#targcest

[rhaenyra-daemon]

Laenor: We can't manipulate, manwhore, or mansplain our way out of this one

Daemon: Manslaughter it is then

[spider-stark]

PRECIPICE

Aegon II Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary - Forced to attend a stuffy ball, you find yourself hiding beneath a table with Aegon.

Warnings - implied targcest as always

Word Count - 4.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

The delicious aroma of roast mutton is wafting over you as you pass one of the many long serving tables lining the walls of the ballroom. Your gaze drags along the vast spread that has been prepared for tonight; a variety of artisan breads, cooked meats, and candied desserts are laid out upon silver serving dishes. 

As you reach the end of the first table, a pile of lemon cakes snag your attention. Neatly stacked atop an ornate porcelain platter, the cakes are coated in a thin glaze that shimmers in the light. Your mouth instantly begins watering at the sight, your stomach growling in a way that would be deemed improper for a Lady. 

Beside you, holding a plate that has been loaded with mashed potatoes and honeyed chicken, Jace turns his head to cock a brow at you.

“Hungry?” He asks, chuckling softly. 

You suck in a deep breath before forcefully tearing your gaze from the cakes. “Extremely.” 

It takes an enormous amount of will power to turn away from the serving table while still empty-handed, but you somehow manage to do just that. Having hardly even walked a few steps, though, Jace is abandoning his plate to rush after you, softly seizing your wrist to keep you from moving any further. 

“If you’re hungry, then you should eat.” 

His concern is obvious, not only through his tone, but his expression as well. With his furrowed brow and tight-mouthed frown, you’re fairly certain that he’s already considering the consequences of dragging you back to the table and feeding you himself if need be. 

Jace had always been that way—not only with you, but with everyone. He was kind hearted and considerate to fault. 

“I would,” you smile, shaking your head slightly to dismiss his concern, “but I’m afraid that if I do, I might very well pop right on out of this ridiculously tight corset.” 

You wave an idle hand down to your waist, unnaturally cinched by the intricate lacing and boning of the garment beneath your evergreen gown. His eyes follow the motion, tracing along the intense curve, lingering for a moment too long. 

The explanation seems to wash away much of his concern, relieved to know that discomfort was the only reason you had chosen to abstain from the treats being served. Even so, a touch of empathy remains, accompanied by the faintest hint of desire gleaming in his amber gaze. 

Amber—an unusual color for a boy of Velaryon blood. His eyes were one of the many reasons that your mother, the Queen Alicent, felt so confident in labeling Princess Rhaenyra’s boys as bastards behind closed doors. And, if you were being honest with yourself, you knew that there was likely truth to her claims. Your nephews probably were bastards—but you didn’t particularly care. 

Jace was nice to you, and that was all that had ever mattered to you. 

He clears his throat, realizing that he had been gawking at your body for far longer than he should. “It looks uncomfortable,” the words spill out without permission, and you nearly laugh when his eyes go wide. “That didn’t come out right, nothing about it actually looks uncomfortable—it looks stunning! I mean, you look stunning! It’s just that, I don’t know, I imagine that having something squeeze you so tightly might be-” 

“Jace, it’s okay! Truly,” you interrupt his rambling with a soft giggle. “You should know that I’m not so easily offended,” you playfully chide. “Besides, you’re right. It is quite uncomfortable!” 

Actually, quite felt like an enormous understatement. But you didn’t figure that Jace was particularly interested in hearing about how your breasts were aching from being roughly shoved up by the tight garment. 

Jace looses a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Then why bother wearing them? Many noble-women go without corsets. Even my mother hardly ever wears one—she believes they’re vile things that only aid in the objectification of ladies.” 

Your brows rise, agreeing with the claims of your half-sister. But then you let your attention shift to the dais, meeting the rough stare of the reason why you had been forced into the tortuous garb—your mother. 

She’s already watching you when you meet her eye, her lip curled as she sends you a pointed look, silently urging you away from your nephew. It takes a great deal of effort not to shrink beneath the weight of her attention, and you’re beyond grateful for the group of women who shuffle past you towards the dance floor, giving you an excuse to break the hold she has on you. 

“I wear it because my mother wishes for all of her children to look their best,” you answer, shifting your focus back onto Jace. “And who am I to disappoint the Queen?” 

He notes the sudden callousness of your tone, as well as the way you clasp your hands together at your waist, fidgeting with the golden ring on your index finger. He doesn’t bother asking if you’re okay, however, knowing well enough that you were not—and already knowing why, as well. 

You imagine that Jace doesn’t much like your mother; both for her part in the rumors spread about him and his brothers and for the way she has treated his mother. 

It makes you upset in a strange way, a part of you always wishing to defend the Queen, no matter how abhorrent her actions. After all, she was your mother—whether you like it or not—and you knew very well that if someone were to try to hurt you or your siblings, then she would gladly lay her life on the line for you. 

You were thankful for her; even if her protection hurt, even if her maternal love only exists when your life is at stake.  

“Speaking of your siblings,” Jace suddenly notes, veering slightly off-subject as his own stare drifts towards the dais, “how did Aegon manage to weasel his way out of attending tonight?” 

Your brows snap together before letting your head snap back towards the dais, managing to avoid your mother’s nasty stare this time by looking to her right, taking note of each of your siblings. 

Aemond is sat directly by her side, his posture rigid as his eye scans across the room, alert and on-guard as usual. Next to him is Helaena, leisurely picking at her plate of food and mindlessly bobbing her head along to the symphony being played for court musicians. Daeron, who your mother insisted fly Tessarion here from Oldtown so that he might be present for tonight, is sat next to your empty chair, making idle chatter with those around him. 

But Aegon’s chair, sat between yours and Helaena’s, is vacant. 

A knot forms in your stomach when you look back at Aemond, his piercing violet eye catching yours, gleaming with a silent order—find our imbecile brother before he makes a fool of us all. 

You give him a curt nod before looking away, head whirling as you begin searching the crowd around you for any sign of your eldest brother. 

“Simple,” you huff, “he didn’t.” 

Jace hums his understanding as you politely excuse yourself, turning away from him to begin shoving through the throng of people filling the room. 

You decline invitations to dance and spout excuses as to why you can’t stop to chat as you push past noblemen-and-women from various Houses, trying to maintain the pleasant persona your mother favored while still moving fast enough that you might find Aegon before he finds any new ways to publicly bring shame upon the Targaryen name.  

It’s exhausting work—and by the time you have shoved yourself to the other end of the room without finding him, you nearly consider giving up. Your chest hurts and your scalp is itching from being poked and prodded by a dozen or so pins, all of which had been meticulously placed by servants to arrange plaits into a fanciful half-updo. 

In many ways, you look like your mother; with your elaborate hairstyle and green dress, the look is tied together by a pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star dangling from your neck. 

And, in many ways, you hate it. 

Much to the Queen’s dismay, you’ve never much liked the elegant styles preferred by many women at court. No, instead you spent much of your time donning mail with your hair lazily pulled back, joining Aemond for practice in the training yard. 

She hated how unrefined you were, how indelicate you were; fearful for how others at court might view you for it, for how much attention you might draw to yourself. 

You blow out a sigh, resisting the urge to pull all of the pins from your hair as you will yourself to keep walking, to keep looking for Aegon. A table overflowing with carafes of arbor wine and flagons of ale catches your attention, setting off alarm bells in your mind. 

If Aegon were going to choose anywhere to hide at this godsforsaken ball, then it would certainly be in close proximity to the alcohol. 

A cacophony of laughter and clinking goblets surrounds you as you approach, scanning over rows of bottles and skimming the faces of those nearby. Spinning your ring on your finger, you walk along the entire length of the long serving table, disappointed when you reach the end of it and find that your brother is still nowhere in sight. 

Chewing on your cheek, you fight the urge to pour yourself a drink when you notice a carafe of blackberry wine. The plum colored liquid seems to call your name, singing promises of sweet oblivion, an escape from the restless feeling clawing at your chest. 

You’re out of place here in court, and you always have been—you know that, and you worry that everyone around you knows, too. 

Sensical enough to recognize that alcohol would likely just exacerbate your current ill-feelings, you shun the carafe and turn towards the grand entrance. Lifting your chin and squaring your shoulders, you try to appear more composed than you feel as you saunter towards the large wooden doors. 

If Aegon had snuck off with one of the serving girls, then there was a good chance that he was still somewhere in the hall, either flirting or feeling up their skirts. And, if you were wrong, then at least he had provided you with an excuse to slip away from this mess of a ball. 

As you pass by the last serving table, the platters and dishes atop it already thoroughly picked over, you feel someone tug at your dress. You whirl around, a fiery retort already falling off your tongue, fully intending to rip into whoever had found the audacity to touch you without permission—only to find yourself insulting the air. 

There was no one there, at least not close enough to have touched you. 

For a heartbeat you begin to reel, wondering if you’ve started to lose your mind before feeling the sensation again. A sharp tug at the fabric, just by your knee. Your head snaps down towards your dress, covering your mouth before a gasp can slip your lips. 

An arm is peeking out from beneath one of the finely embellished tablecloths, and a well-groomed hand is clutching your skirts. You instantly recognize the hand as Aegon’s, having become intimately familiar with your brother’s touch throughout your life. 

Taking a step closer to the covered table, you try to look natural as you hunch over it slightly to get closer to his level, feigning an interest in a half-eaten roast duck. 

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing, Aegon?!” Your voice is hushed, not quite a whisper, but low enough so that no one other than him might hear. 

Releasing his hold on your skirts, Aegon lifts the tablecloth a little higher, revealing his face. “Get under here,” he tilts his head, motioning for you to join him beneath the table. 

“No!” 

He swiftly presses a finger to his lips in response to your incredulous shout, shushing you. You stiffen, nervously flicking your eyes to each side, checking to ensure that no one had heard you. Fortunately, the courtiers around you appear far too invested in their conversations and drinks to notice how you appear to have shouted at a roast duck. 

Aegon’s lilac eyes are wide, pleading as he shoves the tablecloth up higher, giving you more room to slip beneath it. “Would you just shut up and come?” 

It’s the sheer urgency of his tone that piques your interest, although you wish that it hadn’t. You huff out an annoyed sigh, taking another look around the room before gathering up your skirts and sinking to your knees, crawling underneath the table. 

Once you’ve successfully sat down beside him on the stone floor, he drops the cloth, shielding the two of you from any prying eyes. The material is thin enough that it allows some light to pass through it, very dimly illuminated Aegon’s grinning face, all urgency having suddenly vanished. 

“Welcome,” he almost sounds breathless, the word airy—and utterly unnecessary. 

You can faintly see the rosy coloring of his cheeks, a few messy silver waves tumbling across his face, and you’re immediately willing to bet that he’s extremely buzzed. “What are you doing, Aeg?” 

Your tone is firm, but there’s a certain gentleness to it that was specially reserved for your eldest brother. While you maintain that you love all three of them equally, it’s undeniable that your relationship with Aegon has always been… different. 

He reaches to his side, lifting a carafe from the ground beside him. “Having a party,” he says, raising it towards your face and playfully swirling the garnet colored liquid. 

“I’m unsure if you’re aware,” you motion towards the cloth shrouding you from the bustling ballroom, “but our mother has already planned quite the celebration for tonight—and she likely does not wish for it to be ruined by her drunkard son ducking beneath tables like an imbecile!” 

Aegon pokes his bottom lip out into a pout. “Why must you assume that I am drunk?” 

“Because you’re you,” you drone, cocking your head at him, “and you are always drunk.” 

Rolling his eyes, he sits the carafe down on the ground between you. There are only mere inches separating the two of you, both of you squeezing your limbs close to your body to avoid having a foot peek out from beneath the table. Sitting this close to him, you can smell the sweetness of the arbor red of his breath—as well as the faintest hint of sulfur, a sign that he had clearly gone riding on Sunfyre earlier and had failed at washing off the dragon’s strong scent. 

You take another breath, inhaling the smell of him into your lungs. It was familiar—comfortable, urging your taut muscles to slacken in his presence. 

“And what if I told you that I am sober right now?” 

A snort escapes you, sparing him an incredulous look. “Then I would call you a liar,” you tell him, tapping a finger against the rim of the half-empty carafe. 

His stare drops down towards it, watching as the liquid ripples when you pull your hand back. When he looks back up, he’s wearing a crooked smile that makes your heart flutter. “Mostly sober, then.” 

It’s nearly impossible to stifle your laugh, clamping a hand over your mouth so that you might muffle the sound and prevent passersby from becoming suspicious. The sound only makes his smile grow wider and more genuine, an expression that he graced very few people with. 

“I’ll ask again,” you say, speaking only when you're confident that no more laughter will tumble out. “Why are you down here? If mother finds out then she will be furious and-” 

Aegon tosses his head back, cutting you off with a groan. “Mother will be furious no matter what,” 

Disdain drips from each syllable, thickening the air around you. He didn’t like talking about her much, and you couldn’t blame him for it. Of all your siblings, Aegon had been dealt the worst hand, simply by being born first. He got the brunt of your mothers vile behavior; and you hated that, too. 

“Because,” lazily rolling his neck so that he can look at you again, he answers, “I’d rather spend my night under here,” he flicks a hand up, lazily gesturing around himself, “than be forced to sit through even one more tedious speech from some ancient Lord of gods-know-where!” 

You bite your tongue, holding back another laugh. 

“And,” he continues, nodding in your direction, “I am now saving you from the same mundane fate. You’re welcome.” 

“What makes you think that I needed your saving?” You ask, brows rising. 

Aegon purses his lips, placing a finger against his chin as he feigns contemplation, studying the intricate styling of your hair, the modest long-sleeved gown, and the Star resting against your covered breasts. “Perhaps it was that our mother has you dressed up as though you’re an aspiring Septa.” 

Thinking of the plain women, with their simple gowns and traditional head coverings, you nearly laugh again as you ask, “How many Septa’s do you know that wear corsets and jewelry, brother?” 

“None,” he admits, shoulders lifting into an indolent shrug. “Though, if they looked more like you, then I might finally have a reason to attend prayer. Beautiful women would be more than enough to turn me into a pious man.” 

A warmth creeps up your neck as blood rushes to your cheeks, unsure if his statement was meant as a compliment—was he saying that he found you beautiful? If so, it shouldn’t have been a particularly shocking revelation. After all, Aegon had complimented you before, many times. 

In all fairness, however, most of those times had been when he was thoroughly besotted. He had a habit of sneaking into your rooms and practically draping himself off of you, muttering drunken nonsense about how breathtaking you were. You had never placed much truth in the statements though, assuming that Aegon likely didn’t even recognize who he was speaking to, much less whose bed he had crawled into. 

But even if this was a genuine and mostly sober attempt at complimenting you, the flattery of it doesn’t last nearly long enough. Your own insecurity washes back over you far quicker than you like, reminding you of just how unlike yourself you currently feel. 

“I do not believe that anything would be capable of turning you into a pious man,” you joke, trying and failing to cover up the melancholy that has settled into your bones. “Not even beautiful women.” 

“You could.” 

The answer comes far too quick, spilling from his tongue with an eagerness that even seems to catch him by surprise. 

“Though, I must say, for as exquisite as this dress makes you look,” his hand reaches across the short expanse dividing you, mindlessly running his fingers along the fabric covering your shoulder, “I much prefer the way look in armor—sweaty skin, messy hair, sword in-hand—all of it.” 

Your breath catches in your throat as his touch drifts towards the center of your chest, fingers dragging along the thin chain leading to your pendant, lifting the Star into his palm. He stares at it for a moment before yanking it roughly from your neck, grinning when you yelp. “But this,” he lifts the Seven-Pointed Star slightly, “I absolutely hate.” 

With that, he tosses it from underneath the table, sending it skittering across the floor beyond the tablecloth. 

Your jaw drops open, a hand pressed against the now-sore spot along the back of your neck. Despite yourself, your lips start to curve into a playful smile. You try fighting against it, try pressing them into a firm line, but fail. “Mother will not be happy about that-” 

“She’s never happy,” Aegon interjects. His own expression shifts, the line on his forehead deepening as he says, “Do not let yourself bear her misery. Life is too short—and you deserve more than that.” 

A palpable silence is thickening the air, and your breathing seems to synchronize as you simply stare at one another. 

Slowly, nervously, you say, “I’m not sure what it is that I deserve,” 

“You deserve,” he pauses, lips still parted despite the absence of speech. Then, swallowing back the words that had been building in his throat, he says, “you deserve whatever it is that you want, sister.” 

Your hand falls from your neck into your lap, and you avert your gaze, watching your fingers as they fidget with your ring. “And what if I do not know what I want?” 

Once, you had thought that you wanted a life like Jaces. A happy life, with a mother that knew how to love you and siblings that hadn’t been raised in fear of their half-sister ascending the throne, taught that their very existence was a threat to her power. But, suddenly, you felt as though you were no longer sure. 

Aegon hesitates, watching you carefully. His lilac eyes appear as though they’re searching for something within your own—a hint of recognition, or reciprocation. If he found what he was looking for, then you were unaware. “Then you’ll figure it out,” he sighs, his smile not reaching his eyes. “You have all the time in the world to decide.” 

There is something reassuring about his statement, making it resonate with you in a way that you hadn’t expected. You look up, holding his gaze for a heartbeat, then two, and you almost swear that you can see it—the silent invitation, the plea to delve deeper into his words, to decipher exactly what it was that he was promising you. 

You have all the time in the world—all the time in the world to decide if he might ever be something you want. 

Suddenly you find yourself dancing on the edge of a precipice, chest tightening as you grapple with the idea that, maybe, something more might exist between you and Aegon. 

That, maybe, he had always known who he was complimenting and what bed he was slipping into. 

That, for him, it had always been you. 

“Aegon, I-” 

He shakes his head, cutting you off before you have a chance to say something that he fears you may regret. Then, sliding the carafe between you to the side, he scoots closer. “If you plan on staying under my table,” he teases, clearing his throat, “then we need to do something about your hair.” 

“I thought you said I looked exquisite?” You stay still as he starts toying with the strands, trying to swallow the tumult of your own emotions. 

Aegon’s plucking various pins from your hair, tossing them to the ground. “Yes, but I also said that I prefer your hair when it’s messy. It’s more…” he sucks in a breath, unable to hide the admiration swelling in his chest when he finally exhales, “you.” 

Your cheeks are burning hot, and you’re suddenly very thankful for the lack of light around you. On instinct, you almost tell him how your mother wouldn’t agree—but then you think better of it. 

“You’re… generous.” 

Something about your voice sounds foreign in your ears. You sound nervous—and you’re not used to feeling nervous around Aegon. 

His fingers are combing through the plaits forming your updo, his brow drawn taut, framing his lilac eyes, shining bright with concentration. “Generous,” he snorts softly, nails raking lightly against your scalp as he shakes the strands loose, “I don’t hear that one often.” 

“Well perhaps you’d hear it more if you weren’t such an ass,” you shoot back, slowly trying to slip back into your usual self. 

“Me? An ass?” He’s untangled the final braid, scooting away from you slightly now as he presses a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. “Never.” 

Now falling in loose waves, free of those incessant pins, you brush your hair over your shoulder. “Just earlier I heard you telling Lord Grover that if wisdom were measured in wrinkles that he would be named Grand Maester.” You point out, unable to mask your amusement while recalling the old man’s shocked expression. 

“Is it not true?” Aegon smirks. “The man is nearly seventy, and his age certainly shows.” 

“Lord Grover is only two-and-fifty, brother.” 

His brows shoot up, gaping at you. “Tell me that you’re not serious!” When you nod, confirming that you are, he sucks his teeth. “Wow—how unfortunate. He looks positively dreadful for his age, then. I thought that he surely had one foot in the grave by now.” 

“Aegon!” You rebuke through your own sputtered laughter, shaking your head at his insolence. “See? This is what I was talking about! If you weren’t so crude then you might get more compliments.” 

Swinging his arm back to grab for the carafe, Aegon’s nose scrunches slightly. “Why bother?” He implores, a hint of mischief in his tone. “My crudeness is what you like most about me, is it not? Without it, dear sister, your life would be quite boring.” 

Just before he brings the carafe to his lips, he inclines his head towards the tablecloth, emphasizing his words. A reminder—that, without him, you would still be out there, sitting miserably amongst your siblings and being forced to dance with Lord’s twice your age. 

There was something more beneath the veil of humor and arrogance, however. A craving that had him tipping the carafe back, hoping that the stinging of the alcohol might numb his gnawing desire for validation—to hear you say that you yes, my life would be boring without you. 

“I suppose you’re right,” the admission has him pausing, the carafe lingering against his bottom lip. “Truth be told, I had never put much thought into it before, but you do have a way of keeping life interesting, Aeg. So, I must agree that, without you, my life would be positively dreadful.” Staring at the ground in-between you, you smile before adding, “After all, who else would be able to convince me to risk our mother’s scorn and crawl beneath a table to drink wine and fix my hair?” 

There’s a slight tremor in his voice when he speaks, trying to mask the warmth swelling in his chest, “You have yet to drink a single drop.” 

“Then I suppose that is the next thing you’ll have to fix,” you say, sticking your hand out towards him, urging him to pass you the carafe. He hands it to you while biting back a grin. 

“Careful,” he warns, “drink too much and you may end up like your drunkard brother.” 

“I don't mind,” You mirror his expression, your own lips curving as you raise the glass upwards, the strong scent of the arbor red stinging your nostrils. “I quite like my drunkard brother.” 

His gaze burns against your flesh as you tilt your head back, allowing the alcohol to slip over your tongue, and you suddenly realize that you are no longer standing on the edge of that precipice. 

You’re falling.

a/n - i was honestly just thinking about jude and cardan hiding under a table in the cruel prince and ended up with this? so yeah, definitely inspired by jurdan content (but y'know... no coup d'etat lmao).

[eraenaa]

A Bastard's Bride, A Dragon's Desire

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen Princess Reader AU

Synopsis: They have betrothed you to Jacaerys as a way of securing a line to the throne if they fail in usurping your half-sister’s crown. Your older brother Aemond was livid at the decision.

Warnings: Targcest, Mature, 18+, Submissive Aemond (kinda), Oral Sex (M receiving), Boobjob, P in V Sex, Jealousy, Possessive, not proofread

Word Count: 4,327

“This cannot go! You dare betrothed my sister to a bastard!?” Aemond screamed at your grandfather and mother. Never have you seen him so angry and agitated. His lilac eye was wide in fury, his frame rigid in rage. You did not wish for the betrothal, but you did not have the same anger that Aemond showed. Screaming and spewing foul words as if he was the one being sent as a bride for the plain prince. “My prince— you will learn to hold your tongue.” Your grandfather warned. “We understand your qualms upon the match; believe it or not, we do not wish for it. But it is a marriage that must be made.” Your grandfather sighed, his eyes going to you, who had your head downcast, ready to silently meet your fate.

You peeked a look at Aemond, heart swelling at how protective your brother was. How he would defend and voice out the concerns and fears because you did not have the courage to. You tried to reach for his hand under the table; your touch always seemed to calm him, but he was in a state of utter anger— rage at a level he had never reached before. His vision was white hot at the injustice he believed to be presented— injustice greater than when his eye was taken. For how could they be so cruel to betroth you, his sweet, smart, and enchanting little sister, to a plain and weak bastard of House Strong? “I will not stand by this union,” Aemond seethed and stood from his chair. “With all due respect, my prince, you have no say nor sway upon the marriage— complain and rage as you would; you will not change the plans made. You swallowed thickly as Aemond marched out of the chambers of the council, your mother heavily sighing at the reaction of your older brother—his reaction to your betrothal confirmed her suspicions. 

You walked to your chambers and were slightly startled to see your older brother there. Staring intently at the fire, waiting for you. “They cannot do this— they cannot be allowed to dict—“ You sighed and shook your head, sitting upon a settee and bringing a pillow to your lap. “They have the power to— I have no choice but to do as they wish,” You answered. You knew of this— you always knew you were to be played like a pawn, sold like a sheep in order for them to have a greater claim to the throne. You’ve expected this for years— you have made your peace with it. 

Aemond turned to you, his eye dark and terrifying. “Why are you not angered? Why do you only obey without even a question?” He asked, threading closer to you. “Tell me, sister… do you wish to marry Jacaerys? Is that why you said no word when they made their plans known? Hm? Are you ecstatic at the thought of being a bastard’s bride?” Your lips agape at his words— at his anger that he now pointed towards you. 

“Grandfather was right— you must learn to hold your tongue.” You whispered. “You dare insult me, brother? You dare try to dress my quiet contempt as ecstasy in being a lamb for slaughter so they can continue on with their plans,” You whispered harshly as his face threaded closer to yours. His lilac eye softened and started to fill with remorse, but you shook your head, disheartened by the words he uttered. “Get out,” You said and stood, not wanting to face him any longer. Growing hurt at your brother for thinking as such. “Sister, I—“ he tried to get hold of your arm, but you stepped away. “Leave— I wish to be alone,” You muttered, hearing him sigh before doing as you asked. 

The following day, you confined yourself to your rooms. Ignoring the knocks of your maids, sister, mother, Aegon, and Aemond, who was the most persistent of them all. Trying to bribe you with sweets freshly made from the kitchen and then the promise of jewels and dresses that your heart was completely bemused with. You ignored all their calls and focused on the betrothal made. Trying hard to have a better outlook upon it— trying to find the little positives so you would not be so completely miserable with the marriage. “Ñuha hāedar, you must eat— please.” (My little sister) You hear Aemond call; it is time for supper, and you have not consumed a meal the entire day. He called your name once more, but you ignored it, simply staring out of the window to the starry night sky.  

“I swear to the gods I will break down this door!” Aemond gritted out— trying a new tactic because his pleading got him no reaction. The prince sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, growing tired of your stubbornness. He regretted raising his voice at you— wrongfully pointing his anger at you, who was simply a victim of their desire to ensure a line of power. He could not bear it— he could not have another thing taken from him by the Strongs. He already lost his eye to Lucerys— he’d rather burn the entire Kingdom than have to lose you to Jacaerys. 

Aemond sighed in relief as he heard you unbar the door, slowly opening it to reveal your sullen self. “The cake,” Was all you said through the little gap. Aemond bit his lip and handed you the platter that held your favorite sweet. He was to speak once more, offer his apologies but you were quick to shut the door and bar it again. 

The next day, you were finally forced out of your chambers. Your mother was persistent in readying you to meet your future betrothed. Having you fitted for new dresses as if you were a doll. You used to love that— you used to love spending hours discussing your visions and specificity for your dresses. You did not mind having to stand for hours whilst they took your measurements— you would even volunteer to embroider your own dress, but now the task seemed heavy. 

Aemond watched you as you were being spoken to about the plans they had made when your bastard kin was to come. He watched your sullen eyes, your deflated shoulders, your pouted lips. The rage in him started to return; he hated witnessing you be in such a state. He believed that you do not deserve to be given such a cruel fate. He believed that you deserve someone better—someone who was not a plain bastard. You deserved someone honorable and were of high standing. You deserved someone who would adore you, dote on you, spoil you, love you— you deserved to be with someone like him. Aemond clenched his jaw as you sighed heavily; your mother had ignored his wishes and pleas.

His mind was made long before. He knew he loved you more than the love a brother and sister shared. He loved you in the way of your house, in the way of a dragon— queer it must be in the eyes of the others, but he did not care; he loved you as a man would love his woman. But he was silent with his love, fearing you would not return it. Yes, he felt that you loved him, but he believed it only to be a familial kind— that it was not the same as the burning passion he had in his heart. 

Aemond lay on his bed, mind swimming in thoughts on how to save you. On how to make you his. It did occur to him that to make you his, he would have to admit the deep feelings he had and was certain of ever since he was but nine. That he would have to confess his devotion to you, his sweet little sister. He hears a small knock on his door, and he immediately knows it is you. The prince did not even stand, simply muttering for you to enter. No word was uttered as you closed the door and walked to him, who lay on his bed. Your brother was to sit up, but you moved to lay atop his chest— just like you often did in childhood. You wanted comfort, and your brother Aemond is always and you believe will forever be your greatest comfort. 

Aemond froze as you placed yourself atop him, letting your body press against his, your arms wrapping around his neck. You two did this often in childhood; whenever you felt glum or melancholic, you would place yourself atop him, and he would wrap his arms tightly around you. But as the both of you blossomed and grew into man and woman, you stopped doing such actions— growing weary and aware of your bodies. 

Aemond wrapped his arms around your waist. You were so warm and soft and plush. Your frame fitted perfectly against his— just like it always has. “I do not wish to marry him,” You mumble against his letter-clad chest, taking a deep breath to smell his scent: leather and citrus. “I know,” He mumbled against the top of your head. Aemond taking a deep breath of you— lavender and lilac invading him. 

“Perhaps I should flee…” you mused after a stretch of silence. “And go where?” Aemond asked. “I do not know… maybe Essos? I’ve always wanted to see YiTi, or I could go and find Old Valyria? Anywhere but here.” You sighed as Aemond ran his hand through your hair. Your body tingled with every stroke his hand made. “You would leave me?” He asked, and you shook your head. “No, you would come with me, of course.” Aemond smiled at your words. “Of course,” He agreed and placed a kiss atop your pretty head. You stayed in Aemond’s arms for hours— drifting off to slumber. Aemond stayed awake, wanting to savor the feeling of having you in his arms, indulging himself with the thought that you were his. 

However, as time went on and you were starting to wake, Aemond’s heart clenched at the thought of letting you go. Right then and there, he had decided. He decided to do what he never had the courage to do… he had to claim you and make it known to everyone that you were his and his alone. 

The scowl never left Aemond’s face as he and Helaena were tasked to escort you and Jacaerys. Having to watch you grow familiar with the boy they intend for you to marry made his heart wrench in jealousy— his stomach pitting in fear as he saw a small smile on your lips. Aemond resisted the urge to throw a dagger at his eldest bastard nephew when he dared take your hand to escort you down the steps of the courtyard. “You’re growing too obvious, brother,” Helaena muttered as she watched you acclimate yourself to the presence of the Strong Prince. “I do not care— let them know my intentions,” Aemond answered, holding tightly at the railing as he saw the enchantment in Jacaerys’ eyes as he spoke with you, body daring thread closer to yours. “I’m afraid there is not much you could do… they are to be bounded by blood,” Aemond shook his head, stubborn and unaccepting of their fates. 

When evening came, and supper was held for the whole of the family, Aemond stewed in anger as your place next to him was removed— moving your place to sit with your soon-to-be-announced betrothed. You took in a breath as Jacaerys took hold of your hand, a smile on his lips. But you could not focus on the joy he showed because you saw clearly the scowl on your brother’s. His hand tightly clenched around a dinner knife, his eye steady on you. 

“This is torture for you, isn’t it,” Aegon muttered to his younger brother. His eye held a spark of amusement at Aemond’s ire— but there was a tinge of concern at the uncertain look in your eyes as Jacaerys kept his hold on your hand. “Return to your seat,” Aemond gritted but Aegon kept still at his spot. “You’ve waited too long, brother… you must take matters into your own hands before it truly is all too late,” He advised. Aemond closed his eye at the temptation his brother’s words presented. “As much as I like to watch you suffer… control yourself and painfully deny yourself of pleasure— I’d rather have our little sister here with you than be with a bastard in Dragonstone.” 

Aemond gritted his jaw. “Enough, Aegon— what you suggest will not only dishonor me but our sister as well. You a—“ Aegon sighed and shook his head. “There is an opportunity for you, brother, to gain something you’ve wanted since we were children— lower your damned pride and self-righteousness and make her your own. Either that or watch her be married to Jacaerys; it’s your choice, Aemond.” Aegon warned and finally returned to his seat, leaving his younger brother silent, confused, and torn.  

You were in your chambers after the supper— you dismissed your handmaids, wanting to be left alone. You readied yourself, removing the pins in your hair as you stared at yourself in the mirror, your eyes admiring the dress made especially for the occasion. You sighed that such a pretty dress was made for the sole purpose of pleasing your future groom, whom you had no love nor fondness for. You stared at yourself in the mirror until you jumped in shock as you caught a glimpse of your older brother standing behind you. “You scared me,” You said as your eyes locked, you returning to remove the pins in your hair. 

You tried not to grow conscious at how he was in your chambers after dark, at how your dress was partly unlaced and the sleeves were starting to drape off, and you especially tried not to notice the dark look in Aemond’s eye that you could not read or process. “I have a gift for you,” Aemond said lowly, walking closer to you, who still faced the mirror, your eyes never leaving his as he approached. You took in a breath as you felt him behind you, a few inches away, but you still felt the heat that radiated from his body; you still smelt his familiar scent. 

“What is it?” You asked. Aemond wanted to smile as he saw the clear excitement in your eyes. You were always bemused by gifts and shiny things. “Close your eyes,” He dipped down and whispered. There was a hint of hesitancy in you, your skin growing with gooseflesh at the way he whispered in the shell of your ear and how his lips grazed your skin. You licked your lips as you were certain that you would recall this moment as you lay in your bed and pleasured yourself with the thought of Aemond. You were shameless to do such an act— seeking pleasure with the thought of your brother in mind. 

Aemond watched as you obeyed him and closed your eyes. His own wye flying to your lips, shiny and pink. How magnificent it must be to kiss them, he thought. Aemond is distracted as he stares at you, memorizing each part of your face. “What’s your gift?” You asked impatiently. Aemond made no answer. You froze as you felt something cold touch your bare upper chest. You peeled your eyes open, the orbs growing wide as you Aemond clasped a sapphire necklace around your neck. “Aemond…” You called in shock at the beautiful gift. Aemond took in a breath and let his fingers graze the soft skin of your shoulders, letting himself indulge and touch you in such a way. 

You finally turned to your brother, a somewhat satisfied look in his eye as you marveled at his gift. There was another emotion in his eye, something that was always present but you could never decipher. “Thank you,” You sincerely said. “Anything for you, ñuha perzys,” (my fire)

He had never called you that before. He had never addressed you with such a primal and almost possessive tone. You did not know what possessed you— why you did it. Too muddled in excitement and silent wanting perhaps, but you stood at the tip of your toes as kissed his lips. A kiss that was never meant for brother and sister— a kiss that was meant for the intimacy of man and wife. Aemond took in a harsh breath as he felt plump and soft lips against his— him tasting cherry wine and feeling a delicate frame against his. When the uncertainty left Aemond, he tried to move his arms to wrap around you— to flush you tight against him, but sensibilities returned, and you backed away. Fear trickles inside you as you realize what you have done. 

“I… I’m sorry… I should not have do—“ You could not word out the finality of your sentence as Aemond pulled you to him and smashed your lips. Holding you tight to him even though you tried to push him away, keeping your lips locked even though they should have never met. “Aemond,” You called as both of you gasped for air; his hold on you was tight and secure— painful even, but pain disguised itself as pleasure as you felt yourself grow in need with each passing moment you were in your brother’s arms. 

“You will never be his… you’re only mine.” He stated—a promise in his eye. You gasped as you felt him tear away your dress. “You want me, yes? Say it, my fire,” He whispered, tone desperate for you. “I want you… I need you,” You muttered and sighed as his lips met with yours again. “Say that you’re mine,” Aemond ordered, as his lips flew to your neck decorated with his gift. His hands planted on your shift-covered waist, not daring to move until you uttered that you were his as much as he was yours. “All yours, Aemond— never his, only yours,” You distractedly uttered as your mind clouded with the feel of his lips on your neck. That was the assurance Aemond needed to let his hands travel your frame. 

One of his strong hands gripped the flesh of your behind; the other went to your chest. Heaving and soft, the bud calling for his touch. He would have to admit, ever since womanhood struck you, he had grown tempted more than once by your tits. Especially when you have grown a fondness of wearing dresses with a lower cut, going against your mother’s orders, and proudly fashioning a neckline that exposed a tease of your bosom. A breathy moan escaped your lips as Aemond picked the bud, rolling it between his callused fingers. You’ve wanted to feel his touch for years now— deeply desired him that it started to make you grow crazed. And now to finally have him? You felt like you could come by just how his hand played with your tit and how his lips peppered kisses on your neck. 

“Tell me what you want, my fire,” He whispered in the shell of your ear as he noticed you closed your legs and whines leaving your lips. “You— I want you.” You said decisively. You watch his eye grow dark, his lips twitching. “Then you shall have me,” Aemond answered. You bit your lip as another wave of need washed over you. “Tell me how you want me,” Aemond said, giving you control. Your cheeks heat at his words, “I… I want you to lie on the bed,” You said quietly, making Aemond smirk. He dipped down and quickly kissed your lips before doing as you meekly ordered. 

You blushed even more as Aemond expectantly lay on your bed; you were uncertain about what you should do; you had a faint idea of what you wanted, but you lacked the courage to proceed. You gazed at him, though the most evident thing in his lilac eye was lust; you saw his encouragement through it. You swallowed your doubts and bit your lip, moving to remove your shift before him. Aemond turned rigged as you stripped the last of your clothing for him. Leaving you bare and completely exposed. You had not touched him yet, but he could not help but let out a groan of pleasure as he saw your body. You were truly carved by the gods themselves. 

You kept your bite on your lip as you threaded closer to him, bare and moving to straddle him. You hear him take a breath, his eye scanning your body. “Take off your eye patch,” You said, willing your voice to sound stronger. Aemond froze, hesitant to do so. You waited for him; the silence wanted you to take back what you said. Aemond mustered his own courage and let himself be exposed to you. You were taken aback as you saw him fully, as you realized why he chose to give you a sapphire necklace. No word was uttered as you kissed him again. Kissed him until both of you grew dazed. Your hands moved to remove his tunic and unbuckle his belt. Your lips grew downward from his lips to his jaw, then to his neck, to his chest, until finally, your lips hovered over the wanting bulge in his trousers.

Aemond felt himself grow cold in anticipation; a moan slipped his lips as you placed a light kiss on the cloth-covered bulge. You gazed up at him, eyes locking, both desperate for more— you decided to end both of your torments. You pulled down his trousers and revealed his hard length, needing and seeking for your touch. You licked your lips and placed a loud kiss on the tip of his cock; already releasing a clear bead of liquid. You were satisfied as Aemond let out another moan— he was usually so quiet… you would think he’d be quiet when in pleasure as well. 

Aemond shuddered as you took the tip of him in your warm mouth, your tongue circling his cock. You were barely doing anything, and he already felt the urge to release. You took in a deep breath and moved your head to take as much of his long and thick cock, your eyes watering as you could not physically fit the whole of him in your mouth. You were breathing heavily as his cock slipped out your lips, your hands moving up and down his length, coating it with wetness. 

Aemond marveled at every movement you made, every flutter of your eyes, every flick of your wrist. He was certain that he was in heaven as you positioned yourself, taking his cock in between your heavy and heaving tits. Your name slipped lips, lost in utter pleasure as you fucked him with your tits. His large cock fits nicely between your ample bosom. Aemond fisted the silk sheets of your bed, his toes curling in utter pleasure as your movements fastened and as you moaned as your nipples grazed along his skin. You clenched your legs together, feeling the tightening coil of release even though it was you who was pleasuring him. 

Aemond felt himself ready for release but he could not have that— not yet. You gasped as you were yanked off, Aemond switching your positions. Now, you were the one to lay beneath him. You feel him coat himself with your wetness, his cock teasing your folds. “Make me yours,” You whispered.

Aemond groaned as his cock pushed inside your— your walls already clenched and painfully wrapped around him. You feel the prickle of tears as he tore his way through you, the blood from having your maidenhead taken mixing with the wanting essence of your cunt. You let out a shuddered breath as you feel him fill you— fully inside you and the tip of his cock hitting a place that made you forget about the pain of taking him fully. 

Aemond let out pleasured breaths as he tucked his head in your neck, deeply inhaling your scent and savoring the way you moaned his name and how you clung to him. Your fingernails scratching along his back, your hips moving to meet his thrusts. “I thought you innocent, sister— but look at you… you act like such a whore,” Aemond nipped your neck, leaving a mark for all to see. “Just for you… only for you,” You managed to say in between moans. Aemond let out a groan at how you declared yourself his— only his. 

Aemond’s thrust grew faster; your moans grew louder as both of you sought release. Aemond removed his head from your neck and admired the whole of you under him. Your tits bounced with each and every thrust, your lips parted, and your eyes rolled back in pleasure—the sapphire necklace he gave shining from the light of the moon. Aemond let out a groan through gritted teeth as he realized your hand moved to draw circles upon your needing bud, shameless as you pleasured yourself whilst he pleasured you. “Aemond… I’m— I’m,” You instead moaned, the words not coming to you as you felt yourself ready to release. 

“Scream my name when you come— let them know who you belong to,” Aemond ordered with one last thrust, you doing as he said. His name leaving your lips with the tone of nothing but sheer pleasure. Aemond gave a deep final thrust before filling you with his seed— making certain that all part of you will be his. 

That night, you and Aemond slept peacefully and satisfied in each other’s arms. Waiting for morning to come for all to see that the only one you belong to— that the only one you wanted bound to you was your brother.

[anyonewannasteponme]

Summary: Your marriage with Aemond had been one of honour, not of love, yet when subjected to your husbands cruelty upfront you cant help but ache for a way to take your revenge.

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Alcohol Usage while Pregnant, Incest

Authors Note: I feel like Aemond is lowkey out of character and I kind of hate this but oh well.

You sat awestruck, in shock at the vile accusations your own husband had just made not only against your brothers but yourself as well. You held back tears as you all but waddled over to where your step father held back Jace. "I'm sorry." You whsipered to Daemon. Your step father just gave you a pitying look as you caressed your heavily pregnant belly. Your emotions were already running rampant, you couldn’t believe Aemond had been so bold as to dishonour you in front of his own family. You didn’t just feel humiliated you were furious.

Aemond caught your eye from across the room, where he stood with his brother and sister. You could barely hold his glance, simply turning away and storming out of the dining hall tears brimming in your eyes. Please. You thought selfishly. Please come after me. Because even after the insult he had dealt you and your family tonight, you still wished for your uncles comfort. Craved it. Of course as was expected of Aemond, he did not.

When you were younger you had imagined it to be customary for husbands and wives to sleep in the same bed, now you knew that was not the case. Aside from a few moments of passion, of which Aemond never spent the night you and he had kept entirely seperate chambers throughout your marriage. That usually made you saddened, wishing and wondering what your marriage could have been like if you had simply not been born a bastard. Because of course that’s why Aemond had disrespected you. He saw you as less than, nothing more than a duty he owed to the realm as the second born son.

Tonight, you must admit you felt relieved that you didn’t share chambers with Aemond, knew you wouldn’t be able to control your rage if met with him directly.

A knock sounded at your door, startling you slightly, you prayed to the old gods and the new that it wasn't Aemond. You arose overcome with a sense of trepidation as if you were moving in slow motion, if it was Aemond what would you do? What would he do? You opened the door.

"Aegon?" You whispered, slightly taken aback. He simply grinned raising his left arm, in his hand a bottle of wine, he shook the bottle slightly as if hoping to get it through your thick skull that he wasn't here to chastise, he was simply here to... drink? "It’s Arbor Gold" He said. "Your favourite... now can I come in or are you going to keep me confined to the doorway." You cleared your throat stepping aside and allowing your uncle to enter your bedroom.

"Aegon if Aemond-" Aegon interrupted you by putting his finger to your lips and letting out a condescending assortment of hushes. "Aemond never did like to share, fear not niece I haven't come here tonight to take advantage of your delicate state, I simply come to offer a sense of comfort. From one person that has been sincerely fucked by this family to another. "

You didn't understand, Aegon had taken as much pleasure in your public humiliation as Aemond and yet you didn't open your mouth to argue knowing Aegon's temper you would take this act of goodwill with little complaints unless you wanted to risk waking the dragon. "I appreciate that." You responded. "But you know I can't drink this right? The Maester insisted."

"The Maester is a cunt." Aegon replied simply, pouring himself a glass that resided on the small table you oft took your breakfast at when you weren't expeted to be publicly feasting with your family. "Truly Aegon, if Aemond finds out-"

"What are you so afraid of." Aegon laughed, turning towards you, two glasses in hand. "My brother may have trained with the sword but I doubt he would turn his hand to his own lady wife."

Truly you didn't have a clue what Aemond would do and that was what frightened you. Yet you must admit a wave of excitement went through you at the thought. Your husband, who rarely showed you any emotions at all, losing his composure, the idea was intoxicating. You took the glass from Aegon, sitting yourself down beside him on the carpet at the foot of your bead. "I do have seats you know."

"Fuck seats."

You frowned. "You curse an awful lot for a prince of the realm." Aegon smiled at that. "And your awfully prudent, which is certainly not befitting of a bastard born daughter." His words hit where they were supposed to and you shut your mouth taking a gulp from your glass of wine. There was a fluttering in your womb at that, you thought nothing of it, treating it as a mere coincidence that came with how far along you were in your pregnancy. Yet you still placed a hand on your lower belly giving a comforting caress to the babe in your womb. "Does it ail you?" Aegon asked, staring down at your stomach in what may have been awe. "No." You responded. "Didn't you have Helaena to ask these questions to during her pregnancy?"

"I was hardly around during Helaena's pregnancy and I was most certainly not at the birthing." Those words saddened you. Your Aunt had been one of the only people in this court who had shown you kindness since your betrothal to Aemond and your Mother and Brothers taking their leave to return to Dragonstone. The thought of her laboring alone hurt your heart. Maybe that's because it could very likely be yourself in a few months, Aemond would most certainly provide you no comfort.

The night escalated from there, you had hardly meant to drink as much as you did but Aegon kept pouring you glass after glass until you were both shattered, giggling messes simply lying on the floor and complaining about how your lives had ended up the way they did.

"I always wanted to go to the north, marry a Stark." You whispered. "I hear they value honor above all else."

Aegon frowned. "Do you not think my brother honorable?"

"No!" You replied, flustered. "That's not what I meant." Yet you couldn't form a coherent thought or come up with a way to defend yourself courtesy of the alcohol. Aegon simply laid his head against your shoulder beginning to doze.

You found yourself relaxing too. Until your door swung open and a visibly irritated Alicent burst in. "Aegon." She growled. "Wake up you fool." She stood above her eldest son looking exceptionally regal despite her grievances. But Alicent wasn't who you were focusing on. No it was your husband, a stony, cool look washed over his face as his took in the compromising position you were in with his brother. Alicent had managed to prop Aegon up and began leading him out of the room, not before shooting you a look filled with malice. Aemond closed your bedroom door and locked it. That act alone sent shivers down your spine and a strange feeling began to well in your lower belly, accompanied by a neediness you had never felt before.

Aemond cleared his throat, clearly aiming to appear composed, yet you saw through his illusion; through his clenched jaw and blazing eyes, it was clear he was furious. He opened his mouth appearing unsure how to start a conversation with you. "Did he touch you." He began, getting straight to the point. "No of course not." You responded immediately. "I know you think me a baseborn idiot, incapable of remaining any semblance of loyalty but I assure you, I know where my loyalties lie."

"I never claimed you to be an idiot." He responded through gritted teeth.

"Yet you treated me as such when you toasted my brothers, blatantly questioning their legitimacy." You swallowed, feeling a sudden surge of confidence. "Jace is to be your future king and Baela his queen, you ought to treat them with the respect they deserve."

Aemond tipped back his head and laughed heartily "The day your brother ascends the throne will be the beginning of the downfall of this kingdom."

You froze in pure disbelief that he would say something so bold. "What you speak is treason."

His eye glinted with amusement. "Are you going to tell on me to your mother?" He chuckled cruelly. "You are no true Velaryon, that is for certain."

"Perhaps not." You whispered, approaching Aemond slowly. "But I am as much a Targaryen as you are and you'd do best to not forget it."

He went silent. Something passed between the two of you, maybe it was the alcohol acting but you found yourself staring at his lips as his tongue darted out to wet them. Wondering what they would feel like on your own.

You leaned forward and pressed your lips against him, he stiffened immediately at the contact arm coming up to grip your own, as if he was unsure whether he should pull you away or not.

“I will not take you.” He said at last pulling away, lips swollen. “Not if my brother has had you.”

You hated how chivalrous he always had to be. “He hasn’t.” You whispered. Please. You wanted to say, yet you caught yourself when you realised the picture you were painting of yourself. Bedding a man who had attacked and debased your family regardless of if he was your husband or not would come across as needy. You didn’t care. “I want it.” You whispered. His eyes widened and then something changed, his gaze became hungry, his eyes roving over your body, drinking it in. You were still in your dinner dress, now crumpled and stained from your drinking with Aegon. Your pregnant belly strained against the material.

“Lay on the bed.” Aemond ordered.

You obeyed.

“Spread your legs.” Aemond approached the foot of the bed where you sat. When you spread your legs, with slight difficulty due to your belly, he snaked his hand between them, pulling down your undergarments before assisting you in taking your dress off.

Aemond pulled a chair up to the foot of the bed and sat down, his legs spread. You found your eyes drawn to his straining cock immediately. You felt a thrill, having not taken him in months. “Touch yourself.” He stated.

Your eyes widened. “Pardon?”

He smiled cruelly as if you were nothing more than a joke to him. “You want it?” You nodded. “Then show me.”

You had only allowed yourself the reprieve of masturbation on your loneliest nights when you wished for anyone to keep you company in your large, cold bed. You gulped, snaking a hand down between your legs and finding your clit. You began to rub circles around the bud, letting out a light gasp at the jolts of pleasure coursing through your body simply by having someone watch you.

“You’re filthy.” He said simply, smiling and palming between his legs as you began to buck into your touch. “Close already?” You nodded desperately. “Hands off.” He said. “When you cum I want it to be from me.”

You continued, his words barely registering. In seconds Aemond was on you, ripping your hand from between you legs and pinning you to the bed. “Stupid girl.” He snarled. “Dumb already and you haven’t even had a cock in you.” You whimpered.

“Please put it in me.” You whispered prompting a growl from Aemond. He spread your legs even wider before undoing his zipper and freeing his length. “I shouldn’t be giving you what you want.” He growled. “Not after the stunt you pulled tonight.”

He aligned himself with your entrance before pushing in ever so slowly. You let out a cry of pleasure. “Fuck.” Aemond whispered, so feint you could have missed it, his eyes fixed on where the both of were joined. “Feel good?.” He asked.

All you could do was squeeze your eyes shut and nod as his thrusts became deeper, more frequent.

“This is all you needed huh?” He asked with a laugh. “A cock to fill you up and you’re satisfied.” His words weren’t computing, your eyes rolled back into your head. “Fuck I’m close.” He growled, thrusts picking up. “Where do you want it?”

“In me.” You said before tipping your head back and moaning as you played with your clit, walls fluttering around him as your orgasm finally overtook you. You must have been squeezing him like a vice because Aemond came shortly after you, collapsing beside you as he breathed deeply.

You lay like that for a few minutes, before Aemond placed a hand on your belly giving it a light rub before standing up. You grabbed at his wrist. “Stay.” You asked, eyes pleading. How you had gone from being furious with him to asking him to spend the night you had no idea.

Yet it was Aemond. He left anyways.

Perhaps that was for the better. Aemond was blood of the dragon, as were you and yet some days he made you feel like a sheep in comparison to himself. So you went to sleep. The only evidence he had been in your room dribbling out between your thighs.

[faetreides]

summary: king!aegon ii targaryen x afab rhaenyra’s child!reader

cw: CANON TYPICAL incest/targcest, boot worship, free use, public, voyeurism/exhibitionism (non con on the guards part 💀), hints of reader being just as much of a weirdo i’m sorry (rhaenyra can’t blame them tho), used a valyrian translator so if there’s any mistakes no there’s not <3, fucking on the iron throne as a celebratory end of work day thing, everything is 100% consensual on reader’s part, one use of “whore”, aegon’s pet names are all food related 🥴 (deadass almost had him call reader beer for the joke)

wc: 888 (🎱✨)

block & move on if uncomfortable !!

do not repost, translate, or give ai my work

last hotd fic for a bit bc i’m out of ideas

kinktober masterlist

“Ry paktot, ilagon ao jikagon, jorrāelagon (all right, down you go love).”

You and your uncle Aegon have the strangest end of day ritual. It always starts with you being shoved on your knees, his hands cradling your shoulders to protect you from the sharp iron throne.

All others are sent away from the room, save for a few guards that had been eyeing your body far too much for his liking. You were yet to be married but numerous whispers of your sexual exploits ran through the castle like wildfire. Aegon II Targaryen, was a king that one could not even sneeze in front of for fear of setting him off. So he is careful to keep those shrews' musings away from you, it was a feat of strength to coerce you into being as bold as you are now.

“Come now, elilla (honey). Clean my shoes so i can give your cunt the fucking it deserves.” He orders you, and you are all too eager, especially with the eyes of the uncomfortable guards on you.

You pray to the Gods that Aegon does not catch them looking with their peripheral vision, pausing your fun to murder more of the staff would really rain on your parade.

The shoes of your king are cleaned before you put your tongue to them, something that you’re almost disappointed by at this point. You are tempted to ask him to turn away the shoe shiner for next time.

His crown has the same red haze surrounding it that lives deep within Aegon, and it commands your attention all the same. You let your eyes softly fall shut as you run your wet tongue along the edge of his boot. The metallic tang has become an old friend, as well as any paltry specs of blood you find. You fear that you could possibly develop a craving for it.

You prostrate yourself before your betrothed as if you were a humming bird that had come face to face with Balerion himself. A house kitten mewling for the attention of a tiger. It is not unlike performing a blow job. Your lashes become the sheer curtains you look out of and your mouth fulfills its purpose.

You flatten your tongue and begin to dip into the crevices, getting every inch of his shoes slick with your spit. Aegon has his weeping cock in the firm hold of both of his hands, and he times his strokes to every flick of your tongue.

Your “services” last for what feels like an eternity. Your uncle’s eyes wander to keep the forcibly voyeuristic guards in check. You can hear their feet shuffling on the ground as they squirm behind you, and Aegon is so pleased by this that he returns his attention to his beloved pet.

“Prūbres (apple), that is quite enough. Come back up, darling.” He says while gingerly rubbing the heel of his boot into your cheek.

“Yes, qȳbor (uncle).”

You clamor into his lap, taking the initiative by lifting your previously stretched hole over his cock. One of his hands claws into the flesh of your hip to steady you, and the other positions his cock upright. Once you get past the pink tip, your walls are snugly wrapped around his entire length in seconds. You both groan as he bottoms out. Aegon wastes no time and digs his nails into your other hip, lifting you off of his cock until the tip catches against your entrance and swiftly dropping you back down.

“My whore, a jewel worth more than any found in my crown.” The word comes out between gritted teeth, but the thumb drawing loose circles on your pearl is kinder. “Not one of those filthy dogs will ever know the pleasure of a cunny as sweet as the one made for me.”

“They will not.” You whined, relishing in the red marks his nails were no doubt leaving on your jiggling ass as you bounced on his girthy cock. “Only you, qȳbor (uncle), only my king. They could hang for all I care.”

You have an awful habit for letting words flow from your mouth with no thought of their consequences. It’s not your fault though, you muse as Aegon scratches at your moving globes of flesh, your cunt takes priority more often than not. You ignore the spark that ignites in his soul at the foolish declaration.

His thumb stops teasing your clit and rubs it harshly up and down until your rapid bouncing ceases in favor of chasing that high. He only has to spank you a single time for you to shatter around his cock with an angelic and blissfully soft moan. You let your torso fall to his and you bury your face in his neck as his other hand travels to grope your other ass cheek.

Aegon spills into you with an embarrassingly long and loud groan, licking at the pulse point of your neck as he fucks himself into overstimulation. This is the only time he will allow the guards to drink your sex in, so they can gawk at the pure amount of spend that leaks out of your ravaged cunny. He pretends not to notice or enjoy the stares, spreading your fat cheeks to give them a better view.

“Leave us be.”

[paintb0x]

Vēzos qēlossās ñuho

[achaoticeternal]

Could you please write a fic where Rhaenyra’s strongdaughter gets into an argument with her mother because her mother won’t let her marry Aemond and she calls her mother a hypocrite for calling Aemond unfit to be a husband when her own husband got exiled twice. (Please also write Daemon reacting to it)

I looooove this idea! To me, it would be such a funny argument and of course, Daemon couldn't take it seriously - its just so lol enjoy this little blurb!

submit your own blurb/ headcanon requests HERE! read part two of this blurb HERE!

Targaryen Traditions

AEMOND TARGARYEN x VELARYON(STRONG)! READER word count: 900 - blurb summary: read request a/n: should I do a little continuation?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Rhaenyra moved gracefully down the halls of Dragonstone, despite the unamused look that graced her face. It had barely been a full day since the daily had returned from an eventful visit in King’s Landing. Despite the typical quarrels, it now seemed her own daughter had been bewitched by one of her half-siblings… Prince Aemond Targaryen…

“Mother, I don’t understand!” You whined, following her into the great foyer of Dragonstone. 

“You will understand in time that I am right,” Rhaenyra spoke simply while crossing toward the fireplace, a hand over her belly.

“I wish to understand now because this makes no sense to me!” You quickly rebutted, “A year ago, you suggested to the Queen that I be betrothed to Aegon, who has since married Helaena. Now Aemond wishes for my hand and you deny me marrying a prince.”

“The point was never to have you simply marry a prince. If I wanted to see you married off to a man that holds such a title, I could have sent you to Dorne or Essos. To marry Aegon would have done a great many things, but most importantly keep you close to me,” Rhaenyra gazed toward you with motherly affection, “However, it seems Alicent only cares for Targaryen tradition when it serves her needs. You will not marry a second son.”

Daemon soon entered, freshly clean from the travels of the previous days. Though you respected and even somewhat cared for your stepfather, he did not replace the man that you first called father, Ser Laenor. When he entered, both you and your mother turned to him, silently begging that he pick a side. It was wishful thinking on your part since Daemon was not over fond of his nephew. Seemed to be a recurring theme…

The Rogue Prince had a smirk playing on his lips. Rhaenyra’s words were not lost on him, and even caused a chuckle from the man, “What is wrong with second sons?”

At such playful teasing, Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at the antics of her husband, “Nothing, husband. Except my daughter wishes to marry the Queen’s spiteful, second son.”

“Aemond?” He asked as he approached the princess. She nodded to his question, and then his gaze turned to you, “Aemond?”

Eagerly, you nodded. The thought crossed your mind of possibly being able to convince Daemon that your betrothal should be set with Aemond so that he could push Rhaenyra to be more willing to the idea. 

“You wish to marry to One-Eye prince?”

Of course, Daemon would tease you with such a question. As if your brothers had yet to torment you over the idea. Neither Jacaerys nor Lucerys liked the proposed betrothal between their uncle and sister. 

“It would be fulfilling my duty to the family and the realm,” You began to explain, “Jace shall sit on the throne one day, and I will be his heir until Baela gives him a child.”

Rhaenyra’s face soured at your words. She did not like how your education fueled your argument but was also proud of seeing such diplomacy from her daughter. The double-edged sword that all mothers must face with their children.

When she did not speak, you began again, “If I marry Aemond, I will also live in the Keep. I can assist Alicent and the maesters in taking care of my grandsire. You and Daemon always voice your concern for the King, so it might put you at ease.”

“You are a princess, not a caretaker—”

“Says who? You?” You were sharp with your tongue, growing tired of playing this game with your mother, “You say a princess is not a caretaker, yet you are a mother. You say I should not marry a second son, yet you did…”

“My dear, the circumstances are different,” Rhaenyra’s voice grew more stern at your pointed argument, “Aemond is your uncle!”

At such a comment, a boisterous laugh escaped your lips. It was quite out of fashion, but you could not keep it together. You looked back to your mother with a look of disbelief, gazing between Rhaenyra and Daemon, “Have you looked in a mirror recently?”

Confused by your statement, Rhenyra looked to Daemon. He chuckled while taking her hand within his own, intertwining their fingers, “I believe she means to call you a hypocrite.”

Rhaenya pursed her lips, looking at her husband than her daughter. Her eyes glanced over your frame, taking in all the likeness you shared. She then thought about how she acted at your age… She had married Laenor when she was just a year younger than you are now. But she would resent seeing you leave Dragonstone, no matter who the man was. 

“I’m flying to King’s Landing in two days' time on dragon back due to a previous agreement. You shall join me… and I will consider the proposition of a marriage to Aemond,” Rhaenyra spoke with a sigh.

A great smile spread across your face, elated that she would now at least consider Aemond as a suitor, “Thank you, mother! Thank you, thank you!”

“But I do not wish to hear any more of this or anything related to Aemond before our departure. Am I clear?”

“Yes, of course, mother,” You replied with a light giggle.

With a slight nod of her head, Rhaenyra dismissed you to do as you pleased. Relief washed over both of you. With quick steps, you took your leave to write a scroll to Aemond of your small successes.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

should I continue this/ make a part two?

[targaryen-dynasty]

OBJECT OF DESIRE (4/?)

Aemond Targaryen x female!Reader

Are you just a political ploy to Aemond? Or is there more to him rushing your wedding?

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest, p in v, table sex, handjob, fingering, slight humiliation, praise kink, breeding kink, somewhat darkish and possessive Aemond (?), he might be an asshole and the king of gaslighting in this, Valyrian wedding, mentions of blood

WORDS: 5.5 K

NOTES: part 4 is finally here! Ty @zaldritzosrose 🤍

❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭! ✨ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The way from the outer yard into the castle passes in a blurr with your heart thrumming in your chest, drowning out the sounds of your footsteps. It’s so deep in the night that the castle is mostly deserted, but a few guards and servants cross your path from time to time, some giving you a curious glance, others not bothering much. 

Aemond’s movements are swift and quick as he guides you through the eerily silence of the castle of Dragonstone, leading you through a labyrinth of passageways that comes close to the one you’ve conquered not many hours before. 

You try to marvel at the architecture of the ancient seat, but the dim light of sparsely placed torches and candles doesn’t allow you to indulge in it too much. 

The man in front of you is determined, and your presence seems to be not more than an accessory to him with his attention fixed on something entirely different. 

“Where do you take me?” your voice is low as you speak, the hesitance palpable.

Aemond chuckles. “Patience.” His voice is soft, but not low enough to whisper, and still manages to make you aware of how eager you probably have to sound. “We are nearly there.” 

From what you gather, the chambers he brings you to are located deep within the bowels of the castle, requiring some time and knowledge of the place to reach it. You tackle another set of corridors and narrow staircases until you eventually arrive and stand in front of a thick, wooden door. 

Knocking raptly at the door, it takes a few seconds for an older man to open it, woken from his slumber. When your eyes dart to the collar he wears, you grow aware that he led you to the maester’s study. 

The man squints his eyes in the dim light, assessing who disturbs him at this hour. “Prince Aemond,” he eventually says, more surprised than matter-of-factly, and opens his door a little further. “How may I help you?”

“Maester Gerardys,” Aemond says, a firm tone underlying his words, despite keeping his voice at a low volume. “I require your assistance in officiating a marriage ceremony.” 

Gerardys now gazes at the two of you for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly and his brow furrowing as he realizes the unusual nature of the request. “You intend to wed?” he questions. 

Nervousness flutters in your belly, more so as you process the skeptical tone laced within his voice, and you expect it all to fail miserably. But you didn’t count on Aemond’s stubbornness. 

“Yes, I do,” he affirms, his determination not faltering at the maester’s tone and gaze. “My wife-to-be and I ask you to officiate a ceremony that should take place immediately… in the traditions of our House.”

“You mean to marry at this hour, my prince?” Gerardys questions. “Well, I am no septon, and a marriage ceremony is not something that you do just on a whim. There are certain rituals involved that have to be observed. I am afraid that I cannot simply officiate a wedding on demand just because the prince asks me to…”

You tug at Aemond’s hand, mumbling a ‘perhaps ‘tis not meant to be’ but he doesn’t even turn to look at you. 

“I understand that, Maester Gerardys, I do. However, this matter is of utmost urgency. It has to be fulfilled tonight, as it can’t wait until daylight.” Aemond explains it calmly but assertively, his patience clearly running thin. There is a lilt of desperation in his voice, as if something bad will happen if the marriage ceremony is not performed at once. “We both wish for this to be done tonight. I am well-aware of the rituals involved in the tradition, and we are ready to complete them.”

It should concern you just how pressed he is on the matter, but all you can focus on is the fact that you will be a married woman in no less than two hours at last. 

Gerardys seems to be torn by the prince’s request, his brow furrowing again as he thinks over the situation. This clearly is no usual business for him, yet he does not feel as though he can refuse Aemond who insists on seeing the ceremony performed immediately. “Very well, Prince Aemond,” the old man sighs, “I will see to the arrangements.”

Despite the maester’s agreement, Aemond doesn‘t release a sigh of relief. He stands as still and composed as before, although you can spot his shoulders drop slightly. “We shall meet in the Chamber of the Painted Table,” his voice remains firm and serious. “Do not let us wait for too long.”

You briefly hear Gerardys starting to scramble to gather the items necessary for the ceremony before you’re led back the same path you’ve come. Suddenly, it feels all too serious, and your belly starts to flutter, more so as Aemond squeezes your hand. 

“I-I am not aware of the rituals involved?” you question, looking at the ground to watch your steps. 

As he notices the nervousness in your voice, Aemond turns around and smiles in a reassuring manner, his eye twinkling. “There is nothing to be concerned about,” he says. “I assume you are confident in the tongue of our ancestors?” 

You almost bump into him as he stops so abruptly, craning your neck to meet his eye. “I-yes, probably not as confident as you are, but my scholar has taught me everything within his capabilities.” 

“Very well. I shall tell you what to do, but you must trust me, my lady.” 

“Very well,” you echo his words, accompanied by a gulp. As you set up towards the spacious and opulent Chamber of the Painted Table, the room is dimly lit by several torches and candles. Servants scurry around the place, more than you’ve seen on your whole way through the dark pathways, and seem to take care of everything around you. 

Aemond’s steps bounce off the wall as he approaches a servant, and the ‘see to the table’ he commands is hardly audible to you. 

You walk around the chamber, taking in the decor, and drag your fingers over the large table standing in the center of it, following its carvings. The shadows of carved mountains and rivers dance in the dim light of the few candles standing on it, capturing all your attention. You marvel at the intricate design, but are quick to pull your fingers away when it suddenly lits up, the carvings glowing like lava running through molten rock. 

With wide eyes, you look towards the head of the table, and spot Aemond standing there with a smirk on his lips as servants emerge from under it. He leans against it with one hand splayed out on its surface, indicating that there’s no threatening heat radiating off of it. And indeed, when your fingers trail over the Vale of Arryn, you don’t burn them. 

“Are you sure this all is not going a little too fast? That we should not wait just a few more days?” you eventually ask, your doubts knocking the smirk right off of his face. 

Aemond walks around the table, coming closer to you, but keeps a fair distance. “There is no need to wait,” he retorts. “I see no reason to drag this out, unless you want to wed one of the men ordered by your father?” 

You flinch at his words, remembering the queue of men presented to you by your father. A few moments pass as you hesitantly raise your head, locking your eyes with Aemond’s good one. “Do you wish that I did?”

“No,” he replies, sternness lingering in his voice. “I do not wish that at all. I wish for the privilege of having you all to myself.”

While his words cause the hairs on the back of your neck to stand, a shiver following in their wake, you can’t suppress the doubts. ”Then why hurry?”

“Why wait?” Aemond retorts. "I have helped you obtain your dragon, your bloodright, and now it is your turn to see through on the promise made." 

"Am I a political ploy and nothing else?"

His expression darkens with your words. For the first time, the veneer of his composure and politeness towards you begins to slip slightly, his patience running thin. “I did not say that.”

Not giving him a reply, your eyes dart down to the table. You know you’re getting too bold, that you should not have said it, but you can’t help but feel as though the marriage being rushed is simply another political gambit. As your eyes flicker back up to meet his, a faint twinkle of anger and fire can be seen within them. “Do not pretend as though you are not getting anything out of this.”

“Now why are you so concerned with what I am getting out of this?” Aemond asks bluntly, voice as sharp as the edge of a knife. “Do you not trust my intentions? Or is it that you are not happy with the arrangements seeing that you’ve finally got your dragon?”

The change of tone prompts you to take a step back from him, a faint pout appearing on your lips as you feel your anger and defiance slipping away, replaced by a certain amount of apprehension. 

“Please, do not misunderstand me,” you say swiftly, softening your tone and lowering your voice to calm the situation. “I simply… I feel a little unsure of rushing into this. It is only… I have heard many tales, both from court and from my own father. Men are not known to be the most trustworthy, and I have no idea what to make out of someone so eager to wed me when I do not know his thoughts behind it.”

"You silly girl, do you not yet understand your role goes beyond the political agenda of the seven realms?" He reaches to grab you, holding your attention. "It goes beyond what your father or my father says. The gods made you for me, you have always been fated for me and me alone."

Your heart feels as though it might leap from your chest at his words. You’ve never been looked at the way he does now, never been treated that way. Your nerves and anxiety don’t vanish completely, but a part of you starts to calm down; he easily manages to put you at ease with just a few words. 

You lower your head, melting under his touch and words. “I–That is…” you trail off. 

The footsteps of Maester Gerardys approaching fill the large chamber, catching you off guard and causing you to pull away from Aemond. He’s unfazed, despite Gerardys staring at you and taking in the scene. 

Clearing his throat, he steps further into the chamber, carrying a great deal of utensils with him. “We shall commence, then?”

Aemond’s shoulders drop slightly with relief as the maester finally joins you. “By the blessings of the Gods, we shall indeed,” he says, walking around the table to the end that faces the hearth. You follow silently, and watch the older man prepare everything. 

“You stay here,” Aemond barks at two servants just shy of your age as they make their way towards the door. “We shall need every witness to our union we can get.” Both women nod their heads once, and stand rooted to the spot. 

Turning around, Aemond faces you now with Gerardys standing in front of the pair of you. The maester smiles warmly, albeit it also seems a bit forced, and glances at you as he begins with the most important question of it all. “Do you two come to this union free and willing, without prior coercion or undue influence?”

While Aemond’s answer comes quick and determined, a brief moment of silence passes as you process the question. “Yes, I do,” you speak softly yet hesitant. 

Maester Gerardys nods silently at both your confirmations, and hands Aemond what appears to be a shard of dragonglass. Your eyes widen when he brings it up to your lips, and the ‘let me just…’ he mumbles is little comfort as the sharp knife pierces your lip. You wince at the stinging pain and taste of copper that soon fills your mouth, clearly coming with the cut, but a part of you is grateful he’s done it without so much preparation. 

“Now ‘tis your turn,” he says, handing you the shard. You briefly glance down to where your hands meet, before your gaze is fixed with his again. 

The shard is lighter than anticipated, which makes the trembling of your hands more apparent. You’re skilled with a bow and arrow, but have yet to hurt anyone seriously. Bringing the shard up to Aemond’s mouth, the tremors don’t ease with you dragging it over his bottom lip. 

Blood amasses at the cut, and you mirror his gesture as he gathers yours with the pad of his thumb. The touch is so intimate, heat crawls up your spine, making you almost miss out on his next instructions. “I shall draw the glyph for blood over your forehead, and you do the same with the one for fire. Are you familiar with how to draw it?”

You nod. It’s one of the few glyphs you’re more than familiar with as Maester Lomys has always insisted for you to learn how to spell your House’s words; even though you’re only half Targaryen. 

Aemond uses your blood to draw said glyph on your forehead, and you’re quick to follow his instructions with the supplementary glyph. 

But that moment of peace doesn’t last long, not when Aemond takes the shard from your hand to cut the palm of his own without any sign of pain or discomfort to cross his features. 

You have hurt yourself plenty of times before, merely counting how often you fell off your horses as you learnt how to ride, but it has rarely happened on purpose and most definitely not with something as sharp as the dragonglass. And that is the moment you find yourself unable to move, unable to take it from his hand. 

“The pain disappears quickly,” Aemond tries to reassure you, sensing your hesitation; a stark contrast to how stern and annoyed he was mere moments ago. 

The coldness of the fragment nestles into your open palm as he places it into it, and Aemond bows his head once in a way to encourage you. 

His words bring you not much comfort, but the prospect of your future does. You have claimed a dragon, you’re meant to be the future Lady of Runestone and close to be married to the man that’s riding the largest dragon alive; there’s no place for you to think of the things that could possibly cause your downfall. 

A deep breath is exhaled the moment the dragonglass pierces the palm of your hand, opening your skin with a clean cut. The pain is delayed, and for a brief moment all that clouds your mind is the rush of your warm blood, and the sight of it so quickly filling the hollow of your palm. 

“Hen lantoti… ānogar,” Maester Gerardys cites, a thick accent and hesitance weaving itself through the otherwise smooth tongue. It makes it difficult for you to fully understand what’s being said. “Va s ȳndroti v āedroma.” Blood of two, joined as one. 

As Aemond unites your hands in a firm grip, you tilt your head up to look at him, taking him in wholly as the worst part has passed. You don’t dare to break the intense eye contact to look at where your hands meet.

The sensation of your blood trickling out of the cut has already been very adamant, but with Aemond’s blood combined, several droplets all but seep out from your joined hands, gathered in a goblet he holds underneath. 

Aemond squeezes your hand gently as the maester ties a red ribbon around them, binding you to one another and sealing the pact. 

“Mēro perzot g īhoti, el ēdroma iārza s īr. Izulī amp ā perzī, pr ūm ī lanti s ēteksi,” Gerardys mumbles in the background, but your attention is captured by Aemond bringing the goblet full of your blood up to his lips. Ghostly flame, and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires. 

He does not hesitate one moment and takes a generous sip of the goblet, crimson tinting his chiseled lips as he lowers it again and hands it to you. You capture it between your fingers, raising it to your lips and following suit. The very adamant taste of copper lingers on your tongue, and it’s hard to swallow without grimacing. A smirk tugs on the corners of Aemond’s lips at that, making you blush and mouthing ‘my apologies’ at him. 

Although the goblet is lowered by you, you two do not move otherwise. There’s a thick tension between you, fueled by you gazing longingly into each other's eyes. Neither of you smiles or grins, just taking in the moment and its significance. 

“Hen jenȳ māz īlarion, q ēlossa oz ūndesi.” A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness. 

Both of Aemond’s hands come up to cup your face, the pad of his thumb dragging gently over your nicked bottom lip. You stare at him with wide eyes and heavy breaths falling past your parted lips, every fiber of your body filled with heat that makes the waiting unbearable. And with his hands holding you, you can’t even bring your face even closer to his. 

“S ȳndroro ōñō jēdo, rȳk k īvia mazvestraksi.” The vow spoken through time, of darkness and light.

Time stretches on as Aemond slowly dips his head toward yours, finally, holding it firmly in place as his lips collide with yours. The taste of blood on your tongues and lips doesn’t seem to subside at all, very much prominent and bringing a certain tint to it all. There is no gentleness in this kiss, the passion underlined by hunger and longing for more. 

Maester Gerardys clears his throat and inevitably catches your attention again, causing you to pull back from each other. “The marriage is now complete,” he states matter-of-factly. “If you’ll excuse me now, Prince Aemond,” he bows his head once before turning to you. “Princess. I shall retire to my chambers once more.”

“You may leave, too,” Aemond commands the servants, who quickly make a beeline for the doors. Watching the master depart after that, a faint sense of relief washes over the both of you. 

As soon as the doors shut behind him, Aemond’s eye flickers back to yours. He steps toward you, closing the distance between you until you can feel the warmth of his breath fan over your skin. “Well now, little princess,” he teases. “Are you familiar with the privileges a husband expects from his wife?” 

The blood rushes to your face as you realize what he implies, your heart starting to beat faster, though you cannot deny that it has piqued your interest. Your face remains neutral, however. “Oh, what are they?” you ask, deciding upon acting more innocent than you truly are just to mess with him. 

Aemond’s lips quirk up into a slight smirk as he notices your feigned innocence. It’s obvious that you’re aware of the true nature of a marriage, but he decides upon playing this game, at least for just a bit longer. “There are many,” he says teasingly, bringing his hand to the small of your back to draw your body closer to his. “And I am certain that you’re well aware of what some of those expectations might be.”

“Hm… some,” you whisper in reply, your tone getting flustered. A smile tugs at your lips as you try to hide the growing excitement his proximity is causing inside of you. 

He’s amused by you trying to act as though you’re not tempted, as though you both don‘t desire the same thing. “Shall I tell you or show you?”

You try to keep your composure at his words, but it’s obvious they are starting to have an effect on you. “Show me,” you whisper, the words slipping out between your trembling lips. 

While one of his hands comes up to rest at the back of your neck, the other grazes over your side down to grasp at your hip, and your body melts into his touch as his lips find yours once again. The tip of his nose presses against your cheek as you tilt your head in response to his tongue dragging over the curve of your lips, silently asking you to part them for him. And you do, prompting him to deepen the kiss. 

Aemond deliberately backs you up against the Painted Table, its edge pressing firmly against your rear, and splays his hand over the small of your back. He gives you no chance to escape his lips to catch your breath; when you pull away, his lips chase yours, eager to capture them again. 

A spark of something familiar ignites in the pit of your belly, something that has you pulling back just slightly to gasp against his kiss-swollen lips. You were so lost in the kiss, that you haven’t paid any mind to him herding you like a sheep, keening at the proximity and attention.  

But Aemond doesn’t stop at that. 

The laces of your breeches are undone swiftly by him merely using one hand, clearly experienced with it being his everyday attire. He pushes the thick fabric and your undergarments down to pool around your knees, exposing your soaked cunt to the chill air of the chamber. 

You, however, don’t give his fingers time to drag through your swollen folds. Catching him off guard and coaxing a grunt to escape his throat, your hand trails over the hardness in the front of his breeches, cupping it over the fabric and squeezing it slightly, before your fingers unravel the laces just as skilled as his did yours before. 

You can tell by the way he finally breaks the kiss as your hand slips inside of his breeches, wrapping around his hard, throbbing cock, that he’s taken by surprise. He instinctively bucks his hips against your hand, and releases a gasp as the cold air hits him with you freeing his length from its confines, pulling it out and stroking it deliberately slowly. 

Aemond’s fingers dig into your hip as a means to steady himself, a breathy ‘fuck’ spilling past his lips. 

“Is this one of these… privileges?” you tease, although it’s more of a whine with two of his nimble fingers easing into your cunt without a warning, pumping in and out of you in the rhythm of your hand tugging on him. It encourages you to move your hand quicker along his shaft in hopes of him doing the same, but when that doesn’t happen, you start rocking your hips against his hand to which he just tsks in disapproval. 

His lips find the side of your neck, and you’re quick to tilt your head to the side to grant him even more access. When his hot breath fans over your skin as he speaks, words laced thickly with arousal, a shiver runs through you. “It certainly is,” he groans. There’s a wry smile on his lips as he pulls back, meeting your half-lidded gaze. “But that is not all.”

The implication of his words causes your heartbeat to quicken, your walls tightening around his fingers in response. He draws in a sharp breath at that. “And… what else is there?” you ask, breathily. “Are you just talking or will you show me?”

“My my, what an eager, little wife I got myself here,” he taunts with a scoff, bucking his hips into your hand once. Your cheeks lit up at his words and the tone of his voice, but there’s no chance for you to cower under his piercing gaze when he peels your hand off of him and turns you around; his patience seemingly not infinite.  

He pushes you flatly onto the table, the warmth radiating off of it seeping into your cheek. Towering over you with one hand buried in your hair, the length of his hard cock presses into the crevice of your arse and makes you whimper; your body aching for more. “Are you not satisfied with what I’ve shown you so far?” he mocks, his slick coated fingers trailing over your hip. 

Pushing your lips into a pout, you try to catch a glimpse of him from over your shoulder, but not without shoving your hips back against him to rile him up even more. “I just… I just wish to indulge in what my husband has to offer,” you whimper. Using that term of endearment feels unfamiliar, yet it just manages to spark more desire inside of you. 

“Oh, is that so?” he drawls. “What luck that it’s an option which lies open to you.”

He rises back to his full height, and grabs both of your hands to pin them behind your back, locking the wrists with one of his large hand and rendering you immobile. There’s no need for him to tug himself to full hardness, as just the sight of your cunt slick with your arousal is enough to get him rock hard. 

“That perfect cunt of yours is weeping for me.” You don’t have to look at him to see the smirk draped across his lips, the smugness very much prominent in the raspy drawl of his voice. 

Aligning the tip with your entrance, he’s met with little resistance, your soaked and swollen folds embracing him in one, swift thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. You moan in unison at the intrusion, your walls fluttering and clenching around him to fully accommodate his size. 

He pulls out of you almost completely with merely the tip of his cock remaining buried inside, the lack of his fullness already driving you insane. With his hand around your wrists, he proceeds to pull you back onto his cock while he thrusts his hips forward, meeting you halfway and resulting in his heavy balls slapping against your sensitive pearl. 

He pounds into you with reckless abandon in the following, the tip of his cock brushing the spot inside of you that has your vision grow blurry over and over again. 

With your face pressed against the table, you aren’t able to spot the desire blazing in his eye. The only thing that makes you aware of the excitement he finds in your unison is the tone of his husky voice. “When I am done with you,” he rasps, bowing forward to put more of his weight onto your small frame beneath his. “You will never desire another cock but mine.” 

Being in a stupor because of his cock, you’re not able to whine and whimper more than a string of yesses, the last one interrupted with a hard, percussive thrust. Then follows another, and another, until you can’t focus on anything else but the delicious pressure inside your cunt. 

You push your hips back against him, and he rears up to pull you back with each of his thrusts, meeting him halfway which results in the lewd sounds of skin slapping on skin bouncing off the walls.

The ‘gods’ he mumbles is hardly audible over both your moans and pants, but still doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You find it extremely pleasing to know that you’re able to coax him out of his composure more easily than you’ve first assumed; the highest praise he could ever give you. 

With one hand on your hip, he hoists you further onto the table, your feet leaving the cold ground beneath and dangling in the air. The edge of the table cuts into your hips in a way that slowly but surely becomes uncomfortable with the force of his thrusts, but it also ruts so perfectly against your pearl each time; juxtaposing pain and pleasure, making your mind hazy and your body go limp. 

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly your peak builds in the pit of your stomach with the right stimulation, taking over your body and rippling through you with soaring pleasure. 

Each time the sac of his stones slaps your little bud, your body tries to jerk away from him – but to no avail with your hands still pinned behind your back. Your body trembles in his grasp, and the tremors grow more and more apparent with each second he doesn’t pull out of you, prolonging your peak. 

“I shall breed you until you’re round with my seed,” Aemond rambles behind you, his own mind scrambling from pleasure. “To show everyone that you’re mine.” 

“S-Seven hells, yes!” It’s the overstimulation making yourself more desperate for his release, begging for his seed. “Please, please… please.”

Your walls tremble around him, choking him so tightly your husband has to take a deep breath to keep his composure. But all effort is fruitless when his pulsing cock spends itself inside of your quivering walls. His grunts and groans fan into the chilly air of the chamber, and you’d love nothing more than to feel them fanning over your lips instead. 

Out of instinct, you start to roll your hips against his, prolonging his own peak as you milk him for every drop of his seed. Aemond is out of breath by the time his movements come to a stop, staying buried inside of you as if he means to make sure his efforts bear fruit after the first try. And you relish in it, despite the vulnerable position it brings you in.

Releasing your wrists, his hands proceed to grope at your arse while he considers your trembling, satisfied frame. He can’t help but feel somewhat proud of himself. 

Being the first one to break the silence, you flush as you hear his raspy voice ring out. “Well, I see you were certainly eager to engage in those privileges,” he says, his voice laced with mischief. “Very eager.”

You chuckle softly, and when you move to push yourself off the table, Aemond takes that as his cue to pull out of you. Marveling at the sight of his seed slowly oozing out of your swollen cunt, he’s quick to stuff it back inside using his thumb. The gesture brings another wave of heat to your cheeks, more so when you feel his chest press flush against your back and the warmth radiating off of him with his finger still inside of you. 

Taking in a deep breath, you hold onto the table for support. “You certainly did not waste any time in… indulging either,” you reply. Not just your body is trembling with the after-effects of your intimacy, but also your voice still shakes. 

With a chuckle, Aemond dips his head down and presses a kiss to your shoulder. “We only have a few more hours before our absence is called into question by the court. We must return promptly.”

Your husband is the one fixing your attire, pulling up your smallclothes and breeches before he tugs himself back into his own. And it makes you well aware that the semblance of calm and freedom is very much over now. “They will realize where we have been anyways once they see me arriving on dragon back,” you counter with a pout on your lips. Perhaps that would coax him into staying just a little longer. 

He brings his hand up to cup your face, his thumb tugging on your bottom lip to free it from its position. “Yes, they may very well come to such a conclusion, but at least we shall preserve some of our dignity if we do return after a reasonable time. The last thing we need now is the whole court speculating on our whereabouts. It is already scandalous enough as it is.”

At his words, you let out a soft, grumbled noise of frustration, although you can’t deny that he has a point. “And what do we do then? We cannot just return to court and pretend as if nothing has happened.”

“No, I suppose not,” he replies. “We shall confront our fathers.”

Though you know your own father won’t take kindly to the news, you’re certain that your uncle won’t bat an eye upon hearing of it. Still, your demeanor shifts at hearing the notion that you’ll be facing your father, your eyes flickering with a hint of worry. “That will be just as bad as not returning to court at all.” 

Truth is, you haven’t spent a second thinking of the consequences, always pushing the thoughts aside for a later time. And with that time being now, a tiny amount of sweat appears at the back of your neck. 

“It won’t,” Aemond says firmly, his tone taking over a sudden sharpness. “At least then we shall be the ones defining our own fate. They will have no chance than to listen to us, rather than making an assumption based on hearsay.”

You exhale a deep breath. “Back to King’s Landing, then.”

[m1ndbrand]

Y/N: Bro-

Aemond: No, no, hold up, rewind.

Aemond: My tongue was down in your throat just a second ago and you were about to call me brother??

[spider-stark]

JEALOUSY

Aegon II Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary - Dealing with the consequences of making Aegon jealous

Warnings - MINORS DNI, abusive/toxic relationship, definite masochism, choking, brief mentions of blood, brief mentions of blades, targcest

Word Count - 1.6k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

Stars cloud your vision when he shoves you against the wall, your temple slamming into the rough stone. 

You hiss at the pain splintering through your skull, throbbing so much that you hardly even acknowledge the accompanying ache in your shoulder, your arm contorted awkwardly as his fingers wrap tightly around your wrist, pinning it in-between your shoulder blades. 

He leans in close, pressing his weight against your spine and knocking the air from your lungs. His other hand comes up to tangle itself in your hair, keeping your cheek pressed firmly against the stone.

You try to use your free hand to push back against the wall, desperate to give your chest enough space to expand, to allow oxygen to fill your needy lungs. 

A dry laugh rattles his chest at the sight, amused as he watches you shove helplessly. Then, after listening to your pathetic pants for a few heartbeats, his grip slackens enough to let you catch a full breath—but not enough to give you an opportunity to escape his hold. 

Though, even if you could free yourself, you would’ve had no intention of actually doing so. 

“I bet you think you’re a clever girl,” his lips are nearly grazing against your earlobe as he speaks, the warmth of his breath fanning down your neck. “Don’t you?” 

Aegon’s tone is sickeningly sweet, and the saccharine taunt offers a distinct contrast to the violent grip he still has on you. You can still feel the sharp sting of his nails clawing around your wrist, digging into the flesh so deeply that you wonder if he will draw blood. 

It wouldn’t be the first time that Aegon had made you bleed—and you hoped that it wouldn’t be the last. 

Panting, still trying to catch your breath, you say, “I haven’t the slightest idea as to what you’re on about, brother.” 

Brother—the title elicits a guttural sound from him, a low and heavenly sound that has your body acting of its own volition, your thighs squeezing together in search of friction. 

Aegon knew that, in this particular instance, your choice of wording had been a deliberate move. A reminder of what you were to him; his youngest and sweetest sibling, a girl that he was supposed to want to protect from evil men like himself, the kind that wished to ruin you in ways the Seven would never forgive. 

But you enjoy feeding into his sinful and insatiable desire to defile his sweet sister. And, in spite of the pain—from your head, from your shoulder, from your wrist—there’s a sly smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. A sudden sense of power rushes your veins, dulling the pain you’re feeling and replacing it with immeasurable satisfaction. 

You had control over Aegon—always. 

Even now, with a hand pinned behind your back and stone scraping your cheek, you held the most power, because you were the one that had worked to painstakingly orchestrate this entire situation; using today’s tourney as an opportunity to entertain a few pathetic men from House Greyjoy, going so far as to offer one of them your favor during the joust, and giving up a dance to another after the banquet. 

You had taken advantage of your brother’s innate jealousy, as well his own deep-seated insecurity that eventually you would find another body to warm your bed, another man to satiate your desires. Cruelly, you had taken advantage of him in hopes of eliciting this very response. 

You wanted him like this—frustrated and enraged, so irate and possessive that the only way he could possibly relieve the tension was like this; shoving you against a wall, hellbent on forcefully reminding you that your body had been made for him. 

“You’re insufferable,” his moan is laced with such animosity, such raw ferocity, “you think that you can do whatever you wish,” his head dips lower, nuzzling his nose against the side of your neck, “that you can flirt what whoever you wish,” your breath catches in your throat as you feel his tongue quickly swipe along your pulse point before growling, “without consequences.” 

His finger’s knot themselves further into your hair, keeping you from thrashing away from him as he sinks his teeth into you. A wave of pleasure and pain ripples through you at the sensation of his sharp cuspids pricking at the sensitive flesh. 

“Aeg-” 

More calculation, more deliberation—you knew how much Aegon loved to hear you whine for him, knew that it would cause another moan to slip from his lips, effectively loosening his jaw and relieving the pain of teeth prodding into your throat. 

He doesn’t stop, though, continuing to nibble and suck until there’s a bruise blossoming beneath his lips, always refusing to pass up on an opportunity to mark you. You writhe against him, further feeding into his fantasy of sullying his little sister by trying to squirm from his grasp. 

But, with his body still pressed so firmly against yours, caging you to the wall, you find yourself grinding against the firm imprint of his cock straining against his trousers. The subsequent whimpers that fall from your lips are not purposeful, instincts taking over once again as you try and shift your hips, rising on your toes and attempting to poke your ass out, doing everything you can to feel him against you. 

A thin bridge of saliva trails from your marred neck to his lips as he tuts softly, “So needy,” he presses a kiss to the growing bruise he’s left behind, the action so tender and doting. The hand he had raveled in your hair falls to rest in the curve of your waist, squeezing slightly as he asks you, “Tell me—do you truly think that those Greyjoy boy’s could have gotten you like this?” 

“Perhaps,” you tease him, intending to see just how far you could push him, “I’ve heard rumors about the Iron Islanders. Baela tells me that the Grejoy men are well-known for their fat cocks-” 

The crude claim has just hardly left your mouth before Aegon whirls you around, sending your back crashing into the stone this time, his hand enclosed around your throat. It’s nearly impossible to tell whether the sounds slipping from you are from pleasure or pain, but Aegon doesn’t particularly care. 

“Speak one more word about their cocks,” he snarls, his lilac eyes turning predatory as they narrow at you, “and I will carve your tongue out.” 

Your own gaze travels to his waist, settling on the dagger sheathed at his hip. Indolent as he was, you knew that your brother was capable of making true on his threat. For all the discipline he lacked, he still had the sort of temperament that makes a man deadly—with or without a weapon. 

But you trust him—more than you should—and you immediately recognize his threat as being an empty one. Aegon had no intention of ever pulling a blade on you; though he had certainly succeeding in implanting the thought in your head, your mind suddenly running wild with all of the ways that you might encourage him to use it on you later, wondering how it might feel to have him fuck you with the hilt. 

Aegon shakes you from these fantasies, though, squeezing your throat tight enough that your vision is going hazy again, leaving you blinking stupidly at him. “With only a few chaste kisses I’ve succeeded in turning you into a writhing whore,” he spats at you, the harshness of his tone making you flinch, “could the Greyjoy’s have done that?” 

There’s a wobble in his voice as he speaks the same, giving away his need for reassurance. You almost consider giving it to him, nearly finding yourself the victim of his soft, pouty lips, your body urging you to lean in and taste them—but it seems that your silence has a more desired effect, earning an entitled huff before his other hand is gliding down your abdomen, bunching up the silky fabric of your dress. 

“No,” he mutters, perhaps to himself more than you. “They could not satisfy you! No—they could not possibly know all of the right ways to touch you, to kiss you, to fuck you!” 

You’re biting your tongue as his hand finally slips beneath your dress, his fingers swiftly diving between your thighs, curving so that he can make quick work of removing the smallclothes beneath—only to realize that you’re wearing none. 

He stops—his chest rising and falling in a series of many short, shallow breaths. His rage grows exponentially, his intrinsic insecurity leading him to believe that you had abstained for their benefit and not his. There’s a muscle feathering in his jaw and, for the first time in this encounter, you nearly consider searching for a means of escape, your eyes beginning to grow wide with fear. 

But then his lip trembles, lilac eyes growing glossy as he growls, “You are mine–” his palm is flat against your throat, squeezing tight enough to make you wheeze, “only mine.” 

His mouth is on yours before the declaration has even fully rolled off of his tongue, uttering the final word against your lips as he kisses you harshly, fervently, desperately—trying to prove himself to you, prove that he’s capable of making you feel a type of euphoria that the Greyjoy boy’s never could. 

Later—you would soothe his pitiful little mind, promising him that you had never actually taken an interest in the Greyjoy’s. Later, once you had been thoroughly bruised, bitten, and fucked, you would tell him the truth; that you had only ever wanted him. 

But, for now at least, you would take all the pleasure you could get from the dangerous, predatory touch of your jealous boy.

a/n - idk, i was bored at work and just ended up with this. not sure if i even like it, but i'm trying to get better at just posting the things i write instead of letting them die in my drafts

also if anyone wants to talk about hotd (writing about it or just watching it lol) please message me, i'm desperate for hotd friends before season 2 <3 <3

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part One

Master List of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: This is based on the depiction of Aegon in HBO's House of The Dragon and not the books, though I do change some details about his character here and there. I fully recognize that he is a horrible person in the show, especially, but it still makes me want to fuck him just as badly. Please give me hate for this, so I know what to add to the story to piss you Aegon haters off. Toodles!

Chapter Warnings: Graphic depictions of childbirth and complications, death, reference to sexual assault, Aegon speaking inappropriately to a minor.

Screams echoed throughout the dark streets of Flea Bottom, the sound emanating from one of the many brothels that occupied the townspeople and even certain royals. The usual moans the whores had listened to were gone, replaced with their encouraging words and the shallow pants of a woman in labor. The establishment was closed for the night, which was unusual. They were always open, even on holidays that were supposed to be observed in silence, but this, they believed, was far more important.

One of the fellow women was giving birth to the firstborn daughter of Daemon Targaryen, a bastard.

"Push Elaina! Push!" the Madam commanded, holding her sweating hand.

The whispers of the other girls were the only thing Elaina Black could hear, even over the pound of blood through her ears. She had taken all the proper precautions to avoid this, but it seemed the Gods had other plans for her. Elaina had been the private whore of Daemon Targaryen, reserved only for his cock. Typically, the Madam would refuse such a demand, but he was a prince, and only the best were given to the Highborn.

"I can't," she whimpered, tears streaming down her temples. Unable to hold herself up, she lay on her bed, legs held open by her fellow girls. It had been hours, and the babe had not breached the canal. She was exhausted, sweat coated all her limbs, and she had given up on the birthing chair.

"You must!" A young girl to her side whispered, dabbing her forehead with a cool, damp cloth.

"The babe is stuck," the Madam said, her gruff voice turning into a soft, worried sound. Her callused hand rubbed her stomach.

"I-I need something, anything, for the pain," Elaina cried, her whole body feeling like she was lying in a bed of flames.

"I am sorry, sister, but it might harm the child," a girl holding her leg spoke. Elaina grunted, baring down and pushing with all her might with a scream. She felt as if her eyes were going to pop out of her head with force.

"Yes!" The Madam shouted. "Yes! Yes! Keep going, Elaina! It is moving!"

"Oh Gods," she groaned, attempting to roll on her side, but was held down.

The Madam had a bright smile as she stuck her hands inside Elaina's canal, feeling the soft hair of the newborn as it slid forward. She could feel the child's head moving against her pelvis, creating an indescribable pain. A few more contractions and the babe would be free.

Elaina tossed and turned, gripping the stained sheets and nearly ripping them in half as a soft tuft of brown hair appeared. She screamed, her back lifting as she bared down, knowing that would be the last push.

A searing pain surged through her body from her core, traveling up her spine. She felt like she was being ripped open, all her insides tearing apart and coming out with the babe.

"Good. Good," the Madam soothed, the cry of a newborn echoing in the room. "You may rest now, Elaina."

And Elaina tried, she did, but the contractions did not stop. She kept pushing and pushing. The sighs of relief all the whores let out were all that could be heard. They left Elaina to tend to the babe, ignoring her raspy breaths. Though they were still in the room, she felt so alone and helpless, lying there with her legs spread open. She assumed her body kept pushing for the afterbirth, which was something to be expected, but she didn't think it would happen so soon. She felt her body pop like a plug pulled from a drain, which she assumed was the placenta exiting her body. She finally relaxed, her body exhaling all her pain and tension.

"May I see them?" Elaina asked softly, barely containing any energy.

The women finally turned to Elaina, and the newborn swaddled in one of their arms. Their faces all paled, the Madam passing the child to another girl as she ran to her parted legs.

"Wh-what is the matter?" Elaina looked down, seeing a pool of blood between her thighs. She sat up, finally gaining the strength to move before someone could push her down as she saw her organs.

She nearly fainted in shock but willed her eyes to stay open. She could not be done until she held her child.

"My baby," she whispered, but nobody listened, everyone panicking as they tried to get Elaina's internal organs back inside. "My child," she shouted, finally finding her voice. "Give me my child."

The young girl holding the still crying babe looked to the Madam, asking permission. She nodded, hands wrist deep into Elaina's heat.

Finally, she got to hold her child, numb to the poking and prodding of people's hands inside her. She wrapped her arms around the small bundle, the child as if knowing they were in their mother's arms instantly calmed. Elaina shifted the blankets to see the babes sex, smiling to herself.

"A girl," her trembling voice whispered, covering her daughter back up and whispering her name. "My beautiful girl."

She rubbed the soft lanugo hair on her head, noticing a small block of skin lighter than the rest of her scalp, white hair growing from it. The newborn closed her eyes at her mom's soft stroking, a yawn escaping her tiny mouth, smacking her gums. She knew that her daughter would have a piece of her father with her, even if she never knew him. Elaina had never felt such love for another being in her life. How could such a small thing make her feel this way?

She was oblivious to the panicky talking of the Madam and other girls, a few entering and exiting the room with different supplies. All that mattered in the world right now was her daughter in her arms, her eyes slowly opening as she stopped stroking her head. Rings of violet wrapped around her pupils, almost sparkling in the candlelight.

Suddenly, the babe was removed from her arms, and Elaina shouted, attempting to jump out of the sweat and blood-soaked sheets, but was shoved down by four women. Her daughter's cries mirrored her mother's, wanting to be in her warm embrace again.

"Where," Elaina's breath caught in her throat, realizing how exhausted she was, "where are you taking her?"

"Elaina, calm yourself." She ignored the girl's words demanding her to hold still.

"Give me my baby! Give me back, my child," she screamed, but no one listened, holding her down with all their strength.

"I need to stitch you up, Elaina! The babe tore you down to your arse!" The Madam shouted, getting frustrated with her violent squirming.

"I do not care! Give me back my child!"

"Restrain her."

"We are trying, Madam," the four girls responded as Elaina managed to free a leg and kick one of them in the face.

"Get her Milk of the Poppy, now."

It was only mere moments before a whore came in with a small glass bottle, asking another girl to help her open her mouth as she poured the liquid. Slowly, Elaina began to calm, her thrashing coming to a halt as her mind left the realm. Her child still wailed its deafening cries, never ceasing even as her mother settled.

"There, there little one," the girl who had taken her cooed. "It's alright. Your mama will make it out alright. I am sure of it." The babe continued to cry, almost as if she could sense her lies.

"Lyra, shut her up or leave the room," the Madam said, her voice returning to her routine. Lyra chose the latter, closing the door quietly behind her as she rocked the newborn in her arms.

The infection took Elaina Black in three days' time. Even though they managed to stitch her together, her insides still kept coming out. It was as if her body refused to heal without her daughter's presence. The Madam refused to let the child see her dying mother for fear that she would somehow make her sick, but she could not handle seeing her in that state. She felt like a failure. Letting one of her whores get pregnant in the first place was shameful enough, but her dying from said pregnancy under her care was terrible. She was supposed to take care of her girls, and she failed.

It was early in the morning, a week after Elaina's death, and all the brothel women were confused about why the Madam decided to call a meeting instead of letting them sleep. They all gathered around in the small room they designated for meals, waiting for Madam to address them finally. She was babbling to the bundle in her arms, letting her play with the finger she was swirling over in her face.

"I called you all here today because word has gotten to me. Rumors that some of you have broken our unspoken agreement to keep the child safe," she spoke, her eyes never leaving the babe.

"Madam," Lyra spoke up before anyone else could dig them a deeper grave. "We would never put the child at risk. Whatever whispers you have heard are false."

Madam hummed in response, finally looking at the frightened girls. "You all know her parentage and why she should be kept out of your mouths, and yet," she paused, looking at every one of their faces, "someone has spoken, and word has made it to the Red Keep." They gasped, knowing what this could mean for them and their business.

"The child is my concern, and I want no word of her to anyone. Do you understand?" The sternness in her voice was enough to make even the strongest of men falter. "Or I will have you all kicked to the streets."

They all nodded without protest, knowing that she would follow those threats. Madam took a breath, turning around to dismiss them as she kissed the babes forehead wordlessly, her purple-lined iris' glinting up at her. She knew she wouldn't be able to hide her from the royal family forever, but she would try. She'd be damned if she failed you too.

Several Years Later...

You giggled as you ran along the Streets of Silk, a mischievous grin plastered on your face as you dropped a few apples from your tiny arms. A few City Watchmen chased after you, and their shouts for you to halt fell deaf on your ears. You weaved your way through the crowds of people like a snake in the grass while the guardsmen ran through them like bulls, bumping into almost everyone they saw.

It was easy for you to get away, slinking down an alley and hiding behind a corner in your dark cloak. You turned, making sure the men ran past before you stepped out of the shadows, putting the rest of the apples into your brown satchel but leaving one out to eat. You took a bite, smiling triumphantly that you had gotten away with your crime as you skipped back to your home in Flea Bottom.

You had just reached the back entrance of the brothel you called home, always listening to what Madam said as it burst open, revealing an incredibly drunk patron as you fell to the dirty sandstone, the cloak of your hood dropping.

"Ouch," you cried, rubbing the back of your head from where it hit the ground. All the apples roll from your bag.

You looked up at the man, only to realize it wasn't. It was a young boy, barely looking at the age of ten and three, with a leather patch over his left eye and tears in the other. He, too, had a cloak of his own, now pushed back and revealing hair as white as snow. It took you a moment to comprehend what that meant, a young boy with hair like that, but then you realized, quickly scrambling up into a clumsy bow.

"Your grace, I-I did not mean to-"

A hard shove knocked you back to the ground, but this time you caught yourself staring at him with an angry look. You knew you couldn't do anything to him, he was royalty, but that did not stop you from trying.

"Get away from me whore. I have had enough of you." The prince rubbed his tear-stained cheeks with his sleeve as you attempted to get up again, but he pushed you back down, stepping on your hand as he ran away.

It was your turn to cry now, the pain and anger mixing as you whimpered, clutching your hand to your chest. What had you done to offend him so dearly? It was his fault he ran into you. Maybe he could have seen you if he wasn't such a baby. You did nothing wrong. You had half a mind to chase after him for hurting you the way he did as you got up, debating if you could catch up to him in time. You probably could. He was a selfish, pampered palace ass, not a street rat like you.

"A bit young to be whoring yourself out, aren't you? But I suppose it never hurts to start young." A tall but stocky man stood in the door frame, eyes roaming your body. He had the same white hair as the boy from before, only shorter and curly and reeking of sweat. You stepped back, trying your best not to scrunch your nose up in disgust at his smell.

"I am not a whore," you spat, putting your hands on your hips. He crossed his legs, still leaning in the doorway as he observed you, an almost calculating look on his face.

"Ah, my apologies then, dear maiden. I only meant whore in training," he said with a smirk. You scoffed, fixing your pouch as you knelt to pick up the red apples on the ground.

"Hardly. I do not whore myself, nor will I ever."

"A pity," he said, crouching down to be level with you, "for I would love to see your body once fully grown."

You grabbed the last apple, ignoring his comment and putting it in your bag as he placed his hand over yours, staring into your eyes. You grew uncomfortable at his unwavering gaze, heat rising to your cheeks as he ran his fingers through your white strand of hair, comparing it to your eyes. If you weren't any brighter, it would seem like he was about to kiss you. He hummed to himself as if he was inspecting a relic he did not understand.

Your name being called sharply moved your gaze from his, standing up as you shoved the apple back into your satchel. The prince stood up, his knees cracking as a part of his tunic moved, showing an indentation of teeth in his skin, and suddenly you remembered why he was here in the first place.

"I am coming, Ma." You brushed around the stranger, his fingers ghosting your arm, sending gooseflesh throughout your body. "I brought us some apples," you offered in peace as she clutched you to her bosom, hiding your face from his.

"Thank you for your patronage, my prince. I hope on your way home, you and your brother offer the upmost discretion of your time here." She stroked your soft hair as you peeked, catching his eyes for just a moment before Madam pulled you closer. "After all, it was a joyous celebration of Prince Aemond becoming a man, and special memories like these are best kept close to the heart." You knew she was trying to protect you, as she did with any man or woman you met on accident, but this time she spoke in riddles.

A thick air of uncertainty hung between them before he responded. "Of course, Babette, I would not dream of soiling such a memory with loose lips," he replied, walking away with a curious expression. "Though," he said, causing Ma to tighten her grip on you, "I must admit, your daughter has the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen." She nearly suffocated you now, shoving your face in between her breasts. "The hint of violet in them, oh, how exquisite. They remind me of my own," he turned to her with a devilish grin, "or perhaps someone else who has frequented this brothel, my Uncle, maybe?"

You weren't ignorant to his words, you knew what he was implying, but you did not have any of the same features of Daemon Targaryan. You did not have the same silver hair as him, nor the purple irises he has. You would hardly call yourself related.

"Thank you, Prince Aegon. To have my daughter be compared to the likes of royalty is the highest compliment of them all." Ma bowed her head stiffly. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a business to run."

Before he could utter another word, Madam shut the wooden door, locking it with the keys she always kept on her swaying hip. She released you, crushing your small frame with her large one.

"Oh, I love you, little one," she let go before smacking you on the side of your head. How many times were you going to get hit today? You didn't want to know. "Don't you ever talk to a stranger again, or else I will have to send Lyra to be your chaperone." You tried to squirm from her firm grip, but she tugged you closer.

"Ma, I cannot breathe," you complained. She laughed, nuzzling her face into your neck.

"If you can speak, you can breathe," she said plainly, waiting a moment before letting you go. "Now, what did you say about some apples?" You smiled, showing her the bag as she took it off your shoulder. "How did you get all of these? I did not give you that much coin."

You giggled, looking away as you tossed the money she lent you. "I am very good at haggling, Madam." She sighed, knowing you must have stolen them, as she pulled you into another hug, kissing the top of your head.

"Oh, my sweet girl, whatever shall I do with you," she jested. Half scolding and half praising that you managed to get a dozen apples on your own without getting caught.

You ignored the loud moans and squeaking beds from the rooms above, going to the cramped kitchen. You stood next to Madam as she began peeling the skin off the apples, handing you a knife to do one. Ma had made you gather some ingredients throughout the week, but she did not tell you what she was planning. She knew how much you loved this dish.

It was your mother's favorite, too, so she should have known. Madam did not make it much for her, though, as she was just one of her many whores that came and went. She did not care for Elaina until she realized the prince had taken a liking to her. He had brought in most of the brothel revenue at the time, and when Elaina fell pregnant, she was angry. Any appreciation Madam had towards her was gone. She thought Elaina's stupidity would surely bring her to ruins under the realization that she would have to refuse prince Daemon now in fear of the bastard child's life, but the Gods seemed to favor her when another prince decided to frequent the halls. He made up for any loss in profits.

Madam did not want to lose you; she had grown quite fond of you over the years and knew the girls under her care did too. She didn't want to turn Aegon away, for that was a risk she could not take, but your safety came first. She would have to be more thoughtful about this. Madam would need to pull some strings and ask some favors of people to make sure you were either hidden or not here when he came. That was the only way you could remain safe.

"Ma, will I be a whore when I am grown?" Your question nearly caused her to faint, shocked something like that would even be on your barely-of-age mind.

"No, sweet thing, you will not," she answered curtly, cutting off a big chunk of fruit instead of a peel. You paused your actions, pursing your lips in thought before asking another question.

"What will I be then? Like you?" Madam sighed through her nose, putting the apple down on the cutting board.

"If you want, yes." She placed her hands on her wide hips. What had Aegon said to you? "Why do you ask, sweet one?"

You mirrored your caretaker's actions but didn't reach her eyes. "I-I do not know, Ma. It was just a silly thought. It does not matter." She could see you recoiling within yourself, hugging your young body. Her urge to comfort you overpowered any worry she had as she softened her posture and voice.

"It is not silly for you to have thoughts. Do not ever let anyone say that to you. Everything you think or feel is valid." You furrowed your brows at her, confused at where this sudden sentiment came from. "But do not worry yourself with thoughts of the distant future; you still have the breasts of a toddler." Madam pinched your slowly stretching skin as you yelped and swatted her hand away, chastising your guardian. "Now, go to the cellar and fetch me the items you got at the market this week." Your face brightened at finally knowing what Ma was going to make you.

"Apple Muse! Oh, Ma, I love you so much," you squealed, wrapping your arms around her in a bone-crushing hug before running down a hatch. Madam smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. For now, she was worried about the thought of your future. 

I know, I know— such a boring chapter. No smut, which is crazy for me, but don't worry, it'll get nasty eventually. On that, I can promise you. ;)

Master List of Series

[belovedbastardremus]

[paintb0x]

aegond commissions for wonderful @dr-aegon 💘🌧️👁️

[angrygirlromero]

Hi. Sick and twisted headcanon? How about maegor "training" his pregnant wife? He killed her husband and "trained" her to be his "slave" by tying her wrists behind her back while she's naked on his bed with heels and garters on. He inserted a vibrator inside her womanhood and watched her thrust her hips while he pleasured himself. He ensured that this was recorded. He then came to notice her nipples getting hard and her tears caused by how painful it was to have her breasts filled with milk. So, he pinched her nipples to make them leak, massaged and sucked her breasts. Compulsory taking nude photos of her blossoming body and burned all of her clothes so that she'll be naked 24/7.

Maegor Targaryen x Niece/Wife!Targ Reader

Warning: Megor Targaryen, age gap, incest, pregnancy, grammar mistakes, smut.

Author’s Note: sorry I changed it a bit, and this is sort of my first headcanon I’ve ever really done so it’s not really that good, but anyway just my point of view hope you enjoy!

Maegor Targaryen would be very obsessed with Valyrian culture, he’d be determined to have a pure breed Targaryen wife, and he’d want his children and heir to be of pure Valyrian ancestry.

He’d be more than obsessed with his little niece reader after, his mother suggested for him to marry someone from their house, he’d be obsessed with the reader since she was a child, more like a daemon and Rhaenyra situation, but everyone refuses to marry the sweet little inocente reader to him, his other wife’s wouldn’t matter at all, his little niece would be his only and main priority, so when he finds out she was married off to another rich lord from another house, he’s mad, very mad, so he slaughters an entire house and ends them right there.

He would ride on the back of Balerion and burn the house to ground, he’d have his guards go in and get the reader, and her husband so he can behead him himself. He’d cut the reader’s husband’s head off, give it to her as a gift and fuck her right there and then for everyone to see who you belong to.

He’d make the reader his wife and his only queen, and punish her every night for allowing another man touch her, he’d fuck her constantly and make her moan, scream and cry his name all night long for everyone in the keep to hear.

He’d train her to be his personal sex salve and toy, only for his use, he’d always keep her in his sight and she’d barely be allowed out of her room, only with guards with her at all times, he’s be hell of a possessive man, his other wife’s pitty the reader, and one in specific would be jealous (you know who I’m talking about).

If his precious little niece asked anything of him, he’d do anything and everything for her, and out of all of his wives she was definitely the only one that mattered at all to him, he adored his little niece wife, he’d have hundreds of hand sewed dresses personally mad for her, each one individually made of the best quality of red silk and with hand stitched gold.

He’d spoil her a lot with gifts and jewelry, she’d be the most elegant, precious and perfect queen throughout the day to her people, but at nighttime she’d be his little cock slave that he could use however he desired whenever he wished.

When Maegor finds out the reader is pregnant, she’s always with his, with him being too anxious and overprotective of her and his soon to be heir, and he’d love her pregnant body more than anything, torturing her with pleasure for hours on repeat as he watches or sucks on her body leaving possessive marks or sucking on her breasts doing anything in his power to get milk out, or relive her of the painful amount of milk.

He’d listed intently as reader moans his name as he fucks her over and over until she passes out, he’d constantly admire her pregnant body being proud of his work. He’s demand that his little wife be naked of any clothes while around him.

And after his first son is born, he’d just fuck another one into her, until they had an army of children.