#tagaryen

[certifiedskywalker]

Claiming Of Mine - Daemon Targaryen

Yet another banquet at the Vale hosted by House Royce presents you with yet another night with Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

“I fear you have caught the eye of a certain, silver-haired guest.”

“If I am correct in which guest you’re speaking of, he looks at everyone like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like he wants to devor you.”

Your pure-circumstance companion scowled at your words. “You paint him with a broad brush.”

“No,” you murmured, averting your eyes from the visiting Lady Evealyn Celtigar of the Claw Isle and her embossed crab-covered dress. Even with the crowd swirling about the hall, it took you but a mere moment to find the piercing eyes of the guest in question. Daemon smirked at you. “I draw him with a fine point quill.”

Grey Lady Evealyn’s eyes widened and her face flushed seashell pink. As her lips pursed and puckered in search for a proper response, you left the Old Crab alone to the quiet corner you had attempted to carve out for yourself. Such solitude was mythic at these banquets, as it seemed the most ill-informed gossip in the Realm always sought to flush you out. Lady Evealyn was simply the most recent in a long line of older Ladies looking to sow rumors for the mill. They were everywhere, peppered throughout the crowd, adding to the number of shining, irksome eyes. There was no shadowy solace in a room gleaming with heedful faces and glittering gems. The grandiose light of nobles danced around the hall, blinding and horribly cajoling. 

You had no choice but to fight your way through; but when it came to the beacon that was Daemon Targaryen, you willingly surrendered.

Careful not to take an improper step, you wove through the crowd and towards his brightness. You dipped and bowed whenever a handsome Lord or Lady took pause of you. After a pleasant greeting, you fed them a sorry excuse for your early leave and continued on your journey across the room. At each mannerly stop, you could feel Daemon’s sly smirk spreading across his lips, burning as the source of his light. By the time you reached him on the other end of the hall, he was grinning like a child promised a sweet.

“I see everyone and the Old Crab has taken note of your presence at this vile affair.” His words were ribbing, slanted, and laced with the sweet-sour twinge of the wine he sipped at.

“You sound envious, dear Prince.”

Daemon’s grin pressed itself into a closed-lip smile, one that did not dare reach his narrowed, crystaline eyes. This look you knew as his thin guard against your teasing, not that he would ever admit to needing a guard. No, Daemon was offensive in all manners, your banter included.

“If they knew who the heir to House Grafton bedded, they would sound so very envious,” he leaned down to you, close enough to prompt quick, gossip-starved glances from passersby. “You know how I so enjoy being the talk of these banquets. Shall we spill your secret?”

“Our secret,” you corrected, tipping your chin up to situate your lips daringly close to Daemon’s. His pale brows rose in surprise at your boldness before he put on his airs again.

“Oh, you see, pet,” he drawled, unyielding to your closing proximity, “I hold no secrets. None of my ladies and loves are hidden so. Lest you forget, I am Lord Flea Bottom.”

You fought the wild, burning urge to brush back the stray strands of silver hair that fell across the side of his face as he spoke. Daemon, eyes flicking down along your figure saw the urge in the itch that twitched in your fingers. His grin returned at the sight and you cursed yourself for so revealing your shattering resolve, your own offense dwindling like a dying fire. In an attempt to recover, you straightened your posture to the peak of proprietary.

“Yet none know of me. What does that make me, if not your lady or your love?”

You saw it then, again, what Lady Evealyn Celtigar had refused to see in the Prince’s pointed gaze: hunger. If not for the wine he held and the hoard of Valemen about, Daemon would have shed his skin into red scales akin to Caraxes’ and sunk his claws into your softest flesh. How futile it would be to try to dodge the maw of a keen Dragon. Though, to be devoured by Daemon would be, and was, worth the bite.

“You,” he said, eyes razing over the features of your face, “are simply mine.”

The last words slipped from his lips in a wine-scented whisper before he leaned back. You held eye contact as he brought his chalice up to his mouth. Before he sipped, Daemon tipped the golden rim of it towards you in the smallest of toasts. As if swallowed by flame, heat bloomed across your body at the gesture, the weight of it only for you and he to bear. Your secret.

Before you could collect yourself, Daemon quickly emptied the chalice of wine in one slug and leaned back over towards you. Mellow fruit from the Arbor Red soaked into his lips and you ached to kiss the color from his skin. Rich, woody scents and the smell of cinders distracted you from that cloying want. As did the warmth that burned out from Daemon’s limbs so near you. It was an attack on your resolve, offensive, in the best manner.

“When my lady wife sleeps, I’ll show you what that title means.”

You heard the clinking of the chalice bottom being placed at rest against the table behind you before Daemon pulled back. There was no blush on the high peaks of his cheeks, no starlit glint of mischief in his hawk eyes. Nor was there a smile, of any sort, playing on his lips. The man, no…the Dragon before you was staid, a hunter with his prey marked.

Only at your prolonged silence did Daemon’s lips slightly quirk up at the corners. He had you, and you both knew it, felt it. Granted, you were certain he had always had you. As Daemon wordlessly stalked away, you felt that he was certain in that too.

And that certainty bled into the night, licked at your wounds of waiting. You endured the pestering of fellow banquet guests, including the re-emergence of Lady Evealyn Celtigar from where you left her. She was tipsy and therefore more resigned. Though even resigned, she was talkative, rampant in her chittering about the other Lords and Ladies. The ignorance of the elder head of House Celtigar regarding the culture of the Vale, of King’s Landing, was clear in her romantic optimism.

It took every drop of desire for self-preservation to not search for Daemon while the Old Crab scuddled in and out of conversation. What a relief a simple look from him would deliver to you.

Though, a far greater relief was given when Rhea Royce bid those still assembled in the great hall a farewell. Daemon stood near his wife’s side, his sharp features dark in the torch light. His presence was symbolic only, the shadow of a crowned Dragon looming over this gathering of lesser men. For, if he were truly present, Daemon would be all gnashing teeth and laughter. That was how you met him, so many Vale banquets ago.

The Lady of Runestone made her early escape, Daemon trailing a few paces behind. You watched him go, watched how his hair washed like silver waves over his shoulders. He looked like a dark tide being shrunk by the setting moon as he washed out of the great hall. Further like a tide, you knew Daemon would return eager to sweep you away. 

Until then, you had to stay afloat within the less savory political talk that erupted in the hall to fill his absence. Pretense shed, male heirs to the Vale’s great Houses chastised their host for her hapless marriage to the Prince that had yielded no children, no sons for them to ward. For them to groom for their game. At the thought, your stomach twisted.

“Oi! No sons we know of,” shouted one lord.

“Half the bastards of Flea Bottom are of his line,” cried another. “Dirty dragonseed!”

The epithets soared like Dragon fire across the room and burned just the same. Even the mildly drunken, chronically chatty Lady Evealyn felt the scorch of their words and seemed stalled in her merriment. The Old Crab sunk in her seat at what she likely deemed slander, dress of crustaceans crumpling with her. At such a rate, she too would be able to pen a far more accurate picture of Daemon Targaryen. Though, still nowhere near as accurate as yours.

You knew him, his rarest forms and his most base. That was why, when the large, wooden doors to the great hall opened as if to welcome a new arrival, you were not surprised to see Daemon instead of another noble stranger. The crowd about you, however, was shocked silent. 

His arms were spread like wings holding the twin, grand doors open. There, centered in the strip of light, he stood, listening to the new quiet that swelled in his presence. After a tense enough pause, he let his arms fall to his side and he started down the main thorofare of the great hall. Daemon’s path was bordered by full tables and the wide, worried eyes of nobles realizing their mistakes.

“Do not settle on my account,” he boomed as he stepped. Dark, shining eyes surveyed the faces around him, marking prey. When you met his gaze, Daemon lingered, but only for a moment. “Talk of your future King, please. Give my bastards life with your words and be tried for treason when I sit on the Iron Throne.”

He stopped in the middle of the great hall as he spoke, chest rising and falling with all the presence you knew him for. A different hunger hung around him. Daemon would hunt every soul sat around him for the sport of it. Every soul save for yours, which he had other plans for.

“I am the blood of the Dragon, and we burn our enemies. I do so hope you will not find yourselves amoungst the pillars of ash.”

Stillness eeked through the crowd, with lords and ladies watching Daemon watch them. As he drank in the fear, the harsh glare he wore morphed into a lizard’s smile. He was enjoying this, just as he said he would.

Before he could bask further in the silence he wrought, a sharp, singular bloom of applause sprouted. You turned your head and saw Lady Evealyn, eyes wide and thin arms quaking as she clapped for Prince Daemon. Following the lead of their matriarch, the remaining House Celtigar envoys joined the chorus. Before long, and looking to buy themselves even a modicum of safety, the rest of the captive audience applauded. Even those of House Royce, under the thumb of Daemon’s wife Rhea clapped, though notably less committed.

The Prince threw his arms up and out as if soaking up the sound. His head threw back and his hair spilled over his shoulders. He looked glorious, kingly, and arrogant. Eventually, he gave a wave of his hands and the crowd fizzled its noise back into its rumbling chatter. Though, the name of Daemon Targaryen fell only then with niceties from noble lips.

“He could conquer Dorne with a mouth like that!”

“Fire and Blood!”

It was a wonder, how swiftly the minds of men could change with the right motivation.

“Perhaps the Vale can be redeemed after all.” At the sound of his voice growing nearer, you looked from the manic men about you and to Daemon. He approached you, shoulders back and face tilted up. He looked as he did on the back of Caraxes. Natural and wild.

Daemon kept walking, forcing you into the alcove carved out behind you. Shadows hugged you both as the noise of the hall was lessened by stone walls. You hummed at the dimmed sight of him, how he peered down at you through slightly hooded eyes that glinted still, despite the dark. 

“The Vale is in need of redeeming in your opinion?”

Daemon lifted his right hand and you caught the glimmer of his rings in the far off torch light. The back of his fingers brushed against your cheek with a startling tenderness. His skin was warm against yours, a stark contast to the cool masonry that dug into your back.

“Some parts, yes,” he murmured, taking one last step towards you. His heat enveloped you, with his chest pressed to yours. Each breath he took, you felt as your own. “Not you.”

“I’m honored,” you said, a smile spilling over your lips as you tipped your chin up towards Daemon’s. “On the behalf of House Grafton, of course.”

“Of course,” Daemon replied, leaning down to capture your lips with his. At last.

His touch was a fervor. The kiss was a mess, wet, and wine-tasting. Steadiness came only when Daemon’s hand lifted to grip your chin, holding it still. Your hands rose up along his chest, grazing the red-thread, embroidered dragon bodies sown into the black fabric. Fingertips curled into the collar of his tunic and held him close.

“Mine,” one of you mumbled, voices melding in the dimness.

“Yours,” the other replied before you moved through the shadows and out of the great hall, becoming one within the dark.

[damn-stark]

How we sleep knowing Jon and Y/N are half siblings but madly in love in Sandstorm

How Jon’s Stark ancestors look at them

How the Targaryen ancestors look at them

[myfandomprompts]

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON SEASON 2 OUTFITS

[nicksolemnlyswears]

hi! i just saw the ask you answered about leaving aemond out and i giggled.

if i may offer an idea, what about if reader finds out where aemond goes to find comfort (the brothel) and is upset because she thought differently of him but maybe he confesses what he actually does there (tittie suckin and therapy) and she offers aemond her own comfort. maybe reader looks more like their mother and it's exactly what aemond wants/needs. he's such a broken boy with horrible mommy issues.

this is not me at all telling you that you NEED to write a fic about this. i just had this idea jumbled around in my head and i don't know how to write it myself. 😂

thank you for your fics. they are truly wonderful. 💜

pairing: aemond targaryen x hightower!reader

word count: ~8.3k

warnings: 18+, cursing, spoilers of s2 of hotd, talks about brothels and prostitutes, fingering, p in v, lactation (milk play? i don't even know what i did), nipple play, slight mommy kink (or a lot depending how you see it), talks of infidelity, slight somno, riding

a/n: it's funny that this ask was sent cause i had something similar in mind. so this came super easily to me. i added some fire to the reader cause after ep 4 of hotd i was so angry at aemond (and still am). i can't believe he did that to aegon (he's my boy of the season) not to mention what he did to queen meleys and queen rhaenys. i'm not sure if i'd be able to forgive him. @heybank i hope this is somewhat like what you had in mind!

it came out a little longer than expect but nonetheless i hope you all enjoy! also aemond is stubborn in this fic but an equally stubborn reader and i love her for it. the reader and aegon are lowkey besties because i only want the best for him lol so don't mind that. i am ecstatic for the next episode and see the fall out of ep 4.

do you know the struggle i had to find aemond's whore's name. omg most difficult part of this oneshot.

after this fic i think i need to go to church and confess. i'm sure the priest will douse me in holy water and make me pray a hundred holy marys or something.

enjoy!!

It slipped out in the midst of their endless teasing and banter. The one secret Aemond never wished for you to find out. You're strong enough to know about the others; you recognize who he truly is at his core: an ambitious, envious man, but this one secret? This one he prayed you never knew about.

Aegon and you had been indulging in the sweet wine imported from High Garden. A delicacy that made your head fuzzy and your body loose. After finding you strolling all alone through the gardens, he insisted on drinking with you. If someone were to appease him by complaining about matters of the council, it would be you.

Those meetings drag on for hours on end on multiple occasions during the day as ravens fly in to share news of the brewing war. It robs you of your husband's attention and robs Aegon of his will to live as they tell him what to do and say, completely ignoring any input he might have—as idiotic as it may be.

You meet your distant cousin midway, complaining about how boring the meetings are and how uptight everyone is, including your husband. You offer the new King honest advice disguised as flippant comments, hoping he'll accept it even if he thinks of it as his own.

"It's not like I'm the only one who indulges in the pleasure of the street of silk. Every nobleman loves to get their cock wet by those whores," Aegon mumbles as a response to being reprimanded for his escapade late last night with his guards.

The charitable King paid for the villager's drinks and entertainment for the night. It was a prosperous night for the brothel. The 'ladies' will do just about anything to get coin. Who says the King doesn't aid his subordinates in need?

You stifle a laugh with the back of your hand and shake your head at him, "Yes, but you're the King now. It's not about laying with a commoner. It's about security. There are people who would do just about anything to gain Rhaenyra's favor, including hurting you, Aegon…"

Reasoning with Aegon is a challenge. His mind spins in ways you will never comprehend, but you try to keep your cousin safe while appeasing the council.

If Aegon values something, it's his life. If he knows there is danger out there, he will hold back, even if it's for a night or two. Her duty as his friend is to keep reminding him of all the danger lurking in the dark corners of the silk street.

"I suppose you're right, dear cousin. Guess we'll have to bring them here," he laughs as he thinks of the pandemonium it will cause. "I'll have Thalia and Margery or perhaps Dorothy. Hell, why limit myself? I'm the King! The guards can have their pick of the lot, Aemond will have his old reliable, and Lord Lannister can have the beautiful Sarah."

Aegon tips his goblet, drinking the last drops of wine to quench his dry mouth, failing to notice his slip-up.

Aemond's name sends a burning chill down your spine, and your mouth turns to cotton as it dries up. As you repeat Aegon's words, your heart promises to break out of your ribcage. Surely, you misunderstood his words.

"Aemond's old reliable?" You laugh to keep Aegon at ease. Grabbing the pitcher of wine to fill both of your cups, urging him to drink more and get his tongue looser. He won't remember your interrogation by morning.

"Ah yes, the first woman he fucked. Thanks to me, might I add. He still loves to visit her. I'd say her tits got him all enamored."

Just like the women in court, Aegon prattles on and on about everything he knows about Aemond and his whore. Including how he found him laying with her just last night—naked as the day he was born, blue sapphire glinting freely under the candlelight.

Blinding hot fury courses through your veins, lighting you up in flames from the inside out. Aegon will assume your reddening face and chest are from the wine and his vulgar words. There is no use in correcting him as you urge him to continue talking.

By night's end, you are equally as drunk as Aegon. The Guards escort you both to your respective chambers, watching amusedly how you argue with Aegon about whose dragon is strongest, Sunfyre or Dreamfyre. In reality, you were plotting which sibling would aid you in yelling dracarys in Aemond's direction.

You wish the alcohol would make you forget, but the sad truth is you will remember every single detail. The pounding headache you'll have in the morning will be a painful reminder of the secrets spilled over red wine.

For a fortnight, you sit and think about the valuable information Aegon shared with you. Anger burns ardently inside of you as it has nowhere to go. As a lady of the court, you're not allowed to train with the men, and as a Hightower, you have no dragon to channel that anger through.

If your fury were to be caused by any other reason, you'd find release in Aemond's arms. His aching cock stroking your drenched walls fervently. His sweaty skin sticking to yours. His fingers digging into your curves to find purchase. The low tone of his voice in your ear whispering words you'd never dare repeat and shamefully make you peak around him.

The thought makes you sick. How many times has he fucked her in such a way? Is it different? Does he let go and fuck her harder as he's not afraid she'll break?

Thinking is your worst enemy. As you imagine every possible scenario, your insecurities rise from their hiding spots. Does he love her? He laid bare with her; he must feel something if he allowed her to see him in such a vulnerable position.

The memory of the first time he took off his eyepatch in your presence pains you. So many conversations and stones of trust had to be set to get to that point, yet he did it with her. A common whore that dares ask for coin to please him with her presence.

You are different from the other ladies of the court who accept their husbands sleeping around with unknown women. You are jealous and territorial, something Aemond knew when you married. Under the eyes of the seven, he swore that his loyalties lay solely with you.

Alas, all men do is lie. Not even the noblest of men can be trusted. All you asked for was a good husband that would not embarrass you. How foolish of you to believe Aemond would be it.

Your fury grows and manifests as you observe Aemond and his whereabouts. It's hard to keep your anger at bay, but he's too busy plotting with Criston Cole to notice your withdrawing nature and emotional distance.

Visiting his quarters nearly every night tells you all you need to know. In that fortnight, you find him missing a multitude of times. There's no doubt he's in the brothel. Where else might he be deep into the night as the world sleeps?

When you ask about his location, the guards hesitate and stumble over their words. They try to save their necks by lying because the Prince continues to slip from their grasp time and time again. They are not as skillful at lying as your husband.

Having had enough, you wait for Aemond's return in his quarters. A goblet of wine is balanced between your fingers. The red liquid swirls along the rounded goblet, mimicking how your anger swirls around you.

You observe the map laid out on the wooden table. His plans are incredibly different from Aegon's. You pity the King as his most trusted advisor and Hand do as they please behind his back.

You've barely drank the wine. The goblet is merely a distraction from your fidgeting hands. You do not need the courage it provides; your anger fuels your intentions.

Old stone rumbles and sets behind you. Turning on your seat, you find Aemond emerging from one of Maegor's tunnels. This is how he sneaks out so damn easily.

"Wife," Aemond greets, keeping his composure, but his tense posture reveals shock. Your husband tends to wear a relaxed stance in your presence. You're the last person he expected to be waiting for him.

"Husband," you reply. The word is bitter on your tongue.

"What brings you in so late? You should be resting," Aemond speaks, taking off his cloak and approaching your seated figure.

Your eyes lazily move up to meet his. "Rest," you chuckle humorlessly. "I haven't been able to find rest in weeks."

"Does something ail you? Should I call a maester?" He asks, giving you a once over. Other than the dark circles around your eyes, there seems to be nothing out of place.

You're still you. Beautiful copper hair that easily identifies you as a Hightower flows down your back, and big brown eyes that resemble his mother's look back at him, although contempt has replaced the unconditional adoration that typically resides there.

His worry sickens you. His existence is an annoyance like a pebble in your shoe. You've harbored this anger for too long, and simple distaste can quickly transform into hate.

"Where were you?" You ask, raising an eyebrow. He's not going to get out of this. He must face the consequences of his actions. You will not live in bitterness while he runs around doing as he pleases.

"Conducting some business for the King." Aemond tilts his head, observing your posture and the set of your eyebrows. There's an electricity around you that shoots warning signs at him.

"Where. Were. You?"

"I'm afraid it is none of your business," Aemond says with a sharp exhale. He steps away to avoid your glaring gaze, unbuckling his sheath and setting it on one of the many desks that litter his room.

"I didn't realize we were keeping secrets from each other." The goblet's thud on the table is as loud as your unspoken fury. Wine splashes on the map like blood will spill in battle.

"There are always secrets. I have them. You have them," Aemond answers, leaning back on the desk.

Your hands smooth down the fabric of your dress as you stand. Finding his calculating gaze, you say, "So that's what you call your whore over at the silk street? A secret? I thought her name was Sylvi?"

Aemond freezes, and his muscles tense. You can't possibly know. He's entirely still as if the action would stop time and give him a chance to come up with an explanation, a lie. "I do not know what you speak of," the hesitancy of his voice unveils the cruel truth.

"Spare me the lies, and do not treat me like a naive maiden, Aemond. You know how much I loathe being made a fool," you snap loudly.

Aemond takes three long strides to reach you. Reacting, you take a step back but have nowhere to go. He doesn't touch you, but Aemond towers over you as he glares back. "Who told you? Was it Aegon?" He hisses.

"Please," you scoff. "The maids talk, the guards talk, husband. It was only a matter of time. Did you think I'd never find out? Are you truly that dense, Aemond?"

Your glare is sharp enough to cut him. He fell in love with that look when directed at others, but now that it's looking straight at him, he finds it's the one thing he might hate most.

All people around him have looked at him like that at some point. Aegon. Daemon. Jacaerys. Alicent. All except for his sweet sister and you, his beloved wife.

That look alone makes him regret stepping into the brothel many moons ago.

You should've never found out about Sylvi. It was meant to be a fleeting moment, but the war takes a toll on everyone, including Aemond.

Alicent's disapproving attitude towards him after Lucerys' incident led him to the whore more times than he can count as he sought the comfort Alicent never gave him and he craved.

"What is it that whore gives you that I do not?" You maintain eye contact as your chest presses against his. Your stubbornness will not let you back away from this argument. You deserve an answer.

You thought you were a good wife. Because of you, Aemond has two sons. You provided male heirs, a nobleman's dream. You warmed his bed whenever he asked and even when he didn't. You confided in him. You chose him.

"Talk, damn it. Your scheming plans won't get you out of this one," you yell, slamming your fists on his chest. Picking a fight is the only thing you have left. You want to scream at him until your voice turns raw.

"There is nothing to say. She's a quick fuck; that's all she is," Aemond seamlessly lies, grabbing your thundering fists. His thumb rubs over the back of your hands, hoping the calming gesture will tame your anger.

"A quick fuck? I could've been queen if I tolerated Aegon's quick fucks. The option was right there, and I chose you because I stupidly believed you'd make a better husband," you scream as your cheeks turn an unbelievable shade of red.

"Wife, please," Aemond pleads as you remind him.

The choice to wed you was not his to make. It was entirely yours. Each night, he prayed you'd choose to marry him. A woman of incredible smarts and hypnotizing beauty deserved to be with a man who acknowledged those attributes, not a blundering man like Aegon, who would only use her for her body.

"Do not touch me," you spit, tearing your wrists from his grasp and pushing him back with all the muster you could gather. "How dare you try to touch me after you've laid with her? After you fucked her? You repulse me."

Tears threaten to spill from your eyes as you spew your words. Aemond stands there, taking it all of your fury—he deserves it. What you hate the most is that he does nothing to defend himself, as if all of your words are the maddening truth.

"It was not my intention to hurt you," Aemond swallows as tears fall down your cheeks.

"These tears do not stem from hurt. They are from humiliation. You embarrassed me, Aemond. Do you know how many hours I've spent praising you in front of the other ladies of the court, speaking about how perfect of a husband you've been these past two years?"

Your pride might be bigger than his, and he's done the worst thing he could ever do— wound it. Such a prideful woman will only forgive him if there's a good enough reason and with lots of begging.

At his silence, you push past him and reach for the door. "I've made my duty as your wife and given you two sons. Do not expect more from me. Go to your little whore and see if she'll perform the wifely duties you asked from me." With one more glance towards your husband, you slam the door.

It is no mystery why Aemond is in a mood from that night forward. Guards stand straighter with him around, Aegon's so-called friends keep quiet, and Criston Cole bears the brunt of it all as Aemond calls him to spar. Each passing day becomes more brutal.

You have stayed true to your word and kept your distance from Aemond. You've never felt as far away from him as when you sit by him during meals. You no longer place your hand on his thigh when Aegon throws jabs at him or smile his way when he says something worth admiring.

If you must address him regarding the children, you do so but with a straight face and without awaiting his answer. The Red Keep has turned grey as you no longer pull him through the halls between duties to find a dark corner to kiss or touch him. Fleeting moments he truly cherished.

He's losing you, and he doesn't know what to do to fix it. He's sure that you will never look at him the same if he comes clean with the truth. It will burn whatever thread is left of your marriage.

"Aemond, what's the matter?" Alicent asks. They're in her quarters discussing one of the many plans to prepare for war, and yet he's not paying attention.

"Nothing," he says softly, eyeing the map in front of him. We should send our men to the east."

Alicent tilts her head and sits across from him, studying him closely. "Is this about your wife?"

The glint the young Hightower carries is missing. Her constant search for Aemond throughout the day has ceased abruptly, startling Alicent and Helaena. She rarely mentions him, only speaking about him when asked, and even then, her words have bite.

Alicen believed her son could do no wrong regarding his wife. Aemond adored you. He pinned after you from the moment it was announced that you were searching for a husband.

Alicent was hesitant at first. Marrying inside the family was a queer Targaryen custom, not a Hightower one, yet Otto insisted. Another Hightower in the Red Keep meant more power. He pushed you to marry Aegon while Aemond asked Alicent to consider him instead. She left it in your hands. It was only fair that you made the choice of who you shared your life with.

Aemond is silent momentarily, "She's upset with me." His words are short as he avoids talking about the subject.

"What did you do?" Alicent sighs disappointedly, leaning back on her chair. Why must her sons ruin all good things in their lives?

Alicent's reaction causes him to close back up just as quickly. Yes, it is his fault, but his mother's lack of faith is disheartening. Once upon a time, Aemond would've confided in his mother, but recent events have severed that trust. "My marital problems are none of your concern."

"Then how am I to help you fix this?" She asks in a knowing tone. Alicent feels the weight of her house on her shoulders. She's responsible for keeping everything together.

"I don't recall asking for your help, mother." Aemond ignores her judging eyes, moving the metal pieces around the map. He was here to make war plans, not talk about his feelings.

"Very well," Alicent clears her throat, moving farther away from her son. The gods are punishing as each one of her children drift away from her.

Unlike Aemond's mother, you take your duty as a mother quite seriously. Your children are all you have, and you cherish them equally. You refused a wet nurse when you birthed your first, and when the second followed a year after, you proceeded to do the same.

Feeding them from your breast brings a wave of emotion that is impossible to describe. The bond that forms between mother and child is strengthened by this natural action. Why do the other ladies in court not do the same? All they do is gossip and indulge in the luxuries of the keep. They have no responsibilities other than to please their husbands and care for their children.

The loud cries of your youngest filter through the door and echo throughout the halls of the keep. The babe has been incessantly crying for the past hour for no reason. Feeding and changing his nappy did nothing to ease his discomfort, leaving you overwhelmed. Nonetheless, you continue to soothe your child because if you didn't, what kind of mother would you be?

You ignore Aemond as he steps into your chambers, bouncing the eleven-month-old in your arms. He must've followed the cries. "There, there, Baelor," you coo, placing your hand on the back of his head, brushing through the thin strands of pale silver hair.

The babe continues to sniffle and release weak cries. The poor thing is exhausted yet refuses to sleep. He hangs onto his mother's dress and hair, opening and closing his chubby fist.

Aemond approaches you, extending his hands to take him from you, "May I?"

You cannot refuse him. Baelor is his son, and while he seeks the pleasure of common whores you know he adores his sons.

Baelor is fuzzy and complains when he's taken away from your warm embrace, but he immediately settles in his father's hold when he recognizes him. The smell of Aemond's leather clothes offered him the comfort he was searching for.

Baelor missed his father.

"Clearly, you're his favorite," you murmur, settling down in the chaise that faces the fireplace. You're worse for wear. It's hard to find rest when questions remain unanswered, and you've lost the person you love most.

"Only till it's time to feed," Aemond says to lighten the mood between you.

You scoff, removing your jewelry and tossing it on the cushion beside you. "Great, I'm a glorified cow, only used to feed."

Aemond falters, his hold on his son tightening as he curls closer into Aemond's neck. Baelor's soft breaths tickle his neck. "That's not what I meant, wife."

You continue to stare into the fire as tears line your eyes. "I know," you whisper. It's been a difficult day.

Had you not been betrayed by Aemond, you would've sought his attention and spilled all the thoughts running through your mind so he could tell you you were being unreasonable.

He would reassure you that you're intelligent, beautiful, a wonderful mother, cunning, captivating, and a dream come to life.

You're punishing yourself. You decided to distance yourself, and came to the horrid realization that it is much harder than you bargained. You underestimated what three years of always being together would do to you.

Aemond catches on to your apprehension and puts a sleeping Baelor on the cradle the nursemaid left by your bed. He returns to your side and kneels on the floor right by your feet.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes for the first time since that night. It's been a long, difficult four weeks without you by his side. He misses all the little things you did for him.

All the check-ups throughout the day to make sure he's broken fast or slept well. Brushing his hair at night before he takes you to bed and shows you his gratitude. Your eyes meeting his across the room, suggesting he takes you elsewhere for a stolen private moment away from everyone else.

He misses you telling him about everything Baelor and Rhaegar got up to in the day and about every new milestone they hit, suggesting they are as healthy as they can be. He misses the late nights spent tangled together, talking about what the future holds for you both, the idea of having a baby girl for Rhaegar and Baelor to protect.

"What do you apologize for now?"

"For betraying your trust. I made an oath and broke it, and for that, I apologize. It is my biggest regret in life," Aemond says, reaching for your hand. "Please, forgive me."

"Then why do you continue to lie?" You whisper as a tear rolls down your cheeks.

"That's the only truth there is," Aemond whispers breathlessly. You give him a pitiful chuckle and tug your hand away from his despite wanting to hold onto it forever.

Your nose burns as more tears spill from your eyes. Insecurity wrapping you in its arms. "Please, do not lie. Why do you want me to believe you went to the brothel for a fleeting pleasure when I have always been here? Am I not good enough for you?"

Your anger has simmered down to a smoky sadness that envelops you. Aemond is lying to you when you're the person he's supposed to trust the most. If there is a chance of rebuilding this marriage, he must tell you the truth, even if it ruins you.

"Gods, you are everything I wanted and more, my sweet wife," Aemond speaks, cupping your face to wipe away your salty tears.

He's at a loss. He's hurt you, but the pain can be remedied if he speaks the truth. How can he allow you to believe you're not enough when you're the perfect woman. His endeavors in the street of silk stem from his own damaged soul, never yours.

"I am afraid," Aemond confesses, brushing one last tear with the pad of his thumb before he retreats his hands. You stare back at him, puzzled. "It is not what you believe. I have not laid with another woman since I married you."

"Then what is it, Aemond? Because my mind has conjured up the worst of scenarios."

"You will not think of me the same," he says, ashamed, hanging his head to avoid your hurt gaze.

"Is that such a bad thing?" You ask aloud, and without awaiting his response, you continue to speak, "Until you work up the courage to tell me the truth, things will remain the same. No matter how much it hurts."

Standing, you leave Aemond kneeling on the floor to prepare for sleep. You glance over your shoulder and watch Aemond stare deep into the fire. When you step out of the privacy screen, he's gone.

It takes another week of agony for Aemond to come to a decision. He cannot bear having you so close yet so far away. He misses you and greatly underestimates how much happier you make him.

He hasn't been to the brothel since the night you confronted him. He barely spares it a thought nowadays. You are the only person wreaking havoc in his head.

He fucked up his marriage, and now he has to pay his dues, even if it means coming clean about his intentions with Sylvi. It was barely sexual, he hasn't fucked her since he married you, but he couldn't let go of the comfort she provided, and Alicent withdrew.

He's smart enough to know it's a farce. The women in the brothel will do just about anything if it means they are paid. But Aemond deluded himself into believing Sylvi cared about what he had to say and told her things he hadn't spoken to anyone else. She played the part well, giving advice freely and reassuring him with soft touches and softer words.

When the guard opens the door to Aemond's chambers, allowing you to enter, he instantly stands, approaching you to ask for your hand and kiss the back of it.

You raise an eyebrow at him but allow him nonetheless. The press of his lips to your skin sends a spark up your arm and down your spine.

"Wife," he greets, guiding you to sit.

"Aemond," you reply, not quite giving in to his sweet actions. Aemond summoned you with the promise of the truth. That is why you're here.

"How does the day find you?"

"Aemond, please," you plead. You came for the truth, and niceties won't do anything to soften the brunt of his words. Prolonging this won't help anyone.

"Very well," Aemond sighs, gesturing you to sit. His hands remain on his lap where he opens and closes them anxiously. "I met her when I was three and ten. Aegon forced me to the brothel because he thought it was time I…became a man."

You dare not speak as Aemond justifies his actions. You need to know the truth before your nerves consume you.

This is the tricky part of his story. After a brief pause, he clears his throat and continues, "She was far older than I was and offered something I lacked in the Keep. Comfort, solace, familiarity, whatever you want to call it. I continued to visit her throughout my youth, although it wasn't always to find release rather than someone to listen and give me what my mother never could."

Aemond avoids looking at you, afraid of what he might find written on your face. Perhaps disgust, shame, or disapproval.

He owed you the truth, so he spoke about all the details of this affair. How he liked the intimacy of lying naked with Sylvi, suckling at her breast. How she would hold him in her arms and touch him. The advice she would offer. The things they spoke about. How he rejects her when she makes any advances, thinking that's what he wants. He admits that he is completely vulnerable and free for those hours because she will have his side no matter what he says.

"Do you have feelings for her?" Your voice is barely above a whisper. It's terrifying to think he might harbor feelings for her. Such intimate acts easily allow feelings to infiltrate one's being. "Aemond, look at me."

Hesitantly, Aemond meets your eyes. Your face is blank, devoid of emotion that may indicate what you now think of him.

"No, and I never will," Aemond says, swallowing the lump in his throat. He chooses his words carefully, "She was an escape, someone to listen to the tragedy that was my life. She knew what I wanted and gave it unsolicited. I know it is not real, wife, but I was foolish enough to seek more."

The emotion that surfaces in your face is not directed at him; instead, it reflects the insecurities you have about yourself. "Did you not think I could give you what she did and actually mean it?"

Insecurities of his own rise up and make themselves shown, "I thought you would see me as a weaker man."

You're both so young with so much to learn, yet if there is one thing you're certain about, it's the love you share. That love would never make you see Aemond as weak; it would transform that quality he refers to as weak into something totally different and positive.

"You are not weak but a fool," you shake your head, reaching for him. It is your turn to cup his face to force him to focus only on you. "I know of those feelings you hide firmly, Aemond. I spent most of my childhood here in King's Landing. I watched while Aegon and the Strong boys teased you. I was here when you returned from Driftmark without an eye. I heard your cries of pain. You come off as this stoic man to everyone else, the fierce Aemond, but I know the real you."

"I am ashamed." Aemond is truthful. No more lies weight his beating heart.

"Do you swear to never look for her again? That you will come to me instead?"

"I swear it by the old gods and the new. I swear it by the seven. I swear it by my life," Aemond promises. "Will you return to me, wife?" He asks hopefully, placing his hands over yours, afraid your touch will leave him.

"Yes, husband," you nod, pressing your forehead against his.

Your lips find his as the last word you speak is uttered. It's been far too long, and his dragon blood is calling for you. Aemond is quick to react, moving his lips desperately against yours and pulling you to his lap.

He comes to you late at night once there are no more council calls or responsibilities to tend to. It's around that time when he has nothing to busy himself with, and the ache in his chest makes itself known.

It's a constant reminder that he is far from invincible. Pain and hurt live within him, ready to resurface at the most unexpected times.

"Husband." You greet him with a bright smile when he steps into your chambers.

"Wife," he speaks quietly, standing uncomfortably by your door. While he's agreed to come to you in his times of need, Aemond is unsure how to approach the situation.

"What is the matter?" A pout adorns your lips as you walk over to him. It's genuine concern.

Aemond stiffens when you approach him, tilting your head to assess him. You wrap your arms around his waist, searching for his gaze.

"Aemond?" You call to him softly.

"Please," he whispers with shaking hands that he places on your hips. The expensive material of your night shift is soft against his palms.

The tone of his voice and the reserved behavior tell you what he's asking for. You nod wordlessly and grab his hand, guiding him to your bed.

This is unlike those moments when passion takes over and desperate need forces you to tug and tear his clothes away. With patience and delicate fingers, you calmly help him undress.

Unbuckling the clasps of his leather doublet, you slide it down his arms and throw it to the side. The tunic that covers his chest comes off next, exposing the strong panels of his abdomen and the ropes of muscle of his arms. All a result of his extensive training.

Featherlight touches to his skin make his breath hitch as they slide down to his breeches, where you agilely untie the laces. You don't meet his eyes as you do so, giving him some resemblance of modesty, but Aemond watches intently how you treat him with such care.

You gently push him to sit on the bed, where you kneel to take off his boots and socks. Aemond allows his breeches to fall to the ground, leaving him completely naked, except for the eyepatch he wears like armor.

It protects him from the disgusted expressions people shoot him with because of the deformity he acquired as a child.

It never stops hurting.

You've never been repulsed by his missing eye. On the contrary, you're fascinated by the scar and the sapphire embedded in the empty socket.

Reaching around his head, you unclasp the leather and place the eyepatch with the rest of his clothing. You offer him a delicate smile while placing your hand on his cheek, and he leans into it.

Your touch on his raised scar eases the pain.

Withdrawing from him, you tug in the lacing of your night shift and shrug it off your shoulders to uncover your body. You had promised to offer him the same care she did in that wretched place.

The bed is covered by pillows and blankets to protect you from the cold of the incoming winter, and you mentally thank the maids for preparing the fire before they left you to rest. You lie over the furs, extending your hand towards Aemond to welcome him in.

Aemond's timidness is present, but he pushes it to the side as he climbs onto the bed and settles across your lap. Your skin is soft and warm against his, and your soft curves, molded to accommodate his children, bring him comfort.

As you brush through his hair with your fingers, you gently untie the band holding half of his hair up. You massage the silver tresses, his scalp prickling from the release of tension. He hums quietly, enjoying the feeling of your fingers on his hair.

"What troubles you, my Prince?" You finally ask.

Aemond's head rests on your shoulder, his breath hitting your collarbones. One of your hands rests upon his back, drawing figures across the expanse of it, feeling every bump and curve of his spine and muscles. The other grasps his hand, pulling it to your lips to press a reassuring kiss to the palm of it.

"That title. Prince." He murmurs sadly, taking a deep breath.

That familiar scent of oils invades his senses. It's a smell he remembers from his childhood when Alicent still cared for him. In turn, his body relaxes, and he closes his eyes momentarily.

"It is a stepping stone in the hierarchy," you reply, recognizing what he implies. Aegon does not have what it takes to rule a kingdom, while Aemond years to sit on the throne.

Aemond reaches up to grasp at a strand of copper hair. The same shade as his mothers. He twists it around his finger while shifting to make himself more comfortable. "I thought all of my achievements would be more fruitful," he ponders.

It seems that ruling a kingdom falls on the eldest male heir, even if they are not fit to rule. Aegon sits on the throne, yet the rest of the council rules on his behalf. This puts the Targaryen name to shame; the fool barely speaks High Valyrian.

"Patience is key. Aegon shows no signs of changing. He will be his own downfall," you respond thoughtfully. You hate thinking about Aegon in such a way, but it's the truth. He wants to prove himself so badly but goes about it all the wrong way.

Copper hair leads to naked skin the same shade as his mother's, and for once, he can imagine himself in his mother's embrace. It brings tears to his eyes as he curls further into you, and his nose brushes against your skin.

With the pillows propping you up and Aemond curled on your lap, you press a kiss to the crown of his head. Your touch runs all over his skin, from his face to his feet.

Aemond continues to speak his mind, and you offer the perfect responses to his dilemmas, calming him when his emotions get the best of him and tears spill from his eyes.

He should've come to you sooner. You're a high-born lady who knows much more about life in court. There were always warning signs with Sylvi. She tried to manipulate him into thinking about the common folk and their ailments more than once. She would never understand that while House Targaryen is at war, there is no space to think about the well-being of its subordinates.

When silence ensues, Aemond allows himself to look up at you. You're serene as you hold him close to your body without an ounce of impatience. The resemblance to his mother is there, but he got something much better.

He got a woman who loves him unconditionally, flaws and all.

Lacing his fingers with yours, Aemond closes his eyes and melts further into your touch. You hug him close and whisper your affections. This is how it was always meant to be.

That night, Aemond sleeps in your chambers. It would be wrong for him to leave after you've treated him with such tenderness. You are no simple whore from the street of silk. You are his wife, and as such, you are meant to be treated with utmost respect. Something he had failed to do but no more.

Breathy whines, wake him before the sun rises. Recognizing your voice, he wakes, looking at his surroundings for any danger. When you whine once more, he glances over at you.

You squirm in your sleep, seemingly uncomfortable. Something bothers you, but your exhaustion prevents you from waking. One of your hands reaches for your chest, and another whine spills from your lips.

Aemond's eye is drawn to the action. He reaches for the sheet covering your body and pulls on it to find the cause of your discomfort. His breath hitches, and his cock aches.

Your breasts are swollen and tender from being filled to their capacity, causing beads of milk to leak from the stiff peaks of your nipples.

Aemond briefly remembers you mentioning how Baelor has been fuzzy lately, and Rhaegar is getting older and doesn't seek you as often for food, yet you continue to produce copious amounts of milk. He has been blessed with a perfect wife and an excellent mother who produces enough sustenance for his children.

Aemond's pointer finger traces a path down your neck to your left breast. They are calling to him as his finger follows the curve of your breast up to your puffy areola and tip of your nipple. A slight press to the taught skin prompts more fluid to leak down your sides, and you hiss in discomfort.

Bringing his finger up to his lips, he licks the whitish liquid. Perhaps it's a mistake, as he's left wanting more. Aemond uncovers the top half of your naked body and leans over your chest. With one look towards your beautiful face, he wraps his lips around the plush flesh of your breast.A surge of liquid fills his mouth.

You have the sweetest milk he has ever had the pleasure of tasting. Aemond moans at the saccharine taste. It is so much better than the farce he had in the brothel. This milk comes from his wife, who nurtures his healthy sons.

A loud, sultry moan spills from your lips as some of the pressure is alleviated. You're now between sleep and awareness. Your hand cradling the back of Aemond's head.

Aemond's cock is painfully hard as it presses against your thigh. He's been driven into a frenzy, your milk serving as an aphrodisiac. His hand brushes against your inner thigh to answer a rising question.

Careful fingers find your wet slit, proving his theory right. He's not the only depraved person in the room. Your body is responsive to him even in altered states of consciousness.

Your cunt is absolutely drenched, making it so easy for Aemond to push a finger in. It's enough to fully wake you from your slumber. "Ah, Aemond." You throw your head back in pleasure.

It takes you a second to take in the entirety of Aemond's actions. The pleasure coursing through you, overwhelming your senses. A loud moan tears through your throat at the realization that Aemond is not simply teasing your breasts. Aemond feasts on your aching tits.

"Have your fill, my prince," you beg as that ache in your chest is pleasingly soothed.

Aemond is eager and rough. The light stubble of his jaw sends a current of electricity down to your cunt where you clench around his fingers.

"My Aemond, good boy." He responds to the praise why sliding another finger into your tight cunny. The slick sound of your arousal accompanies the suckling of his lips.

You squeeze your other breast to alleviate the tightening discomfort and drops fall on your hand. Drawn to it, Aemond switches, and you squeal as his teeth scrape the sensitive skin of your nipple.

Aemond ruts into your thigh as he quickens the pace of his fingers intruding on your cunny to part through your walls. The vibration of his quiet moans stimulates your swollen peaks.

If this is not heaven, he doesn't wish for it.

Your fingers tangle in his silver hair when you arch your back to offer yourself to him. His eye meets your hooded gaze and sets himself to give you whatever you please. His thumb circles your pearl expertly, and he curls his digits to hit your spot more firmly.

You cry in pleasure with your hips, riding his fingers until you come with a shudder and his name on your lips. Your walls clamp down on his fingers hard enough it is hard for him to retrieve them.

Aemond rises from your chest and pinches your cheeks with his fingers that remain coated with your slick, prompting your mouth to open. A stream of your milk falls from his mouth to yours as he gives you a sweet taste.

You believe another orgasm rips through your body as his lips press against yours to share a sweet tasting kiss. His tongue invades your mouth, allowing you the pleasure of tasting yourself on his tongue.

"Please," you beg for him, spreading your legs wantonly.

One to indulge his wife in all pleasures, Aemond pulls you on top of him, "Take what you desire."

His cock is fully erect and begging for attention. The tip is swollen and flushed a deep pink as it leaks pre that beads down his shaft.

Aemond acknowledges you've reached your limit when his beautiful wife, who adores worshipping his cock on her knees, grabs his length and sinks onto him without a preamble.

"Go on, my love, you can take it," Aemond hisses as you try to lower yourself to take all of him. His hands grip your hips tightly, urging you on. He swears your walls continue to contract from your previous peak.

"Aemond, husband," you moan lewdly. Your hips tentatively begin bouncing on him, and your tits follow to Aemond's delight.

He's mesmerized by them and how they continue to leak. Aemond mouths one more aggressively, teasing your nipple with his tongue, nipping at the surrounding flesh to leave his mark. His hand massages the other, allowing droplets to fall down your abdomen and onto your cunt.

"My perfect wife, such a good mother," Aemond mutters, praising you, "Pretty tits always full and her cunny always wet."

You hold onto Aemond's strong shoulders, your nails leaving marks across his back. Your hips grind on him deliciously as your clit rubs against his pelvis.

"Aemond, please," you beg, quickening your pace. You're on the verge of yet another delicious peak. "I want another." You'll have as many as he wants as long as he treats you with this much attention.

Aemond kisses up your neck and growls in your ear, "I shall give you as many as you'd like."

Swiftly, he turns you so your back is to the bed. He hikes your thighs up around his waist and snaps his hips fiercely. You first the bedsheets around you as Aemond holds bruisingly against your hips and thighs.

He's close to his own peak as well. Aemond manages to hold back because of all the attention he's giving your tits, but his cock cannot take anymore, especially with how deliciously your walls wrap around him.

Aemond admires his perfect wife. Your hair fans out on the pillows, and your facial expression morphs into one of pure ecstasy as you come once more. Your breasts are less swollen, but your stiff peaks remain puffy and flushed from his attention. Your cunt chokes his cock, knowing exactly what it takes to please him.

His rhythmic thrusting begins to falter, so with a couple more jerks of his hips and a groan, he paints your insides white. "There we go, all for you."

"Thank you," you lilt, biting your lip at the sensation of being filled.

You giggle when he leans down to kiss all over your face, a laugh of his own reaching your ears.

The door creaking open wakes you up, bringing the sheets to your chest, you sit up. Aemond lets the bedsheet fall to his lap, ready to scold whoever dares interrupt his time with his wife.

A small blonde head peaks in, and a big grin unleashes on its lips when he sees his parents. Young Rhaegar toddles into the room, and his head is barely seen as he stands on the edge of the bed. His tiny hands try to grasp the edge, but he's still too small to get himself up.

Aemond reaches over to bring him up, pressing a kiss on his head, but Rhaegar happily crawls over Aemond and falls into your waiting arms.

Aemond's exposed sapphire earns no reaction. In fact, the eyepatch tends to catch his son's attention more. Aemond ensured that when his sons came into this world, he would greet them as he truly is.

You pepper kisses all over Rhaegar's face, and he giggles, squirming on your lap. While Baelor favored his father, Rhaegar was entirely yours. "What are you doing here, little dragon?" You ask him sweetly.

The nursemaid stepping through the open door answers your question, "Prince Aemond, Lady Hightower. My apologies, he scurried away before I could-"

"It is alright. You may leave us," Aemond says, waving his hand to dismiss her. The young girl bows her head, hiding her blushing cheeks, and scurries away without saying another word, aware of the compromising position of the Prince and his wife.

"My sweetest, why are you up so early?" You coo, threading your fingers through his messy hair that sticks up in all directions.

Rhaegar hides his face on your chest, mumbling, "Missed you."

You gasp dramatically, facing the young boy with a surprised expression. "You missed me? I missed you!" Your son laughs and presses a wet kiss to your cheek.

"What about me, little dragon?" Aemond asks, tickling his belly.

Rhaegar cutely shakes his head with a mischievous smile, squealing loudly when Aemond reaches for him and takes him into his own arms to tickle him.

"Mama!" Rhaegar's childlike laugh pierces the air as he asks for your help.

"You're going to get me in trouble," Aemond grumbles, playfully glaring at his son as he continues to tickle him.

"Mama!" Rhaegar repeats, pushing Aemond's hands away and waiting for you to scold Aemond or something.

You watch the interaction with a wide smile. It's nice to see Aemond this calm. "Give me back, my little dragon, or there are no more kisses for you," you threaten Aemond with a furrow of your eyebrows and a pout. Aemond abruptly stops and loosens his hold on the toddler.

Rhaegar laughs and throws himself in your arms, hugging your neck. His giggles never cease. Aemond winks at you and pulls you to lie on his chest.

"How about we go see Vhagar later?" Aemond asks Rhaegar who calmed down to a drowsy state. It's still very early for him to have been up. He must've had a bad dream.

"Sunfyre?" Rhaegar gasps, looking up at his father. Aemond rolls his eyes and nods. He guesses he can invite Aegon so his son can see the golden dragon.

"That's your favorite, isn't it?" You ask him amusedly, although you agree. Sunfyre is a beautiful dragon and much friendlier than Vhagar.

Rhaegar nods enthusiastically as he babbles about the pretty dragon. You lay with your back to Aemond's chest as he envelops you both with his arms.

At that moment, Aemond realizes he feels fulfilled with his little family by his side.

it was not part of the plan to let this oneshot be this long. there is something about the complexity of aemond's character that doesn't let me write something brief.

nonetheless this was a super fun oneshot to write. it took me the whole week because i was so busy but i had been thinking about it nonstop. i think i overdid it with the lactation part but oh well!

if you enjoyed this oneshot please don’t forget to like or comment (i accept aemond's sapphire, rhaenyra's crown, criston cole slander, emojis, words of encouragement, a lot of praise, virtual hugs and gushing about sunfyre and aegon) and if you want more of it feel free to let me know!

-nikki 🖤

[daisjohnsons]

QUEEN RHAENYRA TARGAYREN

House of the Dragon | 2.08 "The Queen Who Ever Was"

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (28)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: mention of masturbation, public dirty talk, sexual tension, smut, angst, swearing ]

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

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

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

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

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Even though he had expected nothing else, his wife's reaction completely devastated him anyway − her words cut through him like daggers, showing him his own face in the light of the truth.

What should I do now?

Divorce you?

Not speak to you for eight years?

He didn't know what he should answer.

The realisation that he was constantly searching for fault in her because he felt guilty himself, that he was accusing her of betrayal because he had betrayed her himself, caused him to no longer know who he was anymore. He felt so lost and heartbroken that he had simply burst out crying in front of her like a child scolded by a parent.

He just wanted her to forgive him.

When she told him what Alys had seen in her dream and informed him of her conditions, even though he was dying at the thought of spending even one more day in this fortress, he sat down at her oak desk the next morning to write a letter to his brother-king.

My King, our half-sister has agreed to our terms, however, she makes her own demands. I have decided, in order to alleviate the situation, to travel with my wife to Dragonstone, where we are currently staying. We want to try to convince them to change their minds − one order from you is enough for me to return to King's Landing. Your loyal brother

His niece was furious with him − he had never seen her like this before and preferred not to address her at all when she spoke to him knowing that he would only make matters worse. He hoped that his conciliatory attitude and the fact that he had fulfilled her wish would make her calm down.

The thought that he wasn't her prisoner didn't comfort him, because he felt like one anyway.

Wherever he went he might encounter someone he didn't feel like looking at, so he preferred to stay in her chamber and bear it somehow.

As soon as she had left her quarters he rose from his chair and began to walk around her room, looking at the various objects on the shelves and bookcases − he looked through the books she was reading, finding with satisfaction that most of them were also in his possession in King's Landing.

He spotted her embroideries in one of the drawers, including those he remembered well from his childhood, and smiled involuntarily at the thought, wondering if she had kept them for the sake of memories.

He shuddered as the door to the chamber opened suddenly and he slid the drawer back in, turning with a rapidly beating heart − Daemon stood with his hands folded behind him, sighing heavily.

"− come, nephew − we must discuss many important matters −" He said with a kind of boredom, as if what he was speaking of was a duty he had no desire to perform at all.

"− I will not go anywhere with you, uncle − I am quite comfortable here −" He said lowly, looking away, frustrated.

Why did he always feel like a little child in his presence?

Daemon chuckled at his question.

"− it wasn't a request − come, let's have a walk −" He encouraged him in a ferocious, mocking tone from which he felt rage and a clench in his stomach.

He knew he couldn't refuse.

Daemon led him out of the fortress through one of the side entrances − he checked a few times before the sound of the sea surrounded them that the dagger he always carried with him was strapped to his belt.

They stepped out onto a gigantic white beach seeming to stretch on endlessly to him, with only the water to their left and high rising rocks and mountains to their right.

They were completely alone.

His uncle finally stopped and turned to him, looking at him for a moment without a word.

"− why did you suggest you spend the night in Dragonstone? −"

He licked his lips, feeling his heart stop at his question.

"− that was her wish −"

"− don't fucking lie to me or I will pierce your skull with my sword −"

He looked at him in disbelief, his jaw clenched so tight he felt like it was going to burst, his fingers involuntarily tightening into fists.

Silence fell again, the sound of the waves around them, their hair and tunics blowing in the wind.

It seemed to him that his uncle's gaze was piercing him to the core.

"− Larys Strong had his own plans for you − I couldn't let that happen −" He muttered at last.

"− does she know about this? −" He asked coldly.

He swallowed hard at the thought that he was referring to his wife.

"− yes −"

"− did you tell her before or after we came here? −"

He lowered his gaze already knowing what he was leading up to, he felt like his whole body was quivering.

"− after −"

Daemon snorted in annoyance, shaking his head as he looked out at the sea stretching before them.

"− you fucking cunt − I was supposed to personally deal with his rats overdue in the Eyrie, but you ruined my plan − though surely that's good for you −" He confessed looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

He felt a powerful, cold shiver run along his back at the thought that he knew everything.

He knew that they were about to be murdered.

And Rheanyra?

Seeing that he couldn't force out the question that was pressing on his lips his uncle laughed out loud.

"− the rider of the world's greatest dragon since Balerion's passing is unable to get a word out − shame has taken away your speech? − where is your pride that you always boasted so much? −" He continued, provoking him to explode, his heart pounding like mad.

What should he do?

How should he behave?

"− you are exactly as I assumed − you are still a boy who has lost an eye and who is waiting for his betrothed to come to comfort him − you are like a stone, unable to move on − my daughter has sacrificed everything for you, and you stand before me like some fool −"

"− what do you want from me, uncle? −"

"− no − what do YOU want − are you able to name it in your head, or are you like a child in a fog without your mother? −" He asked in a raised voice, frustrated, making him feel a hot wave of humiliation flowing through his body.

"− I want her to be safe −"

"− what happened in King's Landing? −"

"− I −"

"− fucking speak − and you'd better say the truth −"

"− your spies in the Red Keep didn't report it to you? −" He hissed, his uncle taking a step towards him, looking him straight in the eye.

"− you're trying my patience −"

He pressed his lips together feeling his heart rise to his throat, cold sweat running down his back.

"− my mother gave her moon tea without my knowledge − she wanted to be able to pact with you and give her to Lord Arryn's son −" He said dispassionately feeling, however, that his voice trembled. Daemon looked at him wordlessly.

"− and what have you done to punish those who wronged my daughter, and your wife? −"

He looked at him feeling his whole body freeze.

"− what would you have done to her if she had been the one to fail your trust? − if she tried to fight for her freedom, if she stood up to you and threatened your mother? −" He asked, stabbing his words into him like daggers.

He didn't know the answers to these questions.

He never wanted to ask himself them.

"− I did everything I could − she is my mother − you would expect the same from your daughter yourself −"

"− and yet she was the one who came to beg her own mother to surrender her claim to the crown when yours was encouraging your brother to steal the throne that never belonged to him − gods, Viserys has taught you nothing, has he? − you see nothing but your mother's skirt to which you have always been clung −" He muttered with some kind of disgust from which he felt a cold, unpleasant shiver and discomfort in his stomach.

"− I regret − I regret that, seeing this, seeing Viserys fail you, seeing Otto make you his pawn, I was not a fatherly figure for you to follow − I did not, though it was my duty −"

He looked at him in disbelief, feeling with horror the burning under his eyelids. He laughed and shook his head, wishing he could somehow control what was happening to him − he hid his hands behind his back feeling how much they were trembling.

"− are you remorseful, uncle? − do you see that you yourself also contributed to the division of our family into two separate parts? −" He asked with mockery and regret in his voice feeling that he was weak.

What had happened in the last few days had completely destroyed him.

"− I want to hear the truth and I will ask for the last time − what do you want? −" His uncle asked with emphasis on the last sentence.

He shuddered, realising that deep down he knew what the answer was.

He always knew.

"− I wish it was all over − I wish I could take her to Essos, as I promised her − I am tired, uncle − I have been tired all my life − I only rest when she is by my side −"

Daemon looked at him for a long moment and let out a loud breath, looking out to sea. They stood like that, not speaking to each other.

"− is there anything else you have hidden from her? −" He asked coldly, and he felt a squeeze in his throat at the memory of the Witch of Harrenhal's words.

You will betray her at the moment she trusts you the most.

You will achieve victory, but she will never let you touch herself again.

You will put your child inside me, your bastard son, who will rule Harrenhal after our death.

He raised his eyes to his uncle and met his gaze, proud and distrustful, his heart pounding like mad in his chest.

"− I −"

"− speak −"

"− there is − there is a woman in Harrenhal, called by some a witch − she came to me last morning and −"

"− did you take her to your bed? −"

His voice stuck in his throat at his question, so he shook his head quickly, horrified.

"− no, but she said − she prophesied to me that this would happen − that − that I would put my child inside her −" He muttered, feeling with what difficulty those words left his mouth. Daemon raised his eyebrows in disbelief and rolled his eyes.

"− and? − if she said so, now there's nothing left for you to do but put your cock inside her? − don't make me laugh −" He sneered, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"− she can predict the future − I −"

"− are you listening to me, or have you not only gone blind but deaf? − if she told you that you would run away with her to Essos and beget twenty children with her would you believe her too? − she told you exactly what she wanted to happen − she hopes to still use you in the future by doing so, and you reflecting on her words are doing exactly what she wants − I don't know any man who would put his cock into a woman by accident or by fate − pull yourself together −" He said impatiently, causing a warm wave of embarrassment to surge through him.

He thought he really was a fool.

How could he have believed her with such ease?

Though he didn't want to admit it to himself, his words brought him relief.

"− do you have anything else to convey to me? − this is your last chance −" He asked coldly, and he shook his head.

"− very well − I'm glad we've got it behind us − you may leave −" He said dryly; he pressed his lips together at his words and simply walked away, swallowing his dignity and pride.

As he stepped into his wife's chamber he noticed her seated figure out of the corner of his eye, but he did not say a word to her − he felt humiliated and tired and did not feel like making conversation.

He also recognised that she certainly still hadn't forgiven him, so they might as well keep quiet.

He therefore sat down with one of her books by the fire, trying to concentrate on what he saw before him and not on his uncle's words.

I regret that, seeing this, seeing Viserys fail you, seeing Otto make you his pawn, I was not a fatherly figure for you to follow.

Though some part of him did not want to admit it, he knew that subconsciously he had been waiting for those words, for any praise or appreciation from him, the Rouge Prince himself, the greatest warrior and dragon rider he had seen in his lifetime.

So why did he feel so bad about what he had said to him?

You are still a boy who has lost an eye and who is waiting for his betrothed to come to comfort him.

My daughter has sacrificed everything for you, and you stand before me like some fool.

He swallowed hard, knowing that there was partly truth in his words.

For some reason though he wanted to, he couldn't completely free himself from the past and move on.

"− Jace kissed me − on the lips −"

He lifted his gaze to her from his book thinking he had overheard himself. He felt a wave of anger and disbelief surge through his body when he noticed in her gaze that she wasn't mocking him.

She meant it.

"− he did WHAT? −" He growled, getting up from his seat, throwing his book on the table and leaving immediately thinking he was going to kill this fucking bastard with his own hands.

When he finally walked into the right chamber he breathed heavily and grinned, feeling as if all the frustration, the things that had been happening to him after his conversation with his wife and uncle were going to find release at this very moment.

Jace stood up from his chair, pale at the sight of him, clearly knowing exactly what awaited him.

"− haven't you learned yet not to take what's not yours? − hm? −" He murmured teasingly, feeling the presence of his niece beside him, the scent of vanilla filling his lungs again.

"− Aemond −"

"− your sister when we were children told me that she never desired you as a man − she knew even then that you were a cunt −" He sneered, cocking his head to the side, resting his weight on his right leg, watching curiously as his nephew turned all red with embarrassment.

"− Aemond, that's enough −"

"− how dare you? − you are a guest under our roof − get out −" Baela growled, his smile widening even more at the sight of her, her lips tightening into a thin line.

He thought he would love to hit her in the face again before he remembered that she was a woman.

What a pity.

His wife appeared suddenly in front of him, looking at him warningly.

"− we are leaving −"

He felt like laughing at her words.

Her brothers were getting away with far too many things.

"− no − I'm speaking with my nephew −" He said sweetly, looking his nephew straight in the eye thinking with amusement that this time would be different.

"− we are leaving, uncle, or I swear I will never return with you to King's Landing −"

"− so I'll stay here with you − Jace as ruler of Dragonstone will surely be delighted to host us, won't he? − he seems to have a weakness for you, sweet wife −" He muttered in a voice filled with challenge and poison seeing that Baela looked at her betrothed in disbelief.

Always pretending to be so righteous, so wronged.

He was nothing more than a pathetic brat who was once again reaching for what didn't belong to him.

"− Jace, say something at last! −" Baela thundered, clearly wanting Jace to stop being a scared cunt, which unfortunately he was unable to do.

He could feel his own heart pounding fast, his hands clenched into fists, his breathing quick and deep.

He was ready to attack him, he was ready to rip him to shreds.

Some part of him wanted to do it.

A fucking would-be King.

You'll never sit on the throne − he thought with satisfaction − and in my wife's eyes you were never a man she could desire.

"− I made a mistake − I shouldn't have done it, forgive me − I −" He mumbled in horror as he looked at his niece with pleading eyes.

Did he really think that he would let him hide behind her skirt like a coward?

That he would allow him to escape the consequences of his foolishness again?

"− you made a mistake? − I seem to be able to understand the feeling − I have made a similar one many times, as well as others, even worse ones −" He hissed grabbing her cheeks, heard her draw in a loud breath, shocked, as his lips pressed against hers in a hot, aggressive kiss − she moaned quietly as his slick tongue forced its way deep into her throat with his low sigh of delight.

He pulled away and met her simultaneously terrified, enraged and thirsty gaze − she only mewled when he turned her with a confident tug with her back against him and pressed her figure against his chest, gripping her neck with one hand, the other sliding down her lower abdomen.

He involuntarily licked his lower lip when he felt her fingers tighten on his wrist trying to stop him from doing what he wanted to do, her mouth parted in disbelief.

"− so beautiful, isn't she, nephew? − I couldn't help myself either − I can't count how many times I took her − how many times I have filled her with my seed − right here −" He breathed out, not really understanding himself what he was actually doing, focusing more on her than on them as he dug his fingertips into her womanhood lying beneath the material of her gown.

Her head was tilted back, her thighs clenched, her lips struggling to hold back the moan from which his erection slapped impatiently against her buttocks in his breeches.

He thought he will fuck her with his fingers in front of his eyes.

"− u-uncle − stop −"

In fact, he had to stop when Daemon walked into the chamber − the ashamed, horrified expression on Jace's face who couldn't even look at them and the accusing look his betrothed turned towards him was reward enough for him.

He wanted to watch his world, everything he desired burn and fall apart in his hands.

He wanted him to know what it felt like.

He knew his wife enough to know that her rage was mixed halfway with the desire and tension he himself felt. He wanted to respect her request not to take her and break it at the same time, feeling that he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, so he did something that stopped halfway between both, coming with a sigh of relief on the material of her nightgown when he heard her moans of sweet fulfilment.

He wanted nothing more after this than to lock her in his arms and fall asleep.

"− let me embrace you −" He muttered.

"− no −" Her frustrated, trembling voice answered him.

He huffed loudly, heartbroken, at the same time understanding her and longing to take refuge again in the warmth that the closeness of her body gave him. In a gesture of desperation, he simply pressed his face against her neck, taking in her scent.

"− move away, uncle −"

"− I inhale the wonderful scent of vanilla after having experienced fulfilment with my wife −"

"− your wife does not wish for this −"

"− sleep −"

He heard her sigh heavily, annoyed, but said nothing more. When he finally felt she had fallen asleep, his hand slowly touched her waist and slid to other side, taking its place on her warm lower abdomen.

"− no −" He heard her quiet, unclear mumble, her body stirring in his embrace.

"− shhh − let me −" He whispered in her ear, his lips placing a soft, warm kiss on her cheek.

"− mhm −" She muttered, twisting towards him immersed in a deep sleep − he sighed heavily as her body involuntarily clung to his, her face sinking into the hollow of his neck.

He swallowed hard, feeling the squeeze in his heart and the tears under his eyelids that, one by one, began to run down his cheeks as his hands wove through her hair and the material of her nightgown at her back, pressing her close to his body.

He thought that for some reason during the nights he spent with her he was most vulnerable and weak, her presence, the warmth of her flesh, her closeness made him feel as if something was melting inside him, not allowing him to pretend that Daemon's words had not hurt him.

Despite repeating to himself that his uncle's words meant nothing to him, as a child he had looked up to him, dreaming of being like him − fearless, ironic, intelligent, confident, proud of his family and his heritage.

I regret that, seeing this, seeing Viserys fail you, seeing Otto make you his pawn, I was not a fatherly figure for you to follow.

He pressed his lips together at that thought, at his words, which cut into his heart like a sword, because although he had tried to find his pattern of masculinity in his father, in his older brother, in his grandfather, in Ser Criston, it was his uncle that his gaze had always followed, it was his uncle's reaction that he looked at when he and his father watched them duel.

He never heard a single warm word from his lips.

The fact that he was his mother's son had crossed him out in his eyes, and he had no intention of apologising for anything.

So what was he to do with his words?

That he did not know − nor did he know what purpose the conversation had served or why he had told him about the Witch of Harrenhal. He thought with shame that guilt and fear had crushed him so much that he had to get it off his chest, and he had chosen the worst person to do so.

What if he uses this against him?

Poison his daughter's thoughts with words that her husband feared that he would betray her in the future, beget a bastard child with another woman?

He felt a cold shudder run through his body at the thought, but for some reason he had a feeling that this would not happen.

She told you exactly what she wanted to happen.

She hopes to still use you in the future by doing so, and you reflecting on her words are doing exactly what she wants.

He was right.

This woman, whoever she was, was playing with him and his wife.

He thought she was hoping to frighten them both and lead them to lose trust in each other.

That this was perhaps also part of Larys' plan.

He had no intention of killing his wife.

He wanted her to do it herself.

That thought, that realisation flashed through his body like a flame, his fingers clamped down on her flesh as he swallowed hard, feeling some kind of indescribable relief, finding meaning in it at last.

They knew that if his wife disappeared, he would join the war.

He sighed quietly, thinking with surprising calmness in his soul, stroking his wife's soft, dark curls with his fingers, that he would cut off the heads of all the vipers plotting against her, one by one.

He intended to personally inform his brother what their grandfather and Lord Strong were planning to do behind his back.

[bbygirl-aemond]

thinking about how rhaenyra called herself and daemon "halves of a whole" and how they truly wanted to be each other even more than they even wanted to be with each other and how even at their most divided they're both unable to escape the ghost of each other and are on parallel paths of going fucking insane in their respective castles

[jacevelaryonswife]

“We came to die for the dragon queen”

Team Black — House of The Dragon Season 2

[humanpurposes]

De Facto

She can't afford to fantasize over Aemond Targaryen, he's her boss and the Prime Minister... but stopping is easier said than done- this fic now has a part two :)

Main Masterlist

PM!Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of SA, questionable power dynamics, politics (putting my degree to good use), unnecessary world building

Words: 7700

A/n: Thanks for the inspo @ewanmitchellcrumbs, sorry it's not Dishy Rishi tho :(

Throughout the whole train journey into Central King’s Landing, she’s sure she’s dreaming. Her body feels strangely light, her hands are restless and her heart is beating steadily in her chest. 

She flows effortlessly with the stream of commuters, along the platform, through the station’s glass atrium, then left towards Conquest Street. She knows her way around this part of the city already, and though she’s never been inside, she’s walked past Hightower House countless times.

This time is different. Now she walks up to the iron gates, pressing her thumbnail into her index finger, because the armed guards are making her nervous. 

She tells them her name and one of them mutters into a radio.

Her eyes run along the gold crest that marks the gate, a shield divided into seven, a sun for Dorne, a rose for The Reach, a stag for The Stormlands, a Trout for The Riverlands, a Falcon for The Vale, a Kraken for The Iron Islands, a wolf for The North, and at its heart is the symbol that unites them, the three headed dragon (although strictly speaking, Westeros abolished its monarchy centuries ago).

Suddenly one of the guards catches her attention. He opens the gate for her, and says she’ll be given a security pass and instructions to use the staff entrance following her official induction.

Hightower House stands proudly before her, an ornate facade of balustrades and columns, order and symmetry, an obvious juxtaposition of the medieval majesty of the Red Keep, just down the road.

It all feels very daunting, but the last five years have led her to this moment, the entirety of her adult life. She keeps telling herself that she deserves to be here, after all, she was the one who made it through the first round of applications, who made it to the shortlist and the final interviews, and she was the only one of hundreds of applicants who received the phone call, offering her a position as a personal advisor to the Prime Minister.

The contract only lasts two years, but it is the most effective stepping stone into a career in politics that she could ever ask for.

The entire morning is spent working out formalities. First she meets the deputy chief of staff, a handsome man named Criston Cole, who she’ll directly report to. He shows her through mountains of paperwork and gives her a brief overview of her role. Essentially, she is to assist the Prime Minister on whatever he deems necessary, policy aims, speeches, media coverage, political rhetoric, public image. 

“You’re a glorified assistant,” Cole says as she reads and signs page after page of her employment contract, “but with a salary to reflect it, so don’t feel discouraged. There will be some admin work which can get tedious, but you’ve been selected for your expertise and your passion for the party.”

That’s the crucial part of the job. Everything she does will be to benefit Mr Targayren as head of the Green Party, still running off the high of their victory at the last general election, just under a year ago. 

She signs her last signature triumphantly, despite the ache in her wrist, and hands the pen back to Cole with a smile. “All done?” she asks hopefully.

Cole grimaces sympathetically. “Not quite.”

There are four people to meet before she’s officially in. She takes a deep breath to soothe herself. It’s all just more formalities, which she can understand, given the weight of this job.

The first is the Prime Minister's private secretary, a glamorous woman with black hair and piercing green eyes, named Alys Rivers. She greets her warmly, having already spoken over the phone with her several times. She also knows her CV off by heart. It’s a little strange having someone know almost everything about her education and employment history when her face is unfamiliar.

The next is a young woman named Maris, the other of Mr Targaryen’s personal advisors. She has dark hair and a look of determination in her grey eyes. She explains that there are always two personal advisors, but hired on alternating years. She was hired at the start of Mr Targaryen’s premiership, and has a year left of her contract.

There are a thousand questions she wants to ask Maris, but before she can even scratch the surface, Cole’s checking his watch and dragging her off to another office.

Otto Hightower is the chief of staff. He’s thin and wiry, but incredibly intimidating. He has tired, sunken eyes that seem to glare right through her, and a passive but severe expression on his face, as though he’s scrutinising, having already decided she’s a waste of his time.

It’s not a great feeling, being looked at like that by a man she’s idolised for years. She knows his career timeline by heart. He earned his bachelors in Politics and Economics from Oldtown, before doing a masters in International Relations at King’s Landing, where he met and befriended Viserys Targaryen. He worked his way to becoming an MP and soon into Viserys’ cabinet when be became Prime Minister.

But things changed when Otto’s daughter married Viserys. No one really knows the whole truth, but Otto resigned from the Black Party, and took over from his own brother as leader of the opposition.

Now he works in the background, the mastermind behind his grandson’s remarkable successes.

Cole explains that Mr Hightower had the final say in the shortlist and determining which applicant would be given the final job offer.

“You had an impressive application,” he says, briefly looking up from a document. “I’m sure you’ll do well with us.”

“Thank you, Mr Hightower,” she says through the slight tremble in her jaw.

Other than that, the interaction is brief, and soon Cole is ushering her out of the room, back to Alys’ office, as richly decorated as the rest of the building. Maris is sitting at another desk, typing away furiously on a laptop.

“Tea? Coffee? Water?” Cole offers her, gesturing for her to take a seat on a green leather sofa.

“Water would be lovely,” she says.

“Maris,” he calls.

She glares up from her laptop. “That’s not my job.”

“No, but it’s courtesy,” he says.

Alys’ slight smirk doesn’t escape her attention.

Maris purses her lips, but she closes her laptop, pointedly slams her hands against the arms of her chair, and marches out of the room, her shiny black heels clicking against the dark wood floor.

“She’s nice really,” Cole says, “just a bit… direct at times.”

“Direct,” Alys groans to herself. 

She feels her brow flicker into a frown but stops herself.

“She’s good at her job,” Criston says like he might say something else, but he doesn’t.

When Maris returns, she seems a little less on edge.

She takes the glass of water with a cautious hand, Maris’ eyes lingering on her maroon painted nails. 

“I like your top,” Maris says.

She glances down. It’s nothing special, black and long-sleeved, to go with her long blue and green patterned skirt.

“Thank you,” she says.

Maris hums to herself before she goes back to her desk.

“Do you often work in here?” she asks.

Maris shrugs. “It depends.” She doesn’t care to explain further.

Alys is smirking again.

“Mr Targaryen was in a meeting with the cabinet this morning,” Cole says, then checks his watch. “He has a few phone calls to make, but he should be ready to see you at about 4pm. Maris?”

“Yes?” 

“Will you show her in around then?”

“Yeah,” she says, flatly, “of course.”

Cole shakes her hand before he leaves. “Alys will show you out when you leave. I’ll see you on Monday morning.”

She continues to wait on the sofa, restless in the silence that follows once the door has shut. Alys and Maris are both typing, their nails clicking against their keyboards. She starts to bounce her leg and stops herself.

Her mind is racing. The day seems to have gone well so far, but what if she meets Mr Targaryen and it all falls apart? What if he decides he doesn’t like her and sends her packing? 

She’s too lost in her own head to notice the flash of Alys’ emerald green dress as she stands in front of her. That is, until she’s leaning down and waving a bar of chocolate in front of her. “Get a bit of sugar in you,” she says, “and breathe slowly.”

She smiles as she takes the bar and places a single cube on her tongue. She lets it melt, savouring the sweetness and the slight bitterness of its taste.

You can do this, she thinks to herself with every inhale. And then she exhales. You are here for a reason.

The phone on Alys’ desk rings. She checks her own phone. It’s exactly 3:59.

“Yes, sir, Maris will show her in now.”

Aemond Targaryen is on the other end of the line. Her heart drops at the thought.

As the second son of Viserys, it seems like he was always destined for the family business. He differs from his father and grandfather in that he did Politics and Philosophy at Sunspear, before going on to do his masters in History at Oldtown, and then another masters in International Relations at King’s Landing. By all accounts, he is fiercely intelligent, mature beyond his years, with the right balance of intimidating and charismatic to command the support he needed to get in as MP for Rosby, then as party leader.

In fact, it had been his first campaign that inspired her to apply for a degree in politics in the first place. She loved how he spoke, how he managed to strike a balance between grace and passion, and how deeply he cared for his policies. He was poised and perfect, but driven by a genuine want for improvement.

He perfected his craft within a matter of years. With the mess Rhaenyra Targaryen had made of the country, it was all too easy for him to win a majority with a few winning speeches, a hand running through his silver hair, that lazy half-smirk and the intense look in his eyes that just made you want to fall at his feet. And people do. The press adore him, his party worships him, foreign dignitaries often remark on his charm but also his capabilities as a negotiator and a leader.

Maris leads her out of the office, along a quiet corridor. She stops outside a door with gold lettering: Office of A. Targaryen, Prime Minister

Seeing it in front of her, strangely, seems to subdue her nerves. Her chest flutters, but the anxiety is more manageable than before.

Maris taps her knuckles against the door three times.

From the other side of the door she hears a gentle but chilling voice. “Enter.”

She follows Maris inside.

He’s perched against his desk, his long, silver hair falling around his shoulders as he looks over a few pieces of paper. He wears a white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, black slacks and brown leather shoes.

He looks up slowly, the light of the early Autumn evening beaming through the windows, over the sharp features of his face, his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, his neck.

His eyes find hers, unashamed and curious.

Suddenly she can feel her heart in her throat.

Maris introduces her. “I’m sure Alys already debriefed you, but she’s here for her induction. Cole said you wanted to meet her as a formality and–”

It feels awfully like she’s talking for the sake of it.

“That will be all, Maris,” Mr Targaryen says softly. She can’t help but watch the way his lips move when he speaks.

“Oh, are you sure, sir?” she asks. Her face is twisted into a slight frown but her eyes are wide. “I just thought, for her sake, it might be useful if I’m here to explain everything.”

“I’m sure, thank you.”

She stands with her hands clasped in front of her skirt as she listens to Maris’ footsteps move towards the door. It opens and closes, and now all she can hear are her own breaths, gently flowing through her nose.

She doesn’t know where to look. At the patterned carpet on the floor? No, it would be rude of her to hang her head. At the portraits that line the wall? At the bookshelves? At the desk? No, that all seems too intrusive. Out the window? No, that might seem like she’s not paying attention.

So her eyes settle on him.

He hasn’t moved from his position, but he’s placed the paper on the desk behind him, leaning with his palms at the edge. His eyes glance over her once, up and down.

Fuck, he’s so much better looking in person.

Then he stands to his full height, and picks up a clipboard from the desk. He flicks through a few of the pages and hums softly to himself.

“You had an impressive application,” he says.

She swallows through the slightly dry feeling in her throat. “Thank you, sir.”

“And an excellently written cover letter.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You did your masters in Comparative Politics at Sunspear. Oberyen Martell is still head of faculty there, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. He taught one of my modules, Security Studies.”

“He’s an interesting character,” he muses, smiling to himself. “He was my supervisor for my undergrad dissertation.”

She already knew that. Dr Martell loved to go on about his star student. She would too if she taught the future Prime Minister.

He flicks to another page. She watches as his eyes skim over the words in front of him. “And you came with glowing reviews from Tyland Lannister.”

She’s not sure how she’s supposed to respond to that– it makes her sound more like a product than a person– so she just smiles, as delicately as she can, making sure not to squint her eyes too much. 

She had spent the last year as Mr Lannister’s Parliamentary Assistant, at his office in the Red Keep, starting just as he had been appointed as Foreign Secretary. 

“How was he as a boss?” Mr Targayren asks.

Straightforward, she thinks. He took his job seriously and was decidedly not a fan of smalltalk. His office often worked in silence, and even when he was stressed he was efficient.

“No complaints,” she says.

“I’m sure you were all kept busy, cleaning up Corlys Velaryon’s mess after the Stepstones.”

A minor military excursion to defend a few key trading routes, or at least that’s how it had started. Within a matter of months the Stepstones had spiralled beyond control, costing Corlys Velaryon his seat and the Blacks their majority in Parliament.

“If I remember right, it was Daemon Targaryen pushing that particular policy,” she says.

The corner of his mouth curls upward. It could be a smile but she’s not entirely sure. 

“Sir,” she adds, hoping to soften the blow of her unintentional insult; what idiot tries to correct the Prime Minister on their first day on the job? She does, clearly.

He doesn’t seem irritated or angry, more amused. A cryptic “hmm” sounds in his throat as he flicks back to the first document. “And before that you were a campaign manager for the party, yes?”

“Yes,” she says brightly, grateful for the change of subject. “I was working in the Stormlands in the lead up to the general election.” The region was formerly a Black stronghold, but turned Green thanks in part to her efforts.

“Excellent work,” he says.

The smooth, seductive tone of his voice seems to come so naturally to him. She bites her tongue at the image it prompts in her head, of his lips brushing over her ear, his hands resting on her waist, she can almost feel it–

No. That’s wrong. So wrong.

Fantasising about the Prime Minister of Westeros is not a habit she can afford to keep up, not when she’s supposed to be working with him in such close proximity.

But that’s easier said than done.

Cole enters his office, bright and early on Monday morning, before the rest of Hightower House is awake.

Aemond’s routine is the same every day. Up at 5am, run a few laps of the expansive gardens or spend an hour going through his meticulously planned gym routine. He showers, shaves, applies his skincare and haircare products, dabs some perfume on his wrists, dresses, and takes breakfast and a black coffee in his office. By 7:30am he’s ready to work.

He needs the routines and the outlets. They help keep him sane.

He’d seen how this position twisted his father into a tired, irritable and irrational man, how it got to Rhaenyra’s head until she became a liability to herself. He won’t be like them. He has a reputation to uphold, a legacy to claim.

Cole places a folder on his desk. “The background check you ordered, sir.”

He thanks him, quietly and sincerely, and waits until he’s left the room to open the folder.

His new personal advisor intrigues him. He’d made the request for the background check as soon as their meeting had ended on Friday. 

She has no criminal record, which is unsurprising, that definitely would have come up sooner if she had one.

He browses through her education history, a star student at Storm’s End Grammar School, a bachelor’s in history from Rainwood, a masters from Suspear, where she was head of Debate Soc and Amnesty International, while working various internships and retail jobs in between.

The next page is full of articles from student publications, The Importance of Integrity in Politics for the Rainwood Student Journal, Sovereignty in the Stepstones for Red Sun Rising. He reads through them both. Her writing is immaculate, concise and convincing.

The final page is more personal, social media profiles. It’s nothing scandalous, but she clearly has a certain image she wants to project. Her Instagram is full of art and history museums, coffee shops and preppy outfits. She has a few pictures on her LinkedIn of her at the Green Party conference last year, pictured with a group of girls her age and a caption that talks about the importance of representation in politics, with links to various charities and initiatives. In the photo she’s wearing a white silk shirt, open just enough to show off a dainty gold necklace and a hint of the swell of her chest.

She seems perfect. Too perfect for his own good.

The first months go smoothly enough. 

Maris is a practical person. She’s good with numbers, good for bouncing off ideas for economic policies and analysing data for him, even if she is a little overbearing at times.

But she fills the gaps perfectly. He secretly looks forward to their meetings and debriefings, when he asks her to write or edit speeches for him, or run through questions with him before a press conference. Politics is never easy, but she has a remarkable talent for keeping a level head. He likes that she’s always calm and composed. He likes her soft, reassuring smiles and the sharp look in her eyes. 

They just click. She’s always switched on, always knows the right things to say and do, always knows what he needs.

Every moment they are alone feels monumental; the settled quiet of his office when she first walks in and takes a seat on the other side of his desk; when they make an exchange, debriefing papers for an empty coffee cup, and their fingers will brush over each other; when he stands over her shoulder to read the document she’s working on, close enough to smell her perfume and feel a heat simmering under his skin. It’s starting to become unbearable, and yet he craves that feeling.

And then, one morning, he gets a phone call from the Crownlands Messenger. They’re about to publish a story. His brother has been accused of inappropriate conduct by no less than three women.

Fucking Aegon.

The entire country is in an uproar. How can anyone trust their Parliamentary representatives when they do shit like this? Is Aegon an outlier or is this just scratching the surface? What will his punishment be? What else are the Greens hiding? 

There are hundreds of emergency meetings with his grandfather, tense phone calls, bearating headlines, and onslaughts of outrage online. There’s no question about it, Aegon has to resign as an MP, but the damage is done. The polls are turning Black instead of Green. People don’t trust the ruling party, or its leader.

It’s late. Aemond paces his office while a headache pulses in his head. He’s long ditched the coffee for whisky, swirling it about in his glass. He sent Maris home hours ago. He doesn’t have the patience for anyone at the moment. Except for the woman leaning against his desk, flicking through news articles and the pages of notes she’s prepared for him.

Tomorrow is PMQs. No doubt there’s only one topic the Blacks will be asking about. He can already see Rhaenyra and Daemon’s smug faces, the delight they’ll take in watching him fall apart. There’s just no way he’s getting out of this easily.

He feels so restless. His hands are trembling and his lips won’t seem to stop moving, so he places himself against the wall, mindlessly tapping his fingers against his glass as he takes another generous sip.

From the desk he hears a heavy sigh that hums slightly in her throat. “Is there anything else you want to go over, sir?” she asks.

“No, I think we’ve exhausted the hypotheticals,” he says, running his free hand through his hair. He resists the urge to pull at the roots, to take his frustration out on something. “It’s just– fuck’s sake, I’ve been saying Aegon’s a liability for years. But no, Otto always wanted to keep pushing for him. Said it was good for the family’s image.”

She places her phone and the document behind her, and takes a few steps towards him.

He glances down at her, at the way the low light of the lamps and the fireplace glows against her skin, the contented sort of look in her eyes. 

Her eyes flicker down at his now empty glass. “Refill, sir?” Her lips stay slightly parted once she stops speaking.

Then he realises he’s staring.

“No, thank you,” he mutters, tapping his finger against the glass. “I should probably stop now.”

She takes the glass from him with her middle finger and thumb, avoiding touching his hand before she takes it away. Maybe it’s the alcohol getting to his head but his heart sinks at the lack of contact.

What is he doing? It must be after 9pm now and he’s still keeping her here without a real reason. 

She’s standing by the drinks cabinet, carefully placing the crystal bottle of whisky away and setting the empty glass out for housekeeping to clean up in the morning.

Instead of thinking about her, the way her hair looks, the way her skirt hugs her waist and the curve of her backside and thighs, he tries to think about how much he hates Aegon. This only makes him more agitated.

He closes his eyes and throws his head against the wall. His heart is racing and there’s a hollow feeling in his chest. He’s craving something, not another drink, not a smoke (he quit once he was first elected as an MP). He wants something else, something dangerous and damning. 

The heels of her shoes tap softly against the floor, until she’s standing in front of him.

He opens his eyes.

She frowns slightly before lifting her hand and delicately placing it on his shoulder. “You need to relax, sir,” she says.

He lets out a low “hmm,” as he weighs out his options. This seems like a bad idea. A really, really bad idea.

“That’s not going to happen with you here,” he says.

Her calm, somewhat smug expression falls. She looks so innocent now, so sweet. “What does that mean?” she says.

He leans in closer to her, until the tip of his nose barely brushes against hers. “I think you know what it means, darling.”

She hesitates, before her mouth spreads into an eager smile that shows off her teeth.

Her hands find his, ensnaring him under a soft but commanding grip. She leads him away from the wall, to the sofa by the fireplace. 

He settles on it, leaning against the arm as she comes to her knees before him, spreading his legs apart to make room for herself.

She palms her hand over the hardness that’s been straining painfully against his trousers for hours now. She feels along his clothed cock, pressing her cheek against it and gazing up at him with a look of teasing innocence.

Aemond knows he is done for, jaw slack, chest rising and falling as he breathes. He would have never presumed he would find himself in this kind of position, not after all the work’s he’s had to do cleaning up the mess of Aegon’s fuck ups, not after working this hard to get where he is, and least of all because he believes himself to be a decent man. 

But he doesn’t stop her as her fingers undo the button and the zip on his trousers, and he doesn’t make any kind of protest as she takes his freed cock in her hand and teasingly strokes along it. 

He keeps his hands firmly on the sofa, digging his fingertips and his nails into the leather, as if he hasn’t been dreaming of having her like this for weeks, as if he hasn’t fucked his own hand countless times pretending it was her.

He doesn’t have to pretend anymore. He looks down, his jaw slack, barely containing his strained breaths, and there she is, doe-eyed and eager as she places a delicate kiss to his flushed tip. Her lips barely brush against him before she pulls away, keeping a hold at the base.

His arousal stains her mouth and she fucking grins.

“Enjoying yourself?” he says through gritted teeth.

“Yes, sir,” she says, sweetly, earnestly.

He runs his hand against her hair, gently, as if trying to soothe her. It seems to take her by surprise which only serves to excite him further.

She leans into his touch, lips parting, her eyes half-lidded and dreamy.

Until he grips his fist and pulls. He tilts her head up. It shouldn’t hurt, but it’s enough to bring her attention back to him.

He decides he won’t tell her what to do, not directly, but she’s a smart girl, she knows what he wants. 

With her eyes wide again, she opens her mouth and inches his cock past her lips. The tightness in his gut starts to burn as she works up and down his length, slowly– excruciatingly slowly. It’s not in anyway relaxing, he thinks, but it’s a nice kind of torture.

He loses himself to the warmth and the wetness of her mouth, her tongue running over the underside of his cock, her lips teasing over the tip before she moves back down, using her hands where her mouth can’t reach.

He chokes out a throaty “fuck,” knowing there’s a security guard outside the door, and probably a few of the staff still lingering about. 

But she looks so beautiful like this, her brow furrowed in determination as she tries to take him deeper and deeper, desperate to please him, happy to make him suffer for it. And the little noises she makes, the gags and the moans. He imagines that she likes this, that she’s been wanting this for as long as he has, and if he pulled her onto his lap and slid his fingers under her skirt, he’d find her drenched.

She starts to up the pace until he brings his hand to the side of her face again, his hand large enough that he can rest his palm against her cheek and tease his fingers through her hair. Her eyes dart up to his, wide and teary. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, “nice and slow, just like that.”

She whimpers around him, breathing desperately through her nose.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he coos, “you started this, didn’t you? Wanted to taste me? Wanted to feel my cock in your mouth?”

She hums in agreement.

“Just fucking take it then,” he says with a clenched jaw, gripping her hair to bob her head up and down, keeping that torturous pace.

The pleasure builds slowly, running hotly through his body, but he fights the urge to clamp both hands around her head and buck his hips up to fuck her throat.

He comes harder than he thinks he ever has before, keeping himself sheathed within her as he paints the inside of her mouth, and pulls her head away to see the last few drops spill against her lips.

She gazes up at him with dazed and glassy eyes. She’s panting, trying to catch her breath. Her forehead glistens with sweat, mascara runs down her face and his spend drips over her chin.

He wipes some of the mess away with his thumbs, cradling her face in his hands. “Swallow,” he orders.

Her mouth closes and her throat bobs. He can already feel the tension in his gut tightening again.

If only he could keep her like this forever.

She makes it to Hightower House at the usual time of 8am, despite leaving work so late last night. Despite the hours she spent consumed by thoughts of Aemond Targaryen as she rode the train and dragged herself into her bed. Despite the aching arousal that went unfulfilled. Despite the marks on her knees and the stiffness in her jaw.

When she walks into Alys’ office to sign in, she’s already there, perfectly poised and typing away on her laptop. 

“Morning,” she says brightly.

Alys looks up from the screen. The white light shining from below makes her face look a little eerie. “Morning,” she says with a smug look on her face.

She ignores it, scrawling down the time and her signature beside her name.

“You were working rather late last night,” Alys says.

“Yeah, I was,” she mutters, placing the pen down and straightening her spine.

Alys is staring at her. Her eyes are unnervingly bright. “He never asks Maris to work late.”

Her heart drops.

It’s like she can feel the weight of him in her mouth, the taste of him on her tongue.

“I bet he’s just realised I’m more of a people pleaser,” she says.

Alys hums and smiles. “Yeah?”

She doesn’t have time for this. She hangs up her coat and her bag, and picks up two black coffees from the coffee machine in the kitchenette down the hall.

Aemond is in his office, leaning back in his chair with his mobile pressed to his ear. He doesn’t react much when he sees her, he just watches her as she sets one of the cups in front of him. He raises his eyebrows in thanks and brings it to his lips.

She imagines the person on the other end of the call is starting to bore him.

“Yeah… yeah… I know… well there’s not much to be done now but get it over with.”

She takes a few sips from her own cup, wiping the corners of her mouth. Aemond follows her fingers as she does.

“I’ll speak to you after. Yes, thank you, grandfather.” He hangs up the phone and tosses it onto a stack of papers on the desk. “Seven fucking Hells.”

“How did that go?” she asks.

Aemond rolls his eyes and huffs a tired laugh. “He wants to talk through candidates for the by-election in Duskendale. I said I’ll think about it if I survive PMQs.”

She sets her coffee cup down. “What are you most worried about? You’ve prepared for this. What’s worrying you?”

Aemond taps his fingers against the desk. She tries not to ignore the thrill it sends through her belly.

“I’ve never had to deal with something like this. I’ve never been this worried about the party’s image, but that’s usually because I do everything right.”

The whole Aegon situation is beyond his control, and yet he’ll be getting the scrutiny for it.

“People need to be able to trust you,” she says.

Aemond looks up at her expectantly.

“Is Aegon still a party member?” she asks.

Aemond’s expression darkens. “That was discussed. Otto wants him to remain an official member.”

“You’re the Prime Minister. Put your foot down.”

“I can’t,” he says, standing and fixing the rolled up sleeves and undone buttons on his shirt before he reaches for his tie.

“You can’t afford not to. If you go easy on Aegon, Rhaenyra’s going to play to some kind of ‘the Greens are anti woman card.’ Your voters need to know you’re taking this seriously.”

“And throw my own brother under the bus?” he says, sternly.

But she can tell he’s still nervous. His hands are shaking as he ties the tie around his neck.

She pauses, wondering where the line is here. Aegon Targaryen will be fine. He’ll be put under investigation and keep getting bad press for a while, but he can live off daddy’s money in the meantime, and in a few years the whole scandal will be forgotten.

She takes a few steps towards him and comes close enough to smell the dark, boozy smell of his perfume, and shoos his hands away.

“What would be better for the country,” she asks, tilting her head and keeping her eyes focused as she fastens his tie, “presenting yourself as a leader who is committed to integrity and respect, or leaving yourself open to further criticism?”

She pushes the knot up tightly against his collar for emphasis.

Aemond just smirks. “You’re very persuasive,” he says.

“That’s my job, sir.”

She gasps as his hand grabs her hip and pulls her against him. His breath runs hotly over her face as he tilts her chin up to look at him. His throat hums as he breathes.

She could fall apart then and there.

Until a knock on the door has her practically shoving him away.

Aemond chuckles and shrugs on his suit jacket. “Enter,” he calls.

She turns her back to the door to hide the flustered look on her face, pretending to look through a bookshelf that she’s never really looked at properly before.

“Car for you, sir,” Alys says from the doorway.

Aemond calls for her by her surname. Fuck– she was supposed to pack his briefcase before he left. She takes a breath and goes about collecting all the pages of notes and briefings he’ll need. 

She brings it to him, and notices Maris standing in the hallway behind Alys. Maris usually goes with him to the Red Keep for PMQs, but today he requests that she accompany him. She supposes it makes sense, she’s been the one helping him prepare after all.

Maris’ face is a storm. Alys looks down at her feet and tries to stifle a giggle.

The next few hours are a blur. She trails after Aemond through the ornate corridors, keeping her eyes on his silver hair, flowing down the back of his black suit jacket. Somewhere along the way, Cole and the head of security, a man Aemond greets as “Mr Westerling”, joins them.

They leave through the front entrance, into the sharp September air and into a black car. The hum of the engine and the smell of leather makes her nauseous, but they’re only in the car for a matter of minutes before the door swings open and she’s been ushered towards the Red Keep.

Once a seat of Kings, now the red stone castle seems a little out of place with the rest of the city. This is where Parliament gathers.

As they walk through its halls, Aemond tells her to throw a few questions at him. She has them all memorised in her head, able to recite a few without really thinking about it. Aemond mutters the answers they’ve rehearsed under his breath, smiling politely and waving as they pass by civil servants, MPs, Green and Black party members alike. They even pass Cregan Stark, leader of the Northern Independence party. He whispers all of their names in her ear.

There’s a small room where Aemond waits in before he enters the Great Hall. She can hear the noise and the chatter on the other side of the double doors, engraved with the same crest that marks the gates to Hightower House.

He won’t stop moving, adjusting his tie and his cuffs, tutting and pursing his lips.

She makes sure Cole and Westerling are muttering to each other before she leans into Aemond, putting her hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” she whispers, “don’t see it as a chance for them to criticise you, see it as an opportunity for you to reassure everyone else of how brilliant you are.”

Aemond turns his head towards her. He’s not touching her but she feels the proximity.

“That’s an interesting way to look at it,” he says.

She smiles. “It’s all perspective.”

Before Aemond is called into the hall, Cole directs her to the gallery, above the benches where the MPs sit.

She and Aemond meet eyes before she leaves. She stops herself from reaching for him, not wanting to leave his side.

“Good luck,” she says.

As if he needs it. She watches everything unfold from the gallery, the MPs sat below her like she’s watching a play in a theatre.

Aemond starts off with an amazing opening speech which, at her recommendation, doesn’t shy away from the issue of the whole Aegon scandal. He affirms his commitment to ensuring that central government is a safe and inclusive working environment, which is when he announces Aegon’s resignation as an MP, as well as his removal from the Green Party.

The chamber in an uproar. A few members of the Green Party make a bit of a fuss, but mostly Aemond’s announcement is applauded, even by a good number of Black Party members.

Rhaenyra, Aemond’s sister and predecessor, is at a loss for words, as is her deputy, Daemon.

Aemond seems to get a boost of confidence from this and takes every question in his stride, using elements from the answers she had rehearsed with him and even throwing in a few one liners which has half the room cheering him.

And he’s fucking hot when he’s cocky.

While he speaks all she can think of is how he sounded while she was between his legs. “Good girl… just fucking take it…” she has to clench her fists and her jaw at the wave of arousal that rises within her.

Afterwards she walks with him to the car. A whole host of Green Party members crowd him as they walk through the hallways, praising him, commending him. He smiles graciously, looking over his shoulder every so often to look at her, to make sure she’s not fallen behind.

The silence of the car is unbearable with Cole and Westerling in the front, and Aemond beside her, drumming his fingers against his thigh and running his other hand through his hair.

She presses her thighs at the obvious arousal pooling at her centre.

Seven hells, she’s acting like she’s in heat.

She follows Aemond back through Hightower House, past Alys’ office, to his own office. When he closes the door behind them, he locks it.

She leans against the desk, keeping her hands on the wood behind her.

Aemond turns back to her with a ravenous look in his pale blue eyes. He reaches into his pocket, effortlessly pulling his hair into a low bun, as he usually does in informal company.

She can’t take her eye off him as he tosses his jacket over the sofa, and begins to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. Then he stalks towards her, his chin tilted down and his lips in a tight line, until he’s close enough to paw at her waist. 

“I suppose I should thank you for your help,” he says, eyes fixed on his hands as they tease over the fabric of the red mini skirt she had picked out this morning, the way she squirms underneath him.

“Oh,” she breathes. One of his hands trails up, untucking her blouse from her skirt and brushing his fingertips against the bare skin underneath. “Just… doing my job, sir.”

He hums to himself as his hand works its way round to her backside, squeezing gently. “Do you like calling me ‘sir’?”

She can’t help but nod, dazed at the feeling of his hands tracing the shape of her body.

“Yeah, I think you do,” he says, leaning in to press a slow, firm kiss to her neck.

Her resolve is shattered. She throws her hands around his neck, pulling herself into him, desperate to feel him against her, to stay close to him.

She almost whines when he moves away, much to his amusement, feeling her mouth fall into a pout.

“Don’t tell me I’ve got a brat,” he says, taking her chin in his hand. “Are you going to be good for me, pet?”

“Yes, sir,” she utters.

“See? You don’t even need to be told,” he says with a smile. “You’re going to turn around and lean over the desk.”

She follows his instructions without missing a beat, bracing herself on her forearms, against the surface. She feels her skirt being pushed up over her hips, her tights and panties pulled down in one go, fingertips trailing over her thighs. Then she feels his breath against the wetness of her bare pussy. 

She can’t help but let out a quiet moan, pressing her nails into the wood in anticipation.

“Haven’t even fucking touched you yet, are you that desperate for me?”

“Yes, sir,” she whimpers, trying to look over her shoulder.

Aemond’s hand finds its way against her head, pressing her down. And he doesn’t let go.

His fingers drag through her folds, teasing her entrance and her clit before he slides in a single digit. It feels so different from her own, longer and thicker, pressing into her at an unfamiliar angle. She feels utterly weightless, the obscene sound of him moving in and out of her only adding to her arousal.

Aemond’s voice is dark and husky, as it was last night. “Good girl,” he coos, “that feels good, doesn’t it?”

When she doesn’t reply, he withdraws and lands a stinging slap against her cheek, before he pushes into her again. “Answer me,” he says, clearly and firmly.

“Yes, sir,” she says, frantically trying to nod against his hold of her head. “Feels so fucking good.”

He increases his speed, pumping in and out of her until her climax washes over her. It happens gradually, building and building before a pleasant numbness washes through her, to every corner of her body. 

While she comes down from her high, her attention is caught by the sound of a belt buckle and rustling fabric.

The tip of his cock presses into her without warning. He inches further and further in until he bottoms out, the material of his trousers pressing against her skin– the cunt hasn’t even bothered to take off his clothes.

He finally relents his hold of her head, grabbing at her waist as he ruts into her. It’s fast and primal, adrenaline pumping through her blood, Aemond’s fingers digging into her flesh, her breath coming out in moans, his belt buckle hitting the desk with every harsh thrust.

“Knew you were a little slut,” he grits out, grabbing at her cheeks and spreading them out to watch his cock moving in and out of her. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

She covers her mouth with her hand to hold back the wanton noises threatening to slip past her lips. 

Suddenly a hand comes to her shoulder, pulling her up against his chest. One hand kneads at her breasts through her blouse and her bra, while the other slips between her legs, tracing quick circles over her clit.

“I wanna feel you come,” he rasps into her ear, “wanna feel my good girl clench around my cock.”

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She clings to his arms and digs her teeth into her bottom lip. She can feel herself hurtling towards her climax, if only he would move his fingers a little faster.

“Please,” she whispers.

“What was that, pet?” Aemond asks, brushing his lips over her cheek. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to come!” she whines. “Fuck– please… please, I just want to come, sir.”

She feels him smiling against her as his fingers rub faster over her clit. She can feel how deep he is inside her, how his cock bullies against that sensitive spot, over and over again, until her orgasm tears through her.

She tries to keep her mouth shut but she can’t help the pleading groan that hums in her throat. Aemond holds her as she falls apart, fucking her thoroughly through it all.

Until finally, he reaches his end, hissing through his teeth and pulling out to spill himself onto her pussy. She feels the warmth, how it drips through her folds, for now uncaring of the mess they’ve surely made.

Aemond keeps holding her against his chest. His forehead falls against the back of her head and his hot breath echoes over her neck. “I really appreciate the work you’ve done for me,” he says breathlessly. “I think you and I make quite a pair, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir,” she mewls, letting her head fall against his arm.

Aemond hums a laugh to himself, it rumbles in his chest and against her back. “So pretty and polite,” he coos, “how did I ever manage without you until now, pet?”

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria @targaryenrealnessdarling

A/n: I might do a part 2 to this so let me know if you would liked to be tagged :)

[nessjo]

Team Black or Team Green?

I tell you, they are all Team Black, because the show is very Team Black coeded. Just wait until they show where Daemon's true loyalties lies.

I'm not Team Green, and I'm not Team Black either. I understand both sides. Both sides have their valid reasons and both sides did horrible and unforgiving things, but completely glorifying one side is not okay. No one is completely Innocent in the Dance of the Dragons.

And remember Alicent and Rhaenyra are both Mothers (they both have their fare share amount of trauma) who tried to protect their children. They were both told (Alicent by her father Otto and Rhaenyra by Daemon) that for the other side to win, they would kill their children and they did what they thought they needed to protect their children (Spoilers for those who hadn't read the Book: at the cost of nearly all children/grandchildren)

So I'm not gonna choose one side because I understand both.

[ms-fade]

the reader being jacaerys twin sister and aegon and aemond claiming you as theirs🤨

Oh how that is a great idea, war will be started just over that alone. They both would fight over you in their youth for just a ounce of attention, like getting you something or fighting for doing anything they could. But they soon came to a agreement of sharing you and taking you away from your twin brother and your family.

Small smut Drabble below. 18+

You’d be squeezed between the two of them while their hands gripped onto you. Your dress would be undone and on the floor beneath you, they didn’t care for moving even a inch.

Aegons fingers would be pinching your nipples and twisting them a bit while Aemond’s fingers would be deep inside your pussy. “I have to admit you’re taking us better then I thought, little dove.” Aemond would admit while watching you stare at him with half closed wet eyes.

“That’s because she wants to be ours brother. I have seen the gazes she gives us and I know she thinks about us fucking her hard,” Aegons voice darker while he reached his hand up to turn your head to the side, “Isn’t that right?”

You could only nod and whimper while feeling the pleasure but slight embarrassment of being nude and doing that things you were doing. “Jace thinks you’re his precious little sister.” The blonde in front of you forced his finger up harder and you let out a gasp out slight pain and shock. 

“But you’re all ours now, and I’ll fuck you in front of him if I have too.”

After Aemond made you cum just from his fingers Aegon gets on his knees and cleans you off, sucking and licking every bit of cum he can get. He was desperate for it, anything you did he was going to be desperate for. But after he got done, he bent you over the table and fucked you with his cock, fast and rough.

It was Aegons room so the people thought it was just another whore, but it was your screams and squeals as his cock slammed into you. Though they were quickly muffled by Aemond shoving his cock into your mouth.

That night you ended up as their little pet.

Jacaerys couldn’t believe that you and aemond got engaged a month after.

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

All of my work is rated M or E (18+ only. If you’re under 18 this isn’t the space for you) and is ofc or xfemreader unless otherwise noted. Mind the tags. No use of y/n. You can also find me on ao3. My Misc. Masterlist is here and Star Wars Masterlist is here.

I do not give permission for any of my work to be translated, reposted, or plugged into AI.

Aemond Targaryen

they say I killed you (haunt me then) - Aemond x ofc Wylla Karstark | completed | Wylla Karstark is content with her life in the far reaches of the North, happy even. She has everything she ever thought she needed. Until Aemond Targaryen tumbles from the sky, abandoned by his dragon and left at her mercy.

Paper Crowns - mafia au | Aemond x ofc Viserra Velaryon | Completed | Viserra Velaryon has never buckled under the weight of her legacy, of all that she stands to inherit. The oldest daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, she has always understood her place in the world, in her family. But when her grandfather passes, leaving behind an incomplete will and a bloodthirsty widow intent on securing her children's inheritance, she finds herself in the middle of a war that she isn't sure how to fight. Her enemy? The boy she once loved, the man she's learned to hate.

Iron and Ash - When he looked at you it was as if he had peeled the dress from your body, the skin from your bones; you had never felt more bare than when the prince gazed from across whatever room you were in, his eye fixed on you and you alone.

You've Got My Body (Flesh and Bone) - Her violet eyes crashed against his like waves against a rocky shore and the mismatched jewel tones of his gaze had her feeling dizzy; she could just make out her reflection in the facets of the sapphire he wore in place of his right eye. Without thinking, she raised her other hand, tracing the line of his scar even though she knew he couldn't feel it beneath the knot of roughly healed tissue.

Shimmer - He was hot to the touch, as if he burned with fever, and you supposed in a way, he did. He burned for you, he burned in the way that only a dragon could, with the same fire that you felt heat your own

Daemon Targaryen

Meet Me In the After - Daemon Targaryen x oc Sabitha Blackwood | upcoming | The realm holds its breath as Queen Aemma approaches the end of her pregnancy. The king proclaims loudly to any that will listen that she will finally give him a living son, an heir, and all around him rejoice. But Aemma knows, after two stillbirths, three miscarriages, and a son lost in the cradle, that Viserys will not get his wish. Dreams plague the queen, dreams of fire and blood and a dead boy in a cursed crown. Sent to court to attend Queen Aemma two years prior, Lady Sabitha Blackwood is privy to all the queen's fears, to the anxieties that plague her daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, and the pressures of court that eat at her dear friend, Lady Alicent Hightower. Stuck in a loveless marriage with a husband who grows crueler with each month that passes without an heir of his own, Sabitha finds herself preening under the attentions of the king's brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen. As the two fall deeper into a torrid and dangerous affair, the worst comes to pass.

The queen is dead, the king's heir with her, and all eyes fall on the young women closest to her. Will Rhaenyra truly be named heir? Why do the king's eyes follow Lady Alicent? And what does Sabitha know that puts her in the gravest of danger?

When It Comes To You (My World Is Deep Red) - “Is that what you seek? A great love story?” she asked with a raised brow, dismissive of the notion that Daemon Targaryen would be swayed by something so simple as that.

Salt in the Wound | completed | There was a reason they said the Targaryens were closer to gods than men; it wasn’t just their dragons that held them separate, that held them above. No, it was the way that once every handful of generations, one came along that held the ability to tear the world apart with their bare hands, to rend it with their teeth, to melt it down and attempt to recreate it in their own image.

evening star | Daemon Targaryen x Alicent Hightower x Rhaenyra Targaryen | A queen, locked high in her tower, a rose in a glass case.A knight in the form of a sharp tongued, silver-haired princess.A violet-eyed villain who speaks like a lover. Alicent has hardened herself against the promise of a gentle touch. Daemon has learned to taste love in the blood he licks from his blades. And Rhaenyra, lost in the fog of her father’s neglect, finds that she is the tie that binds. What does it mean for the realm when the Queen in Chains, the Realms Delight, and the Rogue Prince come together to create a light in the dark?

Jacaerys Velaryon & Helaena Targaryen

For the Love of a Princess - “Your fascination with me will be your death,” she said, arching up toward him, his shaky exhale ghosting over her face. She had no idea why she said it, though surely her mother would call for his head if they were caught, a replacement for the eye her desperate bid for justice could not procure.

The Conquerors (Visenya, Rhaenys, and Aegon I Targaryen)

Afterlife - She was not the wife he had wanted. He was not the husband she had wanted. All that connected them was lost now. “It should have been me.” The words came out in a whisper and Visenya wept.

Aegon II Tagaryen

Lips Like Lightning (Skin So Sweet) - This moment was just a miniscule light in the dark. But any light was better than none. Tomorrow she would leave, heading home to Volantis to start the new year back in her real life. And Aegon Targaryen, whoever he was, would go back to the people in the pictures.

heaven is not meant to house a love (like you and I) - Aegon Targaryen and his wonderful, fantastic, very good day. A they say I killed you (haunt me then) outtake, set one year before the main story. A birthday gift for @emilykaldwen

[two-white-butterflies]

As Lovers Often Do - c. 1

Description: Alyssa Strong was born to be Aemond's wife. As the dance occurs, certain consequences are levied upon her.

"An eye for an eye. A son for a son."

series masterlist |

"Prince Alyssa and Prince Aemond were taken by the water, but her legacy lives on; in the Martells of Dorne, the Starks in Winterfell, the Arryns in Eyrie and in you, my sweet sister. Name is everything. Legacy is everything. You may think yourself clever in deceiving the King, but a thousand years from now they will still see your children as his and his legacy will live on, while your name fades."

-Tyrion Lannister to Queen Cersie.

Alyssa was the second child of Princess Saera and Ser Harwin. Her mother was always a blunt creature, always making it known that certain responsibilities came with the luxury of being royalty, that she was expected to marry a lord from a good house - she couldn't blame her mother as the same expectations were levied upon her too - and the thousands of ladies that came before her.

Her worth would be measured by the lord that she'd marry. What was a wife but a mere extension of her husband?

"Are you nervous?" Saera opened her mouth, quickly fading into Alyssa's periphery with rehearsed grace. "Must we attend?" Alyssa pouts, unable to tame her silver locks.

"Must we breathe?" her mother returned the question, eventually taking another step towards her - combing through her hair easily. "Tis' only uncle's nameday, and you are not exactly fond of him." she persuaded, earning a small chuckle from her mother.

"Believe me, my dragon - if we had a choice we'd still be in Dragonstone. It is of utmost importance that we attend. Queen Alicent will be expecting us." she gently reminded.

Oh, Queen Alicent would be most offended with their absence - She didn't plan on leaving her daughter with a Queen that hated her. "It will be nothing but eating and watching people dance." she huffed. "You can dance too," Saera insinuated and a groan escapes her daughter's mouth. "I do not wish to dance." "Then don't,"

"- all that's important to me is that you attend, and you pretend to be happy about it." Saera hummed, braiding Alyssa's hair softly - Alyssa's hair was almost white, bleached by the sun as she lounged around the beach with careless action. "You are a cruel mother," Alyssa frowned and her mother laughs in return.

"Of course, I am horrible and I wish death upon you." she humored, pressing a soft kiss on her daughter's forehead. "Behave, Alyssa." she urged and Alyssa nodded her head. "Yes." she sighed.

Alyssa looked around the Great Hall - impressed with the decorations and lavishness that her grandfather provided. Uncle Aegon wasn't exactly his favorite child. "It looks good," Daegon mumbled while pushing his sister towards the Royal Table.

"Do you think that the same effort will be given on our nameday?" Alyssa pondered and her brother shook his head. "Why would they waste the Crown's coffers on us?" he scoffed, sitting down on the chair beside Jacaerys. "Because we're the only ones who look like Targaryens," she mumbled to herself.

"I heard that," Lucerys crossed his arms - angry that his cousin was making such comments about them. "I was joking," Alyssa frowned, taking a seat in between Daegon and Lucerys.

"Happy nameday, my prince." she smiles falsely at her uncle. "Yes, yes." Aegon waves her away - quick to settle his hand on some servant's behind.

Saera rolls her eyes.

"I'm sure that we can afford some decorum, Aegon." she lightly scolded, and Alyssa didn't fail to recognize the sour expression on his face. "I apologize, sister." he could only smile in return - feeling the burning gaze of Prince Daemon.

"I will not have you doing this during celebration, Aegon. Now, why don't you dance with Helaena or Alyssa for the meanwhile." Queen Alicent smiled - but everything she does always has a purpose. She intends for Aegon to marry either Helaena or Alyssa - to keep the 'bloodline' pure (a bloodline that does not belong to her.)

Daegon leaned slowly towards his sister.

"I'm bored," he whispered while fiddling with the tablecloth. "I've been bored three hours ago," she grits her teeth, at some point - she even tried to convince herself to bolt away. "- I want to leave but I don't want to miss the action." he whispered with a childish twinkle in his eyes. He knew something.

"Do you care sharing?" she grumbled, annoyed that he was keeping a vital information from her. "There's one person that refuses to attend this celebration." he smiled and she looks around their table. Right! Uncle Aemond wasn't here. "Aemond." she breathed and he nods.

"Why do you think so?" she gossiped, prepared to share this with her mother the following day. "Now you didn't hear this from me - but apparently during Aemond's nameday a few moons ago, Aegon brought him to a brothel." he continued sharing the story.

"Oh no, he must've thrown a fit - he probably believed that the Seven Hells would eat him whole." Jacaerys joked, earning a light chuckle from Daegon. "Probably, and now he refuses to attend his own brother's celebration." Daegon finished - taking a sip of his wine.

Alyssa takes a bite of her potato.

"I completely understand his reaction! Older siblings should protect their younger siblings." she defended and Jacaerys shoots Daegon a knowing stare. "Older siblings should protect their younger siblings." Jacaerys repeats to his cousin. "Hey! I protect Alyssa, remember that time when Aegon wanted to kill her cat?" he argued and the three of them erupt into bouts of laughter.

She rolled her eyes, turning her gaze towards the other parts of the hall. Her eyebrows furrow slightly, seeing the doors open and Aemond step inside of the room. "Seven hells," she mutters, poking Daegon's ribs and pointing at her grown uncle. "Holy fuck," he sneered, leaning towards Jacaerys' ears to whisper a few insults.

"It's a good thing we didn't leave, no?" he joked once more, Alyssa elbows his ribs - annoyed with his constant jabs at Aemond. "Jacaerys, might be best to keep Lucerys out of his sight." Alyssa humored - the prince beside her slightly pales.

"Happy nameday, Aegon." Aemond halts in front of his brother. The atmosphere between the both of them was evidently tense - they didn't need to speak to each other in order to understand what they were feeling. "Thank you, brother." he answers with a gulp.

Aegon points at the big table; "Our family is right over there, you should greet Saera and Rhaenyra - they traveled all the way from Dragonstone." he switches the topic. Aemond was the tallest of all the Targaryen siblings - his shoulders were wide and menacing, his legs were long - one would even assume that he was the oldest one, if it weren't for his older sisters having children of his age.

"I assume that you've already thanked them for arriving," Aemond breathed through his nose. Aegon never had a knack of diplomacy - all he knows is to waste the people's money on his vices. "I saw no need," he avoided and his younger brother scoffs.

He was the youngest of the two and yet ... he was the only one who cared about civility - the only one who studied history and swordfighting while his brother spent his days around whores and wine. Why was Aegon born before him? When he was most worthy of the title 'first son'.

"Of course you didn't."

"Princess Rhaenyra, Princess Saera, Prince Daemon - thank you for attending our brother's nameday in such short notice." Aemond's lips pressed into a thin line before sitting on the empty spot beside his mother. "We wouldn't miss it for the world, brother." Saera smiles.

"It seems like yesterday when Aegon was yet a babe, small he was - but according to the Queen he came without a fuss." Rhaenyra enunciated the last word, as if it had another meaning.

"A small babe, we thought that he wouldn't make it past the fortnight - but he's grown to be healthy and capable." Alicent responded, her words also with a second meaning. "Capable of being Rhaenyra's hand, I surmise." Saera notes while rubbing circles on her swollen belly. Aemond clenches his fists - Aegon as Rhaenyra's hand? It was almost laughable.

What would the realm turn into, then?

"Words are not done deals," Alicent's eyebrows raised. Aegon needed to be the next king after his father, it was only right. "Indeed," Aemond answered quickly.

He turns his head towards Lady Alyssa, who was sitting parallel to him. "Lady Alyssa," he greets and she smiles - they were the only ones who could understand each other in Kingslanding.

"How old is Aegon? Sixteen - seventeen?" Daemon suddenly opens his mouth after holding it too long. "Seventeen," Aemond responds. "By the grace of the seven gods, at that age I was already married to the Lady Rhea Royce for 2 years." Daemon comments, seemingly pointing out Aegon's lack of maidens.

"Which is why I planned on speaking to Princess Saera. Lady Alyssa is of a comfortable age, mayhaps we could betroth her to Aegon." Alicent recommends and the atmosphere turns cold. Alyssa's eyes quickly turn towards her mother - waiting for her response.

"No." Daemon answers instead.

"I agree with my husband, Queen Alicent. Aegon is far too old for my daughter - not to mention his reputation. And it would not benefit House Strong to marry into House Targaryen once more." Saera reasoned and the Queen smiles bitterly.

"Prince Daemon is much older than you, Princess Saera - and my memory serves me well. Your uncle's reputation was not exactly beautiful." Alicent reminds, not allowing the slander to permeate throughout the mind of her son.

Aemond looks at his niece.

"Princess Alyssa, do you wish to marry my brother?" he stares at her, gawking as he waits for a reply. "It would be an honor, but such decisions should be placed upon the hands of my mother and lord." she smiled, not wanting to make a fuss out of her hand.

"Mother, she does not wish to marry Aegon." Aemond interrupts plainly, and Alicent glares at him - mad at his boldness. "Oh, my sweet boy, if every parent followed the whims of their sons and daughters - half of us in this hall wouldn't exist." she says.

"Enough of this, Alicent. We intend to enjoy our evening." Daemon says rudely and the Queen turns away.

"God, could you even begin to imagine me as your brother's wife." Alyssa chuckled while taking a sip of her ale. "Princess Alyssa Targaryen, fitting but not for the right reasons." Jacaerys agreed while sitting beside Aemond.

She takes a deep breath, after a few more hours of arguing - the children decided to spend their time outside - in the garden but bathed in moonlight. "What do you think, Aemond? Why is Queen Alicent so hellbent on having me married to Aegon? I've heard the rumors, does she really want him as king?" she questioned.

Aemond shook his head; truly unsure.

"I don't know," he responded and Jacaerys turns to look at him. "But you agree and recognize that my mother is the rightful heir." Jacaerys' eyes narrowed - it was his first time breaking bread with his uncle, after years of being trained to think that he was the enemy.

"The rightful heir will still be decided upon, you'll never know if the King changes his mind." Aemond sneered, earning a glare from all three of his nephews/niece. "That's a real class way of saying that you don't believe that Princess Rhaenyra is the rightful heir," Daegon points out - not fully trusting his sister's friend.

Alyssa rolls her eyes; "Everyone knows that Aunt Rhaenyra will be Queen after kepazma. (grandfather)" she says for certain, shooting her uncle a knowing stare. "Then Jacaerys and his children, which he is yet to have." Alyssa mutters while leaning on the wall.

Aemond stares at Alyssa and she already knows what he thinks. He believes that Jacaerys and his siblings are not real Targaryens - sullied by Ser Harwin's blood, but wouldn't that make her tarnished too? Because her father was Ser Harwin Strong.

"You bore yourselves with politics, but do you wish to know what I really think of the situation?" he inquires and the trio nod. "What?" Alyssa's eyes twinkle as she scoots closer towards her uncle. "That Daegon and Jacaerys will be married soon," he begins.

"Who would've thought of that?" Daegon teased and Aemond's eyes narrowed saying; do you want me to continue? "But keep talking," Jacaerys looked at the far distance. He would be a good king - always listening to the advice of others.

"Daegon to some Martell or Stark and Jacaerys to one of the Velaryon twins or a Baratheon." he surmised, gathering all of the information he heard from the servants.

"Whether we like it or not, war is evidently brewing - as long as our King stays lenient to mistakes. Prince Daemon wouldn't allow this of course, he has a mind for war." Aemond compliments with admiration to his own uncle. "You have a twisted liking to our kepus," Daegon humored - allowing the ale to take full control of his brain.

Alyssa chuckles. "Don't let mother hear you, she'll burn all of us alive."

"When you say that war is brewing, do you mean that your faction will start it?" Jacaerys keeps his eyes focused on Aemond's general direction. Instead of replying, Aemond takes a deep breath. "The night has been long - and I must retire." he bid his goodbyes, standing up - and feeling the pairs of eyes glare at him.

next chapter >>

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[myfandomprompts]

EWAN MITCHELL being a lovable dork with TOM GLYNN-CARNEY

La Cinemafia interview (May 2024)

[goodeapple]

unravel me (aemond x baela x oc)

The dragon must have three heads...

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC) x Baela

warnings : it's a three for all (ffm), breeding, tongue twister, under negotiated/undisclosed kinks

word count : 2,000+

title from "Unravel Me" by Sabrina Claudio

“So good for me, my love.” Baela whispers against her cheek, and her tone is so pretty and praising that it sends Ysilla whining, and she burrows her face into her cousin’s naked shoulder. Soft hands slip over her back, fingertips dancing up the curve of her spine like a snake in the sand. Wisps of Baela’s curls tickle her face, the moonlight strands pecking her with a million tiny kisses. 

A brush of lips at Ysilla’s right shoulder signals the last piece of her puzzle notching into place. 

The sound that builds in Baela’s chest is more that of a rabid beast than a Velaryon Princess. 

“She's mine.” Baela snarls, pure dragon, and yanks Ysilla closer to her.

Their breasts meld, their skin sticky from the summer heat that refuses to break, even though night has fallen and blanketed the scorched earth below. Baela clutches her tighter, rolling Ysilla forward along the thigh squeezed between her legs. Ysilla’s breath hitches, eyes glassy, and she rocks her hips back and forth, grinding her wet cunt along the smooth ridge of it. 

A snicker, mean in sound and careless in its release, is an answer Baela does not want to hear. 

Aemond curls his hand around Ysilla’s ankle and with one good, strong tug, he rips his niece away from the other girl, splaying her out on her belly, her legs suddenly dangling off the side of the bed. Ysilla gasps, startled at the new position. She feels him press up behind her, the linen of his trousers soft and thin. Her arousal starts to soak through the fabric, and she tries not to arch back into the bulge she feels nudging apart her folds.

“Let’s not talk about who this one belongs to, girl,” Aemond brings both of Ysilla’s wrists behind her, securing them with one hand at the dip of her lower back, spacing her feet further apart so she’ll be a bit more stable for what’s to come.

“Because when it’s my cock inside of her, she loses all fucking thought.” 

Baela glares at him with enough hatred to fuel a thousand fires. Ysilla stares, drinking in her cousin’s state as if she is a cool drink. She was made by the Gods themselves, Ysilla swears it. Long, powerful legs that climb to muscled thighs- rider’s thighs before the curvaceous flare of her hips demands devotion. Then, up to a tapered waist before her chest blooms with beautiful, bouncy breasts that Ysilla always seems to find in her mouth. All of her gorgeous, heavenly body wrapped up in smooth, lucious sunloved skin that seems to glow and whisper take me, take me, take me into your den and keep me. It’s one of the many reasons Ysilla asked for her hand, even though her other was already entertwined with Aemond’s. 

Through all of that, the pinched look on her sweetheart face detracts from Ysilla’s happiness. How many times must they go through this? 

“Enough you two, I’m tired of hearing your- nnngh.” Ysilla cuts herself off with a guttural groan. She’s so wet, absolutely dribbling with want from Baela’s sweet touch that Aemond slides inside of her without any resistance. He drags her back and forth off of him, her trapped arms easy for him to loop his own through and puppet master her through their coupling. The bedspread crinkles under their movements and the softness scrapes at her nipples that sends bolts of overstimulation streaking through her tendons. He finds that perfect spot inside of her, as if his cock is a compass determined to find her pleasure, and drives the blunt mushroom head of himself straight into it overandoverand over again.

Ysilla screams, smothering her face into her sheets. She shoots up onto the tips of her toes, her peak washing through her like a tidal wave but Aemond doesn’t pause in his pace, fucking her through it brutally, her walls fluttering weakly at his assault. He’s trying to prove a point, even if it’s at her cervix’s expense. But Ysilla can’t bring herself to mind, her brain a puddle sloshing between her ears. 

“Baeeee-la,” Ysilla slurs. It’s hard to think, to talk, to breathe while Aemond does his best to fuck her stupid. Her paramour looks at her, the venom in her beautiful brown eyes dissipating to make room for tenderness and she sits up straighter, giving over her full attention. 

“Yes beloved?” Aemond growls at the name and Ysilla manages to curve her leg around his calf, stroking up and down the muscled limb. He’s such a boy- never knowing when to share.

“You didn’t… finish earlier…” Ysilla manages to croak out, biting at her lip as Aemond drags himself through her walls in a way that makes her ache. Baela gifts her a small smile, at the ready with a dismissive shake of her head. 

“No, no.” Ysilla answers before she can be told. She twists around, giving her lover a pleading glance. His skin is slick, glistening like his bejeweled eye. Scars and muscle weave a story Ysilla knows every word to, her husband a man just as complicated as he is handsome. Aemond nods, unlacing his arms from hers only to circle one around her hips. He always needs to be touching her. Ysilla slithers up his body, enjoying every ridge and dip along the way. 

“You’re doing so good for me, sweet boy. Taking such good care of me. How I love you so.” Aemond blushes, she can tell from how hot his face feels where he presses it to her neck. Ysilla drops a kiss beneath his ear, stroking the arm around her lovingly. He reaches up to cradle her breast in his hand, and he plucks and pulls at her nipple in a way that has her gushing. 

“Come here, ñuha prūmia." Ysilla lets her eyes fall heavily onto her lonely lover, her voice deep and thickened. It’s constant work, to spread her attention (her admiration, her desire) between her husband and wife. Their hers but not each other’s, not even with all of Ysilla’s begging and pleading. She only pokes them enough when the time is right, careful about toying across their battle lines. 

Baela blinks, unable to tear her stare from the veiny, pale hand swallowing up her wife’s tits. Aemond is so much bigger than both of them, so much stronger, it’s a bit intimidating. Sometimes, when Uncle and Niece get lost in each other, her rage dims into something more… warm. The intimidation into something a lot like yearning. Baela doesn’t entertain that feeling. 

The dragonrider comes back to herself, seeing an expression that’s far past pleading spelled out on Ysilla’s face.

“Now, Baela.” She blushes, a perfect cherry tint to her umber skin and Ysilla is so fucking hungry for her. Baela crawls forward and while Ysilla loves her face as much as the rest of her, the swing of her breasts is hypnotizing. She’s finally close enough, the sweet mint on her breath wafting over Ysilla’s face and the Princess finds her fingers and laces them with hers.

The girls’ lips brush, demure and proper, something barely considered as a kiss. Baela frowns, trying to stomp down her jealousy as Ysilla breaks away to gasp out a cry. Being made to share her wife with a man who she knows to be undeserving of her drives her to madness. Having to witness him bedding her is like salt in a wound and some days, the only thing stopping her from tearing through The One-Eyed Prince with her teeth is the pleading purple eyes of her ābrazȳrys. 

Baela could- no, can make Ysi cum harder, moan sweeter, love deeper than he could ever hope to. Spitefulness bites at her heart, and her voice crawls up her throat, forming into would you like me to leave you two alone? until Ysilla rolls her head forward and lets the longing in her eyes drip over Baela like hot wax. 

“Spread your legs for me, Bae.” Baela sighs happily, her girl’s attention back to where it should be. She settles back on her elbows, butterflying her knees apart and offering herself up on a platter. Who is she to deny her Queen? 

Ysilla dives in, all tongue, lapping her cream with a hunger reserved only for their bedchambers. Baela drops her head back, a ragged gasp ripping from her throat. Her hips swivel off the bed, rising to fuck Ysilla’s eager tongue. She can’t help it, when she reaches up to cup her own breast and rolls the plump weight in her skilled hand. She tangles her fingers in Ysilla’s roots and pulls, slanting her face harder into her soaked cunt.

Aemond moans and it’s such a nice sound, Ysilla will try to have him make it more often. He’s rutting into her, animalistic and fevered, spurred on by the sinful painting his wife and her lover make right before him. Ysilla slips a hand between her legs, caressing her clit in a way that sends her spasming and her husband groaning. She lets her slick pool over her fingers, getting them nice and drenched before tearing away from herself, and sliding them into Baela’s tight hole.

“Ysi!” Baela gasps, hips bucking wildly and if it were just the two of them, Ysilla would climb on top of her and ride. “Ysi, fuck, don’t stop!” 

Driven by nothing more than greed- rocking back into Aemond, pushing her face forward against Baela, Ysilla drowns herself in the scent/feel/taste of them, feral and needy and endlessly ravenous.

“Silli, iksan jāre ribazmoqitta kesīr.” Aemond curses into the back of her neck before he lifts her up, hunching over her back and fucking into her like she’s a ragdoll, like she’s just a hole for him to dump his cum into, like she’s a Dornish slut busy with her Velaryon consort- fuck!

His release takes him by the throat and squeezes. He thrusts deeper, however possible that may be, his spend sloshing from her juicy walls as he burrows into her womb. Aemond collapses onto her back. His heavy breaths at her neck and the weight of him on her is a comfort, keeping her pinned so she doesn’t float away from her body. It keeps her focused too; she still has a job to do. Her jaw aches but she fights through the burn with gusto, her focus unwilling to waiver. 

Aemond’s left hand joins her hold on Baela’s leg, his pale fingers digging into the dark flesh. They’d look so good together, so right. They’d fight before they’d fuck, or maybe both at the same time. Baela’s hand wrapped around Aemond’s narrow neck, choking him out as she bounced on his lap. His hand striking each of her ample cheeks, the buttery globes quaking before he snaked his long fingers to the dripping honeypot purring between her thighs. Ysilla wraps her lips around her cousin’s pretty little pearl and sucks, long lost in the haze of her fantasies, curling her fingers up to press at the spongy spot that undos all of Baela’s ties. 

Baela shouts, back bowing and head flying back, her curls waterfalling off her shoulders. She searches blindly for Ysilla’s wrist, desperately yanking her hand still when she finds it, guiding herself through her own peak and humping her wife’s fist to draw out her tremors. Ysilla flicks her tongue over the wiggling flesh, reveling in the sharp rise of her wailing.

Aemond’s thumb strokes Baela’s quivering calf as his other goes to strum at Ysilla’s button like she’s a harp string. The Princess shudders, finally giving herself over to euphoria, cushioning herself between both halves of her world. 

Baela flexes her toes, her whimpers dying out, deep rattling breaths taking their place. Aemond hums, sated and sound, edging Ysilla up the bed so that they can both curl up and rest. Baela presses the sole of her heel into his forearm to stall his movements, in a way that’s not quite as threatening as it appears tender. He drums his fingers down her leg, before pinching at her ankle. Ysilla watches and smiles, peppering kisses along the silky skin of Baela’s inner thigh. She pulls out her fingers gently, making sure to go nice and slow, letting her feel every inch that pulls out of her. Her wife shivers, crossing her thighs, perhaps suddenly aware of Aemond’s heavy eye getting quite the view of her womanhood.

Ysilla lets herself be selfish, happy that Baela is still lost in the clouds before she turns to her husband. Grinning slyly, she feeds her fingers into Aemond’s mouth, his hungry tongue swirling around them and sucking ravenously. 

Se zaldrīzes ēdruta emagon hāre heads. 

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ñuha prūmia  .  my heart

ābrazȳrys  .  wife

iksan jāre ribazmoqitta kesīr  .  I'm going crazy here

se zaldrīzes ēdruta emagon hāre heads  .  the dragon must have three heads

[lillysbitchfest]