R-18+; His Lioness (Alpha!Fili x Omega!Fem!Reader)
Summary - You had promised your status wouldn't get in the way of their journey and you were a hobbit of her word, that was until you began spending more time around him. Now without the aid of your herbs, you must fight off your heat and avoid the golden prince at all cost.
Warnings - Smut, language, semi-public sex, afab reader, female reader, unprotected sex, bodily fluids, omegaverse, biting, being claimed(?), heat, language, knotting (brief mentioned), mention of a cervix, mention of trolls, mention of medical herbs.
Pronouns & Pov - She/her, third-person-ish
Word Count - 6,800+
A/N - I apologize for any grammar or anatomy issues. I do not remember a single word I wrote, this was an old paid for smut by an ex-friend of mine. (I no longer have the collage I originally posted this with.)
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It had been ages since you last spoke to the golden-haired alpha yet alone glanced in his direction, it was a sudden change as if you had been cursed or snapped overnight. Normally he would be okay with this, understanding he and his brother could be quite the handful while traveling, however, you still spoke to his brother! It felt as if you were proving a point that you no longer needed the lion to stand beside you, a twinge of pain shooting right through his sensitive heart, a pain he saw worse than any blade or arrow which pierced his skin before.
A pain which extended towards you as well, not only were you fighting the physical urge to fling yourself at him for comfort but you were also constantly fighting the little lioness who lived deep within you as she cried for her mate to ease her pain. Oh, how you wished you could, nothing would make you happier than to finally rid those sleepless nights by resting in between your lion's scar-tattered arms, but you had made a promise to control your heat alone and you were a hobbit of your word.
It was not a binding promise, one you propositioned yourself insisting not all omegas needed a knot to soothe what ails them but that was before you finally noticed him. He was vastly different from the alphas you had met amongst your journey so far, he was the main reason you were allowed on this journey insisting you could fight as well as any alpha or beta who walked with them, yet he was still protective enough of you which warmed your heart but did not degrade you down to your status' qualities alone. Those once innocent thoughts of how wonderful he was to you quickly turned into deeper, more lustful ones especially after that dreadful night with the trolls.
Squirming around in that fabric sack whilst your eyes darted towards each dwarf, why did you agree to such a foolish plan? Thoughts of annoyance quickly replaced with fear as a massive, slimy hand wrapped around your entire form with ease. "Would you get a whiff of that, an omega ? I've never eaten one before!" Eyes widening to the size of dinner plates while you failed your limbs inside of the scratchy fabric, the scent panic oozing from your sweet aroma as each movement grew faster; this was it, this is how you'll perish at the hands, or rather mouth of a disgusting troll!
The lids of your eyes squeezed together snugly whilst your scent of panic spread throughout the forest, the entirety of your life flashing through your eyes; you had always wondered what that was like, excepting moments from your childhood or major milestones but instead, it was all of your adventures so far. An unexpected, chaotic, beautiful mess and every time a memory would fade a certain golden-haired dwarf would pop up before the memory continued. Each smile, horrible joke, or punch of your shoulder lightened the fear within the bottom of your belly as a horrid stench filled your nose, troll breath, gross.
The bottoms of your feet growing warm as the moist breath danced around the scratch fabric, it'll be okay- " STOP! " The scream pierced the air sharper than any arrow you had seen cast before, your memories and reassuring thoughts of your undeniable fate quickly stalling as did the troll's movements. "Oh? And why should I, dwarf ?" The troll snarled as he jerked your form down to his shoulder, peaking your eye open only to meet his menacing gaze. "You can't eat her! Because, erm, because-!" The panicked lion flailed around in the matching sack as he scanned his mind for any excuse good enough to free you, you're pregnant! No that could only tempt them further , a shiver shot down his spine at the disgusting thought.
"You can't eat them, especially not her, because they have, erm, worms in all their tubes ." Eyes quickly darting over to whom had just yelped, the hobbit wiggled around his restraint before continuing. "They're all infected with parasites . I wouldn't risk it, I really wouldn't." The hobbit choked out tone wavering as he wiggled up onto his covered feet, the troll yelped in disgust quickly releasing you to the squishy floor. Wait, squishy? The lids on your eyes both snapping open, head tilting up locking onto those familiar ocean eyes; the same eyes which widened with terror yet softened in relief. "Parasites? Did he say we have parasites?" "We don't have parasites!" Screamed a dwarf. "Yeah! You have parasites!" Hissed another, their disgruntled yells quickly stopped after a loud thump- "I mean I have parasites!" "We all do!" "Mine are as big as my arm!" " Mine are the biggest! I've got huge parasites!" One chimed in after another as the hobbit nodded his head at their antics, ones you merely missed out on due to how lost you became in the dwarf's eyes.
Heat flooded beneath the skin on your cheeks while you attempted to wiggle off of him, a string of soft apologies barely catching his ears as the dwarves continued to scream about their 'parasites' and bicker over which ones had the biggest. "Are you okay? You aren't hurt, are you?" The worry which dripped off of each word awoken the lioness within you, a silent purr rumbled within your chest as you cleared your throat; she was purring? She had never purred for anything besides food and warmth! "I am fine, Fili, but what of you?" "What of me?" A bushy brow raising as he leaned towards you aiding in your attempts to stand up. "I fell on you! Aren't you hurt?" Your panic not being eased as he simply shrugged his shoulders, a playful grin spreading upon his lips while the trolls squealed in disgust. "Dwarves can withstand many things, my dear hobbit. And even if I were hurt, who cares ?" The same loopy smile stayed glued upon his lip; I do! I care! Your inner lioness roared as you simply stood there, eyes blinking slowly whilst chaos ensued behind you.
A faint smile spread upon your lips at that memory, as terrified as you were then, you couldn't help but laugh at it now more relieved Fili had come to your rescue in time than anything. "What's with that look on your face?" A familiar voice questioned, wrapping a sturdy arm around your shoulders while the crunch of an apple caught your ear. "Oh, I'm just thinking of those huge parasites of yours." A small laugh slipping through your lips as you watched his eyes loop around in their sockets, a groan of annoyance slipping through his lips as he took another bite of his apple. "I told you, I panicked." He muttered holding out the unbitten red side to you, quickly shaking your head no, causing him to shrug and bite that side as well. "And we both know that's the face you make when you think of Fili." His tone growing higher in pitch at his brother's name, the attempt at mimicking your voice quickly reigniting the flaming heat beneath your cheeks.
"I do not know what you are talking about, have the parasites gotten to your brain again?" Muttering the words out whilst you slapped his arm away from your shoulders, the rising heat rapidly spreads across your flesh starting from your face down to the very tips of your toes. "Y/N, I can smell your lust from miles away and it's disgusting." His nose scrunching up at the end, giving you no choice other than to turn your head away from him; he had noticed? Could the others smell it too? Oh dear gods, could Fili smell it? Your sweet aroma was quickly drenched with the bitterness of your fear and the alluring tones of lust, an odd combination surely any who got within five feet of you could get a strong whiff of. "Y/N, I was kidding. I only noticed it when I made my way over." The brunette reassured you while gently patting his calloused hand on your upper back, your tensed shoulders quickly dropping back to your sides as you released the breath of air you unknowingly held onto.
"When was the last time you took your herbs, Khazush?" The softness in his tone and the nickname he frequently used for you brought you to the brink of tears, he insisted on calling you 'Khazush' which Bofur claimed meant sister, you were unsure if that was true or another joke Kili was playing yet it warmed your heart to that he would even consider seeing you as his own family, joke or not. And now with your heat in full swing, any emotions you had towards anything were amplified by ten yet it always oddly resulted in you in full-blown tears. "When were we in Rivendell?" Your pitch rising slightly whilst you twiddle your thumbs, head ducked down meekly as the brunette dwarf began to screech at you for being so careless, which was rather rich coming from him.
"Why didn't you say something sooner?!" "Because I do not want pity and keep your voice down, they'll hear you!" The yelled whispers forcing many's attention onto the pair of you including the sharp gaze of the lion you desperately avoided, his ocean orbs burning holes at your skull as he attempted to tune in on your conversation. "Oh like they cannot smell it-" The brunette quickly gulped down his words as your eyes narrowed at him, a glare he would typically only see in the midst of battle or if he had accidentally got you in the crossfire of his pranks.
"You could have asked for more! Oin has plenty of herbs which stall rutts!" The brunette dwarf whispered out quickly as he motioned to the elderly dwarf who walked mere feet behind you, blissfully minding his own business amongst the soft bickering and laughter of others. "Kili, heats are not the same, nor will they ever be the same as a rutt. They're so much-" A loud yelp escaping from your lips while your arms quickly wrapped around your lower abdomen, chest rising and falling at a faster pace while your scent further seeped into the area surrounding you. "worse." You managed to finish your sentence while beads of sweat began to form on your forehead, your entire form trembling painfully unaware of the concerned gazes upon you. Kili's hands gently tracing small circles upon your upper back as he whispered faint apologies and swears at whomever damned you to bear this curse.
"Are you okay, Y/N?" Another familiar voice greeted your opposite side, a much softer hand resting upon your shoulder as the beta's scent filled your nose; freshly cut grass, clean linen, and a hot mug of freshly brewed tea, that was your dear friend Bilbo Baggins. "Yes, yes. I'm fine, Bilbo." A faint whimper leaving your lips a matter of seconds after the words did, every fiber of your being burning ablaze as the fabric between your thighs quickly dampened whilst your mind began to haze.
"Y/N." The hobbit warned as his nose filled with your alluring aroma, while the scent of your slick barely affected him, the sight of his dearest friend quivering in pain split his beta heart into two. "I will not say anything but I want you to speak to Oin...please." The seriousness in his tone rapidly turned timid as he fought the urge within him to scoop you up and scent you in the hopes of easing your pain, a common practice between the pair of you that had died off at your request the moment your journey began, a request he wished had ignored yet he was a hobbit of his word. "I will, I promise. I just- fuck!" Your howl in pain catching each dwarves' ear, especially the golden-haired one, panic began to rush through his veins while he watched you crumble down onto your knees from afar.
The thumping of rushed steps was accompanied by the dried leaves they destroyed beneath them, all vastly different scents danced together all due thanks to a shared emotion that oozed out of them; panic. "Miss Y/N are you o-'' The toy-maker's voice quickly caught in his throat as the heavy scent of lust caught his nose, a heavy heat spread upon his face as your whimpers quickly turned into choked out sobs at the unbearable pain which wracked your body. "Oh, lass…" The softness in his tone forced another quiet whine from your body, the typical warmth of his calloused palms felt cooling compared to the excruciating heat that admitted from your trembling form. "Come on, lass, let's see what Oin has for you." His calloused palm gently tapped upon your lower back, an attempt to distract you from the waves of shooting pain that roamed throughout your body.
An innocent action by two friends was not perceived as such by a particular alpha who loomed nearby. A low growl escaped the blonde's thin lips while the goofy alpha rushed past him, you snugly draped over his left shoulder knowing well you could barely stand let alone walk in your condition yet he could not control the fire of jealousy that grew inside the pit of his stomach; how he wished that was him. It was painfully obvious how much he adores you to the other alphas and betas who traveled amongst his side, though he denied his true feelings at first claiming you two were merely friends yet there were certain actions the company noticed that he could not deny as easily.
How his cheeks would flush red while he gazed upon you during battle, how only you could calm down the lion amidst an argument between himself and Thorín, and how he would stir whilst you were on guard alone yet he would quickly fade into the soothing embrace of sleep the moment you stepped foot inside your bedroll. Each small action struck another nail into his coffin, he was madly in love with you and all could see it other than yourself.
The announcement of stopping for a night's rest quickly snapped the alpha out of his brief daze. The announcement was met with sighs of relief and the quickly scrambling of each alpha and beta to set up camp, though their king was kind he was also rather hard-headed when it came to traveling. As the day of Durin inched closer each moment, put further stress upon each member including yourself, admitting you had gone into heat would be the last thing all of the company needed.
By the grace of the gods, Bofur delivered you to Oin without any of the company stopping you. Whether that was out of pure luck or pure embarrassment you did not care to know, all you cared for was those magic herbs to ease any of the pain that shook you from your very core.
You were quickly instructed to go down by the river to wash some of the stench which clung onto you, concerned it would only spike another wave of pain throughout your body before the herbs could do anything. The elder dwarf quickly nudged you off to the edge of the campsite, nodding his head kindly before removing vials of herbs from his pack.
Your eyes quickly scanned over the camp ensuring that no one was following you before walking off into the wooded forest. The path of endless cedar trees seeming to taunt you as each step you took burned throughout your tired body, the only motivation that flooded your veins was the distant roar of water crashing against each other.
While you were inching closer to the glorious waterfall, a particular golden alpha back at the campsite was anxiously looking around for you. Your heavenly scent still lingered throughout his mind even with you away, the homey scent that danced comfortably within his nose simply fueled the anxiousness deep within his belly. Despite smelling like a pure dream, you looked so miserable.
"Stop pacing, you'll tear the ground in two." The familiar nag of his brother's voice greeted his left ear, his ocean-colored orbs quickly looping around his skull. "So what if I do? There is a hobbit missing from our company, who I must remind you is an omega, and no one is doing a thing about it!" The lion huffed, his muscular arms crossing in front of his chest. Why was no one doing anything about your absence?
"Hmm? Oh, you mean dear, Y/N!" A beaming smile spread upon the dark-haired dwarf's face, a hint of mischief rising beneath his sapphire eyes. "I believe she went to bathe in the stream, something about smelling like an orc." Tapping a calloused finger upon his thin lips while his gaze shifted towards the path you had wandered down, pretending to ponder on the supposed words you spoke to him.
"I see..." Fili trailed off, the panic which roamed his veins slowly dying off until the image of you hunched over nearly sobbing in pain flashed throughout his mind. "She looked ill earlier, are you sure it is wise she bathes without a guard nearby?" His expression greatly softened, the thought of you needing help and not receiving it made both his and his lion's hearts twinge in pain.
"That's why I came over here, Khâzash." A bushy eyebrow quirked upwards in the younger dwarf's direction, utter confusion spreading upon the lion's face more so at the use of the sudden word of brother in their tongue. "It was suggested I guard her while she bathes," His brother began, a spark of jealousy flashed behind the ocean eyes peering into his soul, exactly as planned. "however, I do not feel comfortable with that. The thought of seeing her nude is rather repulsive." Forcing a shiver throughout his body and a quiet gag within his mouth.
"And how exactly am I brought into this?" The eldest uttered out, a poor attempt to keep him in his conversation and not dwell upon the lewd images of your bare form which danced within his mind. Each inch of flesh on full display, the small scars that tattered your body due to the fights you had gone in, the slightest of curves throughout your form, just all of you in your purest of forms caused the fabric in front of his trousers to tighten ever so slightly.
"You owe me a favor, remember?" The brunette inquired, tilting his head to the side similar to a dog curiously listening to their owner's odd command. "I took the last watch so you could look for your sword? Have you truly forgotten your promise or are you simply refusing me, my fair payment?" His toned arms crossing in front of his chest, an exaggerated pout spread across his thin lips.
The blonde simply nodded his head not remembering the action spoken of, typically he would roll his eyes at his brother's antics but he was given the chance to protect you! To prove he was truly good enough to be your mate! Without another word to his brother, he quickly went down the lightly stoned path towards the stream barely missing the soft chuckle that escaped his brother's lips towards his sudden movements.
The cold water splashed against your skin, each tiny ripple a moment of ease from your burning flesh. A relieved sigh escaped your lips while your body further sank into the glorious stream, maybe you should've seen Oin beforehand. If your heat could have been fixed with a simple bath within some streams you would've spoken up the moment you got that disgusting troll's scent on you, a faint shiver shooting down your spine at the memory.
A memory cut short by the sudden snap of a twig breaking. Rushing towards the edge of the stream, you leaned forwards to grasp your sword within your slipper palms, your breath catching in the back of your throat at the thought of another foe coming to attack you. "Who goes there? Show yourself!" Your voice booming throughout the silent woods, a few birds flying off at the sudden disruption.
"Y/N, it's me, Fili." The soft voice cut through all panic in your veins, another relieved sigh escaped your body as you dropped your sword. The faint click of metal against the base of a tree ringing in the prince's ears. "You startled me. I'll be done in a few moments and then you can have the streams to yourself." Sighing at the sudden disruption though your lioness didn't mind it, invite him in! She gnawed, pawing at your chest. You know we both want to!
"Oh, erm, that's not why I'm here." A sudden heat arose throughout his pale cheeks, his words coming out more rushed and excited than he had intended. "I mean, I came to guard while you bathed...you looked unwell earlier and I wanted to make sure someone else would be beside you in the off chance of an ambush. Not that you would need my help!" He quickly corrected himself, relieved the giant cedar tree hid his rosy cheeks.
The panic in his tone made your inner lioness purr, he's worried about us. Tell him the truth and ask him to help. She sang while your chest began to rumble, her soft purrs not catching the prince's ear but his lion's. "It is alright, Fili. I know what you meant and I appreciate-ah!" A sharp twinge of pain erupted within your core, your lioness growing less patient as each second passed. I said to tell him! She nagged angrily, her sudden playful tone turning harsh and serious.
"Y/N! Are you okay?!" Panic arose throughout the dwarf's veins, was someone attacking you and not allowing you to speak?! His inner lion roared at the thought of his lioness being harmed, though he was unaware of what beast lived within you, certain actions made him conclude you owned a lion similar to him.
"I'm okay, Fili. I just-holy fuck why me?" Your stuttered words turned quickly into stretched-out whines as you sank further into the stream. The once cooling water appeared boiling against your skin, a faint sheen of sweat forming on your forehead as your steady breaths turned into slow pants.
His limbs suddenly moved at your outburst of cries, panic flooding through his entirety as his lion began to growl prepared to fight whoever was bringing you this pain. His tracks suddenly coming to a halt at your heavenly image, you looked like a goddess in your purest form, the fabric between his legs quickly turning into a tent as both his and his lion drank in your form.
"I am so sorry, I heard your cries, and I-" His words dying on his tongue the moment your alluring scent filled his nose once again, a scent he had only vaguely smelt before but that was when you were meant to be in heat. His pupils dilated whilst his eyes enlarged in shock at the sudden revelation, you were in heat! That was why Kili and Bofur were being so nice to you, not because they fancied you-wait, you're in heat!
"Y/N, are you by any chance in heat?" The idiotic question was quickly answered by the pathetic little whimpers that escaped your lips, your arms tightly embracing your lower abdomen allowing your breasts to be on full display for the golden prince. "Would you like some help?" The words escaped his lips faster than the thought of speaking, the blush in his cheeks dying off as the air grew heavy with lust. Lust for you and returned lust for him as both lions lept around excitedly within their homes.
"Please, it hurts so bad." You whined, pearls of tears rolling down your cheeks as you finally caved to the lioness's demands. The lion before you quickly shedding all cloth barriers from the sun's golden rays, his enlarged cock sprung up towards his abdomen with the removal of his undergarments. If you had not been soaked beforehand, both by water and with your slick, you surely would have been at the sight of the prince's muscular and scar-tattered body.
"Are you sure about this, Y/N?" The sloshing of water accompanied his words as he inched closer towards you, his heavenly scent flooding all of your senses as you stared up at him, eyes glistening with lust. "I need you to tell me to get out and leave right now if you do not want this, if you do not want me." His breath slowly accompanied yours in pants, eyes burning within the depths of your soul as your lioness growled excitedly within you.
"Please help me, alpha." The melodic way you whined out his title was almost nearly enough to make him cum right then, his lion growling deep within his chest with appreciation at your pathetic mews. His sturdy arms quickly scooped you up from the stream, your legs mindlessly wrapped around his muscular waist while your lips melded together.
Every question and doubt of his feelings for you easing away, all worries of what your journey held before you being carried off by the stream. In those few blissful moments, there was no fighting, no fear, and no running, it was simply you and him in those woods as bare as the day you were born. Your curious hands wandering throughout his golden locks, the softness of his hair tickling your inner fingers while the two of you continued to melt into one another.
"Fuck." The alpha groaned against your plump lips, his calloused hands wandering down from your waist to your soft arse. A soft squeeze forced your hips to buck forwards and arms to wrap behind his neck in surprise, the sudden glide of your skin against his throbbing cock allowed a moan to slip through the lips which hovered mere centimeters above yours.
"You ready, my omega?" His low growl and possessiveness at your title sending a desperate wave down your spine, your slick further drenching your inner thighs. "Yes please, alpha. Need it so bad, need you!" Your hips moving on their own accord, desperately bucking towards him attempting to receive any form of relief from your pain-stricken state.
"I have such a needy little omega." Humming contently while squeezing your arse again, his right hand lowering down between his legs to grasp his hardened cock. The swollen tip lightly grazing your drenched cunt, a soft gasp sliding out between your plump lips at the sudden sensation.
Your alpha decided to take a few extra moments to glide his throbbing cock up and down your drenched slit, enjoying the whimpers while he hit that sensitive bundle of nerves before moving away before you received an ounce of relief. The adorable pout you bestowed upon your soft lips being all too much for him, finally caving as he began to sink his pulsating cock deep within you.
Satisfied groans leaving both of your lips while your heads tilted backward, the sudden pressure accompanied by that blissful burning stretch that eased your aching cunt more in a matter of moments than your fingers ever could in hours. "Thank you, alpha." You whined softly into his ear, his only response a low growl as he held your arse firmly into place, a subtle attempt to restrain himself from destroying you right then.
Silently thanking the gods for his perfect match as he closed his eyes allowing himself to become quickly absorbed with the sensation of your drenched pussy, how it perfectly wrapped around him just like you were crafted for him as he knew you were. You were his one, his true mate and there was no doubt in his mind of this especially not now with how your body responded to being filled to the brim with him.
"I'm going to start moving, tell me if it hurts." The words muffled softly against your neck, his length slowly sliding out of your slick causing a disappointed whimper to slip through your lips as he moved you up ever so slightly. His sturdy palms slowly lowering you back onto his thick length allowing your satisfied moans to ring throughout the empty woods.
His lips curling upwards into a pleased grin, you responded so perfectly, the movements of raising you and lowering you slowly turning into a steady speed. Yet he still restrained himself from you, fearful of harming his one by being blinded by momentary bliss. His worries were quickly carried away by the stream as those glorious words escaped your lips, "More alpha, please." A sentence which would forever be ingrained in his mind, how beautifully it sounded while it left your lips and how heavenly you looked while saying it pleased the lion within him.
A satisfied growl rumbling through his chest as the pace of lowering you down onto his throbbing cock quickened, your cunt clenching tightly around him with each buck of his hips. Nipping at the corners of your neck with each movement, mindlessly searching for that one heavenly spot- "Ah!" You moaned out, a wave of electricity sparked throughout your body as his teeth grazed the most sensitive corner of your neck. Perfect.
Sucking against the supple corner of your neck, the prince began to speed up the pace he was impaling you upon his cock. His hips bucking upwards further carving a path within you slick. "That's a good omega." He hummed lowly against your flesh, the soft squelch of your aching cunt was accompanied by the soft trickling of the stream and soft splashes from each thrust the prince made.
Your inner walls embracing the dwarf's mighty length entirely, each stroke of his cock reaching sensitive depths you had never even grazed before. "Fuck! Right there!" His sturdy thrusts came to a quick halt as his cock rammed into that magical spot near your cervix, the steady throb within his cock aligning to his speeding heartbeat as he slowly drew himself out of your heavenly cunt.
Before a whimper of disappointment could escape your soft lips he had already rammed his cock back into you, hitting that heavenly spot perfectly with each rough stroke. "Fili!" You whined out, your claws digging into his muscular back while your legs squeezed tightly around his waist.
The speed of his thrusts created a small burn within his hips yet he paid it no mind, the beautiful moans that escaped your lips and that heavenly sound of your sopping pussy burnt fires deeper within him.
A familiar tingle began to spread up from your toes throughout your entire body as his strokes became sloppier, his soft moans and whimpers fueling your own as the pit within your belly began to knot. Every thrust bringing you a step closer to pure bliss, a bliss you had been craving from him the moment he had saved you wanting nothing more than to properly thank him.
"Let it all out, omega." He cooed out between his gasps, the vibrations against the sensitive spot on your neck sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine, and as if on command your moans grew louder. Birds flying from their homes as your pleasure-filled cries rang throughout the trees, any restraints from showing your alpha how good he truly made you feel dying down as a calloused palm made it's way up from your hip and down in between your legs.
The tip of his rough thumb gently grazing the sensitive, throbbing bundle of nerves between your legs. "Oh!" A small wave of static pleasure sparked throughout your body, your body arching further into his touch as your head arched towards a tree on his opposing side.
Soft circles being etched into the throbbing bundle of nerves as his thrusts grew more animalistic as he rose his head from your arched neck, drinking up the entirety of your lustful form as low growls escaped his lips. The fire within him burning brighter as the snap of his hips against yours grew louder, your nails clawing further into his scar-tattered back as he began to bend you down towards the stream.
A temporary wave of panic striking throughout your trembling form before his harsh thrust met that heavenly spot deep within your core, your eyes rolling back into the deep abyss of your skull as your mouth fell agape. Cries of his name growing louder as small tears roamed your cheeks, the thumb on your clit quickly accompanying the sloppy speed of his hips as he nipped at the base of your neck.
"Fili! I can't hold it much longer!" You whined out, nails dragging down his back sending a small wave of electricity down his spine. "Do it, omega. Cum. Cum for me." His commanding growl was the final tug at the knot within you, the heavenly static which flooded your entire being was simultaneously accompanied by the gush of pleasure rushing down your legs.
The fast swirls of his thumb against your clit further sending you into the deepest abyss of pleasure as your alpha repetitively struck the bruised pleasure center within your cunt, nails clawing down the entirety of his back entrusting him completely to shield you from the roaring waters below.
The flutter and squeeze of your cunt around his cock nearing too much for the prince, each milking motion bringing him to the same cliff you had delved off of in the midst of your pleasure. The low vibration of his grumble against your neck momentarily anchoring you back into reality, a reality that quickly faded away as his teeth sunk into the most sensitive nook of your neck.
The blinding heat of pleasure shoving you back down that glorious depth, your entirety trembling within his grasp as your aching cunt pulsated and fluttered around his massive length. His scent slowly crept onto yours as your lioness roared happily, his, you were finally his! An unbreakable bond between two mates sent your core ablaze and your heart flutter, a pleasure-filled memory you would later shyly adjust for the sensitivity of your pups.
"Fuck! Omega!" He growled lowly, your flesh still between the sharp daggers which rested in his mouth. "Shit, I want to knot you so bad-fuck! You're so tight, so fucking good!" The slight puncture of your neck being released as the knot within the prince tightened, his animalistic thrusts becoming sloppier as his eyes squeezed shut tightly. Images of painting the deepest depths of your aching cunt flooding his mind, his most primal instincts to breed you nearly taking over as his orgasm approached rapidly.
The warmth that filled your belly on the inside was suddenly accompanied by a splash of warmth on the outer, you whimpering at the lack of being filled as the base of his cock swelled outside of you. His white-hot ribbons painting your lower abdomen as he grasped onto your arse firmly, soft whimpers flooding your ears whilst the faint tickle of his beard nuzzling into your neck greeted your pleasure-filled sense.
"Fuck." He gasped out softly, his wobbling limbs slowly leading you out of the roaring waters beneath you before lowering you down onto his stained tunic. "Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, right?" His brows furrowing in concern as if he had not pounded into your very core mere moments ago, a bewildered smile spread upon your lips as you weakly bobbed your head.
The little energy that took you towards the stream completely washed away with the intense pleasure he had given you. "Good." He sighed in relief, the corners of his chapped lips curling upwards into a gentle smile while he quickly busied himself with cleaning up the white ropes that rested upon your belly.
"I am aware it is common for alphas to knot when they claim their omega," He began softly, worries of him regretting his lust-driven actions slowly creeping into your mind, the gentle slosh of water stilling your speeding heart. "but, I want to wait until we reclaim our home. If that is okay with you, of course. You're my omega and I would love to hear your opinion but I am afraid I will not budge on this since-" His panicked rambling being cut short with your soft lips on top of his, a pleased hum slipping through his as you cupped the side of his bearded face.
"I understand, alpha. You are only thinking of our future together." The hoarse words scratching the back of your throat upon exit, had you truly screamed that hard? A faint heat rising in between the skin of your cheeks, a familiar heat rising between your legs at the hazy memory. "Let's get you dressed and see if Oin has some herbs for your throat." A loving glint shining behind his ocean orbs as he pulled himself from the roaring waters, right Oin!
The memories of secretly coming to bathe trickling back into your mind, nothing striking as odd until Fili had shown up unannounced. "Did Oin tell you I had gone to bathe? He promised me secrecy in terms of my heat." A hint of disappointment arose in your tone, not of what had happened before with Fili, that you had adored, but rather at your friend breaking such a promise.
"No? Kili did." An eyebrow quirking upwards in your direction while he spoke, confusion spreading upon his face as you slid your leather outerwear over the cotton tunic. His words were spoken as fact as he began to observe you as if you were some strange troll he had stumbled upon, his calloused fingers entwining in your leather cords before pulling the taught.
"He told me he was meant to guard you as you bathed but he asked me to cover for him instead." "Oh, I am going to kill him." You muttered under your breath as you tied the cords behind your waist, uttering a small thank you towards your alpha as embarrassment and anger arose within you. "He planned this, didn't he?" Fili questioned, slipping on his garments after ensuring yours were put on properly. "I am afraid he did, my alpha." The pair of you chuckling softly as realization struck both of you, all this time his teasings towards both of you were hidden truths you had both willingly ignored.
His calloused palm quickly entwined around your smaller one while you began your path back towards the camp weapons in opposite palms, the fresh bite mark on full display for all of the company to see to know you were his and only his, that is if they hadn't guessed that already from the screams coming within the woods.
"I knew it!" The youngest dwarf cheered as he bounced from his seat, quickly whipping around towards the dwarf beside him. "Come on, pay up!" He stated holding out his palm with a wide grin spread upon his stubbly face, an annoyed grunt that left the elder dwarf's lips was quickly followed by the swish of coins within their satchel. "A pleasure doing business with you." His short victory was cut short by your angered voice.
"Kili! Did you bid on my love life?" The hissed words made the young prince's blood run cold, his mouth quickly opening before flying shut as he struggled to find any excuse that would save his skin. "Run." You growled lowly sending the prince darting down the opposite path from you. Pressing a soft kiss to your lover's temple, you quickly tossed your sword aside the loud clunk gathering everyone's attention before you sped after the terrified prince.
An amused laugh slipped through his lips as his younger brother shot him pleading glares, hoping somehow he would stop his enraged omega. "YOU'RE GOING TO LET HER KILL ME!" He yelped between desperate gasps for air, limbs moving faster than they had in any previous battle before. "She won't kill you, rough you up a little yet but murder no." "YOU DON'T KNOW THAT! GET BACK HERE YOU ARSE!" Your booming voice followed by an eruption of laughter, each dwarf silently looking or loudly cheering on the fight which ensued in front of them as the other hobbit panicked at your drastic actions.
"Quite the mate you have there." His uncle praised, grasping a warm palm upon his shoulders, his stoic feature curled upwards in amusement at your actions. "My lioness is something else." Fili chuckled as his lion straighten up in the pride of you, a faint blur of his golden locks catching the corner of your eye during the chase against his idiotic brother. "That she is." The slight impact of his uncle tapping his back brought warmth to his chest knowing he had accepted you into their pack, a chaotic one which you had grown to love throughout your travels and would continue to love as your journey came to an end.
«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»
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to make them love me (and make it seem effortless)
pairings: aemond x fem! Targaryen! reader / original female character
word count: 15,046
genre: fluff, angst
content warnings: TARGCEST, age gap, mentions of death, mentions of childbirth, swearing (aemond has a potty mouth)
additional notes: we interrupt your regular genshin x reader viewing by bringing you this (big) little thing I wrote for aemond targaryen. he had me in a chokehold until I finally relented and. this is it.
expect a couple more works on this pathetic little meow meow and an eventual update to an ode to heartbreak!
read this work on ao3
“I don’t understand,” Aemond says in disbelief, pushing his helmet’s visor out of his face as he attempts to decipher the contents of the note. “How could I have not been informed of this earlier?”
Ormund shrugs. “Perhaps the tourney masters thought it best to rearrange the lists. More signed up for the games than they thought.”
“Their poor planning does not justify an inconvenience on my part,” Aemond scoffs. “I am a Prince of the realm. I should be placed higher up on the lists.”
“Never mind that, cousin,” Ormund attempts to console him. “It is your first tourney, after all—”
“—and yet it is one we all look forward to seeing.”
The two look up to see Aegon sauntering into the hall, grinning from ear to ear as if he’d just been privy to a particularly humorous joke. Aemond rolls his eyes as he shoves the note into Ormund’s hand.
“Why so tense, dear brother?” Aegon nudges Aemond playfully. “I only speak the truth. You’ve never really thought much of tourneys.”
“Some of us like to keep most of our thoughts to ourselves,” Aemond shoots back, as he fiddles with his armor. “Where’s Helaena?”
“Back in the castle.” Aegon jabs his finger behind him. “All the shouting was getting to her, so Mother had me escort her back.”
At Aegon’s words, Ormund’s expression lit up in realization. “Perhaps it was the Queen behind it!”
“Shut up!” Aemond hisses, at the same time Aegon asks, “Behind what?”
“Er…” Ormund scratches his head, lowering his gaze in response to Aemond’s murderous one. “Behind, er, the Princess’ nameday tourney.”
Aegon scoffs. “My mother can hardly be credited for my sister’s nameday tourney. We all celebrate our namedays for days at a time, with tourneys and feasts galore.”
He glances around, taking in the sight of the contestants and squires milling about the area. “Though our sister’s nameday tourney has, indeed, piqued the interest of all. How strange.”
“Hardly,” Aemond mumbles. “She comes of age today.”
“Ah!” Aegon claps his hands. “Our beloved sister comes of age today, yes. I wonder just what the prize is for this tourney.”
“Surely, His Grace would not decide who Princess [Y/N] marries based on who wins today’s tourney?” Ormund says, blissfully unaware of Aemond slightly wincing at his words.
Aegon frowns. “Have you never picked up a history book, cousin?”
“Have you?” Aemond retorts.
“Of course I did. I never said I read them, though.” Aegon sniffs. “It’s not usual, but it’s certainly not new. Tourneys are simply pageants in all but name. See for yourself.”
The trio turn to see a tall, sweeping teenager, with locks the color of night and skin like copper parading about the hall, his bronze armor chased with red, a spear piercing the sun on its front.
“Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers, a sense of dread washing over him.
Aegon hums. “Came in right at the last second, as they were drawing up the lists.”
Ormund turns to Aemond, holding up the note he had been reading earlier, an expression of understanding dawning on his face. Aemond fidgets beneath his armor, hating that Aegon had a point for once; there really wasn’t any other plausible explanation for Dorne to finally start taking an interest in the Crown’s affairs.
Aegon looks over at him, seemingly contemplating his next line. He decides instead to clap Aemond’s back, sending him forward. “Oh, don’t worry, brother! The Dornish don’t mind sharing their lovers. They seem to enjoy it, in fact.”
Aemond turns and walks briskly away from his brother, Ormund hastily trailing beside him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Of course, Aegon had to press further, keeping up with Aemond’s pace in a couple of long strides. “Oh, but I think you do,” he says. “If there’s anything the Dornish get right, it’s their outlook on bastards. I’m sure Prince Qoren wouldn’t mind if [Y/N]’s children turn out to have silver hair and a remarkable resemblance to a certain other Prince—”
Aemond stops abruptly to stare Aegon directly in the eye. “[Y/N] is not you. You would let our sister disgrace herself and put the stability of the realm at risk?”
Aegon towers over him, smirking triumphantly. “You and I both know that’s not any of your concern.”
“Then you do not know me.” Aemond turns away again, walking towards the edge of the hall where the tourney field was being set up. Hordes of people continued filing into the stands, some of whom were dressed to the nines despite the sun beating down upon them like a drum. He glances at the King’s Box, watching as the newest arrivals, the Velaryons, occupy their seats next to Rhaenyra and her children.
A mix of gasps and cheers sound from the smallfolk as a shadow passes over them, coupled with a familiar-sounding roar. Aemond squints up at the sky, and his heart practically leaps at the sight.
The voice of the Master of Revels announcing your arrival is all but drowned out by Silverwing’s proud roar, as you land her atop the King’s Box, jostling the people inside. Rhaenyra grabs the end of Lucerys’ coat to keep him from falling off trying to look up at you, while Lyonel Strong steadies a visibly surprised Viserys. Aegon lets out a hearty laugh at the sight, and Aemond could not help but join in.
It’s only when the she-dragon lowers her neck does Aemond finally get a better look at you. You’re grinning from ear to ear, and the only thing that could compete with the brightness of your smile was the glint of your silvery hair in the sun. Your dragon climbs down the Box, much to your family’s chagrin as they grip the arms of their chairs to stay steady.
Silverwing dips herself to the ground of the tourney field, allowing you to dismount and pat her neck before you wave to the crowds. You don a black dress chased with blue (which Aemond presumes is for your late lady mother, who was an Arryn), with the Targaryen three-headed dragon embroidered on your front.
“A fly might make its way down your throat if you don’t close it,” Ormund murmurs in Aemond’s ear, and he only sniggers as Aemond elbows him in the stomach. When your eyes meet his, he prays his ears aren’t as red as he thinks they are.
“Seven blessings on your nameday, dear sister,” Aegon says, pairing the mock reverence in his tone with an exaggerated bow.
You only snort as you remove your riding gloves. “Save your courtesies for someone who actually believes them.”
“Now, is that any behavior befitting a lady who has just come of age?”
You deliver a playful punch to Aegon’s midsection, which he just barely dodges.
Ormund bows. “I wish you a happy nameday, Princess.”
Aemond fidgets nervously, silently cursing both Aegon and Ormund for getting to greet you first.
You smile warmly. “Thank you, Ormund.” When you turn to look at Aemond, you reach out to push his visor out of his face. “Finally joining the lists today, eh, Aemond? I never thought you were interested in jousting.”
Aemond opens his mouth, but no sound leaves it. Behind you, Aegon raises his eyebrows, giving him a look that says, Say something!
“I…decided to test my skills today,” Aemond manages.
Aegon silently gestures for him to keep going.
“…and I thought your nameday would give me extra luck,” he adds, now feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks.
You laugh, reaching over once again to pat the front of his armor. He wonders if you can feel his heart hammering underneath the cold metal.
Aegon clears his throat, glancing at something behind Aemond; in his periphery, he sees Qoren Martell hovering around the group. Ormund, miraculously, gets the silent message.
“If you would excuse us, Princess,” the Hightower lord says, slapping the back of Aemond’s armor. “As his loyal squire, I have a duty to get Prince Aemond ready.”
You nod in understanding. “I will pray for your opponents,” you say solemnly, and a genuine smile finally breaks out onto his face.
“Will you allow me to escort you back to the King’s Box?” Aegon says in his mocking tone once again, and you wrinkle your nose before dropping your hand into his.
Ormund pushes Aemond in the other direction. “Come now, my Prince,” he says. “You’d better get ready if you want to win the Princess’ favor.”
“I’ve been put in the lower lists,” Aemond reminds him miserably, while keeping his eyes trained on Qoren Martell attempting to strike up a conversation with you.
“What of it?” Ormund scoffs, suddenly sounding confident. “It just means you’ll score more victories. Makes the final one all the more sweet. Just trust your training, and you’ll have Qoren Martell on his fat Dornish ass before you know it.”
It seemingly only takes a split second for all the air to leave Aemond’s lungs when he crashes into the dirt. Though his armor had taken the brunt of his fall, pain shoots all over his body like tendrils of lightning, ironically leaving him feeling momentarily weightless.
He manages to roll onto his back, gasping for air and staring up at the sky above. The ringing in his ears subsides enough for him to hear the triumphant shouts and the shocked gasps of the crowd, as well as the neighing of his distressed horse. He blinks the stars out of his eyes, and after remembering seeing a Bolton squire die from a lance to the throat, he checks himself for any injuries. To his relief, he seemed to be physically fine.
“My Prince! Aemond, cousin!” Suddenly, Ormund was hovering over him, distress and clear fear in his eyes. “Speak to me, are you alright?”
“I’m…” Aemond coughs, feeling his lungs constrict, then relax. “I’m fine.”
A tourney master joins Ormund. “Will you continue with a contest of arms, my Prince?”
Ormund helps Aemond sit up, and he catches a glimpse of his sword lying off to the side. He blinks again, and his vision finally returns to normal; he sees his opponent (who, by the stag on his armor, Aemond surmises is a Baratheon) jumping off his horse and running over to him.
You fool, Aemond wants to shout. If your opponent wished to continue, you might have benefited from the distance.
But he glances over to the King’s Box, where members of his own family were peering over at him, awaiting his decision. His mother leans over the railing the furthest, so much so that her ladies were trying to restrain her.
He does not see you.
Aemond sighs and shakes his head, and the tourney master nods.
“Prince Aemond forfeits! The winner of this round…”
“My Prince!” The Baratheon boy tosses his helmet to the side, sticking his hand out. Aemond clicks his tongue, but accepts the gesture, allowing his opponent to pull him up. “It was an honor to tilt against you, Prince Aemond. I hope to be given the opportunity again.”
Not likely, Aemond wants to snap back. But he only gives the boy a brief smile and a respectful nod, before turning away.
“Do you need help?” Ormund offers.
“No, be quiet, keep walking,” Aemond commands, keeping his head held high. He nods and waves to the crowds shouting out their congratulations to him, deliberately ignoring the pain he was starting to feel in his left leg.
As soon as he was out of both the public and his opponents’ sight, Aemond finally gives in, grabbing the wall for support as he reaches down to tug at his armored leg.
“Aemond!” Ormund throws one of Aemond’s arm over his shoulders. “Sit down, I’ll call the maesters.”
“No, no need,” he hisses in reply. “Just help me get my armor off.”
“But you might have twisted or broken your leg, I—”
“If I had twisted or broken my leg, you’d think I’d bloody well know, wouldn’t I?” Aemond snaps. “You’re my squire, act like it. Just take off the damn armor.”
Ormund blinks. Aemond feels a twinge of regret over the venom in his tone, but elects not to say another word. He instead works on the buckles of the metal, all the while trying to swallow down the growing lump in his throat and blink away the stinging in his eyes. Ormund finally assists him, detaching the parts away and allowing Aemond to stretch his limbs out.
The humiliation weighs over him even as he climbs into the King’s Box. Ser Criston Cole is the first to greet him, and after looking over him to find no serious injuries, pats Aemond’s shoulders. “You did very well, my Prince,” Criston assures him. “Don’t lose heart. You’ll get your chance one day.”
Aemond offers him the same tight-lipped smile he’d given his opponent, and keeps it on as his mother hurries over, worry painted all over her face.
“Are you alright?” she fusses, pushing his hair out of his eyes, looking as if she was about to demand he remove all his clothes in front of all who were present. “The lance—I thought it went through—”
“His armor took the blow, Your Grace,” Ser Criston says. “The Baratheon squire’s lance splintered against it, yes, but there’s no harm to him as far as I can see.”
A Baratheon squire. Aemond’s jaw locks in anger; he, a Prince of the realm, had lost to a Baratheon squire of all people.
Alicent sighs. “You scared me, deciding to enter the lists out of nowhere. Perhaps you should wait until you’re a little older before—”
“Why did you place me further down the lists?” Aemond hisses, keeping his voice as low as possible (but failing to contain the anger in it).
Alicent frowns. “What?”
“I was supposed to tilt against the likes of Qoren Martell,” Aemond whispers furiously. “I am the son of the King, in line to the throne, brother to the Princess to whom this tourney is dedicated to! Why wasn’t I placed where I was originally supposed to be?”
“I am not liking your tone, Aemond,” Alicent warns. “Remember that you are not of age yet. This is a vile, cruel game where men attempt to kill each other for sport. Be grateful that you were even allowed at all to compete.”
Aemond opens his mouth to protest, but Alicent gives him a look so scathing, whatever argument he had promptly died in his throat. He grunts in displeasure and pushes past her, ignoring his father's Council members congratulating him as he goes.
He finds his seat regrettably next to Aegon, who at the sight of him, bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Aemond surges forward, only to be stopped by Rhaenyra's outstretched arm.
"You did well, little brother," she says, though all Aemond hears is the underlying distaste that she seems to reserve solely for him, Aegon, and Alicent. "But settle your scores with Aegon later. I'd rather not ruin my sister's day with any of your antics."
Aemond removes her arm from his path, sauntering forward and dropping into his seat, taking care to crush Aegon's foot underneath his. A heavy hand finds its way onto his shoulder, and he turns to find its owner, a scowl on his face ready to greet them—
"Well done, my boy," Viserys says, a smile on his lined face. "Next time, you'll win. I know it."
One could almost take your words for affection, old man, Aemond thinks, as Viserys pats his shoulder again before settling back in his seat. Still, he manages a polite, "Thank you, Father," before turning back to the tourney still playing out beneath him.
It takes a while for him to realize that you were sitting right across him, already turned to face him with your signature blinding smile. You reach out to pat his interlocked hands. "Father's right," you tell him. "You'll win next time. If you focus on your training."
"I will if you will," he blurts, before he could stop himself.
"Ha! I feel I'm much better at riding a dragon than wielding a sword."
The moment is shattered when Lucerys (who Aemond just realized had been sitting on your lap the entire time) begins to wave your wreath around wildly, causing you to turn away from Aemond to keep your nephew from falling to the ground.
He watches as, to nobody's surprise, Qoren Martell wins the tourney. The Dornish Prince urges his horse forward towards the King's Box, and asks for your favor. Rhaenyra nudges Ser Laenor, the two sharing knowing glances as you stand with Lucerys in your arms and balanced on your hip, instructing the boy to toss your crown of red and black roses into Qoren's hands, much to the delight of the spectators.
In that moment, Lucerys’ curly brown locks no longer suspiciously remind Aemond of the Commander of the City Watch standing right next to Ser Laenor, but of the man staring adoringly from below as you and Lucerys wave to the crowds.
Aemond stands, mumbling an excuse in his brother's ear, and leaves the Box in a hurry.
Having to watch as Viserys deliberately has Qoren sit next to you during your own nameday feast had irritated Aemond beyond measure, given that he could do nothing but pick furiously at his own food as Qoren regales you with tales of his House and region. It had seemed like forever before the King had finally gone to bed, and even then his torture ended bitterly with Qoren bringing your hand to his lips.
Rhoynar scum. He scowls as he slams the door behind him. Your lot come from vagabonds at sea with no real homes. Our blood is the blood of Old Valyria, the blood of kings and conquerors and warriors. She rides the Good Queen’s dragon. What in the Seven Hells could ever possess you to think you could have her?
Aemond opens the window to his room, allowing the cool breeze of the Red Keep to wash over his agitated figure. Aegon’s teasing, Ormund’s obliviousness, and Qoren’s audacity had given him a migraine like he’d never had before, yet he could not find it in himself to sleep it off.
Of course he was fond of you, that much was certain. He’d always looked up to you, asked for your advice, took great comfort in the fact that your dragon had not been born to you either. It had always been his crutch for when he laments his lack of a dragon, what with Sunfyre hatching in Aegon’s cradle and Helaena claiming Dreamfyre shortly before her tenth nameday. Ultimately, though, Aemond supposes he hadn’t much to go on about you other than the fact that you took the time to get to know your half-siblings, unlike your actual full-blood sister.
He’d mulled over the idea of claiming Vermithor, who at this point was the only known dragon that had yet to be claimed after the death of Jaehaerys. He would imagine himself flying alongside the Good Queen’s dragon atop the Good King’s, and what a poetic ending that would be for all his troubles.
A knock comes at his door. “My Prince, I apologize for the late hour,” one of his servants calls out to him. “Princess [Y/N] is here to see you.”
Aemond’s head whips around. “Send her in,” he replies almost immediately.
The door swings open to reveal you, still in the same dress he’d seen you in that morning, the only difference being your hair now let down; a silvery waterfall, not unlike his own.
He turns to face you, heart hammering in his chest.. “What…what do you want?”
“I came to check on you,” you reply. “You fell hard earlier, I didn’t get a chance to check how bad it was.”
Aemond chuckles dryly and gestures for you to sit. “ “How bad it was”, huh?”
“Our family is more than fond of tourneys,” you remind him. “We’re just about the only ones that are not. I would be lying if I said I was not surprised that you changed your mind today.”
“I’ve not changed my mind.” Aemond picks at his sleeve. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys. Never have and never will.”
You laugh, and though it is a quiet sound, he tries to fool himself into thinking it’s more genuine than the ones you’d shared with Qoren. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He sits there with you in silence, and for the first time all day, he relaxes. It’s nice, he thinks, to simply be in your presence, where no one—not even himself—expects him to do something to impress you.
Being with you was enough.
That said, the thought of you leaving for Dorne forever leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Namedays are always a time for celebration,” you begin. “I confess, however, that my nameday…always comes with a tinge of sorrow.
“I went to the Sept with Rhaenyra this morning. It’s always been a habit of ours on our namedays. It’s really less of us praying to the Seven for good fortune, it’s more of…finding comfort in the silence. It…it’s where we hear our mother and siblings the best.”
He nods in understanding.
You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, staring off into the distance wistfully. “Father’s always been good at putting on a mask,” you continue. “He’s good at it, too, probably from all the years he’s had to do it. But today would have been Baelon’s nameday, too. And today was also the day when Mother…”
You duck your head.
Aemond leans forward to capture your hands in his. Despite his own misgivings with Aegon, he had to admit that it was difficult to imagine a life without him. He would have been the heir, forever put against Rhaenyra. Forever put against you, one of the few of her true kin.
You squeeze his hands gratefully. “In any case,” you say. “I am glad you’re no longer interested in tourneys, otherwise I would not have brought you this.”
You produce a box from the depths of your skirt and slide it over to Aemond. He clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “It’s your nameday and you’re the one giving out gifts.”
You wave your hand dismissively. “I have a whole mountain of them in my apartments, very few of which I would actually care to have. I take far more pleasure giving things to you.”
Aemond shakes his head, finally relenting and opening the box. Glittering among the plush dark velvet was a sapphire brooch, as blue as the waters of the Narrow Sea, sitting in a bed of pure starlight. He lifts it from the cushion and sits the gem in his palm gingerly, admiring its weight and the way it glints, even by the dying fireplace.
“The sapphire was my mother’s,” you explain. “One of many I’d inherited from her. I had it re-cut and set.”
Aemond swallows thickly. “I…I can’t take this. If it was from your mother, then you should—”
You interrupt him by closing his fist over the jewel, holding his fingers down with a firm grip. “I want you to have it,” you tell him firmly. “We are one House now, no matter what others say. None may divide us. Keep this with you as a reminder, you hear me?”
You stare at him with such intensity that he has little to do but agree. You pat his hand and rise from your seat. “Think of it as my favor,” you say, and he doesn’t miss the slyness in your tone. “You have no need to fight in tourneys or any sort of battle to earn it. It will always be yours, Aemond.”
Words he’d been keeping buried for months were bubbling on his tongue now, tearing down the walls that he’s had to construct all his life to keep them from destroying what he has with you. Resistance seemed futile now, now that you had bid him goodnight and turned to leave his room.
“Don’t marry him.”
Your hand had been on the door at his words, and you do him the considerable honor of pausing in surprise before turning again to look at him. “Aemond?”
“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, desperation now leaking into his tone. “Qoren Martell. You were never meant to marry a Dornish, even the first of them, so…”
He wrestles with his words, and you seem oblivious to his agony as you stare, clearly waiting for him to finish. He inches closer and closer to the brink, and there seems to be nothing tethering him to reality anymore, save for the erratic beating of his heart.
You purse your lips, and the expression on your face is something he can’t read—did you think him foolish for telling you not to do your duty? Or did you perceive his desperation as an act of childish jealousy, a brother imploring his sister not to give anyone else the time of day?
What did he think his words meant?
You do not give him an answer. “Good night, Aemond,” you whisper, and you slip quietly out the door.
Your betrothal to the heir to the Dornish throne had begun to sound less like a rumor and more like a given fact, with the endless whisperings fluttering about the Red Keep like irksome flies. Viserys certainly did not do much to silence them, and Aemond had the misfortune of hearing him discuss potential dowries with Rhaenyra.
He had to admit that it was an ideal match, and certainly one he would have considered seriously were he in his father’s place. Any king who would bring Dorne into the fold would be credited with something even the Conqueror could not have done, further cementing his place in Westerosi history. Aemond often dreams of having his name written down in the history books, never just as an afterthought or a simple second son, but of a warrior king who made the Seven Kingdoms truly one, with a queen by his side who would cast a shadow over all who would succeed her.
But like his position in life, all his dreams had to occur in the darkness of the wings; the only good thing about it was that, given their unlikeliness, he was free to dream just a little bit more.
In a surprising turn of events, however, he’d received the news that you had suddenly mounted Silverwing and taken off. At that moment, Aemond truly curses the lack of a dragon—he could have just gotten on and tracked you down, not go through the humiliation of asking Aegon (or any of his kin, for that matter) for a favor. He would have had to explain why it was so important for them to take time out of their day to find out where you had gone, because beyond you being a Princess of the realm, he had no other reason (that he’s willing to admit, at least).
Even Helaena, whom Aemond had realized could see things before they happened, offered no help in this matter. She had even expressed confusion at the very notion, much to his frustration.
So, he turns to his last resort.
Jacaerys looks up from where he was cleaning his armor, clearly surprised to be addressed. “She isn’t at Dragonstone,” he tells Aemond. “She could be anywhere, for all we know.”
“She didn’t tell you anything?” Aemond presses. “No notes, anything?”
Lucerys fiddles with Aemond’s gauntlets, and for a brief moment, Aemond sees you in his little face. “I think she’s gone to Daemon.”
“Prince Daemon? Why would she…”
“It’s just a guess,” Jacaerys says, scratching the back of his neck. “The last we heard of him was that he was in Pentos with the Lady Laena. They’re our only kin living beyond Westeros, and [Y/N] was always fond of Lady Laena.”
Of course. Aemond wants to smack his forehead. It made sense. You, Rhaenyra, and Laena had always been so close. But it wouldn’t have been his first guess, not when a marriage proposal didn’t seem too far behind…
Jacaerys’ and Lucerys’ guess seems to hold merit, as the small council receives reports of a silvery dragon flying east. It’s only confirmed when you finally write to your family, stating that you were indeed exploring the Free Cities and would be staying there for an indefinite period of time.
Funnily enough, your message had arrived at the Red Keep the same day the Dornish party did.
The excuse given had been that you were sent off as an envoy to the southern Free Cities to ascertain the peace, following the Triarchy’s defeat at the hands of the Daemon-Velaryon alliance. Aemond had to restrain himself from laughing in the throne room at the Dornish lord’s baffled expression, as well as the irritation that Viserys had kept well-hidden beneath his kingly persona.
That same night, he’d received a raven from you, carrying a brief message and a couple of trinkets you had collected on your travels thus far. It had been as if a giant weight had been taken off his shoulders, and in the privacy of his own room, he finds himself running his fingers longingly over your handwriting.
But your letters begin to stack on his desk, the gifts you bring him start to collect dust on his mantle, and every day holds less and less promise of you finally returning to King’s Landing. He’d thought you would finally return shortly after Rhaenyra gives birth to her third son, but aside from a written note of congratulations and a messenger bringing gifts, you never do. Aemond finds himself sitting by his window every night, deluding himself into thinking a bird flying over Blackwater Bay or the occasional cloud would be Silverwing, bringing you back to him.
But you don’t, and he finds solace only in his lessons and his training, stealing glances at the sky whenever he has the chance. He’d thought your absence would finally rid him of thoughts and desires unwanted, but all it is is a thorn in his side; a dull ache that flares up every now and then, much like his old leg injury.
When news of Laena Velaryon’s death reaches King’s Landing, and as he sits next to his mother on the ship, his thoughts were only of you, and if you had already been in Driftmark for a while now. He should have known better when he sees no silver dragon sitting amongst the gold, blue, grey, and red amongst the rocks.
After giving his condolences to the Velaryons, Aemond walks around aimlessly, the disappointment sinking in with every passing second. Politicking thinly veiled as courtesies seem to follow him everywhere he goes, and he eventually finds respite in Helaena’s presence, though it would seem she had not noticed his.
Of course, Aegon had to come and disturb it, only to repeat what he had been complaining about for weeks.
“We have nothing in common,” he grumbles, gesturing to Helaena.
“She’s our sister,” Aemond replies curtly, as he has done many times before.
“You marry her, then.”
“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.” The words weigh heavily on Aemond’s tongue.
Aegon scoffs. “If only.”
“It would strengthen the family,” Aemond parrots what he’s learned in his lessons. “Keep our Valyrian blood pure.”
“She’s an idiot!”
“She’s your future Queen.”
Aegon lowers his goblet, and from his periphery, Aemond can see his brother watching him carefully. He keeps his gaze on Helaena muttering under her breath, waiting for Aegon to call him out for the double meaning in his words.
Fortunately, he doesn’t. “We actually do have one thing in common,” Aegon says, as he throws the rest of his drink back and reaches for the next, his eyes lingering far too long on the serving girl. “We both fancy creatures with very long legs.”
Aemond only shakes his head in resignation, feeling a surge of pity for Helaena. It’s the first time he actually feels relieved that you had left before you’d gotten any offers of marriage; he dreads the thought of you being doomed to suffer the same fate as Helaena.
A dragon’s cry pierces the air, and Aemond looks up sharply. He rushes to the edge of the courtyard, listening as best as he could with the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below.
He scours the skies and searches among the dragons already resting nearby, to no avail. His shoulders sag; perhaps you weren’t coming, after all.
But that same cry persists, even as the sun begins to sink into the sea. Aemond has never heard a sound like it before—this one was a melancholic melody, like longingness taking flight above the waters of The Gullet. It isn’t long before his attention is drawn from searching for you to searching for the source of the sound instead, somehow feeling as if it was calling out to him.
And then it happens.
A clear and piercing trill that he initially chalks up to one of the other dragons, had it not been for Rhaenyra looking up, surprise painted all over her face. Aemond follows her gaze, and even in the setting sun, it’s clear as day—
He momentarily forgets himself and runs over to his half-sister, tugging on her sleeve. “It’s her, isn’t it?” he asks, unable to contain his excitement.
“It is,” Rhaenyra replies, pure relief in her tone. She glances down at Aemond, and it’s perhaps only then does she realize the peculiarity of the situation; he doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever had a casual conversation with her. Aemond lets go of her sleeve, clearing his throat and taking off in the other direction with his head spinning.
It takes a while for you to show up, but when you do, you’re soaked to the bone, with Laenor Velaryon’s arm wrapped around your shoulders and his other arm around his squire on the other side. The whispers come to a standstill, partially at the sight of you and partially at the sight of the future Prince consort looking as if he was about to follow his sister at any second. You must have found him, Aemond thinks, about to keel over into the water.
At the sight of his father, however, Ser Laenor steadies himself and limps away, leaving you in the middle of the crowd. No doubt you feel all eyes on you, but you straighten and walk to your father, who now looks as if he’s ten years younger again.
Aemond doesn’t get the chance to speak with you, not while you remain glued to Viserys’ side, leaving only to speak with Rhaenyra, Daemon, and his daughters. You’ve not changed at all over the years, save for your hair, which you had cropped short (presumably for it to not get in the way of your flying), and for your gait, as a certain confidence exudes from you as you walk or simply stand. But you were still you, much to his relief.
His thoughts take him back to the strange cry, which rings out well into the night. It’s only until his mother commands him to go to bed that he realizes Viserys has long left and you are nowhere to be found. He waits for his mother and siblings to head into the castle before heading down the stairs, down where you had come bringing your good brother.
He doesn’t have to search long for you—you’re right there on the beach, your head tilted upwards as if in silent meditation. The sand crunches underneath his feet as he closes the distance between you two, and just as you’re within arm’s reach, he stops.
And he waits.
When you finally turn, you regard Aemond with the same smile that had greeted him on your nameday all those years ago, tinged with just a bit of sadness. He wonders if you get your seemingly eternal warmth from the late queen; whatever the case, he certainly has never felt it with any of his siblings, even the one you share all your blood with.
“You’ve gotten tall,” is the first thing you say to him. “You’ll probably be as tall as Daemon.”
“I’ll be taller,” he promises, and your smile grows wider, only for it to drop just as quickly. Aemond remembers the very reason you had come, and the history you shared with Laena. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
You turn back towards the beach, and Aemond moves to stand next to you. “It is our loss,” you correct him. “Laena was kin to you and me both.”
Aemond nods in response. You duck your head and sigh deeply, the grief you feel leaving you looking aged. “I left Pentos the day before she died,” you whisper. “I promised to be back for the birth, but…”
“They say she went into labor early,” Aemond says. “You couldn’t have known.”
You keep your eyes trained on the ground. “I don’t think I could have borne to see it,” you continue in a shaky voice. “She died trying to birth a son, and my mother—”
You choke on the last word, and for a moment Aemond fears you would start crying. He reaches for your hand, and you squeeze it gratefully in response.
But you don’t, and instead take the time to be silent and count your breaths, all the while holding onto his hand like an anchor. When you raise your eyes to the sky once more, he sees all the stars reflected in them.
When you speak again, your voice is steadier. “You remind me of her, you know. Laena.”
Aemond struggles to find an answer, one that would insult neither you nor the deceased. You seem to sense his hesitation, and you squeeze his hand again. “Our dragons weren’t born to us,” you say, confirming his thoughts. “Though I became a dragonrider earlier than she did. She cried the first time I mounted Silverwing, and cried again when I took her up years later.”
“The second time…out of fear?”
“At first, I suppose. But she was laughing, too. Always a wild one, Laena was.” You sigh. “You’re just as spirited as she was. Fearless. Bold.”
“If I were fearless and bold, I’d have a dragon by now,” Aemond grumbles.
“It isn’t that easy, I fear,” you tell him. “I’ve spoken to scholars and warlocks and magicfolk of all kinds in the Free Cities. Some of them are of the opinion that dragons are not as willing as we might imagine.”
“We’re a family of dragonriders. One dragon-less member is hardly enough to discredit that fact.”
“Our Valyrian blood is the exception, not the rule. Had we been so confident in its mere presence, I daresay we ought to have more dragonriders around.”
“Especially with Aegon,” Aemond offers.
“Especially with Aegon, yes,” you chuckle. “It may well be that our blood is a contributing factor. But dragons have minds and hearts of their own. Some say they are even more intelligent than we are. The right is not freely given, Aemond. It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.”
You turn to face him then, and it’s only when you do so does Aemond realize he has indeed grown taller; he no longer has to tilt his head upwards to properly meet your eyes. You take his other hand in yours, and he feels the calluses from years of dragon-riding brush against his skin.
“I told you you were as spirited as Laena was,” you say. “Like her, you are also kind. Compassionate. Smart. Loyal. You are everything our House stands for and more.”
For the first time in what seems like years, a genuine smile spreads across his face. “I’ve missed you,” he admits.
“As did I,” you whisper, and your eyes travel to the sapphire brooch you’d given him all those years ago, nestled just above the middle of his collarbone. You let your fingers skim over the gem lightly, before pulling away from him. “Father has mentioned that we may stop by Dragonstone to see if any of the eggs there take your fancy.”
Aemond’s spirits rise. “Really?”
“Really,” you promise. “If nothing does, Rhaenyra’s told me that if Syrax brings forth another clutch of eggs, you’ll have your pick from them.”
He lets out a breathy laugh; he could think of Rhaenyra’s sudden act of kindness as a way to win him over to her favor, but surely Viserys had agreed to the Dragonstone visit only upon your request. He had never been known to turn you down, and the impromptu visit to the Free Cities was clear proof of it.
To think, you had talked him into it for Aemond’s benefit…
He shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Wait. You said “we”. You’re coming home? You’re coming with me to Dragonstone to pick an egg?”
You give him another one of your comforting smiles. “If you’d like.”
He nods, almost too quickly. He’d come to Driftmark expecting to have the secondhand grief hanging over him like a storm, not to feel as if he’d been denied the sun for years before this very moment. He imagines walking off a ship onto Dragonstone and leaving atop Vermithor, as he’s always thought of doing. He replays a scene from his dreams where he finally flies next to you, the Good King and the Good Queen’s mounts flying over the realm once more.
He’s almost too happy to notice you’d reached out to brush his hair away from his face. “You might take a little inspiration from Laena,” you advise him. “She was dragonless for years, and yet she did what many thought was impossible.”
“She claimed Vhagar,” Aemond says, his mouth suddenly feeling dry.
“She certainly did.” You squeeze his hands before slipping out of them. “Now, go to bed. Your mother will have my head if she finds out I caught you after dark and did nothing.”
The same cry pierces through the night sky again, and Aemond watches as you head back up to the castle. He wants to call out to you again, to tell you what he’s been hearing all day, to confirm something that had clicked at your words just now.
Aemond stares across the sea, in deep thought.
The right is not freely given.
He turns to the west, to the source of the strange cry.
It is earned, it is fought for, it is taken.
He begins walking.
“It will heal,” Alicent frets. “Will it not, maester?”
Aemond winces as the needle pierces his flesh, dreading the answer; but even with one eye, he sees it on the maester’s face as clear as if he had both.
Alicent audibly sobs at the revelation, and Aemond isn’t sure if his feeling light-headed was due to the blood loss, the pain from the little scuffle he’d gotten into earlier, or just remnants of his encounter with Vhagar. He tries to link it to the last factor; it was the only good thing he got out of the entire ordeal.
He’s no stranger to dragon-riding, as you’ve taken him up on Silverwing many times before. But to be completely alone, to hold the reins and be solely responsible for directing the flight, to ride the largest dragon in the world, a Conqueror’s dragon—
Something flutters in his periphery, and Aemond turns his face to see you, still in your nightclothes. He opens his mouth, about to call out for you, knowing that surely you of all people would rejoice at the news…
But he watches as you rush past everyone else to where Lucerys was, his face still bloody and nose crooked from where Aemond had punched him. Lucerys cries out when you attempt to set his nose, and you shush him comfortingly, kissing the top of his head before checking on Jacaerys.
What little happiness left in Aemond ebbs away as Rhaenyra calls for him to be “sharply” questioned, as Viserys demands he reveals where he heard the rumors over Rhaenyra’s sons parentage, as Alicent loses her patience and attempts to exert justice on his behalf by force. All those he could have lived with…if not for you standing behind Rhaenyra quietly, moving only to shield Jacaerys and Lucerys from Alicent. If not for you barely even sparing him a glance.
When he tells his mother an eye was a fair trade for a dragon, he means it.
But when he thinks about you as part of the price, he's not as certain.
"Be calm, Vhagar," Aemond instructs the great beast. He tries to climb the ropes, as he had the night before, but Vhagar continues to squirm.
He sighs, trying to focus. Walking was already disorienting enough on its own, but flying with a limited depth of perception was another matter entirely. But Aemond's no stranger to challenges—this is just another he has to conquer.
"Obey, Vhagar," he reminds the dragon. "Serve me."
"She feels your pain," someone tells him, in the same tongue.
Aemond grips his ropes tightly, his jaw tightening as he tries to maintain his composure. He turns in the direction of his good eye, and when he finds no one, he lets go of the ropes to turn the other way around. Sure enough, you were there, in full riding gear.
He'd forgotten that he was supposed to stop by Dragonstone to pick an egg. And he'd forgotten that that was probably the only reason you had to return to King's Landing.
Now, perhaps, he's left you with no other choice but to remain on Driftmark, as Rhaenyra and her family did. Worse, you'd probably go back and dig up your own potential match to Qoren Martell.
Funnily enough, though, the thought didn't stress him out as it used to.
"Dragons and their riders share a special bond," you continue. High Valyrian was the most beautiful language to ever exist, and even with all things considered, Aemond still thinks it's at its best when he hears it from you. "What you feel, they feel. Your friends are theirs, and your enemies, they will endeavor to crush."
"You say it like it's a bad thing," he says.
"I say it as a warning," you reply. "You must keep your emotions in check if you want to have a safe flight, without any dire consequences."
Aemond laughs humorlessly. " "Keeping emotions in check"? Is that what you did last night?"
You frown. "You don’t understand."
"I lost my eye," Aemond hisses, pointing to the bandaged side of his face. "On account of that bastard."
"Aemond.”
"You were supposed to be on my side!" He's raising his voice now, and Vhagar shakes her head in agitation. "You understood me better than anyone, you know the truth about our nephews, you were supposed to stand aside and let my mother seek justice!"
"They are our blood, regardless," you remind him gently. "We protect our own."
He stomps in frustration. "You were supposed to be happy for me," he snarls. "I have a dragon now, and all of those warlock shits that you spoke to were all wrong. I proved them wrong."
"Yes, you did," you tell him, and it takes everything in him not to pull his hair out over your patience. "But I hope you know that having one does not change who we are. Dragon or no dragon, you are still you. Still Aemond."
His fury threatens to boil over. "Go away."
"I want to help you, Aemond," you coax. "You've gotten past the first ride, yes, but with one eye, you're going into unknown territory. You will need a new saddle, too. There's still so much I can teach you."
"Go away!" he screams, running forward just to push you away. "I don't need you! Don't come near me, don't ever presume to speak my name, and don't you ever come home!"
Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but he thinks he sees you flinch. Whatever it is, you try to maintain your composure. "You don't mean that, Aemond."
"I do," he insists, turning and hauling himself up the ropes. "I hate you. Go away."
It takes nearly forever before he finally reaches the saddle. The view from atop Vhagar with one eye certainly was disorienting, but not as bad as he'd originally thought. He looks up to see Sunfyre and Dreamfyre already up in the air, and he gains a sense of pride; he would be flying back to King's Landing with his trueborn siblings.
Out of habit, he tries to ascertain where you were. He deduces you had left just as he'd demanded you to, but pushes the guilt down to focus.
"Obey me, Vhagar," he shouts over the wind. "Fly!"
The dragon rumbles in response, and Aemond holds on tightly as Vhagar makes her way towards the edge of the cliff, before spreading her wings and taking flight. The short drop makes his stomach flutter delightfully, and he tugs on the reins to pull her higher into the sky.
He drinks in the feeling of seeing Aegon and Helaena on either side of him, and even dips Vhagar to greet his mother watching atop the same ship he'd arrived at Driftmark on.
When he finally gets the nerve to look back, Driftmark continues to disappear into the distance, but he can barely make out a familiar figure flying east.
He turns his attention back forward, thinking of nothing but the breeze in his hair and the sun washing over his skin.
The morningstar swings idly at Criston's side as he and Aemond circle each other, like mountain lions about to pounce at any given moment. Aemond twirls his sword in his hand, scanning his opponent from head to toe and watching his every move.
When Criston swings, Aemond dodges, immediately understanding what fight pattern his teacher was about to go for after years of experience. The crowd around him grows, the whispers now starting to irritate him, but he remains calm and collected.
The morningstar comes down on Aemond's other side, and he moves; he treats it as a dance, and the weapon an overeager partner (gods know how many Aemond's had to deal with at feasts).
Criston smirks, but Aemond can tell he's running out of steam. "Shall we have a respite, old man?" he teases.
His teacher opens his mouth to retort, but he's interrupted by a guard by the nearest watchtower.
"Dragon!"
Aemond looks up in confusion. All dragons go straight to the Dragonpit, he thinks. Why would they warn of a dragon, unless…
A high trilling sound, louder than what was normally heard so deep into the Red Keep, causes everyone within the vicinity to look around. Aemond's fingers slacken around his sword—he knows that call.
Silverwing soars into the courtyard, circling the area thrice before Aemond realizes she was trying to land.
"Clear the way!" His voice booms across the yard, and servants, nobles, and guards alike frantically move to open up a space for the dragon to land.
However, it did not seem to be what the silver mount had in mind; gasps ranging from those of shock to wonder echo throughout the Red Keep when you land your dragon atop the very gate, causing those on the watchtowers on either side of you to cry out in fear.
Aemond shakes his head in disbelief, watching in a near-trance as Silverwing dips down to allow you to dismount carefully. The years melt away as you walk over to where he and Criston were training, completely ignoring the stares you were receiving.
"Princess," Criston says, bowing deeply. "You know dragons aren't allowed this deep into the Red Keep."
"Really?" you ask, raising your eyebrows. "There are a whole score of them here, so I did not think it any harm to add one more."
Criston laughs, a short but genuine sound. "Welcome home, Princess."
You nod your head in response, before turning to Aemond. He remembers the last words he spoke to you as if he'd just said them yesterday, and not all those years ago. He remembers panicking after you never indeed come home, opting to resume your travels across the Free Cities.
He remembers spending six years trying to come to terms with the fact that he might never see you again.
What does he even say, now that you've proved him wrong?
Thankfully, you relieve him of that burden. "Brother," you greet amicably.
He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, trying (and failing) to piece together a sentence. Criston shoots him a sideways glance.
Aemond eventually settles for a nod, before his sword slides out of his grasp.
You look like you're about to burst into laughter.
"I hope he's better with a sword than he is with women, Ser Criston," you say wryly, before heading into the castle.
As soon as you've disappeared, Criston turns to Aemond, a single eyebrow raised.
"Be quiet," Aemond mumbles as he reaches for his sword.
Aemond doesn’t mull over the potential reasons for your arrival long, as the answer comes to him by the news that you have not left Viserys’ bedside all day, even to eat. He leaves you to it, equally because the incense in his father’s room lingers about him for hours, and equally because he has nothing to say to you.
But whatever your intentions were, they immediately took second place in favor of the news that the Sea Snake had suffered a mortal wound while fighting in the Stepstones, leaving the succession of Driftmark in doubt. Rhaenyra, along with her now-husband Daemon, all but materialize into the Red Keep, no doubt to secure Lucerys’ claim.
Aemond next sees you on the day all claims to the Driftwood Throne were made, just before the entire court had begun to settle in. In a brief stroke of madness, he makes his way over to where you were, drinking in your startled expression before changing course towards Rhaenyra and her sons. He gives them the usual courtesies, much to their bewilderment, and even strikes up a conversation with Jacaerys over their encounter in the courtyard, where he was training. His good eye flickers over to you, silently bidding you watch as he walks over to Daemon.
To his great satisfaction, he’s a couple of inches taller.
Aemond could have sworn he saw you smile.
It does occur to him that perhaps you have come to fulfill your father’s wishes and to marry at last, now that Viserys is on the brink of death and the succession (in Aemond’s mind, at least) remains unclear.
No doubt that thought weighs heavily on Alicent’s mind, also, given that she’s let slip a couple of times that she’d wished for you to marry one of Vaemond Velaryon’s sons. But that plan died on the floor of the throne room along with Vaemond himself, who destroyed his ambition by letting his pride get the best of him.
Through you, any House would have closer ties to the throne, and the various other lineages you’ve been linked to. That House would also be bound to whichever party secured that pact for, and all their strength and swords would be theirs.
Perhaps you’d be wed to Joffrey. No doubt that would keep you on Rhaenyra’s side forever, had you not already declared for her in all but writing. Qoren Martell was no longer a viable option, given that he’d taken your absence as an insult and married some other noble lady. Had Borros Baratheon not already married, you’d probably be his, owing to his House having hosted you in your youth. Cregan Stark. Whomever at the Vale had the claim after Jeyne Arryn. Some old and balding Riverlands lord.
But Aemond has a better idea.
Your serving girl answers the door, and her eyes widen at the sight of Aemond looming over her.
“Is the Princess still awake?” he asks quietly.
The serving girl swallows. “She is, my Prince, but…”
“I thank you in advance for your discretion,” he interrupts, reaching over to place a bag of gold dragons in her hand. Bribery was the oldest trick in the book, and yet it was always Aemond’s last resort; so many things, even principles and skills that people spend their whole life trying to cling to, could be traded at the mere sight of a gold dragon.
To the girl’s credit, she seems to struggle over the dilemma, and Aemond owes it to her to give her a moment. When she purses her lips and turns away, he steps back in victory.
The few times he’s entered your apartments, it’s always empty, on account of you being somewhere else. He’s never had a reason to stay long, if only to bask in the ambience of a room you’d spend a lot of your time in, before turning to other matters that require his attention.
Now that you’re there, however, he realizes it does not differ much from his own apartments. The same layout, but a different air about it. Less cold. More you.
Aemond waits for the serving girl to close the door behind her, and he keeps a respectful distance from your bed, allowing you some time to make yourself presentable.
“The hour is quite late, brother,” comes your tired tone.
“My apologies, sweet sister,” he says, walking forward. “I had to see you.”
You were indeed already in bed, putting a book aside when he stands at the edge. You regard him carefully, clearly wondering about the purpose of his visit, before you sigh and move to throw the covers off yourself.
He holds up a hand. “Please.”
“I cannot see you in this light,” you reason.
“Then allow me.”
Aemond takes the box of matches from you, moving about the room to light the candles. The room glows brighter, allowing him to see the shift you had put on for bed. Your silver hair hangs about you like spun moonlight, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and touch it.
“To what do I owe this late-night visit, then?”
Aemond sets the matchbox down, before turning to you. “I apologize, again,” he says. “I was not certain you’d stay in the Red Keep for long.”
“And why is that, do you think?”
“I regret I do not have the answer. You’ve never really explained the reasons behind your frequent absences from court.”
His direct tone surprises you, and he sees it in your face. But gone are the days where he stumbles over his words, cherry-picks through them to find the ones that would please you the most.
The boy you knew died the night his eye had been taken. And he wants to prove it to you.
“You think your little stunt this evening will not change anything?”
A smirk threatens to play on his lips. “Call it what you will, I was simply expressing how proud I am of my family.”
“Clearly, pride comes in the form of insulting your nephews’ parentage,” you shoot back.
“Is that why you’re contemplating leaving again? Leaving Father to succumb to his wounds alone over the truth?”
He’s never seen you this angry before; you were always the most patient sibling. “Did you come here to try and elicit some anger from me? Was your intention to alienate the only friend you have at court?”
His jaw clenches. “I am the Prince. I have no shortage of friends.”
You scoff. “With that tongue of yours, I am sure that’s true.”
“If you would like to bring my tongue into this matter, I can talk of more than just friends.”
“Your nocturnal activities mean little to me, Aemond,” you say, your tone getting fiercer and fiercer with every word. “If you mean to brag about your conquests, I suggest going to your brother instead of me. Now, if there is nothing else—”
“Why do you refuse to marry?”
Now that catches you off-guard. You look up at Aemond questioningly, but he stands his ground. He will not repeat it. He knows you have heard.
“I—I hardly think any of my decisions should matter—”
“But they do,” Aemond interrupts, moving forward to sit at the edge of your bed. “Had Father been anyone but who he is, you would have long been married by now, with children. Your husband and children would have been Rhaenyra’s, if you insisted on backing her claim. You know the benefits, and yet you refused. Why is that?”
You sigh, fidgeting with the covers uncomfortably. “I do not expect a man, even you, dear brother, to understand.”
“I’m smart. Try me.”
You give him a look so scathing, that if he were a lesser man, he would have backed down immediately. But the fire in your eyes sets his blood aflame, and he wants nothing more than to stoke them.
“My mother died attempting to give Father a male heir,” you say. “Laena gave her life for a son that did not live and wanted to ride Vhagar before she bled out. Helaena has to bear children for a philandering, drunken husband who shares her bed only when he’s out of whores to fuck. Rhaenyra dedicates her life to a realm who will not accept her because she has a mind of her own and not a cock between her legs. History will not give you women that are as miserable as the ones in our family.”
“And yet, you run from your duty to save your own skin.”
You elect not to respond to that.
Aemond sighs. “Qoren Martell would have cherished you. He said he’d wait forever for you.”
“If “forever” meant half a year, certainly,” you mumble. “I have no desire to marry, Aemond. No one expects me to be Queen, nor would my children ever come close to the throne. My only regret is that I never told my father the truth when he was still sound of mind.”
Aemond remains silent, letting your words sink in, while wrestling with his own. You lean forward, letting the covers fall to expose your skin. His eye widens at the sight, and he swallows thickly as you reach for his hand. As your fingers close around his, he has to wonder: were they always this small?
Against his will, his body turns towards you, and he shuffles up your bed so you don’t have to reach that far to touch him. With your other hand, you cup the side of his face, and he briefly flinches when you gingerly brush the pads of your fingers against his scar.
“May I?” you whisper.
He was never one to refuse you.
He keeps his one eye closed as the eyepatch leaves his skin, and is replaced by your curious fingers. He hears you suck in a breath.
He opens his eye to see you regarding the sapphire, your gift to him all those years ago, with a strange sort of reverence (despite the playful jab he had offered). He knows you’ve already seen his missing eye at its worst: swollen shut and stitches marring his face. Now, the scar has healed but not quite disappeared; Lucerys Velaryon had made his mark on Aemond forever.
He’s taken to putting jewels where his eye used to be so as not to scare the ladies at court, but he finds your sapphire fits the best, ironically. The parallels to his father's eye, gouged out by his illness and eaten through by maggots, is not lost on him, either.
"You haven't seen it since it happened," Aemond says. "It's healed. But it has left its mark. There are some things that just cannot be forgotten, as your sister is so often told otherwise."
"Our sister," you correct him. "And I know Rhaenyra regrets the incident, too."
"I don't need any of her regrets or apologies."
"Then why are you here?"
Aemond doesn't answer, and instead fixes you with the same chilling, weighted stare that he’s often been chided by his mother for having. Had you been a lesser being, you would have cracked under the pressure of his gaze.
But you are the blood of the dragon, fierce and proud and unafraid. No man, not even the one you share blood with, could ever make you back down. The look in your eyes ignites something in him; a feeling not unlike the one he gets every single time on dragonback. He steals a glimpse of the smooth expanse of your throat, then lower, and even lower…
Aemond pulls away sharply, leaving your hand drifting midair.
“The entire kingdom expects you to marry soon, rather than late,” he says, attempting to salvage what was left of his self-control.
You tilt your head. “The kingdom, your mother, or my sister?”
“I regret to say all of them do. But your fears will not be ignored.”
“Do you have a better idea, then?”
Aemond hesitates, testing the words on his tongue before letting them leave his lips. “You could marry me.”
Your reaction is what he expects it to be.
You withdraw your hand sharply and get out of bed, and Aemond gets to his feet, allowing you to increase your distance from him.
“Does…does no one listen to a word I say?” you ask in agitation. “I never thought to hear these words from you, brother, I—”
“This match has its merits,” Aemond says. “I will not insult your intelligence by discussing them one by one.”
“Whose idea was this?”
“…Father’s.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Father?” you ask incredulously. “Father was barely able to speak in complete sentences before today, and you expect me to believe he’s behind such a large arrangement?”
“Can you prove that he isn’t?”
All of a sudden, you’re standing inches away from him, a finger jabbed into his sternum and your eyes blazing with anger. “You are not getting away with this on a technicality,” you hiss. “Tell me the truth of it.”
“Is the thought of marrying me that repulsive to you?”
“Not if it’s born out of lies.” You clutch the collar of his shirt. “Why do you want to marry me, Aemond?”
He looks down at you, and his hands twitch by his sides, no doubt wanting to feel your warmth permeate through your clothes. He can feel your heart hammering underneath your ribs, and he’s sure that if you slide your hands lower, you could feel his racing similarly. Your body melds so perfectly to his, and you breathe in sync, as if engaged in a dance of their own. Every molecule of your body thrums to life underneath his fingers, every second that passes between you is charged with a tension that threatens to push the both of you over the precipice, and still you do not see.
He hates that, even with one eye, he does.
You await his answer with bated breath, but he sees the way your eyes briefly flicker down to his lips.
“Aemond,” you whisper.
“To…to preserve the family line,” he answers.
And your face just falls.
You gently detach yourself from him, leaving him impossibly cold despite the roar of the fireplace nearby.
“Well,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m afraid I will have to refuse you. As I did Qoren. As I did everyone else.”
Your words echo around his mind, as if you’d shouted it to him in an empty corridor. Aemond does nothing but stare at you, and you hold his gaze with a practiced ease.
He doesn’t remember leaving your room, nor does he remember if you’d said anything to him as he did. But the next day, he breaks fast alone: his mother missing, Aegon not expected to wake until well in the afternoon, Helaena tending to the children, and Rhaenyra’s family having left for Dragonstone at first light.
When a messenger arrives to inform him that Silverwing had left the Dragonpit before dawn, he simply waves them away.
Aemond takes the death of his father in stride.
He operates exactly how logic demands him to, what he’s always been expected to do. He takes great pains to track Aegon down and forces him to face the reality that Aemond would have accepted without a fight. He keeps Jaehaerys and Jaehaera company as Helaena is prepared for her joint coronation with Aegon, sobbing the whole time her maids fit her into her dress, all the while fighting back thoughts of you donning the magnificent dress made for a future queen.
He gets through the coronation, and is momentarily forced into action when Meleys and Rhaenys disrupt the ceremony. But when the Red Queen and the Queen Who Never Was depart, he settles back into his work.
None of the things he was doing required emotion. He had no need for it. He’s gone for so long without an eye, he can live without a heart.
It’s why he can accept Borros Baratheon’s terms without batting an eye, why he can choose the first of his daughters that crosses his line of sight. He may grow to love her, he thinks, as he offers her a tight-lipped smile, and he may look at her someday without you lurking in the back of his mind.
But the gods that decreed he’d lose an eye, the gods who damned him to years of being dragon-less, are the very same gods that bring Lucerys Velaryon to Storm’s End.
“Go home, pup,” Borros spits, his voice booming like thunder all over the hall. “And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up and need to set against her foes.”
Lucerys keeps his head up, unwilling to show any semblance of weakness. Aemond wants to laugh; his entire body screams fear from head to toe. “I shall take your answer to the Queen,” he replies, his voice steadying at the last word. “My lord.”
Ever the consummate fighter. Had he not been born a bastard, Aemond might have actually liked him.
“Wait,” he calls out. “My Lord Strong.”
Lucerys pauses, taking a moment before looking back at Aemond. His eyes glint with a familiar fire that only eggs Aemond on.
“Did you really think,” he says. “That you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”
Lucerys scoffs. “I will not fight you,” he asserts. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”
“A fight would be little challenge. No…” Aemond moves to remove his eyepatch, a burst of lightning illuminating the sapphire sitting where his eye used to be. “I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine.”
Lucerys pales. For a moment, Aemond wonders if he recognizes the jewel in his eye socket. He presumes not, and even with you now forever out of his grasp, he can’t help but feel a sense of triumph. He had something Lucerys Velaryon had not—your favor.
“One will serve,” he continues casually, retrieving the dagger he keeps on his person and tossing it onto the ground between them. “I would not blind you. I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”
What fear was in Lucerys’ face left at the sight of the blade, and was replaced by an expression of pure defiance. The adrenaline rushes through Aemond’s veins, practically begging Lucerys to make one wrong move. The looming threat of war, the despair that threatens to crush his mother, the look on Lucerys’ face that looks so much like—
“The Princess [Y/N] of House Targaryen!”
Lucerys nearly staggers in his attempt to turn to the door, and the lump in Aemond’s throat rises as you walk into the hall. You take one confused look at Lucerys, another at Aemond, then at Borros Baratheon.
“Am I to host the entirety of House Targaryen in my hall?” Borros shouts.
You raise an eyebrow. “I admit my surprise at seeing two more dragons than expected in your courtyard,” you say. “But, lest my lord forget, you invited me for the Lady Cassandra’s nameday tomorrow.”
Aemond frowns, and Lucerys looks equally confused. Was it possible that you hadn’t…
Borros gets to his feet. “I will not have this,” he snarls. “I will not be spoken to so casually by dragonspawn, and the least of them, least of all!”
Lucerys reaches for his sword, a look of great affront painted all over his face. Aemond turns his attention to Borros, ready to strike at any given second.
Silence falls over the group, interrupted only by the sounds of the storm raging outside.
You raise your eyebrows.
And Borros bursts into laughter.
Floris stifles a giggle from behind Aemond, as do all her other sisters next to Borros. Aemond and Lucerys share a quick look, all enmity momentarily forgotten in the confusion.
“You have not changed at all, Princess,” Borros continues to laugh heartily, as he settles back into his throne. “My father always told me you would have made a better Baratheon than a Targaryen.”
“And as I’ve told your father, I’d leap off one of your cliffs first before I’d give up the life of a dragonrider,” you say, entering the hall and making your way into its center as if it had been your home all this time.
And it’s then that Aemond remembers you’d been hosted at Storm’s End in your youth, and later named godmother to one of Borros’ daughters.
“But I must admit my confusion, Princess,” Borros says, as soon as he’s finished wiping the tears from his eyes. “I hardly think this is the time for celebrating.”
“I fly all the way back from Volantis to be told it isn’t the time for celebrating,” you repeat dryly.
Borros looks at Lucerys, to Aemond, then back to you. You mimic the action, and when your eyes settle on Aemond, it takes a while for you to get it.
Your lips part in shock, and he watches as your eyes slowly widen.
“I’m…I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Princess,” Borros says, his voice sounding the gentlest Aemond has ever heard all day despite the gruffness in his tone. “You know how highly my father and I held the late King in regard. If there is anything we might do…”
“You are too kind, my lord.” You clear your throat. “You are right, of course, this is not the time for celebrations. I will see the Lady Cassandra on the morrow, but first…” You walk over to Lucerys and wrap an arm around him. “I believe Prince Lucerys’ business here is finished. I ask your leave to escort him back to Dragonstone.”
“Granted,” Borros replies. “Safe travels, my friend.”
Aemond seethes as the guards follow suit, and as you press your lips to Lucerys’ ear as you turn him around. “If you leave,” he near-growls. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”
Your head whips around, and you meet his gaze with a fury he’s never known you to hold. “Not here,” you snarl.
Wisely, Aemond holds his ground.
You take one last glance at the Baratheons, before tightening your grip on Lucerys and leading him out of the hall.
When the door shuts behind you, Aemond retrieves his knife, just as he hears one of the Baratheon girls scoff. He follows the sound to the lady standing closest to Borros, who had on an expression of pure contempt.
“Princess or not, she had the gall to speak to a Prince like that,” she says. “No wonder she’s not yet married. What man would take her?”
“Maris, hold your tongue,” Floris warns.
Maris ignores her sister, looking at Aemond straight in the eye. “Was it one of your eyes he took, or one of your balls?” she asks, voice sweet as honey despite the venom in her words. “I am so glad you chose my sister. I want a husband with all his parts.”
Aemond’s mouth twists in anger. “Lord Borros,” he nearly spits through his teeth. “I ask your leave to depart, as well.”
Borros harrumphed in response. “It is for me to tell you how to act whilst not under my roof.”
Aemond turns on his heels, barely sparing his betrothed a glance before disappearing out the door.
Despite the relentless rain, all Aemond’s senses were heightened as if he were the beast he rides, focused solely on the hunt. He wants to see that look on Lucerys’ face again—that look of pure fear. Pure helplessness. He wants to see all those years’ worth of misery weigh on his entire being, threatening to crush Lucerys with every second that passes.
The laugh that leaves him is one of pure glee as Lucerys and his dragon just barely dodge Vhagar, and he only urges her after them. He shouts a command, and the great she-dragon opens her jaws, closing with a sickening snap that causes Lucerys to cry out in fear.
The dragon takes Lucerys even lower, and to Aemond’s great dismay, they disappear between two cliffs. He takes Vhagar’s reins and heaves; she follows suit, albeit with great difficulty.
The fog clouds his already-compromised vision, and the only things he sees above the gorge are the tips of dragon wings as it beats up and down. “You owe a debt!” Aemond bellows, the frustration of being denied his vengeance lining every single one of his words. “Boy!”
Vhagar notices it before he does, and moves her head to the left. He barely sees it in the darkness of the storm, but there was an unmistakable flash of white that wasn’t a streak of lightning. He pulls to the left, cursing. Finally took advantage of your handiwork, Lucerys? he thinks bitterly. Flying in my blindspot…who would have thought…
Perhaps the storm had grown fiercer, or the fog had gotten thicker, but Aemond only now gets glimpses of Lucerys’ dragon, unlike the direct confrontation that had occurred just earlier. It was unlikely that it had gotten used to Vhagar’s flight pattern so easily, given its age and how inexperienced Lucerys clearly was…
“There!” he shouts, and Vhagar follows without further instruction. The new direction is one that turns the wind against them, and Aemond wonders how such a young dragon fares in such terrible conditions. But Lucerys and his dragon were now up ahead, growing bigger as Vhagar closes the gap in mere moments…he could have sworn that the dragon was a little brighter than that…
A hard gust of wind nearly blows him back in his saddle; blinking the tears out of his eye, he dodges the cloak that Lucerys had previously donned as it flies past.
Revealing a taller figure in the saddle, sporting bright silver hair…
You sense the shift in Vhagar’s disposition almost immediately.
The roar she lets out is enough to shake the entirety of Storm’s End to its very core, and Silverwing shakes her head, clearly agitated. You glance over your shoulder to see Vhagar being pulled back, and you know you have run out of time.
You could only hope that you had bought enough to allow Lucerys and Arrax to escape.
“Listen carefully, Luke,” you shout over the rain, as both you and your nephew make your way to your dragons. Lightning flashes, and you look to the east; your stomach drops when Vhagar is nowhere to be found. “Aemond will try to follow you as you leave.”
You take Lucerys’ face in your hands. “You must find him and Vhagar first. Get them to chase you, and take them to the gorge just a few miles away from here.”
“How will I—”
“It isn’t hard to miss. Fly Arrax through that gorge, go as low as you can. I will meet you there.”
“But you—”
“After that, go as high as you can and go with the wind so you can go faster.”
“What are you going to do?” he asks fearfully. “Vhagar is the largest dragon in the world, and—and Aemond’s angry, and—”
You shush him, brushing his curls out of his face as you have so many times in his youth. “Vhagar is also the oldest dragon in the world,” you remind him. “And Silverwing and Arrax will look nearly identical in this storm. I will try to stay in Aemond’s blind spot, and trust that his dragon will not know the difference.”
The tears start to well in Lucerys’ eyes. “This is my fault,” he begins to cry.
“It is not, sweet boy.” You pull him into an embrace, and Lucerys grips onto your shoulders almost painfully. When Arrax shrieks, and Silverwing hisses at the sky, you pry yourself out of Lucerys’ grasp, tilting his head up.
“I may still reason with Aemond,” you say. “But at least one of us must make it back to Rhaenyra, to tell her what has happened here. I intend it to be you.”
“But—”
“Be brave, Lucerys,” you tell him, and in High Valyrian, you command just as much as you soothe.
Your mother had told you to be brave, too, just days before she’d died on the birthing bed.
Was that the same fate that awaits you in the jaws of a dragon? You suppose that, one way or another, you would leave this world in the same manner.
You find a rocky beach, and you will Silverwing towards it. The pebbles crunch in a strange sort of symphony under her feet, as it does under yours when you dismount. The waves pummel the shore just inches away from where you stand, waiting for the inevitable.
You press your forehead against Silverwing’s head, feeling the she-dragon purr at the contact. No doubt she was feeling the same things you were feeling, after so many years of flying together, but you want to let her know how much she means to you.
A terrifying growl shakes the beach, and Silverwing hisses as Vhagar appears just above you. You hold onto her as the dragon hits the ground, her sheer size causing nearly half of her body to be submerged in the ocean.
You watch as her rider dismounts, his blade glinting in the darkness as he makes his way over to you. When you move to meet him halfway, Silverwing blocks your path, wailing. You feel a surge of affection for your dragon wash over you.
“Be calm,” you instruct her. “Obey.”
Silverwing keens in protest, but obliges, withdrawing reluctantly, only to roar in contempt when Aemond points his blade towards your neck.
Amidst the heavy rain and thick fog, Aemond Targaryen stands tall and proud, his missing eye doing little to discredit the fact that he now looks every inch a god. You could find no trace of the boy you’d known all those years ago, the one who’d followed you everywhere in the Red Keep, the only one of your half-siblings who’d managed to maintain a solid correspondence with you when you were away.
But perhaps he is still in there, somewhere hidden behind the clear wrath in his eye.
“None can stand between a dragon and its prey,” you begin. “A Conqueror’s dragon and her blood, even less.”
“And yet here you stand,” Aemond spits.
“And yet here I stand,” you repeat calmly.
Aemond studies you carefully. You keep your gaze trained on him, completely ignoring the blade he holds to your throat.
“You know the truth of Rhaenyra’s sons,” he hisses. “You’re no fool, yet you choose not to see it. Would you let the pups of House Strong sit on our father’s throne, and his grandfather before him?”
“They have just as much Targaryen blood as you do.”
“Do not—” He presses the tip of his sword directly against your skin, and Silverwing growls in warning. “Do not dare question my heritage.”
“I would never,” you say quietly. “But surely you see why I cannot let you do this.”
“Would you lay down your life for your traitor kin?”
“They are all I have left.” Your voice quivers dangerously. “You may deny their parentage all you like, but you cannot deny that they are my blood still.”
“I am your blood!” You hadn’t realized that Aemond had dropped his blade in favor of closing the distance between the two of you, looming over you like a malevolent shadow in the pouring rain. “‘Tis I who know you better than anyone else; I, who wrote back to you and sat every night by the windows of the Red Keep waiting for you to return; ‘tis I who study history and philosophy and politics to elevate myself to your level.”
Thunder rumbles overhead, and you blink the rain out of your eyes as you continue to stare up at Aemond. You think you catch a glimpse of the child he once was when he holds your gaze so defiantly, but he scoffs, and turns away from you.
“Lord Borros was right,” he spits. “I stand to destroy myself, risk my brother’s cause, worry my mother senseless, and for what? The whims of the last in line to the throne? A mere afterthought, forever in the shadow of her sister? A spoiled bitch who flees with her tail between her legs at the very thought of duty?”
You shake your head, and despite the gravity of the situation, you have to smile. The rocks crunch beneath your feet as you move towards him this time. When your hand presses against the middle of his shoulders, just opposite of his heart, you feel him jolt.
“Words hurt less to those who have heard the same all their lives,” you tell him gently. “But if it comforts you to lash out at me, I will not stop you. I daresay by the time you end, Luke will have already returned to Dragonstone.”
Aemond growls as he turns and grabs you by your arms. Silverwing hisses and snaps, but backs down when Vhagar moves forward.
“Stop acting as if I was a child,” he demands. “I can challenge the greatest knight of the Seven Kingdoms and ride the largest dragon our world has ever known. I am the closest in line to the Throne. The Aemond you knew died the night Lucerys Strong took my eye, and if you mourn him, you will step aside.”
“I cannot,” you whisper, but you might as well have screamed it in his ear. “I told you on Driftmark, didn’t I? You are still the Aemond I know. The Aemond who fought during my nameday tourney all those years ago, giving it his all despite being out of the lists earlier on. You believed that it was Alicent that put you in the lower lists, did you not?”
Aemond stares at you, clearly not following.
“You thought and acted exactly as I’d hoped. I’m sorry you were embarrassed because of it. But…if you would forgive my selfishness…I wanted you by my side in the King’s box, not injuring yourself on the jousting field for my favor. I would have always given you my favor, no matter how many you’d win against.”
You reach up to brush away the hair sticking against his face in the cold rain. “Because it’s you,” you say, running a thumb down the strap of his eyepatch before gently lifting it up. “You’re my Aemond.”
The sapphire that once sat in the brooch you gave him glints in what little light the storm permits to shine. No doubt that to many, it only serves to further unnerve those who already shift uncomfortably in his presence, but to you, it rivals the stars you’d stared at, thousands of leagues away from home, quietly wondering if Aemond was looking at them too.
The expression on his face is a mixture of surprise, admiration, and pain all into one. You know his true feelings; he’d made it known the night he asked for your hand. You would have given it to him gladly, freely, had he been honest about his reasons. A loveless marriage was the last thing you wanted for yourself in this lifetime, the very reason you’d run away from home all those years ago, causing your own father grief; you weren’t about to have it start with a blatant lie.
You think he understands everything now, by the way his shoulders slump and how Vhagar nearly purrs in content. It’s only confirmed when he reaches for your hand, still warm despite the biting cold.
“You’re not playing fair,” Aemond murmurs. “You would make me a kinslayer…every word you speak will damn me for all eternity, and yet…”
He shakes his head. “You know why I’ve come here. Baratheon’s banners for a marriage pact. You’ve scorned me once before. What makes you think I could ever give in to you now?”
“I dare not force you to choose,” you respond. “But know that I will not move from this place; how you will deny me, I leave it to you.”
Aemond’s mouth twitches. “How kind of you to make things simple for me.”
He backs away, and you close your eyes, waiting for the frigid storm to be drowned out by a shower of dragonflame. You think of Lucerys, and how you hope Arrax was able to navigate the storm all the way back to Dragonstone. You think of Rhaenyra, too, your sole full-blood sister, and the tears that you’d shared together in the Sept on your namedays. Your chest grows heavy with grief at the thought of Viserys, and how he’d begged you with his rattling breath to stay, only for you to leave the very night he’d passed.
You should think about what your death would mean; the pain that would cause your kin, the war that was bound to follow. But your last thought, ironically, might ultimately be of the man who would bring about your demise.
Seconds pass. Silverwing falls silent.
And you feel Aemond’s lips on yours.
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