#ewan mitchell

[michaelsgavey]

didn’t expect to get more content from the recent fontaines music video but yay! anyways i adore them both <3

[lenoirexv]

EWAN MITCHELL As AEMOND TARGARYEN | House of the Dragon 2x02 | Rhaenyra The Cruel.

[myfandomprompts]

Osferth

The Last Kingdom (5x5)

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Rise in the Heat

Pairing: Tom Bennett x f!reader Warnings: Angst, smut. Word count: ~4.6k

Summary: Tom comes to watch her perform every night while he's on shore leave, and he's a good tipper. When she finally relents and agrees to meet up with him for a drink, she's dismayed when he doesn't show up, and keen to find out why.

Author's note: Based on this request. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

There was something magical about a portside bar. On the nights when the Argentinian heat was so thick in the air it felt as though she could taste it, the cigarette smoke hung around the dingy yellow lamps like tendrils of silk. With the press of bodies all clustered around the stage, sipping sticky glasses of dark rum, it was easy to forget that the world was in the midst of a war. There was freedom in standing in front of a crowd and singing, she didn’t even have a microphone. An upturned soapbox served as her stage, a pint glass by her feet for the punters to throw their loose change into if they felt so inclined. In exchange for working behind the bar four nights a week, the landlord allowed her to take a room above the ramshackle little pub and sing in exchange for tips on the remaining three, if she wanted to. There had yet to be a night when she hadn’t wanted to. Her audience were usually all sailors on shore leave, who hadn’t seen a woman in weeks, and so by the end of each of her three nights off, the tip glass was usually overflowing.

Tonight was the beginning of two evenings off in a row for her. She stepped up onto her makeshift stage, the curls at the nape of her neck already clinging to her skin with a combination of sweat and humidity, and was met by cheers and whistles as she wet her lips, took a breath and then launched into her own rendition of Tar Paper Stomp. Her eyes moved over the crowd of sailors as she sang, some faces more familiar than others, but it was one in particular who stood out to her. He was tall, around six feet, and so easy to pick out of a crush of bodies, with sandy coloured hair and blue eyes that twinkled with mischief whenever he flashed one of his crooked grins. He tipped well – better than anyone, actually – while most of her audience would throw a half penny into her tip glass, occasionally a centavo if they’d received one in their change, this particular naval officer was far more generous. Every night that he had watched her since arriving in port two weeks ago he had dropped an entire shilling into her glass. It was a gesture she appreciated, but she knew better than to believe it was without intent, and he proved her right when he would push to the front at the end of every set he watched to ask to buy her a drink.

“I can buy my own, thank you,” came her curt response each time. He was handsome, but getting involved with someone who was at risk of never returning once they shipped out again was not an emotional investment that she was prepared to make. She had witnessed too much loss already. She simply wanted to sing and allow the world to pass her by in the warm embrace of the South American heat, until the world returned to normal once more. Then she would take the tip money she had saved, return home and buy herself a nice little place in the country. That was the dream.

By the time she finished her set, she noticed that he hadn’t come up to the front as usual to drop a shilling in her glass like he usually did. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling as flush tonight, or had simply given up on the idea of trying to woo her. She pushed the thought from her mind, and stepped down from the soap box, grabbing the pintful of coins, eager to get to the bar for a cool glass of water to relieve her parched throat.

"Oi, wait," he demanded, grasping her wrist as she attempted to work her way through the crowd. The press of bodies blocked her exit, slowing her down, so he was able to halt her progress with ease.

She sighed in exasperation, her eyes looking quickly down in annoyance to where his long fingers were wrapped around her arm, then back up to his face. His blue eyes were wide and imploring, but it wasn't enough to soften her to him. "You haven't tipped tonight," she said, holding up the pint glass of coins and rattling it, "my time's not cheap."

"Thought I'd save my money tonight," he said, raising his voice to be heard above the loud chatter of the other people in the pub, "use it to buy you a drink."

She rolled her eyes, tugging her wrist free of his grasp and pushed once more towards the bar. She didn’t have to look to know he was following her as she spoke. “We’ve had this chat many times before. My answer hasn’t changed.”

“But it could,” he insisted with a cocky smirk, leaning his elbow against the bar, watching as she gratefully accepted a glass of water from the bartender and drank greedily. “Give me a reason why not.”

She sighed, putting down her half empty glass and turned to face him. He really was handsome up close, even with strands of dirty blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He’d taken off his navy blue smock at some point in the evening, tying it by the sleeves around his waist. She watched as a bead of perspiration ran from his collarbone, down the centre of his chest and disappeared beneath the neckline of his white vest. “I don’t go for drinks with dead men,” she finally said, lifting her eyes to meet his and immediately felt herself grow hotter at the appraising look she was met with. He had noticed her looking and that was all the encouragement he needed.

“Pretty sure I’m alive, actually,” he quipped, tipping an appreciative nod to the bartender as he leaned across to top off his glass.

“You serve in the navy though, right?” she asked, not really needing an answer, “you’re putting yourself in danger every day, so you might not be around for much longer. So what’s the point?”

She drained the rest of her water glass and set it down heavily, ready to take her leave, but he reached out quickly, grasping her wrist once more. He grinned as he looked at her and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss or slap the look off his face. It was maddening.

“If I’m gonna get blown to bits by Germans, don’t you think I deserve a proper send off?” he joked.

He had finally worn her down. She wasn’t sure if it was the heat, his persistence or simply how he looked looming over her, broad chested and glistening with humidity, but she found herself nodding. “Fine, but I don’t want a drink from the bar I work in. Take me on a proper date.”

She laughed softly as he raised an eyebrow at her suggestion, and then told him all about a little restaurant a few streets away that served asado and empanadas – it was cheap and cheerful, but would serve as a decent place for a first date, perhaps the only date they would ever have. He nodded, agreeing to meet her there the following evening.

Excitement fizzed restlessly in her lower belly as she waited for him to arrive. In spite of herself, she was looking forward to their date. She had taken the time to carefully curl her hair, and fought against the humidity to ensure that the rouge upon her lips stayed in place. It was early evening, the sun had only just begun its slow dip upon the horizon, streaking amber across a cloudless sky. She sat beneath a red and white striped parasol on the restaurant’s front patio. The paint was chipping away from the uncomfortable metal chairs and tables, the red flaking off to reveal the rust beneath. She didn’t mind; the food was good here – flavourful, if a little spicy, and they served cheap red wine by the glass that made you feel too lightheaded to care how oppressive the heat of the evening was.

Thirty minutes passed, then turned into an hour, and she realised with an unpleasant prickle of humiliation and then anger that she had been stood up. He wasn’t coming. Perhaps she had asked too much in refusing a simple drink and insisting they go for dinner. Cursing him under her breath, she pushed abruptly out of her chair, ignoring the loud scrape of the metal legs against the concrete and stalked back towards the bar, determined to give him a piece of her mind the next time he came in.

There was no next time, however, as a week passed by with no sign of her mystery sailor. Every time the door to the pub swung open with a creak of protest, her head turned reflexively towards it, disappointed anew each time it wasn’t him that stepped through it. It dawned on her that perhaps he hadn’t stood her up, he’d simply been shipped out and hadn’t had the chance to tell her. Another week passed and the news of the attack upon the HMS Exeter by the Admiral Graf Spee reached her. Her heart sank. Though she couldn’t be sure, she had a feeling that the Exeter was the ship that he would have been aboard. She berated herself for calling him a dead man – such a thoughtless thing to say, considering the fate that had likely befallen him. The next time she stepped atop her soap box to sing, she lent her voice to her own rendition of We’ll Meet Again – a fitting tribute to the sailor whose name she’d never known.

Tom came to, his mind feeling foggy and struggling to keep pace with the speed his body seemed to want to move at. He didn’t know where he was or how long he’d been there. Confusion at his surroundings further muddled his thoughts as he slowly took in the bright white walls and pea green linoleum coating the floor. It wasn’t until he turned his head, and saw the unconscious man in the bed next to his – a ginger haired, heavy set man that he had served alongside on the HMS Exeter – that he realised he was in a hospital.

He groaned, attempting to sit up, and a dull ache in his head made the room swim as a wave of nausea filled his mouth with foul tasting saliva. He flopped back down heavily against the pillow, the movement alerting the attention of a doctor, who approached the bed from the far end of the ward, his long white coat billowing behind him with the rapidity of his steps.

“How are you feeling, Private…er–” the doctor paused, looking down at a clipboard he held tightly in his hands, lifted a page on it, then returned his gaze to Tom, “Bennett? I’m Doctor Roberts.”

The doctor had the well spoken southern English accent of someone highly educated, and the tone of someone who seemed irritated by the responsibility that such luxury has thrust upon them. He was a man who ought to be wearing a smoking jacket and drinking French brandy, not elbow deep in blood and sweat.

“Like my head’s been stamped on,” Tom replied, scrubbing a hand over his face and closing his eyes to block out the way the room spun. “How long’ve I been here for?”

“You were admitted last night,” the doctor said, coming to stand at the head of the bed and looking down at Tom, “brought up from the coast. You took quite the nasty blow to the head.”

It was then that Tom remembered. The dull boom that had sounded as though it was both hundreds of miles away and also right by his ear. The floor of the ship had rocked beneath his feet, and he’d struggled to stay upright as he had moved as fast as his legs could carry him on the unsteady surface, making his way down to the missile magazine to help load artillery to defend against the attack they were under. He had slipped, banging his head so hard against the steel wall of the ship that he had felt his teeth rattle. Adrenaline had kept him going through all of the smoking carnage, through the horror of seeing death all around him, and the entire length of the rocky journey in the bed of a truck to the inland hospital – the medical tents that were closer by were too overwhelmed to take anyone not at immediate threat of death. It was upon his arrival that he had finally lost consciousness and awoken in a hospital bed.

“So how long until I can leave?” Tom asked, blinking his eyes slowly open, to take in the olive skin of Dr. Roberts’ face, deeply lined with exhaustion.

“It’ll be around a week,” he said, glancing quickly over his shoulder as a man a few beds down cried out in pain while a nurse attempted to dab iodine onto a wound upon his shoulder, and then looked back at Tom. “You have a concussion, the worst of which you managed to stay awake for, but you’re also severely dehydrated, so we’ll need to give you plenty of fluids.”

Tom scowled, immediately wincing at the pain that it sent spearing through his skull. “A week in hospital for a bump on the head and a few glasses of water?! C’mon, doc, that can’t be right.”

Dr. Roberts sighed, lowering his voice as he leaned conspiratorially down towards him. “We currently do not have the resources to ferry you all back as and when you recover. The truck that brought you all here will take you all back when you have all recovered.”

“Christ, what the fuck am I gonna do in that time?” he complained.

“Well, the nurses are miserably understaffed,” Dr. Roberts offered with a shrug, “perhaps you could lend a hand with sponge baths once you’re feeling up to it?”  

Tom tutted, turning his face away. As Dr. Roberts moved to walk away, he called him back. “D’you think I could send a letter from here?”

The doctor nodded. “I’ll have one of the nurses sort it out for you.”

He wanted to write to her. He didn’t even know her name, and yet she’d frequented his thoughts ever since he’d laid eyes on her in that dingy portside bar. She sang like an angel, but had the look of the devil about her; all blood red lips and glossy black curls. Tom had just wanted to have some fun, and had attempted to sweeten her up by lifting a shilling from the ship’s betting pool, to drop into her tip glass, each time he went to watch her perform. There wasn’t much to do between waiting to ship out, besides play cards, write letters and gamble, so the sailors placed bets on almost everything – the date of their next voyage, who’d be first to catch the clap from a port town whore – the coins were all placed into a canvas bag, and Tom had regularly stolen from it. He wondered where it was now, probably sunk to the bottom of the South Atlantic. He had been digging through his kit bag, trying to find his civvies for his date that evening when the call had come - the Admiral Graf Spee, an enemy boat that had been attacking merchant ships had been spotted not far off the coast. The HMS Exeter was going to pursue and attack it. They had raised the anchor before he’d even had the chance to consider that he was inadvertently leaving her in the lurch. 

Once a nurse had delivered to him the things he needed, Tom leaned on his side, ignoring the way his head throbbed, and began to write.

Hello gorgeous,

Bet you thought I’d stood you up, didn’t ya? I s’pose in a way I did – had a more important date with a war ship. But I’m alive, and still want to take you for that dinner, if you’re not too pissed off. I’m in hospital, it’ll be a week till they let me out, but I’ll come straight to you. Don’t worry, my handsome face is fine, just my head took a bit of a knock, but I don’t use that much anyway. By my count, I must owe you at least four shillings by now, for all of your singing I’ve missed.

See you soon,

Tom.

It wasn’t until he’d folded the page and tucked it inside of the envelope that he realised he didn’t know the address, not even the name of the bar. Angrily, he stuffed the envelope beneath his pillow, flopping back against it with a groan of frustration.

The man in the bed next to his was now awake and looked over at Tom with a playful smirk. “Cheer up, mate, the Nazis scuttled their ship. We won.”

Tom huffed through his nose, eyes fixed firmly upon the bright white ceiling. “Yeah, doesn’t feel like it.”

God, he wanted a smoke.

The day of their departure came, and time seemed to have slowed to an agonising crawl. Tom felt as though he might jump right out of his skin with the impatience of waiting for nurses to put shoulders in slings, and re-dress wounds ready for travel. The pain in his head was gone, and he was left only with a few bruises and scrapes – injuries that would fade until he never remembered they were there. He was lucky, but right now he didn’t feel it. He just wanted to get back to the port, back to her.

By the time the truck rattled back into the little town, the sky was inky black, but the air still hung thick and oppressive, uncomfortably warm even without the sun beating down. He pushed out of the truck bed, not caring to listen to the officer who had climbed out of the passenger seat, ready to give further instructions regarding new ship assignments. Tom didn’t plan on spending the night in a cramped and uncomfortable bunk. He had other plans.

He walked his intended route in long strides, too preoccupied to notice that the physical exertion was making him sweat. He didn’t stop until he reached that dingy, little pub. It was empty of customers, obviously closed for the night, but through the window he could see her. She was standing behind the bar, wiping a glass with a rag. The dull yellow light of the lamps overhead illuminated her features – she was even more beautiful than he remembered. For a moment Tom was frozen to the spot. He didn’t know what to say. What if she was angry with him? What if she didn’t care at all? Maybe he’d imagined their connection as being more significant than it actually was and she’d find it strange that he’d come back for her.

Pushing the thoughts away, he took a deep breath, and tried the door handle. Thankfully, she hadn’t locked it yet and it creaked noisily open. He stood in the doorway as her head snapped up, her eyes settling on his face, and before he had had the chance to say anything, she had run out from behind the bar towards him, throwing her arms around his neck as she crushed her body tightly against his. He staggered backwards at the force of it, before composing himself and wrapping his arms gingerly around her waist, as an involuntary smirk tugged at his lips.

“What’s all this then?” he asked softly, pulling back with a grin, “almost knocked me over.”

There were tears in her eyes as he looked at her, and it made something in his chest twist painfully. He regretted pulling away from her embrace, wanting nothing more than to tug her back against him and make it all better.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I’m so sorry, I called you a dead man, and then you didn’t come back, and I–I…oh god, I’m just so happy to see you.”

Once Tom had calmed her, stroking her hair soothingly and quietly assuring her he was okay, he ushered her further into the bar, encouraging her to take a seat at a nearby table. He locked the door, before going behind the bar to fetch a bottle of rum and two glasses. He poured them both a generous measure before sitting next to her.

“Thanks,” she said appreciatively once she’d taken a sip, dabbing beneath her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sorry for getting weepy on you. It’s just…I was a nurse before all of this–” she gestured around the bar, “I packed it in. Got tired of seeing all that death. Being here, singing, working behind the bar, it feels like an escape from it all. But then you went missing and it reminded me that I can’t ever really run away from it. You must think I’m such a coward.”

She looked at him with sad, watery eyes and a lump formed in Tom’s throat. He didn’t think she was a coward at all, he had never related to anything more in his life. Thoughts of desertion had crossed his mind continuously during his week in the hospital. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to go back.

“I think you’re really brave, actually,” he told her, reaching across to grasp her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, “it takes courage to admit that. And I found my way back, I had to. Needed to give you this–”

He reached into his back pocket, pulling out the letter he’d written and handed it to her. She took it from him, unfolding it silently before she read it. Her eyes softened, the ghost of a smile upon her ruby lips as she scanned the page. When she finished, she looked up and Tom took the page from her, turning it over and showing her a crudely scrawled pencil tally on its back.

“I kept count of the days I’d missed you singing. Wanted to make sure you knew I still wanted to give you your tips, and that I still wanna take you on that date, maybe we–”

She cut him off as she lunged at him from her seat, grasping him by the collar as she kissed him so hard he could scarcely breath. Tom melted into her touch, cupping her cheek in one hand as his mouth moved eagerly against hers, not caring that he was smearing her lipstick. With his other hand, he pressed against the small of her back, wanting her as close to him as she could physically be. Until this point, Tom had been drowning and hadn’t even realised it – the touch of her lips was like being pulled to the surface and brought to life again.

“We could head upstairs, if you wanted,” she whispered breathlessly, her gaze dark with desire when they finally parted for breath.

The thought of being parted from her, if only to walk upstairs to her room, was excruciating; he was painfully hard already. He shook his head. “Here’s fine. Need you. Now.”

He shifted, lifting her onto the sticky table they were sitting at, sending their glasses crashing to the floor with a tinkle of shattering glass. That would be a problem for later, right now he just wanted to feel her, to remind them both they were still alive, that there was more than war and death, that they could seek pleasure even when the entire world seemed as though it were aflame.

She gasped as he nipped at the skin of her neck, her flesh salty upon his lips as she arched her body against his. Her hands worked eagerly to unfasten his trousers. He grinned at her boldness, before diving in for another kiss – this one messy, a frenzied clash of teeth and tongues. He groaned, pushing her skirt up her legs, his fingertips grazing the tops of her stockings. The feel of the nylon made him pulse and throb against the confines of his briefs, he hadn’t felt this lightheaded since he’d first awoken in hospital.

“I need to be inside you,” he panted, hooking a finger into the elastic of her knickers and tugging them to one side.

In response, she pushed down his briefs, freeing his cock. That was all the encouragement that Tom needed. He spat into his palm, stroking it along the length of his erection, groaning as the sensation sent white hot flames of pleasure licking along his lower spine. He dragged the residual moisture against her slick folds, an attempt to ease his passage. But even as he pressed against her, her tightness resisted and he hissed through clenched teeth at the mixture of pleasure and pain as she titled her hips, attempting to help him push deeper. He should have taken more time to prepare her, but he was desperate, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been inside of a woman. When he finally sank all the way to the hilt he stilled, his forehead pressed against hers, lips parted as he savoured the feeling of her heat wrapped like a silken fist around him. He also knew he’d find his end all too soon if he got carried away.

She reached down, giving the swell of his backside a playful squeeze, a silent urge for him to move, and he began to thrust – slowly at first, beginning to gradually pick up speed as he rocked into her, his fingers digging tightly into the meat of her thighs. The table rocked beneath them, the rickety wood protesting and threatening to give way beneath the intensity of their movements.

“Let it fucking collapse”, Tom thought, “I’ll just fuck her on the floor.”

There wasn’t a thing that could have stopped him. The entire world had narrowed to the point where they joined together, there was nothing but them and the coil of tension he could feel tightening in his gut as he drove into her. He could feel his balls beginning to draw up tight, and he released one of her legs, snaking a hand between them to rub his thumb insistently at the delicate bundle of nerves at her centre.

She mewled wantonly in response, rippling around him, making his breath hitch. He screwed his eyes shut, fighting against the way his manhood pulsed and throbbed inside of her.

“Christ…please…” he choked out. He needed her to come before he did, but he was close, embarrassingly so.

She shuddered beneath him with a keening cry, spasming around his length as she reached her peak and he pulled out quickly, stroking himself in juddering, jerky movements as he spilled himself across the tops of her stockings. When the final aftershocks had finally subsided, and clarity returned to his mind, he looked at her, spread out on the table, flushed and sweaty, breathlessly debauched, and he huffed a soft laugh as he realised he must look similarly wrecked.

“That was…” she trailed off, a dreamy smile upon her lipstick smeared mouth.

“Yeah, yeah, it was,” he agreed softly.

Leaning forward, he placed a hand around the back of her neck, tugging her to his chest as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. There were so many things he wanted to say to her – “come back with me”, “my sister sings, she could find you work in a pub”, “leave this all behind and we’ll make it work”.

As he twirled the curls at her nape around his fingers, he finally settled on the words he felt were fitting. He’d ask for her name.

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More Tom fics

[helaegon-vault]

feast day today 🍱 i found more unseen bts Martin x Spider :P hope she will release of more of these 🫠

source: Emma Jones website

[heathersapples]

The House of the Dragon Cast Debunks Fan Theories | Entertainment Weekly (March 6th, 2025)

[cowboylu]

I love his scruffy little beard mwah mwah mwah

BILLY WASHINGTON Trigger Point | S01E04

[paranoiastudio]

So good in green

pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen х f!reader

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, oral (m for f), pet name, friends to lovers

word count: 3,3k

English is not my first language, sorry about mistakes

- Come on, pie, it's your turn. - Aegon nudges you with his shoulder and nods at the bottle in the center of the room.

You don't remember how a noisy party at the Targaryen family home (while their parents are away, of course) turned into a quiet game of spin the bottle.

It seems like almost everyone you know is there. Aegon is on your left, Helaena is next to him. Baela and Rhaena are giggling among themselves, glancing at Luke, who has clearly been preparing for this party and trying to look good. Jace, Cassandra and Floris, their faces are already mixed from the alcohol they've consumed.

- Okay. - You rub your palms, they're sweaty as hell. Your skin slides over the soft fabric of the dress you bought the day before. It was too short, too tight and too expensive.

- I suggest we raise the stakes! - Aegon holds up the half-empty bottle of gin, into which he's poured a little tonic. - How about a game? Seven minutes in heaven?

The crowd roared and hooted at the suggestion, and you felt your palms growing damp again. You shot your friend a "what the hell are you doing?" look, but Aegon, pretending not to notice, pushed you forward again.

Seeing no other choice, you spun the wine bottle and waited dreadfully for its decision. Would you be lucky with your "friend" in the game, or would it be business as usual?

You hoped the bottle would choose Aegon. Then you could just chat in the back room and finish off that bottle of expensive gin that he would hardly part with, even for a game.

You hoped the bottle would choose Helayna. She was so sweet that seven minutes with her would be nothing but a pleasure. You would ask her to teach you how to make flowers out of the napkins the girl had been spinning all evening.

You hoped the bottle would choose Luke. He was a nice boy, you had taken art class together in high school. You could imagine kissing him; someone sweet and innocent, just like him.

You hoped the bottle would choose anyone but...

When the bottle's neck pointed directly at Aemond, your ears popped, but you could still hear Aegon's giggling "lucky you."

Aemond (what the hell was he doing here and why did he even decide to play?) silently got up and headed for the cabinet built under the large spiral staircase in the mansion's hall.

You stood up and followed him silently. You must have looked sad, because Reyna had sent you a message:

"If something goes wrong, you can always leave."

You looked up from the screen and met Aemond's eyes. He gallantly lets you in and locks the door behind you. Someone turns on the music, guaranteeing you privacy. The game has begun.

- I don't want to talk to you. - You sit down on a box and start examining your nails, which Helaina spent an hour doing.

Seven minutes in the utility room with your best friend, what could be easier? But are you friends now, after all these fights?

- Then I will talk. - He comes closer and you hold your breath. - You look so good in green.

- What are you saying? - Aemond only chuckles at your words and squeezes a long lock of your hair between his fingers, as if checking if it is real.

- I was rude to you, I'm sorry. Alys... - He falls silent, seeing how you cringe at the mention of her. - I talked to her, I think it will not hurt us...

- Talk?

- Breakup. - Your eyes meet again, you can't believe he's being honest. Rivers was a bad influence on him, separating you with constant bickering and lies about you and your relationship with your childhood friend.

- Good. I think it'll do you good.

- Us. - Aemond squeezes your hands, your heart clenching at the sight of his serious and sad face.

- Yeah. Friend. - You playfully punch him in the shoulder, but the Targaryen intercepts your hand, your fist turning into an open palm very quickly, and you almost groan when Aemond kisses the thin skin on your wrist.

- I was such an idiot. Hit me the next time I dare not choose you.

You want to answer him, but Aemond impulsively hugs you and buries his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of perfume and shower gel.

You are enveloped in the smell of mint and tobacco, which Aemond uses for rolling their own cigarettes. It is something so familiar and beloved that you relax out of habit, not believing that you are together again after a month of silence.

- I will remember this at your wedding. - You try to joke again, but Targaryen breaks away from you and gently squeezes your cheeks in his large hands.

- I am completely serious... Friend. - And at that moment his warm lips cover yours.

Your head is spinning and you do not know from what: either from the alcohol, or from the intoxicating kiss that you did not even imagine in your fantasies.

Aemond grabs your cheek with his hand and comes even closer, a groan escapes from his lips and fades in the grip of your kiss when you open your lips.

- Is this... Basil? - He pulls away, and you seem to need a second to focus. - Your lip balm.

- I think so. And green tea.

- That's... Nice. - Aemond licks his lips and smiles at you. - Can I kiss you?

- That's something you should ask before your first kiss, silly. - You run your fingers through his long blond locks that have escaped his bun. - That is, Alys is no longer...

- Alys is no longer here. - Aemond takes your hand in his and puts it to his chest. - I have denied the obvious for too long. Why am I friends with you?

- I take great notes and always carry your favorite gum with me. - You start bending your fingers.

- Come on. - He interrupts you. - You are the most energetic and creative person in my circle. You are embarrassed of yourself, not suspecting how wonderful you are. Especially in this dress... You are kind to me and my family, it is easier for me to think and do things with you. I... I love you.

These words have been spinning in your head for a long time, so when they finally sounded out loud, you were not even surprised. Of course, this is love. You were always there, helping with friends and homework, you learned to swim and play polo together. Even after school, you ended up in the same university, in related programs.

A scene pops into your head where Aemond feeds you hot soup and apologizes every minute, because in order to give him the books he needed for his studies, you drove across the entire city, got caught in the rain and got sick.

And when you had no one to go dancing with, he overcame his dislike of crowds and loud music and went with you. All evening Aemond was nice to everyone around him and only you knew how hard it was for him.

- I love you. - No more words sound, Aemond kisses you again and you respond faster than last time. And much more willingly.

You seem to be burning in his arms, but at the same time your skin is covered in goosebumps. Aemond hangs over you, as if closing you off from the world with his impressive figure. His legs spread themselves and he is already impermissibly close to you, and his skillful tongue squirms in your throat.

The music fades and you break the kiss first, glancing warily at the door. Aemond makes a sound you would describe as a "disappointed chuckle" and turns around.

- Seven minutes up, lovebirds. - You see Aegon's cheerful and even more drunken face and Helaena's worried face behind you. - How are you doing?

- We're leaving. - Aemond takes your hand and you jump off the crate, the difference in your heights becoming even more noticeable.

- It seems to have gone well, huh, little brother? - Aegon pokes his brother in the chest and chuckles. - Bless you, my children.

You go upstairs and you honestly don't think about why until the door to the youngest Targaryen's bedchamber closes behind you.

You look around as if you've never been here before, but today everything is different. You are distracted from this thought by the kiss that Aemond left on your exposed neck.

- I wanted to take you away from everyone as soon as I saw you. You have no idea how beautiful you are. - You close your eyes at another kiss. - I have to buy you another green dress.

- Well, I can't refuse. - You hug Aemond by the neck and reach for a kiss yourself, accepting the rules of this game. The Targaryen hugs you, his large palms sliding over the material of the dress and lifting the hem up.

- I've been pushing this thought away for so long... - Aemond looks straight into your eyes. - Wanting your friend is wrong, right?

- Depends on the situation. What do you do when your friend wants it too? - You jump out of your shoes and reach for the thin laces on your back when you are stopped.

- I myself. - You lower your hands silently, Aemond doesn't look like he's joking.

You find yourself with your back to him again, trembling with impatience. Aemond's fingers straighten out the bow, then the knot that you've fastened very tightly and you feel the fabric slide over your body, exposing you more and more.

A green puddle has formed around your legs, you hear Aemond sigh, seeing the lack of a bra on you. You cover your chest and turn to face him, feeling the obvious wetness on the thin lace of your panties.

- Don't hide from me. - You smile, these are the very words you told him when your wonderful Aemond lost an eye in a terrible childhood fight with his nephew.

You lower your hands and the Targaryen's eyes greedily explore your chest, as if he is afraid to touch you. But that doesn't mean he doesn't want to...

- It's so weird... We used to be able to hug without embarrassment, you stayed at my place...

- I didn't think about it like I do now. If I had my way, I would have devoured you already. - With these words, Aemond pushes you onto the bed and hangs over you, the fact that he is still fully dressed makes you even more embarrassed.

You've been friends for as long as you can remember. And all these years, you shared your preferences in love and sex with each other. You knew everything about each of Aemond's girlfriends (there weren't many), except for Alys Rivers, who appeared so suddenly and separated you so quickly.

All your dates were also always discussed in detail over a cup of tea (or something stronger). Aemond knew exactly what you needed, and now he was going to brazenly use this information.

You pull the black sweater off him, reaching for a kiss again. It all feels so right, as if you had done this many times before.

Aemond closes his lips on your neck, moving down, muttering under his breath in High Valyrian, the dead language he's learning beyond the curriculum.

Kissing your senses ticular nipple, Aemond blows on it, looking up at you with a wicked smile. You wriggle under him and spread your legs, letting him come closer, you have never wanted someone so much.

Your skin is covered in goosebumps from the feather-light fingers of your lover, who has already gone down to the edge of your underwear and is playing with the small white bow in the front.

- Please, Aemond, touch me more... - You allow yourself to say whatever comes into your head, and Aemond seems to like it. - I need you.

- Where do you need me, baby? - He is already playing with you through your panties, but does not go further, driving you crazy.

- Here. - You shamelessly cover his hand with yours, increasing the pressure. - It hurts.

You really are squeezing so hard around the void that it hurts, the hot walls are pulling and you whine louder, forcing Aemond to caress you more intensely.

- Here? - He pushes aside the material soaked in your juices and penetrates inside with one finger, they are so long that you cringe slightly from the suddenness of the invasion. - Did it hurt?

- No... - You quickly get used to it and sit down on the finger yourself, demanding more. - Just a little more.

- I always knew you were greedy, so to be so... I will have to take up your education.

Everything inside you turns over from these words, as if he makes a promise that this will happen again, and most likely more than once.

Rising up on your elbows, you can see how his thin fingers move back and forth, plunging into you with a squelching sound. You tremble as the rough pad of his thumb rests on your clit, lightly playing with it, not allowing you to relax.

- It's like you're sucking me in, baby. - Aemond curves his fingers, touching the furthest places and hitting that rough spot inside, making you curl your toes.

- Oh, my God! - You lean back, unable to watch as Aemond pulls your underwear off and settles between your legs, licking greedily.

- It's just me, baby. - Your open mouth refuses on your wet folds and you stop thinking. Aemond greedily and methodically eats you out, never stopping the movement of his fingers. - Do you think you deserve an orgasm? What did you call me during our last fight?

You moan and jerk your head, as if refuting his words. All you wanted now was to cum on his beautiful hand that fucks you so well.

- Right... You called me a donkey, remember?

- N-no... No, please, I'm so close... Aemond! - You scream from the sudden movement, you're almost at the edge.

- You don't remember? - His chiseled chin and lips were in your juices when he looked away and looked at you. - I think for this I'll leave you like this...

- Aemond, I didn't mean to. Please... - Tears are flowing from your eyes, you really need this release.

- Only because you ask me so well, kitten. - He presses his lips to you again and you involuntarily throw your hips up, getting lost in your euphoria.

You are shaking, your muscles are contracting and you feel your own smell. Aemond carefully licks you until you calm down in his hands. He kisses you just below your belly button and ends up on top, completely naked and ready.

You didn't notice when he undressed, and it takes a few seconds for your eyes to focus. Aemon smiles at you, seeing how disheveled and contented you are.

- I'm not done with you yet, baby. - Aemon easily flips you over onto your stomach.

You rise up onto your elbows, sticking your ass out for his greedy gaze. Aemon's large hands squeeze your ass cheeks and spread them apart, his large head teasing at the entrance.

- Will you let me take you like this? - Aemon leans down to you. - I checked after Alys, everything is fine.

- I haven't been with anyone since... - Your friend knew about your bad breakup. - I'd be happy if you fucked me without a condom.

Aemond groans at your dirty words and kisses the top of your head before pushing inside. God, his cock is big, you hiss from the unfamiliar stretch and expose yourself to your lover's gentle touches.

- You take me so damn well, baby. - Targaryen slowly picks up the pace, holding your hip with one hand and squeezing the hair at the back of your head with the other.

You throw your head back, getting even wetter from the sounds of his slender hips hitting your ass. Aemond enters all the way, panting in your ear and squeezing you everywhere, as if trying to keep you close.

You fall chest first onto the bed, feeling another orgasm. Targaryen pushes against your hips, fucking you fast and hard, as if he's angry. The sounds he makes make you drip onto the sheets, and you feel like the dirtiest, and at the same time, most desirable woman in the world.

You bite into something with your teeth, it's Aemond's college sweatshirt. You moan even louder, the knowledge that you're desperate for your best friend's cock turns you on even more.

- Yeah, keep squeezing me, bird. I can feel you… - Your ass literally bounces with every movement, and you slide your hand to your clit, stimulating yourself even more.

Aemond fucks you hard and fast, like he's mad. The second orgasm hits you hard, you clench and twitch, a wave of goosebumps runs across your skin and you finally fall apart with a long moan.

- The most wonderful ass I have ever seen. - Aemond almost slips out of you, but does not leave you completely. - I noticed this when you started doing yoga.

- Aemond... - You whine from stimulation, your eyes are slightly dark after the orgasm, but the desire was still strong, you are ready to take everything he decides to give you.

- You are so good to me, baby. - Targaryen leaves light kisses along your spine. - Little minx, let me fill this beautiful pussy...

You whine again and bounce slightly on the bed. Aemond squeezes your buttocks painfully, the sight of them bouncing in front of him drove him crazy.

- I bet you'd let me fuck you in that beautiful ass. - Aemond resumes his movements. - I'd love to mark you in every way possible...

- Please, Aemond! - Every nerve in your body was strained to the limit, you stretched out like an arrow, greedily absorbing the man's hard length and the wet sounds you made for Aemond. Only for Aemond.

- What do you want, sweetheart? - Targaryen's voice trembled slightly, his hips jerked more and more erratically, he was close.

- Cum inside me, please... - You turn around and do not look away anymore, trying to memorize every feature of his ecstasy. - I need it so much...

The blonde lets out a hoarse growl and hammers you into the bed, muttering something under his breath. Your voice was hoarse, but you continued to whisper dirty things to Aemond about how much you wanted to belong to him.

- Avy jorrelan. - You know what that means, you helped Aemond learn Valyrian and managed to memorize a few things.

- And I love you. - And at that moment Aemond cums, plunging into you and filling you with hot seed. You feel him pulsate inside you and moan in bliss.

Aemond carefully slips out of you, and while you were trying to catch your breath, he went to the bathroom. You heard the sound of water, and then a wet cloth touched you, Aemond cleaned up the mess you made, carefully wiped the cum off you and lay down next to you.

- We need to shower. - You twirl a long blond strand of his hair around your finger.

- Yes, but later. - Targaryen scoops you up into his arms and hugs you. - Just a little bit more...

- I won't run away from you. - You giggle, getting comfortable.

- Now you definitely won't run away. - Aemond kisses the top of your head and you hear the sound of his heartbeat, his deep breathing and you feel completely at peace.

[destinyisall-tlk]

that you are here with aethelflaed is the only reason you are alive.

[ewanmitchellclub]

Behind the scenes from the music video “It's Amazing To Be Young”. Emma Jones, via her website

[henri-de-cait]

teardrop glasses and the other way around (original meme in p3)

[michaelsgavey]

unfourtantely this white man has bewitched me

[craftytreeangel]

❤️‍🔥

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Trying to come up with a sexy ewanverse question and here’s what I got: what’s each of the boys favorite sexy wearable, for both themselves and their partner?

Ooohh, this is a fun one!

Abraham - completely aware of the effect of what rolling up his shirt sleeves does to women, so feels most attractive when he's getting sweaty from manual labour and has to unbutton those cuffs. For his partner, he goes absolutely feral for an A line swing dress, because of the way it accentuates their curves.

Aemond - feels his most powerful and, therefore, his most attractive when wearing his riding leathers. For his partner, choke style necklaces make him weak in the knees - they look like collars, which he associates with ownership and he's a covetous man.

Billy Taylor - not necessarily sexy, but is his most confident when wearing his khakis, because he's proud to serve his country. Working at the Halcyon has given him a thing for maids' outfits, but he's also a big fan of the nylon stockings that have the line that runs up the back.

Billy Washington - doesn't have the confidence to ever really feel sexy, but enjoys the reaction he gets from his partner when he's wearing jogging bottoms (sweat pants if you're American), 'cause that thang be swangin'. Gets painfully bricked up at the sight of his partner wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else.

Ettore - feels sexiest wearing nothing. He's got it, and he knows it, so he likes to flaunt it. Similar for his partner too - clothes are an unnecessary barrier that slow things down.

Genyen - proud of his body, so feels his best when in the buff. Has a weakness for legs, so short skirts, short shorts, anything that shows them off gets him going.

Michael - feels most confident in a button down shirt, because he thinks he looks smart - even if it's buttoned up to his chin and his trousers are belted up to his tits. Big fan of over the knee socks on his partner. Wearing only those would make the poor guy blue screen.

Osferth - definitely feels his most sensual when naked, as his robes keep him pretty well covered. He enjoys being able to see his partner's silhouette when they're fully clothed, so a belt that cinches the waist is very much appreciated.

Tom - likes to draw attention to his chest and arms, so feels best when those portions are uncovered. A red lipstick on his partner has him climbing the walls.

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x OC (Naerys Velaryon)

“Going somewhere, little bastard?” His voice is a cruel whisper against my bare shoulder. I struggle to stay still, flesh creeping with dread. He holds my life in his hands, and he damn well knows it. He revels in it. “Oh, you’re trembling.” There’s amusement laced in his every word, savoring the position he’s caught me in. “Poor thing.”

summary: After Naerys' weapons fall into Aemond's possession, she decides to break into his chambers to retrieve what belongs to her.

word count: 4.6k

warnings: panic, slight suicidal thoughts, brief smut (as a memory, not between aemond and oc), mean Aemond I guess?

tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, strong!oc, niece!oc, arranged marriage, pyrophobia, lots of banter, eventual smut

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

The waxing moon bathes the room in a pale glow, softening the cold shadows that linger in every corner. The sheer curtains by the balcony billow with the breeze, as if beckoning me forward. There is no fire in the hearth, no candles burning. I blew them out the moment the maids left.

My nightgown brushes my hips as I raggedly pace the chambers, wrestling with the urge to stay within these walls. The fury of what happened barely an hour ago festers inside me, refusing to be ignored. How am I meant to close my eyes and rest when my betrothed has, yet again, made a spectacle of ridiculing me and my brothers?

‘Twas only a compliment. A brilliant stunt—one he had no qualms pulling. The more I dwell on it, the hotter my blood burns.

It’s all he’s done since we arrived. Others have whispered the same insult behind closed doors, but never so brazenly. And those who have dared, are unarguably dead—Vaemond Velaryon now among them.

Aemond has already paid for his words with an eye. Is he willing to risk his life, too?

Give me a reason to erase your spurious existence.

No, it’s mine he means to wager.

He has diminished me, threatened me—yet I am simply expected to endure whatever he throws my way. Worse still, I must do so knowing he has stripped me of any means to fight back. The Queen may have ordered my weapons seized, but there is no doubt as to who reaps the reward.

My skin crawls at the thought of my sword and dagger hanging proudly upon his wall—spoils of a war that has only just begun.

The piercing screech of a dragon lures me to the balcony, my slippers whisking against the marble as I rush forward. Gripping the railing, I tilt my head back, searching for the source of the unfamiliar cry. Our dragons, I know to discern. But this one feels violently ancient.

A colossal form emerges through the thick clouds, momentarily eclipsing the faint glimmer the moon casts upon the golden spires of the Keep. There is no mistaking Vhagar. Her massive wings are spread wide, spiked with countless battle scars. Almost two centuries old, still she remains undefeated. An insurmountable creature that, to this day, has known no worthy rival.

She is magnificent to behold, soaring with grace through her domains—the absolute ruler of the sky.

I wonder what such a mighty dragon sensed in that ten year-old boy when she accepted him as her rider, hours after the burial of her former one, Aunt Laena. Despite her age, Vhagar has been perceptive about whom she allowed to claim her. Only four riders have ever been granted the honor of mounting her saddle: Queen Visenya, Prince Baelon, Lady Laena, and as of now, Prince Aemond.

Bile rises within me the moment his name so much as grazes the tip of my tongue.

My fingers twitch, reminiscing that fleeting touch—the sting of my palm against his skin. I should have struck harder. Or perhaps twice, had I seized the chance.

No—I want more than that. I want to make him bleed. To watch crimson trickle down his pale flesh, proof that his blood runs no different than mine.

But how could I, when I’m caged within these walls, forced to witness him ascend to untouchable heights?

Even if he was here, what good am I with without a blade? My bare hands cannot stand a chance, no matter how fierce my desire.

I turn toward the adjoining balcony, where no glint of light emanates. His chambers are deserted. If no guards warded his doors nor mine, I could slip away this instant. A hairpin might just serve to sneak inside.

I step closer, my grip tightening around the railing. The thought that crosses my mind is a reckless one, yet I do not dismiss it.

There’s no need for a door.

My right leg swings over the railing before reason convinces me to back down. The stone is cold and gritty beneath me, scraping through the thin fabric of my nightgown, but it doesn’t deter me. One hand clings to the edge behind me as I shift my weight forward, muscles taut with effort, and jarringly reach for the railing of his balcony. The gap is narrow, but wide enough for a tragic fall to death.

My fingers are slick with sweat as I grip the baluster, inching forward with stubborn resolve. Wind whistles in my ears, my heart thundering like a brewing storm. I stretch my arms, body suspended between the two balconies. One misstep, and I’ll descend into the abyss.

Don’t cower now, I chide myself. If I was bold enough to entertain the thought, then I must see it through. I shall not falter—only finish what I started.

My knee hooks the rail.

With a sharp gasp, I haul myself over—breath knocked from my lungs as my ribs collide with the hard stone floor.

I help myself upright, coughing as air returns to my chest. The spot where I landed throbs, blood pulsing within me from both the pain and the thrill of what I’ve just accomplished.

By morning, it may bloom into a nice bruise. For now, I’m standing in Aemond’s quarters. And I intend to reclaim what was taken from me.

Tentatively, I peer inside. The sole light comes from the center of the room: three thick, dark candles burning low atop a small table. I remain at the threshold, scanning every corner from a distance. I need to know where every flame lies before I dare step further.

To my left rises an impossibly wide bookshelf, every row filled with at least half-hundred volumes, their gold and silver titles glowing subtly under the blue hue of the night. A dark mahogany desk sits before it, its surface meticulously arranged with parchment, quills, and inkwells. I let my eyes wander, drinking in the space—taking the time I most likely don’t have. It stirs a deep curiosity within me, to know what he is like in the privacy of his chambers, the things he does when no one else is watching.

I turn on my heel, venturing a few paces farther to the right, careful to avoid the flickering light. Squinting into the darkness, I spot the large four-poster bed—veiled in black, draped in deep crimson covers, and crowned with a mountain of cushions. I draw closer, letting my fingers glide over the embroidered silk. The mattress yields beneath my hand, plush and sorely inviting.

With a muttered curse for my own impulse, I sit. My nightgown rides up, bare legs brushing against the soft fabric as I shift atop the sterling bed—fit for the true prince he is. I doubt mine will feel quite as fine.

Gods, I didn’t come here to pry about, did I?

I rise at once.

My eyes close for a beat, determination settling again. Swiftly, I smooth the covers and cushions, erasing every trace of my presence before moving along the adjacent wall, back on course to find wherever he keeps his weapons.

A spark of gold coming from a newly found doorframe steals my attention, instinct pulling me toward it. I step closer, standing beneath the arch. My lips part at the sight before me—a vast golden tub, large enough to fit two, overflowing with water and fresh sprigs of lavender.

His bathing chamber, previously concealed from me, awaits ready for his return.

I step back in terror.

Behind the tub, the hearth burns bright, keeping the water warm for the prince. Flames lick at the crackling wood, sending cinders spiraling into the smoke. The scent of ash churns my stomach, the thick air clawing at my throat, refusing to let me breathe.

I run to the opposite side of the room, the flames now licking at the edges of my vision as I try to escape their heat. My skirts billow with each frantic step, stirring a gust of air that snuffs out the three candles at the center of the room. I only stop when my hands hit the far wall, my forehead pressing against the cool stone as I struggle to steady my breath, to regain my bearings.

My mother—she was right. She has always been right.

I crossed from my balcony to Aemond’s, driven by the obstinacy of seizing the moment, only to be undone by the mere nearness of a hearth.

Weak.

The word echoes inside me like a tune that never ends. Nothing else describes it. I’m weak. Boldness is a costume I wear poorly. No matter how hard I try, the mask never fully weaves across my face. For all the stitches I add, there are always loose threads.

I can only play brave but never become it.

My head tilts back, a low groan escaping me in frustration. Pretend, my father’s voice rises from the depths of my memory. Pretend, Naerys—show your teeth, even when trembling out of fear. Pretend, until where once was deceit, only truth remains.

I back off from the wall, clutching at the last shreds of my resolve. Blinking in the dark, I can see now what I’ve failed to notice in the haze of my writhing thoughts.

The entire wall is lined with weapons—a countless collection of daggers and swords of all existing sizes, neatly arranged by shape and purpose. Enough steel to arm a battalion, hanging gaudily on display in the One-Eyed Prince’s rooms.

The blades glint in the shadows, some recently polished, others dull by the weight of history. I trail my fingers along a few, studying their unique craft. But the ones I came for—Bonebreaker and Nightshade—are nowhere in sight.

Could he have…disposed of them, perhaps? He could have melted their steel into another blade, wrought with my tears and shame. Though would he, truly? Or would he rather keep them, to further flaunt his new toys? Befitting, I believe, that he would do just that.

So where, then, shall my weapons be?

I search the room once again, looking out sharply for any hidden spot I might have missed. With the candles now extinguished, I move more freely, sweeping over the center of the room.

Chests, drawers, cabinets, wardrobes—I pull each open, fingers deft but careful, rifling through all that might conceal the blades from me. And each time, I find nothing. No flash of silver, no familiar weight wrapped in cloth.

I bend down before yet another trunk, refusing to surrender to defeat. My wounded knuckles smack against the hard metal of its latch, and I curse through clenched teeth. Kneeling beside the bed, I press my tongue to the split skin, tasting blood. But the pain dissolves in a blaze, replaced by something else entirely. Triumph.

There, just beneath his mattress, I recognize the silver hilt of my sword.

Without a moment of hesitance, I lunge forward to claim it. My fingers curl around the handle, welcoming the cold steel back into my possession. My chest swells with sweet reward, still my waist misses the smaller blade. I glance below the bed one more time, eyes strained. No trace of Nightshade.

I raise from the ground, determined to not leave these quarters without both my weapons.

An irritating sound halts me mid-step.

Nearing footsteps, followed by laughter—distinctively feminine.

They grow louder, echoing closer with every thud of my heart. Women. Something twists inside me. Would he? Right here in this castle, knowing my rooms are right beside his own?

Oh, of course he would. As if it hasn’t already been made painfully clear that he cares nothing for my honor.

No time for dwelling on it.

I run for the balcony, sword clutched tightly in my right hand, and press my back against the pillar.

The doors swing open.

Damned be the Gods. This is, without question, the most ridiculous situation I have ever found myself in—hidden behind the pillars of my betrothed’s chambers, holding my sword in a flimsy nightgown, while he walks in with whores.

Even so, I do not move. I stay rooted in place, listening as something crashes to the floor.

“Fuck’s sake,” the blasted voice cuts through the quiet night, but I don’t quite set it apart. “One-eyed thinks he can tread like a cat in the dark?”

A chorus of giggles follows.

“Candles!”

Another thud, then the shuffle of fine boots and silks, too tangled with wine to care where they land. Metal clinks as the guards hurry in, lighting the candles and torches alike.

Light spills across the room in soft bursts, seeping through the curtains that lead to my hiding spot.

“Good, good!” he claps, his tone slurred. “Make yourselves comfortable, ladies. My brother should arrive in no time.”

Ah. No doubt now.

Aegon the Drunken, presenting his little brother with a late night entertainment.

“He is going to be so pleased with such company tonight,” the prince promises.

Certainly, I whisper to myself.

Does he plan to… share these women with Aemond? The image paints itself in my head, and the small portions of venison I managed to get down my throat tonight threaten to come right out. I’ve read of such… particular doings, but I never quite appreciated the prospect. 

“Will you be joining us, my prince?” One of them asks, her voice trained for seduction.

“Oh, no, no,” Aegon says with a muffled snort. The women let out a disappointed sigh. “Wouldn’t want him to feel threatened by the length of my cock.”

I scowl as they all burst into laughter.

How generous, the King’s firstborn son.

I dare to peer inside, just enough to glimpse the scene. Three of them, perched lazily around a velvet bench, their skin barely covered in red silk. Aegon, seated between them, is pouring himself some more wine.

Three.

Quite the night ahead for my betrothed, I see.

Fine. Let him indulge all he wants. He is a man of twenty, not the boy he was ten years ago. It would only be strange, if he didn’t seek such encounters. Stranger still, that the thought unsettles me at all.

But then why shouldn’t it, when he is free to do as he pleases, while I’m expected to remain chaste and untouched?

For him, of all men.

I secure my sword in my grasp and turn toward the balcony, ready to return to mine, when his voice slices through the room like a sharp blade.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Aemond’s question silences the ladies’ irritating giggles. “You have your own chambers to fuck your whores in, don’t you, brother?”

“Ah, don’t be stupid,” Aegon slurs. “I brought these girls for you. Time you got some more practice.”

Practice. Is that what we are calling it, now? More practice, to be fair.

“No,” Aemond cuts in swiftly, dismissing his older brother’s offering. “Not tonight.”

“But—”

“I said not tonight,” he repeats, his refusal oddly clear. “Get out now.”

“Alright, alright,” Aegon grumbles, stumbling as he raises from his seat. “Let’s go have fun on our own then, ladies!”

My stomach churns as my mind instantly drifts to Helaena. His wife. His sister. Watching over their children while he spends the night with whores.

“Don’t do this again,” Aemond warns. “Is that clear?”

Aegon halts, hand smashing against the doorframe. “Damn it, brother. Just trying to help you relieve some of the tension that bastard put you through.”

That’s me—I’m the bastard. And I’m inexplicably irritated to be nothing more than a tension that needs to be relieved.

The hiss of a blade unsheathing makes me rise onto my tiptoes, daring another glance. Just as I suspected, Aemond stands with his sword drawn, its tip aimed at his brother’s chest. The three whores scurry behind Aegon, gasping at the prince’s loss of temper.

“Get out,” Aemond commands again, voice cold as the steel in his hand.

“Gods,” Aegon mutters, throwing up his hands. “No need for that, you boring idiot.”

He stumbles toward the door. “We’re out!”

And with that, Aemond is left alone, still unaware of my presence.

I should have taken advantage of the earlier chaos. It wouldn’t have been difficult to slip out, but I stayed, curiosity tethering me in place.

His footfalls fill the new silence, fading as he crosses the room. A sigh, then the soft thud of his sword hitting the floor. Moments later, the heavy rustle of leather follows.

Is he…undressing?

My insides turn. The bath. Right—he’s going to bathe.

This is my chance to leave unnoticed.

Every step toward the railing pulls the knot in my chest tighter. I wasn’t this afraid on my way in—revenge had poisoned all reason. But now? Now I’m terrified. One glance down, and the confidence I held is as good as gone.

Too late to regret this.

I have to go back.

My movements are too quick—too clumsy. My foot snags on my gown, and I stumble. My hands shoot out, gripping the railing just in time, but Bonebreaker slips from my grasp, clattering against the stone with a far too loud noise.

Fuck.

No time to think.

I snatch the sword from the floor with one hand, hike my nightdress with the other, and lean forward. I strain to lift myself, my ribs heaving as my breathing staggers. Just a little bit higher. Just a bit more—so I can drop the sword to my balcony, free my hands, and get the hell out of here.

Strong, long fingers clamp around my waist.

I gasp, my balance gone. My body tilts forward, eyes catching the sheer drop between the two balconies. My heart lurches into my throat.

Now, this is a terrible way to die.

“Going somewhere, little bastard?” His voice is a cruel whisper against my bare shoulder.

I struggle to stay still, flesh creeping with dread. He holds my life in his hands, and he damn well knows it. He revels in it.

“Oh, you’re trembling.” There’s amusement laced in his every word, savoring the position he’s caught me in. “Poor thing.”

His fingers tighten around my waist, dragging me back just enough to throw my grip off the railing. My legs falter—half my body dangling above the drop. He doesn’t help me down. No, he leaves me suspended, teetering between safety and oblivion, as if deciding whether to have mercy or rid himself of me right in this instant.

And how easy I’ve made it for him, if he chooses the latter. There will be no questions. No doubts, when they find my broken body sprawled beneath this tower. An expected tragedy, that the bastard couldn’t withstand the weight of her own existence.

A rush of cool wind caresses my cheeks, inviting me for a dance into the void.

Wouldn’t it be a sweet death, to fall into a never-ending sleep?

No duty, no marriage, no throne.

“Let me fall,” I breathe, surrendering to the better end.

My request hangs in the air, and for a heavy pause, he says nothing. As though now that I cave in, he is the one to hesitate.

“I will,” he grunts, and I brace myself for the descent into the abyss. Then—his grip shifts, bare arms wrapping around me. He pulls me down, back against the hard line of his chest. “But not quite yet, my darling niece.”

I can’t quite describe the feeling that soaks through my bones—anger, confusion, disappointment. My soles land on the hard stone, his embrace anchoring me to the ground. I try to break away, shoulders wriggling to get him off me. His arms don’t loosen. Instead they force me forward, caging me between his body and the edge of the balcony. As if he thought I might just leap, robbing him of the sickening desire of finishing me himself.

His fingers dig into my scalp, jerking my head to the side by a fistful of my hair.

“It’d be such a shame,” he murmurs against my nape, voice soft as silk, “to dispose of you so easily.”

“What do you want, then?” I demand, but the edge in my voice is fraying.

How quaint of me. He doesn’t want an easy death. No, he wants pain. He wants to watch me unravel, to hear me beg for the mercy he’ll never give. He wants me broken before it ends. But why? Is my bastardy the only reason for such hatred?

His breath hitches, chest rising against my back in a quiet, uneven exhale. He doesn’t answer right away—no, he’s savoring this, drunk on the power he holds over me.

“Do you really want to know, little bastard?”

“Yes,” I rasp, the word catching in my throat. “I do.”

His fingers detangle from my hair. They trail down deliberately, tugging the loose fabric of my nightgown over my shoulder—because even a flash of my skin is an offense to his half-blinded sight.

“I want your blood, your soul, your heart, ” he dictates, each word punctuated, as though naming trifles. “Mine to spill, to possess, and to tear apart at my pleasure.”

My pulse thrums in my ears, chills cascading down my spine. He wants to destroy all of me. To strip me bare of every last shred of humanity, until I am as hollow as him. Surely, were I a proper lady, that would take time. He’d be surprised, to find just how empty I already am.

“Now,” he murmurs, his hands traveling to mine as he sets them on the railing, a finger gravely brushing over my knuckles. “Tell me, Naerys…”

I know I should be scared—fighting, clawing, kicking my way out of his hold—but I don’t hear the rest. Moonlight pours over his exposed skin like a river of molten steel. The veins in his hands strike deep and purple, dark and rich. Faint scars lace his forearms, gleaming like ivory ink, written stories in a tongue I’ll never comprehend.

This position—the press of his chest, the weight of his grip—pulls me into a memory I have never lived, but read quite a few times.

The prince brought his hand to her collarbone, fingers gliding over soft skin, tracing the delicate path down to her chest. His grip around her waist tightened as he tilted her neck, teasing her skin with breath and restraint. Her heart pounded, aching for the heat of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. But the prince was cruel in the way he drew out desire, and so he waited until she begged—until she moaned his name in a desperate plea. His mouth crashed to her neck with an insatiable hunger, biting and kissing as if he meant to consume her. The ache between her legs bloomed, dripping wet. One hand tangled in her hair, the other deftly unlaced the front of her corset. When her breasts spilled free, her nipples pebbled in the night breeze—but not for long. His mouth closed around them, tongue tracing fire across the sensitive flesh. Then he turned her to the edge of the balcony, made her clutch the stone as he lifted her skirts. His hands found the heat between her thighs, fingers parting—

“Naerys.” His whisper blows the fantasy away like smoke, and I’m thrust back into this ordinary realm, where a different prince still cages me. These hands wrapped around me were never meant to worship—only to wound.

“Answer me.”

“Hm?” I mumble, the sound a blend of taunt and uncertainty. His question hangs by a thread in my mind, because those few last words he said before I slipped, I didn’t quite catch.

“Don’t test my patience tonight,” he warns darkly. “Tell me how you entered my chambers, thief.”

Thief, is it?

A low, smug chuckle escapes me. “Same way I was getting out.”

Without warning, he spins me around, his hands forcefully pinning my lower body to the edge. I swallow, my gaze drawn instinctively to the hard lines of his bare chest. Every inch of him is sculpted with strength, each muscle taut and coated in the sheen of the moon and stars that watch over us. He’s lethal—devastatingly so.

“You jumped from your balcony to mine, to get into my chambers?” His brows furrow slightly, as if the mere thought of me doing something so reckless is beyond his comprehension. He looks at me like I’m a riddle he can’t quite solve. Fairly enough, neither can I. 

“In a pretty nightgown and slippers?” His voice drips with incredulity, a hint of amusement rising beneath.

“I jumped from my balcony to yours to take back what is mine,” I snap, glancing down at my sword, scattered on the floor like a piece of worthless steel.

His laugh is ungodly, dark as the night.

“Yours?” He tilts his head slightly, eye narrowed with challenge. “That blade is no longer yours. It belongs to me now, whether you accept it or not.”

His lips tilt to the side, displaying a pleased smile as he grabs both my wrists in a knot. “As do you.”

The rage that took hold of me as I paced in my chambers resurfaces tenfold. “That blade—”

“How?” he cuts in, slicing my outburst at the root. His eye locks on my right hand as he pulls it toward him, inspecting it closely. “How did you get this?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I snort.

“Very well, I’ll ask you a third and final time.” His gaze hardens, a silent warning—a subtle reminder that he won’t hesitate to make good on his threats. “How?”

I sigh, relenting. “I scraped my knuckles on the railing on the way in.”

A scoff. “A bastard, a thief… and now a liar. Anything else to add to your charming list of sins?”

“I’m not lying,” I say, expression stoic. My answer was perfectly plausible.

“Hm.” His mouth curls with derision. “So you’re daft, too.”

He doesn’t give me the chance to bite back. 

“You had both these wounds at supper,” he says flatly. “If you’re going to lie, at least put some effort into it.”

I raise a brow. “You were paying close attention, then.”

“I was,” he admits, almost distracted. “Observing, you see, teaches much about your adversaries. Reveals weak points, if you are…keen enough.”

“And have you learned any of mine yet?” I dare ask, struggling to maintain my defiance.

He studies me intently, head tilted. His hold loosens, just enough for my arms to fall to my sides. I look down to myself, following his gaze right to the center of my chest. The thin fabric of my nightgown clings to my form, and I suddenly become sorely aware of the way my raised nipples visibly peak underneath. 

My teeth sink into my bottom lip to conceal the sound of my embarrassment. This surpasses indecency—and my thoughts—they flare to the whores he refused tonight.

I know what must be crossing his mind. I look nothing like them.

His violet eye sparkles like a spiral of amethyst, blinking as he faces me once again. The curve of his lips returns. “You’re cold, dear niece,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

Without warning, I’m effortlessly hurled over his shoulder, carried like a child. But if I am to be treated as such, I might as well act the part.

I kick and writhe, his long hair tangling with mine as I swing my head against his back. “Put me down!”

“Not a chance.” His arm snakes around my waist, my hips resting over his bare chest as he crosses the room. “I’m escorting you to your quarters.”

“Ah, so chivalrous,” I mock, “to carry your betrothed over your shoulder into the corridors of the Keep.”

No matter how close our chambers are, little birds linger in dim corners of this castle, waiting for a new tune to sing come the morrow.

“Aemond—” I call his name, desperate to make him reason. “We cannot be seen this way—the guards, they’ll talk—”

His steps grow faster. “Think I care?”