#ewan mitchell imagines

[aemxnd]

the thrill of the chase | aemond targaryen x niece!reader

Aemond has a plan, whether you like it or not.

Inspired by a wonderful anonymous request — I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, but I hope this is what you were looking for!

WARNINGS: consensual non-consent/dub-con, physical assault, chase play, primal play, knife use, v fingering, p in v sex, praise, degrading, profanity, breeding, aftercare, reader has silver hair for plot point, reader is Rhaenyra’s child with undisclosed father, Aemond being sinister af, sickening fluff at the end

WORDS: 5.2k 

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

As fire forged steel, the gods forged your soulmate from your own blood.

Betrothed to each other by and large since birth, your bond with Aemond Targaryen was as invincible as Valyrian steel itself. Born mere weeks apart, two dragonriders watching each other grow and mature knowing you would be spending the rest of your natural lives together under the eyes of the Seven, your pledge to marry your beloved uncle was a match made in the heavens. 

Filling your parents’ hearts with the first sign of contentment they had felt in years, your union intended to solidify the bonds between your two Targaryen branches at last. After all, your brother Lucerys had not ingratiated your unit with glory having permanently disfigured your husband-to-be as children. Your marriage to your kepus would salve the wounds between Viserys’ offspring once and for all, leaving behind only scars.

Having sworn yourselves to each other so young and placing an unrivalled trust in each other’s hands long before adulthood, your childlike antics sprawled long into your years of maturity. You still challenged each other to races on dragonback knowing full well Aemond had the upper hand with Vhagar, pulled childish pranks on the other and giggled your hearts out whenever King Viserys mucked up an important speech.

Your bedchamber activities were no exception — remarkably unconventional and downright blasphemous. Still children at heart, you played games among the sheets, adopted unrealistic roles and experimented with your own pleasures more than a wed couple twice your tenure. In placing such trust in each other, you decided upon a number of safety nets to reassure each other should your adventurous nature exceed each other’s boundaries. Aemond’s signal bore the form of pressing two fingers to the inside of your left wrist, to which you would respond with either two taps of your fingers to signal your comfort, or three to mark your discomfort. Failing that, you decided upon a word to utter if either of you felt uncomfortable, unsafe or unwell in the situation you created within your carnal adventures — Malvales. If those three syllables were spoken at any point, you each made a solemn vow to cease at once. The safety net this term provided had sprung open the doors of possibility between you, each night (and often day) setting a challenge to explore new heights with the reassurance that you could each call a truce at any moment. 

Court’s proprietary standards bypassed you to the point your family no longer expected you both to conform. Where wed couples would typically keep a respectable distance at public engagements in the presence of others, you and Aemond were so often found stealing chaste kisses and boldly wrapping your arms around each other that more traditional members of your family became all too accustomed to rolling their eyes at your unseemly behaviour. Not that their clear visual disapproval irked you in the slightest, they only sought to encourage you in amplifying your public displays of affection with your husband to make their skin crawl even more.

At the close of a particularly monotonous family dinner and dance, Aemond’s arm snaked dutifully around your waist constricted slightly, startling you back to earth from your daydreaming. You turned to find your husband staring idly into the crowd, his violet eye desperately willing to gaze at you instead of maintaining a noble indifference for the sake of present company. 

“My darling wife,” Aemond addressed you without breaking his stare into the swirling commotion at court. “Are you quite aware of how beautiful you look tonight?”

“What, this old thing?” You chuckled to yourself before mirroring his hard glare into the crowd, flicking a dismissive palm over the heavily beaded emerald dress flowing over your form. “It’s just something I threw on.”

“It is quite unbecoming of you to appear so indecently delectable when I cannot take you until we return to our chambers,” Aemond gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing eagerly. “I wish to inform you that I consider this a personal indignation against your long-suffering husband.”

Your ability to withhold a typically jesting slap to his chest was waning with every insufferably formal syllable tumbling from his irresistible lips. 

“I am most apologetic, dear husband,” you declared through a sarcastic half-pout. “Pray tell, how could I possibly make a reparation for such an erroneous act?”

Aemond’s fingers idly stroked into the deep green velvet so rudely obstructing his access to your body beneath.

“I fear there is only one way to compensate for this,” he sighed softly, jaw tightening as he calculated his punishment so deeply he may as well have exuded steam from his ears.

“For you, Prince Aemond, I would do anything,” you gulped in anticipation. 

“Considering the evening’s festivities are drawing to a close, I must insist on a hunt,” he leaned to hum into the shell of your ear. “A hunt where my irresistible wife shall become the prey.”

You fired a hand to your chest in a vain attempt to disguise your faltering breaths, eyelids fluttering at his implication before he embellished his ingenious plan.

“You wish to hunt me, dear husband? So what happens if you catch me?”

“If I catch you before you reach our shared chambers,” he lowered his voice to a faint murmur to avoid prying ears. “I will fuck you in any way I see fit, and I will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

You swallowed thickly at the prospect. Even if you put up a resistance, Aemond would take you by force. Especially if you put up a resistance.

This unconventional demand was not without precedent. One time you feigned weak protests against Aemond’s needy advances, dribbling out half-hearted “stop”s and “please don’t”s so temptingly that you portrayed more of an encouragement than an obstacle. Immediately upon hearing your false resistance, Aemond’s violet eye darkened to a sinister pitch black and sparked an inhuman drive to fuck you harder than ever before. The mere memory of that night’s ecstasy, losing track of the times he forced you to your peak and the way he gazed at you as if you were his prey, helpless and captive in his grasp, was enough to make your knees buckle beneath you. 

“Easy, princess,” Aemond hummed, tightening his grip on your waist to keep you upright. “Something tells me you approve of this notion.” 

“And…,” you swallowed thickly in a terrible attempt to retain your conversation at a publicly respectable level. “What is the prize if I evade capture before I reach our bed?”

“Unfortunately I have not yet considered that outcome on account of its sheer impossibility.”

“You may maintain this delusion, your Grace,” you choked down a giggle, shaking your head dismissively and finding a new spot in the crowd to focus on. “Perhaps I shall decide the outcome myself if I am crowned victorious.”

“Considering its improbability, you may do so, Princess. Meanwhile, I see the Lannisters and Starks are bidding the King their leave,” Aemond husked, his gaze finally snapping back to you, finding his violet eye already descended into a deep lust-filled black. “So the hunt is nearly upon us. Are you satisfied with the plan, dear wife?”

“You shall hear no protest from me, Prince Aemond,” you nodded dutifully.

He quirked a brow. “Oh I hope I will.”

You gulped so loudly, you swore the entire court heard as you prepared to seek a lesser-known path through the castle to a safe hiding place. Eyes darting around the great hall for a plan of action, Aemond watched your deliberations intently, firing his tongue out to trace along his bottom lip. 

“You have a head start, my love, but use it wisely,” he confirmed with a flick of his eyebrows, gently growling beneath his breath as he watched you like a panicked deer searching for a way out. Just as you started to pull away, his hand grasped yours and dragged you back to face him. “Remind me, what is our word again?”

“Malvales,” you confirmed, nodding frantically. “Y… your Grace.”

“Good girl,” he half-growled in the base of his throat, his sinister grin drawling out his final syllable. “Now I believe it is time for you to run for your life. May the Seven bless you, issa jorrāelagon.” My love.

In the moment Aemond released his grip on your hand, you demonstrably smoothed your gown and calmly paced toward your first exit.

“Ah, Y/N!” Your grandsire bellowed, beckoning you over to join his conversation with Queen Alicent. “My dearest granddaughter, how beautiful she looks in Hightower green this night, do you not think so my beloved?”

Alicent smiled faintly, nodding in agreement. “Quite, your Grace.”

You could barely hear their conversation over your thundering pulse in your ears, well aware of the precious time this idle conversation would be wasting. You glanced back across the hall to the spot where you left Aemond, clocking his lip curled into a predatory smirk. “Go now,” he mouthed before turning on his heels to disappear down a darkened corridor.

“I… I am sorry, grandsire, I must bid you farewell,” you stuttered frantically, balling your fists into the layers of your dress. “I… I am tired and I must rest.”

“Oh, of course my dear, it has been quite a long evening, please take your leave,” King Viserys pleaded, palms outstretched toward the nearest doorway.

“Thank you, your Grace, I shall see you at first light on the morrow!”

The promise sent a pang of regret through your veins the moment it left your lips while you fled for the door, for if Aemond has his way tonight, you will be quite unable to walk for the next five days straight, let alone first light. 

In the throes of sheer excitement, every hallway in the Red Keep looked exactly the same. The same bronzed candlelight only partially illuminating the way, leaving all too lengthy sections of darkness in which danger could lurk. The dull grey flagstones never changed in texture or pattern, enough to leave you disoriented after the first few twisting turns in the darkness when motivated by sheer tension between you and Aemond should he find you. You broke into a run each time you faced a long, straight hallway, settling to a jog with every corner. 

Your breaths grew ragged and hitched in your throat, spinning on your heels to check behind you at every turn but finding the same empty corridor as before. Your heartbeat brewing a storm in your ears prevented you from hearing even your own frantic footfalls on stone, let alone those of a predator. 

You swallowed thickly as you reached a familiar hallway, recognising that you were not far from your destination and that Aemond would lose his precious hunt after all. Slowing your jogging pace to a brisk walk, your thundering pulse relaxed. It was a nice challenge while it lasted, you thought to yourself, allowing your mind to drift through the multitude of consequences you could enforce on Aemond as forfeit for losing his precious race to you. Perhaps you would tie him to your bed and leave him untouched for hours, pleasuring yourself with your fingers while he watches on with lust-blown pupils, unable to reach out and conquer your body for himself. 

Suddenly, a loud whoosh behind you suggested that the shadows concealed more than the same old flagstones, but a cloaked hunter. You swooped around to catch a glimpse of the spectre but found nothing. Your heart sank at the realisation that Aemond was not wearing a cloak in the hall, eyes widening at the thought that you may have been pursued by someone other than Aemond. After all, the castle was still teeming with noblemen and women of varying families with very conflicting ideals of loyalty to House Targaryen’s claim to the Iron Throne, not to mention the looks of incredulous disgust cast in your direction for kissing your husband in front of the court. In a heartbeat, your blood ran cold as your anticipation transfigured into terror, freezing you to the spot — there is another attacker in the Red Keep. 

Yet the hunter did not strike, leaving you motionless in the middle of the hall staring into shadows but finding no ambush. Trying your best to dismiss what you heard as a cruel delusion in the midst of panic, you turned on your heels and continued on your path. Only two more corners and you would be safe within your chambers, free from this torment on your nerves and senses. 

Your heavy dress swooped around the final stone turns as a lead weight, dragging you down as if you were taking one step forward and two steps back. Trudging ahead, the wooden portal to your chambers came into view in the dim candlelight and elicited a deep sigh of relief from the bottom of your lungs. Whatever had been chasing you had failed, you were finally within reach of safety. Grinding to a halt as you pressed a palm to the wood between you and your safe haven, you exhaled once more, eking a slight self-satisfied grin across your lips. 

The loud swoop of an unsheathed blade filled the silence and a cold breeze snapped you from your blissful stupor, you gasped against the shock of a cool blade resting on your throat and a hand firing to cover your mouth to conceal your screams. Wordlessly, your captor steered you through the portal which once offered you sanctuary in order to avoid any prying eyes in the hallway. 

Your eyes darted to their peripheral points desperate for a glimpse of your captor, any glimmer of poker-straight silver locks would quell your concerns at any moment, but there was no respite to be found beneath a pitch black cloak flowing in the corner of your eye. The long fingers cupping your lips were concealed by a pair of sleek black gloves, hiding your assailant’s identity at every turn. You swallowed as shallow as you could against the restraint of the blade, jagged breaths betraying the sheer terror conflicting your every thought as you were being puppet-driven into the doors of your own chambers.

As you entered, the attacker threw you against the closing door, the wooden portal smashing into your chest as they used your body to close it. In removing their gloved hand from your mouth to click the door lock beneath you, they soon ensured no escape from your once safe haven that had now become your prison. No matter how many times you strained to see your captor, you could not glimpse any recognisable features. Whoever they were, they took great efforts to remain anonymous. Now free to cry out for help but still restrained by the threatening blade, you instead issued a soft plea to your captor. 

“Ser, please…,” your pathetic pledge spilled from your lips against the wooden door, careful not to move your throat too much against the sharp Valyrian steel edge. “If it is money you seek, I can bestow riches upon you. If it be power, I can arrange it. But please, spare my life for the sake of my family.”

Your assailant did not respond, merely holding you flush to the portal and awaiting your next comment. 

“My… my husband, h—he would stop at nothing to avenge me,” you cringed at the mere thought of the words tumbling forth. Whether you genuinely believed they would spare your life for the sake of a weak plea such as this was by-the-by, the waves of sheer panic flooding through you were responsible for all your decisions at this point, foolish or otherwise. “Please, ser…”

A low groan echoed from your captor’s throat, stopping just short of allowing you to identify their voice. Instead, they removed the blade from your throat and trailed it down your spine, following the path of the boning in your gown which cinched your waist beneath. Now able to breathe, your chest heaved and another growl emitted from the attacker as they observed your dress throbbing before them. While a hand reached to pull the top seam away from your body, the blade traced to the edge, pressed into you and sliced the fabric all the way down to your hips, decimating your smallclothes underneath in the process. You squeezed your eyes shut and hissed softly as the cool air of the chamber flushed over your bare back, the realisation of your fate flooding over you in chilling waves. Your captor would certainly take what he wanted from you before slitting your throat, your own Targaryen blood flowing between the flagstones of your chambers. 

“Ser, I’m begging you,” you pleaded weakly, gasping at the sharp sensation of cold gloved hands rolling the ripped fabric down your shoulders so what remained of your gown pooled at your ankles. Your captor swallowed thickly behind you, consuming your naked figure and the goosebumps that prickled in the cool air’s wake.

No response came. 

“W… what do you want with me?” You stuttered, petrified of the answer. Suddenly, both gloved hands clasped around your hips and steered you toward the bed in the centre of the chamber, violently tossing you head-first onto the sheets. In that brief moment, you could have escaped, should have escaped, but the fear of capture as you raced naked across the room no doubt to be stabbed by your captor froze you to the core, instead burying your face in the pillows as if to will the moments away. Maybe your ordeal would be over sooner if you accepted your fate, but that didn’t stop you kicking and flailing your limbs to deter them from attempting to pin you down. 

“Please, stop…”

A rustle of leather behind you suggested your speechless captor had taken off their gloves and began fumbling with their pants while watching you bare before them, faint echoes of sobs emanating from deep within the pillows. The mattress sank beneath you as they crawled onto the bed, bare knees caging you on both sides of your bucking hips yet still evidently wearing their cape as a wave of heavy fabric sweeping up your bare thighs. In the blink of an eye, a hand reached into your hair and tugged you skyward as hot, predatory breaths fanned your hair. A faint chuckle erupted from the attacker, coiling their fist into your silver locks and revelling in the way your body so easily caved to their will, even if your mouth did not.

“No, please, my husband, please…,” you panicked, writhing in their vice-like grasp as a wave of dread coursing through you as the enormity of your situation finally hit you. You had only ever bedded your husband, only ever felt his touch, only ever felt his cock inside you, only ever felt his cum dripping from your folds. Tonight, that loyalty, that commitment would be forever tarnished. Scalding hot tears burst their banks and seared their way down your countenance to soak the pillows below as you lowered your cracking voice to a pleading whisper: “Aemond, please help me.”

Suddenly, the hand that tugged on your hair reached for your left wrist, pressing two fingers to your pulse point. 

Aemond’s signal.

Your every muscle relaxed with relief, the tension in your spine loosening immediately. A sigh of contentment escaped you as you tapped your fingers twice onto the pillows beneath you, an unexpected bolt of pleasure thrumming through your core and seeping through your folds as you snapped back into the room, realising you were completely naked and pinned beneath your husband, not an anonymous attacker. 

“Aemond, gods be good, I--.”

You were cut off by his hands firing straight back into your hair, yanking you back to face him. His silver locks billowed under his dark hood, the cloak clearly the only garment he was still wearing, his jaw tensed in a sinister pout and most notably, his eye patch was nowhere to be seen, enabling his sapphire eye to glimmer softly in the dim light of the chamber.

“It seems I won the hunt, Princess,” he cooed into your ear, nibbling gently on the lobe and groaning gratuitously as you bucked into his touch, your thighs squeezing together tightly. “But you resist me so well.”

With one hand wandering to part your cheeks beneath him, the other scooped around your hip to drag you up from the sheets. His motions were just as swift, curt and merciless as they were before you knew his identity, making it abundantly clear that Aemond was still very much in character. 

“Aemond, I need time to still my nerves,” you pleaded weakly and unconvincingly, your back arching instinctively into his touch.

“I don’t think you do,” Aemond snapped, again tugging at your hips to pull you against him, his hardened cock tapping on your parted cheeks, leaving a light trail of his own slick in its wake. “You will do as I say, dear wife.”

“Please, at least prepare me first,” you panted, wriggling gently against his restraint but not enough to betray your own desires. The adrenaline rush from realising it was indeed your husband that ravished you had left you desiring to fuck him now more than ever. You didn’t need any preparation, he could bottom out inside you in a heartbeat and your warm walls would welcome him as ever.

“Oh, my dear sweet little princess,” he hissed through feigned gritted teeth, venturing a finger to trace through your already dripping folds. ���It appears your cunt is already well prepared for me.”

A blast of heat rose to your cheeks as if a furnace had ignited before you. “Aemond, stop…”

“Tell me,” he hummed, replacing his finger with the tip of his cock lining up at your waiting entrance. “Did the thought of being ravaged by an anonymous intruder really satisfy my little wife that much?”

Frantically shaking your head, you balled your fists into the sheets in anticipation. 

“This is quite a way to find out my beautiful wife is not only a liar but also a whore,” Aemond concluded, slapping his tip against your cunt before nudging inside just a little. “I’ll have to take you by force more often.”

In one swift snap of his hips, his cock slipped inside you as comfortably as the first time he bedded you so many moons ago. Both moaning in unison, his fingers dipped into the flesh of your hips and drew you back to impale yourself further on his cock, his length nestling into your spongy walls like the missing piece of a jigsaw. Your eyes bulged at the intrusion, in sure and certain knowledge that you may never get used to how big he felt, how perfectly his girth filled you, how his tip reached the furthest points inside you that felt as if he was nudging into your lungs.

“Oh gods fuck, you’re so tight,” he swore out amongst a strangled gasp, the sensation of your walls clamping around him becoming almost too much already. “That’s it, clench down on me, try and stop me fucking you.”

“Aemond please, please stop,” you let out a half-hearted protest which stoked a fire in his loins, making your husband rear back and deliver a punishing thrust that stole the air from your lungs. “Please, it’s too… too much.”

“You’ll take what I give you, Princess,” he commanded, reaching down to knock your elbows from beneath you so you fell into the pillows. His hand pressed the back of your skull ever so slightly downwards. “Scream into the pillow if it hurts, because I’m not listening.”

Muffled whimpers and yelps vibrated through the cushion as you feigned protest, arching your back and pushing up your ass to meet his thrusts. Somehow, play-fighting against his actions only heightened your sensitivity to his every movement inside your heat, and Aemond responded eagerly each time you pleaded with him to stop when every inch of your body persuaded him to surge ahead. 

“I knew someday my plan would come in useful,” Aemond’s free hand fumbled to cast aside his cloak as it impeded his motions, leading him to initiate a perfectly normal conversation while piledriving your cunt and sinking your head into the pillows. “I concealed a cloak and gloves in a chamber some moons ago for a quick midnight escape if the Red Keep ever became too much to bear. Tonight, it finally paid off handsomely.”

Aemond began bending his knees to curl his thrusts, his cockhead meeting your sweet spot with every swoop inside you. Noticing his new tactic, you took the opportunity of his distraction to wriggle your hips beneath him, a false attempt to break free and stop his onslaught on your pussy.

“No you don’t, little whore,” he spat through gritted teeth, one hand grasping your hips and the other firing to pin your hands above your head. “You’re not just fighting a mysterious assailant now, issa jorrāelagon, you’re resisting your husband and we both know you could never resist me.”

Testing his theory, you writhed and flexed harder beneath him, trying to kick away his thighs behind you. “Please, please let me go,” you feigned, gasping for air now you could freely breathe above the pillow. 

“Take what I give you like a good girl,” Aemond commanded, an accomplished growl spilling through his last syllables. “Next time, I think I’ll fuck you while you’re sleeping. Maybe then you’ll stop trying to fight off what you want more than anything.”

You swallowed harshly as your body betrayed your façade, hot waves of pleasure pooling in your core and building a searing tension in your walls that threatened to burst its banks with a particularly devastating thrust.

“Aemond, I’m… I’m…,” you stuttered in hopes your husband would catch your hint that you were about to reach your peak.

“No you fucking don’t,” he snarled, rearing his hips back to pull out of you completely, kicking your knees from beneath you and tumbling you on your back into the sheets. Your first full-body vision of your feral Prince claiming you by force revealed his porcelain frame beaded with sweat, his violet eye so blown with lust that in your blurred vision it looked pitch black. His jaw constricted into a fierce pout, he gazed down at your shaking body beneath him as if a man starved, desperate to reach his home deep inside your cunt once more. But in dropping to the sheets, your thighs had clamped together, battling the loss of his cock inside you. 

“Spread yourself for me,” he growled like a wild animal. “Now.”

You nodded frantically, acting as innocent as possible as you opened your thighs before him, your throbbing folds reddened and puffy after his first onslaught. 

“I said, spread yourself for me,” he repeated, palming at his cock as he waited for your compliance. 

Your shaking hands trailed between your legs and parted your soaking folds, trails of your own slick glistening in the dim light.

“Good fucking girl,” he praised through a filthy drawl, his syllables melting together as his own heightened senses overwhelmed him. “Always such a good fucking girl for me.”

He leaned forward and plunged his length back into your waiting cunt, his eye journeying to the ceiling as your rippling walls greeted him willingly. He returned to his devastating pace all too quickly, fighting to gaze back down and watch his slick-glistened cock disappearing inside you at a breakneck speed, the lewd splashes of your coupling making a filthy echo throughout the chamber. 

“Please… please let me go,” you began to falsely plead for mercy again while his punishing thrusts sent you sinking into the mattress. “It’s… too much…”

“Easy, princess, I won’t cause you harm,” he cooed softly, bending down to whisper in the shell of your ear. “I only intend to break you so that the only coherent thought in that dumb little whore mind of yours belongs to me, my cock and how beautifully I split you open.”

The bolts of pleasure from his sinful words sent your hips keening up to meet his, head throwing back into the pillows and crying out his name like a sacrament to the Seven. 

“Aemond, please…,” you pleaded in the brief pauses between his thrusts, gasping for air and consciousness as the corners of your vision began to blur, your eyes fluttering closed. “I’m… I’m…”

“Stay with me, angel,” he husked, curling a hand around the back of your neck and hovering his lips above yours. “Be a good girl and watch me claim you.”

His pummelling pace refused to relent, taking your approach to your peak as a challenge to chase it fervently, swooping his hips and drawing his length out as far as possible before plunging deep inside you until you gasped his name so weakly that no sound came out. 

“That’s it, all you can think about is me, right?” He growled, relishing the way your mind and body had now caved to his desire, melted to his will and broken any wish for resistance. “I knew you could take it, I knew you wanted me to force you. All you needed was a little encouragement.”

With one last surge of strength, you pressed your hands to his chest and made a half-hearted attempt to push him off you. Chuckling deep in his throat at your pathetic action, his trademark sinister grin crept across the corner of his lips.

“A valiant attempt, dear wife,” he smirked, rearing his hips back so far his tip very nearly slipped out of your folds. “Now you get to watch me fuck a babe into you whether you like it or not.”

With one last devastating thrust, his tip pummelling against the perimeter your cervix, you cried out and wrapped your legs around his waist, curling your arms around his neck and drawing him in for a searing kiss as you toppled over the edge of your climax along with him, spilling his seed inside you and grunting with each string painting your walls. 

The chamber filled with both your ragged breaths, slowly riding out your orgasm as if you could stay rutting up into him for the rest of time. His exhausted gaze met yours, the fierce snarl to which you had become accustomed now softened to his traditional warm smile. 

As he tentatively withdrew from your folds, the mixture of your fluids dripping onto the sheets beneath you, Aemond scooped both arms under your back and pulled you up to sit upright with him. He held onto you so tightly, arms wrapped around you protectively as he dipped his head into your neck. Your body shook so gently in his grasp, the aftershocks of your experience still taking hold of your limbs. 

“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded softly into your ear, his tone so gentle and reassuring in such stark contrast to the entire evening. “Can I call for the Maester?”

“I… I am fine,” you stuttered weakly, returning his embrace and slumping into him. “Please, don’t send for him, I really don’t wish him to see me like this.”

“I did not mean to harm you, I would never… but you didn’t say the word…”

You shook your head against his. “I didn’t need to, my love. I promise, all is well.”

“Are you sure?” His worried tone calmed as his fingers ghosted lazy, comforting circles over your back. 

“Of course, please just… hold me.”

You could feel the stretch of his smile against your skin. 

“Kesan ōregon ao syt mirre hen ñuha tubissa, ñuha jorrāelagon.” I will hold you for all my days, my love. 

[aemondwhoresworld]

while waiting for HOTD season 2, i rewatch the season 1 and …. LOOK AT THIS HANDSOMENESS

MY PRINCE EWANNN

House Of The Dragon, S1E8

feel free to use my GIF, for higher quality on X (@/aemondwhores)

[awearywritersworld]

To Look Upon Such Divinity

Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

Summary: As children, you and Aemond were always very close, but after he loses his eye at the hands of your brother, he pushes you away. Years later, you travel to King’s Landing and see your old friend once more. Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: ~1.7k

Warnings: none, really 

______________________________________________________________

“You shouldn't be here.”

Those were the first words out of his mouth, nearly growled in frustration, when he opened the door to his chambers only to reveal you on the other side. The hour was late, the halls quiet and dark. 

“I- I wished to see you, my prince”

Pulling you inside, he swiftly closed the door behind you. His body invaded your space, forcing your back against the wall. His hand came to rest on the stone beside your head, his arm trapping you in place.

You were taken back by his actions and it showed plainly on your face. You had not seen him in years, not since Laena’s funeral, and in truth, you no longer knew the person standing before you. That idea made you feel uneasy.

You had always been close with your uncle, but when your brother sliced his eye, he completely shut you out. He wouldn’t let you see him before you left Driftmark, though you tried to visit his chambers several times. Afterward, you wrote him enough letters to fill a book, but they all went unanswered. Eventually, to his despair, you stopped trying.

Aemond had been attempting to stifle his shame by ignoring you. It was your younger brother that disfigured him, after all, and it left him humiliated. The prince had feelings for you and he couldn’t bear the thought of you shying away from him after he’d been made into a monster, just like everyone else.

Years later when you saw him after arriving in King's Landing, your brothers eager to catch a glimpse of those in the training yard, your eyes still lit up. It made him feel small and nervous. In all the time that had passed, you’d become a beautiful young woman with an air of grace and elegance. Time, however, had not been able to make Aemond whole again. 

That very night, you stood before him in the dim light of his chambers and it was the first time you'd had a good look at him. His face was familiar to you, though it was older, its features now much sharper.

You cursed the black patch that obscured the mark left by the blade, curious to discover what lied beneath it. You pondered whether the leather felt harsh against his skin, or if he'd grown used to it by now.

His large frame hovered over yours, meant to intimidate you. His close proximity forced you to look away from him and you drew your bottom lip in between your teeth anxiously. 

“You claim you’ve come to see me, yet your eyes evade me.” 

“Forgive me, my prince,” you returned, your gaze now meeting his own. 

He stared at you for a moment, trying to discern the look on your face. Eventually, he pulled away from you, unable to find an answer. You always did have a tendency to leave him guessing. 

“Aemond will do just fine,” he grunted at you, now facing the other way. 

You adjusted your skirts and stood up a little straighter. “Oh, I assumed formalities would be expected, given you’ve spent the last six years disregarding me.”

He gave you a dry chuckle in return, “if you cared for formalities, you would not be here.” 

When he turned to look at you once more, you studied his face shamelessly and the scrutiny made him tense. “If I recall, formalities were never something you valued either. Though, I suppose after all these years you are all but a stranger to me.” 

“I take no great pleasure in that fact, I assure you.” 

His honestly surprised him, as he tended to hold his cards tightly against his chest. He had learned to be suspicious of others, but alone in your presence that seemed to slip away. Aside from his mother, you had always been the one person to support him, to meet him with unquestioning kindness. He hoped to the gods he hadn’t lost that, even if he deserved to.

“Then I beg you to help me understand your sudden and unceasing indifference,” your voice grew louder, but he could find no hint of anger in your tone. “I showed you nothing but devotion, yet your coldness left a wound in my heart that still bleeds.”

He thought back to when his injury had been discovered and the families convened within the halls of Driftmark to sort out the incident. You had defended him, despite the insults he’d thrown at your brothers, and by extension, you. You did not think less of him after he claimed Vhagar for himself, even if it happened right under the noses of Laena's grieving daughters. 

All that only served to make it more difficult to give you an answer, even if he was no longer a foolish child. “It... It does not matter now. You have moved on, have you not?” 

The question, more than anything, was a last ditch attempt to put an end to the guilt stirring in his stomach, but your incredulous expression only made it worse.

“Have you?” The defeat in your voice was evident. 

His eye moved to the floor and you took the opportunity to glance around the room, committing to memory what little pieces of Aemond you could. The pile of books beside a short, well burned candle on the table next to his bed. The blanket and pillow in a pile near the fireplace. The belt that held his sword placed neatly and carefully by the door. 

“This was a mistake,” you finally spoke, resigning yourself to the fact things could never go back to the way they once were. 

“No, wait.” He moved closer, his fingers reaching out for yours, just barely brushing them before his hand fell back to his side. “Please.” 

“I will not long survive your twisting of the dagger, Aemond.”

"I did not move on," he began weakly, "for years, you have haunted me, both in waking hours and in my dreams."

His confession left you confused, your eyebrows furrowing together, "then why-"

"The shame I felt knew no measure," his hand reached up, subconsciously grazing his scar. "You were always gentle and tenderhearted, but I was left a monstrous cripple. I would have been an embarrassment to you."

"Oh, Aemond," you breathed. Though he stood before you as a man, it was obvious that the sweet, shy boy of your youth still occupied his mind to some degree. Your voice was just above a whisper, "how you mistake yourself."

You approached him slowly, his vulnerability making him look like a hound in fear of his master's raised fist. He fought the urge to look away from you. You stopped only a foot or so short of him, something akin to sadness dominating your features.

Your fingertips came to rest on his cheek, then trailed over the scarred ridges of his face with care. Your gentle touch pulled a soft sigh from his lips, his eyes fluttering shut as he allowed himself to relish in a rare moment of peace. Silently, he wished that the soft pads of your fingers would melt into his flesh so that he could hang on to the feeling forever.

Your touch ghosted over the eyepatch, your head tilting in a silent plea. Hesitantly, his hand reached to pull the leather from his face, his breath catching in his throat as he gauged your reaction. Your eyes softened and your stomach fluttered as his sapphire reflected in the light, commanding your attention.

“Does it hurt?” you questioned. 

The warmth in your voice forced him to swallow a lump that formed in his throat, “not anymore.” 

Your hand cradled the side of his face, while your thumb continued to brush over the harsh mark just beneath the blue stone. Your lips parted and your breath was steady as you continued to observed him. Even then, he waited for you to turn away in disgust, to suddenly realize how grotesque the sight before you was. The idea consumed his thoughts, his shoulders slumping as he prepared himself for the worst. 

“To look upon such divinity,” your voice grounded him, pulled him back to reality. “I consider myself blessed.” 

As the meaning of your words sunk in, Aemond’s teeth clenched together, trying to prevent the tears that threatened to spill down his cheek. He studied you, searching for any hint of jest or deceit, though he found what he always did when he looked at you--- affection and tenderness. 

Aemond felt a fierce rush of emotion overtake his body as his gaze moved between each of your eyes. It was as if you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart for all that it was worth. In his mind, the action would be warranted after all the grief he’d subjected you to. 

He could not help it when leaned down, bringing his lips closer to yours. He was unsure of himself, shy in a way that reminded you of moments you shared in the past. You did not pull back, you did not scorn him, so he dipped his head and the closed the space left between you. 

His lips felt soft against your own, his hands finding your hips and pulling you closer to him. You felt the wetness of his quiet tears against your face and it made your own eyes sting. All the pain you’d felt over the years seemed to bubble up and pour over, but it was accompanied by other emotions, too--- relief, bliss, love. 

You gripped the fabric of his shirt, his arms now wrapped around your waist, each of you desperate to feel the other. Even so, the kiss wasn't clumsy or rushed. No, the way your bodies melded together was slow... fervent. When you finally pulled away, only a few inches between your faces, your breathing was deep as you tried to appease your lungs. 

He watched you, noting the way your lips had grown just a touch plumper and how your eyes were dewy with emotion just like his own. For a fleeting moment, he berated himself for ever thinking you would disdain him for the injury he endured. 

“Surely,” he began, taking your face in his hands, “any divinity I possess is born only from the love you have always shown me, however undeserved.” 

[barbieaemond]

Lykirī

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

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

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

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

MASTERLIST

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lay on the bed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How are you feeling, sweet niece?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was indeed the good part.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aemond, I don’t think—”

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

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

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

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

“Dohaeras, Vhagar. Soves!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Above them. Above the Gods.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aemond, please.” you beg “let me—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please.” you beg in a thin voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Māzis, dōna ābrazȳrys. Come for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Neither does you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

"It is too soon to talk about love."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was in the library."

"For four hours?"

"It was a tough read—"

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

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

"Aemond, what's going on?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

"I wish to conquer, not claim."

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I take it off?"

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

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

"It is not pleasant."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lykirī."

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

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

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

“You don’t have to—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you so much for reading!! 💞💞

[targaryen-dynasty]

CAN YOU STAY UP ALL NIGHT?

Part 1

Dad!Aemond x niece!Reader

Even after the babe had settled, you didn’t find any sleep. And while your breasts hadn’t felt too uncomfortable back then, they did now. They were heavy, hard to the touch and full of milk, desiring relief from their overstuffed state. 

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest, lactation kink, hand job, lactating, pregnancy, female reader (mention of her eye color)

WORDS: 2.5 K

NOTES: This kinda is the part 2 to Serenity. Can be read as standalone, though! Thanks to @black-dread for allowing me to use your gif! 🤍

There were not many things you envied Aemond for, but his ability to find sleep just mere minutes after cradling your crying son until he had settled certainly was one of them.

Since you had refused to take advantage of a wet nurse, despite everyone around you, including your husband, urging you to reconsider your decision, your days had turned rather strenuous and tiring, and being five moons pregnant wasn't making it easier. 

But you and him had made an agreement once he noticed the toll it all took on you. Whenever his days were filled with princely duties, leaving the care of your son to you and your maids only, he stepped in to handle him when he arose during the night. The feeding was left to you, of course, but the more demanding part was in his hands. 

Besides your son's inability to fall asleep other than in your or your husband’s arms, he was not too fussy. This night was different, however. After what you assumed to be his last feeding for the night, he didn’t settle, and didn’t fall asleep. It took Aemond at least an hour of rocking, humming and singing to calm the crying babe, until he eventually was allowed to lay him down to sleep in the cot in his adjoining chambers. 

You had nursed your son for a little longer than usual, your breasts being full enough to feed at least two babes at once, and even though it had brought you a great sense of relief, his wailing had seemed to trigger the release of more milk – regardless of your son being full and not needing more. 

Even after the babe had settled, you didn’t find any sleep. And while your breasts hadn’t felt too uncomfortable back then, they did now. They were heavy, hard to the touch and full of milk, desiring relief from their overstuffed state. 

You had tried to stay quiet, not wanting to rouse your sleeping husband, but you couldn’t stay quiet for any longer. 

Shifting your body to get more comfortable in bed, gently massaging your breasts through the now dampened silk of your nightgown, it were your quiet moans and whimpers that caught Aemond’s attention in the dead of the night, rousing him from his slumber. He rolled over, his eyes opening languidly as he looked up at you.

“What is wrong?” he asked, his smooth voice rugged with sleep. 

While the relationship between you two hadn't been shaped by mutual love and respect in the very beginning, arranged as a way to make amends after he had lost his eye at the hands of your younger brother, you had figured very quickly that Aemond was mesmerized by your body, more specifically your breasts. He might have despised you for the actions of your kin, but the effect your body had had on his hadn’t gone unnoticed by you. 

Whenever he had been in your presence, his good eye had flickered down to the swell of your breasts, followed by a blush that not only covered his cheeks, but also ran down his neck and seemed to settle between his legs, prompting him to shift his weight from one leg to the other. Every time. 

And even when he had bedded you before you were with child, he had always paid just a little too much attention to your breasts. The second your small clothes had hit the floor, his fingers were on your little buds, rubbing and pinching them to full hardness that allowed his lips to wrap around them.  

Your breasts had grown generously throughout your first pregnancy, forcing you to scold him each time he teased them, because with the fullness also came the sensitivity. And for the remainder of your pregnancy, Aemond wasn’t allowed to touch your breasts as roughly as he would have liked to, resulting in him being quite moody and grumpy. 

But ever since your son was born, those raging emotions had turned into an obsessive infatuation, fed by your breasts swelling to ridiculous proportions once you started to nurse the babe, producing enough milk as if your body meant to provide for five children. 

No matter how bewitched he was with your breasts, the care and concern he had started to show towards you after the difficulties of your pregnancy were something you couldn’t hold against him. 

So, it was no surprise he was wide awake at the display of your discomfort, the tiredness long gone. 

Aemond leaned over you to peck your lips, his right hand pulling down the sheets and resting on the swell of your stomach, gently bringing you closer to him. His eye briefly flickered down to your bump, feeling your unborn child kick against his palm. 

“Is it the babe?” he asked, gently rubbing your bump while his other hand slightly tugged your nightgown down your shoulder to press a kiss to your exposed skin. “It appears to be just as fussy as their older brother.”

You sighed with a shake of your head, flashing him a forced smile. “It is the soreness that robs me of my sleep, not the babe.”

His gaze trailed from your face down to your full breasts, the dampened spots in the front of your nightgown just as visible in the dim light of your marital chambers as his lust blown eye. The beautiful lilac hue you both shared was fully eclipsed by black, and even the sapphire he wore appeared to be a shade darker, whereas that was merely the doing of the shadows. 

“I could be of assistance, you know,” he offered quietly, his voice thick with arousal. A faint blush spread across your cheeks, feeling the heat rise inside of you. 

The question brought you back to the first time he had helped you with the tension, the sight of him looking up at you with the remnants of your milk trickling down the corners of his lips and chin etched into your memory, and sending heat straight to the apex of your legs. 

There was no need for you to say anything, just watching you shift in your place with your hands already undoing the tie in the front of your nightgown was all the confirmation Aemond needed. 

His hands stopped yours, peeling them off your body to place them on your sides. His large hands found your breasts, cupping them through the fabric, and starting to knead them gently. A contented sigh left your lips, sinking further into the pillows, and Aemond’s warm embrace. 

He leaned closer towards you, his mouth on a level with your ear, and allowing you to hear and feel his heavy breathing. “Every night I have to watch you feed him, but I am feeling rather hungry myself,” he rasped, causing goosebumps to prickle on your skin. “One might even say I am starving, my dear.”

Your back arched into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut at the sensations washing over you at once. “Oh, yes?” you sighed, licking your lips and gazing at him with half-lidded eyes. “Then I suggest you take what you desire, husband, I would not want you to starve.”

Even through the fabric of your nightgown could you feel the warmth emanating from his palms, dancing along the sensitive skin of your hardened buds. Aemond undid the tie fully, unfolding your shift, and exposing your full breasts to the chill air. 

Drawing in a deep breath at the sudden coldness surrounding your breasts, you gazed up at Aemond, who was towering over you now, his mischievous gaze solely focused on your full breasts. Looking down at them, you noticed what had caught his attention. A few beads of your milk had oozed out your darkened buds at the stimulation, trickling down the curve of them, and proving to be a sight to behold for your husband.

“Skoros issi ao umbagon syt?” you teased, the High Valyrian slipping smoothly past your lips. What are you waiting for?

Cupping your breast again, he dragged the pad of his thumb over your bud in a way that had you inhaling sharply, gathering some of your milk to bring it to his lips and clean it off of your essence, tasting you.

Aemond hummed, licking his lips as if he had tasted the finest Arbor. He tipped his head forwards and engulfed one of your buds with his lips, his tongue swirling around it, while one hand fondled the other breast. 

The moment he started to suck had you whimpering, slightly hurting at first. But the pleasure and relief it already brought was far too good for you to resist. It was not more painful than the countless times your son had decided to clamp down on your flesh while nursing, and you could tell that, even though he was hungry for you, Aemond tried to be gentle and careful. 

Each suck of him had your stomach tingle with desire, and, while one of your hands cupped your bump, the other entangled into his silver tresses, smoothing it, and causing him to relax even further. 

Your breathing was shaky, interrupted by heavy pants and quiet moans leaving your lips. Milk dribbled out of your other bud as he pinched it between his fingers, rolling and squeezing it, and prompting a haze to cloud your mind. 

But it were not just your sounds that spurred you on. His soft purrs vibrated against your flesh, adding to the burning sensations coursing through your veins. 

When he released your bud with a lewd pop, the sight he blessed you with almost had you moaning – if it wasn't for your bottom lip to be caught between your teeth. His lips were slightly swollen from the sucking, and beads of your milk were seeping from them, trickling idly down his chin. 

“My hunger for you is as insatiable as it is undeniable,” he rasped, dark blown eye fixed with yours. His words almost made you feel shy, wanting to hide away from him. But with his warm hands on you, and the feeling of his lips still lingering on your body, the comfort it granted was just too much to pull away.  

You whimpered quietly, not one coherent thought prominent in your mind. Aemond chuckled, and positioned himself, so his mouth could pay attention to your other breast as well, careful not to put any of his weight on your swollen belly. Crawling between your parted legs, he lay down on his other side, one hand on your bump. 

He bowed his head forward and pressed soft kisses to your hot skin. A gentle bite to your hard bud had your back arching again, all but shoving it into his mouth as your grip on his hair changed to tug him down, causing him to grunt in surprise. Doing just what he had done to the other before, Aemond started to suckle on your breast, granting you even more relief. 

With the proximity, you felt a hardness press to the outside of your thigh, growing more apparent when he began to rut his hips against you. 

You snaked a hand between your bodies, starting slowly by rubbing his thigh in circular motions, before pushing your fingers underneath the waistband of his underclothes, grasping his stiff member. Your fingers must have been cold or just surprised him, because his hips stuttered slightly at the touch, almost as if he hesitated to continue. 

He nipped your bud, the rest of his body going rigid with the sudden pleasure you brought him. Stroking your hand up and down his cock, he was quick to melt into your touch again. It appeared that your hand tugging on him had him growing ferocious, almost as if it encouraged him to suck every last drop of milk out of you. 

Every time your hand slid up and down his length, getting soaked by his own juices leaking uncontrollably from his slit, Aemond pulled you unintentionally closer towards his body with his arm around your waist. 

He could not stop moaning and grunting against your flesh, rocking his hips into your hand whenever you tugged on him a tad too slowly to his liking. 

Pulling back, he watched you with parted lips as you brought your hand up to your mouth to spit into it, using your saliva to move your hand along his cock with more ease. 

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, almost mesmerized by the bold action. 

He dipped his head forwards again, trying to pick up where he had left. It caused you to pump his cock with desperate vigor, using the movements to keep yourself grounded. 

With how violently his cock throbbed in your grasp, his grunts and groans growing in volume, you figured he was close to reaching his peak, igniting a fire in you. You tugged on his hair rather roughly, causing him to graze his teeth along your bud to elicit breathy moans and whimpers to slip past your lips. 

“Peak for me,” you pleaded through your own pleasure, the fullness of your breasts long gone and replaced by sheer relief. But it wasn’t only about your own pleasure anymore. 

With the pressure inside of him rising, Aemond had stopped suckling on your breast. Instead, he just mouthed along your flushed flesh, nibbling on your skin and leaving little marks in his wake, staking his claim on you, as if the child growing within you was not enough already. 

Tugging on his hair once again, you pulled his face up to yours to devour him, the kiss being all teeth and tongue with a passion unmatched. You could taste your milk on his tongue, causing you to moan. 

“Gods, I– fuck,” he groaned against your lips, heralding his peak. 

You felt his warm spent on your hand even before his hips started to eagerly chase the pleasure, and his cock started to twitch, your hand pumping him through the high. Aemond grunted and groaned against your lips, the sounds eagerly swallowed down by you until he eventually came down to rest in your arms. 

He tipped his forehead against yours, humming when he was finally able to make use of his senses again. “How do you feel?” he whispered, kissing you chastely. “Or shall I continue to ensure your complete relief?”

You didn’t even have time to answer before he trailed his hand from your breasts over your bump down between your legs, cupping your mound over the skirts of your nightgown. Your breath hitched in your throat, yet you parted your legs to grant him even better access to your clothed cunt. 

You released a quiet moan, the tiredness completely forgotten. “I do not believe I could stop you if you decided to relieve me once more,” you teased, brushing his hair out of his face while your other hand rested on his cheek. You dragged your thumb over his lips, half-lidded eyes looking up at him with a spark of admiration flickering in them. 

“You are insufferable,” you mused, a soft smile on your lips, “but you know I would never turn you down… just to ensure my problem is completely relieved.”

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[daemontargaryenwhore]

"two scared children spouting oaths they didn’t understand. all that was left of the mighty house targaryen."

[randomdragonfires]

I'm A Fire And I'll Keep Your Brittle Heart Warm [One Shot]

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | Flowers come to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage.

WARNINGS | 18+; Mild Smut.

WORD COUNT | 9.6k

A/N | Yet another repost, yay! This one was written based off an ask sent to me by @wonderbias and beta read by the loml @humanpurposes

Their union began as a fragile, delicate one.

By all accounts, Aemond Targaryen was a fine man that any maiden in the Seven Kingdoms would be proud to be with, should he– a skilled dragonrider, a scholar, a respectful man of honor, a prince worthy of his name and blood– choose to take her to wife. 

If only he was not so stoic and dull, they said. The very jovial little lady of Highgarden will be bored of him in moments!

‘Twas the first of many whispers he heard of his apparent inadequacy with regards to his impending nuptials and marriage, and even though it killed him, he could not bring himself to disagree. The woman that he was to marry – the beautiful, kind, ladylike wisp of a girl that was to be entrusted to him– was a fair maiden who lit up any chamber she graced with her presence, a stark contrast to how he seemed to darken those that he stalked into.

Charming girl like that, she will hate him, they said. The poor thing is probably scared.

Every lady dreamed of chivalrous knights and charming princes, and Aemond knew very well that he was far from being either. They dreamed of charming men who would immortalize them in song, whose looks could thaw the hearts of the coldest women in an instant. Aemond knew very well that the Gods had refused him the chance to even try with her– what with their allowance of his mutilation at a tender, young age. 

Even with just one eye, he saw many possibilities but to his dismay, he did not imagine any outcome would be favorable to him. With the scar he carried on his face and the weight of the world on his shoulders, Aemond was never meant to be the man that his intended deserved. 

And so, he decided that he would keep her at arm's length and in consequence, save his pride. He'd reject her before she rejected him. He may not know it now, but matters of the heart are fickle– and to the utter disappointment of his pride, his little lady rose was very easy to love. 

He would not be caught dead pathetically pining after a woman who would soon be his. He would not.

And so, their courtship remained devoid of romance and scandal. His family was made privy to each of their highly appropriate conversations, with them taking turns in chaperoning their walks through the gardens. 

There was nothing that he wished to share, for he did not want to lose too much. He did what was expected of him, and she did the very same. Soon, there was respect, admiration, and a whole host of burgeoning feelings that Aemond tried hard to suppress - feelings that he clearly did not see in her eyes as she dared to look into his.

How could she feel anything for a stoic, dull, one-eyed man like him?

As he draped the red and black cloak over her shoulder and pledged to be her man of liege and limb, he told himself that he would not try. He would not give into fantasies, only to be met with rejection from a woman who was too good for him; one that may realize it soon enough as well.

After all, Aemond Targaryen had his pride. He would feed himself to the dragons before admitting to someone else being better than him, let alone be rejected by that same person. He was certainly not going to woo her, not when he knew that he would only be met with contempt and disgust.

It did not matter how badly he wanted to. He would not allow himself to succumb to such idyllic daydreams. He would not.

When night fell and the wedding feast was in full swing, his new good-father was the only one who could give his brother a run for his money with how deep he was in his cups. It was obvious how the wine-induced stupor affected the fat lord Tyrell as he bellowed for his daughter and his new good son to take the lead and join in the dancing and merriment.

Aemond was ready to retch at the thought, but what stopped him from making his irritation  clear was the possibility that she may want to dance. His wife. He had seen her dance before– as graceful as an otherworldly swan. She had a better grasp at frivolous courtly affairs than he did. 

His wife may want to dance. His wife, his wife, his wife. A little rose, his.

He shuffled his feet under the cloth-covered long table and allowed his one eye to train over his clothed boots. In spite of all the dancing lessons he had taken with Helaena, Aemond had never indulged before– and now, he was expected to entertain his bride each time a song played. The thought made him want to press his feet into the ground further than he already has, in hopes that perhaps the ground would swallow him whole.

His view of the dancing crowd had been taken from him by half along with his eye. Without the luxury of complete vision, he could not dance without bumping into everyone that was on his blind side. Now, he would have to– if she wanted to. 

He thought he could say no, but he feared that if he were to look her in the eyes, he'd never be able to. Perhaps that was why he had refused to even look at her throughout the ceremony, despite her many admirable– yet failed– attempts to catch his line of sight and share a smile.

It was her meek, mouse-like voice that brought him out of his nervous trance. “We do not have to," she said, the words falling out of her lips like a song.

“You like to dance, my lady,” he said.

“But you do not, my prince. It takes two.” Her surprisingly understanding words were followed by a timid smile, one that threatened to rip through his defenses and get to him.

In the crowded throne room, as his new bride sets aside her happiness to accommodate his preferences, Aemond worried that his self-imposed distance from her may not last too long if she kept offering him kind glances and sweet smiles– no matter how forced and dutiful he knew them to be.

He had much to lose; his pride, his heart. He would not risk it, even if she was seemingly easy to love. He would not. He would not. He would not.

After all, Aemond Targaryen had his pride. 

Soon after, her drunk nuisance of a father had called for the bedding. Aemond did nothing as his trembling bride was ushered away by the handmaidens and ladies, each of them wriggling her jewelry off as she stumbled in her steps before they carried her off.

Should he have asked for a private bedding? In hindsight, he believed he wronged her by throwing her to the mercies of the court in her vulnerability. Equally, he did not want to attempt a show of compassion– not when she may not even welcome it from the one-eyed fiend of a husband that she was stuck with.

When he walked into the chambers in his loose linen shirt and breeches, his breath hitched in his throat. Helaena had once told him that the Septas refer to women’s maidenheads as flowers. “Beautiful, ripe and ready for the plucking,” she had said, keeping her nose pointed upward in her imitations. He'd never given the words much thought. 

Until now.

There she was. His wife, his flower, his rose, ready for plucking, in her translucent white shift and now untamed hair, like a fae in a dream. How could she possibly be his? How could she possibly be happy with a man as monstrous as him for a husband? 

Her eyes, wide and fearful, flittered about his face, in his mind an expression of her repulsion. It pained him to think she did not even give him a chance.

But she was accommodating about my not wanting to dance… 

Perhaps she did like to dance; just not with him. 

These unsaid words and subsequent misunderstandings plagued their wedding night. Both believed the other did not desire them. 

That night, she offered her flower to him– as is her duty– and he took great care in taking it from her. He made sure she was pliant, so that when he took it, she would be as glad and thrilled as he was, regardless of how well-hidden his happiness was. 

He may have grimaced in disgust at Aegon's vulgar demonstrations and lessons about the pleasures of the marital bed, but he was thankful as he heard her moan out his name in a silent scream while she convulsed around his fingers. The silent sounds of her choked out moans and the heat engulfing his fingers may have very well been enough for Aemond to find release, and he reminded himself quickly that she will not want him when they're done. How could she, deformed as he was?

And so, he stopped wanting to be good for her, and simply endeavored to get it done with.

She was only more than willing to allow him to take her flower. If he was not so preoccupied with his own insecurities, he may have seen that it had gone past duty for her. Her loud moans proved the fact, and left little room for dispute (or doubt, in the minds of the prying ears that stayed close to the doors of their chambers, and the sharp eyes of the council who were now shuffling out of their seats).

He inched into her, and her tears and turned face only seemed to make it harder for him. Was he so beyond hope that she could not even look? What was it? Had he hurt her? He did not ask, lest he risk finding out that he was a disappointment. So he lost himself, drowned in his own head as he mechanically moved in and out, in and out, in and out. 

Duty. Duty. Duty.

If he had not been so preoccupied with tearing his own being to shreds in his mind, he may have heard her moans as the bright pink tip of his cock hit a rough spot in her, allowing her pleasures and experiences she did not believe she would ever know. He may have known that she desired him, just as he did her.

His self-deprecating thoughts couldn't have been farther from the truth– he may not have realized it that night, but he would soon enough.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the first ever flower she gave him– whether she chose to see it that way or not– came to him on their wedding night, in the form of her maidenhead.

Tourneys were a time of celebration for her.

There was something to be said about the romance of watching men ask women for favors and fight with all the might and grace that they possess. She had often dreamed that a dashing knight or a courteous prince would perhaps approach her for her favor, and then perhaps crown her Queen of Love and Beauty. If she was lucky, the man would court her too.

The man she married was the antithesis of all that she hoped a tourney would bring.

Her husband was not a bad man by any means– no. He was a good and respectful husband, slightly removed and isolated for her outward nature, but she did not mind. There were worse men to be married to, and even if he never went out of his way to be there for her, he certainly treated her well when they were in each other’s presence.

She tried with him, Gods bless her. 

She would try to catch his eye at the supper table, or watch him train in hopes that he would meet her watchful gaze once or twice. She would watch in a sleepy haze as he woke early in the morn, long before she had the strength or consciousness to wish him a good day, hoping he would turn to do the same. He never did.

More often than not, a curt nod and a wavering glance was all she’d get.  Still there were brief, hopeful moments that kept her active in her pursuit to build a friendship with her husband.

She would have done something absolutely obnoxious— acts that would have him sneering if it was someone else– and she’d see it. That little hint of a smile, waiting to bubble through the surface, just by the corner of his pink lips, that she would have missed if she blinked. Each time there was a tenuous beginning of a hesitant smile, she felt a tiny sliver of hope.

He was not so intimidating to her now as he was in the initial days of their union– no. In a little corner of her mind, she acknowledged that fact– that is what helped her find his hand and hold it tight in nervousness, before she could even comprehend the intimacy of the act.

The knight who had just taken a harsh tumble from his horse was carried away by servants, with his head beaten bloody and hands hanging limp by his side. If she did not know better, she would have thought him dead.

The champion then raised his hands up in victory. Thunderous clapping sounds overshadowed all else around her, but she could not bring herself to join. She was still stunned by how the other knight had fallen, and was yet to let go of Aemond’s hand.

She felt the bile rise in her throat, so she brought her other hand to her chest and bowed her head down, a feeble attempt at keeping the vomit at bay. It was awhile until she managed to catch her breath again, and by then the celebrations had moved on from celebrating the champion to the crowning of his Queen of Love and Beauty.

The eldest Lady Baratheon smiled coyly as she received the wreath of winter roses, followed by a chaste kiss to her cheek. The crowd gasped at how brazen the act was, with neither of them being married, but the high of winning makes men do the most peculiar things, she supposed. In the back of her mind, regardless of how uneasy she felt, she wished– desperately. 

How she wished it was her. 

A childish fantasy really. What was a publicly gifted crown of flowers worth in the face of what she had? She was a Princess of the realm now, married to a skilled dragonrider from a family of illustrious history and blood. Any children they may have will be immortalized in the annals.  Nothing. A crown of flowers was worth nothing when compared to what she had– or at least, that is what she would tell herself.

And yet, she craved the romance. She had always enjoyed the idea of being loved and cherished. Her husband respected her, and if she was feeling bold, she’d say he liked her– but he certainly did not love her. That much she was certain of. When she naively wished that he’d crown her, she asked if he was going to enter the lists. He had sharply turned so quickly that she feared she had angered him.

“I don’t give a sh…” He had sighed before speaking again, as though he felt tested. “I do not care for tourneys.” The sharpness in his voice had hurt her, and she did not speak of it again.

Their marriage was a decent one– but it held none of the love she hoped to have, despite all her attempts.

Did he find her so disagreeable?

All of a sudden, his hand felt cold to the touch and she let go of him like he burned her. The heat came back to her hand just as it showed on her cheeks, and his had turned cold from having lost her touch so abruptly.

“I’d like to get some fresh air, husband,” she said, and rose before he could even ask if she needed him to accompany her.

Her quick walk took her to the tent where the court ladies had been sitting, and she had stepped in right in time to hear them gossip– about her husband.

“Well he must keep it on while they… you know! It can be jarring to look at, I’m sure it is!”

“It must be terrible to see it up close all the time. I can hardly look at him from across the chamber!”

He is certainly unnerving. It does make you wonder though, do you think they actually…” the woman lowered her voice to match the vulgarity that was to follow. “Do you think they actually fuck? She cannot possibly want to, and she is not with child either…”

“Well, does it really matter if she wants to? He’s a Prince, and her husband. He’ll take his pleasure regardless.”

Regardless of where she and her husband stood, she would not stand for their marriage to become fodder for court gossip. If she stayed quiet for any longer while these empty-headed women berated her husband, she would be insulting him herself.

“Might I ask what is so amusing?”  she said with sharp eyes and a tilted head. The sweat on their faces upon her arrival was apparent, and so was their nervousness.

“My Lady, we were just–”

“Princess,” she corrected.

“Yes of course, Princess. We were just–”

“Making presumptions about my marriage?” 

“No… we just…”

“Don’t deny it,” she seethed, anger looking completely foreign on a soft, comely face like hers. Her nostrils flared and her nose went red in her current state, but there was no way she could stop now. 

“The next time you feel the need to comment on such matters , perhaps you will all learn to remind yourself that he is a Prince of the realm and I am his wife! There will be suitable punishment, and you will all be dismissed from court at my pleasure, disgraced and husbandless. Now, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Her words were cutting and sharp, and they had the younger ladies bowing their heads in fear almost immediately.

“I’ll have you all know that unlike the other men of the court, Prince Aemond’s scar came to him along with the largest dragon in the world. His bravery only makes him more handsome to me.”

She then fixed her attention onto the married lady of the bunch and delivered a questionable blow that she would certainly feel bad about later. “If you’ve been led to believe that the man takes his pleasure from his wife even if she does not want to, then perhaps your marriage is a lot worse than I thought. Your husband must have no regard for your wants, unlike mine. And for that, I am truly sorry.”

She did not wait for them to respond as she gathered her skirts and walked out of the tent, feeling largely annoyed and satisfied to an extent. But as she began her walk back, the fear of news of her anger reaching her husband hit her like a harsh and heavy wave.

Would he call her insolent and disgraceful? Has she damaged her marriage more than it already has been?

She did not have to wait long for her answer, for Aemond had been just a few steps behind her, watching the entire scene unfold. The angry flush on her face left her as quickly as it had come, replaced by a skittish nervousness that led to her shuffling her feet as she stood before him, at a complete loss for words.

She swallowed the spit gathering in her mouth, throat bobbing as her head remained facing down to the floor, awaiting a scolding from him for her absolutely inexcusable behavior; her husband was a man who knew his courtesies, after all. He could not possibly be happy with how she carried herself and disappointed him.

“You do not look well. Let me walk you to our chambers,” was all he said before he led her away with a hand on the small of her back.

She remained worried that he was perhaps leading them to privacy and silence so he could punish her while being undisturbed. She could not have been farther from the truth.

She expected him to scream at her, forget all the courtesy that he had shown her and throw his words at her without care. What she was not prepared for, was for him to hold her chin between his thumb and index fingers, pulling her face up to meet his.

He curiously inspected her, almost as though her little show of anger thoroughly amused him. She would not be surprised if it did– she had never been so outward in her anger in the two months that they had been married; this was a completely new side to her that he was now privy to.

“What was that, wife?” His words were measured and cut. 

“They…” She was stunned to find that, despite her tongue becoming loose in moments of anger,  it was hard for her to speak right now. So, she chose to gulp once more and tried to look someplace else. The uncertainty in his sharp, one-eyed violet gaze was becoming too much for her to bear– but Aemond did not give up easily. He kept her head held in place as she desperately waited for the words to come to her.

“They were being crude, and insulting you.”

He looked at her for a moment, his sharp gaze refusing to waver as the sunlight pierced through the glass windows of their chamber. He then let go of her, and handed her a goblet of wine to calm her clearly unsteady senses. He watched as she took little sips from the chalice, the restless turning of the wheels in his mind apparent on his face. 

Soon after, he made up a sham of a reason about having to leave when the cheering crowds became louder and louder. She nodded and continued to sip, completely oblivious to the change of heart that her husband was having as she wondered why he brought her back to their bed.

She did not know the thoughts that now ran fast and surely in his mind. She did not know that he thought his eye had cost him a chance at a happy marriage with her. She had no idea of knowing how conflicted he felt at the new realization, for his sculpted face gave nothing away.

He turned to face her with a hand on the door.  “Thank you,” he mumbled.

She nodded and smiled meekly while he stalked back to the festivities.

He held his hands tightly behind him as he tried to make sense of how light his heart felt in comparison to the rest of him. 

Back in the chamber, she blushed. For all her worry that he may have been disappointed, she had been completely floored by how he had responded– he was thankful. She berated herself for not considering the possibility– and smiled at the realization that for all her husband’s prowess as a warrior, in times like these,  he needed a champion too. 

That night, Aemond burned the midnight oil while reading in the library, trying to still his racing heart and make sense of how it leapt at newfound thoughts of his little wife. 

Across the Holdfast, in the soft candlelight of their shared chambers, she sat on her husband’s dear chair, looking at her handiwork– an embroidered silk tourney favor, with a little rose.

Her husband may not care for tourneys, but making the favor allowed her the luxury of thinking that should the possibility of him willingly entering the lists come around, he would do so with her gift on his lance. Mayhaps he would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty too– the thought makes her blush.

She would give it to him should he ever choose to partake someday. Until then, it would be safely hidden away in her shelves, amidst her gowns and other possessions.

Flowers have came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the second flower that was intended for him– despite the fact that she was yet to give it to him– came to him on the day of the the twins’ name day tourney, in the form of a rose, embroidered onto a tourney favor. 

They have come to enjoy each other's company.

Her coming to his defense while expecting nothing in return had lit a fire in Aemond that he could not seem to quell. What he believed she had rejected him over, she had actually taken to being proud of. What he had believed was his one big, obvious and visible fatal flaw, was something that she had taken to holding in high regard.

I’ll have you lot know that unlike the other men of the court, his scar came to him along with the largest dragon in the world. And his bravery only makes him more handsome to me.

Her words rang in his mind like the definite tolling of the Great Bell at the Royal Sept. With each chime, her assertiveness on the matter came back to linger in his thoughts, he had fallen for her – bit by bit. 

Feelings had always been a conundrum to Aemond, one that he did not entirely understand or even want to. But now, with a wife who warmed him and his heart slowly but surely, with her lovely smiles and nervous face, he found that he would like some certainty in the face of all that was uncertain in his heart.

He did not know if he loved her just yet. But what he did know was that, at the pace that she had set for them, it may be a very short while before he does. His wife. His wife, his wife, his wife. 

His, his, his.

Coming to terms with having a wife that actually desired his company– and him, surprisingly enough– had spurned his attempts to bring some sort of intimacy to their marriage. Gods knew that she had tried, only to be rebuffed rudely by him in the initial days of their marriage. It was a time that he now felt deep regret and shame for, one that he would not rest until he had made right. 

He needed her to see that he wanted to try.

He did not know how to be the charming prince from a bard’s songs. He did not know how to make women laugh like Aegon; be as sweet and kind as Helaena; or as chivalrous and perfect as Daeron. 

But what he did know was respect. Aemond understood respect as something that was earned by everyone around him, but to his wife, it should have been unconditional. It should have come to her the day he had cloaked her and made her his– but it did not. Now, he intended to make it right.

He needed her to see that he wanted to try– which is how he found himself with her on his arm, as they walked hand in hand through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast towards their chambers. Ah yes, hand in hand. Another one of the little joys that he savored like it was his last day alive. 

Their initially cold marriage had also been fueled by his blatant refusal to simply be near her, much less touch her. Why would she have wanted to be touched by a one-eyed monster, such as the likes of him? 

But the moment he realized that she did not consider him so– not in the least– led to a warmth seeping through his blood, making him crave her so much that his heart hurt. If she did not mind it, why must he not exercise his liberties? And if there was some joy to be derived from it, why would they not want to indulge?

And so he had begun. A stolen touch here, a featherlight graze there. 

His huge, calloused hand, seemed to be always holding her dainty one as he accompanied her throughout their time in the castle; on the small of her back as they maneuvered through feasts and dances; around her waist as they closed the distance between each other in their sleep, with her back to his chest; clutching onto her thigh to keep her in place for when she turned around and draped her tiny leg upon his waist.

His hands, all over her.

It was not just these fleeting, quick touches that Aemond had grown to enjoy. With their bond growing stronger with each passing moment, he had realized that their marital duties were simply not duties anymore. They had gone from believing that the other had tolerated their presence, to trying their level best so that the other would know how much they desired them. The growth of their marriage was evident in how their carnal indulgences had evolved.

Where he had held himself to hover over her so as to not facilitate any unnecessary touches, he had now taken to covering her entire being with his own. His hands around her hip as he pounded into her; her hands on his chest as the tip of her fingers grazed and pinched at his nipples. His hands in her hair as he mouthed at her heaving breast; her hands around him as she held onto him as tightly as she could, never wanting to let him go. His hands on her cunt as he drew peak after peak from her before thrusting himself into her; her hands around his cock as she pumped him before impaling herself by straddling him, just the way he liked. 

Their sounds of pleasure had been held back and muffled in the beginning, but now they were uninhibited sounds taken by the wind, made with the intent of being heard and making desires known.  

Oh yes, their marriage had grown. 

This is what Aemond had been pondering as he led her through, with servants making their way for the young prince and princess as she held onto her husband with one hand, and a piece of rolled parchment and some charcoal on the other. He enjoyed their touches now, and it made his heart soar that he did not have to doubt her want for him either. 

Yes, they could make something out of this.

“How was your time in the gardens, wife?” It made him happy that with the growth of their marriage, she had taken to exercising her liberties. So, when she had come to him requesting charcoal and bound parchment so she could begin drawing again, he was only happy to oblige. 

“Good. I managed to sit and watch the flowers flit about in the wind for a time, and I drew a bit as well. Then the court ladies came to join me as they…”

Aemond listened to his wife as he sat himself on his chair by the hearth, most intently, and with the utmost concentration that he could muster. He could not bring himself to make selfless romantic declarations of love, or speak to her more than he was able. But he could listen, and that is what he would do. 

Not a word unheard, not a moment missed. He needed her to see that he wanted to try.

She prattled on and on about her day, and how the court ladies had gossiped about each other when they thought the other wasn’t listening. He listened to the way her voice heightened when her recollections were happy, and he noted the way she frowned when she was in disapproval. He observed how her eyes widened at shocking narrations, and how her hands seemed to move like they had a life of their own. 

He kept observing, losing himself in his newfound knowledge of her, her, her… and it was not until she stood close to him, her body slotted between his legs as she held her hands behind her back that he realized she had stopped speaking.

“Go on.”

He did not expect to be given something, not when his name day had just passed. But that is exactly what happened. 

“For you,” she said. With her raised eyebrows and coy smile, she managed to place  a parchment roll into his hand. Aemond made note of how her head faced down and her feet shuffled as she stood in wait for his approval.

He unrolled the parchment, careful to not cause even a stray tear at the edges. His eyes raked over the drawing, one of clear skill and years of training of the highest level– one befitting a lady.

“I shall treasure it, thank you.” 

She smiled at his acceptance, and he nodded. He was not a smiling man, but he hoped that she knew how much he appreciated these gestures. He hoped that their marriage had grown enough for her to notice his quirks, just as he had made note of hers.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the third flower that she had given him was a charcoal sketch of a rose, into which she had poured her heart and soul.

As the days passed, their mornings became brighter.

While she had hoped that the initial days of their marriage would have some semblance of love, and if not, at least affection to some extent, her hopes had been quickly dashed with the closed off and curt behavior that her husband seemed to have made his own. Neither did he ever wish her a good morrow upon sunrise, nor did he kiss her goodnight like in the songs.

But now, there was more.

Where there was coldness, there was now warmth. It was not heat, not like wildfire, no– it was warmth, like from the calm blaze of their hearth. She might not have awoken to a smile, no– her husband was not a smiling man– but she always woke to an arm snaked over her breasts, pressing into her. Where there was distance, oceans between them, there was now a shared intimacy, one that they had both been quietly happy about. She was not put to sleep with a kiss, but whenever she slept on the chaise waiting for him to arrive, he now ensured that she was put into comfortable clothes and carried to their bed with care. 

He may not have cared for her in the beginning, but she knew he did now. Her husband was not a romantic man, but his small gestures were enough to make her feel happy and content.

The shift in their dynamic was not just visible in their daytime activities, but in the passions of their marriage bed as well. On the first night that they had coupled, he had been careful, experimental, doubtful. But as the days went by, he had become surer, rougher… insatiable.

She enjoyed this new side to him. She enjoyed being the woman that belonged to a fierce prince, the one that he so clearly desired. She enjoyed being held by him as he moved her up and down his cock, his head buried in her breasts as he breathed in the heady smell of sweat and sex. She enjoyed being impaled by him, her small body being split into two, all while having him whisper words of appreciation in her ears. 

My little wife, my little flower. Made for me… only for me, he would say. Tell me who this cunt belongs to, he would growl, hands slapping her little nub over and over until she caught her breath, found her voice again and appeased him.

You! Gods… to you, my prince, she would whine, holding his hand in place, hoping he would fuck her with his fingers once more, just the way she liked.

It came as no surprise to her that ever since they had become welcome to each other’s affections, they had been a lot more active in their marriage bed– so much so that the lewd moans and loud curses had become court gossip.

When she had addressed the matter with him once soon after they had fucked, Aemond had smiled, albeit darkly– the only kind of smile that suited him. Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep, he had said. His insinuation that she was now a dragon too, all while his warm breath fanned her neck and his large hands squeezed her backside, was all she needed to quell her worries.

And of course, as was the natural order of these things, she was now with child.

She had been overjoyed when she had found out, and a tad relieved too. The court ladies whispering about her womb was not something she appreciated– their assumptions about her being barren, even less. So when she found out, she insisted that she be the one to break the news to her husband– her time as an expectant mother would never completely be her own, given the station she had now married into. 

But this, this moment could be hers and his. It would be theirs alone.

And so, she sat in wait at the training grounds, watching him as he expertly maneuvered his sword and slashed at his mentor, Ser Cole. Dodge, lunge, slash. Dodge, lunge, slash. Dodge, lunge–

Ser Cole had bested him, having noticed the predictability in his movements. Aemond of course, being the headstrong man that he was, refused to give up. The anger in his face at being won over in a fight did not escape her, and she would be lying if she said it did not awaken desire in her once more. Before she could think further however, one of the lords in the audience had piped up. 

“Perhaps the Prince would benefit from a token of luck from his dear lady wife!” He said, and the watching crowd around them seemed to agree as they cheered and whistled. Aemond was flummoxed, not knowing how to cope with being faced with the topic of his wife while in the middle of a fight. It was only then that he noticed her, red-faced and smiling as she was– before he could say anything, she had taken the lead.

“I’m afraid I’ve come empty handed, my lord. I’ve nothing to offer him right now!” She quipped with a smile. It had warmed him to know that she was jovial enough for the two of them, allowing him the luxury of staying quiet as she became his champion during situations like these.

“Ah well, he knows you’re here now, Princess! If that does not add to his fire, I do not know what will!”

Perhaps it was her presence, or it was his own prowess as a swordsman. But Aemond was quick to come through this time around. The crowds cheered for their Prince, and so did the man who had taught him to be all that he was.

“Well met, my prince,” Ser Cole said. He patted her dragon prince on his shoulder and walked over to where the swords were arranged. Aemond quickly followed in reverence to his teacher, one that he did not freely give to most. Soon after, the crowds had dispersed, and she watched as his slender, tall form stalk towards her.

“Since when do you frequent the training grounds, wife?”

“Can a wife not seek her husband out when she wants to?” 

She could not have imagined rhetorics like these tumbling out of her mouth in the initial days of their union. But they were now closer than they had ever been, and she had discovered that it would not hurt to take initiative, especially given how quiet of a man her husband could be.

He was not the charming prince from the books or the songs, but she certainly loved who he was– inquisitive, considerate and respectful.

“Hm. Perhaps.”

Their walk back to their apartments was a slow and quiet one, with her knowing that he preferred his moments of quiet soon after his training. They soon settled into the solar, with the food spread out for them to break their fast.

As was his habit, Aemond stripped himself of his clothes as she checked the water in the tub with the tips of her fingers, water rippling as her hands moved. He was quick to step in and let his hands rest on either side of the tub, his legs ramrod straight but slowly loosening up as she ran a washcloth over him with a gentle softness that is most unlike him.

Her hands glided over his chest, arms and he caught hold of her when her hands moved to clean his neck, beckoning her to come closer. “My dutiful little flower, hm? Come to assist her husband and answer his every beck and call.”

“I am nothing, if not dutiful.” She said, playful smile teasing him as her breasts threatened to spill out of the neckline of her dress– causing his cock to half-harden at the sight. She kissed his cheek and set the washcloth down, hands traveling to his alabaster hair as she ran her fingers through it, allowing her wet hands to trudge through. When she was done, he was quick to pull at her hand from his side, causing her to bend to meet him, eyes to eye.

“You have a council meeting to get to, husband. Now is not the time.” 

She knew very well what he wanted. It was what she wanted too– which is precisely why her own protests meant absolutely nothing to her as she gave in, dress riding up to her thighs and billowing wet in the water as she straddled him. Her cunt was already soaked for him, and he was hot and ready from all the energies that training seemed to have put into him. She rocked her hips forward and backward, adjusting to his girth, while sighing and breathing at the feeling of having him in her. It did not matter how many times he’d taken her, she would never get used to feeling so full. 

Soon enough, he had her held harshly by her waist in a bruising grip, his teeth nibbling at her sensitive nipples as he moved her up and down, up and down, up and down. The water crashed out of the tub like waves crashing onto shore and she was quick to fall apart in a mix of pain and pleasure, moaning his name in her broken voice, followed by a silent scream. His release followed soon after, cock twitching in her as he drew her closer, closer and closer still. When she felt his cock soften after a time, she got up and he let her, following close behind. 

“You fought well today, husband.” She said, in a feeble attempt to coerce a conversation from him as they sat at the table. He was a man of silence, and she was not. He did not prefer it, but she would try anyway - because there were times when he indulged her.

“Hm. Thank you.”

The smell of cut fruit was intoxicating to her, more so than usual. She had heard of women craving peculiar kinds of food during their time as expectant mothers, so she supposed that this may have to do with the little dragon that she now grew in her belly. The rest of their time eating moved in a swift silence– a comfortable one. The only sounds they heard were of the servants in the corridors and the birds chirping from out the window.

When they finished, the trays were taken away and he got up, ready to leave to sit in on the council meeting that his grandfather had called him for. He was halfway out the door after nodding to her when she took his hand, and he stopped.

Her hands held onto his as tightly as they could, and she was skittish as she continued to look down at the floor. By now, he knew her quirks well enough to know that she did that only when she wanted to say something.

“Go on.” He urged her as his other hand reached for her too.

She drew in a sharp breath as she bit her lip. “I… I am with child, husband.”

She did not know what to expect from him of her news– but his silent sigh and slight smile as his hands reached down to cover her belly in his hold is enough of a reaction. “Thank you,” he said, his gratitude and happiness made obvious– to her, even if not to anyone else. She did nothing but smile as his forehead met hers in a soft touch– their touches were always passionate and rough while in the privacy of their chambers, so it was peculiar for her to be treated this way. She found that she enjoyed it, just as much as she enjoyed being roughly handled by him.

She then stretched the fingers of one hand, revealing a little silk patch, a little tourney favor with a rose stitched on it. A flower, from his little flower.

“I know you do not prefer tourneys, but… it is my hope that you would at least keep it with you while you train.”

His hands ran over the soft silk, fingers tracing the intricate patterns that she had clearly taken her time with. He was quick to smoothen it out and pocket it, following it with a kiss to her lips. 

“Thank you, for everything.” 

The favor was only meant for the training grounds. But a week later, when she found it peeking out of his pocket while they walked around the gardens, she smiled. Soon, she found out that he kept it with him all day.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the fourth flower that she gave to him, came to him in the form of a favor with an embroidered rose, one that he kept on his person at all times.

There was something to be said about the comforts of silence.

Her husband was not a smiling man, nor was he an ardent conversationalist. Being a woman who leaned towards being both, she had begun their marriage with the intent of treading lightly, lest she annoy him or risk having him dismiss her halfway through. And she did try; Gods knew that she did. 

Royal marriages were a sacred duty– those held in its sanctity would have to hold themselves to a higher standard, no matter how much it hurt them. With that being said, she was eternally thankful for Aemond understanding her preferences and trying to meet her halfway. She had been prepared for a man who would coldly dismiss her and her wants, but she had not been prepared for one that would actually want her.

One of the greatest pains of being born a noblewoman, she supposed, was that happiness in itself, was a privilege– one that she wished was not as such. She wished for it to be an easy thing to have, and as such, understood that she had been blessed with a quiet and peaceful marriage - one that did not take from her more than she was willing to give. It did not matter how many times she thought it over– she never failed to be as grateful as she was at the first realization, many moons ago. 

These were her thoughts as she accompanied her husband in the library. Aemond sat opposite her, on the other side of the table with his finger running over the texts of the Summer and Winter Annals, deeply engaged in the knowledge that the book had to offer on the now lost Kingdom of Sarnor, once a famed trade partner of Valyria. 

The fresh assortment of flowers lay haphazardly on her side of the bench, while she worked towards entwining them all onto the coir to make a crown. She often stole a glance at her husband as she repeatedly adjusted herself on her seat, one that was bigger than her usual one - to accommodate her, and the babe that she now carries. 

An heir, a royal heir. There is dragon blood in you now, he had said. 

She felt it, what with her babe’s constant reminders - boy or girl, the kicks were hard and swift, and it never failed to take her by surprise.

Aemond was a very fast reader, she gathered. His pages turned a lot faster than hers did, and his eyes never stuck to one part of the parchment for long - they flitted about and were restless, aiding him in his desire to learn as much as he can in the least amount of time. They have been married for half a year by now, and yet she manages to learn something new about him every day.

Her deft fingers worked through the stems of the flowers, piercing the sharp ends of the coir through them. In and out, in and out, in and out, she went - establishing a pattern that she ended up memorizing, whether she was cognizant of it or not.

Aemond stood up as he noticed a guard waiting near the doors, summoning him on behalf of the King. Her crown was now completely done, and she admired her handiwork as she twirled it in her finger and smiled. Aemond was now speaking to the guard as she ran the tip of her fingers over the petals. She brought it closer to her nose to smell them - the flowers were not as fragrant as they were once before, but there was a faint scent that she adored. 

He nodded, and she could not help but smile again as he approached her. It struck her harder with each moment, how the Gods had blessed her with him - him with his infinite knowledge, calm disposition and otherworldly beauty. She wondered if the babe she carried would look like him - she hopes, hopes and hopes that they would.

He took the crown of flowers in his hands and handled it with the same care that she put into making it. It looked thoroughly out of place, yet so at home in his hands - much like herself.

A mildly happy lift at the edge of his lips caused a sharp dimple - one that made him look harsh, content and menacing at the same time. She may have wished for a Prince from the songs all the moons ago - but right now, she could not help but think that she had been blessed with someone greater, even if she knew that he did not believe it himself. 

He placed the crown atop her head, crowning her. She remembered wishing he would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty at the twins’ name day tourney - but at this moment, as his fingers glided over her smooth hair to set the crown of white roses into place, she was happier than she could have ever been at any tourney.

“Escort the Princess safely to our chambers,” he ordered, after rubbing her growing stomach and giving her a kiss on her temple before going to meet the King. She stood slowly, and noticed that one unused and withering flower had been left behind. The air from outside the castle gushed through the windows, and it was purely by instinct that she grabbed it by the stem and placed it inside the pages of Aemond’s book before the pages flew - so it would be marked and he could begin where he left off if he so wished.

Long after her exit, Aemond came back to his bench after finishing his meeting with the King. He noticed the protruding stem, and he could not help but feel the warmth coarse through his chest as he opened the tome and found the withering flower pressed inside.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the fifth flower that she gave to him came to him in the form of a dried rose, one that he kept tucked safely inside his favorite book.

It was moments like these that made Aemond believe in anyone but himself.

Being able to love someone blindly was not a gift that Aemond ever found himself capable of giving. Ever since the loss of his eye, he had grown to be full of spite and resentment, believing that having his dragon was enough to make the loss of company around him worthwhile. Nobody knew how to speak to him anymore– how does one comfort a boy who could only see half the world around him?

And then, she came to him. His wife.

With her free smiles and open heart, she had made her way through into the center of his. He found that he preferred her there, where she belonged. She had made her home in his heart, and he marveled at how despite not matching up to her in any way that mattered, she had found it in herself to allow him to take shelter in hers.

It brought him shame to think of how they could have fallen in love much sooner if he had been open to her affections and not been so wrapped up in his own presumed fallacies. But with time, he learned that in a world where marriages remained cold until the bitter end, a late bloom of happiness was a gift that he should learn to treasure.

It is a girl. Do not ask me why I believe so, husband. I simply do, she had said.

The tomes say a bigger belly is indicative of a boy. I read it, he had countered then.

He stood corrected. Aemond would tell the entire realm that his worldly knowledge did not stand a chance against his wife’s intuition– the little girl he held in his arms was enough support for his claim. 

She slept soundly in his arms as he sat in his chair by the hearth. His wife, tired from her taxing labors, had taken to sleeping through most of the last three days, and he had not left his daughter’s side, not once.

He held her head as his mother carried her for the very first time, eyes shining in joy as she thanked them both for making her a grandmother once more. There were very few things that gave Alicent Hightower joy, and watching her children have babes of their own was one of them.

He rested the tip of his fingers over her smooth and frail silver hair as his grandfather took a good look at her, allowing himself a moment with his guard down. Aemond had not seen his grandfather look at anyone with such  reverence, not unless it was Helaena, Jaehaera or his own mother. And now, Aemond suspected that his grandfather, for all his cold demeanor, did have a soft corner in his heart for the women of his life.

He had towered over the crib as the twins took turns gawking at her, after spending hours begging to see their new cousin. Aemond brought them after they promised to not make too much noise– both mother and daughter were fast asleep. Jaehaera had asked him if she could braid her hair when she grew some, and Jaehaerys poked at the new babe's nose (her mother's nose) with his thumb in curiosity. Aemond laughed, for he was intrigued by her too– only, it was better contained.

He held her tightly to his chest with his hand over her head as Aegon came to meet his newborn niece– completely sober and bathed, upon Aemond’s threats of murder if he came anywhere near his babe with his foulness. He smiled as he dropped the little dragon toy in her crib, looking over at the exhausted mother who could barely keep her eyes open. Aemond’s one eye followed his brother’s then, and visibly softened at the sight of his wife. Aegon laughed and quipped, “I never thought I’d say this brother, but I suppose you do wear the lovestruck look well.”

He had rocked her in silence as Helaena cooed at her, elated at the thought of becoming an aunt to a niece. This family is in dire need of more women, she had mumbled absentmindedly once. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered and Aemond enthusiastically agreed. 

She is beautiful, and she is his. His own daughter, given to him by his own wife.

In the nights, when he was left alone with the women around whom his entire world now revolved, Aemond let tranquility take him. And it was in moments like these, that he learned to love them both with all that he had– blindly, and unconditionally. 

It was in moments like these, that he learned to believe.

Flowers have come to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the sixth flower that she gave to him, came to him in the form of his little daughter. A little flower, from his flower.

The flowers kept coming to him throughout the many years that followed, and he valued every one of them– for they had all come from her, and they were all a part of her.

His flower. His wife. His very own.

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MASTERLIST

[cosmoeticss]

Haven’t I Been Good to You? | Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!Reader (18+)

my masterlist

Words: 2K

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Neice!Pregnant!Reader

Warnings: 18+ (minors dni), good old fashioned targcest, p n v, overall bad writing because I haven’t properly written in so long

Note: Reader is Rhaenyra’s heir/eldest daughter and the argument takes place after the dinner scene. I tried not to use any physical descriptors but those gorgeous targaryen platinum locks so I hope thats okay and you enjoy. Literally crawling in my skin right now because I’m about to post this, existing is an embarrassment, if you see this ily thank you for reading.

part two

Aemond was anything but cooled off when he returned to his marital chambers that night. He bound into the room, his displeasure from the night clear in his body language and his labored breathing. His wife sat stoically in front of her vanity, clad in only her night dress as she combed through the length of her silky, silver curls.

Aemond stared her down in disbelief as she barely acknowledged him. How could she honestly be angry with him? It was her bastard brothers who started the disagreement, who started the rivalry to begin with, who teased him their whole childhood and took his eye that fateful night on Driftmark. And here she sat, his wife, shoulders back and proud and angry with him.

Gods, she was beautiful when she was angry. If he didn't know her so well he wouldn't be able to tell. She was so serene and regal and surprisingly calm when she was upset. He often thought of how opposite they were in that sense. He thought of how hot tempered and quick to snap he was, and how she thought everything through before it slipped from her pretty lips. He envied this about her, and yet it was what he had loved most about her as well.

Aemond couldn't help it. He broke first. "Where are the children?" He inquired, steadying himself to the best of his ability.

She hardly gave him the time of day as she answered, her eyes not leaving her own reflection. "I've settled them into bed,” she said.

The Prince furrowed his brow. "Did you not think that I would wish to bid goodnight to my sons?"

"The hour is late. They've had their fill of excitement for the day, Husband."

Husband. Not her usual 'my dearest love,' not 'my darling.' He was in trouble far more than what he had bargained for. He eyed her in disbelief. "You're truly taking their side?"

She finally turned then, vast (e/c) eyes meeting his violet one. "There is no side to be taken, Aemond,” he hated her formality when they argued, "We are a family. We're supposed to be on the same side. Did you see how pleased the poor King was to see everyone finally getting along? Our mothers finally found some common ground after all of these years and yet you ruined an otherwise pleasant night with your wounded pride."

"My wounded pride?" he spat harshly, raising his voice at her. "Did you not see the way your beloved brother laughed as they sat a roasted pig in front of me? Or have you forgotten the torment I was subject to as a child? What do you expect to me to do, (Y/N)?"

She stood then, the silk of her long night dress accentuating her rounded stomach. "You are to be the Royal Consort one day, you will be King!" she scolded him sternly, silencing him. "I expect you to be the bigger person. I expect you to act with dignity and not meet the teasing of a child with the ferocity that you did tonight!"

Aemond softened at this, turning away from her to face the burning embers of the hearth. He did not retaliate, only moving to sit in a chair placed in front of it. He gripped the arms of the seat trying to calm himself, breathing deeply.

His wife watched him carefully. "It is not fair. I know it isn't," she swallowed, her eyes glazed over as she did. "I know that it angers you that I love my family after all my brothers have done to you, after what Lucerys has taken from you and I am sorry, Aemond. I truly am."

He was silent still, eye glued to the flames before him as if they were the most important thing in the room. "I cannot keep atoning for crimes I did not commit," her voice was almost pleading as she stepped closer to him then, slowly, testing the water carefully. When he did not retaliate,  she kneeled on the floor in front of him. "I know that you would not have chosen me to wed on our own, dear husband."

Her hands reached out to take his, and he allowed it, watching down the bridge of his nose as his wife gently held his hands in her small ones and brought them both to her lips, kissing them tenderly and repeatedly. "We have been honest and good to each other in these near seven years as man and wife, though," she stated, eyes wide and pleading as she rested her chin on his knee. "Have I not been a good to you?"

"You have," Aemond's voice cracked, his eyes fluttering shut at her soft inquisition. He breathed deeply, removing one of his hands from hers and carding it through her beautiful hair. “My love.”

"I have given you my body, mind, and soul. I have given you my virtue, and my fidelity. My heart has only ever belonged to you," she whispered as her husbands tensity began to dissolve between her nimble fingers and lips. Her soft kisses continuing slowly up his arm. "I have bore you two beautiful, healthy boys. Boys that will be Kings and Warriors one day, and I carry another inside me."

The air was stolen from her as Aemond halted her pecking and surged forward, lifting her swiftly from the stone floor to straddle his lap as if she weighed nothing. She gazed down at him, moving to gently remove her husbands eye patch. He hadn't minded the action for years now, as it was a bother to wear and his pretty wife had never judged his appearance or what he had lost all those years ago. She set the patch on the end table next to them, not taking her eyes off of him as her hands slid up his shoulders and found their home at his jawline. Her thumbs moved in slow circles on his face.

"I have given you power," he whimpered at this, gripping the soft meat of her thighs. "Outside the walls of this chamber you are my equal, and one day we will rule the Seven Kingdoms side by side, however we see fit to."

"Yes," he groaned hoarsely, continuing his kneading at her thighs, sitting up to press his lips to her throat, leaving hot opened mouth kisses down her neck to the swell of her breasts as he detangled the strings of her shift, baring her supple chest to him.

"You would like that wouldn't you, My King?" Aemond growled in agreement, continuing his ravishing as she slipped her fingers to the base of his neck and weaved them into his hair, gripping it tightly. "And in this room, you will rule me as you see fit."

"If that we're true then I would bound you to our bed, little wife," he sank his teeth delicately into the flesh of her breast, tongue swirling against the skin, causing her head to snap back in pleasure and a breathy moan to fall from her lips. "You would never leave these chambers. Who would be left to rule if I'm buried inside this sweet cunt for all of our lives, hmm?"

"You have many years before we are crowned for me to ride you, my dragon. And I plan to mount you morning and night,” she grinding into him, their lips meeting finally in a messy kiss. "Surely you'll tire of bedding me by then."

"Never," he pressed his forehead to hers, their breathing hot as he moved a large slender hand to cover her swollen stomach. "I enjoy no sight more than your belly swollen with our children."

She rutted her hips against his once more, her weeping cunt begging for friction. "Please, my dearest love"

"I wonder how the realm would feel if they knew the truth of their precious Princess?" he smirked as she fucked herself on his covered length. "If they knew how she begged for me each night? How wet she gets without me even having to touch her."

"Aemond, please," she wined.

"You wish to ride your dragon, my Queen?" he began hiking up her night dress to rest on her hips.

She panted at his movements, so tender, so achingly slow and teasing. "Yes," she whimpered.

He cocked his brow at her. "What's stopping you? Claim me then."

She didn't have to be told twice. Her trembling hands moved frantically to the strings of his pants, unfastening them and pulling them down to his thighs. He hissed as she took his length into her hand, stroking it sweetly before he lifted her hips and guided her to sink down on him. Her eyes screwed shut, crying out in pleasure as she adjusted to the size of him. Neither of them moved for a moment, their breathing tense and labored.

Aemond brushed a lock of hair out of his wife's face, her forehead falling to meet his as he cradled her head with his hand. "Alright?"

"Mhm," she hummed needily, bracing herself as her hands dropped to his shoulders. Aemond's free hand moved to cover the swell of her stomach, a lazy grin forming on his lips, before finding it's way to her hips once more, helping to roll them against his. Aemond cursed, his jaw going slack as his wife unraveled above him. Once she found her footing, she picked up her pace, bobbing up and down steadily, her finger nails curling into his shoulders. His hips snapped up to meet hers, and she cried out, his name tumbling from her lips like a prayer. Something came undone in him at the sound, his hands were everywhere then, cupping her full breasts, wrapped around her throat, sinking into her thighs. He was pawing at her like she would disappear if he let go for one second, grunting like a wild animal as he rutted against her.

"So good," he captured her lips in a searing kiss, all tongue and teeth clashing. "So pretty and all mine."

She babbled something nonsensical in appraisal, her heat clenching around his cock as he worshipped her, their movements becoming sloppy as they approached their peak. "I'm so close."

"Say you love me," he demanded, fingers making their way to her pearl as he toyed with it, causing her to squeak at the touch. "Tell me again that you're mine and mine alone."

"Please," she panted, whimpering as he fucked into her relentlessly, hitting her sweet spot with each thrust. "IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou."

Aemond's fingers were torture, slow and taunting. "Say it." "I'm yours," she cried out. "Only yours. Please--"

"Let go," he permitted, following close behind as she toppled over the edge, back arching and eyes rolling back as she was overcome with pleasure. They were still, chests heaving and hot breath mingling as they came down from their shared orgasm. Her nimble fingers tangled into his hair, brushing it away from his sweat soaked neck. He fell back into the chair, pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her. "I would've chosen you," he broke the silence after a long moment. She lifted her head slightly to look him in the eye, confusion evident as if she had not registered what he said. "When you said that you weren't the wife I would have chosen for myself. If I had been presented with a choice, I would've chosen you."

Her gaze softened at the sincerity and raw emotion flickering in his eye. "Then choose me now. Choose our family," she gripped his shirt tightly, pleading with him. "Love me more than you hate them."

Aemond sighed deeply, covering her hands with his. "I do love you. More than anything."

"Then promise you will try." Neither wanted to admit what they both knew, that even if he did, it was too late. The King's health dwindled more and more by the day, and the wounds cut between the Greens and the Blacks were too old and too deep for even their love to heal. The time was coming where they would have to choose. War was looming and their last chance at peace had slipped through their fingers like flowing water. So they didn't, and chose in silence to carry on pretending while they still could.

Aemond cupped her face gently, and pulled her into a soft, sweet kiss. "I promise," he whispered, the sweetest of lies, and he met her lips again in a more fervent kiss.

And she let herself hope, she let her self believe, just a little while longer.

[peterparkersnose]

A Tale of Two Eyes

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

word count: 2.8k

warnings: trauma, mentions of suicide, mentions of Helaemond, toxic marriage, reader has established relationship with Aemond and they have children, reader is pregnant, marriage of convenience, political marriage, arguing, undertones of an abusive relationship, selfish Aemond, hate on the Blacks (love Rhaenyra tho, just for the story themes)

a/n woah I wrote?!?! Happy birthday Ewan ily mwah

summary Aemond's son and heir just met the same fate as he did all those years ago with Lucerys.

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read time: 10 mins 11 seconds

That afternoon was a blur. Everything for Y/N has moved so quickly, yet so slowly at the same time. She had asked Ser Criston to fetch her sons, ten-year-old Daeron and six-year-old Aerion, for dinner. They had been playing out in the courtyard for a few hours. She had her three-year-old daughter, Visenya, sat and prepared to feast for the evening meal. Visenya wiggled in her seat, anxious for her brothers to join her to feast. The morning was rough on Y/N, as she was currently seven months pregnant with her fourth child with Aemond. Visenya had been a terror as well, as she has now taken to escaping her caretakers and seeking out Y/N specifically. Y/N was speaking to Visenya, trying to distract her from her hungry stomach and practicing her vowels when her mother-in-law, Alicent, came rushing into the dining room. The Dowager Queen looked frantic as she quickly came to Y/N’s side. 

“It’s Daeron,” she spoke, out of breath. “Daeron?” Y/N asked. Alicent motioned for her to follow her, as she did not want to alarm Visenya. Y/N immediately left Visenya with their nanny and followed her mother-in-law quickly down the castle halls.

“What has happened?” Y/N asked, holding her stomach with one hand and walking as fast as she possibly could. “Aegon and Viserys…” Alicent paused. The names of Rhaenyra’s last two surviving sons. They have always quarreled with her and Aemond’s sons, and now she truly feared the worst. 

“They have taken Daeron’s eye just as Lucerys did to Aemond years ago.”

Y/N abruptly stopped in the hallway, grabbing the wall for guidance.

“Excuse me?” she blinked a few times, angered at her mother-in-law for just dropping this knowledge on her. For the sake of her unborn child, she tried not to let her emotions run rampant.

For her first child, her first son, heir to the Iron Throne, and the beginning of the new Targaryen age has just been permanently maimed or killed. 

Aemond never attended dinners anymore. The man Y/N knew when they were first betrothed was long gone after the results of the dance. Aemond could barely deal with the grief of his siblings, niece, and nephews. Y/N had always speculated a secret love affair with her husband and his now-deceased sister, Helaena, but she never approached the subject. He was never the same after Helaena’s suicide. Aemond had been a broken man since, even though he was living out his dreams. He was now the King. The Blacks were defeated, only leaving Rhaenyra’s two legitimate sons with Daemon, as they were too young to understand the effects of what they were born into. Alicent took them in against her better judgment. 

So now, he sat in his office alone like he did most nights. The candlelight was dim and his wine glass was almost emptied. He sat hunched over letters, writing them to various Lords around Westeros. Aemond often filled his time with work so he could escape the horrors of his true life. It was pitch black outside and pouring now, as it had been hours since dinner was supposed to have happened. He heard a knock on his office door.

“Enter.”

He didn’t expect his wife. He straightened his posture and took off his reading magnifier from the bridge of his nose. He took in her essence. She was beautiful, he had to admit. Their marriage wasn’t ideal, but she had been essential for the success of the Greens in the dance, as their marriage brought House Targaryen together with one of the most powerful houses in Westeros. Aemond took a deep breath.

“My lady wife–”

His words got caught in his throat when he saw the blood on her hands. “Is the child all right?” 

Y/N nodded eagerly to assure him that this wasn’t a complication in her pregnancy. “What has happened? Is someone hurt?” Aemond eagerly asked, standing up from his desk and striding over to her. “I-It’s Daeron…”

“Daeron?” Aemond replied, relief running over him that the issue wasn’t the child. Yet he worried for his heir. Y/N was shaking, Aemond grabbed her hands. “You mustn't freak.” she asked of Aemond. His brows furrowed. “Calm yourself, woman. Explain what happened.” 

“Him and Aerion… got in a scuffle with Aegon and Viserys.”

Aemond’s grip tightened on Y/N’s hands. If it weren’t for the grace of her and Alicent, Aemond would have had those two children’s heads on spikes before they were old enough to realize their parents' crimes. “What prompted the fight?” he asked angrily. Y/N shrugged. “That–that is to be determined. I don’t want you to freak–”

“Do not tell me what to do. What is of Daeron?” he raised his voice to his wife. “He–”

Y/N took a deep breath and paused. She didn’t know how to approach this with her husband correctly and not trigger him from his past. Her hand moved to her husband's cheek, her fingers moving over the strap of his eyepatch slowly. “Do you remember?”

Aemond scoffed.

“Of course, I remember. You don’t need to remind me.” his lips pursed as he closed his remaining eye momentarily and sighed. “Why is this relevant?”

Y/N had no clue how to tell her husband this. She was expecting him to have the same reaction she and Queen Alicent were having. 

“Our son just met the same fate.”

Aemond pondered for a moment, then turned around and brushed Y/N’s hand off his cheek. He returned to his desk. He felt sick, he had to sit down. Aemond didn’t fully understand the situation yet but feared the worst. He was silent for a great moment, hearing a small sniffle coming from his wife brought him back to reality. “What happened to Daeron? Do you mean to tell me he’s lost his eye? Don’t tell me he’s dead…”

“He isn’t. But Viserys scraped it out like Lucerys did to yours.”

Aemond slammed his fist on the desk, making Y/N jump. Aemond seethed in anger, thoughts running rampant in his head. After a long pause, he spoke. “And did you tell my mother yet?”

“She is with him as we speak.” Y/N replied, anxiously waiting to see where her husband's emotions ran at that moment. “Where is Aerion? Is he harmed?” he asked of his spare, who could likely become his heir at any moment. “Aerion is fine just… traumatized. He tried to go after Viserys but Criston pulled him away when he got to the scene.”

Aemond seethed, then suddenly threw his wine goblet to the wall. It smashed and scared Y/N. “Aemond–”

“Send Daeron to my mother’s chambers. Tell her I’ll be along shortly, I have letters to write.”

He didn’t even look up at his wife as he put his spectacle back on. 

“What?” Y/N held her stomach with one hand, the other on her hip. She was confused. “You’re returning to your work?” She didn’t even get another word in before Aemond snapped. “Send Daeron to my mother's room at once!”

She was utterly shocked. How could he? Work? His son needed his father. The only person who could relate and help Daeron through this terrible time in his life… and Aemond chose to work? “Your son needs you!” 

Aemond growled. “I’ll tend to him later. He’s going to survive, and I have work to do.”

Y/N was flabbergasted. 

“You’re the only one who can help him understand. The boy is ten and just lost his eye! That is your son!”

Y/N knew she was fighting in a losing battle. But she had to plead for her son. He had been requesting his father for some time now. Aemond abruptly stood, walking to his door. He didn’t look at her once. “If you think talking to him will do him any good, I’ll do it. I’ll write my letters and come when I can,” he mumbled. When Y/N realized this was the best she was going to get, she decided to leave. As she was exiting the door, the child kicked in her womb roughly. She groaned and Aemond looked up to her, seeing her clutching her stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Y/N said coldly. He watched her exit. She wasn’t expecting another word from him. 

She could hear him before she saw him. Y/N entered Alicent’s chamber to see her son sobbing, clinging to his grandmother. Alicent brushed his hair softly with her fingers, her stare distant. Y/N could tell that Alicent had seen this story before, and she didn’t like the ending. The look of vengeance plagued the middle-aged woman's face. As Daeron heard someone enter the room, he spoke.

“Father?” Y/N’s heart simply broke then. Daeron was truly in a state of shock, he barely paid attention to anything but the throbbing sensation of the worst pain he had ever felt in his life on his face. “No, sweet boy. Your father…” Y/N caught herself. She couldn’t tell her son that his father refused to see him. No. It would simply break his heart and his spirit more than they already were broken. “I could not find him. The guards will notify him shortly when they find him.” Y/N moved to the bed, and Alicent moved so Y/N could comfort her son Daeron. Alicent gave her an honest nod and stepped into the hallway. Y/N embraced her ten-year-old in her arms, and he rested his head on the fleshy part of her arm. He was still holding a rag over his wound, so Y/N took the rag from his hand and switched it with hers so the boy’s arm wouldn’t grow tired. 

“What happened to me, mother?” Daeron spoke softly. He tried to look up at her but failed to do so. Y/N held back tears. “It wasn’t fair, my love. Viserys will pay. I will make sure of it.”

Daeron shook in her arms. “I-I’m scared.” he admitted to her. A sob finally came from the boy again, and he stopped crying when she entered the room. He was trying to stay strong for his mother. He was already showing such promising signs of a good King, even at such a young age.  “What will I do without my eye, mother? Do I still have a future, will the girls still like me? They’ll think I’m gross for sure, I just know of it–”

“My son.” Y/N cut off his rambles. “Of course not. We shall not worry about this now. You are a handsome boy, and already a great warrior.”

“But–” Daeron began again. Y/N shushed him. “No. Shh. You must remember your father has the same wound as you. And is he a great warrior?” 

Daeron nodded. “And is he married?”

Daeron nodded again. “My sweet son, my heir. Do not worry. You will be the greatest Targaryen that ever lived.” Y/N spoke. She moved closer to her son. “Don’t tell your father or siblings I said that,” Y/N whispered, managing a small smile trying to bring some humor to the boy. He desperately needed it. But it quickly faded, as the child inside of her kicked again. 

“Mother?” Daeron asked. Even in his pained state, he cared for his mother. What a good boy she had raised. “Do not worry. The babe is just wild during this time of night.” 

Y/N ran a hand over her son's bloodied hair which had now dried. She held him close until he fell asleep. Aemond never came. 

During the very early hours of that morning, Y/N had failed to find sleep. She paced her shared chambers with Aemond. He had yet to return. She grew angrier and more frustrated by the minute. And finally, as she was re-lighting the candles that should have been blown out hours ago, she heard the door of her chambers click open and then shut. She turned to her husband, who looked cowardly now, with an angered glare. “Where have you been?”

Aemond shrugged. Y/N scoffed. “Do not play this game with me right now.” Y/N approached him, he smelt of dragon sweat and the salty sea. “Did you just take Vhagar for a ride?” 

Aemond sighed. “Yes.”

Y/N couldn’t hold back the angered laugh. “You’re kidding me right now.” Aemond threw his boots from his feet against the wall. “I have my own ways of managing my–”

“Your son has lost an eye. Have you no heart?!” Y/N interrupted him. Aemond seethed silently, pausing. He then threw his jacket on the back of the couch. “I will see him in the morning.” Aemond answered tiredly. Y/N stared at him in shock. “I have no words for you.” 

Aemond ignored his wife, moving to the closet. He changed into his nightly gown and his robe. He tried to get into bed, but Y/N was already sitting on the bed when he returned. “No. Not tonight.” she said sternly. Aemond scowled. “And why not?” Aemond asked with a sharp tongue. He was almost at his breaking point with her. Couldn’t she not understand his duties? His trauma from his past? How selfish of her… 

“Why not?!” Y/N yelled “Your son has just been maimed for life and you refuse to see him! What kind of father are you?” This statement set Aemond off. All the anger, hurt, and hatred boiled over within him. He tried to keep it in for the sake that he did truly love his wife, but she failed to understand him over the years like this. Aemond took a deep breath. “Don’t you get it? I have been struggling for fucking years! Do you think I want to see my son, bloodied and broken as I once was at his age? No, you daft woman! I wish to be alone. You are incessantly bothering me and I am sick and tired of it!” he lashed out at his wife. Y/N sat in bed, tensed at his words. She didn’t know how to reply. The realization that the reason Aemond didn’t visit their son sank in; he simply did not know how to. “I cannot look at the mirror of my old self in him! For Gods sakes, he already is a copy of me! Now with this…” 

Y/N took in his words. She saw him tearing up. “Aemond–” she attempted to speak. He cut her off. “I will have that child sent to the wall along with his blasted brother,” he spoke angrily. “Do not try to talk me out of it either. I am King and I have made my final choice. I have spared their lives when they should join their bastard brother Lucerys in Vhagar’s belly.” 

“But your son–” “He will live. You cannot coddle the boy. He must grow strong.”

“How could you say that?” Y/N answered. Aemond shrugged. “My father did the same, and I will follow.”

Y/N couldn’t believe her ears. Viserys was a terrible father to Aemond and his siblings, favoring Rhaenyra. “You know damn well that if Viserys still lived, he would pardon Rhaenyra’s son and blame Daeron somehow–”

“THAT ISN’T THE POINT!” Aemond snapped at her. He knew how terrible Viserys was. He knew how damaged his father had made him. But he was the man he was now because of Viserys, and he would never be the same happy little boy he was before the loss of his eye. And now that the same had just happened to his son, his heir, he couldn’t deal. Y/N watched him in horror as he turned to violence, smashing one of the vases in the room. She held her stomach, fearing her husband in his rage. After Aemond realized what he had done and how he had scared his wife, he stopped. Aemond’s yelling turned into sobs. He collapsed on his bed. Y/N warmly opened her arms to embrace him, despite being terrified of him seconds ago. Aemond clung to her and her baby bump for dear life. 

“I’m sorry, I-I’m sorry…” he whimpered, burying his face in the crook of her stomach under her breast. He was shaking. Y/N was too stunned to speak, but she spoke softly. “I know.”

She was furious at her husband. But the effects of the dance had ruined him. This wouldn’t have happened twelve years ago when they wed. They both had to re-learn each other–him with his trauma, her with her dedication to being a mother and a Queen. They struggled too often. But at solemn moments like this, when Aemond calmed down, they just held each other. The truth was, they were just two scared kids in this world. Thrown into the grasp of something neither of them wanted or intended. And that is how they stayed the rest of the night–trembling in each other’s arms, afraid of what the future held for them. 

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

What is Broken III (Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant Wife!Reader)

The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N), side Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers

Warnings: Angst, pregnancy and related symptoms, infidelity.

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: Definitely a good thing I split the last chapter into two, this baby is 13.3k lol

Taglist is done via reblogs

What is Broken

Aemond was still holding her when she woke, his arms wrapped around her chest and his face pressed into her neck. Though the bed was little more than creaky slats and the blankets rough and worn, it had been months since she had been so comfortable—longer still since she’d slept so well, even if it was for only half the night.

As furious as she was with Aemond, her body still craved him. So much so that she could not gather the strength to pull away from him, much less stand from the bed. It felt so right, even if they weren’t in their own bed. Even if they hadn’t shared a bed for more than half a year. And even if they were only in thisbed because they were traveling north to reach the very place where her husband had betrayed her.

When one of Aemond’s arms fell to cradle her belly, she tensed. Was this how he slept with Alys beside him? Did he hold her this tenderly? In his dreams, was he holding his wife or his mistress?

Warily, she looked at his hands. Like his face, the features she was once so familiar with had changed. There were new callouses, new scars, and new veins and tendons that had not been visible before. He’d always had the hands of a skilled swordsman, but now he bore the hands of a battle-hardened warrior and commander.

Curious, she tilted her head as she examined one scar, which started on his palm before passing through the space between his forefinger and thumb and cutting across the back of his hand like an angry slash of a whip. She was so focused on examining the wide red line that she did not notice when her movement stirred Aemond awake.

Not until he spoke with a rough, sleep-heavy voice, his breath fanning the side of her neck. “Did you sleep well, ābrazȳrītsos?”

She did not want to admit it, for doing so felt like conceding some kind of battle. But to argue would take more strength than she was willing to give to something so small. “Yes.”

“As did I,” he pulled her tighter against him as he had once done each morning. How well she had once loved waking up in his arms. She could sense his soft smile and braced herself for what she knew was likely coming next.

But Aemond did not press a lazy kiss to her neck as he once did. He lightly trailed his hand over the swell of her belly until he reached her chest. She tensed, thinking his aim was for her breasts, but his hand stilled atop her ribs.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked as he traced the length of the protruding bones. “That you were still sick – that you were suffering like this.”

She grabbed his hand, pulling it away from the evidence of her illness. While she waited to answer, she again studied that new scar, so bright against his pale skin. It wasn’t like his other scars, which were faintly pink and smooth. This one was red as blood and rough like worn stone.

Aemond let her study the scar without protest and without pressuring her for an answer. She knew he was nervous with anticipation – she could feel how his body stiffened – but she didn’t care.

“How did you get this?”

He made a soft sound of confusion. “Ābrazȳrītsos, please – ”

“Why do you not want to tell me?

“It is not a pleasant story, I…” An exasperated sigh. “I see.”

Holding his hand steadily in front of her, he began his answer. “It is new. I got it during my battle with Daemon.”

Gods, she had hardly thought about the battle. About what had happened to him and Vhagar. Did he have any other injuries? Did Vhagar?

“Caraxes was dying,” he explained, a hint of remorse in his voice. Not for Daemon’s death, she knew, but for his dragon’s. A mount should not perish for the crimes of its rider, especially when there were so few dragons left. “He was falling toward the lake. He’d tried to bite Vhagar’s throat, but she sensed him coming from behind the clouds and struck him instead.

“Daemon knew he had lost and would likely die. But he wasn’t going to just accept it. As Caraxes fell past us, he leapt from the saddle, Dark Sister drawn and… pointed at me. My eye. My good eye.”

Even with her anger, panic seized her heart as she realized how close Aemond had come to death.

“Vhagar angled herself, so instead of going through me, the sword embedded itself into her side. She’s fine,” he assured her after she tensed with worry for the old beast she loved so well. “Even a great sword like Dark Sister is hardly more than a pinprick to Vhagar.

“Daemon lost his grip on the sword but managed to grab my leg before he fell. His weight began dragging me down,” he said, turning his palm toward her. The rein bit into my hand. The maester said it was like a burn.”

Yes, she could see it clearly now. The size and position of the red mark looked precisely as though the rein was still in his grip. Not a scar, then, but something that would possibly become one. One of many.

Aemond did not continue his tale. But she knew what came next – Daemon realizing he was doomed and telling Aemond with his last words that he’d sent a letter exposing what he’d done.

He had still told the tale, knowing that it would again remind her of that damned letter, renewing her ire. After that, she knew he deserved an answer – for this at least. Her health was bound to that of his children, after all. They had been at risk, too.

“Mother and I wanted to tell you. She was distraught.” Her breath hitched as she remembered how her mother had wept and screamed, swearing that she would not lose another daughter. “But Grandsire forbade it.”

Aemond huffed, his body trembling with rage. But he held her no tighter.

“The Small Council agreed with him—that it would distract you too much, that you would return the moment you read the message no matter the cost to the war.” In truth, she understood the logic behind the decision, but her need to have her husband there to comfort her far outweighed her rational mind. “Mother and I tried to send a raven in secret, but Grandsire had anticipated that and had the Rookery watched. The raven carrying the message was shot down.”

After that, she fell silent. There was nothing more to say than that. Only a fortnight later, Daemon and Rhaenyra seized the city and executed Otto, among many others. Daemon had half-heartedly suggested killing her, too, to “send the kinslayer a message” he couldn’t ignore. But Rhaenyra refused without explanation. Perhaps she still extended the same forgiveness to her as when the conflict first began, or she did not wish for the sin of kinslaying to weigh on her, too.

Whatever the reason, she was grateful. For herself and her children. And for all those who would have suffered and died as a result of Aemond’s rage.

The rage was building in him now. “Were he not already dead, I would kill him myself,” he hissed. “And I would not be so merciful as our sister was to kill him quickly.”

“Does it really matter now?” She sighed, dropping his scarred hand.

He flinched as it hit the bed. The wound still hurt, then. “Of course it matters! If I’d known, I – ”

She was glad she couldn’t see his face as she shut her eyes and buried her face in her pillow, pulling out of his grasp. “No more ‘if,’ Aemond! It does not matter what you would have done, because you didn’t do it. The past is past, and you cannot change it. You cannot change what you’ve done, no matter what you say now.”

Silence fell, interrupted only by muffled noises from the awakening town beyond the window.

“I know I cannot change the past,” Aemond said, his voice cracking as if he were near tears. “But I don’t know… what can I do? What can I do to show you how much I love you? How much I have always and will always love you. How much I regret what I did, and how much I wish I could take it back? I don’t know what to do, ābrazȳrītsos. Please. Tell me what to do.”

She said nothing, and Aemond wrapped his arms around her again. “Please, raqiarzītsos, tell me what you want.”

What did she want?

She wanted to pretend nothing had happened. She wanted to be able to forgive him. She wanted their lives to go back to the way they were.

She wanted to scream at him until her voice failed her, then tear him to pieces with her bare hands. She wanted him to suffer for eternity for what he did to her.

She wanted every trace of his betrayal erased entirely. She wanted to have him burn what remained of Harrenhal to ashes with his mistress inside. Better yet, she wanted him to kill the whore himself and mount her head above their children’s cradles.

No, not that. Never that. Even the thought required a prayer to the Father for forgiveness. She did not want blood on her hands or more death. She just wanted to understand everything that happened so she could decide whether she could forgive Aemond – if she wanted to.

“I just want this journey to be over,” she whispered, “so we can go home.”

Aemond’s arms went slack, but he did not let her go. “I… yes, I want that too. I want to go home – with you. Everything will be better once we’re home.”

It was a lie, she knew. But it was nice to let herself believe the lie, if only for a moment.

It was easier, she decided, not to fight.

Easier to let Aemond help her dress, his fingers skimming lightly on her skin in a cruel imitation of past worshipful caresses. To let him serve her food and to eat it all to please him and avoid his pleading for the sake of her and the babes. To let him arrange the pillows and furs in the wheelhouse until they were just so before he sat beside her, holding her in his arms so she could find comfort and rest.

So much easier to not constantly be on guard, ready to snap at his every word. To not constantly fight over every little thing. To find some measure of peace, despite the circumstances.

It was a peace as fragile as spun sugar, but it was peace nonetheless.

At the very least, she could sleep again—without waking to be sick, without fumbling in the sheets to try to find comfort, without reaching across the bed only to find it cold and empty.

After again fussing over her at supper, Aemond would help her prepare for bed. While a bath was being drawn, he would help her disrobe and remove the braids in her hair, brushing out tangles with the singular focus of a holy man studying his texts. When he led her to whatever bathing room their accommodations provided, he did not touch her more than absolutely necessary – a hand to help her stand, a gentle grasp on her elbow as she walked, and his arms around her when she stepped into the bath. Then, he left her alone.

Before, he would never have done so. He would either join her in the bath, touching and teasing her so much that the water went cold by the time they actually washed themselves, or sit beside it while he read to her.

It was odd to bathe alone, with neither husband nor servants to attend her. The quiet made the room seem infinitely larger. And lonely, even with the babes in her belly. She made a point of bathing as quickly as possible so she did not have to endure it for too long.

When she called for Aemond, she would listen to each of his footsteps before he paused at the door, knocking softly. He would not enter unless she allowed it and affirmed it twice. When he helped her out of the bath and dried her, he hesitated before moving to certain parts of her body – her chest, her face, between her legs – and his touch grew even gentler, like he was afraid she would break if he pressed too hard. She was both grateful for it and incensed that it had become necessary.

He brushed and braided her hair once more and dressed her in her nightgown before tucking her tightly into bed and crawling in beside her. He took her in his arms and pulled her close, softly singing Valyrian lullabies into her ear until she fell asleep.

On the twelfth night after leaving King’s Landing, neither acknowledged aloud that their peace would irreparably shatter the next day – when they arrived at Harrenhal at last.

Night had long since fallen when the towers of Harrenhal appeared over the tops of the trees. Aemond brought his wife closer to his chest, careful not to wake her. He knew that with their arrival, the relative harmony – the precious near-normality – of the last few days would soon end, possibly forever.

He dreaded seeing her at Harrenhal. It was too broken, too dirty, too dark for her. She would stand out like the moon against the night sky. And when she looked at those ruined black walls… he would have to see the pain on her face as she looked at each room and alcove, wondering if it was one of the places he’d been with Alys.

That would be the worst – seeing her face Alys. Each time he tried to convince her not to meet the witch, she refused, saying she wanted ‘answers.’ It wounded him deeply to hear her say that, but he understood. He had betrayed her trust. Destroyed her trust in him as thoroughly as he had all those towns and villages during the war.

Still, he would not give up trying to change her mind. He would not push her, but he would say whatever he must to protect her.

As the walls of the fortress loomed taller and taller, Aemond knew he needed to wake her soon. But he wanted to savor their last moments of peace, for it very well could be the last they would ever share.

He leaned down to kiss her temple, lightly brushing his knuckles over her cheek. She stirred slightly but did not wake. “Avy jorrāelan, ābrazȳrītsos,” he whispered. “Mīvojughilās jāla dōrī. Ao mirro rȳbilun.” I love you, ābrazȳrītsos. Never forget it. Whatever you hear.

She did not wake until the wheelhouse rumbled over the uneven stones at Harrenhal’s gates. The moment they passed through the thick black walls, she pulled away from him as if his touch would burn her. He felt sick, and forced himself to look away from her.

The fortress appeared just as Aemond remembered, yet it had changed monumentally in the mere days since he had last been within its walls. The towering palisades of melted stone had once seemed strong and imposing but now struck him as decrepit and hubristic. And its inhabitants – now standing in a line to greet the closest thing they had to a lord and master – he had once seen as a mighty and determined army, people he was proud to lead. He saw them for what they truly were now – tired, hungry, and desperate.

As he scanned the crowd, looking for a face he knew would enrage him, he recognized the wide-eyed look he once thought was reverence as something far different. It was fear. These people were afraid of him. He couldn’t allow himself to think too hard on that, not when he still had not seen those sickly green eyes.

Part of him hoped she wasn’t here so his wife could sleep well for one more night. Part of him hoped she was so he could strike her down in front of this crowd of hundreds and prove that she meant nothing to him. Though the babe she carried…

Those eyes weren’t there. Alys wasn’t there. He gave a prayer of thanks for it despite his bloodlust. His ābrazȳrītsos wanted to meet her, yes, but it shouldn’t be here. Not in front of so many people, not when she was exhausted from a long day on the road. And displaying such violence before her, when he knew how she despised it, would break her forever.

He glanced at her and fondly remembered how she had clung to his hand throughout their wedding tourney. What they had done each night after the games to help her forget the violence she’d seen.

It seemed she felt his gaze on her and turned to him. His smile faded. Her eyes, which he had always thought to be full of light and warmth, like a burning hearth, were dull and cold, like the very stones of Harrenhal.

“Is she…” She swallowed thickly. “Is she here?”

She did not face any of those gathered, as if afraid to accidentally look at the witch. He stepped toward her, subtly blocking them all from her view. “No, raqiarzītsos.” He raised a hand to cup her cheek, as he had so many times in the last few days, but now, she moved out of his reach. “She’s not.”

“Can we go inside, then? I’m tired.”

“Of course,” he said as he took her arm – grateful that she still allowed that, at the very least. “But you should eat something before you retire for the night. You have not eaten since midday.”

She blinked, though her face showed no emotion. “I am not hungry.”

Aemond sighed as he guided her to the keep’s entrance. “That may be so, but the babes need you to eat for their sake if not yours.” She gave no reply, but before he could press for an answer, they came upon Ronnel Cratter, the slight, anxious man Aemond appointed to serve as Steward of Harrenhal after Simon Strong had met his fate alongside all others of their line… almost all.

“My prince, how wonderful it is to see you returned!” The poor man was already sweating. “And to at last meet your lovely lady wife. Your husband has always spoken very highly of you, princess.”

She lifted her head to examine Ronnel, her eyes sad yet appraising. Her lips parted slightly but closed again as she inclined her head. He understood the flicker of wariness that passed over her face. She wondered whether the man in front of her knew what her husband had done—if he was complicit in it.

He needed to turn her mind to something else, quickly. “Is everything prepared for the negotiations?”

“Oh, um… yes, they are,” Ronnel stammered.

“When will Stark arrive?” Aemond asked, thankful to have not seen the Northman or any of his forces among those that came to greet them. Their absence would give him time to sort out what to do with Alys before the negotiations demanded his full attention.

Ronnel winced, his rough cheeks turning bright red. The man had never been able to conceal a lie—it was the reason Aemond chose him as steward of Harrenhal. “Lord Stark arrived three days ago, my prince.” He shrunk into himself slightly, rightly anticipating his master’s anger at his words. “He claimed it was too late to greet you and the princess and asked that I tell you he looks forward to meeting you at the negotiations tomorrow morning.”

The sheer fucking disrespect. To be in what was his keep in all but name and refuse to greet him upon arrival? Somewhere in his mind, Aemond knew why Stark had done it, to establish his dominance like the pissing dog he was. But he could only truly think about the insult of it. His very bones sang with bloodlust, negotiations and peace be damned.

But then, a gentle hand on his arm. Warm, even through his thick leathers. Her hand. Her graceful, soft, beautiful hand. She looked at him, gaze never wavering.

“I’m tired, Aemond.”

Only she could have stayed his hand. He had grown so accustomed to bloodlust in the months he’d been here that any other solution seemed folly. But to kill or even maim Cregan Stark would likely reignite war and, worse, deprive him forever of his wife’s love. If he hadn’t lost that already.

So, Aemond turned to Ronnel and fought to control his breathing. “Take us directly to our rooms.”

As they followed the steward through the dark stone halls, his wife looked at him from the corner of her eye but swiftly looked away. Her eyes roved every hall, alcove, and doorway, fear and hurt in her eyes. Did she think she could somehow see where he had been with Alys? Could she see the lingering ghosts of his betrayal?

He was certain he could—he would. That is if he were to enter any part of the keep where he had been with Alys, and he certainly had no intention of doing so. He had sent a raven to Ronnel with specific instructions to prevent it, although his ābrazȳrītsos’ request to meet Alys might require it…

“Here we are, my prince,” Ronnel said as he opened the door to a well-appointed, if somewhat small suite in the guest’s wing. “And princess!” he added hastily. “Forgive me, princess. I have become quite used to only addressing your husband…”

She ignored him entirely, walking to the center of the sitting room as she surveyed the space. The rooms were less than half the size of those Aemond had occupied before. But he could not bring his wife to those rooms or that bed. Perhaps he would have them burnt.

He watched as she crossed the room, headed directly for the bed. She brushed a hand against the blankets before recoiling as if the bed would bite her. Slowly, she turned to face him with such a look of desperation that he came to her side immediately.

“What is it, my love?” He crossed the room and took her hands in his own, holding them close to his chest. “What’s wrong?”

Tears formed in her eyes as she looked from him to the bed and back again. “Is this…” She took a shaky breath. “Was she in here? With you?”

Ronnel’s eyes went wide before he made a hasty, silent exit.

“No!” Aemond answered nearly before she finished her question. He leaned forward, pressing their brows together. “Of course not, ābrazȳrītsos. I promise, I – never, in this room. I swear it on my life.”

There was still mistrust in her eyes, but she nodded. “I don’t like it here.”

Once, he did. Once, this was his domain, his kingdom. Now, it was a barren wasteland occupied only by regret and shame. “I do not like it, either.”

She looked at his chest, but he knew she was somewhere far away. “I want to sleep.”

“I know,” he pulled away, brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Though it had only been thirteen days, he was sure he could see a new fullness to her cheeks, a new softness around her waist, and a renewed light beneath her skin. He would not allow that progress to falter. “But you must eat, remember?”

She sat at the foot of the bed, wrapping her arms around herself. “I really am not hungry, Aemond.”

“You needn’t eat much,” he countered, sitting next to her and trying not to flinch when she angled herself away from him. “Some broth? Perhaps with a little bread? You must have something.”

He watched as her hand cradled her belly, stroking softly as if to soothe the babes with her touch. Resisting the urge to put his hand over hers was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but he understood full well that to do so was a privilege he did not deserve.

“Very well,” she said at last. “But just a little.”

“Of course.” Aemond held his hand out for her to take, but she hardly glanced at it. “Is there anything else I can do, ābrazȳrītsos?”

She thought for a moment. “I would like to bathe before I retire.” Aemond immediately rose and positioned himself to help her stand, as he had for days now. “Can you summon servants to help me?”

A simple request shouldn’t have wounded him so deeply, yet it did. The bond they had begun to reform was gone, perhaps forever. Being denied this – the mere pleasure of helping his wife – felt like a mortal wound.

“Yes, I will fetch them now.” His voice was wavering. He could hear it as he could feel his composure teetering ever closer to breaking. He lingered a moment longer, hoping she would say something more, that she would change her mind and let him help her, or that she would say something to suggest that she still trusted him, still cared for him.

She said nothing.

Aemond almost wished she would scream and rage and roar at him as she did that first night in King’s Landing. It was better than this, the half-life she seemed to be living. The exhaustion and indifference. Let this be because of her pregnancy, he silently begged the gods. Let us finish this, go home, and be well again. Let her be well again.

“I love you,” he whispered before exiting the room.

He did not expect her to say it back, but the silence still stung.

The servants arrived before Aemond did. It caused no small amount of unease in his wife’s chest. As the servants he sent undressed her and prepared her bath, all she could think of was where he could have gone and why he’d left her for so long. Had he gone to fetch food himself?

It didn’t help that the servants were utterly silent. It wasn’t like the light quietness that sometimes settled over her own servants at the Red Keep. This was a heavy, cloying silence. None could hold her gaze for more than a moment before looking sheepishly away.

They know, she realized. They all know what Aemond did.

Her mind started to race. They probably even helped him. Alys is likely their friend. After all, she was a servant before. When they leave here, they’ll probably run straight to the witch to tell her how pathetic she is and how Alys is far more beautiful than her. They’d –

She could stand their presence no longer. As one of them brought a dampened cloth to wash her shoulder, she flinched away, splashing water over the edge of the copper tub. “Get out!” Her voice was foreign to her as she screamed, cruel and hoarse with desperation. “All of you, leave! Now! Get out, get out, get out, get out!”

She continued shouting, covering her ears with her hands and scrunching her eyes shut. The babes protested, kicking frantically against her stomach. But she could not stop screaming.

How could she do anything other than scream? And cry? And rage? She was trapped in the very place where the worst thing to ever happen to her had occurred.

This was hell. It had to be, for being in these walls was torture. What had she done to deserve such a thing? What grave sin had she unknowingly committed? Why was this happening? Why? Why? Why? Wh –

“Ābrazȳrītsos!” Aemond’s voice was accompanied by the feeling of his large hands wrapping around her wrists, gently prying her hands away from her ears. “Ābrazȳrītsos, look at me! Please, my love, you must calm down.”

His words did no such thing; she barely even registered that he was speaking to her or touching her. This was just another torture, to be constantly with the man she both loved and loathed.

“Lykirī, ābrazȳrītsos, kostilus.” The words, now spoken in their mother tongue, finally began to slip through the whirling thoughts in her mind. “Āmāzin. Tolvȳn sȳri issa. Ao ȳghāpa iksā, jemot kīvio ñuhe tepan. Yn ao lykemās bēvilās, iā jāla riñari ōdrikōt.” Calm down, ābrazȳrītsos, please. I am back. All is well. You are safe, I promise. But you must calm yourself, or it may harm the babes.

“Kostan daor,” she pled. I cannot.

Aemond tightened his grip on her. “Ao bēvilās, kostilus!” You must, please!

She shook her head as her entire body began to tremble, and a chill numbness crept into her fingertips. “Jeme gīmīt, Aemond. Jeme līr nyke istan gīmīt.” They know, Aemond. They know what you did.

“Gīmin, ābrazȳrītsos, drējī usōven.” He leaned closer to her, his elbows now resting in the bath, water creeping up his sleeves. “Drējī usōven.” I know, ābrazȳrītsos, I am so sorry. I am so sorry.

She curled in on herself as tightly as she could. “Ao ōdrittan yne. Ao qrimpāletan yne.” You hurt me. You betrayed me.

“Gīmin. Jāle hegnīr daor jaelan. Tolikta mirroso.” He was half in the bath with her now. I know. I regret it. More than anything.

“Istan aōha riñari nevīlen,” she cradled her belly protectively, “se vasīr toile ābroma ēdan ojenille hēnkirī.” I was pregnant, with your children, and you still fucked another woman.

“Gōntan.” I did.

“Ao yne pirtra ivestretan, avy hen yne hēdrȳ ruartan.” You lied to me, hid her from me.

“Gōntan.” I did.

“Ao īlē nevīlen aōha ilībōño gōntā. You let her carry your bastard.

He flinched then. Unlike before, seeing him hurt didn’t make her feel any better. “Gōntan.” I did.

“Lo Daemon ivestretaks yne gōntē daor, nyke dobotēdāvī iemnȳ glaesilun. Ao yne ivestrilū gaomilū daor.” If Daemon hadn’t told me, I would have lived forever in ignorance. You were never going to tell me.

“Istan.” I was.

“Skorȳso?” Her voice failed her, morphing into a wordless cry, and it became painful to speak in the language of their ancestors – yet another thing she and Aemond shared. Had it been tainted by Alys, too? “Why? Have I done something to displease you? Am I not enough for you? Do you not love me the way I love you? Do you hate me?”

“No! No, my dear, I – ” He swallowed a choking sob as he stammered. “I love you. I love you more than anyone has ever loved another. You are my very soul, ābrazȳrītsos.”

There was no hint of falsehood in him. But how could that be true? How could he love her so much and hurt her so deeply? She lifted her head to face him. She had never seen him so distraught, even the night his secret had been revealed. “Then why?”

“I…” He dropped his head, his brow coming to rest on the edge of the copper bath. “I don’t know. I cannot explain it. I was foolish. And weak. But know I will do anything to show you how sorry I am. I will be your eternal servant. I will go into exile if you ask it of me.”

He pulled away from her, drawing his dagger and positioning it before his heart, the tip biting ever so slightly into his leather surcoat. “I will end my own life if that is what it takes to make you happy.”

“No!” Her reaction was immediate, a tug on some unseen string that connected them soul to soul. What would she become if that line was cut? “I don’t want that. I just – I want to sleep.”

Aemond’s dagger clattered to the stone floor. She didn’t know if it was relief or regret that painted his face. She didn’t know which she would prefer.

“Let’s get you out of the bath and dry first,” he sighed as he stood to fetch a towel. It was somewhat irritating that he did not ask if she wanted his help. But even if she had, she would have said yes. She would much rather endure his presence than the servants who looked at her as if she were a freak in a mummers show.

With the towel slung over his shoulder, Aemond extended his hand to help her stand. His touch was again hesitant and respectful. His eye turned as far away from her as he could allow it while still being able to help her.

“Where did you go?” Her question caused him to freeze with his hands on her shoulders as he softly dried the lingering water from her back. “After you summoned the servants, where did you go?”

He sighed. “I was waiting in the hall, ābrazȳrītsos. I thought you would not want me to intrude while you were…” another sigh. “I was only in the hall, I promise.”

Begrudgingly, she believed him. He had arrived quickly after she started screaming. But knowing he had not sought out Alys made her feel little better. She did not know why.

A dark seed of mistrust had been planted in her heart, strangling it with thorns of anger and spite as it grew and grew. Would that it were only a plant, she would tear it out of her chest with her own hands with no thought to the blood and thorns that would shred through her. It would still be better than this.

That terrible, unnatural silence again fell upon them as if it were a specter haunting their every thought and movement—a shadow larger and more terrible than Vhagar herself that turned each glance into a piercing shard of ice and each touch into the grating pain of fingernails digging into stone. It vanished only when Aemond slid into the bed beside her and moved to embrace her.

“No!” she hissed as she pulled away. “Not… not tonight. Not while we are here.” She felt Aemond’s hand pulling back as if the limb were her own. Felt the shifting of the bed as if it were the earth quaking and rending beneath her.

“I understand, ābrazȳrītsos. Drējī usōven.”

She could see him in her mind’s eye, lying next to her like a corpse prepared by the Silent Sisters – his legs straight and arms folded over his ribs. She could see the pain on his face, the tears likely spilling over his temples and into his hair. She could see his fingers trembling as he fought his body and soul’s command to touch her, hold her, love her.

Cruel visions sent by the ghost Aemond had created the moment he took Alys to his bed.

They followed her into her dreams.

Aemond did not sleep.

Though he lay in bed, he found no rest. From the moment his wife closed her eyes, he was haunted by demons of his own making – memories and visions of his sins.

He saw the first night he fucked Alys. Saw how weak and small he looked as he sat before the fire in his chambers, staring at the black sky outside the window. Saw the fear and doubt on his face as he thought about leading men into battle when the sun rose. Saw himself as a pathetic little boy, not a prince or the rider of the largest dragon in the world, certainly not like a man who could win a war.

He watched as his attempts at resisting Alys became quickly feeble. That night, he was desperate for anything to tether him to himself, and his Ābrazȳrītsos was so far away… he was little better than an animal. He was an animal. The way he touched her, clawed at her, bit her was no less than beastly.

Everything that made him a man – made him worthy of his wife – vanished the moment he touched her. To gain it back would not be so easy.

It would begin with the peace negotiations. Putting an end to the war that had driven this wedge between them would be the first step, not only in saving his marriage but also in healing what would soon be his realm—their realm.

He turned his head to look at his Ābrazȳrītsos. His queen- his dārītsos. It was a pleasure he had not allowed himself since lying beside her.

She was so beautiful. She would always be beautiful. Even when she was so thin, and her brow was creased with sadness, she was beautiful. How had he ever thought that he deserved such a perfect wife?

Perhaps it would be best if he agreed to what Aegon had threatened. Exiling him and Vhagar would undoubtedly put many who supported Rhaenyra at ease. Then, she would marry Aegon and become the queen she deserved to be, at least for a while. None could protest the legitimacy of their babes’ claims to the throne if she were the crowned queen.

In his exile, Aemond could travel to the ruins of Old Valyria to let whatever horrors his ancestors left behind mete out the judgment for his sins.

But Aegon would die soon, leaving her a widow. A widowed queen could never remarry. She would become little more than a decoration, the poor dowager queen forever standing in the shadows. And she would not be allowed to serve as regent for their heir – nor would their mother, despite having governed the realm for years while their father was infirm.

Who would speak on behalf of their child? The Small Council was filled with vultures seeking their own advantage. Larys Strong and his ilk slithered like snakes into every and any ear they could to try and advance their positions. Traitors who had only sworn loyalty to Aegon when it became clear Rhaenyra’s claim was doomed.

The only people he trusted to guide the children would be Grand Maester Orwyle, newly freed from the Black Cells, or Tyland Lannister. But that wasn’t enough. Who would protect her from those who would seek to take advantage of her?

No, he could not leave her. Despite her feelings toward him, he was the only one capable of keeping her safe. He had to stay, for her sake, he told himself.

Though in his heart, he knew the decision was selfish.

Aemond stared at her until the first rays of sunlight shone through the eastern window, imagining her perfect features on their children. Her dark eyes, the curls in her hair, the soft innocence of her smile. He nearly wished that he would see nothing of himself in the babes.

Then, those dark eyes opened, looking blearily at him. He swore there was a flicker of unabashed joy and love in them before they again went cold. At least the rising sun still gilded them with gold. Yes, the babes should have those eyes.

She turned away from him and tried to stand.

“Don’t wake, my love.” He said gently, a hand hovering just above her shoulder to stop her from rising. “Stay and rest, please.”

“No, Aemond.” She frowned, that sweet mouth set in a hard line. “I do not want to sleep. I wish to go with you today.”

She had been so upset by his leaving the night before. Had she not believed him when he gave his answer? Did she want to monitor him to ensure he did not betray her again? He shook his head. “I promise I am not going to see – ”

“I know you aren’t.” She sat upright, facing away from him. He wanted to embrace her, to hold her against his chest, but she hadn’t wanted that last night. He had resisted touching her since then. He could remain strong. “I wish to accompany you to the negotiations with Lord Stark.”

That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. She had never shown an interest in such things before. “Whatever for?”

She pouted in response. “If I am to be your queen, I must be prepared. Mother ruled alongside Viserys. I intend to do the same.”

Their mother had not only advised Viserys but ruled in his stead when he was too ill to sit the throne himself. It made sense that she would want to follow the path Queen Alicent had made. She knew little of what it took to rule a kingdom, but she was smart, she would learn.  

“Very well.” He nodded as he stood from the bed to help her stand. His heart almost burst when her hand touched his. “I must admit that to have you beside me will fortify my resolve.”

He expected that would make her smile – hoped it would.

She dropped his hand. “And after, you will take me to see Alys.”

Damn it. Damn it all, especially that witch.

“Ābrazȳrītsos…” she scoffed and turned away from him, ignoring his outstretched arms. He followed her into the dressing room. “Raqiarzītsos, please. I beg you, do not insist on this.”

“I need answers, Aemond.” She hid her face in the mass of dresses that now hung on racks, but he could still hear the wavering determination in her voice.

He understood well what she was too polite to say plainly. She needed answers from Alys because she did not trust that Aemond told the whole truth. Even the implication stung deep in his chest. On that, he knew he could not change her mind.

“I understand,” he said carefully, remaining in his place by the door. It was the truth. “But Ābrazȳrītsos… can it not wait until you are stronger? Until the babes are born and you have recovered from the hell they’ve put you through? Then I can fly you back here on Vhagar so you don’t have to stay here and wonder…”

Only once had she acknowledged her curiosity about where in the keep Aemond had been with Alys – when they first arrived in their rooms. But he had seen it from the moment they passed through the walls. That uncertainty made her seem even frailer than she already was.

Her hand tightened on the velvet of a green dress. “I don’t want to come back.” He took a step forward, but she faced him. The tears in her eyes halted him immediately. “I don’t ever want to come back to this place again, so it must be now. Today.”

Aemond’s heart had shattered days ago, but the pure agony in his ābrazȳrītsos’s beautiful eyes then trampled the remaining shards to dust.

“Today it will be, then.” He could not banish the worry from his face, but she smiled anyway. “Tomorrow, we will go home. If Stark still has anything to say, he can follow us back to King’s Landing.”

Cregan Stark was already in the great hall when they arrived, along with what seemed like the bulk of his forces. Of course he was. After his absence at their arrival last night, Aemond was a fool to think he’d do anything else.

The Lord of Winterfell was every bit a wolf.

He certainly smiled like one as Aemond walked through the doors, standing to bow only his head. He seemed to think his prideful displays of irreverence would somehow give him an advantage in the negotiations.

But a wolf was nothing to a dragon.

“My prince,” the lord’s voice was anything but respectful. Perhaps he still held a grudge for the death of Jacaerys. Not that anyone was to blame for that but the bastard himself. “You have joined us at last.”

Aemond adopted a similar arrogant countenance. His was far more deserved. “Alas, my wife’s comfort was of greater importance to me than your patience, Lord Stark.”

Stark’s eyes slid behind Aemond to his ābrazȳrītsos, the feral glint within them softening, then sharpening in something like concern. “Princess,” he said with a deep bow—far deeper than what he gave Aemond, his Prince Regent. “I was not expecting to meet you, but I am very glad of it. I hope you are well?”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, quiet yet confident. “The journey was long, but I fared well.”

“That is good news.” Cregan arched a thick black brow as he thoroughly examined her, his eyes landing on her belly. “I hope your condition is not giving you too much trouble.”

“She is perfectly well,” Aemond snapped before she could even open her mouth. He did not like the way the wolf looked at her like she needed protection. She was his wife, his to protect. He would not endure the suggestion that he had failed in that duty. Despite what he’d done, she had remained safe.

Her eyes found him, then turned to Stark. She nodded primly, the barest remnants of a smile on her lips. Even as he recalled her old smiles, wide, bright, and perfect, seeing her lift her lips made his heart swell with affection. Perhaps one day, he would see her truly smile once more.

“Let us begin, then.” He led her to the table, seating her at his right hand before taking his place at the head of the table. Stark regarded him with barely disguised disdain but was silent as he continued. “You have been chosen to represent those who foolishly supported my half-sister. By my brother, King Aegon’s grace, you have been granted your lives despite your treason. But our concern now is not revenge, but peace.”

He glanced at his wife, his reason for peace. He would do anything he could to ensure she and their children never again faced war—even this. “What is it you and your allies require to ensure peace?

Stark again donned that wolfish smile, though it faltered slightly when he, too, looked to Aemond’s wife. “We thank you for your… generosity, my prince. But, before we begin any negotiations, I would ask for assurance that whatever terms we agree to will be upheld.”

The nerve to ask for such a thing as the defeated traitor was astounding. Aemond had half a mind to simply kill the man. It would send a message to those who had supported Rhaenyra. Scare them away from further rebellion.

Though perhaps it was not the message he wanted to send. Not the way he wanted to begin his reign.

Not something he wanted his wife – his queen – to witness.

So, he took a deep breath and summoned a matching cocky grin. “You have the assurance of the crown and throne, Lord Stark.”

“And how am I to trust that?” Cregan said, tipping his head so far it rested against the back of his chair. “With your brother… as he is, you are the crown and throne, Prince Aemond. I expect you will have them for yourself soon rather than borrowing them from Aegon. How am I to trust you?”

Cold suspicion crept up Aemond’s spine as Stark again looked at his wife, something like an apology on his face.

It disappeared when he again looked at Aemond. “How am I to trust that you will uphold your promises to me, when you cannot even be trusted to honor your vows to your wife?

He fucking knew. Somehow, he fucking knew.

Aemond would kill him.

He would sew that wolf’s smile shut so he could not scream. He would tear out his eyes and rip out his fingernails. He would use every method of torture he had ever learned of – through his books and his own practical experience – to kill Stark slowly. He may even invent some new techniques of his own.

He would find the person who told him – likely one of the servants in the keep he’d bribed while waiting for Aemond’s arrival – and do the same to them, as he would to anyone who ever spoke a word about it in his wife’s presence. He would –  

The burning rage inside him cooled in an instant, as if smothered by a northern wind. But it was not a cold wind that brushed against his hand – it was the warm, smooth skin of his wife.

While he had become blinded by his anger, she had reached across the table to entwine her fingers with his. Her grip was stiff and too tight, and he could feel her shivering, but she had done it.

She had touched him.

Of her own free will.

Even with all he had done, all the ways he had wounded her, she was still there – still with him, offering her support.

He did not delude himself into thinking it was forgiveness or even a gesture of love. There was no hint of affection in her eyes. For all he knew, she may never touch him again.

But she still stood by his side as his wife. His future queen.

And that simple gesture was enough that the corners of Stark’s mouth turned down, and his swaggering lessened. Aemond beamed at his wife, letting her see all his gratitude and love. She nodded, and he decided that was enough, at least for now.

He turned back to the wolf at the end of the table. “State your terms.”

The negotiations were still a battle, though they never again came close to physical blows. An agreement was reached, with the crown conceding more than Aemond wanted but less than Stark wanted. No one was happy—a perfect compromise.

When it was over, and Stark rose to leave, Aemond turned to Ronnel, who sat at his left, to make preparations for their departure tomorrow. He wanted everything ready so they could depart at dawn and leave this wretched place behind. But a low voice began murmuring to his right.

Cregan godsdamned Stark was whispering in his wife’s ear.

She did not smile, but her cheeks were flushed. When Stark finally closed his bastard mouth, she whispered something back. The thirst for murder slowly crept back into Aemond’s heart. But then Cregan was walking away, and his wife held his gaze.

“He was only apologizing,” she whispered cautiously. “For what he said, and how it hurt me.”

Of course, Aemond received no such apology. He didn’t want one anyway. He would much rather have Stark’s head on a spike while his body was fed to Vhagar. Fulfilling that wish could wait, if it would ever be possible. Now, she was his only true concern.

“I’m sorry as well, ābrazȳrītsos. You should not have been put in that position.” He reached for her hand, but she stood—without aid, he noted.

She tried and failed to smile. “It wasn’t me he was insulting. Can we go now?”

Ronnel laughed slightly, a paltry attempt at ridding them of the tension. “I’m afraid the horses and wheelhouse won’t be ready until tomorrow, my princess. I can – ”

“That is not what I mean.” He could see her breath quicken as she looked directly at him. “Aemond, I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?” He couldn’t help but ask, couldn’t let this one last opportunity pass him by. “You don’t have to, love.”

Her mouth tightened, and her brows set. “I know, but I want to.”

There was an open door at the end of the servants’ hall, a fire flickering within.

Alys was expecting them. Had she seen it in a vision, or had the servants from the night before told her?

It didn’t matter, she knew. This would be unpleasant either way. But the thought of Alys knowing how pathetic she’d been the night before still haunted her.

When they were mere paces away from the open door, Aemond said his first words since leaving the great hall: “You do not have to do this, ābrazȳrītsos. We can still turn around.”

She didn’t reply. She had already locked eyes with her husband’s whore as she stepped into the doorway.

Alys was beautiful. Of course she was beautiful. And so different from her.

There was not a single similarity she could find other than the swell of their breasts and bellies from carrying Aemond’s children. Where her hair was pale as the moon, Alys’ was as dark as the night surrounding it. Where her eyes were a warm, deep brown, Alys’ were the cool green of fresh grass. Where she was but a little girl of 17 pretending at womanhood, Alys’ was a woman, with wisdom in her gaze and elegant, dignified lines framing her face to prove it.

Most men would have slighted her in favor of Alys. She just wished Aemond had been stronger than most men.

“My prince,” Alys curtsied as well as she could with her in her state, then turned her eyes to her. “My princess, what a joy it is to meet you at last.”

“Alys,” Aemond growled, stepping between the two women. He began whispering to his mistress so softly that his wife could not understand. It angered her.

“I said –” her voice came out louder than she intended, and the distant noise of conversation from the other servants quieted. That, she had not intended, but at least Aemond and Alys now faced her. “I said I wanted to talk to her, Aemond. Not you.”

His mouth tightened, but he nodded, retreating to stand behind her, still close enough to defend her. Alys smiled at her—not a viper’s smile, leering and poisonous. It was open and kind, as if she were a dear friend rather than the woman who’d slept with her husband and destroyed their marriage.

“Please, come in, princess. I know you must be more comfortable sitting than standing in a hallway.” Though she hated that the woman would dare to make assumptions, it was accurate. Her legs and back were already aching from the walk from the great hall.

Alys opened the door further, ushering them inside. It was a quaint room. Unusually well-appointed with a hearth and seating area, but still obviously a servant’s quarters. Perhaps it had once housed the steward until Alys had become so important to Aemond.

Aemond led her to one of the two stuffed chairs by the hearth, extending a hand to help her sit. She recoiled, eyes flitting to the bed. Had they…?

“Not here,” he whispered, his mouth curling into a frown. “I never… she was always the one to come to me.”

He called her to him like any other servant. He had not sought Alys out himself. It made little difference—he had still summoned her. But it was enough that she accepted his hand and sat, pulling away from him the moment she no longer required his aid.

Alys sat in the chair opposite her, again with that same kind expression. “You have questions for me, yes?”

She nodded, unsure of how else to answer. Alys was not at all what she expected. This was Aemond’s mistress. She had expected a cruel, vain woman who would laugh at her, mock her, and boast that she’d stolen Aemond from her. That was the image she saw when she imagined asking her questions, not this.

“That is quite understandable, dear.” Alys reached out, placing her hand on the arm of the opposite chair, their fingers nearly touching. “I will answer your questions. And I swear, by my own life and that of my child’s, that I will answer truthfully.”

Aemond scoffed quietly, his hand wrapping protectively around the back of the chair. Rage radiated from him, hotter than the fire they faced. She ignored it, and him, entirely.

She believed, once, that she could always trust Aemond. The woman across from her proved otherwise. If the world made so little sense that she could not trust her brother, her husband, her soulmate, then why couldn’t she trust a whore and a witch when she swore on the life of her bastard?

All her questions, all the loose threads she plucked from the story Aemond had woven for her, raced in her mind. Her head began to pulse under the pressure of the storm of anger, devastation, and sadness that raged within her.

But one question returned, over and over again, until it at last reached her lips.

“Did you know about me?”

“I did, my dear. Everyone in the realm and beyond knows of you. The ‘Little Princess,’ they call you.”

“You knew I was – I am – Aemond’s wife?”

Behind her, Aemond stepped forward to stand at her side, a hand extended in question and offering. Offering his support, the strengthening knowledge that he was there for her. The same thing she had given him only hours ago when the peace of the realm teetered on the edge of war.

This time, she did not take his hand.

Alys’ soft smile fell, and what looked to be genuine regret passed over her perfect face. “I did.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“After Aemond gave the order for every man, woman, and child carrying Strong blood was to be killed, my choices were to die with the family who had only ever done precious little for me,” Alys scoffed, as if the possibility was utterly ridiculous, “or to save myself by being whatever your husband wanted me to be. Can you truly fault me for wishing to save my own life?”

No, she couldn’t. If she had been in Alys’ position, she may well have done the same. Had considered it, even, when Rhaenyra and Daemon had taken King’s Landing. To save her children and mother, and to survive until Aemond could rescue them. Fortunately, her uncle had shown no interest in her. Still, she’d been willing to give up that part of her – if it meant keeping the people she loved safe.

“I understand your motivation to save your life,” she said slowly, wetting her lips with her tongue as she glanced up at Aemond, who looked at Alys like he was only barely holding himself back from strangling her. The hand he had not offered her was fisted at his side, knuckles white as bone.

Did hearing how he had been so easily manipulated humiliate him? Did it sting to know that Alys had only truly desired her freedom, not him? That she had used him as much as he had used her?

“I will assure you that I did resist. At least at first.”

In the story Aemond told, Alys was the one who pursued him. He said he spared her because of her visions, not her beauty or any lust for her. Alys was implying she only lain with him because he wanted it, that he was the one who began the affair.

Which was true? Was Alys lying, or Aemond?

Something in Alys’ keen eyes made her think the witch knew her thoughts. “Was he not satisfied with using your powers to aid him in winning the war?”

“My visions can provide guidance, but they are not infallible. And they are not always pleasant. I needed assurance that I would not be killed if the future was altered or if your husband was displeased with what I told him.”

“Surely you could have simply explained this to him,” she mumbled. Aemond was a reasonable man. He would not blame someone for something out of their control—or at least, he had been once.

Alys laughed, quiet and cackling and full of pity. “Oh, my poor dear, you have no idea what your husband became within these walls, do you?”

Aemond stepped forward, a hand on his sword. “Alys…”

She ignored him pointedly. “I know he didn’t tell you in his letters – I was there when he wrote many of them.” A small smile and a smug hum pointed at Aemond as she revealed a piece of what he’d hidden. “But I assumed since he’s now told you about me, he would have told you everything else.”

“Stop, Alys.” Aemond’s voice had grown lower and angrier than she’d ever heard—the voice of the man who had won the war nearly single-handedly, not of her beloved husband and brother. It frightened her. Even when he put a hand on her shoulder, she could not face him, fearing what she would see in that once familiar face.

There was a sickly glint in Alys’ eyes and a curling grin on her full lips. She looked only at Aemond as she spoke. “Did he tell you that he not only gave the order for the entire Strong bloodline be wiped from existence, but that he killed them all himself? Old men, women, and children all died by his sword. No matter how much they begged to be spared or how much they screamed and wept. He was wholly without mercy.” Her mouth hung open, ready to say more, but she glanced back at the princess and quieted, seeing the pain in her eyes.

No, she wanted to say as her stomach turned to burning cold lead. Aemond isn’t so cruel as that. He told her violence was only ever a necessity, not something to be enjoyed. At their wedding tourney –,

Aemond was silent. No rebuttals or denials. Not even an attempt at explanation. He slowly lowered his hand from his sword, as if ashamed to touch it.

That may have been the worst of it, for it meant what Alys was saying was the truth.

Pulling herself out of his grip, she ignored his small grunt of hurt and disbelief, blinked away tears, and fought to keep her voice steady. “Yet he spared you. Because you offered him your visions?”

“Yes, dear.”

She chafed under the seeming affection in Alys’ gaze. This was the woman who had seduced her husband, shared his bed for months, and carried his bastard. Why was she being so godsdamned kind?

“Was it true, then? Your vision about his first battle? That he would need to be fearless going into the battle.” She could feel her entire being trembling with fearful anticipation and guttural rage. “It was because of that vision that you convinced him to bed you, wasn’t it?”

Alys’ eyes flicked to Aemond for the first time since she’d sat down. He tensed behind her with a soft gasp, then a growl.

“It was,” Alys finally said.

“And all the times after?” She heard leather creaking behind her and knew Aemond had dropped his head. “Were there visions for those?”

“I wish I could say there were, if only to spare you from this pain,” Alys sighed, pity practically dripping from her, “but no. I still had visions and shared them with your husband, but none required continued intimacy.”

The stinging tears in her eyes began to fall, and Alys winced at the sight. “I am truly sorry, princess, for the hurt we have caused you. But I cannot regret what I’ve done, for I do believe it saved my life.”

Saved Aemond’s life, as well, if those visions had indeed kept him safe. She again felt that slight tug of gratitude in her chest, only for it to be swallowed by the raging deluge of anger and grief. It threatened to choke her. “And the babe?”

Alys sat back in her seat, absentmindedly stroking where that babe lay. “An unexpected, but not entirely unwanted consequence.”

“You did not drink moon tea?” It was a stupid question, she knew. The evidence that she didn’t was quite visible.

“Such things are luxuries when living in the heart of a war. Those herbs were better used for those who needed them to survive.” Alys’ gaze dropped to where Aemond’s other babes lay. “It took some time, after your wedding, for his seed to take, yes?

Aemond growled again, little better than a guard dog at this point.

Her cheeks flushed. It had taken nearly two years, so long that the maesters began to worry, and the court started whispering. She knew that their grandsire had brought it to the Small Council more than once, and was thankful she was not present – the gods only knew what solutions those men had devised.

“It takes longer for some women than others,” Alys said through a grimace. “It is no shame, merely the unknowable will of the gods.”

“It happened very quickly for you.” In the end, the bastard only proved that whatever had prevented her and Aemond from conceiving was her fault, not his. Perhaps the gods had seen the man he was to become, and those two years were their attempt to push them apart.

Alys thought for a minute, her gaze drifting to the fire between them, turning her eyes into something that did not seem quite human. She frowned, “A stroke of fortune. Good or ill, I cannot decide.”

The witch – for she was indeed a witch, those eyes proved it so – continued to stare into the flames. Aemond again set a hand on his wife’s shoulder, and she wondered whether he considered the bastard to be good fortune. He had not said anything to suggest he was glad of it, but there were memories that suggested he was.

He had learned things from Alys that he tried to use on her. How to hold her to relieve the weight of the babes, and how to cushion her belly when in the carriage. She was sure there was more, perhaps he had done them, and she just hadn’t noticed. But he had held Alys and taken care to protect her child.

It was intimate in a way that suggested they shared more than just sex.

“Does Aemond love you?” Even the crackling of the fire seemed to quiet as the words left her mouth unbidden. But this was the most important question. How deep did Aemond’s betrayal go?

Alys’ answer was just as sudden. “No. Nor I him.”

Her heart pounded to hear those words. Alys had taken so much. Half a year of their lives. Aemond’s touch. The trust between them. But she hadn’t taken Aemond’s heart. That belonged only to her.

Even if she wasn’t sure she wanted it.

She fell silent, considering all she had learned. Aemond fucked Alys, but he didn’t love her. He called her to his room, but her comfortable quarters suggested she didn’t stay with him. He spilled his seed inside her, but took no precautions against siring a bastard. He knew he was to have a child by Alys, but planned to return to his wife. He…

He kept her and the child secret. He had commanded that all those who knew of the affair remain silent, if Ser Willis’ words could be trusted.

Why would he go to such lengths to uphold the secret if he knew he was coming home rather than staying at Harrenhal?

A chill wind passed through her despite the heat of the fire, numbing her, body and soul.

“Did you know Daemon was going to tell me?”

“Ah,” Alys looked ashamed for the first time she had seen. “No. That escaped my vision. It was likely a decision he made just prior to departing for the God’s Eye after I had my initial vision of Aemond’s triumph. And oh, what changes that decision has made.”

That meant… “You believed I wouldn’t find out?”

“Until Aemond returned from the battle, yes.” A humorless laugh. “I was nearly as shocked as him.”

“Then you saw a future where you and your child remained hidden from me.” A statement, not a question, as the truth began to take shape in her mind.

“Yes.”

“Alys, stop.” Aemond had gone entirely still and silent since she asked if he loved Alys. Now, he was frantic and panicked.

She paid him no mind. The truth was in hand, and she would not let it go. “What would have happened? If Daemon hadn’t written that letter?”

“Many things, little one, be more specific.” Alys seemed amused by the turn the line of questioning had taken, almost like a parent helping their child with a logic puzzle.

“Would Aemond…” The words burned in her throat, not the hot burn of anger, but of deathly cold of impending heartbreak. “With you…” she was going to be sick. She could have asked anything else and been fine, but this? She would rather ask how well Aemond had fucked her. “Would it have continued?”

“Ābrazȳrītsos —” He was begging. The man who had slain dragons and burned entire villages was begging, but he did not beg for long.

“Your husband would have taken me back to King’s Landing and brought me into the Red Keep’s household as a wet nurse. I would have nursed your babes and mine, and Aemond would be able to know all his children.”  There was no trace of pride or gloating in Alys’ voice, just the truth. The horrible, horrible truth.

Her tone turned reassuring. “Though, our physical intimacy would not have continued. "When he was finally by your side again, he’d have no use of me in that.” Alys paused, looking once at Aemond. “He does love you, princess. Very much. I’m sorry that I have made you doubt that.”

The bastard would have lived with them. Drank the same milk as her own children. Perhaps even played with them, learned with them. It might even look like them, if it took after its father.

For the first time, she was truly glad for what Daemon had done with his final breaths.

“It was just for the child,” Aemond whispered, his voice utterly broken. “I swear, I… I just wanted to know my child.”

She faced him, feeling nothing at the horror on his face as he fell to his knees beside her. “What about our children? What about me?”

“I thought…” he shook his head as if he did not believe his own words. “I thought that I – ”

“I don’t care, Aemond.” A lie. She cared so much. For him and the love they shared. For the family they were soon to have. For herself. She cared so deeply it felt like a star in her chest, burning with how much she cared.

That star blinked out.

“I don’t care,” she said once more. Then she stood and left the room.

“You lied.”

“Did I?” Alys’ veneer of benevolent politeness was gone the moment they were alone. She looked at Aemond with cold eyes, not a hint of the affection he once saw, feigned as it was. “Your little wife – ābrazȳrītsos, I believe is the term? – is such a charming little thing. I swore to her that I would tell her the truth. Why would I lie to such a sweet girl?”

This was insufferable. She was insufferable. “When you told her about the vision – your first vision. About Darry. I didn’t notice it when you told me then, but I know you better now.” Fear rose to match the anger in his veins as he stood. “That was a lie.”

Alys looked away. The bitch looked away from him to hide the twist of her lips as she looked into the fire. “You won the battle, didn’t you?”

It was a lie. A lie that had destroyed him. Destroyed his life. Destroyed his ābrazȳrītsos. And it was all a godsdamned lie.

He would never have pursued Alys himself. She pursued him, told him that he needed to be relaxed and without fear to win the battle and spare the bulk of his men. When he had not been able to calm himself, it was she who offered her aid.

He had not known what she meant by that, pushed her away when she first tried to kiss him. He’d wrapped a hand around her throat when she first reached out to touch him. He was going to choke her, kill her.

“It won’t mean anything, my prince,” she said when she snuck her hand between his legs. His body trembled at the touch—it had been so long since he had been touched this way. His ābrazȳrītsos had been too ill from the babe she carried, and he would never force her. He had to admit the pleasure cleared his mind. “I merely wish to help you.”

She only ever meant to help herself, not him or his men. And he had been the fool who fell for her act. Again and again.“How many of your ‘visions’ were lies?”

Alys didn’t even play at coyness. She outright grinned as she poked the fire. “Perhaps half. Perhaps more.”

“You vile whore,” he spat with all the venom he could summon.

“Careful what you say, Aemond,” her tone remained sickeningly sweet, her eyes fixed on the fire. “After all, you are the man who fucked this ‘vile whore.’ Over and over again, while that sweet thing,” she pointed her chin at the door, “was frightened and alone.”

Aemond’s breath left in a rush. “You knew she was sick?”

Alys scoffed. “She’s not sick, you stupid boy, just pregnant. It is more difficult for some women than for others. Although the stress of the war likely did not help.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” If he had only known… if, if, if, his entire life reduced to two letters. Damn the word.

“You would have left if you knew, leaving me to fend for myself.” She shrugged casually, but it did not belie the slight sagging of her shoulders. “Besides, I knew she would be well again.”

“A vision?

She smiled wistfully. Any other man would find it a beautiful sight. It made him want to kill her slowly. “Oh, what a lovely vision it was. You arrived home late in the night while she was brushing her hair. I’ve never seen such happiness as when she saw you in the mirror. Your presence alone restored her vitality. When I saw her again after she’d birthed your sons, she was strong and radiant. From Maiden to Mother.”

A crushing in his chest, pain and joy joined as one terrible whole. “‘Sons?’”

Alys looked at him then, no malice or disdain in her gaze. “Yes, she will deliver you two sons.”

Two babes. Two sons. Two heirs.

Their line would be secure with two trueborn princes. The people would take it as an omen that the gods had blessed them, and few would dispute their rule. There would be no need for further children unless something should happen to the boys. Aemond would never let anything happen to them.

There would be no need for his wife to remain in his bed.

It was his punishment, he supposed. He would have the throne and the family he always coveted at the cost of his wife’s love.

“Will they be healthy?” It was good, he told himself. He deserved this punishment, after all, and she deserved to be free of him, as much as a queen can be free of her king. So long as their sons – their bloodline – were strong.

“They were in my vision, but now that future is changed,” Alys looked back at the fire, poking at it as if searching for something. “I have not seen what will now be.”

“Try.” The babes had to be healthy after all they’d put their mother through. She must not suffer any more than she already had – at their hands or Aemond’s.

She could not bear the loss of a son. Neither could he.

“You know it doesn't work like that, Aemond. I swear, if I could see it, I would tell you.” Again, she scoured the wood and ash and flame. “But when I looked into the fire after you flew south, all I saw was smoke.”

“You lied then. You could be lying now.” He knew she wasn’t. He prayed she was.

“I give my word that this is the truth.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Aemond, this only means I cannot see what will happen. It doesn’t mean that they will not –”

“Do not speak to me!” He roared as he hadn’t since he was told Daemon and Rhaenyra had taken King’s Landing. It felt like fire was trying to burn its way out of his throat. “Do not speak to me ever again or show your face before me. If you do, I…”  

Alys laid a hand on her belly, and he recoiled in shame. To banish her would also be to banish her child—his child.

He shouldn’t care for a bastard, he knew. It was a stain on his honor, a permanent reminder that he was not the man he hoped he would be, the man his ābrazȳrītsos deserved. But it was also his child—his blood.

His eye burned in such pain he could hardly feel his zaldrīzītsos squeezing his hand while she wept. But it was nothing to the gaping hole in his chest where he once hoped his father would lay.

The old man would not even look at him. He appeared as if his greatest concern wasn’t the damage to his son but that he longed for his bed. When Aemond’s mother begged for justice, his father looked on her as if she were mad.

“He is your son, Viserys. Your blood.”

Aemond swore he would not be like his father. He knew what it was to be neglected by those he shared blood with and couldn’t stand the thought of doing it himself.

Yet he had also sworn to do anything for his ābrazȳrītsos’ happiness.

“I will send funds for the child’s care,” his voice was weak now that his inner fire had faded. “But I forbid you from naming me as the father to anyone on pain of death.”

“You would condemn your child to fatherlessness?”

The fire roared back to life, as large as the swaths of destruction he had laid across the Riverlands.

He approached Alys with his dagger in hand, unaware of when he had drawn it. “It is only because of the child that I do not slit your throat here and now. Be grateful for what I am giving you. It is well beyond what most whores receive for their bastards.”

Aemond stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He shut his eye and breathed heavily. In. Out. In. Out. Only when he had calmed – enough that he was no longer on the precipice of violence – did he look down the hall, only to find it empty.  “Ābrazȳrītsos?”

There was no reply. Until –

“Aemond!” Her voice was strained, desperate, and, worst of all, followed by a long moan of pain.

He screamed her name as he ran toward her voice. Why was she in pain? Was she ill again? It had never happened before night fell, as far as he knew. Had someone hurt her? Alys? Stark? He’d kill them – slowly, painfully, without mercy. He’d –

She was slumped against the wall. Her sweet face was flushed and scrunched with pain, her mouth open as she moaned. But there was no hint of injury. She looked whole.

Then, Aemond saw it.

There was a steadily growing pool of liquid surrounding her. Not blood, thank the gods, but… Alys once said there was a release of fluid when a woman began her labors.

No. No. It was too early. The babes were not ready yet. If they were born now, they would not survive. They would be like Rhaenyra’s daughter Visenya – weak and deformed. They would have scales or horns or tails or talons, perhaps even malformed wings.

They couldn’t come now. They couldn’t. Not only for their sake, but if they had those horns or talons, they could kill their mother as they ripped their way out of her.

Aemond couldn’t let it happen. There had to be something he could do, some way he could –

She screamed.

It was the worst sound he’d ever heard. It tore at his chest like a storm ravaged a ship. He could not move, not until he saw her legs wobble as she braced herself against the wall. She was going to fall. He ran forward to catch her, screaming himself.

“Ābrazȳrītsos!”

[aemxnd]

sliding doors | aemond targaryen x dornish!reader (modern au) part i

Today is your first day in the London grind — how bad can it be?

WARNINGS: sexual assault, tension, angst, mentions of our lord and saviour Oberyn Martell (I know, that’d upset me too), mentions of death, sleazy men, sassy men.

WORDS: 2.1k

A/N: Anybody looking for a slow-burning love story with mystery and intrigue? I gotchu. Part I of maaaany.

Moving to London was a necessary evil.

You couldn’t spend your entire life slaving away at a minimum wage job in rural Dorne forever, or maybe that was your family’s indoctrination talking. Move to London and seek out fame, fortune or both, they had prescribed.

You weren’t truly ready for life in the big city, but being headhunted by a prestigious company days earlier had forced your hand. Several frantic late-night social media searches suggested women your age would kill to work there, although you’d have to admit you hadn’t heard of them until their name slipped into your inbox. No interview required, simply start on Monday.

Their generous salary offer sealed the deal above all else.

Your friends foretold that the worst aspect of London life would be the commute. Stifling, deafening rush hour Tubes and the unpredictable weather above ground would be a culture shock for a country girl, but you felt somewhat compelled to prove them wrong. Dornish women weren’t short of confidence, strength and stubbornness, and you weren’t about to disobey the order of things for the sake of a move to the city.

You promised yourself you would give it a try. Two weeks should do it. If you weren’t convinced by the end of the fortnight, you’d simply pack up and leave on the next train home.

“The next station is Highgarden,” the familiar metallic voice boomed throughout the train, startling you from your daze. Your eyes widened, forcing yourself to focus on your surroundings and contemplate the next stage of your journey into the unknown. Affirmations you’d scrolled through on TikTok the night before ticked through your mind. I am good enough because they hired me, you assured yourself, or at the very least the voice in your mind.

Instinctively gazing down at your handbag resting on the floor between your feet, you swallowed hard and gazed at your black stiletto heels as if willing them to move autonomously.

Up until this moment, the London experience hadn’t phased you. But now, anxiety rising, the thought of navigating the morning rush hour on the Tube paralysed you before you’d even left your seat, an oasis of calm before the storm.

“Change here for the Searoad line,” the voice snapped again, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut as the train began to brake to a halt.

Eyes firmly closed, you reached out blindly to grab your bag and hauled yourself to your feet with blind determination.

No sooner had the seat’s scratchy pile left the back of your dress pants, than a new sensation appeared against your backside. A hand, grasping at the curve of your behind, desperately clawing at your flesh. Your eyes darted open, staring into the middle distance between advertising posters and the carousel of train tunnel walls flickering past the windows.

You froze solid, unable to compute the unexpected feeling. Why was someone touching you, grabbing you? Were you imagining it? Was it a simple mistake and they meant to hold onto a handrail instead?

You couldn’t bring yourself to turn around and face them, not yet. Your body instinctively snapped bolt upright to escape their clutch, but the hand remained fixed to your curve, gripping tighter as your body straightened out.

Let go, you cried out only in your mind, the words refusing to roll off your tongue with your mouth clamped shut in fear. Let go of me.

Where was your usual attitude? What happened to your usual bark and bite? Why had your trademark fighting talk abandoned you when you needed it most? Dornish women weren’t raised to turn a blind eye.

The indignity of it all had you raise your drawbridge and barricade the gates.

The shock had stolen your identity.

You suddenly lurched forward, the offending hand slipping from your body as a crude slap denoted their limb had dropped into their lap. Hurriedly slinging your bag over your arm, you stumbled aside to reach the train doors and forced yourself to focus your gaze down to your own feet, conscious of tripping over the feet of the other commuters on your escape route.

Other passengers followed, smart shoes and trainers gathering around yours as you approached the door. A misty kaleidoscope hazed the corners of your vision, fear stealing your breath from your lungs as you realised that one of them may be your assailant. You cursed yourself for not looking at what they were wearing or even what they looked like, now you would never be able to identify them.

“Leaving so soon?” A sneering male voice dripped like poison in your ear, followed by a contented hum as a hand grasped your backside again. “We were just getting started, pretty girl.”

A wave of acidic bile rose up into your throat, burning your airways and forcing you to swallow harshly. Clutching at your handbag, your nails carved crescent dips into the leather as your grip tightened with every passing second.

Where’s your fight, kid? A distant echo of your uncle Oberyn’s words the first time you conceded defeat in a childish quarrel with your younger sister. Stand up for yourself!

It’s now or never.

Spinning around on your heels to again release yourself from their grip, you turned to face them. Your gaze fixed upon a tall man with long, golden hair and a bushy beard to match. His eyes were piercing, half-squinting as he observed you, clocking every inch of your face, analysing your reaction. The familiar scent of alcohol pricked your nose as he breathed.

“Look here, asshole, what’s your problem?” You snapped, an electric pulse bringing your attitude to the surface as you raised a hand to jab a finger toward his face. “Just because you can’t get some at home, you think you’re a big man trying it on the Roseroad line before you jerk off in your cubicle all day?”

The carriage fell eerily silent, passengers holding their breath as if waiting for disaster to strike.

Your rural upbringing never suitably briefed you on women’s public safety. You were exclusively educated on defending yourself in any situation, but news reports from city life suggested it wasn’t always a wise move to confront attackers, least of all to humiliate them in front of a packed commuter train.

The red mist had descended and you already regretted snapping back.

The faint notes of a chuckle burst through the stony silence, someone who tried to stifle their amusement but failed miserably. All eyes darted over to the source of the sound only to find a lithe, blonde man unsuccessfully concealing his guilt with a wry smile cinching the corner of his lips. His gaze was fixed to the floor, blissfully unaware that he had attracted the attention of the carriage.

One man’s response on the train quelled the rage inside you, dousing the fire in your chest. Releasing a sigh of relief, it felt as if your ordeal was over. With the attention of the entire carriage on the situation, a calming sense of security washed over you.

Swishing your head back to face the offender at your side, you found nothing but unfamiliar faces. In the aftermath of your outburst, he’d sidled his way through the crowd without you noticing.

Another sigh escaped you.

The train ground to a halt and its doors swooshed open with an unforgiving pace, slicing through the atmosphere in the carriage as passengers clamoured onto the platform.

“Mind the gap between the train and the platform,” came the disembodied announcement, prompting you to rush forward and drop to the platform as if instinct took over.

As soon as both feet met the concrete, another sigh came forth and you stood still. Gazing up at the bright lights leading the way toward platforms, lifts and exits, you drank in the gleaming scenery as the crowds bustled past you.

Affording yourself time to breathe on the platform, you stayed stationary, passengers dipping and diving around you until the fateful train departed beside you and left you alone in silence.

“You should be more careful,” came a man’s voice from behind you, startling you from your daze.

You turned to face the source and found the chuckling man from the carriage, his poker-straight silver hair framing his pale face and tumbling over his shoulders like a waterfall.

Your focus fell on his eyes - one blue, one purple - he was looking down on the train, they certainly weren’t visible before. But they glistened in the fluorescent lighting like precious gems. His expression was blank, neither reassuring nor stern. Simply unreadable.

“Yeah, I figured that,” you sassed, stepping toward him while tucking your hands in your coat pockets. “Thank you for… whatever that was, Mr…”

“Targaryen,” he proffered without a thought, his countenance still giving away zero emotion. “No matter, it seems you can handle yourself without anyone’s assistance. But it doesn’t always pay to confront people in London, your Dornish ways will make you a target here.”

You shook your head in disbelief. Was it that obvious you weren’t from around here? You glanced down at your outfit, wondering if this was a fashion-related remark. Do London women not usually dress so formal?

As you looked back up, the man paced toward you, but almost as if he aimed to walk right through you.

“Your attitude is a dead giveaway,” he muttered as he passed, striding along the platform and disappearing down a side corridor.

Drawing your bottom lip between your teeth as the silence on the platform deafened, the gravity of his words hit you. Perhaps you should have bitten your tongue, moved on, left the carriage without a word. What if your assailant travelled your way every morning at the same time? What if he had plans for you tomorrow morning?

You swallowed thickly, contemplating a call to the police that might cease your concerns altogether. Or it might also make you even more of a target, as the man so eloquently labelled you.

Suddenly, approaching footsteps and a stream of new commuters brought you back to your senses.

“Oh fuck,” you exclaimed to yourself, instantly aware that you would be late for your first day if you spent any longer on the platform. Gripping your handbag and swallowing your trepidation, you scurried in the man’s direction and headed into the unknown.

———

As first days go, yours was remarkably unremarkable. Introductions and office training blended into insignificance, often finding yourself drifting off into a daydream of your home. To you, the arid deserts of Dorne represented comfort, sand dunes whisking away every care you could possibly have in the world. Far from the blocky industrial landscape of the big city, where nothing works unless it’s digitised.

Your lunch break arrived all too late for your attention span, hurriedly retreating to the company’s enclosed garden to touch some perfectly manicured grass.

A buzz in your pocket signalled a notification’s arrival and you prized your phone free from its confines for the first time all day.

A local news article emerged in front of your eyes, blocks of text blurring beneath the headline:

Murder probe after death of man, 44, in Monday morning rush hour

You sucked in your cheeks. After all, that could have been you if your attacker had been less forgiving.

Scrolling down, the subheading read:

Police launch murder enquiry after man’s body found on tracks at Highgarden station

Your brows knitted together as you scrolled further, this time to a photo of a man with long, golden hair and a bushy beard to match.

Your attacker.

Your heart sank as you read on, one hand firing to clasp your mouth.

The Metropolitan police were called to Highgarden Underground Station after reports of a person struck by a train in the morning rush hour.

The man has been identified as 44-year-old Jason Lannister, Director of Casterly Rock Plc, which is widely reported as Highgarden’s most profitable enterprise and Lannister’s net worth reported as £2.9 billion.

Suddenly, it felt as if a train had also struck you. Not only was your attacker a billionaire, but also the director of the company you now worked for. Tears began to well in your eyes as your mind scurried around for answers — if he was as wealthy as they suggested, why was he taking the Tube that morning? Why would he attack his own employee?

A tidal wave of bile rose into your throat for the second time that day. Clenching your eyes shut for a moment, you forced them open to scan the article’s last paragraph:

With the death being treated as suspicious, the Metropolitan Police are appealing for witnesses that may have seen Mr Lannister this morning.

[aemondwhoresworld]

RHAE rec. (still UPDATING)

( a place where i will recommend all of my favorite HOTD work )

𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄. 𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

≡ i read mostly angst stuff but ofc with happy ending also some don’t .

≡ pairing aemond targaryen x reader

≡ there are some fic that i listed in a one-shot list might be a 2 shots or more but i’m not sure if the author will update more to that fic so if there is another part to it, i’ll surely update. thank you!

≡ i don’t own any of these work, this is just a recommendation list. also thank you to all the writers.

≡ please be free to recommend more fic if you have any other angsty, fluff, etc fic

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍. rec

⌗ one-shot

SALT AND ASH — by @clints-lucky-arrow

THE DEATH OF A LIFE — by @fan-goddess

SCAR — by @runningmunson

DRAGONS, KNIGHTS AND PRINCESSES

BALANCE THE SCALES — by @ichorai

WON’T LET GO — by @vhagarlovebot

BEWITCHED — by @achaoticeternal

IN A WEEK — by @oneeyedvisenya

MY DRAGON — by @sapphire-writes

A FATHER’S LOVE — by @drakoneve

HOW LONG CAN WE BE A SAD SONG — by @namelesslosers

HIS LADY WIFE — by @aemondsladywife

ELECTRIC TOUCH — by @achaoticeternal

AEMOND’S CROWN JEWEL — by @dreamfyrie

BASTARD — by @maidragoste

⌗ multi-part

THE OTHER WOMEN — by @bichachonacho

part 01. the other women

part 02. retribution

part 03. repentance

part 04. appatent

part 05. enamoured

part 06. atonement

alt ending. night changes

OF FLOWERS & DRAGON — by @aemonds-sapphire

MOONBLOOM (can be read as part 2)

MY FIERCE LADY — by @runningmunson

part 01 ; part 02

WHISPERS UNSAID — by @theold-ultraviolence

part 01 ; part 02

WORK FOR IT — by @lovelykhaleesiii

part 01 ; part 02

⌗ modern!aemond

BLACK CHRISTMAS — by @valeskafics

A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

BE QUIET — by @youraverageaemondsimp

ALL THAT I’M LIVING FOR — by @valyrianglass

TIL DEATH DO US PART — by @asumofwords

⌗ headcanon

[simpingland]

The rumors// Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader.

Requ: May I request a piece with Aemond x Blackwood!Reader? Was thinking that the oldest daughter of the Blackwoods gets betrothed to Aemond in order for the Greens to gain their support, Aemond is not ecstatic about it but he finds that lady Blackwood is fascinating person, very intelligent and very much..like him.So of course he slowly falls for her and in spite of her cold/sarcastic demeanour she truly sees Aemond for who he is and falls for him at first glance (but of course he doesn't have to know that:).

Summary: Aemond is forced to marry a woman he was more than happy to ignore. But her sarcasm, brain skills and a knee injury makes him feel a bit too passionate for her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your father had quickly changed his colors as soon as the largest dragon in existence landed on the mountain closest to his castle. Of course, Aemond showed no threat; he knew he had to get an army that was willing to defend Aegon, not hate him. So he passively aggressively asked for the army of Lord Samwell Blackwood, who ruled a considerable part of the Riverlands, in exchange for something else. And of course, the lord had you, a daughter of appropriate age, hard to marry and smart enough to know how to grow the Blackwood power at court. So he asked for a marriage. You could see the Prince let out a sigh from your hiding place, but he agreed. It was a conscious decision that you found yourself "indisposed" in the days leading up to your wedding. In these, you spent your time wandering the corridors in the shadows, following the Prince at a distance and meeting the women with reliable sources who told you what Aemond Targaryen was like. Best of all, you knew he knew nothing of you. That was an advantage.

The wedding was rushed, held in your own home, making it clear to the Tullys and Bracken that their support for Aegon was expected. If they did not support your House, you were likely to be the victim of a mysterious death, and the Brackens would be happy with the news, but the Tullys would not. You were dressed in red, the black was entirely removed from your dress, and your jewels and veil silvered. Under the veil you could see him watching you with that blue eye, and when he withdrew it, you could see an indecipherable change in his face. Whether he was happy or not didn't matter to you, because he was surprised, and that was interesting. You exchanged vows, touching his hand for the first time, as cold as you expected, and he could hear your voice. He only looked away when you looked at him, but the rest of the time you were sure he was following you. He kissed your hand courteously at the end of the ceremony.

"Does your wine not please you, my lady?" His voice surprised you, his gaze resting on your glass, still full.

"It pleases me as much as it surely pleases you, my Prince," you replied. He hadn't had a drop either.

"I'm tryingto keep a clear mind."

"Some men drink their fill precisely to clear their heads. Besides, you shouldn't be nervous, I'll tell you which hole is the right one."

The sly grin that appeared on your face made him clench his jaw in frustration. Perhaps, a dragon rider, such a fearful prince, would react with fists and shouts at the taunt. But Aemond decided to pick up his goblet and take a good swallow.

"It's going to be a long night, I'm afraid," he said it as a kind of threat, but to you it sounded as if it was more of a nightmare.

And he stared at his failure to scare you, as you continued to eat with glee.

The bedding was not public thanks to your father, but you did spend the night with Aemond. He was reluctant to undress, so neither did you. He sat in front of the fire in your room while you watched Vhagar from your balcony.

"Are you going to force me to ride on the dragon to King's Landing?" You asked without turning around.

"If you prefer, go on horseback. But by the time you reach the castle I will have marched off to war." He sounded serious.

"It doesn't sound as bad as you think it does."

You heard him rise from the chair, and then you were a little afraid. He walked quickly towards you, placing his face inches from yours, his hands grasping and squeezing your arms.

"Then you will enjoy an extremely lonely time, my dear. No one will know who you are and neither they would want to find out. And if I die in battle, with no heirs, no one will ever care for you. They'll send you back here and you'll become old and a burden. And if we lose the war, there will be no one to protect you." His soft voice spoke calmly despite the venom they gave off.

"I never said I didn't want to ride in Vhagar, my Prince." Your reassurance surprised him, as did your hands resting on his chest gently. "I'd rather ride and stay there with you...I'm sure it's much more fun."

And without further ado, you turned away and set about sleeping, or pretending to. Aemond never got to lie in bed with you. But soon he would, you needed time. The flight to King's Landing was quick, in silence and quite impressive. Clinging more to the chair than to Aemond, you didn't tell him how impressed you were with the sensation. He didn't want to ask you any questions, but looked at you in search for something to make him feel satisfied, but it was hard to impress you. When you landed, he helped you off the beast and you decided not to let go of his hand. And so the Dowager Queen Alicent saw you.

"Did you enjoy your flight?" she asked politely.

"The truth is, yes. Now I understand why children are willing to lose precious things in exchange for flying with them..." they both looked at you quizzically. Of course, the source of the loss of Aemond's eye was just a rumour, a rumour you had heard. You smiled, noting the tension in both of them. "Like little Ronnel Arryn when Visenya asked him to surrender."

Your explanation was enough for Alicent, but Aemond could tell it was a trick answer, that you had someone else in mind. And when you reached your chambers, the one you would share for the rest of your lives, Aemond did not hesitate to corner you against the wall in one of his graceful moves. His hands rested on your cheeks, squeezing hard enough to keep you quiet and your gaze locked with his.

"I don't know what's going through your mind, but I don't like a single tone in your voice." His voice was laden with anger, anger at not knowing. "You think by smiling at the end of every sentence people forget how irritating you are."

"You barely know me..." you tried to say with his fingers so tightly pressed to your face. "But I'm glad to see I was right to bet that I was going to have a good time with you."

"I'm not a buffoon." His face was so close to yours that you had to turn your own away.

"I know better, my Prince. With that hair and that dragon there is no doubt about it. It must bother you that there are people in the kingdom who don't see Jacaerys and Lucerys for what they really are...mustn't it?"

His hand loosened slightly, and Aemond seemed to calm down. He waited for you to draw another smirk again, watching your lips slowly. But that smile did not come, for you knew you had hit the nail on the head. Your bad luck was that Aemond was almost as smart as you, and only trusted you for those brief seconds. Then he squeezed your face again before releasing it abruptly.

Even though Aemond was constantly wandering, Helaena was the best company. She was the one who explained to you everything that was really going on in that castle, even though it was hard to understand her. Her words were never clear, and she got lost in the middle of conversations. What reassured you most was that Aemond was a tender brother, caring for the children Aegon had neglected from the beginning. And if Aemond was patient with a girl like Helaena, it indicated that there must be something good in the prince everyone feared. Now all that remained was to keep him more than a few minutes at your side.

Then came the opportunity to visit Oldtown, to meet Daeron and make sure that the Hightower would support the Greens and how good that support was. On this dragon ride, you decided to put your hands on his waist, consciously moving them all over his abdomen, trying to unnerve him. And at your attempts, Aemond commanded Vhagar to fly in a brute and exaggerated way. A bad idea, for although she managed to scare you, the dragon was very old and hurt herself, brushing against the mountains as you passed Horn Hill. Had they been higher, you would have been killed, but Aemond controlled the situation before it got worse, and the fall only resulted in a rough landing in the mountains.

"Why did you do that?" you shouted as soon as you saw that Aemond was still alive, a few metres away. He was able to get up and approach you, putting on the patch before you could see him without it. "We could have died!"

"You were the one triying to to piss me off!" You were still lying on the ground, your leg felt sore, and you didn't want to move it.

"Is that why you asked Vhagar to shake himself in the air?" You were indignant, somewhat flattered, but mostly indignant.

"You were trying to distract me!" he justified himself, looking down at you from above.

"You should have told me to stop!"

"And would you have stopped?"

He watched as you fell silent. Obviously you wouldn't have, you would have ended up finding some other way to irritate him. Then Aemond offered you a hand to help you up, and you took it. But a pain in your leg made you grunt and fall back down. It was sharp, but not exaggerated. Aemond bent down to check your wound, and without any embarrassment, lifted your skirt.

"Wow, you can do that and I can't hold on to your chest?" Even in pain, you still laughed at him. And Aemond's gaze commanded you to shut up.

His hands gently touched your knee, and the pain returned. You saw Aemond quickly pull his hands away and cover you again.

"Good thing it's not broken," he said, standing up again.

"What a joy... Now you're just going to leave me lying here?"

With another deep sigh of his own, he lifted you up without difficulty, careful not to move your knee too much. And it took you a while to mount Vhagar again.

This time you would not be behind, but in front of Aemond, both legs to one side, and Aemond's arms as a barrier. He placed your hands firmly on the collar of his coat and your legs wrapped as tightly as possible around his. Your face was basically buried in his neck and his scent clouded any other scent.

"Don't move" he whispered in your ear. And you didn't, also, you didn't wanted to. The rest of the flight was quiet and pleasant, and you could watch Aemond's face as much as you wished to. The arrival in Oldtown was rushed to say the least, Aemond wanted to leave you with the Maesters while he met with the more important lords.

"But I want to be present," you demanded, still in his arms.

"Your leg must be checked," he justified.

"I want to know everything, I refuse to have made this journey to stay locked up in my room.

"You simply can't."

He spoke to you as if you were stupid, but when you grabbed his coat tightly, you surprised him with your change of tone.

"Take me with you right now, Aemond, or I swear you will lose the support of the Rivelands with one word from me."

He could barely attend to the meeting, seeing you sitting with dignity in the chair, attentive to the words of the lords and maesters, and disguising the pain in your leg. He felt rather guilty, for besides, Aemond had gained nothing, for you continued to impress everyone who came across you. You knew by heart all the information you had received, you knew what your father was planning, and what Otto was planning. You looked like the Princess, not Aemond. And when the meeting was over, he saw you stand up with a grimace, and ran to hold you, letting you lean your full weight on him slyly.

"Now you're really going to see a Maester, wife."

"About time, this is all your fault."

He was going to argue, but as he turned he saw that smile again. Something in him melted and he knew he had to surrender to you, for he was losing that futile battle.

In the room, with your knee smeared with a medicated cream and covered with care, Aemond saw you reposition yourself on the bed, now comfortable.

"I didn't know you liked politics," Aemond said, watching you from across the room.

"I don't. But I want to survive."

"You don't trust us to win this war?"

"I trust nothing, ever. You have to be prepared for anything."

"I agree," he moved closer to the bed. He brushed your sore knee gently. "Does that mean you'll never trust me?"

"For starters, you tried to shake me off your dragon."

Aemond's gaze softened, moving his hand away from your knee but sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry. You made me nervous."

"And to continue," you interrupted him, "you won't let me get to know you. And I remind you that you are now my husband."

"I've never met a woman who wants to be so involved with her husband's affairs." He smiled slightly, wryly.

"That's because you don't know many women...as the rumours say."

"The rumours?" you nodded. "Do you listen to the rumours?"

"No, I just listen and wait. You'd be surprised how many times I've seen them confirmed. Just now was one of them."

"You think I haven't been with a lot of women?" Aemond slowly bent down to close the distance, and his breath circled over your face. You had to hide your nervousness, for he didn't seem angry this time.

"You don't like my touch... But I assumed it was because I am little more than a stranger to you. I do not think you a virgin, but I know you have loved few women. If you ever have..." His weight began to fall on top of you, covering you with his body.

"And what else do the rumours say?"

"That your eye is replaced with a diamond. Though I've also heard that it's empty dark, and that's why you cover it."

His lips landed on your neck, where he left you a soft kiss.

"And what do you think I'm wearing?" His voice sounded husky and you felt its vibration.

"I've seen your books, many of history, and many of gemstones, an incredible boring reading... But not to look like a diamond man." You turned your face to him, forcing him to look at you, and saw his blue eye with the pupil dilated, glittering. "It's a stone, but not a diamond."

"And what stone do you think it is, wife?"

"I don't know. I've been thinking more about other things. And I have little interest in what's behind a patch. You covered your eye for a reason and I will respect that."

He seemed surprised, your tone was, for the first time, serious and cutting. And he liked that better than he expected.

"Everything I've heard about you is that you were a hard woman to marry."

"That's because no one delivered what I asked for. I have not been so obedient to my father's orders when offering my hand to a random lord."

"And what is it you ask, my lady?"

"I am no longer a lady."

"True, my princess." He couldn't help but smile when he saw the pride appear on your face.

"What I ask, my prince...is that my marriage will bring change to House Blackwood. It is because of us that The Riverland is so powerful. And the Tullys and Brackens get all the credit. We were kings once. And we can be kings again. Just one dragon can be incredible powerfull."

Aemond stroked your hair, then your lips with his thumb. You let your husband touch you tenderly for the first time. You caressed that face too, and Aemond kissed your fingers.

"I find it hard to believe that my wife seems tailor-made for me," he said at last. "We may die as Princes, but I swear to you our children will be kings."

"But that requires some irritating and distracting...Touches."

"I will have to make the sacrifice then of-" Aemond tried to joke, but you cut him off, kissing him at last on those lips.

They were warmer than you had expected, perhaps, in the comfort of the bed, with the lust stirring and the fantasy of creating a family, Aemond's body had been comforted by the feel of yours so close. And he fell surrendered in your arms, eagerly receiving and sharing that kiss that ended in something much bigger. That day, without rumours, without theories, you got to know Aemond completely, as a prince, as a husband, as a lover, as a man. He was all your, as you were all his, maybe, and just maybe, because he trusted you as much as you trusted him.

[barbieaemond]

The King of Qarth I

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Qartheen f!reader (use of third perspective)

Warnings: angst, dubcon (but not really), handjob, fingering, p in v, hints at sexual trauma, self indulgent use of sorcery

Word count: 11k (i know...i'm sorry...)

Author’s note: The foreign words you’ll find are stolen from Greek. Second and final part coming in two weeks. English is not my first language.

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee @succnfuccubus @zaldritzosrose @kckt88 @venmondiese @miraclealignertlsp369 @ilikechocolatemilkh @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs

He had taken each one of them. Dragons, power, the Crown. Snatched them from whatever divine plan the Gods had concocted, for others, never for him, and perhaps this was their punishment.

Death would’ve been a far too kind blessing, he would come to realise in one of those endless days spent wandering, roaming to find some meal, a softer clod to lie on, an identity.

Prince, Protector of the Realm, Rider of Vhagar, Blood of Old Valyria.

They were nothing more than shrouds. Once stripped of them, what was left was merely a man.

And a son. That’s what his mother saw when they threw him on the ground of the Throne Room.

Crawling on her knees like some commoner, she begged and sobbed until her voice became raw and her throat hoarse, chanting obsessively the same plea over and over like a mad woman.

"Please...have mercy in the name of the Mother… my only son...” she had bent so much as to graze the toe of Corlys Velaryon's boots with her face. “you took them all...you took them all...”

Whether she was talking to the Sea Snake, Rhaenyra, the Gods or fate, Aemond didn’t know. He didn’t know the woman kneeling before him, if he ever truly knew her. You cannot know ghosts, only walk through them.

He could not look at her. He turned his head and watched over that crowd of traitors looking down on him, as if they themselves had not looted, slaughtered, and burned more innocent than guilty.

Trained puppets they were, obeying like green little soldiers to Cregan Stark, a northern savage who had taken upon himself the right and duty to do justice. Corlys Velaryon knew it well, having spent days and nights in the dungeons as an accomplice in the poisoning of Aegon the Elder. And there they were, taking over the reins of a kingdom shattered and embittered by war.

But with the promise of Alysanne Blackwood’s hand in marriage, the Wolf had been tamed. He had stopped howling about trials and executions. Now, caution moved and bogged down their decisions. But one thing was clear as a law written in stone: there had to be peace, no matter the cost. Hence, a marriage had been arranged, between two children who, for no reason, had been taught to see the other as the enemy, whose eyes had seen too much death; orphaned and thrown like marbles into a game that brought neither smiles nor laughter to their sepulchral mouths.

She was looking at him, Jaehaera, and in her empty eyes Aemond could see Helaena climbing up the windowsill and letting herself fall.   

“What happened to Vhagar?” The Sea Snake asked “Kinslayer! What about your dragon?”

"Dead.” He lied, although he didn’t know for how long that lie would remain so. That rope in his heart had loosened, weakened, but it still held. She must have crawled off to some remote place, perhaps beyond the Neck, to recover from the injuries to her neck and right wing.

Then the Sea Snake had turned his back, consulting with his council of leeches. Exile. He heard them say. Essos. And then that word he hadn’t heard for a long time. Dragonless. A kinder word for useless. Powerless.

“Let him go, Corlys. He’s always been a spoiled brat. He won’t survive for long in those savage lands.” Someone said outside the cell they threw him in, shackled with chains on wrists and ankles like some rabid dog.

He won’t survive for long.

How he wished they were right. How he wished to look into the beady eyes of the Stranger.

Alicent would curse him, perhaps she would slap him as she used to slap Aegon for being so blasphemous, not to the Gods, but to her. Aemond was no father, and no matter how much he could try, he’d never understood the fierce, unforgiving grip motherhood had on a woman.

When he saw her for the last time before being thrown on a ship to Braavos, he realized it was the only tether that kept her alive. Him and Jaehaera.

“Just a little longer, please…just a little…” she pleaded to his jailers. With the arranged marriage, cruelties had softened, and concessions became more frequent. The Dowager Queen was granted to see her son for the last time.

“Mother!” he screamed as they dragged him away “Keep your fucking hands off me!”

He needed to speak to her. He needed her to tell him she was lying.  

“Mother, there’s a woman…”

“The Strong witch? Aemond, she’s…They captured our last allies from the Reach and…they said they found a woman in the woods but…she was in pain…and bleeding….”

The Gods’ punishment flowed through the long-cowled robe of the Stranger. And he took them all.

Aegon, Helaena, Daeron. Alys and the baby.

Alicent could not bear to see the last piece of her flesh and bones being cloaked by the cold shroud of the Stranger. And so, she crawled and begged to preserve his existence.

But that, that was no existence.

It was a limbo, a hanging life for the damned. And he was one, wasn't he? He killed kin, he killed innocent men, women and children, coming from above like a heaven banished God unleashing his wrath on the world. And even gods pay for their sins.

Only he would gladly have stuck his head in a noose or waited for the hangman's blade, a death worthy of a soldier, rather than wandering like a derelict, rootless and restless, with that rope pulling and fraying day after day. Or Weeks? Moons? He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d set foot in that limbo.

He seemed to be living in a slumber, a Milk of the Poppy hallucination. And yet, the ground was real beneath his exhausted feet, as was the heat, and at some point, the hunger.

The leeches had tried to appear civil and compassionate, lying to his mother’s face about the gold they would give him, to sustain himself once reached the East. But naturally, they didn’t keep their word. If he died of starvation, he was sure they would have lit a candle to each God in the Grand Sept. They probably prayed for that to happen.

Or maybe not. Maybe there was no greater gratification and source of amusement to know that the haughty Prince Aemond was tasting the everyday humiliation of having to steal in order not to starve, of not having clean clothes, feather pillows to lie on, the disgrace of not being able to give orders to anyone, but rather having to suffer them.

He stayed in Bravoos for a short time. It was too dangerous, too close to Westeros and too wary if anyone ever caught the color of his hair under the cloak’s hood. He remembered his history books quite well. It was the only one among the Free Cities that did not yield to the Valyrian empire; indeed, it was founded by a group of rebellious slaves fled from the tyranny of the Dragon Lords.

Volantis, on the contrary, worshipped the Old Empire. But in equal measure, they worshipped slavery. The city swarmed with mercenaries and slavers, peddling men and women like meat for slaughter, ready at every corner to steal children from the streets. And in Volantis Aemond understood that if he did not want to end up in some butcher’s hands, he had to be what he had always been: a soldier. For he realized that everywhere in the world, the most valuable currency was not gold, nor castles and titles, but blood.

This man for new fresh clothes, that woman for few gold coins and a mattress to rest his back, not to sleep. Sleep eluded him, as well as remorse. Unless his body shut his mind out of exhaustion, he lied there for hours on end, with blood drying on his hands, listening to all the ghosts floating around him, and trying to find a grip—something to hold on to. Duty had been the blacksmith who forged him and the altar to which he devoted himself. Duty to his family, his brother, the crown, the throne, even Alys, yes. For all her riddles and stumps of prophecy, he wanted her. He wanted that son.

But here, he had no high purpose to serve but himself. Stripped of all honors and many more curses, he fell into a daylong stupor, made of blood, humiliations and silent cries for revenge.

Until one day, the rope went taut.

Vhagar burned away the stupor. She had found him. For the second time, she had been his salvation. And on her back, he found a fragment of who he was, but who he was supposed to be remained a distant thing, clouded in smoke.

He flew south, over the ruins of Old Valyria, and then east, crossing all of Vaes Dothrak to the Red Waste, and by the time he realized he should've veered north or south, it was too late.

He was in the middle of the widest and driest desert on the eastern continent.

The Garden of Bones, as they called it, and with good reason. For in those few times that Aemond decided to land to allow Vhagar to rest, all his eye could see were sand, devilgrass and bones. But he didn’t care about the thirst, the dry and cracked lips, the white tow his hair had become.

Vhagar was his only concern. She was starving. She could not fly too high in the skies. And so, along with all the misery and humiliation, came the dread. For if Vhagar died, the last rope, the last tether, which had perhaps kept him alive up to that point, and perhaps kept her alive, would break.

But then, just as it happens in some book of adventures, or simply in dreams, a mirage, a true oasis in the middle of the desert, surrounded by the highest walls ever built in the history of men, guarding the greatest city that ever was and will be: Qarth.

“Hmm” she ponders, pursing her lips. “I’m not sure about this one. What do you think, Nyla?”

The young maid stops her morning chore and blushes. “I think it would match your skin wonderfully, your Highness.”

She hears giggling behind her shoulders, where two of her most trusted maids are braiding her hair after oiling them with mirrh and cinnamon. “You hear that, Nyla? They’re questioning your candor.”

“I am not, your Highness.” says Dora, one of the giggling girls. “But if you were looking for a less partial opinion, let’s say a more objective one...you should have asked me or Mysha.”

“Well, as it happens, I was looking precisely for a partial opinion. Look at her. She’s changing my chamber pot and still, she thinks that shade of purple would suit me wonderfully. Oh Nyla, I think you will soon become my favorite.”

“Is that a yes then, your Highness?” the merchant wastes no time to ask, standing in the center of the room with silk drapes of several colors resting along his arm.

“Yes, Jorio. Two yards of that purple silk.”

The merchant nods swiftly, too swiftly she notices. The man is acting awkwardly since the moment he stepped into her private rooms. Usually, he’s a big talker, a true born seller. He could make believe one could heal from Greyscale if they just wrap themselves in the soft embrace of his silks. But not today. He seems in a hurry. The exhibition of his goods too quick and excited. And then the sweat, lumped in a wet sheen around his bald head.

“Anything else, your Highness?”

Her forehead creases, acknowledging a thought, new but not quite, as if it has always been there. “Perhaps something green?” she ventures.

“Green?” inquires Misha “That’s a first.”

She shakes her head in a dismissing way. “Must be my father’s sorcery.”

The shadows, kóri, they speak to you.

“What do you have in green, Jorio?”

The merchant fumbles with his silks, a turmoil moves his hands clumsily until a few drapes of fabric flutter on the ground. He stoops to pick them up, only to drop the others still clinging onto his shoulder in a chaotic rainbow of colors on the white marble floor.

“Jorio, what is the matter with you today?”

“I—Nothing, your Highness, my apologies...”

“You know if you have problems with your trades, the Salt King and I would be more than happy to help you.”

“It’s not that—no. Must be all the fuss in town.”

“Pirates again?”

“Uhm—no, it’s the…beast outside the walls.”

“The beast? What beast?”

The man swallows, visibly. “A dragon, your Highness. A huge dragon, higher than the city walls.”

“But…that is not possible...” Misha tries.

“I’m telling what I saw with my own eyes. The Thirteen gathered outside the walls. I saw the Spice King along my way here. He said they were about to parley with the Milk man, see through his reasons.”

"Milk Men don’t ride dragons.” she corrects, standing from the soft cushions piled and spread on the ground. “This man’s hair…what color are they?”

“White as midday sun.”

"Your Highness! Come..."

The Salt Queen joins Dora on one of the brightly sunlit balconies overlooking the Route of Trade. There is indeed a great bustle in the town, a motionless bustle however, gazing with open mouths and bewildered eyes at the small procession moving up the street. The City Guard is leading, with their shields and spears to protect The Thirteen, rulers of the most important trading city in the world. They are all dressed in bright colours and precious jewels embroidered in their silk tunics, hanging from their necks, wrists and fingers.

If she narrows her eyes, The Salt Queen can swear she can see the gold ring her husband wears on his nose. What catches her eye though, is not gold or any other bright color, but black, and then white.

There is a man walking down the street with the thirteen, a tall man with plain dark clothes and a mantle of silver hair, white as midday sun.

“Wife, may I introduce you to our noble guest?”

A woman comes forward to greet him when Aemond enters a lavish hall with several windows adorned with colorful drapes of silk. He is sure he has never seen so much marble in his life, feeling even more inappropriate given the state of his clothes and his whole demeanor, shamefully far from the clean, soldierly appearance that left mouth agape.

“Prince Aemond of House Targaryen, from Westeros.” The Salt King declares as the woman stops just before him. He stands tall and imposing, no matter the misery of his shabby clothes, the state of his disheveled hair falling in silver tangles down his back. He is still a Targaryen, his chin is high and proud.

“More like from the Old Valyria.” She says raising an eyebrow, and sizing him up and down. “He seems to have just emerged from the Doom, miraculously unscathed.”

The Prince does nothing but seethe his teeth behind his dry lips, a distant shame in his eye that quickly turns into a focused and unblinking rage.

“Welcome to Qarth, my Prince. I’d trust your journey was uneventful but…I can see the Red Waste takes its toll, even on Valyrian beauty.”

Aemond takes a good, long look at her, inevitably lingering on her chest, dressed as the common Qartheen fashion dictates: one breast exposed. But a lot more of her is exposed. Her shoulders, her arms and legs, a glimpse of her hips, all crossed by swirling bundles of lilac silk.

If any married woman in Westeros dressed like that in the open, he’s sure any husband would lock her up. At least he would.

“You must excuse my wife, Prince Aemond, or rather, get used to her habit of speaking her mind.”

“Come now, Xavos. Surely Westerosi women can voice their thoughts?” she moves, walking past Aemond and her husband to reach a small table inlaid with gold to pour some greenish beverage into a cup. “I had a maid once, she was from…Rich Garden?”

“High Garden.” He sternly corrects her.

“Ah, yes. A delightful creature, always smelled so good.” She says distractedly “Anyway, she fled from your lands because she liked girls and not boys and she didn’t want to devote her life to being a brood mare sucking a flaccid cock until her hair had gone white.”

Her maids snicker somewhere past Aemond shoulders, stiffening his posture at the liberties those commoners are granted. “I should hope you Westerners listen to your women more than you do your horses.”

Aemond watches as she takes a sip and laces his hands behind, slightly tilting his head for a moment. “Where I come from, women do not possess such a sharp tongue. Furthermore, and fortunately, most of them have manners. They know how to address a Prince of the Realm.”

She turns to leave the cup on the same table and glances at Nyla. “Oh, he bites.”

“This is not Westeros, dragon prince.” She says turning to face him with a righteous smile “I don’t need to ask your permission to speak. The Salt King is my husband, that is why you will hear my maids and everyone else address me as Your Highness. So, you may lower that chin and stop waiting for me to bow down to you because technically my rank is higher than yours. You might say the only one meant to bow in this room were you.”

The silence that follows is so stark that the air the Prince quickly exhales through his nose sounds like thunder, alerting the Salt King. "Come now, wife. Don't wake the beast.” he says lightly, stiffening a smile “And I mean it quite literally. You should see the size of Prince Aemond’s dragon.”

“I heard.” she acknowledges “Jorio said he’s higher than the city walls.”

“She. And twice, than your city walls.” The Prince corrects her again, just as sternly. “She’s the largest dragon alive in the known world.”  His chin remains high and haughty, simply because he can. Because she knows he could raze the entire city to the ground just by snapping his fingers. So, she looks down and says “Since you will be our guest, it is my duty as matron of this house to make you feel welcomed. If you would be so kind to follow me, your Grace.” She forces her tone to be as much as corteous, but then she smiles “Is my tongue acceptably sharp to your liking now?”

“Where are you taking me?” he asks as he follows the Salt Queen along one of the corridors, made of the finest marble with high arches of white stone and gold glittering under the midday sun.

“Down and down, to throw you in the dungeons.”

Aemond stalls for a moment and she does the same. “I was joking.”

He gives her that stern, distrustful look she starts to think he has etched on his features since his first wail and huffs. “God, have you lost your humor in the Red Waste?”

She resumes her walking, and Aemond follows, glancing around as they pass through many people, some of them are dressed like maids and servants, some others with long tunics of silk and jewels embroidered in the fabric. They speak to one another, he notices, as equals. But they stop altogether upon seeing a living Valyrian walk among them.

“God?” he asks “Which one?”

“Whichever you want. R'hollor, the Many Faced…I’m not picky. It helps me sleep better at night to know I didn’t dump all my sins on one God only.”

He is sure from his education and his mother’s faith that religion doesn’t work that way, but he has more pressing matters at heart. “Will you meet my requests?”

“About your dragon?” she asks stopping before a large wooden door closed. “Can’t she hunt on her own?”

“In the Red Waste? In these barren lands? Perhaps you should put your pretty head outside the city walls and see with your own eyes how big she is.”

The woman smirks, seizing him up and down and furrows her brows. “You seem very keen on emphasizing how big your dragon is. I should hope it’s not a compensating factor for the lack of something else.”

She pushes the door open, not bothering to wait for Aemond who just stands there for a moment, a little dumbfounded by the salt of which the Queen's tongue seems to be made. His bewilderment is only destined to worsen as he crosses the threshold and looks around.

Right in the middle of the palace, amidst all that marble and white stone, stands a wild courtyard, wild and beautiful in its unspoiled nature. Climbing plants and fruit trees grow undisturbed around a large square pool, decorated with mosaics of a thousand colors, harboring the most crystal-clear water he has ever seen; small clouds of steam rise from the surface, pinching his nostrils with the unmistakable smell of sulfur.

There are people bathing together and, obviously, much to his dismay, naked.

“Do you not take baths in Westeros?” the Salt Queen asks, faking true curiosity at the puzzlement she can read on his face, slowly turning into repugnance as he looks at her with a cutting answer.

“We have decency, in Westeros.”

She does not bother to disguise the long sigh blowing through her lips and then she turns to clap her hands vigorously, three times.

“My friends, apologies for the interruption!” she announces as everyone in the pool and outside turns to look at her “I must ask you to leave the pool for the time being. Our…prude guest demands a little bit of privacy.” 

She can feel the Prince glaring but ignores him altogether to stop one of the servants.

“Priya, fetch some oils. And some silks, fitting for a prince.” She turns her head to look at him from head to toe, as if valuing a new drape of silk or a new sculpture to put in the Hall of Trade, but then she creases her forehead, as she often does when knowing. “Blue perhaps? To match the sapphire.”

The constant scowl seems to leave his features and she hears his question before he utters a single word.

“My father is a warlock. Magic runs thick in his blood, he says, as well as in the blood of his blood. Sometimes I sense things, bits of knowledge, and sometimes they happen to be right. But you don’t need to be afra—”

“I’m not afraid of sorcery.” He cuts her, his tone flat, his features stoic as ever and she looks at him, curiously, perhaps wondering what lies behind all that stone.

“Very well. Sapphire blue for Prince Aemond.” his name slips into his ears in a strange, liquorous way; vowels are more open in this part of the world.

When they’re left alone, she signals towards the pool. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

He hesitates for a moment, but it is not as if he has never undressed in front of one of his old servants. And frankly, he is too eager to get those filthy clothes off to be bothered by a foreign woman watching.

He throws everything on the ground without too much care, and she watches without too much shame, because that's not how things go there. Bodies, both male and female, they are not something to hide, but something to be displayed and worshipped.

Her eyes linger on scars, old and new, on a lithe body that once belonged to a prince and a soldier, now marked by misery, dirt and hunger.

“Everything.” she says at one point, when he’s left with only his battered cotton pants on.

Aemond thinks he heard wrong. But she only blinks, keeping her face blank.

“Is this the common way to welcome guests here?” he scorns.

“Actually, it is. At least after the incident with the scorpion.” she doesn’t bother to wait for a question or an eyebrow rising. “My husband’s great grandfather hosted a merchant from Yunkai once. He came here with gifts of all sorts among which was a poisonous scorpion, hidden in his clothes. The old Salt King died but so did the merchant. Fell face down in his chamber pot while taking a piss. Quite ironic, don’t you think? You have to be careful when handling such vicious creatures.”

He only looks at her, and she's the one to raise an eyebrow. “I could turn away if you like.”

Aemond sighs loudly, moving his cutting jaw at the umpteenth humiliation and then lowers his pants. She stares into his eye and surely, surely he thinks, she wouldn’t dare to wander down.

But a moment later her eyes sink past his snatched waist, and she smirks.

“I believe I owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“Questioning your…natural gifts.”

Aemond blinks, running on the verge between scowling, raising his eyebrows and huffing a laugh.  Certainly, it never happened to him to talk so bluntly about his cock with any highborn lady barely met, let alone a supposed queen.

“I’ll leave you to your bath, dragon prince. The Salt King and I have much to discuss.”

“Such as?” he deadpans, not really interested while he dives into the clean water.

“Well, a Targaryen Prince is not an everyday occurrence.” She says following his every move, the way water glides on his skin, silver hair floating on the surface like moonblooms. “We’ll make sure to have a feast worthy of your noble taste this evening.”

“And then talk behind my back about what to do with me?”

“Undoubtedly. And I will tell him the truth.”

“Hmm.” He hums, settling on one of the underwater steps of the pool, resting his shoulders against the rim. His mood instantly improves, so he pins her with his eye and looks her up and down. “Do you believe to know my reasons? You’re quite sure of yourself…your Highness. Unless your father’s sorcery allows you to read minds, I dare say even rather pretentious.”

“I don’t need sorcery to know that you, in the first place, do not know what you’re doing here.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

She sees that chin tilting, lifting with a hint of challenge. And she takes it. She has the truth, and indeed, she doesn’t need sorcery.

“Because Qarth is still standing.”

She gets no answer, just that diffident stern look to which she darts the faintest of smirks and then leaves the pool, under his watchful eye that stays on the door for a moment longer, before he lets his head sink underwater.

The Salt Queen gives instructions for the most sumptuous room to be given to Prince Aemond. She sees to it that he is provided with several silk suits and that food is served to him immediately when he has finished bathing. She has observed his body with pleased eyes, so scrupulously she knows the Prince has not had a decent meal in weeks.

“Did he settle?” Xavos asks when she enters his private room.  

“In time, I’m sure he will. Valyrians have an impressive disposition to make their own what does not belong to them, do they not?”

She hears him murmur something in return from where he stands, on the balcony threshold that overlooks the city and its massive port. The Queen sits on a soft armchair and starts to twirl her hair around one finger, curling her mouth into a thoughtful pout. “I was thinking goose for dinner. Or salt beef? We should save goats and pigs for the beast. Apparently, poor thing is starving.”

In the silence that follows, she turns to her husband. “Xavos?”

The Salt King turns with one shoulder and a half-bitter smile. “We have a living threat who could burn us all to the crisp walking within our palace and our city, and you speak to me of geese and pigs?”

“It’s useless to cry over spilled milk. You let him in. You let greed lure you all like a piper with a flute. I’m wondering, on which tune did he make you dance?”

He walks to her with slow feet and looks at her after a long sigh. “Dragon eggs.”

“I should’ve known.”

“Cyril began talking of an opportunity of a lifetime. Of the Greatest City that ever was and will be becoming even greater. Think about it. With dragons…Qarth might become the center of the whole world. A newborn Valyria. If we play our hand right—”

“Quit the fancy words. What exactly are you asking of me, Xavos?”

She knows he is asking for something. She has known him for more than ten years, and he has asked, has demanded, a lot of her. She knows that when his voice drops a note, he wants something, as if whispered, it becomes less degrading.

He trails his index finger on her chin and lifts it. “To make him dance to your tune.”

“You overestimate me, husband. I cannot reason with a tiger when my head is in its mouth. Besides, he might be easy on the eye, but he’s as agreeable as a plant of spikes.”

She speaks smoothly—not a flinch or a blink at her husband's hand sinking between her lilac’s folds, and then between her inner ones. “Since when you are so reluctant about who’s allowed in your bed?”

“Don’t confuse me with yourself.” she says lifting her chin to look at him, unbothered by the circling his finger draws on her dry bundle. “I fuck who I want for pleasure, rarely out of boredom, but never to prove a point.”

Abruptly, he slips his finger deep inside, hurting her. “I should have taken your tongue as well.” 

 “And still…” she forces a smile over the painful grimace twisting her mouth “it would not have given you what you so desperately seek in every hole.”

His unwanted touch leaves her and he straightens, pacing lazily behind her seat. “He’s young. He’s had a rough time. Surely, he must’ve missed the intimate company of a woman.”

“For that kind of company, there are pleasure houses.”

“Don’t play dumb, now. You saw how proud he is. How do you think he will take it if we send a whore to his rooms?” Xavos grips the back of the chair and leans down slowly, speaking to her ear. “Listen to me. Cyril is right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We must make him feel…important…coddled, even.”

“Even if you shackle his feet with gold, you cannot turn a dragon into a lamb, Xavos.”

The Salt King sighs impatiently, and his tone drops just as earlier. “Do as I say.”

Young Nyla interrupts her masters as she enters the room, and the Queen turns her head. “Nyla, what is it?”

“We have escorted Prince Aemond to his rooms, your Highness.”

“Good.” Xavos says, and then looks at his wife with a pointed stare. “Make sure he has everything he needs.”

The Salt Queen barges in and halts on the door, bewildered upon seeing her trusted friend Mysha on the verge of tears, staring at the ground as if she’s waiting for an execution.

“My deepest apologies, my Prince, I meant no disrespect.”

“What happened?”

“Uh—Prince Aemond asked for some herbs, your Highness. An ointment, for his eye.”

“Aye. I did ask for that, not for you to fucking touch me.”

The Prince is snarling, his eye wide and menacing like a hound on the brink of defense yet hunting for flesh. His face is clean now, the Queen notices, shaven; his hair is damp and pulled back, leaving his chiseled features, that infuriating chin, and high, prominent cheekbones in plain sight. Stupid as it may sound, she can't help but think of one of those marble sculptures she likes to buy from art dealers.

“You may go, Mysha. I will assist the Prince.”

“I don’t need assistance.” He hisses with threatening calm. “Leave.”

He caved in the pool, but he will not suffer another humiliation in front of these foreigners. At least not with something so delicate and private as his eye. But of course, he realizes with annoyance, this woman will not falter at any of his empty orders.

“Are you dismissing me in my own Palace?”

He looks down, sighing and fuming, and she beckons Misha to leave the room.

“You must understand, servants here are treated differently. They’re granted more liberties.”

“I see. As the ones you so generously grant to slaves.” he mutters, and starts to fidget with a tray offering ginger roots, turmeric powder, and eucalyptus leaves.

“Oh, spare me. Of all people, you Valyrians are the least entitled to give a lecture on morals.” she counters, watching his long, tapered fingers hover without touching anything. Clearly, he was used to servants doing it for him.

“May I?” she offers, but doesn’t wait for his permission to make room next to him. “There are no slaves in this palace.” she tells him "How can you expect loyalty from someone you bought with something as cheap as gold?”

“Cheap as the golden ring your husband has stuck in his nose? He looks like a fucking boar.” he says as his eye trails on her profile.

“My husband is an imbecile. This city did not become the greatest that ever was and will be with gold. Trade is our currency. We call it antallagí. Exchange.”

“A true-born merchant’s wife.”

“Or a boar’s one?”

He huffs, and she turns, feigning shock at the faintest of smirks curling his lips. “So you’re not made of stone after all.”

She studies him for a few moments—more than is deemed proper for a married woman, in Westeros at least—but she can't help it. She wonders how it is possible that exile and moons of misery have not bent this man; what drives that rigid posture, whether it is too strict an education or it is all a lie, masking an effort to keep control, to impose it on others but perhaps more on himself.

“Ointment is ready, your Grace. It may burn a little, ginger is a godsend, but it’s tricky. I could help—”

“I need no help. Leave.”

The stone is in place once more. But she won’t have it. 

She raises her eyebrows, biding all the time in the world.

Aemond chews thorns as he looks at her, swallows them, and tastes them again, piercing his tongue. “Please.”

“That must’ve cost you a lot. But it isn’t so hard, is it?”

His lips flatten in a thin line, and she smiles. “You are a second son, are you not? That’s the reason for that stubborn chin. You must stomp your feet to make anything yours.”

“Careful, woman. I’ve taken tongues for far less.”

“Why? Did you not see eye to eye with them?”

He moves like lightning, invading her space until he is a breath away from her face, and his mouth breathes fire. “Listen to me. I care not who the fuck you are or which title you make your slaves call you. I am not here to allow you to make a fool of me, Queen or no Queen. Mock me once more, and I’ll carve the word please on your vicious mouth.”

He waits for the fire to catch on, even though flames do not seem to touch her; she's unwavering and solid as marble.

“Get out.”

“I don’t—” she chokes on her words, on his hand seizing her jaw; cold fingers, leaving embers on her skin.

“I said, get out.”

That evening, the already lavish palace of the Salt King was polished and decked out duly to honor the foreign guest. The walls, lit by braziers of fire, stood like a beacon amidst a sea of marble and white stone roofs. The Hall of Trade was a treasury, crammed so full of gold that it looked like a pirate's dream. Pillows were piled on the floor, long tables held food of all kinds. A huge bowl of wine welcomed the guests, who were given a goblet they had to dip into the large bowl and drink, otherwise they would not be allowed inside. It was tradition, a sort of good omen.

It pinched Aemond's nostrils when he brought the cup to his mouth and, thankfully, drank it in small sips. Despite his prudence, by the second he felt his tongue on fire from how spiced it was. By comparison, Arbor Gold was wastewater.

He wears the sapphire blue silk tunic, with a silk belt cinching his narrow waist, but his hair is different. Mysha learned the lesson she asked, and when he gave his consent, she got to work and braided his silver hair. Most of them are loose, falling down his back in a curtain of white. Others are laced in one, two, three braids, softly meeting at the back of his head.

If he thought the Salt Queen’s hospitality was somewhat a little too forward and a lot more intrusive, he had to reconsider when he found himself cornered as soon as his silver head caught the eye of every guest. Men and women, old and young, flocked to him with eyes full of wonder, as if the Salt King had captured some wild and rare creature and called all his friends to make them look.

But they didn’t just look. They talked openly and freely, voicing thoughts that, in Westeros, would have stayed inside one’s head.

“Look at his hair! They seem like moon rays!”

“And the skin! Whiter than milk!”

“What happened to his eye?”

“If only my wife were here…she always wanted to see a Valyrian!”

He had just gotten there, and his teeth were baring.

“My friends, please! Let our noble guest breathe!” the Salt King chuckles as he comes forward among the bewildered audience, looking like the loot of some theft, for all the gold and diamonds and emeralds sewn on his orange silk tunic. “Come, my Prince. The first taste is yours.”

Aemond catches a movement on his right and there she is, the Salt Queen, in a crimson red sparkling like a bloodied dew given the little, tiny red stones woven in her silks. Her hair coils into an intricate bun crisscrossed by a paper-thin gold chain that crowns her forehead with small, rough rubies, like grains of salt.

For a moment, he’s so enthralled by her figure, and her eyes, even more piercing because of kohl, that he fails to notice the clay plate she’s holding, filled with fruits. Some he has never seen, except in books, but he has no time to take a guess.

“Your first taste, my Prince.” she chimes. “Sweet or tart?”

His gaze falls back to the plate, but not before stopping, again, for a blink, on that absurd fashion of one bare breast. “Tart.” He says tightly.

She smiles, as if she knew, and puts the plate down. Aemond watches her bejeweled fingers pluck off a grape and turn, her hand in midair but not quite outstretched toward him. He nothing but give her a pointed look, one that translates only into a stern and irrevocable I can eat by myself.

“My Prince. My wife means no offense.” the Salt King explains “In Qarth, it is deemed a great honor, given and taken, and an excellent omen for the guest's stay, if said guest is fed by the matron of the house.”

His throat bobs and the Salt Queen can’t quite decipher if the dragon prince is more humiliated or angered by the prospect of being fed by a woman like a baby who just teethed. At last, he sighs and leans in, but her hand withdraws a little, leaving him with his mouth slightly open, stretched forth like a beggar waiting for charity. It is not Aemond who bites the grape, but her who finally, after another straight stare into his eye, lets it drop into his mouth.

The crowd erupts in a cheerful clapping, as does The Salt King who goes to stand just between his wife and the Dragon Prince, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder “You see, Prince Aemond, this is one of the extraordinary gifts of Qartheen women. They know exactly how to hold...and when to let go.”

Aemond does not bother to look at him, he is too absorbed, annoyed and deep down, without him knowing it yet, enticed by the tranquil smile that curls her mouth and at the same time curls his pride, mocks it, strips it bare and outright laughs at it, goading everyone else to do so.

Behold, the pink dread!

 “Without further ado, let the feast begin!” The Salt King announces joyfully and in the same moment, a delicate and sweet melody fills the room, while Aemond chews what’s left of that grape, tasting his own bile.

An hour later, Aemond is fuming. Fuming because ruling the most important and influential city in Essos, he should’ve known the Thirteen were aware of everything that went on and was currently going on in the West. Perhaps even more than he knew. Did they know something about his mother?

He banished that thought from his mind just as he trained himself to do in all this damned existence.

They knew about the Dance, they knew about Aegon the Usurper, they knew of Rhaenyra the Cruel, the Storming of the Dragon Pit. They knew the kingdom was dreadfully impoverished and in the hands of a young boy.

But they spoke about it as if they were discussing the weather. Qartheens cared nothing about what was going on outside their impenetrable walls; whether it was a new king on a throne far away or a war that had killed thousands and thousands, it was all tittle-tattle to kill time between one cup of wine and the next. He was asked about this battle or the previous one without thinking that he had lived through that war; he made it, he carried it and perhaps he still carried it within him.

He was fuming for this, he was fuming for how women, and even men, gawk at him, for their bizarre custom of hosting a feast without a decent place to sit and eat like normal people do. He was fuming because no matter how much he tried to ignore it, a spool of crimson would always catch his eye.

Grabbing one more cup of wine, he decides to take a breath outside, standing on one of the marbled balconies of the Palace. Air does good to extinguish his fires, but it does not clear up his mind. Perhaps he should blame the wine, perhaps his head is still smoky.

Because you, in the first place, do not know what you're doing here.

As much as he loathed to admit it, the Salt Queen was right. He tricked himself into thinking the main reason for his coming here was Vhagar. She was weak, due to the wing's injuries as well as the old ones, and most of all, she was hungry. But with the promise of goats and pigs, came the clarity and the knowledge that he had no reason, no plan. He only knew he had leverage—a dreadful leverage made of talons and fire on these merchants and their city. But what to do with it?

He hears voices somewhere near, and once more, crimson pollutes his sight. The Salt Queen and her husband are talking behind a tall white pillar. He can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but she catches his stare almost immediately. The talking ceases, and Aemond knows they were talking about him, of course they were.

Xavos comes out of his hiding place with a placid and benevolent expression, walking right past him without a word. But she stays, and she looks, and then she walks to him.

“That will go to your head.” She warns as he empties the cup “I didn’t see you touch any food.”

The spiced wine burns his throat, makes his tongue sour and impatient. “Is your husband aware of your excessive concern about your guests? Or is it a thoughtfulness he has ordered you to reserve only for me?”

“I’m just being considerate since you’re a foreigner and not well acquainted with Qartheen tastes.”

“How exactly am I supposed to eat? Standing?”

She huffs a laugh and shakes her head trimmed with gold and red as she gives him a bemused, though genuine, look. “Good God, how spoiled you are? I thought misery made men humble, but clearly not men of House Targaryen.”

His jaw moves annoyingly, and he leaves the empty cup on the marble, but he doesn’t let go, holding it by the edges in a white-knuckle grip. She notices it as she leans against the marble, with her back to the city, and gives him a long, inquisitive look. “After all the misery you suffered, I thought you would’ve liked the attention…perhaps you do…perhaps…you want more.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” he asks boringly, and just as sourly, staring at the city.

“I must say, I’ve hosted so many people, from so many different parts of the world, and yet…I’ve never found myself before a face so full of contradictions.”

His eye pins her. “Need I remind you how you left my room earlier?”

“With your hand around my neck, because you couldn’t take a joke.”

“I don’t like being mocked. And I don’t like being played like a pawn. So, unless this is another one of your absurd customs, tell your husband to stop parading you around me like a whore. It looks bad when you insist on others calling you queen.”

“We all play parts, dragon prince. Sometimes, they blend. But in the end…it takes little to know the real you.”

Aemond chokes on his breath as her hand slips between them like water, cupping his crotch with a grip of steel, and fire, burning from her fingertips through the fabric. She holds it like a weapon, and his defense is low. She sees his throat bobbing down once, and twice, rejection curls his mouth, but not strongly enough to shove her hand away, to not start to harden against the flames of her fingers, brushing all his length until she cups it once more.

“Whore or queen?” she whispers, brushing his parted lips “Someone in there doesn’t seem to care.”

His grip on the cup loosens, a tremor runs down his spine, and he dawdles in the sensation, one felt before, elicited by other hands, and yet new. It’s been so long. The surge to touch, to clutch, to taste, drains his head of blood. But she eludes him, tilting her head to the right and then to the left to avoid the vise of his lips; her grip loosens, running the back of her fingers against his cock in a feathery brush, touching without touching.

He grinds his teeth to choke a whimper, but then she’s cupping again; she feels him go completely hard for her, and the knowledge washes over her like tongues of fire prickling down her back and between her thighs. The soft, slippery silk allows her to unleash her lunges more fiercely, to easily close her hand around his cock, and that same silk helps her to glide her hand deliciously up and down.

He's breathing hard, almost panting, brushing the tip of his nose against hers; her eyes are open, basking in the sight, the little twitches of his mouth as bends to pleasure, the breathing turning heavier and heavier, his hand that starts to flex. She imagines how those slender fingers would feel between her folds, how easily they would slip inside, and why, why is he not touching her?

“Do it…” she breathes. “Do you want me to say please? I would…there’s no shame in begging, dragon prince….it only makes you free…”  

“Your Highness, my apologies.” Nyla calls her Queen suddenly, and she stops her wicked ministrations, abruptly bringing Aemond back to his senses.

“The Salt King sent me after you.” The young maid says, apparently unfazed by what she clearly witnessed. “We’re playing kottabos.”

"Ah, yes, of course.” she tries to regain some control, although she was panting on the sole anticipation, and goes back inside.

Aemond stalls, taking a long sigh in the fresh air to try to stop the blood from boiling. And he follows.

Kottabos, he discovers, is quite a tricky game. The rules are simple: one has to throw the last drops of wine inside their cup to hit a white plate balanced atop a bronze pole. It requires a bit of dexterity, because the player must put the index finger through the handle of the drinking cup and throw the drops while sprawled on pillows, laying on their elbows.

The Salt Queen, it seems, is quite adept at this game. It takes her only two tries to hit the plate and she’s rising from the pillows, bowing her head to thank the cheerful audience. Aemond's eye bends as the crimson veils bend with her every movement; he slips between them and lets them wrap around him, even though he should not, even though he reproaches himself for letting the blood, the wine, the flesh, that has been starved of other flesh for too long, win.

“My closest friends know I’m very fond of sweets and cakes but…on such a special occasion, I choose a special reward.” She announces when the crowd has quieted down, and before she even turns around, he feels her gaze on him as if she had two more eyes on the back of her head. “A sweeter reward…or perhaps tarter.”

She moves towards him, and every step she takes barefoot on the marble is an unmasking. With every step she takes, it seems to him that she is touching him, as she did just before, and more; he feels like her fingers are slipping under the silk, setting fire to his skin.

She stops in front of him and yet, he still sees her moving, feels her moving like a sea creature and her thousand tentacles of crimson silk.

Maybe he should put the wine down.

Wine is not for you, brother mine, your mind’s too heavy. It’ll soak like a sponge and you'll fall into your own vomit.

What she does not put down is her aim, moving her hands diligently as she grabs his face and draws him close to kiss him on the lips, and tilt her head back to look at him, so close she’s breathing his breath. “This…is your first taste.”

“Good! The Queen has chosen her reward. Let us play another round, shall we?”

Again, Aemond does not bother to look at the Salt King, he looks at her and the faint twitch between her lips at her husband's words.

“Come.” She says taking his hand, and he doesn’t know what drives him to follow her, whether his mind is too soaked, or his flesh is crying out to be fed.

What is certain is that now her bare feet tread the marble of his rooms and he is closing the door.

“I hope you don’t mind if we do it here. I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Why?”

“I’m jealous of my things.”

“Liar.”

“What?”

“So used to play parts and yet, you look down before lying. Disappointing.”

“I’m surprised you were able to look at anything above my cleavage.”

This time, he lowers his gaze, but not to lie. He knows he has looked, many times, and the excuse of not being used to such a custom starts to creak. She walks up to him and looks at him with that knowing smile that makes him want to clamp his hand on her mouth and wipe it off her face, and maybe stick his fingers inside.

“Are you a virgin, my Prince? Did you have a wife in the West? Children?”

He swallows, and her eyes fall on his throat.

“Is that guilt you just swallowed? Or sorrow?”

“Why don’t you listen to your father’s sorcery while keeping your hole shut?”

“I told you, I am no witch. Qarth is the center of the world. Do you think we don’t know what happens in the East, West, North and South?” she angles her head and whispers in his ear “We know everything… Kinslayer, Terror of the Trident.”

She speaks his war titles in that liquorose way, opening the vowels as if she is casting a spell, but he hears the mockery. It is the same that loosened the tongue at the Strong bastards, the same one perpetuated by Alys. But Alys' mockery was different. She spoke in riddles, visions and flames. This woman speaks in truths.

“Do you regret it?” she whispers, and her tentacles thread their way through the silk “All those innocents you have burned…all the ones you have lost.” lazily, she pulls at the laces of the blue tunic and he stiffens, flaring his nostrils. “See? I don’t need sorcery. The more you stiffen, the more cracks reveal.” She straightens her head to look at him with eyes darker than tar, wandering over his face and he feels branded. “I can see them around you…ghosts…why don’t you set them free?”

“What is your fucking game?” he wants to seethe, but she’s so close to him it comes out as nothing but a hiss.

She smiles again and this time the victory is full. "The game is over, your grace. I won, and you're my reward. I will admit I never had such a pretty one...care to show me that sapphire or are you still keen on playing the prude bashful prince?”

Aemond has no qualms about touching her, grabbing her face with nails digging into her cheeks as he pulls her close, turning her chin to spit anger and all his tumbled restraints into her ear “Perhaps I should shove my cock into your mouth to make you shut it, hmm? Is that what you want? What your husband wants? That I fuck you like a whore?”

She stiffens, thrashing in his hold that she may not have expected, and manages to turn her head just enough to look at him, scoffing. “Is this the only way you know to use your hands?”

A taunt, another one. It turns his eye pitch black and he leans closer to her lips, almost baring his teeth, almost as if he wants to bite the words—the mockery, the victory—off her mouth. But once more, she eludes him, tilting back and so, any reason burns and dies into his head.  

“D’you want to play games, don’t you? Let’s play, then.”

Still gripping her cheeks, he roughly pushes her into the room, letting her go for only one fleeting instant of freedom, just long enough to grab her shoulders and force her to turn around. A gasp escapes her lips, but the next moment she’s bending on the table, he’s forcing her to. A thrill spills into her blood, making her insides clench with anticipation, and dread.

He traps her, planting his feet between hers to stop her from closing her legs. She tries to pull herself up with her back, but he scowls, pushing her head down to keep it firmly glued to the table. She whines as his long fingers pull at her hair, tearing the gold and red chain off, and she can hear him fumbling with the silks, the other hand hiking her crimson gowns up.

“My Prince, please—”

“Begging already?” snarling, he spits into his palm and gives a few quick tugs to his cock, hard and aching “I wonder who’s coming from. The whore or the Queen. Either way, you’ll get your reward, your Highness.”

“Wait—” she whimpers as she feels the head of his cock teasing against her folds, something coils in her belly, and something else, something cold, grips her heart. “Not like th—”

She chokes on her tongue as he slips inside her, easily but painfully, all the way in. Hissing, his hold on her hair tightens, a coarse exhale coming out of his parted lips as he adjusts to her walls, hot and wet, but tense. She’s tensing all over.

“Why are you fighting me?” he pulls her up by the hair, leaning his face close to hers “You wanted this, did you not? You have been teasing and mocking me since I set foot in here.”

“I—”

“No. I’ve had enough of your talks and taunts. Here’s what’s going to happen, whore queen. You will keep quiet and take it. And if I want to fuck you again later, I will. You are not in charge here—not you, not your husband, not all the fucking Thirteen. So don’t fucking push me, unless you want to die with fire skinning you alive.”

Without too much grace, he forces her back on the table and starts a relentless pace, fisting the crimson fabric and pulling to keep her low back flushed to his crotch. His pants mix with flesh slapping harder and faster as he tries to pour on her, and into her, the grief and rage, the misery and fire he’s made of. She writhes beneath him, arching and crumpling against the wooden with violent gasps; she feels like burning but inside, she’s torn in two.

She clamps her hand on the wood to grab onto something, just like that evening. She feels her, and his, arousal coating her thighs, just as blood did that evening.

The little girl wants to run, but the Salt Queen doesn’t want him to stop.

She’s sinking in her mind, but burning in every corner of her body and soul.

She can only moan, her mouth agape and dry, leaking saliva on the surface as her head bounces at each wild rut, hitting that inner spot over and over.

“Look at you, hmm?” he taunts her with purpose, perhaps vengeance “Fucked so good she lost her wits.”

Look at you, little whore. Bet you like it, eh?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she finds a raw voice hidden somewhere. “Harder—”

“What?” he slurs with a heavy-lidded eye, the braids are almost loose, dangling on his face at each thrust.

“Harder—” she pleads with her eyes still shut.  

“Greedy wanton thing—” hips start to snap brutally, in a hurtful way, just as she wants, even if it’s hard to even breathe. Pleasure overwhelms her, drives her up towards the peak. But she finds she cannot climb; her mind is holding her down.

He grunts with each snap and curses in some foreign language she’s not aware of, and she doesn’t care; she’s too focused on letting herself burn. But it’s like sitting in front of a fire and barely feeling the flames.

And then his hips jolt faster, once, twice, and he halts, gripping her hips firmly, coming inside her with a long, satiated groan.

Completely spent, he slumps on top of her, resting his head on her shoulder blades to catch his breath. However, she is quick to slip from the scorching alcove, to slide out the door with her mind drowned but her heart pounding out of her chest.

"Your Highness!" Dora wakes from her slumber, and reaches for her Queen.

"Nothing, Dora." she says in a voice still hoarse, almost scratching. "Draw me a bath, please. And fetch mint and wormwood." Moon tea.

She starts to undo her silks and feels a distant smell of smoke sticking to her skin. Like one who has bathed in fire.

The morning after brings no clarity, because truthfully, Aemond does not need clarity. Everything is drastically simple. He is no coward. However his mind was less clear than usual, he could never blame wine for how he behaved a few hours earlier. And why would he?

Whether she was acting on her husband’s orders or not, she wanted him. And he wanted her. He could concede that he'd acted in a harsher way than usual, that he’d let rage and grief guide his purpose. It was not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. But it all worked in his favor. A demonstration, a shift in whatever power game the Salt King and the other merchant Kings thought to play out. He only made it clear that he was not some precious pet to be coddled and ridiculed.

She had teased and mocked him at any occurrence. He’d only showed her the price of playing with fire.

His blue silks are fresh and clean when he sits down to have breakfast with Xavos; his long silver hair is tied up in a single low braid that starts from the center of his head and gathers lazily down his shoulder.

He has yet to get used to this strange Qartheen custom of sitting on pillows to eat; at least, however, he regains his appetite when he is served dishes once familiar to him, and less exotic.

"I took the liberty of having you prepare a breakfast akin to your old habits.” Xavos says chewing bread with olives “Ham, cheese, venison. And we have fresh fish every day. Blessed be the trades."

The Prince is sincerely grateful, though he would be a lot more grateful if the Salt King were able to shut his mouth when the sun is not even high in the sky. He goes on and on about the supposed trades, and then about the salt he so proudly sells to every corner of the world. He is just about to go on another monologue about the Thirteen and their hopeful wish to receive the Dragon Prince in their Palaces when he stops, frowning at the young maid clearing the place set next to the king. “What are you doing?”

“Apologies, Your Highness, but the Queen will not attend breakfast. She feels indisposed this morning.”

Immediately, Aemond glances up at her and she’s brave enough to hold it for a bunch of seconds before looking down and making her way to the door.

“Maid?”

She halts upon hearing the Prince and turns around.

“Tell your Queen I was promised something. She said she would see to it personally. And I expect her to keep her word.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Wait.” he stops her again, his tone almost bored, and slips a hand into the folds of his blue silks, pulling out a gold and red chain. “Take this. She left it in my room last night.”

He throws the jewel on the table and resumes his knife and fork, not bothering to look at anyone, certainly not at the Salt King who is indeed looking at him, looking as pleased as ever, like the cat that caught the mouse.

The Salt Queen did not in fact forget her word. She promised him she would see to Vhagar’s condition, ordering to save goats and pigs to feed the beast, put them on carts and send someone with the Prince to reach the desert, where the dragon was resting.

However, she should've probably assumed that such an apparently simple task would've turned out to be a lot harder to carry out.

She’s just about to finish her late breakfast with Mysha and Dora, when Nyla breaks into the parlor with quick feet.

“Your Highness—uhm—Prince Aemond is at the door, he asks to be received.”

“What is it now? He doesn’t like how the sun rises here?”

Mysha and Dora giggle, but the Queen stays serious and turns to Nyla. “Tell the Prince he will have to wait. I am sure that even in Westeros, barging in during meals stands for bad manners.”

Nyla leaves, but it’s with even quicker feet that she returns to her Queen in barely a minute.

“My Queen, Prince Aemond is quite adamant on being received immediately. He…also says that…keeping guests at the door is a synonym of bad manners in Westeros, as he is sure, anywhere else in the world.”

Tapping her fingers on the table, it takes her a minute to sigh loudly and stand up, throwing the kerchief on the table.

“My Prince.” She greets him as she stops at the door.

In his usual soldierly stance, he looks past her for a moment before locking her blank gaze. “Still adamant on not letting me in?”

“You were not that drunk last night. I believe you heard me just fine when I told you I don’t take men into my rooms.”

“Hmm. But you did take me, and quite eagerly, if memory serves me right. Are we not past such formalities?”

“Gloating like some common man is not very royal of you, your Grace—"

“Tis’ not gloating. And I might say, not very royal of you either to beg me to fuck you harder, your Highness.”

“You’re right. Fucked me so good I didn’t come.”

The proud mischievous smile that kept stretching his mouth vanishes in a blink, and she has to sigh to stifle her own. “What is it, my Prince?”

“You gave me your word.”

“Indeed. And I kept it. What is your complaint now?”

“Your slaves refuse to escort me in the desert.”

“Well, I can’t blame them. Can’t you feed your dragon on your own? Or are you too humiliated by the prospect of carrying a cart of dead pigs?”

From the way he is staring at her, and having already tickled his pride when the sun is not yet high in the sky, she knows he will not yield on this matter.

“Fine. I’ll go with you.”

“My Queen, it is not safe.”

“Do not worry, Dora. I’ll take the Sorrowful Men.”

Aemond almost laughs to himself as he stands on the left edge of an enclosed inner courtyard of the palace, resembling the training yards of Westeros. There are men intent on training with spears and swords, dressed in strange uniforms made of blue drapes and a strange golden mask on their faces. The carving makes the mask weeping, with a single tear embossed on the gold.

Aemond has no idea how they can see, as there seem to be no holes in those eyes of gold. But his gaze returns at once to the Salt Queen, talking to one of those men, with a large turban on his head. Some kind of commander, he assumes.

He bows to her and then six of these mysterious men march forward and surround the woman.

The Prince glances at each one of them, standing tall and proud as ever with his hands laced behind, seeming unperturbed by these safety measures. In fact, he says “Truly there’s no need to trouble these men, your Highness. What do you expect me to do? Feed you to Vhagar as soon as we are in the desert?”

“These men are not a safety measure for me, but for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. To prevent you from having certain…Targaryen ideas.”

“Six armed men against the largest living dragon seems like a somewhat unequal battle.”

Narrowing her eyes, she watches as the same placid arrogance bathes his features, but she thinks now it’s the right time to wipe it off, and she knows exactly how to do it. “Sorrows bring sorrows.”

All at once, the Sorrowful men move, drawing their spears with impressive speed and aiming the sharp points at the prince. His whole demeanor changes, becomes menacing, she notices, but he does not flinch. She walks among the weeping men avoiding the spears until she stands in front of the prince and snatches the mask off his face, to wear it herself.

“Listen to me. These men live to serve me. They were slaves once, bought with something far more valuable than gold: freedom. And they chose to stay by my side. If I told them to take the only eye you have left, right now, they would do it. If I told them to cut your cock and bring it to me right now, they would do it. A shame, I will grant you that. So, you’re right, you may be in charge here…but if you push me…you will be dead before you have the chance to say Dracarys.”

Whatever cutting remark the prince has in mind, he does not have time to say it, as he is suddenly distracted by a strange sound, a whistle, like the cry of a bird.

Aemond turns his head and the Queen does the same, recognizing that sound at once. The Sorrowful Men lower their spears and a man steps forward, dressed in a strange purple robe. Aemond stares at him warily, wondering why, in the name of the Seven, this man’s lips are blue, like a corpse.

“Father…” the Salt Queen greets him, taking Aemond by surprise, but sounding a little surprised herself to see the blue-lipped man.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t answer to his daughter, because he can’t. He starts to move his hands in strange signs, circles and lines. And Aemond is grateful for his strict education, for he knows what that man is doing. Sign language. He is either mute, or tongueless.

Unfortunately, he cannot understand what he’s saying, but his daughter can.

“Kóri. Will you not introduce me to your noble guest?”

The Salt Queen sighs, casting a brief look at the Prince, and then she introduces him. “Father, this is Prince Aemond, of House Targaryen.”

The blue-lipped man looks at him with wide eyes, charmed to the point of looking unsettling. And then he bends into a long bow. Not even when Aemond sat on the Iron Throne, someone had bowed so low before him.

He tilts his chin down to greet him, and sees the warlock’s hands moving. “On behalf of the Warlocks of Qarth” the Salt Queen translates “I welcome you, your Grace. It is a great privilege to see a descendant of Old Valyria in the flesh. Your blood is as ancient as our beloved great city.”

Aemond cannot stop his eyebrow from raising, nor his tongue. “It seems at least one member of your family knows good manners.”

“You must excuse us, father, we have to go.” she hastens to say, but as soon as she takes one step, her father grabs her arm.

“Don’t run from me, kori. You have been knowing, yes? More than usual.” and then his hands rise and fall once more. “Trees wail. Leaves are bleeding. The doom, kori. The doom is near.”

PART 2

thank you so so much for reading!! 💕 💕

[lovelykhaleesiii]

hi there! would you be up to writing smut

Dark!Aemond? something for example with age difference, daddy kink, corruption kink, degradation and breeding? If you are comfortable then Reader could be a Targaryen what would be great but if you aren't comfortable then Stark is perfect too

Twisted, Beautiful Minds.

PAIRING: Dark!Aemond Targaryen x fem!Niece!Reader

WORDS: 2,677.

WARNINGS: mentions of warfare/murder, mentions of death-threats, swearing, degradation kink, choking, Daddy kink, corruption kink, breeding kink, manipulation, narcissistic tendencies, male oral receiving [cock sucking], mentions of p in v sexual intercourse.

A/N - you know I'm always down for some dark!Aemond... I want to also dedicate this piece, as a small bday gift to my wonderful friend Mar @aemondsmoon you have been an absolute light for me on this hellsite, and one of my dearest friends... thank you for always being there for me, and thank you for being you. you are an absolute gem, don't ever change. ilysm! 🤍

The turmoil and toils of war had finally come to an end, when Aegon the Elder, your Uncle, had commanded Sunfyre to set your beloved mother, Rhaenyra, and younger brother, Aegon III, to death by dragonfire. Your heart shattered, and mind numb, you were certain your own death was imminent in the moments after: at the very least, your Uncle would punish you with a dragonrider's death... Yet that would not be the case at all.

It seemed other plans had been set in stone. Chained and escorted by the Kingsguard to return to King's Landing once more, where you had only days previous, fled in fear, were you welcomed by the cold stares of the "Green" Council. Your chains removed, as neither the King nor his Mother, had seen you as a threat, you felt no purpose to resist nor to fight back... Your family dead, your will had died along with them.

"Fetch for Aemond. Tell my younger brother that his betrothed has returned."

His stern words felt incomprehensible in your thoughtless mind, lagging to understand the notion. You felt a cool, chill course through your weak body, rigid as though you had turned to stone, and yet, you were still breathing, still ever so present. No one had consulted you on such plans or schemes. And you were certain that Aemond himself would definitively refuse to marry the daughter of a traitor [as you presumed he would justify]. Your Uncle, Aemond, was a formidable man, fought against your late father, and had emerged the victor... And as the war, and the recent imprisoned days had taken its toll on you, your eyes darkened with the lack of sleep, unable to eat a crumb of bread, you did not look as you once had in your frivolous court, as he had once remembered you.

Although, as he sauntered into the room with such poise and stature, a certain charisma of that of a victor oozing about him, with not a single word exchanged, other than a devious smirk supplanted across his once serious face...It seemed there was more to the union than meets the eye.

Since your captive return to King's Landing, a place in which you had once considered your home, felt nothing more foreign. The stone sand walls that you had walked and run through as a child, now looked strange, the unfamiliar symbols of the Seven proudly hung around every available wall and space, gave an ominous feel. The halls seemed less brighter, even during the break of day, with the sunlight blatant in the sky, you instinctively felt as though a shadow lurked around every corner, attentive to your every move.

Dragonless, and defenceless, you were less of a threat than the younger Princess, Jahaera. The King and his Council had deemed you stable enough to roam the castle grounds freely, with a close knight in pursuit, only to ensure your own "protection" [as Aegon would admit that Aemond insisted], although you saw it more as means to deter you from being tempted to run away.

Regardless, Aemond had not spoken a word to you since hearing of the betrothal. He attended dinners with you in sight, although you rarely spoke yourself, mostly pleading and bickering with Alicent to remain in the desolate confines of your chambers. She was incessant about you joining the family, as the union was to be set in a moon's turn.

He dared not even to sit beside you: constantly at opposing ends. Although, there were rare occasions you had caught the younger Prince, brazenly staring at you with his one good eye. Unapologetically, his full attention spanned towards you, even if he had noticed you had become aware, he did not cease gawking.

Something about his looming gaze made you feel uneasy, very much on edge: a dark tinge to his violet eye, his pupils darkened as they seemed dilated. It inevitably made your stomach churn, only forcing you to resign in defeat, often excusing yourself to bed.

And often you were left undisturbed to recluse in your chambers... Although tonight, it seemed you were not alone in your ventures.

Retracing the exact steps you would take most nights, often on your lonesome return to your quarters: this time there was an accompanying sound in the distance, echoing down the hallway behind you. Heavy footsteps that caught your immediate attention. Slowly panning around, the shimmer of his lengthy, silver hair against the pale moonlight that peaked through the open crescents of the corridor, was alluring to your eye. Halting in your tracks, your breath hitched against your throat, all in trepidation, as Aemond effortlessly caught up with you in a few short strides. This was the closest he had ever truly come up to you, his towering height against you, made him even more daunting face to face.

"Running off to bed again, I see. And why is that?"

The sudden eruption of his deep, low voice breaking the stillness of the castle passage, startled you uneasily. You had exchanged many words and conversations with your elder Uncle before, during an ancient time long before the Dance had spurred. Although, the dynamics had inevitably changed, blood had been shed viciously and cruel words spat. Despite the same Valyrian blood coursing through your veins as of your betrothed, you felt solitary in their surrounding presence.

"I-I lost my appetite, U-Uncle. I wish to retire for the night," You aimlessly stutter, too weak to hold eye contact with Aemond, whose gaze remained fixated on you. His vibrant lilac orb luring over every inch of your timid body.

"Do you think it wise to roam the castle your lonesome self? Has the war not taught you otherwise? Is my niece still that same stupid, little whore I have known?"

His harsh remarks shadowed by that familiar, sly grin struck across his slim face, was plenty to furnace an incoming reaction from you, your blood boiling beneath your tender skin.

"Ah- tongue tied now, princess? Have I struck a chord with you, hmm? Mayhaps you are as weak as your father was... Now, how would he feel knowing you are to marry me? That I'll fuck his little girl, like the common whores he saw."

Your mind had no correlation to your hand, and yet the simmering rage that blistered through your body sent your mind to abyss. The small palm of your hand, strikingly latched across Aemond's face furiously. And yet, although a sharp stinging sensation poured across your hand, Aemond remained unfazed and sturdy. It seemed you had smacked the grin across his face, and in its stead, that familiar, unnerving dark tinge in his eyes scorned across at you.

Before you knew it, Aemond gripped your sides firmly, forcing your body forward, as he harshly shoved you against the cold, stone wall.

"You think that wise, whore? After the mercy I fucking showed you. I could have your fucking hand for that, or worse your head. My pretty wife's head on a spike, I'll have it right outside my window."

The cruelty that oozed from his precise lips was relentless. You wanted to burst into tears or more, burst into flames there and then...

"Do you know how long I have waited to have you under my very touch? All the sacrifices I made, the arguments I fought against my own Council to keep you alive? Ungrateful fucking bitch. Did your Daddy not teach you to be a good, obedient girl?"

One of Aemond's calloused, rough hands reached up hastily, his long fingers wrapping just so lightly around your throat, as his thumb gently stroked at your lips. His viable eye ogling tentatively over your mouth, smacking his lips innately.

"I'm your fucking Daddy now. Teach you how to be a proper lady, and a good fucking wife. I'm going to fuck that pretty pussy of yours, till you are dripping of me. I'll have you begging like a pathetic, stupid whore. I'll fuck you till I have heirs of my own, till I see fit that you have disgraced your extinct, traitorous bloodline."

"A-Aem, U-Uncle-" You breathlessly whimper in fear: freshly, swelled tears glaze your vision, as they begin to clear with each shedding streak.

"What did I just fucking say? I'm not your Uncle anymore, bitch. I'm your fucking Daddy. You would be helpless without me. Probably dead without my doing. You fucking owe me."

"Y-Yes-" Another breathless whimper, although Aemond's grip loosened, his other hand began to slowly move its way over towards your breast. His uninjured eye moving in motion with his hand, eagerly wandering over your bust. That same, very hand, began to keenly grope at your plush side, kneading at your breast tenderly, it felt foreign and sensitive under his strange touch.

"All fucking mine... Finally. Did you really think, I would let some insolent lord have you to himself? I'd start a war for you, I won the war for you. And now you're going to repay me, just so-"

A mindless moan flew out of your wet lips, catching you abruptly by surprise, and by the looks of it Aemond, as his blackened pupil dilated with a ravenous hunger, his ears pricking and leaning forward in delight.

"I'll have you moaning for more, precious. Now on your fucking knees-"

Even with the hatred that roared deep within your belly, you felt reluctant to retaliate, as you knew Aemond would effortlessly overpower you. As he had in your youth, when you were caught in a brawl with him, often ending with him wrestling you to the ground. And after his detailed spill of such vile threats, you dared not to risk the second chance of life, you had been granted.

Your knees hit the concrete floor with some brutality, although you regained from the ache. As you steadied your propped position, your hands gripping tightly at Aemond's slim waist, he began to undo his grey, washed out trousers.

The sheer sight of his cock, was intense enough to have you questioning whether you could even take him. Although slim in girth, his length was extraordinary. A reddened tip just oozing lusciously with a white, clear film glistening over the crown.

"Suck Daddy real good, bitch. Show me that, that mouth has other good uses than for talking back."

Your attention lurking from below, dropping from Aemond's face to his cock and back up once more to his face: the sudden change in his mood shifting was palpable. The momentary, light-hearted look of ecstasy dismantled as a cold, unsettling gaze resumed across his handsome face, lingering over your kneeled state.

"Make me fucking repeat myself one more time, whore and I'll treat you worse than a whore. I'll have you forget that you are a Targaryen princess."

Aemond's large hands found their way at the base of your skull, teasingly stroking your loose strands away from your face, within a few seconds the sudden shove towards him, left you physically speechless. Your mouth slightly agape, was enough for Aemond's stiffened, pulsating tip to propel its way into your tight mouth. The friction of his hard cock against your silky, warm flesh inside, was enough to set Aemond's breathing into a speedy pace. Lean chest heaving, the mindless groaning on his behalf was somewhat alluring. You had never seen nor heard such sounds or vulnerability in Aemond before.

"F-Fuck, that feels so fucking good- Just as I prayed to the Gods. I'm going to make your mouth so numb, so fucking filthy of me, you'll be tasting me still in the months to come."

No coherent words exchanged from below his waist, only muffled moans and breath hitches, as you sulked with crave. As much as it infuriated you, pained you to admit, the feeling of Aemond's rigid, throbbing cock in your mouth, was elevating. You had to admit, in your youth, previous to the blood that had been shed, you had a childhood feverish crush on your elder Uncle, although thought it unlikely that anything would flourish from it.

"Seven Hells. Such a pretty whore, with a pretty mouth. J-Just the p-prettiest whore in the Seven Kingdoms."

With each plunge, rhythmically bobbing backwards and forwards, the raw taste of Aemond's cum, tastefully filling your mouth to capacity, as a mixture of his reside and your own saliva oozed from your crevices. The dreading thought of being caught in such a contentiously vulnerable position, especially before being wedded, was disturbing enough, for you were not yet widely favoured by the Council...

"Ughh- Swallow and get up, whore."

Self-disgust stirred nauseatingly in the pit of your gut, as you reluctantly devoured small mouthfuls of Aemond's load, almost convincing yourself you would retch it all up in a matter of seconds. Much to your relief, you remained poised, meekly wiping away the mess across your lips, shying away from Aemond's unmoving regard. As you regained your normal pace of breathing, Aemond lent a hand over, grasping your undivided attention. With such ease, Aemond aided you, lifting you up to stand, before confining you closely between the wall and his heated body once more, closing whatever space was made between.

"Now let's see what that cunt has to offer."

His skilful hands hiking your layered gown up, making way for his arms to snake around your bare thighs, lifting you idly off the ground.

"Can't wait till the wedding to tarnish you, I've waited long enough."

A sudden bolt of lightening pain shot from within your inner thighs, as your tight walls stretched out ceaselessly to accommodate, as Aemond shoved his rigid cock inside. Your back flattened against the sandstone wall, its texture rough against the delicate silk of your gown. Burying his length deeper and deeper with each harsh thrust, his heavy balls collided with your silky folds as he vigorously pumped himself back and forth. His pace, although rough, remained steady. His raw, sensitive tip pummelling at your cervix, felt scorching inside your lower belly.

"And if I fuck you so good, that you begin to swell with my child... What would your dead family think of their precious daughter then, huh? These tits belong to me now, and the mother's milk that comes with it. Your entire being belongs to me now. That babe in your belly will be all because of me, and you'll fucking love every bit of it."

"I-I owe you my l-life, D-Daddy-"

The words mindlessly slipped from you lips, and yet it felt instinctual to say. As Aemond's mouth lapped at the sensitive crook of your neck, you felt the smirk of his grin against your skin, his sharp teeth faintly biting at your soft flesh.

"That's right, baby. That's so right my needy, little slut. You have a Daddy now that can really take care of you, protect you... Love you."

The epitome of his words, the calm depth in his voice, had reached its glorifying peak, as Aemond's hot load shot up directly into you, reverently coating your insides. Like some royal orchestra in unison to his final thrust, did a growling moan escape his lips, followed by an whisper of a swear. Leaning his exhausted, heavier mass over you, as he safely guided your legs back down to the surface, his breath densely hot against your ear, his outstretched palms cladded against the wall for support.

"Clean yourself up, Y/N... Wouldn't want anyone else to see you as the whore that you are, and get any ideas-"

His heavy breathing made his voice less formidable and more husky. Eyeing over your form, as you once more scoured and polished up the mess he made between your thighs, with the inner layer of your gown. You simply nodded in response to his demand, before hastily attempting to rush back to the confines of your quarters.

Yet, a firm pull tugged at your elbow, causing you to halt in your tracks, unavoidably.

"I will seek you out again tonight... Be ready for me."

general taglist - @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @hightowhxre @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1 @aegonslawyer

Aemond taglist - @megatardisbaby @harrypotteranna23-blog

credit for divider - @/itbmojojoejo

[buckybarnesb-tch]

Why am i ready for stalker aemond that has slow burn and is super angsty? like someone who isnt afraid of his scar in preschool then moves away but he found her in either social media or a sports meet and started stalking from then on and then he goes to the same college and remembers her schedule, which dorm shes in and trying to get in her room at night or is in the dorm across from her and ugh i could start a fic tbh

Never Ending Obsession -Aemond T.

If you do start a Fic, 100% tag me in that sh*t! I would LOVE to read it, but because you sent it to me imma give it a go for you cause it sounds delicious! I hope it is everything you want it to be!

Yandere!Aemond. Major Stalking! You’ve Been Warned!

DD:DNE

Aemond considered Y/n to be a miracle from the day he met her.

It was the first day of Pre-School and he wanted to be anywhere but there, surrounded by other students. He wanted to be at home with his mother, or even his big brother, anyone just to get away from the staring children.

Aemond had learned almost as soon as his cousin had sliced his face open that while adults would stare, they would at least be discreet about it, children were not. Aemond, while being a child, didn’t consider himself one, and it was something most adults found amusing as he would much rather spend time with his mother or the adults in his family than with his siblings or cousins. He would rather read than play with toys, rather watch movies his mother liked than ones his siblings enjoyed, it’s just the way Aemond had always been…until her.

All of the children stared at him from the moment he walked in and said “goodbye” to his mother. The staff tried to direct the children away, told them it was rude to stare, but they weren’t always paying attention and trying to get a bunch of 4 year olds attention when they’re locked onto something is…difficult at best. Around lunch time the staff had left all but one in the room to prepare food for the kids and suddenly Aemond found a boy much larger than him to be holding his eyepatch in his hand, the children around him laughing and teasing immediately. The teacher was on the other side of the room and oblivious as Aemond tried to grab his eyepatch back, the other boy shoving him to the ground before he was suddenly laying right beside Aemond holding his crotch and wailing in pain. A blonde girl that Aemond could only describe as beautiful was standing above him with an angry look on her face.

‘What did he ever do to you?! Huh?! Leave Him Alone!’ She snatched the eyepatch from the portly child’s hand and moved to hand it back to Aemond who strapped it back on immediately. ‘Are you okay?’ Aemond nodded quickly, opening his mouth to speak but finding no words that would come out. ‘I’m Y/n, you’re Aemond, right?’ He nodded again, mouth hanging open dumbly and looking like an idiot he is sure. ‘I’m sorry he did that, No one should be mean like that for something you can’t help and you don’t have to tell no one nothing…I’m sorry, you want to be alone.’ She turned to walk away when he finally got his voice box to work…sadly it had been muted so long that the sound he finally made was a bit too loud.

‘NO!’ He exclaimed and she jumped, turning back to him instantly. ‘I’m sorry…I mean, no, I don’t want to be alone…it’s nice to meet you Y/n…do you want to sit with me for lunch?’ She smiled, a red tint to her cheeks and Aemond decided he absolutely adored her pretty smile.

‘Yeah…that sounds fun.’ She grabbed ahold of his hand and pulled him over to a table, handing him a place mat and some crayons to decorate it with. Coloring was never something Aemond had really enjoyed, Art wasn’t his thing, but if Y/n enjoyed it then so did he.

Aemond and Y/n spent the rest of the day together before pick-up and as soon as he said “good-bye”, leaving with his mothers driver and climbed into the car beside his mom, he was talking about her. Alicent was thrilled that her son had made a friend his own age, while it’s entertaining to see her 4 year old boy so grown-up and mature, she didn’t want him to miss out on being a child just because he didn’t have any friends.

At the end of the week, after learning that Aemond and Y/n’s friendship wasn’t going anywhere, Alicent stood outside to pick her son up rather than wait in the car for their driver to get him. She watched her son run outside, hand in hand with a girl a bit shorter than him and they looked truly adorable. ‘Mom!’ Her son exclaimed, excited to see her waiting for him herself and deciding she should do this more often to see that smile so rare on her baby’s face.

‘Hello, my sweet Little Dragon! How was your day?’ She asked, watching the girl run to a women a few feet away and take her hand.

‘It was so good! Y/n and I made pictures of our families for the wall-wait! You need to meet her! Y/n!’ Aemond exclaimed, the girl stopping and her mother looking back as well, slightly irritated. ‘Mom, this is Y/n, she’s my best friend!’ He grinned and so did Y/n who hugged him at that deceleration.

‘Well, if she’s your best friend then you must have her over for a play date. Would that be alright?’ She asked the girls mom.

‘Oh, yes, of course. Anytime.’ She spoke, writing down her number on a piece of paper. ‘I’m Marie, it’s nice to meet you, Y/n talks about your boy all the time.’

‘Mom!’ The girl whined, the mothers sharing a side smile at their kids evident first crush on each other.

‘It’s lovely to meet you, I’m Alicent. How about tomorrow? She can come by and spend the day with us, I’ll drop her at home after dinner?’ Her mom looked surprised.

‘That’s perfect actually, I have work all day. Text me your address and what time to drop her off, she will love spending the day with Aemond rather than the neighbor. I’m sorry to say I’m in a rush to get back to work, it was nice meeting you Alicent, and you too Aemond. Come on Y/n, let go.’

‘Bye Aemond!’ Y/n waved, her mother dragging her off. She didn’t strike Alicent as rude, just in a bit of a hurry. You could clearly see the difference in their status in life, if not just from the fact that Y/n’s mother was wearing a waitress uniform and Alicent was wearing a Versace dress and Gucci shoes. She finds herself wondering how the women pays for the fancy daycare at all.

Alicent had married rich, Viserys happy to give her anything she wants as long as she doesn’t bother him at work, and he’s always at work. When he’s not however he is spending time with his daughter from his first marriage, Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra is 24 now, Viserys being significantly older than Alicent but she didn’t mind, he was a good, gentle man and that was hard to come by now a days. She had 2 sons, Jace who was 5 and Luke who was 3 (a child she detested for being the one who had sliced her baby’s face open 6 months before as he ran around the mansion with an old dagger from Viserys’ office and didn’t pay attention to her son sitting on the ground), though Rhaenyra was also pregnant with another child, none of which are her husbands clearly but that’s not her business… Alicent has 3 children of her own, Aegon who was 7, Helaena who was 5 and Aemond who had just turned 4, though she also suspected she was carrying a child that she hoped was a girl if not just to keep another boy from the chaos and bullying that goes on between the siblings and cousins.

‘Y/n is gonna spend the whole day with me?!’ Aemond suddenly exclaimed, knocking his mother from her thoughts.

‘Yes, she is. You’ll need to plan what you two want to do for the day and I’ll make sure Aegon doesn’t disturb you.’

‘Jace and Luke either?’ He asked…begged is more like.

‘Jace and Luke either, I’ll make sure they have something to do when they come tomorrow.’ The family always came to the house on the weekends as Viserys took that time for his family…part of it anyway.

‘Yay! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’ Alicent was thrilled to see her son so happy…she had no idea it would be so incredibly short lived.

Y/n had begun spending the day with Aemond every day, coming to their house in their car after school, her mother coming to get her after work to take her home looking more tired than the night before. Alicent had tried to help the poor women. It turns out her husband had cheated on her while she was pregnant and gotten another women pregnant, divorcing her for his mistress and son. He’s the one who paid for the fancy preschool while her mother worked 3 jobs to keep everything afloat in their one bedroom apartment, since he paid for such a nice school he only paid 200 in child support leaving Marie with everything else and all the debt he had left behind in her name.

Alicent was happy to watch Y/n whenever she needed, it made her son happy and that’s all she wanted in the world. She had been so scared for him before he met Y/n that he would end up going down a dark path, the bullying at home and at school having been hard for him as well as his father clearly loving the child who had butchered him more than his own son.

That all came to a grinding halt however when Y/n’s mom was evicted from her apartment leaving them homeless, forcing them to move in with Marie’s ex-mother in-law who lived in New York. Aemond had tried to promise to visit every weekend before Alicent was forced to explain just how far away New York was from California, to say the children were upset was a huge understatement. The teary good-bye nearly broke the mothers hearts as they swore to write to each other every day, and they did, they both learned to write faster than any of the kids their age just to write to each other and it lasted about a year. Y/n’s grandmother had found out she was writing to a boy in California and cut it off, threatening to take Y/n away from her mother if her mother didn’t stop the interaction. Marie wrote Alicent and explained what had happened leaving her to break her baby’s heart all over again.

Aemond became cold after that. He had no more friends, detested his cousins, tolerated his brothers and only loved Helaena though she was with friends everyday of her life. He took his schooling very seriously, taking several extra curricular’s on the side to take up his time which consisted of Jiu-Jitsu, Tae Kwon Do, and oddly enough, sword fighting which Alicent didn’t support right away until he promised to start with fencing. It turned out that he was really good at it and his father hired a trainer, Criston Cole, to teach him sword fighting, paying to transform a room in the mansion into a training room.

Once Aemond got to middle school, no one was bullying him anymore after breaking 3 kids noses and 2 of their arms. When he turned 14 and moved up to high school he had finally broken down and created an Instagram account. Aemond hated social media, he found it annoying and pointless, but he quickly found a use for it once he looked up Y/n and found her account. It wasn’t private, making it easy to look through all of her pictures, finding out that she still lived in New York with just her Grandmother now as her mother had passed away in a hit and run with a drunk driver when she was 9. She had many pictures with her and another girl who seemed to be her best and only friend and nowhere could Aemond find anything about a boyfriend which gave him an instant sense of relief. He had spent the last almost 10 years obsessing over her, though he kept it to himself. He had sent her a letter a few years before, hoping that maybe now that they had grown a bit she would be able to write him back but it was returned unopened with a note that told him to never send anything again or her grandmother would file a restraining order.

For the next 2 years he was as content as he could be watching her life through social media, until their junior year that is when he decided to pay a man to hack into her computer, actually watching what he did and figuring out how to go about doing it himself. He read all of her emails from then on, finding out what colleges she was applying to and applying himself, knowing he would obviously get in with his incredible grades and extra curricular’s. Her grandmother was forcing her to go to college, wanting her to be a physical therapist despite the fact that she wanted to be an artist. Aemond had found she had a separate, secret Instagram account that her grandmother didn’t know about that held all of her paintings and sketches, and she was honestly incredible.

Aemond had decided that when she was his she would drop out of college and move in with him, she would have her own little art studio to do whatever she wanted in. He would buy her anything she wanted, give her everything in the world if she only asked for it, Y/n Y/L/n was going to be his wife…whether she knew it yet or not.

At 18, Aemond moved out to New York for the year, deciding not to go to college but convincing his father to open a branch of his publishing business out there and let him set everything up for him. It wouldn’t be hard, honestly Aemond would pay others to do everything and just oversee the company while he watched over his Princess. He had already been stalking her online for over 4 years and in her own computer for 2, this was hardly a step up.

Alicent knew of course, she knew that her son had become more than a little obsessed with his childhood friend and she knew that that’s why her boy was going to New York, she had been the one to talk her husband into letting him go. She wanted him to be happy, by any means necessary after all this time of misery and if he needed Y/n to make that happen then she was more than happy to welcome the sweet girl into the family. Even if she knew what her son was doing was wrong, she couldn’t change his mind, and she didn’t want to. Alicent loved Y/n and she knew that if there was one person in the world that her son would never hurt, it was her.

He watched from across the Quad as she arrived at the school, unpacking her things from the car and moving it all into her dorm room, a room which Aemond had made sure was a single for only her, he also made sure he had acquired a key for himself. He felt horrible that he couldn’t help her move things, especially the heavy things, but he knew there was no way she wouldn’t recognize him, and she clearly remembered him. She had several old pictures uploaded to her Instagram of the two of them together, one of them at a Carnival with their faces painted (which she had made him do, even forcing the painter to paint over the eyepatch since it would wash off), one of them carving pumpkins on Halloween, and Aemond’s personal favorite, a picture of the two of them snuggled up in his bed as she had slept over the night before, she was snuggled into his chest with his arms around her and his face in her hair which covered the scar completely. He knew she had plenty of pictures of the two of them without his eye patch on but she never put them online and he loved her for that, even if she didn’t know it yet. Next to his mother, she was the only person who really understood how sensitive he was about his scar and she never made him feel less than because of it, he knew she would never betray him, not even having shown her mother the pictures without the eyepatch.

He followed her to all of her classes, often watching them through the security cameras he had hacked into (becoming quite good at it) to see her during class, he had always loved her look of concentration as her eyes narrowed and she looked like she was scowling at you, she was adorable. He had placed several cameras in her room as well, watching her whenever he could, all she really did was school work and he realized how overwhelmed she was by college life, school was never her environment, it was too stressful for her and her free spirited mind and he knew it. He also knew that her Grandmother had threatened to kick her out onto the streets if she didn’t go to college for what she told her to, he had plans for that women, she will get what she deserves.

On several occasions he was witness to moments that he knew should be private, whether that be her stressed out crying or more…intimate moments. He couldn’t help but watch as her fingers touched her pretty little pussy, rubbing her clit and listening to the sweet sounds she made trying to be quiet, he couldn’t help but wrap his fingers around his length and edge himself right along with her, imagining those fingers in her cunt were his cock, desperate to feel her soft, warm pussy squeezing him as tight as it could as he made her cum again and again until she couldn’t take it anymore. He had fantasized about making her cum on his cock since he was 13 years old and by now he was more than desperate for her.

There were a few nights he actually snuck into the dorms and into her room, watching her sleep up close, trailing his fingers down her body, hating that he can’t just crawl into the bed beside her and hold her tight while he shoves his cock into her and makes her fall asleep with it as deep as it can get.

2 months he watched her before knowing he needed to make her his now, before it was too late. She had been asked out on a date by a Frat guy, begging to take her to a party and Aemond knew he couldn’t allow this.

The Frat boy got a visit from him later that night, waking up to Aemond sitting on the edge of his bed and realizing he had been tied down so tight that the ropes were cutting off circulation to his hands and feet. ‘Hello Chad, so sorry to wake you but this is a very important matter you see. Scream, and I will bash your brains in before anyone can even find out the door is locked, got it?’ He nodded quickly, terror in his eyes and Aemond found that he loved it, he loved scaring people that would hurt his Princess, she doesn’t deserve the kind of treatment this idiot would give her and Aemond knew that party wasn’t anything more than to make fun of his girl. The Frat assholes all getting a freshman girl to come to the ‘party’ and whichever guy could get their girl to put out first won some bullshit prize.

No. His Princess would not be humiliated like that.

‘You see Chad, you are bringing a girl back here tomorrow night, her name is Y/n, yes?’ He nodded again.

‘I didn’t know she was your girl, she didn’t say anything like that! I would never-‘

‘Yes you would, don’t lie to me Chad, boyfriend or not you would happily have brought her back here and made her a part of your little game.’ His eyes widened, unsure how Aemond could possibly know about that. ‘You’re not going to pick her up tomorrow Chad, do you understand? I will not have my Princess hurt and humiliated by an idiotic asshole who realistically couldn’t make a girl smile let alone cum. Now, this is just a warning of course, if I find out you went anywhere near her after our little conversation here, I would have to do something far worse than break into your disgusting Frat house and break your eye socket, do you get me?’

‘Yes! Yes, I-wait…break my wha-‘ quickly Aemond brought the bat he had picked up from the floor, down against the jackasses face, shoving the edge of his blanket into his mouth as he went to scream.

‘Secretly, I hope you do try something just so I get to have an excuse to come back here and break every one of your ribs before I ensure no women will ever say yes to a date with you again.’ He flicked open a blade, holding it against Chads face and hearing him whimper like a bitch. ‘It’s okay Chad, I’m not going to hurt you as long as you do what I’ve said here tonight. Are we on the same page?’ He nodded quickly and Aemond stood, walking out of the room and leaving the house, deciding on taking the bat with him, just in case.

The next night Y/n waited in the Quad at 9 o’clock, cursing out the asshole who didn’t pick her up and feeling the tears welling up in her eyes. She had been so alone here all this time, in a place she didn’t want to be at in the first place and just when she thought someone might be interested in her, even an asshole Frat jock, he stands her up. She felt like she couldn’t hold it in anymore, trying to muffle her cries with the sleeves of her hoodie before hearing someone speak to her.

‘Are you alright Princess?’ Princess? No one had called her Princess since-

Her head snapped up and she saw a very tall man standing about 5 feet away, he was lanky but still covered in muscle that you could clearly see through his tight henley shirt, he wore jeans and heavy boots with his silver hair tied in a bun at the back of his head. They black eyepatch sealed the deal for her though, if she didn’t already assume who this is, now she knows. ‘Aemond? Is that you?’

‘In the flesh…why are you crying Princess?’ He moved to sit beside her on the edge of the fountain and she just stared at him in shock.

‘I…I got stood up-what are you doing here?!’ He smiled sweetly and she couldn’t help but think how handsome her best friend had become…he’s a panty dropper!

‘I’m in New York setting up a branch here for Dad, the school however, my father has recently become a benefactor of, Daeron wants to come to school here for a year to start his doctorate in 2 years, you know dad, start bribing them as early as possible.’ He joked and she giggled, remembering exactly how Viserys used to be. She never had seen him much, which she understood was Aemond’s experience too, but he was always very sweet to her, bringing her gifts and sweets with all of his other children since she was there almost 100% of the time.

‘Did you know I was here?’ He nodded and she glared half heartedly at him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?!’ She raged, punching him in the arm.

‘We’ll mostly because I sent a letter a few years after you left and your grandmother wrote back that I would receive a restraining order if I ever contacted you again. That’s why I never reached out online either, I didn’t want to get you in trouble if she found out.’ Her face fell as he told her that and her tears began streaming again. ‘No more tears Princess, please? Such a gorgeous girl should never feel the need to shed a tear.’ He reached up, taking her face in his hands and wiping her tears with his thumbs tenderly.

‘I’m sorry she did that to you! I wanted to talk to you so badly, everyday! She was so awful to my mom and I thought maybe I would be able to talk to you when we were older but she kept tabs on everything I ever did and now I’m being forced to go to this shitty fucking school and live on campus all alone, and suffocate under a course load that I didn’t want in the first place…I just wanted to paint…and the first time I think maybe I could actually not be completely alone here I get stood up by an asshole Frat jerk!’ Aemond had pulled her to his chest as soon as she started ranting, knowing she needs someone to be there for her and he was determined to make sure it was him. ‘And now I’m ranting to you when you clearly have places to be, I’m sorry!’ She tried to pull away but he didn’t let her, lifting her into his lap for good measure and smiling at the squeak that came from her when she was sat down on him.

‘None of that Princess, you have always been and will always be most important, and I finished my meeting. I’m all yours.’ He said it in a way that he hoped she would hear his dedication to her, and she did, she heard it and couldn’t help but hope he meant he really was all hers. ‘Do you have classes tomorrow?’ She shook her head, resting it against his chest and he felt his entire body heat up as he held her to him firmly, determined that no one would ever take her away again. ‘Okay, then here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go back to my place, you’re going to borrow some clothes and we’re going to order dinner-‘

‘No, you have things to do, you’re working here, I can’t-‘

‘No, I can’t! I can’t leave you like this, and I won’t, I will take care of you…you’re mine Princess.’ She looked up at him shocked and he tried his best to convey how hard it’s been without seeing her for the last 14 years. ‘I let them take you from me once, I won’t do it again now that I’ve found you…don’t make me let you go back to a dorm all alone…I won’t do it Y/n.’ She nodded her head quickly, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly.

‘I missed you so much Aemond, if you’re sure you’re not too busy-‘

‘I will never be too busy for you. My weekend is yours, come on.’ He helped her stand up but didn’t let go of her, keeping his arm around her waist as he took her bag and led her down to the parking lot where his car is waiting. Aemond opened the door and lifted her into the car, hearing her gasp as he man handled her in, not once complaining about it. The drive was quick back to his home, it was an apartment in a high rise building and he loved watching her eyes slowly widen as she watched the numbers on the elevator go up and up, all the way to the top.

‘You have a penthouse apartment?’ He nodded, smirking down at her and she shoved him playfully.

‘Surely you can’t forget how we live Y/n, you think my father would let me stay anywhere else. Even if I am the least favorite, he insists on a certain condition of living for his family…he would be appalled by your state by the way, and I’m sure once I tell him he will be fixing it-‘

‘What are you talking about? I’m already in a single dorm, I have everything I-‘

‘You shouldn’t be living in a dorm room with God knows how many other women all sharing a bathroom, you’re basically family-‘

‘But I’m not.’ She cut him off and he looked at her startled as he opened the door. ‘Look at this place Aemond! It’s an apartment and I could never afford something like this! I love that you think of me as a sister and your parents think of me like an honorary child but I’m not, I am a peasant compared to you and that will never change, we live in 2 different worlds Aemond.’ He stared at her, trying to calm himself before opening his mouth.

‘You loved being a part of our family…you never judged me for how I lived before-‘

‘I’m not judging you-‘

‘But you are! I don’t like the idea that you think we’re in 2 different worlds, because I never want to exist in a world where you are not beside me, you will never live like that again, not now that I’ve found you. And the fact that you think I ever thought of you like a sister…well it’s just disgusting.’ He explained, leaning down and brushing his lips against hers as lightly as possible before moving to the kitchen, putting her bag on the couch. ‘Now, what would you like for dinner? Are you still a pizza girl, or would you like Chinese? We can get burgers too.’ He offered, pulling out a burger place menu, knowing that’s what she would pick and she quickly did, her whole face red in a heavy blush.

They ordered dinner and Aemond had a man go and pick it up for them while they chose a scary movie to watch. Aemond had loaned her one of his Henley’s before getting her a pair of his boxers from the drawer and letting her change, throwing her clothes into the wash and not being able to stop the creepy stalker inside of him from smelling her panties before putting them in. He had to stop himself from jumping her the second he walked back into the room, seeing his Princess wearing his clothes and sitting in his bed clearly waiting for him.

He set the food down, handing her her chocolate milkshake before stripping to his boxers and climbing into the bed beside her. He saw her try to hide her reddening cheeks as she looked at him, staring at his muscular chest before tearing her eyes away. It wasn’t until he noticed her rubbing her legs together that he felt his cock begin to twitch. She was just as effected by him as he was by her and he was going to have her!

They talked through the movie while eating, getting to know each other, mostly her getting to know him but he asked questions to things he knows the answers to but shouldn’t, and he loved that no matter how personal, she never once lied to him about anything. After all this time she still felt completely comfortable with him.

‘Oh! Mother will be so excited to see you! Come here!’ He held up his phone and pulled her to him, taking a picture of them quickly with her back to his chest as his arm wrapped across her shoulder and torso, his face nuzzled against her hair. It smelled like mangos and pomegranates, everything about her was just perfect.

‘Wait! You’re shirtless! She’s gonna think-‘

‘What?’ He asked, smirking down at her, humor written all over his face as he waited for her to say it. ‘What is she going to think, Princess?’

‘Nothing, never mind.’ She rolled her eyes, leaning against him as the movie finished, Aemond now laying down on the pillows with her head on his chest as if they were children at a sleepover once again.

‘I really did miss you Y/n…there wasn’t one day that I didn’t think about you.’ He willed his cock to stop twitching as she traced her finger around his stomach.

‘I missed you too, I never forgot about you Aemond. You know, I often wondered how someone who had been in my life for such little time could be such a big part of it but you were…you are. I never stopped loving you.’ He took hold of her chin, turning her head to face him and traced her bottom lip with his thumb lightly.

‘I am never leaving you again…tell me you’re mine.’ She gasped quietly, hesitating only a moment before nodding. ‘I know you want me…tell me you’re mine Y/n…tell me.’

‘I’m yours-‘ He cut her off instantly, lips crashing to hers hard and pulling her against his chest firmly. One arm held her waist firmly while his other hand buried his fingers into her hair. He licked her bottom lip, his tongue instantly exploring her mouth as she parted them, sucking her tongue between his lips and making her giggle. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling the hair tie out and tugging it firmly prompting him to bite down on her lip roughly making her squeal.

‘Such fun noises you make, you’ve no idea how long I’ve wondered what you would sound like for me!’ He rolled on top of her, hauling her legs up around his waist and grinding his crotch against her.

‘Oh! Oh Fuck Aemond! Feels so good!’ She whined as he ground his hard cock down against her.

‘You have no idea Princess, I’m going to make you see stars.’ He swore, grabbing ahold of the bottom of his shirt and pulling it up and off of her. ‘So fucking perfect baby, perfect fucking tits!’ His lips wrapped around her rosy nipple, sucking hard and chuckling when her back arched up into him as he did this. He switched tits, pulling her hardened peak between his teeth teasingly before beginning to kiss and suck his way down her stomach, fingers catching on her boxers and pulling them down, throwing them off to the side of the bed. He took a pause, leaning back and looking down at her…Finally seeing his girl on his bed laid out for him…nothing could be sweeter. She closed her legs awkwardly, unsure why he stopped but he quickly caught them, yanking them apart again roughly. ‘No you don’t gorgeous! You’re mine, all mine. I’m allowed to look at what’s mine. All fucking mine.’ He growled, leaning back down and shoving his face between her legs, tasting her for the first time. Aemond lifted her legs onto his shoulders, sucking on her clit and grinning as he heard her loud, needy cries.

‘Fuck, yes! Please? Please Aemond, don’t stop?!’ Stop? Stop? What is Stop? He couldn’t define that word right now, it didn’t fucking exist to him as he flattened his tongue and traced it down to her hole, pushing into her and moaning at how tight his little cunt was for him. He peeked up at her as he began fucking into her with his tongue, his nose brushing against her clit and making her squeal. ‘Oh God!’

‘No!’ He cut her off, fingers rubbing hard at her clit as he looks up at her and she tries to pull away from the almost painful attention on her body. ‘Tonight, I am your God. Do you understand me? Tonight you pray to me while I worship this body. Yes?’

‘Yes! YES! Please God, Please?!’ She sobbed, tears falling from her eyes now as she teetered on the edge, so close and needing one last push.

‘Yes Princess.’ He moaned, pushing his long fingers into her and shoving her over that edge just as she needed, watching her face contort in ecstasy as she came, hips lifting off of the bed as she screamed.

‘Fuck Aemond!’

‘There’s my good girl! Cumming so good for me.’ He kissed his way back up her body, removing his boxers as he did and leaning against her, taking his thick cock in his hand and preparing to push himself into her. ‘How do you feel baby?’ She just moaned, nodding her head and pulling him down to kiss her and as she did he pressed his cock against her hole, driving his hips home and finding her cute little squeal completely adorable. ‘So good!’ Aemond groaned, pulling out and pushing into her again. ‘So fucking tight on me, aren’t you?’ She nodded, her mouth hanging open as if screaming but no sound was coming out. ‘Yes you are, so good to me, this little pussy loves my cock so much, feel how she’s pulsing around me? She knows my cock is the only one that can make you feel like this. The only one that ever will again.’ He had picked up his pace and was now slamming into her over and over again. ‘You’re mine now Princess, all mine! Mine to care for, mine to love, mine to fuck! Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes! Yes Aemond! All yours! Please, please never stop! Oh Fuck!’

‘No need to beg Baby.’ Tears were now leaking down her cheeks and he knew he had her just where he wanted her. He could get her to agree to anything he’d like. He felt her cunt tighten around him and watched her eyes roll up as she came around his cock, squeezing so good he could make a case for why this wasn’t Earth anymore but Heaven that they were tethered to. His thumb found her clit as he sat back, thrusting into her at a rapid pace and feeling his end approaching quickly, throwing her into another orgasm before allowing himself to finish, burying his cock inside of her as deeply as he could and filling her up. ‘That’s it. Good Girl, taking all of me so good. I’m gonna take you home, back to where you belong with our family. No more school you don’t want to be in, no more grandparents you despise, just you and me and all of the babies that I’m going to fill this body with. How does that sound?’ Y/n’s responding moan was answer enough for him, whether it was meant to be or not. ‘All mine now Princess…all mine.’

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