog, just Criston Cole of Blackhaven’s marches.

“Ser, please, I cannot bear this,” Cerra warbled.

He came to her side, kneeling, swallowing another agonized noise when she turned from him. Criston begged, “Sweetling, what’s the matter, why are you distraught? It pains me.” She sobbed, hands wrenching into a now-dirtied dress.

The brunette engulfed her tinier frame into a tight grip, her back plastered to his. Much like they slept many a night. She fought and tried to wrench free, crying, “No! Let go! I’m just a replacement for her! I always come second! Ser Cole!”

He held tighter, exploding, “I love you!”

Her writhing stopped, eyes turning to him, confusion on fine features. Criston swore, “Bythe Seven and my oath, I love you more than anything Lucerra.” She shook her head, confused, “No, no you don’t, Rhaenyra told me why y-you became my shield.”

He hissed, “No, she lied, she lied lied lied! I kissed her yes, but I ran, I knew it was bad. I was an idiot— she merely wanted a fill in for Daemon. I swear it to be true,” he continued in a softer voice, “I never thought I would love so strongly and deeply as I do with you, it’s more than lust. I would worship you until my last breath, chaste forever.”

Lucerra bawled again, curling into him, soft thighs straddling his own as she wept. He held her and shushed and coddled, praising the perfect maiden’s presence. He dumbly reiterated, “Never, never has anyone taken my heart like you have.” Her bejeweled hands gripped into his cloak.

Her face was dangerously close to his, sweet scent filling the knight’s nose. She whispered in a rasp, “Do you mean it? You love me? I love you, it nearly broke me to hear Rhaenyra tell me.” Criston frowned, pressing his forehead to her own. He murmured, “I was dumb, I bolted after it was initiated. I didn’t tell you, b-because, I didn’t want to lose you princess.”

She placed a hand over his rapidly beating heart and said, “I believe you. I forgive you.”

Criston was so relieved he didn’t realize the tear leaking down his cheek, kissed away by impossibly soft lips. She whispered fervently, “Kiss me Criston. Kiss me like you love me, like you said.” He carefully caressed her jaw, peering into those adoring orbs.

He closed the gap, lips finally meeting, the Princess sighing into him. She clung to his chest still, passively letting Criston take the reins. He chastely shared tender pecks, letting Cerra get into a rhythm.

Her lips opened as the kisses got more desperate, boiling tension rising. She whimpered when Criston lapped into her mouth, moaning himself. She tasted like sweet wine and cinnamon, opening for him beautifully. Cerra wrapped her arms around his neck, thin fingers gripping his long locks. He moaned again, lashes fluttering. All guilt was out the window when in the embrace of this goddess.

He tilted her head to intertwine their tongues, Lucerra shivering helplessly, whining his name. She was shy, better for Criston to take her warm mouth. The princess plastered herself tight to his body, breasts pushed up from the movement.

He’d be good. He will not stain her maidenhead, as much as the dark part of him sought to claim every inch of her. The brunette slid his hands down her waist, squeezing soft hips. She mewled again, feverishly smacking her lips against him. Criston felt her overwhelmed trembling, eyes teary just like he fantasized.

She pulled away with a string of drool, panting, “I- Criston- it aches.” His cock jumped at what the implication of that was. He pressed little kisses down her jaw and neck, basking in her cute noises. He purred, “What aches Princess? I shan’t dare to hurt your heart again.”

She blushed so heavily he could see it even in the pitch of the night. Criston smiled gently, breathing hotly against her ear, “You can tell me, sweet love.” The princess shivered again, hips bucking fruitlessly against his garb.

“Y-you know. M-my,” she looked away, “My flower.”

The dog in Criston grinned at that, the innocent little thing. He hummed, “Have you soaked your linens Lucerra? I don’t have to breach your maidenhead to pleasure my sweet girl. Would you like that?”

She practically sobbed, “Please, my knight, Criston. Our little secret.”

“Always,” he said, taking off his gloves and Cerra’s trembling hands undoing the heavy gauntlets. He slid warm palms up her plush thighs, so soft yet strong from dragon riding. She desperately sought his lips to cover an indecent sound.

One greedy hand spread open a thigh, the other swiping thick fingers through her slick cunt, dragging upward to graze her swollen bud. The princess shrieked into his swollen lips, Criston doing his best to cover the noise.

He offered his free hand up, half-groaning, “Suckle on my fingers sweet girl, can’t have you waking half the keep up.” Lucerra shyly opened her swollen lips to let Criston’s calloused fingers in. He pressed slightly on her tongue, earning a cute little garbled whine.

“Now be good my love, I’ll make you feel better, always will,” he promised. Gathering more wetness seeping from her cunt, Criston circled his fingers around that bud, teasingly thumbing too, dragging the roughened digit against her tender untouched flesh.

She seized and cried around his fingers, drooling and sniffling. Criston cooed, “Mm, feels good Cerra? Made for me, swear it, keep singing for me.” He picked up the speed of his fingers, circling and pinching to make her squeal and writhe on his lap.

Soon the princess was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, unable to stop crying and shaking, thighs trembling. Criston suddenly realized his cock was throbbing and twitching, ready to fill his garments like a green boy.

He desperately rambled, “C’mon my love, let it go, let the pleasure take you, I’m so close, together yes? Kiss me, yes, yes!” They gnashed teeth and noses against each other, no finesse in these last moments, the little death.

She gushed over his fingers first, Criston swallowing her suprisingly quiet keen. His belly tightened, balls drawing up, whining out of his nose at the ecstasy. Cumming absolutely untouched, so intense and powerful. They continued to sloppily kiss, stop to pant, kiss some more until the climax passed.

Criston withdrew his hands from her cunt, wiping them on his cloak. The princess was sapped of energy, head tucked under his scruffy jaw. She murmured, “I think I saw the stars.” He smiled, the giddiness of cumming warping his senses, “Mhm, me too sweetheart. But we need to get you back to your quarters.”

He carried her, sharing more intimate pecks and nuzzling in the darkness, all the way back to her quarters. Ser Thorne seemed to sigh in relief before taking in their debauched state and quickly leaving the scene. Criston placed her down and looked around once more before pressing her into the door, taking her bee-stung lips.

“I love you, I love you,” she sighed.

“I love you more, my princess,” Criston praised.

“Do you listen sister? What will they think when they find your maidenhead shredded?,” Rhaenyra stepped out of the gloom. The bitch took a servant’s route. Lucerra’s face reddened in anger, “Like yours was? Good thing Laenor prefers the company of his pretty squires.”

Criston balked at the brazen comment, lips curling up. The elder sister’s hands balled up, pale skin blotching up in anger. She hissed, “Enjoy your night Lucerra,” pointing at Criston she added, “I’ll see you gelded and sent to the wall.”

The future queen whipped around and left with a furious curse. Lucerra looked to Criston for comfort, getting picked up and led into her bedroom. He grumbled, “The Queen won’t allow for that. Rhaenyra has her own secrets to deal with. Relax, relax, let me get you ready for bed.” His lovely girl did so, quiet but still affectionate. Criston ignored the feeling that this would be the close to the last night.

His gut was right. Within a fortnight he stood next to the Queen, tears in his dark orbs. Rhaenyra was absconding to Dragonstone, as she was the heir. Viserys obliged her request to take her sister, indicating she would begin the processes to marry her off. Lucerra gave her goodbyes, hugging the queen, her father, and then him.

“My heart lies with you always, I love you my white knight,” she whispered gently before stepping away to climb upon her white dragon. He remained stony, utter hate in his heart for Rhaenyra Targaryen. He would make sure she never saw happiness, just as she took his.

Alicent grabbed his hand and promised, “Criston, you will have her again. I may not be her, but I will be good to you as my sworn shield.”

He would tear through bone and marrow to get that chance. For now, he would wait, wait as long as needed. Criston Cole always got what he wanted, just had to work for it. There was a war brewing and she would be on the right side. His side.

[dope-trope-105]

Sick Animal

Modern Aegon II Targaryen x Reader

A/N: I've written this in Aegon's POV while still sort of writing in the second person. All text is what's happening in Aegon's mind. He's a little obsessive and a little delusional here.

Summary: Love is love to Aegon, it isn't about your age or your willingness, love is only beautiful, and he wants you to have it all.

Warnings: Paedophilia, Voyeurisme, Obsession.

Word Count: 3.6k

Aegon had gone through quite a bit of trouble for you. You were such a little bitch sometimes, he thought you didn’t deserve it. But as you walked into the large banquet hall in your pretty blue dress, your white heels and a little white purse, eyes unfocused as you let your parents greet everyone, he couldn’t take his eyes off you, and he felt it in his heart that all the trouble was worth it. 

The first time Aegon met you, you were only twelve. And he was nineteen. And no, he wasn’t a sick animal, he didn’t want you then. His father loved you father, they were business partners, but moreover, the closest of friends. He met you at a party, you were wearing jeans with a black top, you weren’t fashionable, your hair was a mess, and your makeup was half off. You were having fun with that idiot Jace. But he saw something in you, maybe it was the way you smiled, or the way your dark hair contrasted with your face or the two seconds where you made eye contact with him before turning away. He felt something. 

He tried to brush it off, but the more he saw you, the more that feeling grew. It was when you came over to his house that you struck conversation with him. Your parents were busy talking with his parents, and Helaena and Aemond were not home. So his dad forced him to sit with you. You were beautiful for a twelve-year-old girl. Twelve is an awkward age, he knew for sure. But you put in effort to look good, and it showed. You styled your hair right, and you wore a little makeup, it suited you. At first, it had been awkward, very awkward. But Aegon saw you smoothing your hand with your own thumb, a way to comfort yourself before you cleared your throat and introduced yourself. But once you struck conversation, you got comfortable with him. You just sat there and talked for hours, as if you were on a date, sitting by his poolside in the sun. You wore a dark blue top but he could see the faint outline of the curve of your breasts in the sun, he could see the bra you wore. You wore a short white skirt, and the curve of your thighs felt like they were calling out to him, for him to hold and squeeze and squish with his fingers till they were left bruised. It wasn’t sexual, it was just him observing you. 

That was what he thought until he found himself jacking off to the image of the faint outline of the curve of your breasts in the sun, to the curve of your thighs. He brushed it off as nothing but a trick of his mind. You grew with the years, and you two remained close friends. You talked to him the most among his siblings, except Jace and Baela. You mixed with them well. But it was him you liked to talk to, he could see that. He would see your smile grow when he would walk into the room. 

Your family had started coming over quite a bit, which Aegon was grateful for because whenever his parents went to yours, they usually never took him. Obviously, there was no reason to take him where he would have no one’s company but the teen girl, and he knew he couldn’t possibly tell them how much he craved it. 

Your parents gifted you a Doberman puppy on your thirteenth birthday. He rarely saw you after that. At first, you excitedly brought him to their house when he was just a puppy, cradled in your arms like he was your own offspring. Something had changed. He’d never seen you this happy before. You called him ‘Pie’ which was vastly different from his name, Myers.

“I know it’s silly, but look at this face, how is he anything but pie,” you had told him, squeezing your face onto his, the dog enthusiastically returning your affection. 

And then you stopped coming over. He didn’t see you for a very long time, and he couldn’t very well reach out to you, nor could he track your socials. And it would’ve been weird to ask your parents, though he supposed he would just appear curious to them, they didn’t know how he felt about their daughter. But thankfully that brat Jace asked them at one gathering. 

“She’s busy with studies, plus she never wants to leave her dog alone now,” they had laughed. 

He fucking hated that dog.  

Aegon went to university again for three years, marking his mum’s third attempt at making him a successful businessman. Aegon partied for most of that time, experimenting with girls, drugs, and sometimes even studying. Thoughts about you would sometimes come into his mind. He couldn’t seem to see why this little girl came to his mind, what were you even worth? Girls threw themselves at him, wherever he went. Sexy girls, ugly girls, hot girls, beautiful girls, party girls, even the quiet ones, but it was you who was always at the back of his mind. As if that made it any better. It was like a nag to him, like an addiction calling out to him, waiting to be indulged in. You wanted him to come to you, he knew that. You were so sweet to him, it was obvious you wanted him. 

But things had changed when he came back. You were sixteen now, and bratty personality to accompany it. Aegon remembered sitting in the passenger seat on his parent's Rolls Royce as Aemond drove them to your house. Helaena was still in college. He saw you only for a moment. You wore a grey tank top that fitted you like your own skin, he could see the outline of your bra, with loose black pants, though they still managed to capture the curve of your ass. You had sunglasses on, that you pushed higher up onto your nose, and he could see the long claw-like white nails that adorned your hands. Your hair was pulled back into a pony. You were walking in the opposite direction of the car, phone in one hand and Myers’ leash in the other. You didn’t give the car even a moment of your attention. 

You had returned an hour later or so. Everyone had been sitting in the drawing room. Aegon heard you enter, though you took off Myers’ leash and went upstairs straight away, simply waving to his parents. And then you were gone, without even sparing him a single glance. 

“You two can go say hi to her.” 

Your mom had told him and Aemond a while later. Aegon was thankful that Aemond was too polite to refuse, and so the two brothers went upstairs. 

“You can go say hi, I don’t feel like it,” Aemond had shrugged. Then he took out his phone and leaned against the wall. His brother’s horrible social skills worked out in his favour. 

And so he opened the door to your room. The scent that hit him made Aegon want to curl up and die, to get lost in the scent forever. The room was large and spacious. Your bed was in the centre, comfortable-looking messy sheets thrown across it with multiple pillows at the head. Everything was white or in shades of such. Your dressing table was neatly organised with your things. 

Aegon walked over to it, seeing his own face in the warmly lit mirror, looking out of place in such a homely environment. His fingers brushed over your hairbrush, and innumerable amounts of make-up sat organised in front of him. A large box with all different kinds of jewellery took up his attention, he noted your likeness for dainty necklaces. On the other side of the room was your desk, where many books and all kinds of stationary sat haphazardly arranged, a pile of chaos. You had taken up an interest in sciences, he had heard. And in the midst of everything that made you, you, he saw your sleeping figure. 

He ignored the dog nestled against your side as he admired you. It seemed you had just taken a shower, you wore another tank top, it was black but it looked softer. His fingers reached out to touch the fabric. His hand slipped and his fingers made contact with your smooth skin instead. He ran his fingers over your collarbone, a smooth sigh escaping your lips which brought his attention to your face. Your face had changed too, it had hardened a bit. The childish roundness from your face had melted away, revealing high cheekbones, a slight shadow underneath, and your jaw and chin had become sharper as well. Even your nose stood out more, the light reflecting off its slightly rounded tip. Yet your eyes held a soft look, even closed, long lashes that made you look like a princess. And your soft pink lips that had always been slightly downturned. 

He fought the urge to remove your blanket, to see what else had changed, and instead brushed his thumb over your lips. You sighed again. He bent down, breathing in your scent. You smelled how Molly made him feel. You smelled how it felt when his mother kissed his cheek, or when Aemond asked him for guidance. All extremely rare phenomena that almost felt like they couldn’t be recreated. He left you when the dog started to stir, ruining the moment between you two. 

Aemond didn’t say anything when Aegon came out, simply following him as he went downstairs. They left soon, and Aegon found himself sulking in his seat. Until a blanket of silence took the car as the only sound was his mum and dad’s favourite jazz playing from the stereo. He looked back in the mirror to see them asleep, his dad’s arm around his mother's shoulders. His father was damn near twenty years older than his mum, yet they were happy. He knew despite being younger, his mother was the most grown-up person in the entire family. He loved her, and their relationship gave him hope for something of his own. Aemond was too polished to take his gaze off the road even once, so Aegon found comfort in his own seat, opening his phone to a picture where your face lay for him to look at however long he wished to. His camera had captured your softness perfectly, and you looked like an angel. 

Aegon wanted you now. He was sure of it. And he was sure that there would be plenty of opportunity as well. Because the next day you came over with your parents. You were going on a cruise together. This had marked your first journey with him. And then the shit news was finally broken to Aegon. You kept to yourself. You were almost always on your phone, only exchanging polite nothings with his parents and himself. You weren’t interested in making conversation. He’d catch you sometimes on the phone, walking around in your flowy, see-through dresses, tempting him. But you spoke to someone else. 

“Young relationships are baffling; it's as if they exist in a world all their own, never mind the rest of us.”

Your parents laughed, and his parents joined them. Aemond and Aegon watched from a distance, and you had just left the table to attend a call, marking this another meal where you abruptly left, and since this cruise had begun, moving towards completing the pattern of you leaving to go talk to your despicable boyfriend at every meal. Aegon was consumed by the feeling of betrayal. How dare you abandon him, just like that. For some stupid boy. But the worst was yet to come. 

That night he saw something that magnified his pain from your betrayal and destroyed his sense of self-respect. He stood there, on the side of the now empty ship at three in the night, where even the sea was quiet, and the moonlight streamed into your room, tracing delicate patterns over your smooth skin where you were clicking pictures of yourself. The way you stood, and posed, the expressions you made, it felt electrifying to pretend you were putting on a show just for him. Until you’d bring your phone back to your face before smiling at the pictures, and no doubt sending it to that idiot who didn’t deserve you. He had no right to see the sheer robe fall from your shoulder, or your fingers grazing over your hardened nipples or the way you looked so beautifully willing to let him shove his cock into your mouth. 

Aegon palmed himself as he watched you, hoping that pretending it was all for him would be enough. But it wasn’t. However, the idea he suddenly got sent him over the edge without him having time to prepare. There was something he could do, just a little something that would fix all of his problems. He waited for you to fall asleep, praying that the gods let him carry his plan out properly with no hindrances. You went to bed after taking the pictures, apparently, that vomit-inducing fuck was going to keep you waiting. Aegon knew if it were him in that skank’s place, he would’ve face timed you and made you drool over his cock, begging for it through a screen, forcing you to make yourself feel good, and then finding a way onto the ship so he could do it himself. 

And the gods were on his side. He crept down the hallway until he was standing in front of your door. He slowly turned the handle, and to his delight, it hadn’t been locked. The smell of you hit him again as he closed his eyes. Just to take it in for a moment before he could continue to go down this path he was going to. It took him back to that picture of you he had taken, the way your skin felt that night. He felt his cock stir slightly, feeling the wet warmth the had soiled his pants already. But then he opened his eyes. He crept towards you, finding your phone on charge kept beside you on a table. He knew your password. Numbers didn’t make sense to him, but he’d watched you type it in one time, and he remembered. And he remembered well because the phone opened. He resisted the urge to go check your gallery. He was grateful your home screen and lock screen were of some rapper, and not the cunt you called a boyfriend. He opened your messages and found the contact you sent the pictures to. 

“Jason Lannister” what a fucking cunt you had chosen. He read through a few texts between you two, only to find sexual things. And a lot of pictures from you, with a few disappearing ones from him and some upper body pictures. Jason Lannister was pathetic. But Aegon had a glimmer of hope that maybe this whole time, it was just sex. The basis of your conversations with him, your relationship, the entire thing was just his girl using that idiot to make herself feel good. You were young and didn’t make a great choice, but he adored you nonetheless. He was exilerated. He would fix it, so you could have him now, no need to settle for degenerates anymore. 

He let you be for the rest of the cruise, dedicating his time solely to finding out everything there was to find about Jason Lannister. His personality, his lineage, his friend circle. Though Aegon knew he wasn’t a nobody, he would definitely have to be taken out of your life. After the cruise ended, you said whatever two or three words you had spoken the entire trip, you left, and he only had one mission on his mind. 

He took it as far as to follow you for a few days. He would park a little off from your school where the cunt would usually pick you up, take you to his house, and then drop you off at yours. Aegon only looked for one opportunity, just one window of time, to make him disappear. And the gods granted it to him when you blew Jason off one day, deciding to not go with him and instead walking home. Jason drove off and Aegon followed. 

Aegon was not proud of what he had done next, but he was fucking delighted. Jason had stopped on the highway, to roll a joint in his car. Aegon bumped his car on him, and just as he expected, the cunt came out with the pretentious rage all Lannisters had. Until Aegon’s fist connected with his face over and over again. Until the cunt was lying on the floor crying, and only then did Aegon tell him to get out of your life and promised more violence and assault if he didn’t. He took his phone, leaving him clutching his stomach and face on the road itself as he drove off.

As Aegon had expected, he had saved all of the pictures and videos you had sent to him. Now Aegon had never been a very affectionate sexual partner, but even he wasn’t degenerate enough to save a girl’s pictures. He sent all of your pictures and videos to himself, creating an album of you in his phone, and then he dumped Jason’s phone out of the window. That day Aegon felt like your hero, having saved your respect, having saved you from having more sex with this idiot. But he went back to the picture of you he clicked, your soft skin looking all the more inviting in that light, and his bloodied hands found his already hardened cock. 

He drove to your school the next day, and you casually strolled home, no Jason in sight, and he knew he had done what needed to be done.

Over the next few days, Aegon took his sweet time, going through your pictures, and watching your videos, and he enjoyed it. He’d wake up and look at them, look at them before taking a shower, after taking a shower, before lunch, before dinner, before the gym, after the gym, but out of all of this, his favourite time to look at you was before going to sleep. He would picture a life with you, he would dream of you, of your smooth skin, he wanted you more and more every day, and the more he wanted you, the more he looked through those pictures, which in turn made him want you all the more. There was a relief in those pictures for him at first, but now it was torture, to have you but still be unable to have you, to look forward to spending time with you, but not really you, in the end, you were nothing but pixels on the screen. 

And those pictures really did end up being his downfall, when his mother saw those pictures of you, left open on his desk. At first, she was horrified, then concerned as to why you had sent such pictures to a man so much older than you. She called him downstairs to speak to him, his father standing right next to her in nothing but confusion.

“What on earth is this Aegon,” she had asked him, a mix of rage and torment on her face. It took Aegon a long time to explain it to them. How he’d found out about Jason, how he worried about you being too young to understand dealing with men like him, so he made it go away. 

“What have you done?” his father had asked, baffled.

“She didn’t send these to you?” his mother deduced. 

Aegon told them the truth, he beat Jason up and told him to leave you alone. Yet when his mother’s expression didn’t change, he lied, saying that he just had these to show to you, to teach you a lesson on how you should have been more careful with sending pictures like this to a stranger. His parents shared a look. Aegon knew what it meant. They didn’t believe him, and to some extent, they knew about his love for you. 

“Her parents can teach her whatever lessons there are to learn. I want you to delete these pictures right now, and promise me you’ll never speak to her or about her again,” his mother said. Aegon simply nodded, putting on the show of understanding and deleting the pictures in front of her. He excused himself and went upstairs, his fingers shaking as he opened his laptop, a sigh of relief escaping him when the album was right where it had been, a picture of you in nothing but pink panties smiling at him making him feel better. 

And that was what had his mother and siblings staring at him from across the banquet hall, to make sure he wouldn’t do anything because it had been two years since that and according to them, it was supposedly a crush he would’ve gotten over in a month. But that was impossible. 

You were his girl, only his, in stupid black tops, or pretty blue dresses, you were his to take, his to claim, his to love and adore, he had done everything in his power to make sure of that, and he would continue to do so until you would finally realise this, and come to him.

Somewhere, deep down, Aegon knew he’d have to make you realise this, you wouldn’t just come to him, he’d have to guide you. And he had made his peace with that.

[aemonds-sapphire]

Despair

Summary: Aemond craved you to the point of despair.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW. Masturbation. Aemond’s POV. Breeding kink.

Word count: 800

Keep readingAemond should have more resilience.

He wished his body and mind would agree on this much.

He wished he had the will to rein in his lust for you.

He wished he could have all of you.

Instead, he was left to handle this nuisance on his own.

Aemond heaved a deep sigh as he wrapped his fingers around his throbbing cock.

Fucking his hand would never come close to how he envisioned fucking you.

Even as he tightened the grip around him as a reminder of how tight you were, it wasn’t enough.

You were too tight.

He had relished his fingers inside your several times to know you’d fit his cock perfectly.

The mere memory of having your walls clenching around his fingers — as he uttered profanities in your ear in some dark corridor of the Red Keep — was enough for a deep moan to leave his parted lips.

The need to be fully inside him consumed him day and night.

As the first droplets of precum pooled at the tip, Aemond knew his body was starting to respond to that need.

He could be patient and wait for you to be ready to take him.

It would require skill and no less amount of time to have your pussy dripping for him.

Droplets of precum rolled down his cock, coating his fingers and knuckles as he pumped himself slower, yearning to know how it’d feel to slide inside you for the first time.

“Fuck…”

His hips rose from the bed so he could gently push his cock deeper into his grip, the image of you on top of him nearly overtaking his senses.

There was no denying nothing else had such a hold on him. He couldn’t wait to be be buried inside you, filling you with his seed. He’d give it all to you. Every last drop.

He’d have you full to the brim with him so Gods helped him.

The strokes quickened and wet sounds soon echoed through the room, gradually bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

It didn’t take much to get his release these days.

Not when the pent up despair and lust for you had reached dangerously high levels.

Aemond slumped into his bed, focused on having his hand glide along his cock in blinding delight.

“Prince Aemond?”

He snapped his eye open at once, freezing in place.

Another light knock on the door.

His torment was suddenly on the other side.

You.

“Prince Aemond,” your sweet voice tried once again. “We are about to break fast.”

He would have melted from the innocence that coated your voice had it not been for his cock demanding his attention.

“Prince Aemond?”

Aemond contemplated letting you inside to witness his thirst for you, but he was too close to hold back.

He simply would burst at the mere sight of you.

As such, his hand resumed a steady pace, further bringing him closer to the edge.

He just needed your voice for now.

Trying to control his ragged breaths and moans, he finally spoke, “What is it?”

“We are about to break fast,” you said, your voice was as honey to his ears, unknowingly urging him to go faster. “Are you coming?”

The unfortunate choice of words drove him to bring the back of his hand to his lips, sinking his teeth into the skin.

He was so close.

Too close.

“Is everything alright, my prince?”

Gods.

You were so fucking sweet.

Not able to hold back any longer, Aemond set a final rhythm with his slender fingers gripping his cock tighter than ever.

“Yes…” Aemond moaned through gritted teeth.

“So you’re coming?”

“Yes!” he grunted lowly.

Aemond felt the familiar licks of bliss wash over his entire body in a sudden heat wave as your voice guided him through it. His hips stilled violently and he felt the first streaks of warm cum coat his exposed lower abdomen, some even reaching his hardened nipples.

His breath came out in shallow pants and he dropped his hand to the side as the other milked the last drops of his release.

All of it going to waste, unfortunately. You would have looked glorious with his cum dripping from your face, breasts, belly…

Or better yet…

Having it neatly stuffed inside you in the hopes he’d get to see you swell with his child.

[patheticdarling]

Decisions

Part II of Traitors

  Summary: Princess Y/N Velaryon & her grandmother, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen have now successfully fled the capital and have just landed on Dragonstone to warn her mother, Queen Rhaenyra, of the inevitable war to come. Princess Y/N is faced with the toughest of decisions. 

  Warnings: ANGST/switched povs (aemond’s + reader’s)/cussing/crying/swords/pregnancy/mentions of miscarriage/childbirth/talks of war/burning bodies/ALL RIGHTS TO HBO…possible part 3 👀

  Word Count: 5770

*NOT MY GIF*

*Y/N’S POV*

   The two of you had made it to Dragonstone safely and quickly. Luckily, the Greens were too busy readying everything for Aegon’s coronation that they hadn’t been prepared for a stunt like the one you and your grandmother pulled. You should’ve been happy as you dismounted Seasmoke, your feet landing on the soft sands of Dragonstone’s beaches. 

  “Are you alright?” your grandmother asked, rushing to check you over. 

  You pulled your hands from hers, “I’m fine.” A lie. You both knew it. You had just abandoned the love of your life and it wasn’t even your choice.

  She pushed your hair behind your ear, “I’m so sorry, sweet girl. If it could be another way-”

  “But it cannot,” you cut her off, “Let us go. I’m already dreading telling my mother the news.”

  Your grandmother sighed, “Which do you think will upset her more? That her father’s dead or that her stepmother and siblings have betrayed her and usurped her throne?”

  “Gods be good,” you muttered as the two of you began your climb up the long steps of Dragonstone. Your swollen feet would’ve given out had it not been for your grandmother lending you an arm. 

  It had been a while since you’d been to Dragonstone, your mother had taken all of you there to live shortly after Joffrey was born. You had returned to King’s Landing for your wedding when both you and Aemond came of age then you didn’t see your mother until just recently when she came to defend Luke’s right to Driftmark and simultaneously announced your two eldest brothers’ engagement to your younger cousins, Baela and Rhaena. It almost seemed foreign to you even if you had spent most of your early childhood here. 

  “Princess Y/N, Princess Rhaenys,” Ser Lorent greeted you, “We weren’t expecting you. And on dragon back no less.”

  “We need an audience with Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon immediately. It is a matter of extreme urgency,” your grandmother explained. 

  He gave a curt nod, “Follow me.” He led the two of you through the gates as you waddled and held close to your grandmother. He stopped before a set of doors, “One moment.”

  Ser Lorent slipped into the room. You waited for a few moments before he returned, “They’ll see you now.” 

  You followed him once more into the Great Hall of Dragonstone, “The Princess Y/N Velaryon and the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

  “Y/N,” your mother beamed at you. You practically ran into her arms. You laughed as your swollen bellies collided a bit, “You’re glowing. Motherhood becomes you.”

  “You as well, Mother,” you smiled back before letting out a soft sigh.

  “Princess Rhaenys,” she greeted your grandmother, “Might we hope for news of Lord Corlys’ recovery?”

  “Viserys is dead,” she replied rather bluntly. 

  “Grandmother,” you snapped at her slightly. 

   Your mother’s welcoming grin had fallen as Daemon’s head whipped around, “I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra. My cousin, your father, possessed a kind heart,” your grandmother walked closer, “There is more,” your mother’s hand tightened around yours as tears built in not just her eyes but yours as well, “Aegon has been crowned as his successor.”

  A soft wince left your mother as she dropped your hand to cradle her stomach slightly, “They crowned him?” her eyes nearly vacant as the tears slid down her cheeks. 

  “How did Viserys die?” Daemon asked as he leaned himself and Dark Sister against the Painted Table. 

  “I could not say,” Rhaenys sighed.

  Your mother’s voice quivered, “How long ago?”

  “A day past, perhaps two,” your grandmother answered, “Y/N and I were made prisoners in our quarters while the Queen made her preparations.” 

  “Viserys has been slain,” Daemon asserted. 

  “Alicent demanded you both declare for Aegon,” she looked between you and your grandmother. 

  “She did,” your mother’s brow raised at your grandmother’s answer. 

  “We refused her,” you cut in.

  “And yet you are alive,” Daemon had a teary glare set on the two of you. 

  “The High Septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit,” Rhaenys explained. 

   “We witnessed it ourselves just before we fled on Meleys and Seasmoke,” you continued.

  “They crowned him before the masses,” your mother’s voice filled with agony as her hand clutched the end of the table. 

  “So that the masses would see him as their rightful king,” you clarified.

  Daemon’s voice full of anger, “That whore of a Queen murdered my brother and stole his throne. And you both could have burned them all for it.”

  “A war is like to be fought over this treachery, to be sure,” Daemon nodded slightly with a grunt, “But that war is not mine to begin. Nor is it Y/N’s. I only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and to my house.”

  “The Greens are coming for you, Mother,” you added, “And for my brothers and for me and my baby.”

  “You should leave Dragonstone at once,” Rhaenys turned to leave.

  Tears fell from her eyes before a sharp gasp left her mouth, one of her hands clutching her belly and the other on the table for support. All of you turning to her, concerned. 

  “Mother?” you put your hand to her back as she keeled over, “What is it?”

  She quickly folded up the ends of her dress, sticking her hand up the ruffles. A soft gasp left your mouth at the sight of her bloodied fingers, “The babe is coming.” 

  “Maester!” you cried out, “Get the Maester! Now!” The guards in the hall rushed out, Daemon and you moved to support your mother. The Maester met you outside of her chambers. 

  “We’ve got her,” he reassured you. 

  “Mother, are you sure-”

  “Get out!” she practically shrieked. You and Daemon were quick to listen and scurried off. 

  “Where are my brothers?” you asked him, practically running to keep up with him as he stormed through the halls. 

  “Your grandmother has already gone to fetch them from the beach,” Daemon’s voice curt. 

  “Daemon,” you stopped him, “There was nothing we could have done.”

  “Don’t,” he cut you off, “Rhaenys, I understand. She’s never been the biggest adversary to your mother or to me. But you? They stole your mother’s birthright and you just let them-”

  “I did not! I was made a prisoner. The Queen only kept me alive so she could use me as a political bargaining tool to get my mother to bend the knee! And yet I refused her even when she assured me that no harm would come to any of you if I bowed to Aegon.”

  Daemon scoffed, “The One-Eyed Prince must really have you wrapped around his finger.”

  “I beg your pardon?” you hissed, “Do not speak of my husband in-”

  “Your husband is a traitor. And do you know what happens to traitors, Princess?” your jaw clenched at his words, “They die. Screaming.” 

  “My husband had no choice, just as I did,” you spat.

  Daemon scoffed, bordering on a chuckle, “You just keep telling yourself that.”

*AEMOND’S POV*

  “Aemond, please, stop pacing,” Alicent groaned, “Drink some water and-”

  “Water?” Aemond scoffed, “Will water bring my pregnant wife back to me, Mother? Will water ever convince her to forgive me? Or me to forgive her? Tell me, Mother. Will it?”

  Alicent sighed, “I only meant that you need to ease your mind, darling. Your grandfather has already gone to give Rhaenyra the terms of surrender. No harm will come to any of them, especially not to Y/N.” 

  “You don’t know that,” he shook his head, “She is going to be surrounded by people who only thirst for the throne, no matter the cost. It was my job to keep her safe and now I cannot even do that. My child will be fatherless and-”

  “Your child will not be fatherless because they will have a father,” the Queen Mother cut in as she took her son’s hands in her own, “You will be there to father your child, Aemond. Rhaenyra will agree to Aegon’s terms because it is the best thing for the Realm and all will be as it was.” 

  Aemond’s hands fell from his mother’s, “It will never be as it was. My wife and child are lost.”

  “That’s not true, Aemond,” Alicent sniffled.

  “It is, Mother. I will have to learn to accept it. Live with it. I have duties to this family and I cannot allow my judgment to be clouded.”

  The Queen Mother was taken aback by her younger son’s words. She had never seen Aemond happier than when he was with Y/N and she nearly wept tears of joy at his excitement to become a father. But that light in his eyes was dwindling and it broke her heart to know that she was partly to blame. 

  She cleared her throat, quickly wiping the tears from her eyes, “We need to send terms to the larger houses first. Stark, Tully, Baratheon. Lord Borros Baratheon seems an ideal man to-”

  “I will fly to Storm’s End myself,” Aemond cut in, “Lord Borros has four unmarried daughters. We could promise Daeron to at least one of them.”

  Alicent nodded in agreement, “Yes, we could. But Aemond, I only want you to go if you feel-”

  “I leave on the morrow,” he answered quickly before leaving his mother’s chambers. 

  The One-Eyed Prince had chosen to stuff his feelings away, not only from others like his mother, but from himself as well. Aemond had forced himself to face the belief that he would never see his wife again, would never kiss her or hug her. And that his child would never meet him and he’d never get to hold them or watch them grow. His entire heart was gone.

*Y/N’S POV*

  The wind carried off the dark smoke of the funeral pyre. You wept softly with your brothers as the flames cradled your late baby sister, who your mother had lovingly named Visenya, after Aegon the Conqueror’s fierce sister-wife. 

  “This was not supposed to happen,” you sniffled.

  Your twin brother, Jacaerys sighed, “No, it wasn’t. First, they killed Grandsire and now our sister. The Greens will pay for this.” 

  “Jace,” Luke whispered, “Not here. Not now.” 

  The attention was drawn away from the funeral pyre as a member of Viserys’ former Kingsguard approached your mother. He removed his helm, revealing Ser Erryk, your saviour back in King’s Landing. You turned to your grandmother who already held a small smirk on her face. 

  Ser Erryk removed your grandsire’s crown from his bag and knelt before your mother, “I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength and give my blood for hers,” he began to recite the Kingsguard vows as Daemon took the crown from him, “I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honour,” Ser Erryk finished. 

  Daemon approached your mother before gently placing the crown onto her head and falling onto his knee, “My Queen.” 

  The rest of you followed suit, slowly bending the knee to your new Queen. You held Joffrey’s hand as you guided him down with you and your older brothers. Everyone was then instructed to gather in the Great Hall to await the arrival of your mother. You elected to walk alongside your brothers and cousins. 

  “She was born to wear that crown,” you spoke proudly.

  Luke smiled slightly, “Grandsire would have been proud.”

  “Not if what the Greens claim is true,” Jace scoffed, “He would have rather seen Aegon bearing it apparently.”

  “Jace,” you snapped at him, “Our mother is the rightful Queen. No one here thinks otherwise. The Greens will be dealt with when the time comes.” 

  “And what of your husband, Y/N?” Rhaena had cut in.

  You had not thought about Aemond after the events with your mother, “I am not sure, Rhaena. What happens to him will not be up to me but to our Queen.”

  “And what if she wants them all dead?” Baela asked, “That seems to be the customary punishment with traitors. Aemond is a traitor, is he not?”

  You swallowed hard as you fidgeted with your wedding ring, “I know you’d all prefer it that way,” you sniffled, wiping your eyes, “Aemond, good and dead. Vhagar free for Rhaena to claim, as it should have been, right?” They all stood silent, “I know you all hate him and I know you all have good reason to. But he is still my husband. The father of my child. And the man that I love. So, my apologies if talk about murdering him does not bring me as much joy as it does to you.”

  “Y/N, that is not-”

  “It’s alright, Luke,” you cut him off, “I do not wish to discuss it further. It is time for us to hear from our Queen.” 

  You turned, walking ahead of them towards the Great Hall. The rest of the lords and ladies congregated around the Painted Table as it lit up in all its glory. Rhaena had become your mother’s designated cupbearer and waited near the top of the table, Baela joining your grandmother’s side while you and your brothers walked to the far end of the table. 

  Your mother, accompanied by some of her Queensguard entered the room as Daemon moved to introduce her, “Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” All of us bowed to her, “Your Grace.” 

  Rhaena approached her, “Wine, my Queen.”

  Your mother kindly took the goblet, “Thank you, Rhaena. Come,” she nodded for both your cousins to join at the table. There was a slight awkwardness that filled the air as you all stood around. Your mother looked uncomfortable, “What is our standing?” she asked. 

  “We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men at arms,” Daemon answered, “Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

  “We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, Bar Emmon,” the Maester explained as Jace placed the pieces onto the table. 

  “My lady mother was an Arryn,” your mother pointed to the Eyrie on the table, “The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

  “Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace,” the Maester noted, “With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

  “Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed,” your mother huffed, “He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.”

  “I’m going to treat with him myself,” Daemon answered. 

  “What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?” Lord Steffon Darklyn asked. 

  “There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark, the North will follow,” Lord Bartimos Celtigar answered him. 

  “Lord Borros Baratheon will need to be reminded of his father’s promises,” your mother declared before turning to your grandmother, “What news from Driftmark?”

  “Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone,” Rhaenys answered.

  “To declare for his Queen,” Daemon interrupted. 

  “The Velaryon fleet is in my husband’s yoke. He decides where they sail,” she rebutted.

  “We shall pray for both you and your husband’s support,” your mother stepped in, “Just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health. There’s no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet,” she turned back to the table, “And our enemies?”

  “We have no friends among the Lannisters,” Daemon explained, “Tyland has served the Hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.” 

  “Without the Lannisters we are not like to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth,” your mother concluded. 

  “No,” Daemon was quick to disagree, “The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.” 

  “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot,” one of the lords spoke up, “Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.”

  Your mother was a bit stunned at first, “The Greens have dragons as well.” 

  “They have three adults, by my count,” Daemon was again one of the first to speak up, “We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys,” your grandmother scoffed under her breath at the mention of her dragon, “Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Your daughter has Seasmoke. Baela has Moondancer.”

  “Daemon, none of our dragons have been to war,” your mother argued.

  “There are also unclaimed dragons,” Daemon ignored her as he continued, “Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.”

  “And who is to ride them?” your mother asked. Oddly one of her messengers rushed up the stairs, Ser Erryk going to meet him.

  “Dragonstone has thirteen to their four. I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont,” Daemon continued, “Now, we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host,” he placed a piece down, “Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with the dragons. And we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

  Your mother’s jaw tensed at Daemon’s attitude before Ser Erryk interrupted, “Your Grace, a ship has been sighted offshore: a lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”

  Daemon was quick to move, “Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies,” he snatched Dark Sister from the table. The guards, your mother, and Daemon went to go meet with whomever washed up onshore. You knew Aemond had not accompanied them, he would’ve rode in proudly on Vhagar. 

  You were sitting in your chambers, reading an Old Valyrian story and humming softly to your bump, “Ahem,” you looked up to see Jace and Luke standing in the doorway, “May we come in?”

  You nodded, “Yes,” placing down your book and standing from your seat, “What is it?”

  “We just wanted to apologize for earlier,” Luke answered, “We should not-”

  “Not we,” Jace stopped him, “Me. I know what you did couldn’t have been easy, Sister. And I apologize for my lack of empathy. I should have been more understanding of your situation.”

  You sighed, “It’s alright. I know your past with Aemond is not a pleasant one,” Luke shifted uncomfortably, “But it is the past. We have grown. We’re not the same people, we’re not children anymore. And whatever is about to happen to all of us is larger than some childhood quarrel. I just want you to both understand that.”

  “We do,” Luke nodded, “I’ve wanted nothing more than to put all that ugliness on Driftmark behind me. I’ll never forgive myself for what I did and I know Aemond won’t either. But, that does not mean we should dwell on it. He is my brother-by-law and the father of my future niece or nephew.”

  “You’re a good man, Luke,” you smiled at him, reaching over and giving his hand a squeeze. 

  “Man?” Jace chuckled, “He’s still a boy.” You both rolled your eyes at his lame teasing, “But, he is right. We care about you and the baby far more than some fight from years ago.” 

  You reached over and gave his hand a squeeze as well, “Thank you, brothers. This talk meant a lot to me.”

  “You’re our sister, Y/N. We love you,” Luke smiled softly. 

  “I love you both,” you hugged them, “I just wonder what the next step is.”

  “As do we,” Jace agreed, “The Greens are wise enough to know that they are outnumbered when it comes to dragons. Ships are another thing. Without Grandsire’s fleet, we’re left to whatever men we have on land.” 

  “Grandsire is a loyal man. House Velaryon is not fickle,” you explained.

  There was word that your mother and Daemon had returned from their meeting with the Greens. Otto Hightower, himself, had presented Aegon’s terms of surrender to your mother. All the lords who backed your mother continued to argue back and forth on what should be done next, Daemon and your mother especially bumping heads on the matter. Your paternal Grandsire, Lord Corlys, had finally landed on Dragonstone but he was still weak and needed his rest. You opted to walk the halls of the castle in an attempt to ease your own worries. 

  “Y/N,” you turned to see your mother walking towards you. 

  “Mother,” you greeted as she joined your side, “How are you? Is Daemon-”

  “Fine,” you could always tell when she lied but you decided not to push the matter further, “And Princess Rhaenys is with Lord Corlys as we speak,” she stopped the both of you, taking your hands, “How’re you, my sweet girl? I feel that with everything that has been happening, I have neglected to check in on you and your condition.” 

  You caressed your belly, “I’m alright. Just a lot on my mind, I suppose.” 

  “That is understandable. You have been through quite a lot in the past few days. But,” she moved to pull something from her pocket, “Perhaps this will help put your mind at ease.” she extended a letter to you, the Targaryen wax seal still unbroken around it, “Otto Hightower brought it with him. He told me that it was for you, from Prince Aemond.” 

  Your breath caught in your throat, “Aemond?” you practically choked out as you stared at the letter in her hands, “Did he say anything else? What it might be about or-”

  She shook her head, “Only that it be delivered to you directly and urgently.”

  You fidgeted with your wedding ring, wondering whether or not you should take it, “I..” you could barely find your words. 

  “Y/N,” she took the ringed hand you had been fidgeting with, “Take it.”

  “But, what if he wants me to come back? Or worse, what if he never wants to see me again? I-I wouldn’t know what-”

  “You won’t know what to do until you read the letter,” she cut you off, “So,” she placed it into your hands, “Go to your chambers. Read it. Then decide.”

  You nodded, “Yes, Moth- sorry. Yes, Your Grace.” 

  She caressed your cheek, “I am still your mother. Doesn’t matter if I wear a crown or not,” she kissed your head, “Now go.”

  You let out a deep breath before heading towards your chambers. Shutting the door behind you as you finally broke the wax seal and unrolled the parchment. Immediately recognizing the neat cursive that he had always worked so hard to perfect because “how will I ever be taken seriously if I write like a seven-year-old?”

My Dearest, Y/N,

I know you little thought to hear from me. I little thought to even be writing this letter in the first place. However, I knew I needed to because there is so much I need to say. 

I miss you, my wife. My true family. And I know you could probably never bring yourself to forgive me and I cannot say I blame you. I know my decision broke your heart just as yours did mine. I should not have made you choose. And I know we are both in an impossible situation. But I believe I may have found a solution to these problems. 

Tonight, at the hour of the wolf. Meet me on the far side of Dragonstone, away from the guards and the castle. Come alone and tell no one. 

All My Love, 

Your Husband, Aemond

  You continued to re-read it as hundreds of questions flooded your mind. What did he mean by solution? What if this was some sort of trap set by the Greens? What if this wasn’t from Aemond at all? And none of them could be answered if you didn’t listen to the instructions. 

  Even if you told your typically understanding family, war was afoot. Even if your mother trusted it, Daemon would never. He’d go to meet Aemond himself, Dark Sister in hand. Telling anyone was not an option. Once again, you had no choice. 

  The darkest time of night came faster than you would have hoped for. You paced your chambers for quite a while, spinning your betrothal ring over and over as you did. You nearly jumped whenever you heard guards or servants pass by your door. And before you could think twice, you had thrown on your cloak and boots before walking out of your chambers. 

  You tried to conceal your face with your hood as you hurried through the empty halls of Dragonstone. The sound of your heels against the cobblestone echoed throughout them. You continued a quick pace, well as quick as you could go at nearly eight months pregnant. 

  “Y/N?” a voice called from behind you.

  You turned to see your mother, “Mother,” you gave her a nod, “Good evening.”

  She raised a brow at you, “Where are you off to? It is quite late.”

  You stuttered a bit before finding your words, “I was just going on a walk. It has been quite hard to find sleep in these last few months of pregnancy.” 

  She smiled softly, “It was the same for me when I was pregnant with you and Jace. I suppose it must be first-time mother worries and such. Would you like me to ring for a servant? Perhaps they could give you something to help you sleep.” 

  You shook your head at her offer, “It’s alright. I’ve found that evening air has been the best remedy thus far.” 

  “Alright,” she nodded, “Be careful. Be sure to find sleep at some point. There is another small council meeting tomorrow and your attendance is needed.”

  “Your Grace,” you smirked as you curtsied. 

  “Good night, sweet girl,” she smiled before turning to her own chambers. You waved her goodbye before continuing on your mission. You had elected not to take Seasmoke, worrying that you might wake someone. The air was crisp and cool as you trekked to the other end of the island. When you had finally made it to your meeting place, the breeze from the ocean was salty as it hit your face and tousled your hair, your fingers twirling your ring round and round.

  “You never could break that nervous habit,” his familiar tone practically rang in your ear. 

  You whipped around to face him, “I-I was not sure what to expect. Part of me believed this to be some sort of trap. I’d be a fool not to be nervous.”

  He let out a low chuckle as he finally stepped into the moonlight, “You know me well, my love. But I assure you, I am not here to trick you.” Aemond stalked closer to you, one of his hands slowly taking yours while the other rested on the curve of your bump. 

  “Then why are you here, Aemond? Surely, it is not to back my mother’s claim or convince me of your brother’s.”

  “I am to take a new wife.” At first, his words seemed to be in some foreign language. That was the only possible explanation your mind could muster before they finally sank in.

  “W-What?” your voice shook, a combination of anger and sadness. You tore away from his touch. 

  “My brother’s council speaks of annulling our marriage and betrothing me to one of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters, so that we may ensure the loyalty of Storm’s End. I am to fly there on the morrow to present the terms to Lord Borros in person.”

 The tears welled in your eyes, “And you are telling me this, why?” You did not give him the time to answer, “Did you truly need to hurt me even more? Why not just drive a blade through my heart and be done with it, Aemond? I would rather be dead than live just to see you be given to someone else!” you sobbed, “I-”

  Your voice faded off as a sharp pain hit your abdomen. A tightening cramp-like feeling making you gasp and nearly keel over. 

  “Y/N? What is it?”

  “The babe...” you grunted between words, trying to catch your breath, “The babe is coming. Now!” 

  Aemond did not hesitate to scoop you into his arms, the pain of your contractions distracting you from just how fast he was running. 

  “Stop there!” Ser Erryk tried to step in front of Aemond. 

  “Princess Y/N is in labour,” he huffed, “You must let me pass.”

  “Prince Aemond, you helped in the usurping of the throne. I cannot allow you-”

  “Seven Hells, just let him in! We can deal with all this political horse shit afterward!” you cried. 

  Ser Erryk seemed taken aback, “Y-Yes, Princess.” The guards finally stepped aside as Aemond carried you through the halls, finally arriving at your bedchamber.

  “Get the midwives and the Maester now!” he barked his instructions at one of your handmaidens. 

  “AHHHH!” your screams practically shook the walls of the castle. Nearly all of the staff questioned Aemond’s surprising presence in the room but were too focused on your labours to pay attention for long. 

  “Y/N?!” your mother’s voice trembled with worry as she entered your room. 

  “Mother,” you called out for her, shakily raising one of your hands to her. 

  “I’m here, sweet girl,” she quickly took your hand, sitting at your side, “I’m right here.” She had been too consumed with you to even note Aemond’s presence on the other side of the bed, “What in Seven Hells is he doing here? Guards!” 

  “No!” you stopped her, “I-I want him here. He...Seven Hells...He needs to be here. Please, M-Mother.”

  She nodded hesitantly as she stroked back your hair, “Alright, Y/N.” 

  “Push, Princess,” one of the midwives encouraged, “Push!”

  “AAAGHHHH! FUCK! AHHHHH!” you screamed, pushing with all your might. 

  Hours and hours seemed to pass and still, your baby was not here. Sweat dripped from your skin as you tiredly clung to Aemond and your mother. 

  “I-I can’t,” you whimpered, “I’m...exhausted.” 

  “The child is close, Princess,” the Maester reassured you, “Just a few more-”

  “I cannot!” you exclaimed, panting as your head lolled over to Aemond, “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head fervently, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “But I do, A-Aemond. I could not be the wife you needed. I can’t even birth our child. I-It’s no wonder you will be taking a new bride.” 

  “You are doing what?” your mother glared at him, “Do you truly think you could just make a fool of my daughter? Of your child? Of our family? I could have your head-”

  “Your Grace,” he stopped her, “I have no intention of annulling my marriage to your daughter or make a fool of anyone of you especially not Y/N or my child.”

  “B-But you told me that...”

  “I told you that my brother’s council desires this. I do not desire being married to anyone but you, my love.” he corrected, “Iksā ñuhon hae iksan aōhon.” You are mine as I am yours. 

  Aemond pressed his forehead to your damp one, “Avy jorrāelan.” I love you.

  “Avy jorrāelan,” I love you. “Now, push. Our child is nearly with us.” 

  You nodded as you took in a deep breath before resuming your labours. Your nails dug into both your mother and Aemond as you pushed. A sudden relief overcame you as the soft cries of your newborn filled the air. 

  “A girl,” one of the midwives announced, “As healthy as can be. Praise the Mother!”

  Smiles filled the room as they handed the infant to you, “Y-You’re so beautiful,” you cried. But before you could truly enjoy the moment, there was some sort of pressure from between your legs. You assumed it was the afterbirth as you pushed again. 

  “There is another babe,” the Maester frantically answered as he resumed his work. 

  “Another b- AHHHHH!” a final scream before those soft whimpers filled the room once again.

  “This one’s a boy, Princess,” the midwife smiled, “Just as healthy.”

  They handed Aemond the squalling baby boy, “Seven Hells.” 

  Your mother kissed your forehead, “Well done, sweet girl. They’re beautiful.” 

  You sighed contently, “Mother, I have something to ask you.”

  “Anything,” she smiled. 

  “I think I want to name her Visenya.” 

  Tears fell from her eyes, “It is wonderful. Just wonderful,” she sniffled, “And for the boy?” 

  “Viserys,” you answered, “After Grandsire.”

  “My dearest girl,” she sniffled, wiping her tears as she stood from the bed. 

  “What do you think?” Aemond had hardly pulled his gaze from your children.

  He let out a content sigh, “They are more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. Absolutely perfect.” 

  And that’s what that entire moment should have been. Absolutely perfect.

  Your mother had rejoined your side, Daemon accompanying her this time, “I’m sorry but I must insist that Prince Aemond is removed from these chambers and brought to the cells to await proper questioning.”

  “Mother, please,” you begged as the midwife took your son from Aemond while Daemon went to seize him, “Daemon, no!”

  “I warned you, Y/N,” Daemon spoke, “This is how it has to be.”

  “No, it is not,” Aemond finally cut in.

  “You betrayed your Queen,” Daemon scoffed, “You committed treason. And now you must pay-”

  Aemond fell to one knee, pulling his sword and raising it towards your mother, “I pledge my sword and my allegiance to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” He stood again, sheathing his sword, “I love your daughter, Your Grace. And if bending the knee is all it takes to prove my loyalty to her, then I will do it. And whatever else I must to ensure that I never risk losing her again.” 

  You bit back tears as you rocked your children. All eyes fell to your mother for the final decision, “Very well. Prince Aemond Targaryen, you are hereby the sworn protector of Princess Y/N Velaryon as well as her children Princess Visenya Targaryen and Prince Viserys Targaryen, and any future heirs she may bear. By order of your Queen.” 

taglist:  @hydrationqueensworld, @lelerzzz, @warmness0ul , @narwhal-swimmingintheocean, @ivy-targaryen , @bubblebuttwade , @multitargaryen, @lothiriel9, @andmyannabellee , @imaslutforsstuff , @msmarvelknight , @paprikaquinn , @stargazingwatercolouredbeing , @oh-thats-cute , @minttea07 , @iiamthehybrid

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

AEMOND WEDDING POV PART 1

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Thoughts of manipulation and hurt, violence and assault. Obsessive themes and possessiveness.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: AEMOND!POV, Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Word count: 5.7k

Note: The highly requested and anticipated Aemond!POV from the wedding to the fateful night. Thank you all for showing so much love and excitement for this, I had fun writing it. As always read the warnings and please, please don't expect anything happy, or fluffy or healthy. This is a Dark!fic. Anyway.... enjoy you heathens <3

BOLD ITALICS ARE INNER MONOLOGUE

AEMOND POV CHAPTERS 50-52

PART ONE : A Union of Green and Black

Aemond had anticipated the raven returning to Kings Landing. He had waited for it patiently, spending his days assisting his mother and brother, or roaming the realm for the letter that would give him the answer he knew was coming. And when the day rolled over, and he had been in his chambers, and Ser Cole had summoned him to the Small Council Chambers, he had known his answer had arrived.

‘Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and of the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm has accepted King Aegon’s terms of treaty…’

Queen?

That whore did not deserve the title Queen. 

When King Viserys had died, Aemond had turned to Ser Willis Fell, “Is Aegon king?” The One-Eyed Prince asked, “Or must we kneel and kiss the old whore's cunny?” 

And when word had arrived to Kings Landing that the Whore of Dragonstone had named herself Queen, and aquired Viserys' crown, Aemond had scowled and raged in his chambers alone.

Must we kneel and kiss the old whore's cunny?

It felt like they were now. 

A treaty, Aemond inwardly scoffed. 

‘Princess Y/n Velaryon, the Princess of Dragonstone has accepted the betrothal to Prince Aemond Targaryen.’

Aemond had known you would have had said yes.

You had no other choice. 

The wait for the next moon was agony, and Aemond found himself so restless that he returned to Harrenhal to see a pair of familiar, piercing green eyes. Alys Rivers had waited for his return, and upon his arrival, did not seem at all surprised.

"I saw you were coming in a dream."

He believed her. 

He spent the next days fucking himself into her, spilling his seed deep into her womb as she so graciously welcomed it. She would open her mouth when he asked, and swallow his seed greedily like she was told. He would thrust roughly into the back of her throat and piston his hips into her core for hours until she begged for mercy, and cried upon his member. She would cook for him, and dote on him, and whisper praise into his ears. 

Eventually the time came, and he had to make his leave back to Kings Landing. He had given her a necklace of Valyrian steel, with three large green emeralds dripping from its centre as a parting gift. She had received the gift in thanks, and taken his cock into her mouth in appreciation. 

When Aemond had returned to Kings Landing, he felt nothing but excitement to the date. You were to be his. You were to leave your whore mother and bastard brothers and spend your life with him in Kings Landing.

Would you attack him again?

Would you behave?

He hoped you would put up a fight. 

When the day came, Aemond sat upon Vhagar’s back and flew to Dragonstone to claim what was rightfully his. What would have always been his. What was fated by the gods and prophesied by those who had the sight.

Aegon had clapped him on the back in a parting farewell, and told him to make you 'squeal like a pig'. 

Charming.

As he flew across the ocean and began to see the small speck of Dragonstone become larger and larger, his heart raced in his chest and blood began to pump itself into his cock. 

You would be his. 

Finally his.

How many nights had he dreamed of this? How many days had he agonised over your absence?

How many words had he exchanged with his mother and brother, forcing them to his will? Forcing them to accept that you would be his.

How many times had they argued that it would not work? That you would try to kill them, or die trying.

And how many times had he said ‘I know.’

He didn’t care. 

You were his the moment you were born.

When Aemond had circled the active volcano, he had expected to find Caraxes, his uncle sat astride the large red dragon, to tear him from the sky, all fire and fury. He had waited for Syrax and Melys, and any or all of the Blacks dragons to rain the Seven Hells upon him.

And yet there was none. The island was still, and there were no dragons to be seen. It was almost eerily quiet.

Aemond had landed on the island, and his first thought was the smell. It was sulphuric to its very core, and the smell of coal and dragon was strong as it was carried through the oceans breeze. 

Waiting for him on the top of Dragonmont were several guards and a knight who had introduced himself as Ser Darke. Aemond had eyed the knight who was tall, and handsome by any standards. He wondered if this was your personal knight. 

And then he wondered if this knight had taken your maidenhead. 

Aemond felt himself sour until the knight with dark hair had handed him cream and red robes.

The ceremonial robes of Old Valyria.

Aemond had dressed himself with no fuss nor shame in the eyes of the Old Gods, and any of the guards who had dared to watch him. And then he was moving, finally making his way down to you. 

His grandfather Otto’s voice carried across the wind, and Aemond watched as he got closer, listening to the elder Hightower prattle on about the greatness of Aegon and his treaty. 

Aegon was too thick to think of a treaty. 

That was his mother and Otto’s idea. 

He watched as your eyes flitted from Otto to him, mouth slackening. And then he felt it. The burning gaze of his uncle, Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince had given him a one over, before looking down to his daughter. 

Asking with his eyes to smite his nephew.

Aemond walked to stand in front of you beside the alter, and his breath had stopped in his lungs. 

You were beautiful.

Stunning.

Regal.

Every part the blood of Old Valyria.

A true Targaryen through and through. 

Your silver hair had shone in the light and your violet eyes had danced dangerously as you observed the man in front of you. Your robes fit you perfectly, and the headdress sat delicately upon your head. He wished to caress you, to promise you the world.

You were enchanting. Ethereal. Not of this world.

And you were his.

Candles were lit, and Aemond could scarcely pay attention to the world around him. He did not care. He was too preoccupied with how your teeth kept pulling at your lips nervously, or how your gaze would concentrate hard on his face. More specifically his eye.

Does it frighten you like the others?

Or do you see through it? Do you see through the horror of it and see the man beneath? The boy beneath?

Aemond's mouth had dried when he had run the sharp edge of dragonglass down your lip, watching as blood rushed to the surface of your mouth. He wished to step forward to lick it off the crimson droplets. He wished to taste its coppery tang upon his tongue. He wished to soothe the wound, and chase away the pain with his lips.

And then you had returned the favour, only your hand was not as gentle as he had been. Your hand did not hold awe, or reverence, or pride in it as you slid the glass down his parted and waiting lips.

Your hand had been rough, and cruel, and had sliced through his lip with far more force than had been needed. It was full of anger, and resentment, fury and rage. A loathing and sense of betrayal. 

His zaldristos.

He relished in the pain, and welcomed the sharp sting, because it was you who was doing it. It was you giving yourself to him. Aemond would suffer any pains, swim any sea, do anything to have you. He would scour the realm in search of you by foot if he had needed to.

You would always be his.

And you would never be without him again. 

He had sliced his own palm and held the blade towards you.

Your turn little one.

Your palm had opened from its stiff grip, and in your palm lay the evidence of your assault upon him that fateful night. His shoulder twinged as he looked at it. You had gotten him good that evening. Deep and sharp. The Maester had been uncertain if they would have been able to seal it. And so Aemond had told them to burn it. To melt the flesh together so that he may heal in the way of a dragon.

He had thought of you when the Maester had burnt his wound shut and sewed the rest together. It had felt like the night Lucerys had taken his eye. Except he had felt proud of you. He had felt proud that you had that fire. That anger and that rage. It had made his cock uncomfortably hard, and despite having lost a lot of blood, when the Maester had finally left his chambers, and his mother had stopped fussing and went back to hers, Aemond had tugged himself to his peak, using the arm on his injured side to relish in the pain you had delivered.

Like an angel of death.

You had hesitated to slice your palm and he had been patient. You could take as long as you wanted, but you would be his forever more. 

When the blood pooled he grasped your hand, desperate to pour every inch of love into his wound that bled, hoping that his essence would flow into you, and that you would feel his devotion and admiration. Hoping that his love would seep into your heart and unfreeze it, and bring you back to him. 

Your hands were bound together in ceremonial thread, and the final words were said. 

“Ry kivia mazvestraksi.” Of darkness and light.

He was the darkness and you were his light. His entire being revolved around you like the sun.

Aemond’s cock twitched in his robes, and his heart soared.

What a triumph. 

He stepped forward, closing the gap between the two of you and pressed his lips against yours. The bitter taste of copper had brushed into his mouth with his first cautious kiss. He was so anxious, but so overjoyed. 

You were finally his. 

Mine.

You were like opium. Your lips were so soft and tender against his own, and he could taste your essence on his tongue. Aemond tried in vain but he could not hold back any longer. His hand came to pull you in closer, grasping at the back of your head as he deepened the kiss. To drink you in like a man starved. Your blood the elixir of life, and he a dying man.

He licked at the blood to clean you, to have all of you, to taste you further and he almost moaned. Your sharp little teeth nipped at him and his hand tightened in your hair. He felt a breath puff out of your lips, and onto his, and imagined that you would do the same when he fucked you. 

If he pulled your hair when he pressed himself up inside of you, would you sigh into his mouth? Would you moan and squirm in his grip as he fucked his seed into you?

When he pulled back, your pupils were dilated and your sweet little lips were smeared with your combined blood. You looked feral. Blood thirsty.

Bursting with rage. 

His sweet little niece. 

It made him harder, and he was thankful that the robes were loose.

“Mēre ñelly, mēre prūmia, mēre soul, sir se forever.” 

One flesh, one heart, one soul. Now and forever.

You were his. 

And he was yours.

Your blood ran through him, and his through you. 

Now and forever.

His wife. 

“Wife.” Aemond tested the word on his tongue and he knew in that moment it was meant to be.

It felt right.

It felt perfect.

It felt that the Gods knew you were destined to be together. Aemond had always known that the Gods made you for each other. He could always feel a magnetic pull to you. Drawing him in like a Siren.

As if you were tied by two threads, and no matter where you would be, no matter where you would go, no matter how hard you would try to pull, or cut, or tear the thread between you, it would not budge.

And you would always return to each other. 

Mine.

As soon as your hand had left his, you had thrown yourself into your fathers arms. Daemon had watched Aemond over the top of your head. His eyes bored into Aemond’s as he expressed all the things he were to do to him if he had even the slightest inkling that he harmed his precious daughter, with only his eyes.

His favourite daughter.

His first child. 

Aemond had blinked slowly at the man and watched as his uncle had cooed into your hair. His heart ached at the sight and he did not know why. 

You had raced back into the castle, leaving Aemond with Otto and Ser Cole, watching as you and the others who resided on Dragonstone, trudged slowly and solely back inside. 

Aemond had watched how Daemon fought desperately to not say a thing to Otto nor him, nor Cole. How his mouth had twitched and his hand had repeatedly tapped on the large hilt of the Dark Sister Blade. 

Aemond admired the mans tenacity. 

The young Prince had redressed himself out of the ceremonial garb and back into his riding leathers. He, Otto and Cole had walked and waited for you at the entrance of the castle to return. Little words being said between the three men. 

When you had returned, you were in-between the hulking figure of your father and the handsome knight. 

So he was your knight.

Aemond made a mental note to inquire into who this knight was, and if he had any loved ones he cared for.

Was he a first son? A second son? A third? Did he had sisters? Or brothers?

Jealousy rolled through Aemond as he thought of the Prince knowing you intimately. Doting on your every command. Bringing you your every desire. 

Did he come to your chambers at night, when all had gone to rest, and warmed your bed? 

Had he pierced your maidenhead and watched your blood streak his length? Had he whispered praise to you and brought you to your peak? Had he tasted you the way Aemond had? Had the made you cum on his hands as the Prince had done?

Aemond wanted to slice the knights head from his shoulders, and his cock from his body. 

Heat rose in his body until Otto had spoken, and broke his tumbling thoughts. You had all but scoffed at his grandsire and looked up at your father with large, sad eyes. You had embraced, and Aemond once again felt a sting in his heart. 

And also jealousy. 

He wondered for a split moment if you had ever been intimate with your father, but the thought came and went just as quickly as it had arrived. 

No.

Neither of you would have. 

You had stormed away and Aemond had watched your hips sway as you marched up the grassy hill beside the castle, Otto calling out to you in confusion, and the loud laugh of Daemon flowed into the air. Aemond had to stop himself from smiling. Otto huffed under his breath, wondering where you were going.

Aemond knew exactly where you were going.

For it was the way that he came.

He followed you up the hill, not too far behind, but not quite racing either. He had all the time in the world. For the rest of your shared lives, you would be his. The grass crushed beneath his feet, and as he rounded a rocky corner he came face to face with a vision, sitting atop the famed Vermithor.

Your hair shimmered in the light and your leather riding clothes were snug on your figure. Aemond groaned under his breath as his cock twitched in his leather pants. A smirk wound its way on his face as he watched you spot him. 

Vermithor was large, and mean and old. Just like his Vhagar was. HIs scales were bronze and his teeth were mangled and what a sight you were to be atop the old dragon. You had claimed the famed Vermithor, the Kings dragon. A dragon that had made men kneel.

You did not need a dragon to make Aemond bend the knee.

You could have uttered Dracarys, right then and there. Daemon and your knight could have easily subdued and slain Otto and Ser Cole, and you would have had the upper hand in the war. 

But you didn’t. 

You kept true to the treaty.

His little spitfire, zaldristos, darling niece, barely spared him a single glance as she commanded her great dragon into the sky, his bronze scales shimmering in sun. 

Aemond had cooed out to Vhagar, moving around the cliffs face to find her patiently waiting for him, having sensed him through the bond as he pulled himself up the ropes and onto her back. The war dragon pushed herself into flight roughly, and called out into the air. 

He had flown beside you, watching how well you had bonded to your new dragon, and so quickly. When a Targaryen would lose their dragon, that would be it. They would never bond with another. 

But not you.

Oh no, not you.

Not his wife.

And that’s what made you his.

The journey to Kings Landing was far too long for his liking as his swollen member pressed painfully into his pants. He had tried to adjust himself to relieve the throbbing, but to no avail. 

Aemond had thought the whole journey home about laying you down in his bed, parting your thighs and lapping at your waiting cunt. He had imagined licking, and suckling and fucking you on his fingers until completion. Stretching you open for his cock so that you would be ready. 

He had imagined thrusting into you, holding you to him as you moaned and writhed beneath him, praising him, crying for him, wailing as the tip of his cock pushed up against your womb. He had imagined you panting, and wanting, and begging for his seed. 

‘Please uncle, please give me it. Give me your seed.’

‘Put a babe in me, husband.’

‘Please fill me, Aem.’

‘I love you.’

I love you.

Those words were all that the Prince desired to hear.

But he knew that he wouldn’t. 

You would most likely kick, and scratch, and bite at him. Hiss and curse, and spew vile insults. This image of you, all fiery beneath him, crying and sobbing, clawing and cursing, also made his cock throb. 

Either way, he would have you. 

You had arrived and disappeared before he had caught up. But there was only few places he knew he would find you. And so when his gut told him to go to the Godswood, he had followed it, and he was right. 

There you stood, palm on the bark, head bowed, no doubt begging the Gods for mercy. For a miracle. Asking for them to slay him and his brother and any other who carried the Hightower blood, just as he had with the Strongs. He knew that you would be asking for protection from the monster you had married. 

But he did not have to be cruel.

He could be good to you, if only you let him.

“The God’s won’t hear your prayers.” He had spoken, not being able to help himself. Not being able to try and get the fire within you to burst, to have you race at him again, blade in hand. 

He watched in excitement as your little hand balled itself up in anger against the tree, a smear of blood being left behind. Aemond grinned. 

Yes.

Yes, show me how much you hate me.

Show me your passion for me.

“Come. I will show you to our chambers.” 

Our chambers.

Our.

He liked how it sounded on his tongue. He liked the way our sounded. 

Us.

Our

We.

One flame, one flesh, one heart, one soul. Together. 

Forever.

As you had always been destined to be.

You had turned, lips pulled down into a frown as he smiled brightly at you, joy coursing through him.

Our.

Us.

Your lips were scabbed where the cut was, with no blood lingering around your face, except for the symbol upon your forehead which he had pressed with a sacred thumb. You had left it undisturbed, just as he had. 

See? We are already one.

We are the same.

“I wish to return to my old chambers.” You had demanded, but so softly, almost as if you were testing the waters. 

Aemond could not help but tilt his head. 

Gods, such a good wife already.

So obedient and good.

All mine.

“No.” Was all he had said, enjoying the anger that flashed across her face as he turned and began walking to his chambers.

No, not his.

Your shared chambers.

Ours.

The entire walk he thought of the possibility of taking you as soon as the chamber doors opened. Of bending you over the table in the centre of the room and rutting into your tight, wet heat. Of laying you down on the bed and ripping your riding leathers from your body, and thrusting himself deeply inside. To fuck into your wet cunt and have your screams and the slapping of skin carry through the entire Keep for all to hear. 

Yes, she is mine.

She has always been mine.

She will always be mine.

He had watched you enter the chambers, eyes flitting around the space and knew immediately that your eyes would look to the passage door. That immediately you would be looking for a way out. Or reminiscing on your previous visit.

And you had. 

Creatures of habit rarely change their design.

The passage was neither blocked, nor barricaded, and if you wished to attempt an escape, you were free to do so. Though he knew that you wouldn’t. 

“You wouldn’t be able to leave that way, if that’s what you are thinking of.” His voice called across the room.

A lie.

Which you seemed to believe. 

Such a good little girl.

He had offered you wine. Spiced Dornish wine, of the deepest red.

Your favourite.

He had remembered.

He remembered everything.

Everything you liked, and disliked. Everything you had said. Everything you had done. Everything that you had worn. Everything. He remembered it all.

You were in his head, every moment of every day. Every single waking hour he thought of you. Even as he lay in the bed of another, even as his cock filled Alys, even as she moaned and writhed beneath him, he thought of you. 

And then your sweet little eyes had caught the faded red cover of your favourite book, sitting proudly on a pile of books he had compiled for your arrival. Books in which you had read to him. Books in which he knew you would like. Books in which he had remembered you liked.

It was all for you.

Everything was for you.

Do you not see? This is all for you.

“Sit.” He had commanded, to see if you would obey, to test the waters to see how much you would put your all into this treaty. For yourself. For your mother. For your family. 

And you had sat, and his heart had soared. 

You were making an effort. 

You were trying to make this work.

You could see that he loved you, and maybe you were coming to terms that you loved him too.

“Drink.” Aemond commanded again, and you followed his orders.

His cock jumped in his breeches and he had to subtly move himself as he sat. 

Would you open your mouth if he told you to? Would you cum if he commanded it? Would you take his member into your mouth and suck if he asked?

Would you be a good little wife for him? 

His fiery little zaldristos, tamed and claimed by the mighty dragon that he was.

He lost himself in the images of you coming to your knees before him at the fireplace, with a wordless command. A simple finger gesture, a subtle point of his index to his feet, and the good little wife you were would be anxious and excited to please him. You would come to stand before him and kneel. Your tiny little hands, hands that had caused so much damage, hands that had scarred him, hands that had-

“The King wishes for us to dine with him this evening. To celebrate our union.”

He watched as your chest paused, and your face paled. Your lips had parted and your little hands had curled tightly around the goblet. 

Ah.

“He will not touch you.” 

A promise. 

I will kill him if he ever has you.

When you had not said a word, and he had stood before you, your eyes glazed over as your mind no doubt reeled at the thought of being reunited with your eldest uncle. Aemond did not take offence when you had jumped at his palm. 

“I will have the maids come and dress you for the evening.” 

And they had. In the dress he had your favourite tailor in Dorne make for you. 

One black dragon, one green dragon. 

Together as one. 

One.

Us. 

Aemond had watched you be bathed and dressed and could not help but notice at how you were, despite being present physically in the room, not present mentally. You had drifted away behind your eyes and numbly let the women wash, dry and dress you. Even as he had touched the small of your back and led you out of the chambers, and cooed small compliments to you, you had not come back to the present. 

Aemond had even tried mentioning Lucerys, to see if that could rise you from whatever depths you were lost in, and yet you did not come back to him.

He felt a pit of anxiety settle in his stomach.

He thought of Helaena, and how he had gradually watched her do the same. With each passing day, he watched his beloved sister, the sweetest and kindest of all, fade into a nothingness until not even she herself could stand it any longer, and threw herself from her window in Maegor’s Holdfast.

“Zaldristos.” He had uttered, small panic in his voice. 

Please do not go with her. 

I cannot loose you too.

Please Gods, do not let her go to madness. I will do whatever you ask me to.

Do not take her from me.

You had swallowed thickly after he spoke his prayer, and your eyes had met him. The spell had been broken, and the Gods had listened. You were back, and the first thing your eyes did was open widely, almost in shock of your hazy mind, looking down at the dress that fit you more perfectly than he could have ever imagined. 

Aemond reminded himself to tip the tailor. 

You had walked together, as one, to the intimate Dining Chambers, and were announced to the room as you entered. ‘His Lady Wife Y/n Velaryon.’

‘His Lady Wife.’

His.

Aegon sat with his small council around him, their mother and grandfather waiting at the table. Aegon had this mischievous glint in his eye which made Aemond inwardly cringe. He had remembered the look that Aegon would get when he wished to start trouble, and this evening would be no different. 

“There they are!” The King had stood, arms wide and Aemond inwardly groaned. 

His brother was a prick.

The crown on his head must weigh heavy on his skull, for his brain was surely being crushed by the force.

Aemond watched as Aegon tried to goad you into a fight, and he felt himself bristle instead.

She is mine.

Mine to love. Mine to touch. Mine to hold. Mine to torment, and fuck, and put heirs into.

Mine.

He had pulled a seat out for you, and you had sat, and he was proud of how well you were behaving on your first night back in the Red Keep. He had expected you to launch yourself across the table, all claws and teeth and rip his brothers, or his mothers, throat out. 

Would it be a sin if he said he was disappointed that you didn’t?

Aemond could sense his good Lady Wife stiffening beside him and heat pouring from her body as Aegon continued to try and lure her into a fight. To try and get her to react to him. The air was tense from the other Lords at the table as they all watched in anticipation of a very tumultuous celebration of a very tumultuous union.

“I don’t think I’ve heard my niece be so quiet before. Have you broken her already, Aemond?” 

Not in the way I would have liked to.

Not in the way you had tried to.

Aemond hummed. 

“Don't tell me she has snatched your voice too, brother? One minute in her cunt and already you’ve gone soft.” Aegon snickered.

Fucking cunt.

Aemond watched as Otto tried, and failed, to diffuse the tension as he saw the warning signs of Aemond’s temper begin to simmer. It was fine for the Princess to be riled, she could not act if she wished to annul the treaty, but Aemond? 

Aemond could do as he pleased. 

And if he pleased to launch himself across the table and strike his drunken brother, he would. 

Aegon laughed loudly and Aemond felt you stiffen beside him. 

All instincts kicked in, and Aemond felt suddenly protective of you. 

I won’t let him touch you. 

You are mine now.

I won’t let anyone harm you again.

You are mine.

Conversation moved about the table, and Aemond felt he could relax, but only just. Aegon continued to drown himself in his cups, and he watched as you did not move to eat your supper, instead drinking from your goblet. 

“Tell me brother, have you bed her yet?”

Aemond felt blinding rage course through him. 

You fucking cunt. You fucking piece-

“Do you remember how it is done? I’d be happy to show you.” 

Even the Lannister laughed, and Aemond had to control his breathing as to not take the blade at Ser Coles side and thrust it through the two of them.

You keep laughing, Lannister, and I will fuck a silver haired babe into your wife as a gift.

You keep laughing and I will make you watch me do it.

Willingly or not. 

Alicent tried, and failed, as she always had, not that she ever fully tried, to chastise Aegon, to rein him in. But he was King now, and he had the Kingly arrogance to match. 

“We should hold a bedding ceremony, to ensure that the deed is done properly. I can talk you through it.”

You fucking bastard.

He thinks I don't know how to fuck a woman? He thinks I don't know how to bed my own wife?

My niece?

If only he knew the things he was capable of. Of what he does to Alys. Of how she begs for it, and cries for it, and pleads on her knees, mouth open and eyes wide.

Or demands it, legs spread, cunt weeping and waiting for him.

“Come now brother, surely you have not forgotten what I showed you on your thirteenth name day.” Aegon laughed, pulling his goblet up to his lips. 

Aemond’s heart ached and his stomach dropped. 

He did not want to remember that.

He wished to forget.

He wished to forget their hands on him. Their mouth on him. How Aegon had laughed as he watched. How Aemond had not wanted to. How he had cried after and felt shame and anguish. How he had felt confliction and disgust. 

He had wanted it to be you. 

He had wanted to lay with you as his first. 

But you weren’t his first. Nor his second, nor would you be his third.

Aegon saw to that.

Aegon had taken something from him in which he could never get back. 

Aemond’s jaw clenched tightly as he watched his brother, the feeling of the older woman’s crawling hands on his body. 

“The King is merely joking with you, My Prince. We are all in good spirits for this union.” Otto spoke. 

Fuck you too.

“You heard the old bat, we are all in good spirits! You are finally wed to the one woman who had given you any attention at all. Sure, she is a bastard-“

“Watch your tongue.” You had sneered, finally breaking your silence. 

Aemond pulled from his sickening thoughts and felt your anger beside him run through him. Your blood in him. He had never been so angry. He had never felt so vengeful. So provoked. Not even in Storms End did he feel such wrath. 

He wished to kill his brother. 

“So she speaks!” Aegon declared proudly to the table, looking at the Lords as they all smiled unsurely, “Finally. There is my niece who I know and love. Though I fear if you are able to speak, perhaps my brother did not fuc-“

Aemond shot up from the table, ready and willing to do it. 

It could be so easy. 

It could be so easy to kill him. Right here, right now. Before all the Lords and his mother. He could snuff the life out of the man he called his brother, his King, and he could do it without a second thought. He would gladly watch the light fade from those violet eyes. He could watch the wa-

“Aem, brother.” Aegon mock cooed, “You know I am only teasing. Come, let's raise our cups to this fine union!” 

He was mocking him. 

Mocking him.

He was saying he was not a man. Questioning his manhood again. Questioning his ability to be a man.

All lifted their cup and Aemond turned to look at you, you were already watching him. Your mouth was parted and pupils dilated and a flush lay on your cheeks. You were so angry. You were angry with him. But your eyes looked frightened. 

Aemond watched as your hand came to soothe him, to touch him. He didn't want to be touched. He kept thinking of his thirteenth name-day and his skin crawled. And seeing you look up at him like that. In pity.

It disgusted him.

He didn’t want your pity. 

“To my brother, may she warm your heart and your cock, and may you make me a grand-uncle soon enough. And to my wonderful niece, may you warm his bed, and birth his heirs, and feel the warmth of his love.”

Aemond bitterly drained his cup, and watched as his wife did the same. If he sat for a moment longer at this table, and had to look at his brothers shit eating grin a moment more, he would ride atop Vhagar and set the entire Keep ablaze. 

“Excuse us, I wish to spend time with my wife.” 

Aemond left the room, not even waiting for you, as he knew you would follow him. You would not sit alone in the chambers with Aegon or his mother. He knew you would not do it, and so the dutiful zaldristos followed him, just as he planned.

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[flowerandblood]

The Impossible Choice (29)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: mention of rape, angst, violence, domination ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

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

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

Aegon knew that it was impossible to love him, so he craved it even more − proof, that he could be given such deep, valuable affection. That he was worth it after all, just as much as the favourable gaze of his father and mother.

Although he was the first-born son, he was not the heir to the throne. He felt like a Prince of Nothing who would watch a woman, the mother of bastards, sit on the Iron Throne − he wanted to laugh and cry at the very thought.

He didn't know if he had any talent − his sister was the heir to the throne, she had an ease of speech, shrewdness and a cutting tongue. Aemond was quiet but constantly reading and perpetually smarting, telling boring stories about their ancestors. Helaena was withdrawn and said things that were strange and incomprehensible to him − she was, in his opinion, completely detached from reality.

When he found out that he was to marry her, he thought his mother was mocking him − he preferred Helaena to marry Jace as Rhaenyra had proposed and to have the opportunity to choose a wife as Aemond had.

No such thing happened.

Their wedding supper was lavish, but he felt empty inside − Helaena was his sister and he loved her, but he did not desire her in that way. They didn't fit together, there was nothing in their characters that connected them or at least made them have something to converse about.

The thought of begetting an heir with her made him feel like vomiting.

He knew that whatever he did, however hard he tried, their rapprochement would not be according to her will − she feared and abhorred him in a way, he could see it in her gaze, in the way she flinched when he touched her naked body.

He tried to be as gentle as possible, imagining other women beneath him.

He tried not to think about her crying under him, about the fact, that he had just hurt his own sister.

He often wept thinking about it, but then it became indifferent to him.

The servant girl, Helaena, the lady of the court.

It was all the same to him − all that mattered was the momentary relaxation.

Until he saw her.

She and Helaena were strolling through the gardens of the Red Keep, dicussing something, walking hand in hand. At first he thought with joy that surely this was her new lady in waiting, that this girl could have been his.

She seemed so innocent; her face gentle and sympathetic, her eyes large and bright, her lips curved in a sincere, wide smile. She wore gowns of a different cut from the ladies in King's Landing − bold, brightly coloured, her hair combed in such a way that it accentuated her wonderfully slender neck.

He thought that she was beautiful.

Then he learned that was his brother's betrothed.

He looked at her as they sat at the common table during the suppers − he exchanged a few words with her, but in front of his brother she did not smile so much and answered with reserve.

He thought that his foolish younger brother with his perpetually stony face must have instantly frightened her and been violent towards her, trying to dominate her.

He noticed with frustration that Aemond didn't even look at her, didn't appreciate the shape of her body, the beauty of her attire, didn't pay her compliments, didn't even touch her.

He thought that if she were his, he would treat her differently.

That if he had a woman like her, cheerful, bright, joyful, he would make an effort.

He would change.

If she asked him, he would stop drinking so much.

He would stop going to brothels if he could experience pleasure in bed with her.

He would prove to her that he was worthy of her love.

She, however, paid no attention to him − although his brother hardly spoke to her it seemed to him that she always remained in his sphere.

On the day of their wedding he thought with amusement, looking at his brother during the feast, that he did not look happy with his choice, all tense, even though his wife sitting next to him looked beautiful. He didn't even ask her to dance, forcing her to have her first dance with her brother.

He thought he was pathetic.

That he didn't deserve her.

That she should spend her wedding night with him, not his brother.

Immediately after they left he waited a moment and stood up, walking out the other side of the corridor − he wanted to be sure that his brother wouldn't hurt her.

That he wouldn't hear her crying from behind the door.

He heard something else, however.

They were both panting and moaning, but they were not sounds filled with pain − he pressed his lips together at the thought that perhaps his brother was only pretending on the outside.

That perhaps he really desired her but was ashamed to admit it, because it would show his weakness.

The louder the sounds came from his brother's chamber the hotter and angrier he felt, his hands clenched into fists. He heard her sweet, loud, helpless whine, then a low, drawn-out groan of his brother and there was silence.

He thought that his brother would throw her out, tell her to go back back to her chamber.

But she didn't leave.

She stayed with him.

The next day during supper his brother seemed absent − he was drinking wine, looking dully towards the entrance, apparently wondering in what state his wife would appear. He approached him, holding his cup in his hand.

"How was your wedding night, brother? Did it meet your expectations?" He asked teasingly.

His brother answered nothing, he only saw him tighten his lips.

"I heard some moans from your chamber. It sounded pleasant." He said offhandedly, taking a sip of wine, and only then did his brother cast him a warning, dark look.

He wanted to say more, but his wife walked in, beaming and smiling, her brother stepping out to greet her. They were discussing something with tenderness on their faces − Aegon glanced at his brother and saw his jaw tighten, his posture change to one of uprightness and pride.

He was furious that he had touched her.

His wife was not indifferent to him.

They were only able to sit down at the table when their father the king stepped inside. He sat to her left, immediately smelling the pleasant scent of her floral oils − he thought that he would tease his brother a little and see what his reaction would be. He leaned towards her ear.

"I could hear you all the way in my chamber. I want you to know that the door to mine will always be open for you." He said tauntingly and saw with amusement how his brother threw him a murderous, warning look.

He wanted to laugh at this sudden interest he was showing in his wife and worry about whether someone else would touch her.

He thought that his brother was a fool.

He wondered how their married life would work out − he thought that she would eventually tire of her brother's insufferable, sullen, aggressive nature.

That she would give up, dejected and deprived of any tenderness, warm words and compliments.

This is what he was waiting for.

However, even when her brother did not speak to her, distancing himself from her for some reason, she preferred to speak to Helaena and not to him. He felt pain seeing this and did not understand what he did for her to treat him so coldly.

He never nagged her or tried to touch her.

Whenever he spoke to her he tried to do so with a smile and respect.

Her gaze and attention always turned towards his brother.

He felt a squeeze in his stomach when one day, returning late at night drunk to the keep, after having fucked a couple of whores from behind, imagining his brother's wife, he heard her moaning in his chamber.

He heard them both panting, his brother's voice saying something to her muffled by the layer of wooden doors and her quiet sobs as he fucked her.

Sobs full of pleasure and fulfilment.

He took Helaena that night for the first time in many months. He woke her up in the night and told her to just lie on her back and not move.

He imagined that it was he, not his brother, who made those sounds came out of her, that it was him she wanted, that it was him she craved.

When he heard his sister's sobs underneath him he burst into tears himself. He slid out of her when it was all over, trembling as she did. He embraced her and hugged his face to her neck.

"− forgive me −" He mumbled.

She was his sister, and he had hurt her again.

He was disgusted with himself, with what he had become, but he couldn't stop.

He stroked her hair, and she wept softly.

"− forgive me −"

He thought that he would try to forget her, that he would try to be a good brother and husband as much as he could.

He no longer approached Helaena, satisfying his needs elsewhere, seeing her only in the company of their children.

Neither of them spoke of what had happened between them, but he could see that his sister-wife could not look at him.

He was not surprised by it.

He avoided his brother's wife too, trying not to think of her, sinking into the goblets of wine and the soft breasts of whores in the brothels. His mother urged him on again and again, giving him sermons, but he had no strength to listen to her.

Why should he make the effort if he was going to be a nobody in the end anyway?

What were his children to inherit?

Everything around him seemed meaningless to him − he sometimes wondered why he had been born if he was his father's dream child, but he didn't love him anyway.

He was the son of the wrong mother.

He was not worthy of anyone's love.

He managed to find relief from his drunkenness and promiscuity until they had dined together with the bastard children of their half-sister. When he saw out of the corner of his eye his brother slip his hand between her thighs, her body trembling from his shameless touch in front of everyone, her eyes showing a haze of desire, he felt arousal.

He imagined that it was his hand touching her, that it was him she was looking at like this.

He pressed his lips together and swallowed loudly as Daemon approached them, his younger brother taking his hand away quickly, embarrassed and surprised. He felt like laughing at this pathetic sight.

His brother watched helplessly as his wife danced with another man, and he felt a wild satisfaction at the thought. He thought that as soon as she sat down, he would be next in line to ask her for this pleasure.

His brother, however, decided otherwise.

He commanded in a furious voice that his wife return to her chamber, and he led her away.

He felt a tightening in his throat when Aemond returned after several minutes, his forehead glowing from sweat, his pupil dilated, his breathing accelerated. He sat down at the table, thoughtful, and took a few deep sips from his goblet, as if suddenly thirsty.

He fucked her, he thought with pain and frustration.

He was jealous and went to fuck her to prove to himself that she was his.

Even so, when his brother made the last toast and Jace slapped him in the face, he didn't let Luke move an inch, banging his head against the plate.

The issues between them had no bearing on the fact that against the Blacks they were a united front.

He had once promised his mother that in front of others he would always support him and he intended to keep his word.

Afterwards, he fled to the brothel. He couldn't stand being in the keep, thinking about what his brother was doing to her when they left. As much as he tried, he couldn't stop the intrusive thoughts and desire he felt for her.

He desired her.

He loved her.

He wanted her for himself.

He was disgusted with himself by the thought, but he also found a kind of relief in it − a feeling that maybe if he made an effort, if he was patient enough, she would look at him the way he looked at his brother.

He wondered, what had Aemond done to deserve such a treasure? What had he done to deserve her devotion and love if he was still harsh and cold towards her? If he did not appreciate her?

He fell asleep completely drunk and the next day strangers told him, that he had to go into hiding. He could feel his dulled mind barely registering what they were saying to him.

"The King is dead."

He laughed at these words, turning on his side, unable to move. He felt like he was about to either pass out or vomit.

He thought that he was just dreaming.

Several dewy-eyed men took him under his arms and led him out of the brothel into the glaring sun. He hissed loudly, clenching his eyes, a headache racking his skull.

"−leave me alone −" He mumbled lowly, still heavily dulled by alcohol, the world around him blurry and bright.

He felt his way up the stairs to a cool, dark place and then finally let him lie down on the stone floor, where he fell asleep. He did not wake up until an hour later and when he looked around he realised that he was in the Great Sept. He hid quickly under one of the great candlesticks, terrified.

The King is dead.

Was it true, or had he just dreamt it? Would his older sister now try to kill him as a potential threat? What was he supposed to do?

He decided it was best if he stayed hidden. However, he didn't succeed for long − not a few hours had passed and he was tugging at his younger brother in the big square, panting heavily, trying to get away from him.

"Is it true that father is dead?" He howled heavily, Aemond squeezing his neck with his shoulder, choking him. His younger brother chuckled lowly at his question.

"− Yes. And they plan to make you King. −" He said with disapproval and a sneer, at which he spit in his face. He tried to break away from him again, but his brother knocked him down, they tugged at each other, panting hard.

"You know I'm not fit for it. Brother! Look at me!" He growled, gripping his cheeks in his hands, their faces inches apart. Aemond hesitated.

"− look at me − I am not fit to be King − let me run away − I will sail away and you will never see me again. −" He said pleadingly, on the verge of crying. He felt Ser Criston pull him by the arm, dragging him towards the fortress.

"− brother! −" He called out to him over his shoulder, panting helplessly, but Aemond only looked at him with an absent expression on his face, his lips clenched into a thin line.

They crowned him, and he felt that something inside him just died.

As he turned to face the crowd he felt himself trembling all over − he knew what was going to happen.

He knew, that the people of the Kingdom he was to rule would begin to demand Rhaenyra's presence.

That they would curse him as a traitor.

The crowd, however, began to clap and cheer. Timidly at first, but then the storm of applause spread throughout the building with a powerful echo, hitting his body like a great wave.

He didn't believe it.

They didn't curse him.

What if the people of the kingdom actually wanted a King? Not a queen?

He raised his sword high, and the people began to cheer and shout for joy. He felt strength, he felt joy, he felt that perhaps the gods had set his path.

Perhaps he was truly destined to become King.

Perhaps his father had changed his mind at the last moment.

And then the ground beneath him parted and the gods showed him what they thought of him as King.

He thought they were laughing at him from the heavens along with his father.

However, he did not burn.

They returned to King's Landing as if nothing had happened.

He was the King.

His mother held a feast in his honour and he felt that something had changed in him − the power he now had was terrifyingly unlimited. He could decide someone's death and life, someone's freedom or torment.

He thought he was now essentially a demigod and laughed under his breath.

After a few toasts, he noted with frustration that not everyone seemed overjoyed at the coronation of the new ruler − he tried to meet the gaze of the woman who had been keeping him awake for so many months, but she was staring at her empty plate, thoughtful and pale. He pressed his lips together at the sight, taking a sip of wine.

"Dear sister-in-law, why such sadness in your eyes? Are you not happy to have a new King?" He asked feigning indifference, leaning his head against the back of the chair, glancing at her expectantly. He saw Aemond give him a warning look, his wife twisting in her seat, looking at him frustrated.

He thought she looked adorable when she was angry.

"I almost burned alive today. The experience has worn me out, my King." She said slowly, his brother smirking mischievously at her words. He burst out laughing, delighted by her directness − it was one of the things he appreciated about her.

She didn't lie.

She had the courage to call a spade a spade, unlike his mother.

"So my sister-in-law can speak. Until now, all I’ve heard from afar in my chamber are the other equally curious sounds that you are capable of making." He sneered, wanting to show her who had the real power at this table and that the conversation would go on as he wished.

He saw with amusement how she turned scarlet, his brother's gaze murderous, his hand clenched into a fist on the table. Suddenly his mother spoke up in a weak, broken voice.

"How can you say such things in front of all these people? To humiliate your brother’s wife in front of everyone?" She said loudly. He snorted and rolled his eyes − she was always being dramatic, making scenes of her own or others' suffering out of everything.

His mother was an eternal martyr in his eyes and she expected them to be martyrs with her.

He took another deep sip of wine, setting his cup down loudly on the table, sighing heavily.

"After all, it’s no insult. I envy my brother such a wonderful possession." He muttered lowly, glancing at his brother's wife, and she looked at him with a fury that he had not yet seen in her.

He liked that.

"That is enough. Your words are insulting to me and your own wife. Your Queen." She hissed, and he barely restrained himself from bursting out laughing. He reached for a grape, plucking it and sighed loudly, leaning towards his wife.

"My queen is indifferent to everything. Isn't she?" He asked softly, and Helaena looked at him, sadness and pain in their eyes.

He pressed his lips together at this sight and swallowed quietly, feeling remorseful.

With the eyes of his imagination he saw her again, how she cried beneath him as he took her and moved away from her.

He lifted his gaze to his brother as he stood up abruptly.

"We're leaving." He hissed, turning away.

Cheeky brat.

He thought he'd done a lot of reading and swung his sword, flying around on an old, ailing dragon so he could do whatever he wanted.

"I order you to stay. You will leave when I allow you to." He said matter-of-factly and coolly, washing his hands in a bowl of water, reaching for another dish, looking at his younger brother expectantly.

He saw the way he looked at him and felt satisfaction at the sight.

Oppose me, he thought.

Give me a reason to punish you.

However, Aemond looked at his wife and his expression changed.

He felt a squeeze in his throat at this sight, as if they were communicating with each other without words.

His brother returned to the table, all tense, and sat down again, pressing his lips together. He saw his wife put her hand on his thigh under the table, and he did not reject her.

"See? The younger brother should always listen to the older brother. I want the best for you and your wife." He said, looking at her intensely, their gazes meeting.

She was so beautiful, but she had never looked at him the way she looked at his brother.

She never smiled in his direction, there was no warmth in her gaze.

He returned with this thought to his chamber, exhausted. When he finally removed the crown from his head he felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from him.

It seemed to him that all this was not really happening, that he was only playing King, but in a moment someone would take the toy away from him.

He sat on his bed, thoughtful, when he heard the door to his chamber open and close.

He turned, startled, thinking it was some insolent servant, but saw his sister in front of him. Helaena stood before him, her face pale.

This was the first time she had come to him of her own free will.

He stood up slowly, seeing the tears running down her cheeks, her lips tightened, her eyebrows arched in helpless suffering.

"Have I ever deliberately hurt you, borther?" She asked quietly, and he felt a tightening in his throat. He blinked, swallowing loudly, his gaze fleeing around the room.

He couldn't look her in the eye.

"− no − of course not −" He muttered, massaging his forehead, somehow horrified and bewildered that she suddenly wanted to speak with him.

"So how could you say that? How could you say I am indifferent to everything when you're the one hurting and betraying me?" She asked in a trembling, cracking, soft voice, so incongruous with the words she spoke. He saw her shaking all over, looking at him boldly, her nostrils twitching restlessly with each breath.

He felt shame flowing through his whole body.

He didn't love her the way a man loved a woman, but she was his sister.

The weight of what he had done to her, the horrors he had heaped on her shoulders crushed him suddenly.

He felt tears under his eyelids.

"I don't know. I don't know why I said that." He whispered, shaking his head, burying his face in his hands.

He cried like a child, as he usually did when he didn't know what to do.

At that moment he felt like a nobody, a trash, a little child who cried to his mother.

His grandfather always said he cried like a little girl.

He wiped his red face with his hand, swollen from alcohol and tears, and grunted loudly, looking somewhere beside him.

"Forgive me. I promise you I will never touch you again. We have successors." He said, raising and lowering his hand helplessly, slapping it against his thigh, looking at her at last, her lips slightly parted, her eyes large and filled with pain.

"Stay in your chamber away from me and my affairs. Take care of our children. I will try to be a good father. You don't have to eat with me or look at me. You have done more than I deserve." He added finally. He shuddered as Helaena approached him slowly, step by step.

She surprised him by grasping his hand in hers, stroking it with her thumb, her eyes were filled with both warmth and immense suffering, from which his heart squeezed.

He knew that he had been the cause of every sorrow she had suffered, every humiliation that had befallen her in her life.

He told himself that she was mad, that she was unaware of what he was doing behind her back, because it was easier for him that way.

"− sister −" He whispered quietly and drew her to him suddenly, surprising her and himself by pressing her face to his chest.

She didn't embrace him or move an inch, but she didn't push him away either. He stroked her hair, there was a sincere tenderness in his gesture that surprised him and her − he felt every breath she took break from the uncontrollable sob that left her lips.

"− I tried to love you −" She whispered in a breaking voice, and he sobbed loudly at her words.

He knew it was true.

She was one to make those efforts.

She pressed her lips together every time he hurt her, enduring everything with dignity and humility.

He never appreciated that, thinking only of the fact that her legs were not as long and slender as he would have liked, that her breasts and thighs were not as full as he would have desired.

They stood like that, both of them crying − he thought that something had ended between them.

That he would never hurt her again.

That he wouldn't hold it against her if she found a lover.

Someone who would make her happy.

Then many things happened at once. His brother's wife left for Storm's End, Aemond for Winterfell, and an uprising broke out in Harrenhal threatening his already weak position.

He thought at the time that he would send his brother there along with his army under the command of Criston Cole and then it dawned on him.

This was his opportunity.

An opportunity to get close to her.

Tospeak with her in solitude, to get to know her better.

He felt excitement and remorse at the same time, but there was nothing he could do about it − he promised himself that he would not force her to do anything, that he would show her the respect that he truly had for her.

As soon as the servants informed him that Aemond had returned from his mission, he immediately recalled him to himself. He saw that his brother was pale and furious − he thought that his mission had not gone well, and he was not mistaken.

"− grandfather will not be pleased −" He said lightly, raising his eyebrows as he reached for the grape that laid on the table in front of him. He saw his brother smile mischievously, a threat in his eye.

"Of course. He's the one who actually wears the crown, not you." He hissed, and he looked at him warningly. They measured each other's eyes for a moment, the tension between them growing more intense − he couldn't hold back a grin at the thought of what he was about to tell him.

"I am sending you and Criston to Harrenhal." He said calmly and almost burst out laughing when he saw his horrified, bewildered face.

"What?" He asked shocked, his lips slightly parted in disbelief.

"An uprising has broken out in support of our sister whore, they've hanged our Lord Strong in his castle. You have to deal with it, because I don't think we want the other Lords to consider revolting as well?" He asked lightly, plucking another grape and popping it into his mouth with a loud crunch of juices. Aemond looked at him, his gaze darkening slowly.

"For how long?" He asked uncertainly, Aegon raised an eyebrow at his question.

"As long as you deal with it." He said softly, taking another grape in his hand.

He saw his brother look away, thinking hard about something, his jaw clenched in rage. He straightened suddenly, folding his arms behind him, looking at him with a pride that always frustrated him.

"In that case, I'm taking my wife with me as soon as she returns from Storm's End." He said with emphasis, and his lips tightened at his words.

Fool.

"You are to set off immediately. Your wife will be safe here and will wait patiently for you." He said with emphasis, looking at him impatiently.

He thought with satisfaction that he was King, his order was above that of anyone else.

She was staying with him. Why should he put her at risk?

War was no place for women.

Even less so for one as delicate and fragile as her.

"No. I will fly with my wife, or not at all." He growled furiously, clearly suspecting what he wanted to do in his absence. He smiled under his breath, standing up slowly, avoiding the table, looking at him with amusement.

"Be careful, or I'll think you've fallen in love with her. Don't be silly. It wasn't a request. Do you want your wife to become a widow?" He asked lightly, raising an eyebrow, looking at him expectantly.

He could do what he wanted with him, but he was his brother.

He didn't want to make him leave by force, but he would if left with no choice.

Aemond saw perfectly in his eyes what he wanted.

He desired his wife.

Aegon watched with satisfaction from his chamber window at the receding silhouette of Vhagar. He had heard of a woman they called the beautiful Witch of Harrenhal, with wonderfully green eyes and coal-black hair, with full breasts and hips.

He thought she might be able to keep his brother occupied for longer, which would give him more time alone with his wife.

He thought that as soon as she arrived in King's Landing he would invite her for a meal, and that is exactly what he did.

He was surprised that she did not refuse − when she walked into his chamber he marvelled at how she looked.

Her breasts concealed only by an white shirt cinched underneath by a corset, her sleeves buff.

The colours of her lineage, not her husband's, he thought with amusement.

She stood before him and bowed, her gaze gentle and indifferent at the same time.

He was not deterred by this.

He spread out his arms, wanting to embrace her, but she did not reciprocate the gesture.

He held out his hand to her, and she gave him hers − he leaned in and kissed her wonderfully soft skin.

She smelled of some kind of floral oils that he always sensed when she sat near him.

"My King. You wanted to see me." She said calmly, the tone of her voice pleasant and low. He felt his heart beat harder in his chest.

"Yes. Sit down, let's eat, I just asked for refreshments to be brought to us." He said lightly, returning to his seat and indicating with his hand for her to sit on the other side of the table. She did so obediently and straightened up, waiting for his words. He took his cup and took a sip from it, looking at her curiously.

"Why do you not wear the colours of our House?" He asked lowly, cocking his head. He wanted to speak with her about something normal, not just refer to formalities.

To get to know her.

He saw that she threw him a surprised look. There was a kind of amusement on her face that made him curious, her hand reaching for the lemon cake his maid had brought a moment before.

"Isn't red the colour of your lineage?" She answered the question with a question, taking the biscuit into her mouth and biting off a piece of it, looking at him expectantly.

He watched the soft movement of her lips and felt a pulsation in his breeches at the thought of how wonderful it must have been to feel them.

"Not that shade. For the rest, my brother and I prefer the colours of our mother's house." He muttered, looking away, trying to control his thoughts.

"You invited me to discuss the colours of my gowns, my King?" She asked provocatively, raising an eyebrow, something in her gaze from which he grew hot.

She was so direct.

Was she like that in bed too?

Did she speak that way to his brother?

He grunted quietly, trying to collect his thoughts, smiling under his breath.

"No, dear sister-in-law. I wanted to know what decision your father made." He said a little cooler, looking at her expectantly. He saw that her expression had changed − she put down the biscuit, straightened up and became more serious.

"He will support you." She said shortly.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Will he pay tribute to me?" He asked lowly, and she sighed quietly.

"If you won’t tease him with anything by then, then yes, Your Grace." She said amused, and he snorted under his breath at her words. He almost choked on his wine when he heard her next words.

"I wish to join my husband in Harrenhal."

He set his cup down on the table with a loud clink of steel, frustrated.

"No. War is no place for women." He said coolly and indifferently, fiddling with the vessel in his hand. Why did she want to go there? To watch her husband fuck another woman?

He saw her lips tighten at his words, her cheeks ignite, in her eyes an anger that he had not yet seen in a woman.

"I am the daughter of Borros Baratheon. War is in my blood as fire is in yours." She said with impatience.

He looked at her cautiously, wrinkling his brow. He wondered if his brother allowed her to speak to him like that or if he punished her every time.

Was he showing her in bed how she should address a man.

"Have you heard of the Witch of Harrenhal? She is said to be a beautiful woman with full breasts, eyes as green as precious stones and hair as black as night. My brother has always had a weakness for such women, so I was surprised when it turned out that you were the one he chose. I thought then that he had made a mockery of you and your sisters." He said calmly, as if he was telling her a story.

He saw how, out of rage, her face curved in pain and helplessness, her eyes red, her lips swollen, trembling, her skin pale.

She was beautiful and sweet again, vulnerable.

Just the way he wanted her.

"But I, when I saw you, I thought I had never seen a more beautiful, more sweet girl in my life. Gods, you are so delicate and subtle." He said dreamily, tilting his head back, resting his head against the back of the chair, looking at her with misty eyes.

He was humming pleasantly from the wine, feeling his manhood pulsing hard at his words. He licked his lips, feeling his heart pounding.

"I fell in love with you from the first sight."

He saw something inside her break, she shook her head in disbelief, her lips parted helplessly.

She was so beautiful.

"I should go back to my chamber." She whispered, lifting herself up on trembling hands, and he rose quickly, terrified, his heart thudding like mad.

He had said too much.

He had frightened her.

He cursed himself and his lack of patience in spirit.

He swallowed loudly, walking around the table, her figure tense and terrified. He touched her shoulder, looking at her pleadingly.

"I’m telling the truth. I’ve never felt anything like this for another woman." He said quickly, looking at her helplessly.

He was telling the truth.

He didn't want her to run away.

He didn't want to be left alone.

"You have a wife who needs you. And I have a husband who needs me. Please −" She whispered softly, trying to pull away from him, but he caught her other arm, standing over her.

Never before had he been able to look so closely at her face, beautiful, warm, red from tears and emotion, her full puffy parted in despair.

"He is noble only in appearance, to the public, like my mother. Do you think that when you’re not near he doesn’t fuck other women? That he is faithful to you?" He asked quietly and saw her eyebrows arch in pain, his every word cutting through her like a blade.

His brother didn't deserve her.

He didn't appreciate her.

He didn't love her the way he did.

"You're in love with a mere fantasy." She said, trying to pull out of his embrace, but he dug his fingers deeper into the sleeves of her gown, angered by her words.

You're in love with a mere fantasy.

This fantasy just stood before him.

"My brother has not been able to appreciate what he had since the day he chose you. But I would appreciate you." He said devastated by her words and what he felt, his voice breaking mid-sentence.

If only she would let him, he would show her how sincere his feeling was.

He would make an effort for her.

He would stop drinking.

He would visiting to brothels.

He would be the most just King he could be, if only she would support him.

He felt tears under his eyelids at the thought.

"Your every smile, joke, tender gesture. I would shower you with gifts and kiss your hands every day." He whispered, and after a moment he felt warm moisture on his cheeks and sobbed quietly.

They were both crying, clenching their eyes, their breaths hitched − he thought there was something beautiful in that moment, in that helplessness and intimacy at the same time, in the fact that he had opened up to her. She looked at him with her big eyes and he felt the heat spread through his body.

"− if you love me, please, please, let me return to my chamber −" She whispered pleadingly, and he felt a pain in his heart from which his throat tightened.

If you love me.

He pressed his lips together, feeling torn as never before in his life.

He craved her.

He craved to touch her, to take her here and now, to feel her wonderful, warm, fleshy insides, to sink his face into her neck, to experience fulfilment with her.

If you love me.

He promised himself.

He promised not to hurt her.

He saw before his eyes the image of Helaena crying beneath his body and imagined to himself that she was the one in her place.

That it was her he had raped.

His grip eased, his hands falling helplessly, releasing her.

They stared at each other for a moment, his gaze blank.

He wasn't worth anyone's love, but he still loved her anyway.

He watched without a word as she turned and headed for the door, opening and closing it behind her without even giving him a glance.

He decided not to reprimand her.

He had only ever seen her at the suppers, but she avoided his gaze.

He knew that was her response.

That she did not reciprocate his feelings, that he frightened her.

He felt frustrated and lost, hurt and rejected.

One part of him was telling him that he was the King and could take what he wanted, and the other part kept remembering his sister's weeping face.

One morning one of his servants entered his chamber at dawn − he ordered her to leave, wanting to continue sleeping, but she still stood in the same place.

"My King, The Prince's wife is not in her chamber. We have already informed the Queen."

He pulled himself up, looking at her in shock. He pressed his lips together, feeling a tightening in his chest as if someone had placed a bag of stones on his back − he knew perfectly well what she had done.

She had fled to him.

She had fled to Harrenhal.

For some reason, even though she was his brother's wife and not his, he felt betrayed.

He opened up to her, he needed her.

He wanted to spend just a little time with her, and she ran away, abandoned him.

He dismissed his servant, laying his face on his pillow again − he felt tears involuntarily run down his cheek onto the material beneath him.

She had abandoned him.

Although his mother wanted to order a search, he did not agree.

He knew exactly where she was and decided there was no point in making a big deal out of it.

He thought with amusement that perhaps she would find her husband in bed with the Witch of Harrenhal and return to cry on his shoulder.

After a few days, however, he received a message from his brother. He looked at it for a while, afraid to open it.

Had she told him about his confession?

He finally gathered his courage and unfolded the letter, looking inside.

Brother, my wife, in accordance with my request, joined me in Harrenhal. She has told me of the affection you appear to have for her. I look forward to your explanation upon my return. Send no one for her. Her place is with me. Aemond −

In accordance with my request.

I look forward to your explanation upon my return.

Her place is with me.

He felt a squeeze in his throat and tore the letter to shreds, throwing it impatiently into the fire. He ran his hand through his hair, breathing loudly through his nose, clenching his eyes.

He knew his brother would kill him when he returned to King's Landing, but he felt like laughing at the thought.

He wanted to die.

He thought that was the worst thing that could happen to him.

He was wrong.

The next day he received a letter from Ser Criston informing him that they needed reinforcements from King's Landing because Corlys Velaryon's fleet was moving towards them.

After a discussion with his mother and grandfather, he ordered several troops of Targaryen's army to move towards Harrenhal, but he knew that they would not have time before the attack − he prayed that his brother would hold out.

He might hate him, he might have the woman he desired, but he was still his younger brother.

And then he received a letter that crushed him, making him sit down by the fireplace and sob, covering his face with his hand.

A message detailing the injuries of the one he loved, that half her body had been burned in dragon fire.

That her body would forever bear the scars of her encounter with their uncle's wrath, for they had taken away his wife's rightful throne.

A throne he had taken unlawfully for himself.

He did not believe his mother's word that his father had changed his mind.

And now she had paid the price.

The only woman he had ever loved.

_____

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[huramuna]

huramuna's masterlist.

currently working on:

banshee's lament - aemond x stark ofc (ongoing series) masterlist

even in undeath - lich king aemond x reader chapter 1

completed:

aemond targaryen:

series: a maid's folly - dark aemond x maid ofc masterlist oneshots: blue dove - modern, dark aemond x best friend oneshot(18+) growing on you - modern aemond x (ex) girlfriend oneshot (18+) foxfaced, dragonhearted - mean, dark aemond x wife oneshot (18+) firehaired, lavendereyed - mean aemond x pregnant wife oneshot (18+) sequel-ish to foxfaced, dragonhearted. lay all your love on me - modern aemond x wife reader oneshot (18+) new valyria - modern aemond x shera stark oneshot (18+)

aegon II targaryen:

series: wine red, tears gold - aegon II x baratheon wife ofc masterlist oneshots: downpour - modern aegon II x nanny reader oneshot (18+)

alicent hightower:

oneshots: flowers for my lover - alicent hightower x healer ofc (18+)

aemond targaryen & alys rivers:

series: beware the sapphire peak - aemond x wife x alys masterlist

on hold / hiatus: (not currently working on, will pick up at a later date. indefinite hiatus)

aemond targaryen:

selkie’s song - night’s watch aemond x shapeshifter wildling ofc masterlist

the calico bastard - aemond x strong bastard ofc masterlist

coming soon: (aka, in the idea phase but not started)

helaena targaryen x handmaid reader alicent hightower x rhaenyra targaryen x reader growing on you sequel (from aemond's pov) banshee's lament shapeshifter au - aemond x shera stark

[arcielee]

My House of the Dragons masterlist. Please be mindful of each story's tags and warnings!

Call It Dreaming Aemond Targaryen x Modern!FemReader, Aegon Targaryen x Modern!FemReader Summary: You have a delightful sex dream. Warnings: Please be mindful of the warnings for each story!

Only If For A Night Aemond Targaryen x Female! Reader, Aegon Targaryen x Female!Reader Summary: You find comfort in your husband's brother. Warnings: Please be mindful of the warnings for each story! Author's Note: Choose your Targaryen adventure? Technically a WIP, but we'll see what the muses decide.

dōna mandia Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader x Aegon Targaryen [third person] Summary: Her brothers convince her to play a game. Warnings: Targcest, MDNI, 18+ Dubcon, inexperience, fingering, implied sexual themes, oral (m and f receiving), p in v, anal, double penetration, rough sex. Author’s Note: This is the smuttiest thing I have written. Enjoy!

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Aemond Targaryen

modern Aemond masterlist modern Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader Warnings: Please be mindful of the warnings for each story! Author’s Note: Just a masterlist of my ever-growing modern Aemond Targaryen stories. Enjoy! 💜

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She Walks in Starlight Aemond!Hades x OFC!Persephone Summary: Greek mythology HotD AU, some Aemond!Hades x OFC!Persephone slow burn. Warnings: Mention of character(s) death. It’s HotD and Greek mythology, so there will be incest. Author's Note: This is complete, enjoy. 💜

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The Sapphire Prince Aemond Targaryen x OFC!Stark Summary:  A Targaryen prince falls for Cregan Stark’s sister and it sets to tear apart the Hightower’s devise. Warnings: It’s a GRRM world, so please be mindful of the warnings for each chapter!

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The Dragon and the Wolf Aemond Targaryen x Stark!reader Summary: “...perhaps the fire of a Targaryen prince is what is needed to thaw out your heart.” Author's Note: This is a wip that will be just fluff between our one-eyed prince and Stark lady wife.

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Ours never knew peace. Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader [first person] Summary: On the morning of the Great Tourney of Harrenhal, Lyanna Stark's granddam visits to give her an heirloom, a necklace with a sapphire stone... Warnings: AFAB, mentions of infidelity, graphic violence, character deaths, and a hyperlink for the smut, so mind those warnings. Author’s Note: Dance of the Dragons timeline toyed with to make this tragic story flow. 

There's not one thing that I would change. Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader [first person] Warnings: First POV, AFAB, lost of virginity, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v. Author's Note: This is what was implied, the smutty interlude that granddam could not read out loud to Lyanna.

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A love that burns. Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader [third person] Summary: Aemond is a man obsessed and you are the object of his unwavering devotion. Warnings: Canon book Aemond, manipulation?, sexual themes, oral (female receiving), p in v, absolute depravity and murder. Author’s Note: It is a bit Alys-coded... kind of? (I rewrote one of her lines from F&B)

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Quietly, it slips through your fingers - Part 1 Aemond Targaryen x Rhaena Targaryen Summary: Rhaena confronts Aemond after dinner. Warnings: Aemond is an asshole, but he is the consent king. Sexual inexperience, kissing, grinding, fingering. Then he is an asshole again.

We gave our time to something undefined - Part 2 Aemond Targaryen x Rhaena Targaryen Summary: Aemond receives a late night visitor. Warnings: Kissing, oral (f receiving), fingering, loss of virginity, and Aemond is still the consent king 👑.

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Ābrazȳrys dark!Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader Summary: Aemond goes to see is the king is truly dead and finds his wife instead. Warnings: dark[ish]!Aemond, Reader AFAB, noncon elements, ghostly voyeurism? rough sex, p in v unprotected, creampie, breeding kink when you squint.

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Hae iksā Aemond Targaryen x Plus Size Reader Summary: Aemond has been tasked to find himself a wife. Warnings: AFAB Reader, kissing, oral (f receiving), fingering, grinding, p in v, overstimulation, loss of virginity implied, fat phobic comments are made and a Lannister acts like a cunt.

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Zȳha lyks Aemond Targaryen x Plus Size Reader Summary: You find an ally with the second son of King Viserys. Warnings: AFAB Reader, fat phobia, kissing, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, overstimulation, loss of virginity implied.

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Aegon Targaryen

modern Aegon masterlist modern Aegon Targaryen x Female!Reader Summary: Series of one-shots of your life with your boyfriend, Aegon. 💜 Warnings: Please be mindful of the warnings for each story! 

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Fare Well Aegon Targaryen x Female!Reader Summary: You visit Aegon after another council meeting ends. Warnings: Reader AFAB, knifeplay, object penetration, kissing, p in v, creampie, using intercourse as an escape from reality.

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Other Characters

dōna riña Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen x Female!Reader Summary: You are enraptured by the prince and princess. Warnings: Kissing, fingering, oral (female receiving). 

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Aōhon iksan Daeron Targaryen x Female!Reader [third person] Summary: Daeron has come back from Oldtown to play his role in King’s Landing and marry one of the Four Storms. Warnings: AFAB, sexual innuendo mentioned, kissing.

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At last, when all of the world is asleep Ser Erryk Cargyll x Dornish!Reader Summary:  A Dornish princess is the siren call to break the vows of the Kingsguard. Warnings: AFAB reader, plotting sexual situations, alcohol consumption, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, finger licking good.

gif by @itbmojojoejo || banners by @saradika arcie's navigation

[immentallyilll]

Prevent the war

Yandere!Aemond x fem!Targeryen!reader

-Rheanyra sent reader as a messenger to Storm's End to convince Lord Borros to bend the knee, but Aemond is already there - Pairing: Yandere Aemond Targaryen x reader Targaryen  Trigger Warning: Yandere Aemond, dragon racing (i guess), fighting, threats, slapping{once}, swear words, talk of forced marriage, 

-short backstory- Reader is the fourth child of Rhaenyra and Harwin. She was included in the fight where Aemond lost his eye because he claimed Vhaegar for his own. He blames them all for his eye. Reader has a female dragon named Bantis that hatched in her cradle and they have a very strong bond (like Rhaenyra and Daemon with their dragons, I am also thinking of some sort of dark-purlpe dragon that resembles Caraxes in appearance and also size, but you can play with your imagination). Reader is a very good dragon rider and was taught how to fight to protect herself by her father Harwin and her brothers. She is known for her beauty and intelligence as well as her skill with daggers

-reader´s pov-

When you arrived at Storm's End, you expected the guards to be a little shaken by the sight of a dragon, but they stood firm. You got out of the saddle and started to walk towards the gate, but an earth-shaking roar coming from the side of the castle stopped you. There lay the monstrous Vheagar, which means that Aemond is here for the same reason you are. Millions of thoughts flashed through your mind. What if Aemond has already convinced Lord Borros about the Greens? What if there's are more of them, more dragons? What if Aemond has come to avenge his eye? By now you are at the gate and guards escort you into the hall where Lord Borros is sitting in his chair. The guards introduced you with your titles "Lord Brros, I bring you a message from Queen Rhaenyra," you confirm in a slightly trembling voice. He was quite amused and added some provocative comments, about how the house of a dragon did not know who rules it since the so-called ,,king Aegon" has sent Aemond. "What's her message?" he asked, handing one of the guards a letter from your mother. Your sight wandered through the hall and landed on Aemond, who stood there with an unreadable expression on his face. He wore a long leather coat that reached almost to his heels, and a belt from which hung a large sword Blackfyre. Aemond caught your staring gaze, but you were too focused on his handsome appearance to notice that. Aemond's towering figure seemed even more alluring and overpowering than ever. Your eyes now wandered over his face, which you were convinced was sculptured by gods. His significant jawline and prominent cheekbones. The nose and chin being the dominance of his face. You were so hypnotized by Aemond's enchanting nature that you almost forgot why you came here in the first place. But a loud voice that resounded through the room woke you up from your daydreams

“Remind me of my father´s oath?”he questioned. Now you finally realised how long you were marveling of him. Your attention was immediately fully drawn on lord Borros. He´s offended, because from his point of view, what were you to bring him a message that questions his loyalty. You had nothing to offer him, he had no son you could marry and Lucerys along with Jacaerys were already bethroted to your cousins.“So you come with empty hands, go home princess. And tell your mother that the lord of Storm´s end, is not some dog she that she can whistle up, at need to set aggainst her foes.” the lord ordered you to leave with slight anger in his voice.

"I shall thake your answer to the queen, my lord," you announced, trying not to sound disappointed, but your attempt failed thoroughly. You turn and head for the door, relieved at the thought of leaving. "Wait ... my lady Strong." Amond's voice echoed through the room, and you stopped turning to face him, anger visible on your face. "Did you really think you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother's throne at no cost?" You tensed, but gathered your courage and took a few steps forward. "I came as a messanger, not a warrior." But Aemond obviously had different plans, "Fight would be a little challenge." Now you actually started to worry, shifting in your place. "No. I want you to put out your eye." Asserted Aemond as he took off his eye patch to reveal the beautiful sapphire he had inserted in place of his eye. You are shocked, a little frightened by his action, but mostly angry with yourself, because the man of whose beauty you were enthralled by just a few minutes ago (who appears to be your uncle) is now the reason you are trembling because he wants to put out your eye. "As payment for mine" you are sure, if Lucerys was here instead of you, he'd be already dead. "One will serve" Aemond took a blade that was hidden under his coat and threw it among you. You looked down at it and wished that you never came here. Worry showed on your face and Aemond seemed amused by it. "I will not blind you," he said with ease, and hummed, smiling."I plan to gift it to my mother"  “No” you tried to sound as strong and fearless as you could, but in fact, it only came out as a pathetic whimper. Your fear ha staken over you. It appeared Aemond was not happy with your answer, since he stopped smirking and his jaw clenched. “Then you are a craven, as well as a traitor.” he added and his face had now no expression. “Not here” said lord Borros and your eyes widened. Was he aware of somethig or did they plan this all along? Aemond was now headed towards you, screaming ”Give me your eye or i will take it, you little bastard!” he bent down, not stopping, for the blade he trew there earlier and you��instinctively took out the two daggers which were hidden under your cloak, prepared to fight even though you knew he was way more skilled. The guards were prepared to protect you, at least something positive. Aemond was getting nearer every second, with expression of a maniac.”Not in my hall.” finally, Lord Borros stopped this madness and Aemond froze in his place and grew even more angry.”The girl came as an envoy.” and he continued “ I will not have a bloodshed beneath my roof.” he defended you. Then lord Borros looked at the guards “ take princess y/n to her back to her dragon. Now” he orded, but by the look of Aemonds you knew this wasn´t over. Again, turning around you began to walk towards door while putting your daggers away.

The moment you stepped outside the castle, you ran to your dragon. Heavy rain falling from the sky, making your vision blurry. As you hurried, you looked upon where Vhaegar laid before and how lightning struck, she was no longer there and your heart sunk to the ground itself. Feeling your guts clench, tears on the verge, panic rushed over you. Bantis shared your worries and nugged her head towards your body and you rested your forehead on hers, comforting each other with this manner. There was no other choice for you, than climb on your dragon and fly home as fast as you can, because there was still Vhaegar with Aemond somewhere in the rainstorm: “Dikimarvose(focus).”  you alost screamed because of the rain muffling your voice: “Laehossa ynot, Bantis(pay attention, Bantis)”, you tried to calm her down, but more of comforting yourself. “Lykíri, ryptys!(be calm, listen!)” adding, while you climbed onto her wing and settled into the saddle. "Soves, Bantis!(fly, Bantis!)”

 She spread her wings and soared into the blizzard. Now flying through the dark night, enlightened only by lightning. Raindrops whipping your face, as were looking around yourself, convincing, that there was no monsterous dragon rode by mad dragon rider, who threatened to cut your eye out. While looking around yourself, a roaring sound rang through the heavy rain. But after a moment, hearing a loud growl above your head, was the opposite of what you wished for. You looked up, and the air left your lungs, your heart stopped beating at the sight of the giant. Lightning seems like it's calming down and Vhaegar with Aemond are no longer lingering above you but even worse. They appear right in front of you, Vhaegars jaw opening and snatching at you and Bantis. You quickly reacted by directing Bantis downwards, missing Vhaegars legs by a meter or so. Aemonds demonic laughter sounded across the air, while turning around. Aemond screamed at you "I see you." Vhaegar snatching at you, again. "Ilybonos!(bastard!)”. Now you went down again panting, as Vhaegar reached for you and Bantis with her feet claws. They were right behind you. there was no chance you could escape if you stayed under them, so you had to change your place at least, for some kind of advantage. "Aderi! Pales!(quickly!turn!)” you screamed. Bantis didn't need to be told twice, turning to the side. You were no longer high in clouds, seeing the large cliff with many gaps you and your dragon can hide, compared to Vhaegar.

You flew into a big space between the walls of a cliff, it was near the ground. Aemod with Vhaegar had to fly over the top, which was open and they could still see you so they followed you. Now you were a little further than they were, but you could still hear the psychopathic laugh from Aemond. “Jemela gelyni enka!” (you owe me a debt) Aemond yelled down at you.”Rina!” (girl!).You couldn´t see them anymore, your breath fastened. Then, Vhaegars large body appeared in front of you. You could not turn or stop, because of the speed. Bantis crashed into Vhaegars torso. She was unable to keep balance or recover quickly, which led to her falling to the ground, still with you on the back. You tried to make her settle in the air but nothing worked. gods must have prayed for you since Bantis wasn´t too high by the time she fell on the ground. She tried to soften the fall by burying her legs and wings into the ground, which seemed helpful at first, but the hard landing made her body jump. With that you fell off the saddle, rolled off on her wing and landed onto the ground. As you ,,landed” you hit your head a few times, which made you feel dizzy, but you were still conscious. Lying there, on a ground, regain your strength, panting.

Bantis is also exhausted from constant dodging, sudden descents and ascents. She huffed in tiredness, while you´re trying to come to your senses. Head still feeling woozy, as you shaked it, hoping it would help to stop the slightly blurry vision. There was a great rumble somewhere behind, the sound was layered with sea and wind. You listened to the surroundings.

You heard ponderous slow steps, Aemond is approaching you. Hearing his voice way closer than you thought, only a few feet connecting your distance. You began to get up, while he talked to you “ So you thought, that comming to storm´s end, begging for Baratheons support,trying to steel my brothers throne, will come with no punishment, Ao byka aspo?(you little bitch)”. His voice full of anger, now echoed just a few meters away from you.  Straightening up from the  one knee you used for support of your weight, you glared in direction of his voice. “ Your brother´s throne? Aegon does not deserve it. He´s nothing more is nothing more then a preverted drunk, who doesn´t even want to rule.” You gripped the handle of your dagger with your left hand as you spoke, preppared for sparring that is about to begin. “Se iksā mēre laes qogralbar”(and you are one eyed fuck). Aemonds large steps carried him to face you. Now standing straight, you draved your dagger at him, which he did not expect and just in time he brought his right forearm to yours. This movement prevented him from getting stabbed. This angerd him even more and now he lost it, gripping your chin whith his hand, almost breaking your jaw. His fingertips digging into the flesh, which you could only wince at. With a swift montion his right arm, which was till now blocking yours, clasped your left wrist with force, causing you dropped the dagger. The left one, that was crushing your jaw, is now gripping you by your hair. Which made you only hiss in pain. You kicked him in the shin, making loose his balance. But he recovered faster than you. Aemond grabbed both your arms and with the back of his leg he kicked your ankles, shoving you to the ground. 

 Aemond gripped the collar of your shirt and brought you even closer to his face.“You think these harsh words will save you?” he asked mockingly, with emphasis on the word harsh. “It´s not very ladylike to talk like this, you know?” he said and you felt scolded as if you were a child. Wiggling underneath Aemond seemed to anger him, because he pulled you by your shirt again almost to sit up. “Look at yourself, you are a pathetic little bastard. You can´t even tell if someone noticed you stare at them, can you?” The realization hits you. he noticed, he saw the way you devoured his appearance. Redness grew on your cheeks from embarrassment. Trying to look away you moved your head, but Aemond´s hand clasped your cheeks in one hand, slightly squishing your lips. “Aww you´re not getting shy, are you? Come on, tell me, what did you think when your eyes were fixed on me until you forgot where you were. It must have been something intersting.” he said in singing voice, mocking your shocked expression. Your nerves boiled, anger grew abd you started to figet in again. Aemond laughed at your squirming body, head titling back and you saw your chance not willing to loose it.

As he did not pay attention, your knee shot up, inbetween his thighs. And you hit your target, Aemond´s lips parted in yelp but the sound was more of a growl. With your legs wrapped around his waist tightly, you rolled over with him so you are now on top of him. Knees on each side of Aemond´s hips. “Whose pathetic now?” you asked him in prideful tone, looking down at him. the hair in now messy and a few strands bothered you by hangig around your eyes and as you blew it out of your sight, eyes glimpsed infront of you and faith came back in that moment, your dagger. Only a few meters away from you. Aemond realized your attention was drawn on something else than him, as he laid on the ground Aemond titled his head to look where your gaze was heading. Both of you looking at the dagger, back at eachother. Immediately you climbed off of him and headed forn the blade. Aemond turned to his knees and reached for your ankle,  which caused you to fall and he pulled back to him. Your hands clawed at the ground, mixture of dirt and sand. “Where were you going dārilaros (princess)?” he questioned and you could hear the grin in his voice. Aemond was about to turn you over but you grasped handful of the dirt and threw it into his face.”Orvorta!(cunt)” he yelled at you. Unfortunatelly for you he managed to dodge it. Aemond gripped you by your arms, but you fought, trying to get the hold of control back. After a second of fighting, you felt a sharp stung on your cheek . he slapped you across the face, harshly and you yere sure . Aemond´s hand found it´s way back to your hair, yanking you to stand up with him. You whimpered in pain, you tried to collaborate, in hope he´d let go of your hair, he did not. 

Aemond jerked you to straighten up and to face him. his expression spoke of loss of patiance and rage. his hand moved from your hair, which you reliefed for a moment but, replacing it to your throath. Squeezing hard enough to make it difficult for you to breathe, but not enough to kill you. Your eyes began to water up and you lip started quivering, pawing at his hand to release you. “Your mother has once said that conecting our families by marriege would help to prevent the war. I will not take your eye. Not only a part of you, i will take you entirely as you are, a beautiful and fierce dragon rider.” Aemond acknowledged you with his intentions as he softened the grip a little, as if waiting for you to answer. Your mouth parted in awe. What choice did you have, either die or marry him and live. you were not ready to meet your father, you want to see you mother againg along with your brothers. You want to ride with Bantis again.

“Sīr, kessa ao dīnagon nyke?(So, will you marry me?)” he asked with sweet voice, as if he was your secret lover for years and now he asked for your hand somewhere in a beatuful garden. “Skoros iderennon gaomagon eman.(What choice do i have)” you replied, looking upon his sapphire eye. Aemond seemed pleased with your anser since his firm grip was now gone and turned into a soft carese of your cheek, that felt loving and beatiful. 

[humanpurposes]

Come So Close That I Might See, part iii

Aegon reflects on his marriage // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x OFC

Warnings: angst

Words: 3800

A/n: Okay, um... surprise? Sorry this took so long but I lost interest in this completely for a hot minute :) This part is from Aegon's pov as a finisher to this mini series. Also available to read on AO3.

Aegon may have been a burden to his family, but he certainly was no fool. He knew what it would mean if his wife gave birth to a son, the position it would put him in, put his family in. He was less of a challenge to Rhaenyra, so long as his wife bore no children.

So learning Lucia had come to be with child hit him like a blow to his stomach in a tavern brawl.

He had a few vague memories of waking up beside her with no recollection of the night before. He would ask if he fucked her and she always said “no”.

With the expectation of just one morning. 

What a fool am I that I hadn’t even realised I fucked my own wife?

Now he felt similarly to how he had when he had woken to find Lucia in the bed beside him, head pounding, the burn of last night’s liquor lingering on his tongue and a retching feeling twisting in his stomach. He had dragged himself to a balcony overlooking the gardens and draped himself over the balustrade, hoping the air would ward off the nausea. So far it wasn’t working.

He could still see the moment he had reached for that damning bottle of whiskey, the one that had pushed him over the threshold of his usual limits. He supposed it was a special occasion afterall, and he had been keen to celebrate his wife’s condition on his own terms.

The air wasn’t doing him much good and the sunlight was starting to hurt his eyes, but just as he was about to head back into the castle a pair caught his eye.

His dutiful wife seemed to float through the greenery in a loose sitting gown of dark green silk. All of her gowns were like that now, in anticipation of her swelling stomach. Aemond walked beside her with his hands behind his back. The garden was otherwise empty.

On instinct, Aegon shrunk behind a pillar as he watched them. He didn’t truly need to hide, their backs were turned to him and they shouldn’t have had any reason to look up to his particular balcony. He hid himself all the same.

They didn’t walk very far. By the order of Maester Orwyle she was not to engage in any ‘strenuous activities’, and sadly for her that included walking down to the rose garden, so instead they circled the fountain. 

Lucia placed a hand on Aemond’s arm as she whispered something into his ear, and he smiled. Not the murderous grin that precedes a kill on a hunt, or a scathing smirk before he humiliated a sparring partner. He actually smiled.

She first arrived at court as Lucia Westerling, a timid little thing, clinging to the arm of her aunt, Lady Lannister. She had been dressed in a red gown and adorned with dainty gold jewellery as she was paraded before the King and his court. Aegon remembered little else of that first meeting, having ensured he was appropriately inebriated to meet his future wife, but he remembered her eyes, dark brown and wide, like a doe staring at a hunter.

She was of little use to him. He was a man and she was barely a child, a year younger than Aemond. She spent the first year of their marriage under the watch of a septa, studying history and scripture.

She grew into her title of Princess as though she had been born to it. Knights fell at her feet at tourneys, vying for her favour. Women of the court fawned over her constantly, complimenting her silky dark hair and her affinity for Dornish fashions. The Queen sang her praises and even the King seemed to delight in her company. The whole realm seemed to be enamoured with Princess Lucia, except for her husband.

But while he found they had little in common, her love for books and frequent visits to the library ensured she and Aemond became companions of some kind. Thank the Gods, it saved him having to entertain her.

Two years into their marriage, on the morning of Aemond’s eighteenth nameday, Aegon woke to find himself in his wife’s bed. 

He asked the usual question.

“You did not ask for my assistance,” she said of the stain on the back of her nightgown.

She bathed and dressed quickly while Aegon waited for the daze of sleep to wear off. It was unusually early; her handmaidens hadn’t arrived to wake her, and yet there she was making quite the fuss over her pale blue gown and her hair.

“What are you…” he trailed off, watching as she rubbed perfume into her wrists and dabbed a few drops of rosewater onto her cheeks.

Before she left she went to grab a small black box from a drawer. 

“I’m going to give Aemond his gift,” she said as she made her way towards the door.

He frowned. It was a pitiful size for a gift. “Why?”

Her fingers curled over the box. “Because I should like to,” she said with a voice that seemed to sharpen every time they spoke. “He is my husband’s brother after all.”

He learned what the gift was some weeks later. He couldn’t quite remember why he had gone in the first place, but one particularly sweltering afternoon, he had wandered down to the training yard, where his brother was sparring with Criston Cole.

Aemond’s movements were starting to get sloppy and before long Cole had the Prince on his knees.

“Do you yield, my Prince?” Cole asked, blade resting against his collar.

Aemond nodded, hardly able to catch a breath. He hauled himself to stand and pulled off his eyepatch to wipe away the sweat on his drenched brow. 

Aegon’s eye was drawn to something blue, glinting in the sun. A gem, he realised, set in the empty socket and the scar that sliced down the left side of his face.

“When did you start wearing that?” He asked as he stalked towards his brother.

Aemond had only just noticed him. He was already glaring on account of his defeat. “What do you mean?” 

“This.” Aegon pointed to the jewel and grinned. “It’s horrific but I think it makes you look rather formidable.”

Aemond huffed and slipped the eyepatch back over his head. “If you must know, your lady wife gave it to me as a gift.”

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “She gave you a sapphire and you put it in your empty eye socket?”

“T’was her suggestion.”

He pondered the gesture for days. Aemond and Lucia read together in the library from time to time, rode out into the Kingswood every so often, exchanged a few hushed words during formal appearances at court, but she had always been more affectionate with Helaena and her ladies maids, and more lively with Daeron than she ever was with Aemond.

There was something different about seeing them now. They came to sit at the edge of the fountain. He was too far away to hear Lucia’s voice, but he watched her lips move as her fingers started to trail over the surface of the water.

Aemond was unrecognisable with his shoulders relaxed, head tilted towards her, ankle crossed over his knee and his hand absentmindedly tapping against his leg.

Occasionally one made the other laugh, and he couldn’t decide which was the more impressive feat, Aemond saying something funny or Lucia being able to crack the facade of the revered one-eyed Prince. 

Before they walked back towards the castle, Aemond took her hand in his, placing a light kiss to her knuckles.

A gesture between friends. Like their little glances and smirks across the dinner table. Like their rides to the Kingswood. Like her gift of the sapphire.

It was the Queen who delivered the news to the Small Council, some months later, on one of the few occasions Aegon had been invited to sit at the table.

“A son!”

Jaehaerys was large for a newborn with wrinkly skin and a powerful set of lungs. He wailed constantly, but Lucia adored him. She insisted on feeding him herself and that his nursery be in the room next to hers. She said it was important that she and the child be allowed to bond. 

The presence of an heir was cause for celebration. His birth was marked by a tourney and a whole week of feasts by the order of Otto Hightower. Everyone was keen to remark how beautiful the boy was, how healthy and content, how much he resembled his father. His mother visited the child daily, as did Aemond.

Aegon found his appetite for fucking became insatiable after that. He longed to see his seed dripping from the cunt of every whore in King’s Landing and to see the streets overrun with white haired bastards.

Every child he had sired was of no consequence. But one boy had changed everything. Why? Because he had recited a few words in a Sept. Because Jaehaerys had been born from Lucia and not any other woman in the Seven Kingdoms.

He thought at least he might indulge his wife after she had begged him for a child for so many years, but she refused him, claiming her body was still recovering from the birth.

And shortly before Jaehearys’ second name day, she was with child again. She had announced it rather abruptly as they took dinner with the Queen.

“A few months along, so the Maesters say,” she said, resting her hands on her stomach under the table. “It’ll start to show soon.”

“Wonderful news!” The Queen proclaimed, rushing to give the Princess a warm embrace.

Lucia took Aegon’s hand. “Are you pleased, husband?”

Aemond was sat across the table from him, beside where their mother had been sitting. His expression was blank, but Aegon knew when his brother was keeping a secret, he could see it in his eye.

The child was a girl. Lucia named her Visenya. Aegon could only bring himself to chuckle into a goblet of wine when he heard. Surely she could have chosen something a little less obvious, unless it was done out of spite.

“She is the image of Helaena,” the Queen cooed into the bundle Lucia held in her arms, “save for the eyes.” Dark brown, like little onyx stones.

While his mother fawned, Aegon remained slouched on the settee before the fire, fiddling with his ring of Valyrian steel. He had hardly worn it since their wedding, but these days he found himself reaching for it more often. 

The King might have been delighted with the new addition, but the pain of his condition had become unbearable. He could hardly manage to keep himself awake, let alone acknowledge the world around him. The milk of the poppy didn’t help in that regard.

“Named in honour of her dear uncle?” Alicent asked suddenly.

Aegon looked to Lucia. There was no flinch in her expression and her eyes did not leave the babe. “Rather fitting I thought, one child named for a consolidator, the other named for a warrior,” she said.

“Perhaps she will ride her namesake’s dragon one day,” Aegon added dryly.

She finally looked at him, and smiled, so sweet and innocent. “I am sure her uncle would be willing to accommodate such a request.”

He held her gaze and resisted the urge to sneer, but she did not back down. He’d never noticed how gifted of a liar she was, eyes completely vacant and free of any guilt, remorse or even amusement. She spared nothing for him.

He turned towards the fire, digging his teeth into his lip. It was so rare Aegon ever found himself to be angry. Losing a bet at the fighting pit was a nuisance, but he could easily steal himself some more gold from the royal treasury. Being woken before noon often put him in a bad mood, but that was often remedied with a few cups of wine. 

But then there were those moments, the mournful look in his mother’s eyes whenever she looked at him, the tight lips and silent glares from Aemond, the obvious disgust of his wife… his father hadn’t so much as said his name in years. It was in these moments he felt true, unrelenting fury burning through his blood.

And the worst of it was that the feeling was inescapable. He couldn’t drink enough wine or fly far enough on Sunfyre to escape his mother’s ire, his father’s apathy, his grandfather’s ambition or Aemond’s jealousy. Sooner or later he would always have to sober up or return to the red stone walls that made up his prison.

He had never asked for this. Behind closed doors, the Hightowers often whispered of the will of the gods. They said it is the gods who decide the matter of our births. It is they who elect Kings to govern with their guidance. The same gods who had made Kings of Maegor, Aenys and Viserys.

Still, for more than two decades, the Hightowers had told Aegon that his ascension would be the will of the gods. Why? Because the son of Queen Aemma had not lived longer than a day. Because Rhaenyra was a daughter and not a son. 

And perhaps he might have escaped it, the burden of the crown and the war it would surely inspire, were it not for the silver haired children who whined and wailed constantly. His wife’s children. Bastards. An observation which had cost Aemond his eye.

Alicent did not stay for much longer. Lucia placed her daughter into the arms of a maid, to be brought to the nursery. She followed the Queen to the door and huffed a heavy sigh once it was closed.

Aegon drew his tongue over his teeth. He had a mind to reach for the decanter of wine before him but refrained. “I don’t suppose I’ve properly congratulated you on the birth of your daughter,” he mused.

Lucia’s footsteps tapped softly against the floor as she moved towards the bed. He glanced over his shoulder to see her running her hands over the already smooth throw and attempting to adjust the particularly placed pillows. To fill the silence, he realised.

“Do you think yourself clever, wife?”

She kept her eyes down. “Whatever do you mean?”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to laugh, but hummed in mocking disbelief as he came to his feet. “Your children are bastards, are they not?”

She paused, then steadily straightened her back. When she turned to face him, she still had that same look on her face. Indifference. But there, in the smallest frown of her brows, he saw something a little more concerned; a quiet loathing and a flicker of fear.

Finally the facade had cracked, just a little. He held his breath, desperate to see if she would try to keep up the lie.

She cleared her throat oh so delicately. “Our children are the blood of Valyria–”

“But not sired by me,” he said, coming to stand.

Her fists clenched by her side. She took a slow breath. “I have done my duty–”

“By whoring yourself out to my brother?” he exclaimed, taking a step towards her.

“Lower your voice,” she hissed, “I am sure the rest of the city do not wish to hear your drunken ramblings.”

She made for the door and his rage rook over. He quickly followed behind her and yanked her back by her shoulder, took hold of her wrists and pushed her back into the bedpost, despite her struggling.

“You seek to humiliate me, is that it?” he snarled.

“Aegon! Let go of me!” she cried.

“You’ve played right into their fucking hand! You’ve given Otto Hightower exactly what he wants, and you’ve given Rhaenyra another reason to hate us–”

He let one wrist slip and suddenly her fist had collided with his jaw. He staggered back, already feeling the bruise blooming under his skin.

She straightened her spine and stood tall. “Do not seek to blame this on me,” she said with a deathly calm. “You wish to speak of humiliation? Do you have any idea what I have had to endure as your wife? I was worthless to the eyes of the court until I gave you a son. Now I have done what has been asked of me and it still isn’t enough.”

Aegon dabbed his fingers to his lip, surprised to see blood until he realised the stinging sensation in his mouth, where his teeth had met his flesh.

“Have you ever considered that perhaps I did not ask to be your wife any more than you wanted to be the firstborn son?” she said.

Aegon knew he was not born for this.

Aemond was a weak little thing. Everyone made a fuss of his birth, the Queen’s third child and her most difficult, Aegon just remembered the Maesters saying how lucky he was to be alive. “He is half the size you were,” his mother said to him as he peered into his brother’s cradle. 

Studious, sombre, stubborn Aemond, who followed his brother and nephews to the Dragonpit to sulk at his own shortcomings. 

Vaghar had changed everything. In the space of one night, Aemond found himself with one less eye and the most powerful living dragon.

He was the perfect Targaryen Prince, dedicated to his studies, his training, so attentive and sharp-minded. He saw how his brother looked at him. Their roles should have been reversed, just as his father often said Prince Daemon had always lusted for the throne far more than he.

He wondered if Aemond would be the same man if he had not had to make something of himself. 

Of course he would. He would have been a good, faithful husband. He would have meant it when he made love to his wife, and Lucia would have loved him back. 

He looked up at his wife and the silent tears glistening in her eyes.

Perhaps their union was a lapse in judgement on the part of the Gods, but that was a foolish explanation. Their marriage was a scheme, made to seal together two great houses looking to consolidate their own influences. And of course, the only people who would suffer for it were the only people who never had a say.

“I want to offer you my protection,” he said.

Lucia scoffed. “As if that means anything to me.”

“My silence then. I will continue to claim Jaehearys and Visenya as my trueborn children. If your secret should be uncovered, it will not be by my indiscretion.”

They glared at each other for a moment, but Lucia’s face began to soften. 

“Thank you, husband,” she said. 

Aegon hung his head and left her with a hopeful look in her eyes.

He sauntered through the quiet halls of the Holdfast with a sinking feeling in his chest. Perhaps he could have tried harder to love her, and to make her love him, but none of that mattered now. Lucia had what she wanted, what she needed, and their fates were sealed.

When the time came, the Hightowers were quick to secure the throne for Aegon, for his son after him.

Lucia was by his side in the Dragonpit, as he was coronated with the conqueror’s crown. His mother then stepped forward, to place a silver circlet on the new Queen’s head. Hers fit perfectly, while his was was heavy, and a little too wide.

Helaena, Martyn Hightower, and Aemond lined up to Aegon’s left. His sister couldn’t look at him and her husband kept his head down. Aemond on the other hand never took his eye from him. 

Aemond stared at him with a thousand emotions. Aegon singled out hatred and pity, but there was acceptance too.

It should have all been his. The crown, the duty, Lucia.

But that’s not what the Gods had decided. They had made Aegon the firstborn son of Viserys, and the Hightowers had made him King on that belief.

He felt it for the first time, as he turned to face the crowd gathered to witness his ascension. He raised Blackfyre above his head and the people cheered for him. 

They cheered for him.

And it was all gone in an instant, as the ground rumbled and the dragon Meleys erupted from the very ground, sending dust, rubble and bodies flying in her wake.

And Lucia went to Aemond. When she thought she was going to die, she ran nto his arms and he placed her behind him, clutching desperately to her hand. His eye was wide and his face determined, as if he could protect her from a fucking dragon. Oh but he would try. Years of being bonded to Vhagar had made him as stubborn as he was fierce. The world would fall to ash before Aemond let any harm come to someone he loved.

It was suggested an alliance with Storm’s End would be desirable for their cause, to be sealed with a marriage pact. Aemond put up surprisingly little resistance when he was told. 

On the evening of his departure for Storm’s End, Aegon went to his wife’s chambers. He found Lucia by the window, with little Visenya in her arms, pressing her lips to the babe’s delicate head. Beyond the glass, Vhagar soared over Blackwater Bay, headed west against the sunset.

Aegon came to stand beside her. Silent tears streamed from her eyes and as she pulled her face away from the babe, he saw her lips were downturned in a mournful frown.

There was little doubt Borros Baratheon would pledge his banners to their cause. Still, they would need all the support they could get in the face of the threat of Rhaenyra and Daemon.

And if Aemond was successful, he would return with a wife. 

There was no outcome which would lead to her happiness, he realised. 

“I fear you might have been right,” she uttered.

He frowned. “What?”

“Rhaenyra will not give up her birthright so easily,” she said, the fate of Vaemond Velaryon was still fresh in her mind. She stared into empty space with the same horror in her eyes as when Dark Sister had severed Vaemond’s head from his jaw.

“It will not come to war,” he said. He promised his mother it would not. The Kingdom had to be secure, his family kept safe. “You will not be harmed. I swear it.”

Suddenly the child started to squirm, letting out little grunts that were dangerously close to cries.

“No, no, no,” Lucia whispered, trying to rock her back to sleep, but the babe began to cry in earnest. 

Aegon winced instinctively. He couldn’t stand the sound, but regretted it when he saw Lucia frown sadly at his reaction.

“Apologies, I’ll see her to bed,” she said with a slight curtsey, and moved towards the nursery.

Aegon let her leave without protest.

Vhagar was a spec on the horizon now.

He imagined Aemond was thinking of her and the children, and would think of them every moment until his return.

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