irisposts

[irisposts]

His Mother's Sister

pairing | aemond x aunt!reader word count | 4.7k words summary | aemond becomes instantly captivated by his alluring and enigmatic aunt upon her arrival in King’s Landing, his fascination growing into a consuming obsession. one night, he sneaks into her chambers intending to claim her, only to find himself ensnared and wholly claimed by her instead. tags | 18+ MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, obsession, incest, oral (f), aemond being a simp, aemond being obsessed, older woman/younger man, reader is in her early 30s a/n | haven't written smut in a while, so here's my smut piece before I continue with my normal angst and fluff

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“I have summoned your sister to King’s Landing.”

Aemond’s attention sharpened, his gaze lingering on his mother’s face as Otto spoke. He watched as the blood seemed to drain from her cheeks, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of the table.

“For what purpose?” Alicent’s voice held a strained note, attempting to maintain a composure that clearly wavered.

Aegon, lounging at the head of the table, raised his head, intrigued. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, eyes flicking between his mother and grandsire.

“Marq Ambrose commands one of the most powerful armies in the Reach,” Otto stated with an offhand shrug, his eyes giving nothing away.

“And he would serve us best by keeping that power in the Reach, where it may be summoned at need,” Alicent interjected, her tone unyielding, her eyes locked on Otto’s. There was no mistaking the tension in her voice, a chill that crept through the words.

Aemond’s brow furrowed slightly as he observed his mother. His aunt had always been something of a mystery—whispered about in brief conversations that faded when he entered the room. A few years after his birth, she had been wedded to Lord Ambrose of the Reach, her presence a vague shadow on his life, a name he had heard only in passing. And now, with her impending arrival, he sensed a thread of something forbidden—a story that remained carefully locked away, just out of reach.

Aegon chuckled, breaking the taut silence. “Let Lord Ambrose come, then, if he so wishes to make merry in our halls. He is but my uncle by marriage; surely, we ought to welcome such kin to the capital.” His gaze gleamed as he spoke, and his smile widened. “And I would be most pleased to meet my aunt, at last.”

But Aemond’s mind lingered elsewhere. His mother’s discomfort stirred his curiosity, yes—but something deeper, a whisper of anticipation he could scarcely name, took root.

A week had passed since that conversation, and now the family gathered in the throne room, awaiting Lord Ambrose’s arrival. Aegon sat with careless authority upon the Iron Throne, his gaze sharp with the amusement of expectation, while the rest of them stood beneath the shadow of the dais.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and a knight’s voice rang out through the hall. “May I present Lord Marq Ambrose and his Lady Wife.”

A stocky figure stepped forward, his hair streaked with white and black, his girth almost comical in its fullness. Aemond cast but a cursory glance at the man, unimpressed by this swollen lord from the Reach, before his gaze shifted past him.

And then, Aemond stilled. His eye widened, his brows lifting as he fought to contain his reaction. His heart gave an unbidden jolt, nearly betraying him. If he had chanced a glance at Aegon, he would have seen his brother’s mouth agape, struck silent.

Beside Lord Ambrose stood his lady—a woman of such beauty that she seemed almost ethereal in her presence, like some creature of starlight veiled in fine silks. You could have been Lord Ambrose’s granddaughter, and yet here you were, his lawful wife. Aemond’s mind spun.

From what he understood, this aunt of his was five summers younger than his mother, yet you bore not a trace of age. Your beauty held a captivating allure, tempered with a regal composure that only added to your mystique. You appeared no older than five-and-twenty, though your presence held the calm authority of a queen.

"Lord and Lady Ambrose," Aegon declared with a broad grin as he rose from the Iron Throne and descended the dais, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Welcome."

Lord Ambrose, with a thick and lumbering step, inclined his head and spoke in a voice as stout as his frame. “We thank you for your welcome, Your Grace, and pledge our loyalty to the one true king.”

Aegon waved a dismissive hand, barely seeming to heed the man’s words. “Yes, yes, the crown is grateful for your loyalty and your… soldiers,” he said, his tone absent, as though the promise of men-at-arms meant little to him in the face of his aunt.

Then Aegon turned his attention to you, his expression shifting to one of eager charm. He stepped closer and took your hand, lifting it to his lips. "My aunt," he said, his voice thick with pleasure, “it is an honor to finally make your acquaintance.” He kissed your hand, his gaze lingering on you as he released it.

Your lips curled into a slight, knowing smile, your sharp eyes gleaming with a trace of amusement as though you found the entire display mildly amusing. “The honor is mine, my king,” you replied, your voice soft but rich, laced with an elegance and confidence that defied your role as the wife of a lesser lord.

Aemond, standing nearby, felt his pulse quicken at the sound of your voice. It was smooth, sultry, and held an unspoken promise, a warmth that washed over him and stirred something deep within. His gaze lingered on her, captivated, as if drawn to some unnameable force.

Otto cleared his throat, a subtle warning in his gaze as he stepped forward, sensing the direction of Aegon’s attentions. He inclined his head politely. “Lord Ambrose,” he greeted, then turned to the lady beside him, his tone softening. “Daughter.”

Aemond watched with surprise as she stepped away from Lord Ambrose without hesitation, her face alight with joy. “Father!” she exclaimed, her voice warm and bright. She crossed the floor with graceful steps, her skirts sweeping behind her as she embraced her father.

Otto’s usually stoic expression softened, his arms enveloping her with an affection rare to see from the Hand of the King. “How I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

Aemond, along with Aegon and Helaena, exchanged startled glances, astonished by the depth of feeling Otto revealed.

She broke away, casting a radiant smile at Otto before her gaze shifted, and she found Alicent. Aemond watched as his mother’s expression flickered, caught between awkwardness and reluctance, her shoulders tense. But his aunt moved toward her with the same confident warmth. “Sister,” she greeted, wrapping her arms around Alicent in a sincere embrace.

Alicent seemed to steel herself, managing a strained smile as she endured the hug. When they pulled apart, her expression remained stiff as she forced a cordial tone. “Sister,” she said carefully, “you look… as though no time has passed at all.”

The amusement in your eyes deepened, a subtle spark of mischief that curled your lips into a nearly smug smile. “And yet,” you replied, voice gentle but pointed, “it seems that time has left its mark on you."

The words were soft, yet they carried an edge that struck the air between them. Alicent’s face faltered, her polite mask slipping for an instant. Aemond watched the exchange, captivated by the intricate web of tensions and histories unfolding before him. He had thought his mother impervious, yet here she was, visibly discomforted under the gaze of her younger sister.

“Well,” Aegon’s voice broke in, strangely lively, “this calls for a celebration.” He clapped his hands, grinning widely. “A family supper, to welcome Lord… and Lady Ambrose to King’s Landing.” He glanced between his aunt and mother with a glint in his eye, as if relishing the simmering tension.

Aemond glanced toward his aunt, your eyes alight with a confidence that drew him in, entangled with memories he could only guess at. You seemed utterly unperturbed by the uneasy reception, holding yourself with an assurance that only deepened the fascination you stirred within him.

The supper was, in truth, a strained affair. Lord Ambrose quickly drank himself into a state of merriment, his voice growing louder with each goblet of wine he downed. He boasted endlessly of Ambrosia, their ancestral castle in the Reach, extolling the grandeur of its halls, the strength of its walls, and the might of his armies.

It was painfully clear that neither Aegon nor Otto paid him much heed; Aegon’s eyes glazed over with feigned interest, while Otto offered only the occasional nod, his mind elsewhere.

Aegon, however, deftly steered the conversation back to you at every opportunity. “But tell us, Aunt,” he said with a sly smile, “what tales do you bring from the Reach? Surely there are more interesting things than castle stones and soldiers.”

Across the table, Aemond found his brother’s persistent attempts at flirtation grating, yet he could not fault Aegon for giving you the attention. Your voice, like a song in his ear, drew him in each time you spoke, its smooth cadence addictive.

You spoke easily, your words painting scenes of courtly life in the Reach, of feasts and tournaments, your radiant smile outshining your husband’s drunken ramblings. Every eye at the table seemed drawn to you, but none with the quiet intensity of Aemond’s single, focused gaze.

He was captivated by the way you commanded the room, with a poise that cast Lord Ambrose’s bluster into the shadows. And when you looked his way, even for a fleeting moment, he felt as though the world quieted around him.

“And what of you and my mother in your younger days?” Aegon asked, a mischievous, drunken grin on his lips, his words slurring slightly as he leaned forward in his chair.

Alicent shot him a pointed look, her expression tightening as she cleared her throat. “Aegon,” she murmured, her voice gently chastising, “perhaps my sister would appreciate a moment to enjoy her meal.”

But you merely laughed, dismissing her concern with a wave of your hand. “Oh, it’s quite all right, Alicent,” you said warmly. Turning to Aegon, your eyes sparkled with a hint of nostalgia. “You see, in our younger years, your mother could barely stand to be near me.”

Alicent’s discomfort grew visible as she shifted in her seat, her voice soft but strained. “That is not true, sister.”

“Oh, but it is,” you replied with a soft, almost wistful laugh. “Not that I hold it against you, Alicent. I was terribly fond of her then; I looked up to her as one might look to a mother. But every time I tried to spend time with her, she would run off with Princess Rhaenyra, laughing at my expense.”

“Those were mere childish games,” Alicent interjected, her voice taut as she worked to maintain her composure.

“Indeed, they were,” you agreed with an unbothered smile. “Children can be so prone to envy and jealousy. You see,” your tone lightened, yet held a playful undertone as your eyes drifted back to Aegon, “I was often called the ‘Diamond of Oldtown,’ and perhaps such adoration left its mark on dear Alicent.”

The words were spoken with an air of casual jest, yet there was no mistaking the edge beneath them. Aemond watched as Alicent’s mask slipped, her cheeks flushing as she struggled to keep her voice steady. It was clear you were savoring Alicent’s discomfort, a faint glimmer of amusement lighting your eyes as they traveled slowly down the length of the table.

And then, your gaze found him.

“And what of you, dear nephew?” you inquired, your voice as smooth as wine poured in darkened halls. “I’ve heard many tales of you in the Reach.”

Aemond felt his heart thud within his chest, a warmth rising unbidden to his face as he fought to maintain his poise. “Tales of what, Aunt?” he asked, his voice low, striving for calm.

A smile curved upon your lips, one that was as inviting as it was knowing. “A great warrior, fierce and unmatched across the Seven Kingdoms. The rider of Vhagar, queen of all dragons,” you murmured, your words laced with a hint of admiration.

“That’s all, my lady,” Aemond replied softly, his gaze never wavering from yours.

And in return, you tilted your head ever so slightly, an amused glint in your eyes as though you were looking beyond the surface, into the very marrow of him. It was a gaze both alluring and unsettling, one that sent a shiver down his spine.

Before you could speak again, however, your husband’s voice cut through the charged silence. His tone was slurred and irritated, clearly displeased by the lack of attention on him as he clumsily launched into yet another tale of his supposed valor. Aemond noted how you sighed softly, a look of resignation crossing your features as you turned your gaze away from him.

But then, as though unable to resist, your eyes drifted back to Aemond. You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed and, with a barely concealed smirk, you winked.

Aemond’s heart skipped a beat, his lone eye widening ever so slightly as he blinked, wondering if he had imagined it. He looked back, only to find you now watching your husband with a look of faint distaste, a grimace twisting your otherwise perfect features. It was a small, subtle gesture, but one that spoke volumes, and Aemond felt a surge of something dark and possessive stirring within him.

In that moment, he realized that this supper was not simply an introduction; it was an invitation, a challenge, and a temptation all at once.

These thoughts lingered long after, spiraling in his mind with an intensity he couldn’t quiet. Later, as he passed through the halls, he overheard a quiet murmur from a maid: Lord and Lady Ambrose had chosen to sleep in separate chambers. Aemond’s pulse quickened.

The knowledge seemed a silent invitation, a doorway left just ajar. He recalled the way you had spoken to him, your voice holding layers meant only for him. The look in your eyes—hungry, as though you sought to devour his very soul—left him craving to be consumed by that gaze again. No, this was not his imagination. He was certain of it.

And it was this certainty that drove him through the darkened halls of the Red Keep, slipping past drowsy guards, cloaked in shadow, his steps muffled by the silence of the sleeping castle.

When he reached your door, he eased it open, careful to make no sound, and stepped inside with the stealth of a shadow. Yet he halted at once, caught off guard by the sight that greeted him.

There you sat, reclining on a velvet chaise, a goblet of deep red wine in hand, eyes cast down at a leather-bound book resting in your lap. The faint candlelight painted your skin in warm gold, and your attire—a red nightgown, translucent and clinging to every curve—left little hidden, casting a spell of allure around you.

Aemond’s throat tightened as he took in the sight, the image searing itself into his mind. But the quiet gulp betrayed him, and your gaze lifted, pinning him where he stood.

“Your Highness,” you murmured, your voice laced with a seductive warmth. “What a surprise.” The knowing smile on your lips told him this was no surprise at all.

Feeling the weight of your gaze, he steeled himself, adopting the guise of confidence. “I could not find sleep, my lady,” he replied, his voice steady. “And it would appear you are in the same predicament.”

You set down your goblet and closed the book in your lap, your every movement deliberate. Rising from your seat, you let the robe slide from your shoulders, the fabric pooling at your feet. “You know,” you murmured, teasingly, “it is most improper for a man to visit a married woman at such an hour.”

Aemond took a step closer, his gaze never leaving you. “But you are my aunt—my family.”

A small, knowing laugh escaped your lips as you slipped past him, your arm brushing his, a soft touch that sent a jolt through him. He closed his eye briefly, savoring the warmth, and when he opened it again, you had moved toward the bed, your smile one of invitation.

“The Targaryens are known for their peculiar customs when it comes to family.” You glanced back at him with an amused, daring gleam in your eye. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

He took another step forward, drawn like a moth to flame. “I think you know what I desire.”

“And if I were to say yes,” you purred, sitting upon the edge of the bed, “what would you do?”

He moved closer, his voice low with reverence. “I would do whatever you asked of me.”

Your lips curled, eyes glinting with a barely concealed command. “Then kneel for me,” you whispered.

For a brief moment, his brow furrowed, but any hesitation vanished. He lowered himself to his knees before you, his head tilted upward, gaze reverent. “As you wish, my lady.”

You studied him, a look of satisfaction crossing your face as you gathered your skirts, parting your legs with a languid grace. Tilting your chin, you gave a single, soft nod. “Then go on, my sweet prince,” you murmured, your voice a quiet command, heavy with promise.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to your inner thigh. His hands came to rest on your hips as he began to place soft kisses along your skin, working his way higher.

When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you, his eye hooded.

"Are you certain about this, Aunt?" Despite his words, his body language betrayed his eagerness - his breathing quickened and his fingers tightened their grip on your hips ever so slightly.

You let out a soft moan as he kissed your thighs, your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him on, "Yes I am certain, now continue before I change my mind."

With a low growl, he surged forward, burying his face between your thighs. He wasted no time in finding your sensitive bud with his tongue, flicking and circling it expertly.

One hand slid up to cup your breast through your thin nightgown, kneading the soft flesh as he continued his ministrations below. He alternated between long, slow licks and quick flicks of his tongue, gauging your reactions to find what felt best.

The other hand gripped your hip more firmly, holding you in place as he devoured you like a starving man at a feast. Wet sounds filled the room as he worked tirelessly to bring you pleasure, lost in the taste and scent of your arousal. Your back arched as he licked your cunt, a loud moan escaped your lips, "Oh gods, yes."

Your fingers tightened in his hair, as you bucked your hips against his face, seeking more of his skilled touch, "Yes, feast on me."

Spurred on by your moans and the encouragement in your voice, Aemond redoubled his efforts. He sealed his lips around your bud and sucked hard, his tongue lashing over the sensitive nub in rapid circles.

Two fingers slid deep inside your slick heat, curling to stroke along your inner walls as they thrusted in and out. The obscene wet sounds of his fingers pumping into your dripping core mingled with your increasingly desperate cries of pleasure.

Aemond could feel you tensing and shuddering beneath his touch, teetering on the brink of release. He doubled down, sucking harder and fucking you faster with his fingers, determined to push you over the edge into blissful oblivion.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, screaming out in ecstasy as your body shook violently, juices gushing out and soaking his face, "Oh fuck! Aemond!"

You clutched at his head, grinding your cunt against his mouth as you rode out the waves of pleasure, your skin glistening with sweat, "Don't you dare stop until I tell you to!"

Feeling your body quake and spasm around his invading fingers, Aemond drank in every drop of your sweet release, lapping at your pulsing sex greedily. He prolonged your climax with relentless strokes of his tongue, coaxing out every last tremor of pleasure.

Only when your spasms subsided does he finally pull back, his chin dripping with your essence. He gazed up at you with a triumphant, almost feral glint in his eye, his own arousal straining against the confines of his breeches, "Have I pleased you, Aunt?"

"Yes, yes you have," you said breathlessly.

Without a word, he rose to his feet and began to strip off his clothes, revealing a lean, muscular physique honed by years of training. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed with blood, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

"You have such a pretty cock, nephew," you said, taking in the sight of him, as your hand reached out for his cock.

Aemond's breath hitched as your hand wrapped around his throbbing length, his hips instinctively bucking into the touch. He watched, transfixed, as your fingers traced the ridged veins and delicate skin, marveling at how small yet firm your hand looked compared to his engorged member.

"It's yours," he rasped, his voice strained with need. "Do whatever you want with it."

He stepped closer, pressing the heavy weight of his erection against your palm, the heat of his skin seeping into your touch. Leaning down, he captured your lips in a hungry kiss, his tongue delving deep to tangle with yours as he grinded against you.

You broke the kiss, panting heavily, as you pulled him onto the bed. Then you straddled him, rubbing your dripping cunt along his cock, coating it with your juices, "I've never ridden a dragon before. Tell me, do you want me to claim you?"

Aemond's single eye blazed with lust and something deeper, darker, as he gazed up at you poised above him. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, the muscles flexing beneath his pale skin.

"Yes, Aunt," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Claim me. Make me yours."

His hands came up to grasp your hips, guiding you to position yourself over his straining cock. His head nudged at your entrance, smearing your slickness across it.

"Do it," he urged, his gaze intense and unblinking. "Take me deep."

So slowly you sank down onto his cock, letting out a loud moan as you stretched around his girth. You took him inch by delicious inch until you were fully seated on him, "Fuck, your cock was made for my cunt."

Aemond threw his head back with a guttural groan as you sheathed him completely, your tight heat enveloping his throbbing length. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at the tender skin as he reveled in the feeling of being utterly filled in you.

"So tight," he panted against your throat.

His hands squeezed your hips, holding you steady as he began to thrust up into you, meeting each downward plunge of your own hips. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your mingled moans of pleasure. And feeling a tinge of frustration, his hands met the top of your nightgown as he pulled hard, ripping it in half completely, making you gasp.

You rode him hard and fast, your breasts bouncing with each powerful thrust. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mixed with your high pitched moans, "Yes, yes, fuck me harder Aemond!"

Aemond leaned forward, sucking on your breast as if he was a babe desperately seeking milk. He suckled greedily at your breast, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak as he drew the sensitive flesh into his mouth. His hands roamed your curves possessively, one sliding down to grip your ass while the other tweaked and tugged at your neglected nipple.

He met your wild riding with equal fervor, pistoning his hips up to meet your downward thrusts. The force of his movements drove you upward, impaling you again and again on his thick cock. Your cries of ecstasy spurred him on, his own groans of pleasure growing louder and more desperate.

Suddenly, he flipped you over onto your back, looming over you with a predatory gleam in his eye. He pinned your wrists above your head, holding you captive as he pounded into you with renewed vigor, the new angle allowing him to penetrate even deeper.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, locking him in place as you grinded your hips upwards to match his frenzied pace. Your nails dug into his shoulders as you clung to him, urging him on, "Fuck! Right there!"

Aemond let go of your wrists, leaning down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss as he continued to ravage your cunt. He swallowed all your screams and moans, relishing in the taste and feel of you.

"Cum in me aemond! Fill me with your seed!" You screamed into his mouth as another orgasm ripped through you.

The sensation of your inner walls clenching and rippling around him sent Aemond careening over the edge. With a hoarse shout, he buried himself to the hilt and erupted, his hot seed flooding your womb in powerful jets.

"Ahh, gods," he gasped, his body shuddering with the intensity of his climax. He continued to pulse and twitch within you, ensuring every drop is deposited deep inside your welcoming heat.

As the aftershocks subsided, Aemond collapsed onto you, his weight a comforting press against your satiated form. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged pants as he struggled to regain his composure.

"That was...incredible," he murmured, his voice low and husky with satisfaction. “You are truly remarkable.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, reveling in the warmth of his body against yours as you both sought to catch your breath. A delicate shiver coursed through you, remnants of your shared ecstasy still fluttering within.

“There, there,” you purred softly, running your fingers through his silken hair, enjoying the feel of his softness against your skin. Aemond lay on your chest, his face buried in the crook of your neck, the intoxicating scent of you mingling with the fading heat of your shared intimacy.

Once Aemond had calmed his breathing, he lifted his head to meet your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue dancing with yours in a fervent exploration, igniting a spark that flickered between you. His hand traveled down your body, the warmth of his touch setting your skin alight.

When his hand paused on your stomach, he broke the kiss, a frown creasing his brow as curiosity flickered in his violet eye. It was well known that you had been wed to Lord Ambrose for fifteen years without bearing a child. Whispers of your barrenness had circulated through the halls of the Red Keep, and Aemond could not suppress the question that hung in the air between you.

"Is it true you are barren?" he asked, his tone laced with concern.

You regarded him with a playful smirk, the corners of your lips lifting. “No,” you murmured softly, your fingers gently caressing his long silver hair.

There was amusement in your voice, and as you laughed lightly, the sound was like music in the dimly lit chamber. “Do you truly think I had ever wished to be filled with a child by that fat cunt?”

Aemond’s single violet eye widened in surprise at your boldness. You continued, your tone shifting to one of quiet confidence. “Each time I’ve lain with him, I’ve taken moon tea the morning after.”

You leaned closer, your hand reaching out to caress his cheek with a gentle, deliberate stroke. Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, igniting a spark that sent a wave of absolute pleasure down Aemond's spine. “Yet I don’t think I’d mind bearing your child.”

The very thought of your bearing his child sent shivers of exhilaration coursing through him. The idea that at this very moment, his seed might have taken root within you filled him with a sense of possessiveness that was both intoxicating and primal. In that instant, it became clear: you were his, and he was yours, bound together by an unspoken promise.

Aemond’s mind raced with possibilities. He would need to find a way to rid you of Lord Ambrose, but that task seemed deceptively simple in the face of what awaited him. Once the obstacle was removed, he would claim you as his wife, securing a future that felt destined.

You were made for him, and in his heart, he knew you had been waiting all this time—patiently, silently—for him to come to you.

HOPE YOU ENJOYED!

[irisposts]

A Moment's Reprieve

summary | Aemond just can't seem to get a moment alone with you, driving him to the point of madness.

pairing | aemond targaryen x wife!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI!, lil quickie, rough sex, aeggy cameo <3, slight exhibitionism, semi-public sex, not proofread :P

wordcount | 3.3k

note | hi, it's been a minute <3 feeling kinda meh about this but i hope u guys like it!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

It was hard to fuck while wearing leather. The heat from Aemond’s body was so easily trapped in its wall, dissipating into fat droplets of sweat cascading down his back. Moving around was no easy feat either, but the momentary suffering would have to suffice. He was easily lost enough in the fire in his loins that burned hotter than the damp flush creeping up his chest. His thrusts were hasty, his grip on your exposed breasts tight as he slammed himself in and out of your core.

On better days, he would have taken the time to take you apart piece by piece, perhaps starting with his mouth on your sweet cunny, but you both hardly had time to even undress. Your skirts were carelessly rucked up to your hips, neckline haphazardly unbound just enough to free your teats, while your husband had lowered his breeches just enough to expose his hard, swollen cock before he drove into you. Your grip on his bicep was tight, while your nails dug into the bedpost with the other for support as you stood by the bed’s edge. The pulsating of your core was enough to drive him mad, the dizzying haze of desire overwhelming his wife just as it did with him. 

“H-husband, I’m so close,” you moaned in his ear, head leaned back into his chest. He must have grunted something in response, though he wasn’t sure he even heard himself, voice lost in the din of loud smacking of his trim hips against your plump arse, and your sweet melodic mewls. The rising heat in his belly let him know he was right with you, only a few thrusts behind the release that threatened to overtake him. It was easy to get lost in it all— in you, in your warm, perfect walls. So much so his thrusts turned even more desperately erratic as his body moved in its own accord, his usually alert mind hardly registering the creaking of wood and the sudden breeze into his marital chambers.

Then he heard cackling.

“Seven fucking Hells, brother!” 

Aegon stood at the threshold, one hand still on the doorknob and the other clutching his stomach as he doubled over in laughter. The younger whipped his head at the intrusion, eyes widening before shifting to cover you with his body. He heard you gasp, before scrambling to cover your exposed chest away from Aegon’s curious eyes. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Aemond barked, turning to move to storm over where the idiot stood when he caught his brother eyeing the exposed flesh of your upper thigh, but your firm hand on his wrist kept him where he was to save yourself the last bits of dignity. 

“I… ha!” the elder snorted, laughter finally dying down into low chuckles that rumbled from his chest. He exhaled a deep sigh, dramatically wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Mother sent me to call on you because court starts in five minutes and she believes the Seven Hells have cooled over when she found me ready before you, but I guess you were preoccupied, eh?” he shrugged, amethyst eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint that irked Aemond to no end. “Dear me, fucking before noon? And I thought I was oversexed.”

“Shut up before I make you,” Aemond seethed. His wife sighed, peeking over his shoulder to speak to Aegon.

“Would you give us a few moments, brother? Let Her Grace know we will be right out,” you asked softly, smiling sweetly enough to earn a tight squeeze on the hips from your dragon in warning. 

“Of course, best to, uh, finish up then,” he responded, wagging his finger mockingly before turning to leave, snickering. “Good to know I had you taught well, Aemond!”

“You fucke–”

The door slammed shut before Aemond could finish, sighing against your temple in exasperation from the ruined moment. The soft kiss on his cheek was hardly enough to make up for it, the humiliation in his chest killing whatever drive in his gut. He begrudgingly tucked his softened length back into his breeches before helping you with your laces. You turned to face him once your dress had been rightened, hugging his waist and leaning your chin against his chest. 

“Such a shame, everything was feeling so good,” you pouted up at him. Aemond grunted in agreement, head still running hot in annoyance.

Surely, the court wouldn’t be too curious if his brother strolled in with a bruise on his face. He’d been in worse shape before, what was a little marked-up cheek?

There must be some sick game the gods were playing on Aemond. They were teasing him, testing to see how long he could withhold being unable to have a moment alone with his wife before going completely mad. Court took up a better part of his afternoon, long hours of appeals and hearing whatever problems their people wished to voice. It took much of him to keep his eye forward, ignoring the heat radiating off the flesh of your arm that was warmed by the sticky air of the mid-summer sun filtering into the throne room, while you stood by your husband’s side, his nose engulfed by the flowery sweetness wafting from your hair.

Supper was just as torturous, though having you sat by his side slightly made up for it, and teasing you under the table was a good way to pass the time. Aemond’s rough fingertips crept up your skirts and took hold of your thigh, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t relish in the way you swatted his hand away in panic, cheeks growing adorably flushed. With dessert promptly served and devoured, the one-eyed prince all but jumped from his seat, your hand in tow to lead you back to the privacy of your chambers, but the deep drawl of his grandsire’s voice halted him before anything else, inviting him to the Tower to speak on a matter of the utmost discretion. He let your hand go with a scowl, helplessly watching you walk off into the direction of your apartments.

His grandsire sat him down to talk until well into the night, speaking in hushed tones of a matter of concern in the Reach. He was to fly to Oldtown to settle brewing disputes in the Hightower seat in his grandsire's stead, a task entrusted to him that required his sharp eye and his partiality to matters of politics. 

His steps were heavy on his return, his chest even heavier, and when he finally crossed the threshold of your spacious apartments, you were deep into your slumber. You snuggled up into his side of the bed, arm extending to where he should have been. When a responsibility like this would’ve once had Aemond eager to fly out at first light, he found himself unable to tear himself away from you when duty called, having found a home in your arms that sheltered him with warmth and lightness his reality was so deeply void of. 

He was gone for a sennight—a slow-passing, cruel week.  

The separation was torturous, and not a moment passed where your husband’s mind didn’t wander to his sweet wife. He’d tucked one of your handkerchiefs into his pocket before his departure, tracing the embroidered curves of your initials with his thumb when he grew agitated within Oldtown’s walls. They had given him a comfortable accommodation, a bed much too large to sleep in alone. Aemond had grown spoiled with your warmth, and with this temporary withdrawal, sleep came miserably.

At the week's end, disagreements were smoothed and hands were shaken. Aemond took to the skies, not a second too soon after the Lord Hobart thanked him for the crown’s aid, his longing for home shamelessly showing itself in the tension in his shoulders every minute he was there. Daeron would have to forgive him for not flying together as much as the younger wished, but his brother, ever the kindest out of all the dragon princes, saw him off with a nod of understanding and a firm pat on the back, whispering the promise of his own return to their family. 

Vhagar traversed the horizon at a speed unexpected for her size and age, but his old girl shared her rider’s wish for home. They cleared the distance in a day, and the returning prince was greeted by Ser Criston and a wheelhouse that would take him back to his home, to you.

But the gods wouldn’t grant Aemond reprieve that easily. 

The streets bustled with life as the carriage rolled through the cobbled streets. He had returned just in time for his father’s nameday, a week-long celebration for the ailing king that called for the grandest celebration, with music, wine, and dancing for guests hailing from all over the realm. Aemond watched through the thin slits of the carriage— faces passing in a blur, voices of every pitch overlapping the other. His brow furrowed in perplexion when they took a sudden turn, an unexpected route that led him away from the hill leading to the Keep, but right to the middle of the celebrations— the melee.

“Queen’s orders, my prince,” Cole explained, standing stoically in front of the brooding prince. “She wished to have you join the celebrations as soon as you returned, have the family all present in front of the people.”

Aemond grumbled under his breath all the way up the steps to the royal box, plopping exhaustedly into his seat beside Aegon. The elder patted him hard on the back, adding to his aggravation, clearly oblivious to his dampened mood. “Good to have you here in time to join us, brother, Reyne’s just about to fuck Tarly up,” he cackled, taking a big swig of his wine. 

“A change of clothes first would have been nice,” Aemond huffed, ignoring the battling knights as he looked around for his wife. He twisted around his seat in confusion at the absent sight of you, earning a look from his grandsire that had him uncharacteristically slumping in his seat.

“She’s with Helaena,” Aegon said, whose eyes stayed glued to the violent display before them. “Orwyle said it was ill luck for pregnant women to look upon violence or whatever he was on about. Your wife’s keeping her company.”

Aemond sighed defeatedly, his chest twinging with annoyance. Of fucking course. Everything seemed to be working against his wishes, toying with his already short patience. Gods be damned, they would know better to keep a man like him away from his wife. Perhaps this made him seem like an addict, no better than a drunk stuck to his bottle or a pervert to a whore, but he was well past the point of denying it. You were a part of him, whether either of you could help it or not.

He turned to his mother, who sat frowning with a hand half-covering her face as she watched on, muttering some half-excuse of wanting to freshen up and be rid of the smell of dragon on his skin before enjoying the festivities. The queen granted him leave with the ghost of a quirk on her lips and a knowing look, waving him off dismissively with a ringed hand.

He all but dashed the way back to the Keep, strides large and booming through the halls back to Maegor’s Holdfast. His pulse thumped heavily in his ears, his chest sparked with a renewed lightness with every step closer. Aemond found you in his sister’s apartments, sat on the settee as you embroidered. 

Your head shot up as the door swung open, eyes brightening like a starry night when they landed on him. “Aemond!” you gasped, promptly jumping up from your seat and into his arms. With how tight your arms wound around his neck, it was clear his dearest wife was just as tortured as he. 

Aemond nuzzled his nose into your hair, breathing in the sweet scent of your skin he had missed dearly. With you back in his arms, right where you belonged, everything felt warm. He felt near bursting at the seams, his body immediately responding to the heat of your body pressed against his. His lips found yours on instinct, hungrily devouring the sweet taste he’d grown starved for. Large, calloused hands wandered on their own, finding purchase on your rear with a tight squeeze. It made you whine, pulling away in haste to glance at a sleeping Helaena.  Her third pregnancy often had her weary, as she was now, laid on her bed, with the twins tucked on either side as they slept through the peaceful haze of the late afternoon.

“Come,” your husband ordered, grasping your wrist to pull you out of the room. The growing fire in his loins left him too impatient to lead you up another flight of stairs where your apartments were, urgency nagging at him to hasten lest someone called for him to return to the melee. He led you with quick steps to the end of the hall, in a quiet alcove where he pressed you against the wall, caged between his arms.

His mouth devoured yours, tongue slithering into the warm cavern and dancing with your own. It soon descended onto the length of your perfumed neck, nipping and biting at the spots that pulled deep, pleasant sighs. Your hands gripped his doublet, subtly pushing him away as you called his name.

“Husband, h-here?” you asked, mewling as he sucked on a particularly sensitive spot below your jaw. You were right, this wasn't exactly an ideal location for your reunion, but he was pressed for time, and having to wait to have you until nightfall would drive him to insanity.

“There’s not one soul around, dearest,” he said into your skin, parting with a kiss on the fresh mark. With the inhabitants of the Keep all away at the tournaments, the halls were empty enough, save for the occasional passing servant and the knight standing guard outside Helaena’s door. With the near ravenous state Aemond was in, he could give less fucks who could witness him taking his wife. Your skirts were messily rucked up to your hips, wandering hand dipping past your smallclothes and finding your heat, already dripping in sweet arousal. “Did you miss me this much, wife? You’re already soaked,” your husband chuckled devilishly, eye darkening when you bit your lip as he teased your slit. 

You nodded at him eagerly, a whine rising from your throat when his fingertip brushed against your pearl. “You were gone for too long, husband. It has been miserable without you. When I saw Vhagar fly over the city I could have dashed to the gates myself if Helaena didn’t need me,” you pouted. His heart swelled at your sweetness, peppering adoring kisses onto your hairline as you pulled him in even closer.

“I have been tormented just the same, my love. Every day that passed, you were all I thought about,” he whispered. “No one will keep me away from you now, sweet girl, I promise you.” 

Somewhere in the frenzy of tongue and spit, your smallclothes fell to the stone floor and his breeches were aptly unlaced. Your smaller, dainty hand wrapped around his hardened length, stroking his leaking cock. Gods, it was pathetic how he could come from your slightest touch. He grasped your wrist to stop you, gulping as he continued to twitch in your hold.

“Wait,” he huffed. The need possessed him with a primal urge, prompting him to grab hold of both of your thighs to lift you off your feet. With you pressed against the wall and holding onto his shoulders for dear life, Aemond sunk you onto his cock, down onto the hilt. There was little time to savor the subtle pulsating of your walls, his hips taking on a steady pace from the start. “Fucking... finally,” he grunted.

You bounced in his firm hold, lower back rubbing against the rough stone, but you didn’t seem to mind one bit. Quite the opposite, rather, with the way you openly moaned, your voice echoing through the dim hall. “Gods!” you whined. Your husband’s pace suddenly shifted, hips starting to slap more ferociously against yours. Any soul who would have the misfortune to walk these halls at this very moment would hear you from the opposite end from the resounding rhythm of skin against skin.

“There are no gods here, wife, just you and I,” Aemond growled against your ear, before biting down on your shoulder, making you squeal even louder.

“I– mmph! Ah, Aem–” Any semblance of coherence on your usually pretty head dissipated in a heady jumble. It made your husband smirk, despite the heat starting to tingle in the back of his neck.

“Something to say, my love? Or have I already fucked you into a loose whore, hm?” he taunted, chuckling under his breath when you merely whined in response. He was starting to overheat in his leathers, the sharp warmth in his nape slowly trickling down his spine to signal the start of his end. Something deep within his core made his abdomen flex, the ache in his thighs no match for the utter bliss of the warm embrace of your lovely cunt. With your legs wrapped around his trim waist, his hand raised to the back of your head, fingers wrapping around your hair to pull your forehead against his. He quickened his pace to spur you to your end first, thumb rubbing your pearl in tight circles. “Come for me, wife. I want to feel you spill around me. Go on,” he rasped, breath hot in your ear.

His wife was a moaning mess. You were never this loud, even in the privacy of your own chambers, but the separation had you desperate, heart sticky with need in a way you had never let yourself be before. He and you were both the same in this way, never too forward with what you wanted, until desire ate away at you from within and you started to lose better thinking.

With a particular harsh thrust, your release broke with a moan that Aemond was sure had echoed to the White Sword Tower. He came no second later with a lower, quieter grunt into your neck, spilling thick ropes of his warm seed into your quivering cunt.

You both stayed there for a second, breaths heavy and minds still in a cloud. Aemond placed you back onto your feet, though wobbly. He huffed amusedly, earning a warning smack on his chest as you furrowed your eyebrows playfully. His lips placed a kiss on your damp forehead, and you kissed his scarred cheek in return. For a second, you only looked at him, your flushed cheeks lifted in a smile, and it made him happy. 

An echo of clinking steel let Aemond know his time was up. He made sure your dress had been rightened and your hair smoothed before tying his breeches back up. The prince peeked to see Cole coming up the staircase, no doubt sent by his mother to take him away again. He sighed heavily, nuzzling one last time into your neck as you rubbed his back comfortingly. “You should go. Mustn’t let your mother fret,” you said softly. Your husband merely grunted in response, savoring the feeling of your fingers running through his hair. 

A clear of the throat from the knight made Aemond finally pull away, frowning despite the pleased smile on your lips as you smoothed his doublet. He parted with a kiss all-consuming, and whispers of a promise to fetch you the moment he could. 

His return to the royal box came with much reluctance, though his demeanor visibly changed. The tension was gone in his shoulders, his aura different, and his face not so grim anymore. He settled back into his seat with a deep exhale, directing his attention to the faceless lordlings swinging swords much too large for them, though his mind stayed in an alcove somewhere in the Keep. 

Beside him, Aegon yawned loudly, having grown deathly bored with the melee. Sensing the younger’s subtly brighter demeanor, he snickered under his breath. “Feeling rather refreshed now, are you?” he teased. 

Aemond’s gaze flickered to him in a glance, turning back to watch the young Bolton land the winning blow. “Hm, yes, quite.” He lifted his hand to a squire for wine, taking a small sip to quench his parched throat.

“Even without a proper change of clothes?” Aegon pushed, raising his brow mockingly. He cackled as Aemond shifted in his seat, a warning glare in his lone eye. The elder, unbothered, merely patted his brother’s knee as he shook his head. “Good for you, brother.”

[irisposts]

Fire and Blood (Embers of us* Special Chapter)

summary l you claim a dragon and confront your uncle. *takes place after ‘embers of us’

paring: very brief aemond x neice!reader

note: dividers by (@zaldritzosrose ) :)

not edited.

Things are dire.

And the greatest threat to your mother’s throne is your uncle.

Aemond.

His tenacity, his unyielding strength, and his relentless loyalty to his side of the bloodline has made him your most dangerous adversary.

His dragon, Vhagar, is a weapon few could hope to match. And your mother— the queen, needs more dragonriders. But there is one problem that sets you apart from your family: you’ve never ridden a dragon.

Like your uncle Aemond, you have long been teased for this. For years, the absence of a bond with a dragon was a source of mockery—something that stung in silence. Something you found comfort in with your uncle. But now, with a war at hand it is no longer a laughing matter. Your queen needs you.

But despite several harrowing attempts to claim one, you still remain dragon-less…at a point, it begins to feel futile.

You sit in the strategy chamber of Dragonstone,its ancient carved table etched with the map of Westeros. The dim candlelight underneath casts flickering shadows over the carved sigils of houses. You trace the lines of it with your eyes—north, south, the rivers, and mountains.

“At least the child is well-versed in swordsmanship,” Lord Corlys Velaryon comments, his voice steady.

Rhaenyra turns her head to him, her gaze silencing him before he can say more.

His lips press together in regret. “Perhaps I misspoke?”

You chew your lip, frustration rising within you. “My sword means nothing in this war if I cannot bring fire to my uncles and their army.” You rest your hands along the table. “What does it mean to be Targaryen if I fight on the ground and not in the skies?”

“You’re being cruel to yourself.” Baela says from across the table. Her voice is sincere, her eyes filled with compassion.

Baela’s kindness is something you’ve always admired, but it offers little comfort now.

But you can’t shake the feeling that claiming a dragon is no longer a distant dream—it’s now a necessity, and time is running out.

You’ve walked the grounds outside of Dragonstone for hours.

It had taken some effort to sneak past the guards, but you managed. You needed space, the pressure was beginning to crush you thin. Your mother’s expectations, the impending war, the sense that something terrible was looming just over the horizon.

Your feet lead you toward the cliffs beyond the castle. The air is cool, the night sky blanketed with stars. You glance toward the distant mountains, their silhouettes just visible against the dark sky. You let out a puff air and sigh. And then, something catches your eye.

A shadow— a speck in the distance, growing larger with every passing second.

You squint. Your heart quickens as you rub at your eyes.

A dragon.

As the creature draws nearer, panic rises within you. It’s heading straight for you, its wings beating the air with terrifying force. You turn and run, your feet pounding the earth as fast as they can carry you.

The sound of heavy wings flaps louder behind you, accompanied by the dragon’s screech.

A blast of fire scorches the ground beside you, and you bank to the left just in time to avoid its flames. The scent of smoke fills your lungs as you sprint, your chest burning with the effort. But you can’t outrun it.

The dragon barrels its head into your back, sending you sprawling forward onto the ground. You feel the earth slam against your face, grass and dirt scratching at your cheeks and clinging to your lashes. You roll onto your back just in time to see the massive creature descending upon you.

Its talons encircle you, its black-scaled legs pinning you to the ground. The beast hovers over you, its body vast and dark, like an endless shadow. Its nostrils flare as it sniffs at your face, its hot breath washing over you. It bares its teeth, a low growl rumbling from its throat. You brace yourself as it screeches, the deafening sound reverberating through your body.

When the sound finally fades, you dare to look up at the creature. Its talons dig deeper into the ground around you, its eyes glowing with a fierce intelligence. You can see the orange hue of fire gathering in its throat.

This is the end, you think. And you haven’t even had the chance to fight for your queen. It’s tragic and ultimately pathetic. You dreamed of an honorable death—in battle on dragon back. Much like your great aunt.

Something inside you shifts. Instead of surrendering to fear, rage boils within you. You rise up as much as you can, staring directly into the dragon’s eyes, and scream—not out of fear, but fury.

The scream is raw and guttural. Filled with ureteral frustration and defiance. And for a moment, it feels as though the dragon is screaming with you. Both of you locked in a primal exchange.

And then, the dragon stills. And your chest heaves, catching your breath.

There’s a long pause. You and the dragon stare at one another, breathing heavily, an awkward tension hanging in the air. Your heart pounds as you size each other up, the beast’s eyes narrowing as if considering what to do with you.

Slowly, you stand, your legs shaky beneath you. You swipe the dirt from your clothes, your eyes never leaving the dragon’s. There is still fire in its gaze, but it doesn’t strike.

“Ao henujagon issa,” You say, your voice rough with exhaustion. You nearly killed me.

The dragon growls, a deep, guttural sound that rumbles through the earth. It snorts, nudging your stomach with its massive head.

You push back instinctively, your hand pressing against its snout. The dragon snaps in retaliation, its teeth flashing in the moonlight, but you hold your ground, your eyes never leaving it. “Lykirī,” you command, your voice taut. Calm.

The dragon’s eyes narrow, but it listens. Slowly, the tension drains from its massive form, and it lowers its head enough for you to touch it.

Tentatively, you raise your hand and place it on its snout, feeling the heat radiating through the rough black scales. The connection is fragile but present. There’s an understanding between you now, one built on fire and blood.

You now realize what dragon you face—The Cannibal, the wildest, most feared dragon of them all. Unclaimed. Untamed.

A part of you wishes you would run far away. No one had seen this dragon in years, many had predicted he passed long ago. And maybe that would be for the better, he was unpredictable and ferocious. And yet, the other half of you is curious about the possibility that maybe…

“Dohaeris,” You test the word on your tongue. Serve.

The Cannibal huffs in response, as if contemplating the word. There’s a flicker of defiance in its eyes—this is no ordinary dragon, no creature easily bent to the will of man. But something in your voice, in your presence, seems to reach it.

You meet its gaze, refusing to back down. You lick at your lips. “Dohaeris,” you repeat, your voice stronger.

Cannibal lowers its head slightly, allowing you to run your fingers along the rough, black scales of its snout. He lets out a long breath, his body shifting as if in acknowledgment. Acceptance.

You let your lips curl into a smile.

Over the following days, the queen has built an army of new dragonriders—bastards, they call them. Three of them. Three men. They were fearless, driven by the fire in their veins and the promise of glory.

And you—you became the fourth. The only woman among the bastards.

The word that once boiled your blood. You and your brothers were always ridiculed for not having the Targaryen silver hair. But, unlike your twin brother who worries about his legitimacy as heir— you now wear it as a badge of defiance.

After all, you had claimed a dragon—the wildest and most dangerous of them all.

Cannibal stood with you among the others as equals, a new fearsome weapon in the queen’s arsenal. But even with your newfound strength, the threat of Aemond loomed like a shadow over every decision.

Your mother had commanded Ulf White, the rider of Silverwing, to fly over King’s Landing as a show of strength. Meanwhile, you all waited near the cliffs. Your mother stands before you, her gaze sharp and expectant as she awaited Aemond’s arrival.

You watch as Silverwing flies above, wings cutting through the bright sky.

And as expected, you see him—Aemond.

He’s not far behind, flying high above, mounted on the back of Vhagar. Her massive wings blot out the heavens, and the roar of the dragon reverberates the very clouds as she descends. You take a guarded step towards Cannibal as Aemond gaze fixes on you and the rightful heir to the iron throne.

The unspoken history between you clings to the air. Now, standing on opposite sides of this war, it feels even more dangerous than before.

But before he can make his move, your mother steps forward. Syrax, her golden dragon, looms behind her. A silent challenge vibrates in the air.

For a moment, time seems to stand still. Aemond’s eye flickers from Rhaenyra to the dragonriders assembled below. His gaze lingers on you again, longer than it should. He sees you. He sees Cannibal. And for a heartbeat, you brace yourself, thinking he might strike.

But then, without warning, Aemond pulls Vhagar away with a sharp jerk of the reins. You watch as he veers off into the distance. You hesitate, watching his flight as Vhagar’s colossal wings beat against the sky. He’s not attacking. He’s retreating.

You watch even as he turns into a small spec of black in the blue sky.

Relief threatens to wash over you. But just as you’re about to turn back toward your mother, you see it—Aemond changing course, his flight path shifting toward the distant horizon. A wave of dread settles in your chest.

He’s heading for Sharp Point.

The small village that’s loyal to your mother. A village full of innocents.

Without thinking, you climb onto Cannibal’s back, your heart racing as you urge the dragon forward. “Sōvēs!” you shout. Fly!

Cannibal surges into the sky, his wings slicing through the air with deadly grace. Your mother’s voice calls out to you from below. “Don’t!” Her words are strained with urgency. “Stop!” she cries, but you don’t listen. You can’t. Not now.

Higher and faster, Cannibal climbs through the sky, the wind biting at your face as you race toward the horizon. Fear claws at your throat, and your heart thunders with every beat as you try to close the distance between you and Aemond. You push Cannibal harder, faster, but by the time you reach Sharp Point— it’s already too late.

The village is consumed by flames.

Screams echo down below as the smallfolk flee, their homes reduced to ashes. Their lives torn apart like paper in the wind. You watch in horror as the flames devour everything in their path. The stench of burning wood and flesh fills the air, heavy and sickening. Your stomach churns as you see the bodies of those who couldn’t escape—charred and lifeless. Tears prickle your eyes.

And then, in the distance, you see him.

Aemond.

Perched atop Vhagar, watching the destruction with a chilling detachment. Vhagar’s wings beat slowly, lazily, as though the chaos beneath them is beneath her notice.

Fury ignites inside you. You push Cannibal forward, gripping the reins tightly as you close the gap between you and Aemond. He watches you approach.

“Aemond!” you shout, your voice barely cutting through the roaring wind as you fly across from him.

Vhagar lets out a screech, but Aemond steadies her with a hand. “Daor,” he commands. No.

“This is what you’ve come to do?” You yell, your voice strained as you try to be heard over the winds. “Burn innocent smallfolk? Did my queen happen to hit a nerve?”

He sneers at this.

“They are nothing,” Aemond shouts back, his voice as cold and detached as ever. “Collateral. Casualties of war.”

“You think this will make you king?” you seethe, your fury burning like wildfire in your chest. “A king that’s too emotional for the throne when he’s been bested?”

Aemond’s expression grows serious, his one eye hardening as he looks at you. “Bantis ōños issa,” he says, his voice low and filled with dangerous promise. This is only the beginning.

Like a final warning, he pulls Vhagar away. Her massive wings beating against the wind as they disappear into the sky.

…And all you can do is, watch.

[irisposts]

Team Black Dividers.

Please tag and reblog if you use them!!

Team Black

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Daemon Targaryen

Jacaerys Velaryon

Lucerys Velaryon

Baela Targaryen

Rhaena Targaryen

Rhaenys Targaryen

Corlys Velaryon

(Baela and Rhaena are simply based on my personal vibes on the characters)

[irisposts]

OMGGG😭😭 i love ur work so much tyty!!💗💗

Embers of Us

summary | you plot to kill your uncle aemond and avenge your fallen brother.

paring: aemond x neice!reader

warning: kissing, p n v, very smutty oh and some angst, spoilers for s1e10

note: i haven't written smut in like a year. bare with me cus it's pretty ass.

word count: 2.8k

not edited

Gold coins fall into the rat catcher’s palm, his fingers quiver as you release the last two. The cold steel of your gaze pierces through him.

“Now leave,” you command, your voice sharp and hushed.

He nods hurriedly, retreating into the shadows from which he came. Your eyes lift to the second floor—the royal floor.

You ascend the stairs silently, each step filled with the weight of your purpose. The air feels thick, almost suffocating, as memories flood your mind—of Luke, of the war, of what was taken from your mother. The dagger beneath your cloak feels heavier with each breath.

When you reach Aemond’s door, your fingers shake as they graze the frame. Taking a sharp breath, you push it open just enough to peek inside. And there he is—Aemond Targaryen, your estranged uncle. The man that would meet his fate by the end of your dagger.

The room is bathed in the warm glow of scattered candles, their flames flickering against the stone walls. Aemond sits at a table, his back to you, his silver hair catching the light. He doesn’t turn when you slowly close the door behind you and seal the space between you.

Each step you take is measured, deliberate, as you approach. As you reach him, your hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of his silver hair. You yank his head back sharply and raise your dagger to his throat, the cold steel pressing against his skin. He hisses a breath through his teeth, unfazed.

“Niece,” Aemond murmurs, a low, cruel chuckle rumbling from his throat.

You tighten your grip on his hair, your voice taut with fury. “Uncle.”

Aemond raises his hands, a gesture of surrender. “Easy.”

Your wrist moves to swipe across his neck and then, with a swift move, he disarms you effortlessly–your blade goes clattering to the floor.

Before you can react, he’s on his feet, facing you with your own weapon pointed at your chest. You unsheathe another dagger, stepping back, trying to create distance.

His gaze locks onto yours, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Did Rhaenyra send you to do this, or are you foolish enough to act on your own?”

“My mother—your rightful queen—” you spit, your eyes burning with rage. Aemond scoffs at the words, but you press on. “—has nothing to do with this. I came for Luke.”

Something flickers in Aemond’s expression, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. His face hardens, cold and controlled. He steps slowly around the chair, voice lowering but steady.

“Luke was... a casualty of war,” he says, his tone almost detached. “War does not care for innocence. I am a soldier, and soldiers do what must be done. Blood is spilled, and it claims whoever stands in its path.”

“Casualty of war?” you seethe, your voice a mix of anguish and fury. “He was just a messenger! He wasn’t a threat to you, and yet you—” Your voice cracks, your chest tightening. 

Aemond’s face hardens further, his hand drifting toward his eyepatch as if by reflex. “The war,” he snaps, “began the day I lost my eye to your brother’s blade. A debt was owed.”

Your heart pounds in your ears, your hands shaking as anger courses through you. “But his life?” you choke, your voice faltering as tears well in your eyes. “He was just a boy!” You place a hand on your chest and spit through gritted teeth. “…We had nothing to burn.”

Aemond’s gaze softens for a brief moment, the flicker of guilt in his eye is buried beneath layers of pride, but it’s there.

You steady yourself, swallowing the sob threatening to escape. With trembling hands, you tilt your chin high and raise the dagger once more, whispering, "Se iā daor." (And now, you must die.)

You plant your feet firmly and charge towards him. Aemond catches your wrist midair, but you’re ready. With your free hand, you unsheathe another hidden dagger and swipe it across his side, the blade cutting through the fabric of his clothes and into his skin. A grunt escapes his lips as he staggers back, and the two of you tumble to the ground in a fierce struggle. The cold stone presses against your bodies as you grapple, breaths heavy and ragged, hands clawing and striking.

Aemond throws a punch, but you block it just in time, your arm bracing against the blow. In the chaos of tangled limbs, your fingernails catch his face, tearing away the eyepatch.

Everything stills.

Aemond freezes, his breath hitching as your gaze falls to the scarred, hollow space where his eye once was. But instead of a void, a sapphire gleams in its place, glowing faintly in the candlelight.

For the first time in years, you see the familiar tremor that runs through him. Fractured memories of child Aemond floods your mind, the Aemond you had once comforted when no one else dared to look at him.

Your heart slows as you reach your hand out to trace the scar and the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. But just as your fingers near him, Aemond’s hand shoots out, grasping your wrist.

His grip is firm, but not harsh. He holds your hand there, inches from his face, and the tension in the air thickens, the crackling candles the only sound between you.

The memory returns again—the quiet moments after Aemond had lost his eye. When you had been the only one to ask if he was in pain. The only one to sneak past your mother and Alicent to see to him—to offer him kindness when others turned away. That boy still exists, somewhere beneath the man who hovers before you now.

Aemond’s remaining eye flickers with something unreadable. Guilt, sorrow—perhaps, buried beneath his pride. “I’m letting you live,” he murmurs. “I won’t give you or your mother the satisfaction of my death. Nor will I give my brother the pleasure of yours.”

He loosens his grip, gently releasing your wrist. The violence that once filled the room moments ago now dissipates like smoke.

You continue to lay on the cold stone floor as grief overwhelms you, your body withers as bitter tears stream down your face. Damn him. Damn him for not giving you the chance to avenge Luke.

“No,” you sob, weakly striking his chest, the blows are soft and ineffective. Aemond doesn’t stop you. “No!” you cry again, your words spilling out in a broken mantra. “No.”

Aemond watches you, his expression unreadable. But something shifts in his gaze, something softer, more fragile than before. For a fleeting moment, you think you see unshed tears glistening in his eye, but the moment passes quickly.

In an unexpected gesture, Aemond reaches down and brushes a silver strand of hair from your face. He tucks it gently behind your ear. His thumb then swipes at the wetness beneath your eyes, lingering a moment too long. His fingers ghost against your skin.

His eye lowers, tracing the curve of your lips. His thumb brushes softly across your bottom lip. You taste the faint salt from your tears. He pauses, his eye searching yours, waiting—asking without words.

More tears threaten to spill, your heart torn between bitter betrayal and the love you had buried deep within.

But agaisnt your better judgement, you allow yourself to relax.

And then his lips meet yours, soft and careful, as if there’s a possibility you’d reject him. But you won't. You exhale a quiet sigh, melting into the warmth of his touch.

The kiss holds a thousand unspoken truths. It’s not just born of passion, but of release—of grief, regret, and love. For all the war, all the bloodshed and losses, the love between you had always lingered, hidden beneath layers of denial. Now, at this moment, it rises to the surface, undeniable.

Your fingers slip into his hair, pulling gently at the roots. Aemond’s hand cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he deepens the kiss with quiet desperation.

For this fleeting moment, the storm outside the walls, the weight of the crown, and the shattered bonds of family fade into nothing. It is just the two of you, suspended in this moment where the war; your mother’s throne, and the blood between you are now distant echoes.

Aemond breaks away from the kiss and leans back. You watch carefully as he strips his top half bare. Your eyes roam over every inch of his chiseled form, taking in the smooth curve of his waist and the firm lines that make up his frame. Your gaze lingers on the wound of your doing. It sits right above his pelvis, off to the side.  It's not a deep cut, but it left specks of blood on his pale skin. 

Your fingers tremble as they reach for the strings of your top. Taking a shallow breath, you begin to remove your outer clothing. Aemond senses your anticipation and helps you out of your trousers. His touch sends shivers down your bare skin, as your naked form is fully revealed for his eyes to bare. 

Aemond slots himself between your legs and peppers kisses across your face, neck, chest, and abdomen. His silver hair tickling your skin as he continues downward. He slides his face in between your thighs, leaving soft kisses on either side.

He glances up at you for approval once more. Your cheeks flush and you give a quick nod before laying back down completely.

Aemond delicately parts your legs, his rough calloused hands gently brushing against the soft skin of your inner thighs. A low moan escapes your lips as his skilled fingers spread you apart. He begins to massage and tease at your bud. Your back arches in pleasure as Aemond flattens his tongue and slowly licks you up in a long, sensual strip. 

"Gods," you mutter breathlessly.

Both of your hands are in his hair now, tight and pushing him deeper into your heat.

Aemond is undoubtedly skilled. You can't help but feel a twinge of envy as you wonder if some woman from his past, maybe someone from his court, had taught him these tricks. He moans against you and a rush heat of heat glides up your body. Your eyes roll back, as he continues to devou you like you’re the last meal on earth.

You move a peice of silver out of his face—you want to see everything.

Your fingers tangle in Aemond's hair once more as waves of pleasure course through your body.

His tongue moves with expert precision, alternating between teasing flicks and long, languid strokes. Your hips buck involuntarily, pressing yourself closer to his eager mouth.

His hands grip your thighs firmly, holding you in place as he increases his pace. The room fills with the sound of your ragged breathing and muffled moans. You feel the familiar tension building deep within your belly, threatening to overflow at any moment.

Aemond reaches towards your breast, his hand massaging the mound. His fingers pinching and twisting at your hardened nipple. His tongue swirls and darts in and out of your wet heat, in perfect unison with his fingers. “Aemond.”

Just as you approach the precipice, Aemond pulls away, leaving you gasping and desperate for release. His mismatched eyes, one sapphire gem and one his familiar ocean blue, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race.

His lips glisten in the light with your slit.

You watch as he stands tall and wrangles himself out of his trouser. Now, completely baring himself to you as you do him. Aemond's manhood is long and thick, standing with attention and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. You note the thick veins along his shaft. Your mouth waters at the thought of tasting him.

You chew on your lips in anticipation as Aemond brings himself back down to your level and hovers above your face. You both don’t pay any mind to your centers brushing against one another as he situates himself between your legs.  Both of you are too caught in each other’s gaze.

Instinctively, your fingers reach up again to trace the scar across his eye—the one that defines so much of who he is now. 

This time, he allows it. His face melts into your outstretched palm, eyes fluttering closed as your thumb brushes the sensitive area near the socket of his lost eye.

His hair falls like a sheer veil, cloaking the two of you. “iksā gevie” You say the words so softly it’s a mere whisper. (You’re beautiful.) 

Aemond's eye soften and he gently removes your hand from his face. 

But instead of letting go, he lifts your wrist to his lips and kisses the thin skin there. His lips linger for a moment before he lowers your hand back down to rest at your side. Aemond grabs himself between you both and positions himself at your entrance. 

You mentally and physically prepare yourself for what is about to happen, knowing it is an act of betrayal. Not only to your family, but to yourself.

Slowly, he enters you with the tip of his cock, causing a simultaneous moan from the both of you. Him from feeling the warmth of your walls and you from the pleasurable intrusion. You watch as his hips move, his skin glistening with sweat as he sinks deeper into you. You watch the intensity in his gaze as he looks down at where you both meet, his face contorted with raw desire.

Your legs spread wider when your body’s are fully flushed. The sensation of being so full and heavy of Aemond is heavenly.

You cry out in bliss as he begins to move inside you. His hips rolling out and snapping into your cunt.

The rhythm of Aemond's thrusts are deliberate and powerful, each one rolling and snapping with increasing force. You feel the tension building within you, a fire that is threatening to consume you both. Your chest bounces as he growls into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

Your legs and hands cling around him, trying to hold on as his pace quickens. Your fingers claw into his back, leaving red marks in their wake. Aemond sucks at the salty flesh on the curve of your neck, biting down hard before meekly replacing his tongue and lips to ease the pain.

"sīr vok," he whispers into the shell of your ear in between thrusts, his voice low and rough. “se mirre syt nyke.” (So perfect, all mines)

You moan in response, unable to form coherent words as pleasure overtakes your senses. The world around you fades away as Aemond continues to assault your inside, each thrust bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

Aemond reaches a certain depth inside you–hitting that one spot of nerves. A wave of pleasure washes over you and you cry out his name. Your back arches off the floor as you shake in ecstasy and gasp for air.

But Aemond doesn't slow down. He continues to fuck into you, through your orgasm, his grunts becoming more guttural and primal. He leans down to capture your lips in a fierce kiss, his tongue dancing with yours . Your hands roam over his body, feeling every ripple and muscle as he brings both of you closer to the brink.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, urging him on as he pounds into you with an urgency that matches your own. Aemond buries himself between the curve of your neck, his moans loud and desperate. The familiar coil in your stomach begins to tighten once more as Aemond relentlessly drives into you.

“ivestragī ñuha—ah” You gasp at the sensitivity between your thighs. “laesi jurnegon jemome.” (let me see you). You beckon him to remove himself from your shoulder blade. 

Aemond obliges and turns his face towards yours. You stare as his features twist with pleasure. How his body tenses as he reaches his own peak, his hips stuttering against yours as he spills himself inside you. You feel the warmth of his seed filling you to the brim. You let out a sigh of satisfaction. He nearly collapses on top of you, but manages to gather the strength to withdraw from your body. You both watch as your essence coats him and his own drips between your thighs.

He falls down beside you in exhaustion.

You miss the warmth of him inside you, the feeling of him being close to you. 

The silence stretches, only your breathing echoing in the vast emptiness of the room, both of you lost in your own thoughts. 

After what feels like an eternity, you glance over at Aemond. He lies still, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

Without shifting your gaze from him, you say the words slowly, each syllable deliberate. “I’m going to kill you one day.”

It was a promise.

You expect a reaction—a sudden turn of his head, a flash of anger, perhaps even the feeling of his hand reaching for the dagger beside him, and driving it into your throat. But none of that comes.

Instead, Aemond remains as he is, his face serene, his eyes still locked on the ceiling as if it held all the answers. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink.

“I know.” His words are soft and matter a fact. 

You slowly turn your head, your eyes tracing the same path his do and stare at the ceiling above. The silence settles again, heavy and suffocating, but beneath it lies a quiet understanding– one neither of you are yet ready to confront.

[irisposts]

Daenerys Targaryen (Daemon's vision) in HOUSE OF THE DRAGON S02E08 | "The Queen Who Ever Was"

[irisposts]

Embers of Us

summary | you plot to kill your uncle aemond and avenge your fallen brother.

paring: aemond x neice!reader

warning: kissing, p n v, very smutty oh and some angst, spoilers for s1e10

note: i haven't written smut in like a year. bare with me cus it's pretty ass.

word count: 2.8k

not edited

Gold coins fall into the rat catcher’s palm, his fingers quiver as you release the last two. The cold steel of your gaze pierces through him.

“Now leave,” you command, your voice sharp and hushed.

He nods hurriedly, retreating into the shadows from which he came. Your eyes lift to the second floor—the royal floor.

You ascend the stairs silently, each step filled with the weight of your purpose. The air feels thick, almost suffocating, as memories flood your mind—of Luke, of the war, of what was taken from your mother. The dagger beneath your cloak feels heavier with each breath.

When you reach Aemond’s door, your fingers shake as they graze the frame. Taking a sharp breath, you push it open just enough to peek inside. And there he is—Aemond Targaryen, your estranged uncle. The man that would meet his fate by the end of your dagger.

The room is bathed in the warm glow of scattered candles, their flames flickering against the stone walls. Aemond sits at a table, his back to you, his silver hair catching the light. He doesn’t turn when you slowly close the door behind you and seal the space between you.

Each step you take is measured, deliberate, as you approach. As you reach him, your hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of his silver hair. You yank his head back sharply and raise your dagger to his throat, the cold steel pressing against his skin. He hisses a breath through his teeth, unfazed.

“Niece,” Aemond murmurs, a low, cruel chuckle rumbling from his throat.

You tighten your grip on his hair, your voice taut with fury. “Uncle.”

Aemond raises his hands, a gesture of surrender. “Easy.”

Your wrist moves to swipe across his neck and then, with a swift move, he disarms you effortlessly–your blade goes clattering to the floor.

Before you can react, he’s on his feet, facing you with your own weapon pointed at your chest. You unsheathe another dagger, stepping back, trying to create distance.

His gaze locks onto yours, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Did Rhaenyra send you to do this, or are you foolish enough to act on your own?”

“My mother—your rightful queen—” you spit, your eyes burning with rage. Aemond scoffs at the words, but you press on. “—has nothing to do with this. I came for Luke.”

Something flickers in Aemond’s expression, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. His face hardens, cold and controlled. He steps slowly around the chair, voice lowering but steady.

“Luke was... a casualty of war,” he says, his tone almost detached. “War does not care for innocence. I am a soldier, and soldiers do what must be done. Blood is spilled, and it claims whoever stands in its path.”

“Casualty of war?” you seethe, your voice a mix of anguish and fury. “He was just a messenger! He wasn’t a threat to you, and yet you—” Your voice cracks, your chest tightening. 

Aemond’s face hardens further, his hand drifting toward his eyepatch as if by reflex. “The war,” he snaps, “began the day I lost my eye to your brother’s blade. A debt was owed.”

Your heart pounds in your ears, your hands shaking as anger courses through you. “But his life?” you choke, your voice faltering as tears well in your eyes. “He was just a boy!” You place a hand on your chest and spit through gritted teeth. “…We had nothing to burn.”

Aemond’s gaze softens for a brief moment, the flicker of guilt in his eye is buried beneath layers of pride, but it’s there.

You steady yourself, swallowing the sob threatening to escape. With trembling hands, you tilt your chin high and raise the dagger once more, whispering, "Se iā daor." (And now, you must die.)

You plant your feet firmly and charge towards him. Aemond catches your wrist midair, but you’re ready. With your free hand, you unsheathe another hidden dagger and swipe it across his side, the blade cutting through the fabric of his clothes and into his skin. A grunt escapes his lips as he staggers back, and the two of you tumble to the ground in a fierce struggle. The cold stone presses against your bodies as you grapple, breaths heavy and ragged, hands clawing and striking.

Aemond throws a punch, but you block it just in time, your arm bracing against the blow. In the chaos of tangled limbs, your fingernails catch his face, tearing away the eyepatch.

Everything stills.

Aemond freezes, his breath hitching as your gaze falls to the scarred, hollow space where his eye once was. But instead of a void, a sapphire gleams in its place, glowing faintly in the candlelight.

For the first time in years, you see the familiar tremor that runs through him. Fractured memories of child Aemond floods your mind, the Aemond you had once comforted when no one else dared to look at him.

Your heart slows as you reach your hand out to trace the scar and the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. But just as your fingers near him, Aemond’s hand shoots out, grasping your wrist.

His grip is firm, but not harsh. He holds your hand there, inches from his face, and the tension in the air thickens, the crackling candles the only sound between you.

The memory returns again—the quiet moments after Aemond had lost his eye. When you had been the only one to ask if he was in pain. The only one to sneak past your mother and Alicent to see to him—to offer him kindness when others turned away. That boy still exists, somewhere beneath the man who hovers before you now.

Aemond’s remaining eye flickers with something unreadable. Guilt, sorrow—perhaps, buried beneath his pride. “I’m letting you live,” he murmurs. “I won’t give you or your mother the satisfaction of my death. Nor will I give my brother the pleasure of yours.”

He loosens his grip, gently releasing your wrist. The violence that once filled the room moments ago now dissipates like smoke.

You continue to lay on the cold stone floor as grief overwhelms you, your body withers as bitter tears stream down your face. Damn him. Damn him for not giving you the chance to avenge Luke.

“No,” you sob, weakly striking his chest, the blows are soft and ineffective. Aemond doesn’t stop you. “No!” you cry again, your words spilling out in a broken mantra. “No.”

Aemond watches you, his expression unreadable. But something shifts in his gaze, something softer, more fragile than before. For a fleeting moment, you think you see unshed tears glistening in his eye, but the moment passes quickly.

In an unexpected gesture, Aemond reaches down and brushes a silver strand of hair from your face. He tucks it gently behind your ear. His thumb then swipes at the wetness beneath your eyes, lingering a moment too long. His fingers ghost against your skin.

His eye lowers, tracing the curve of your lips. His thumb brushes softly across your bottom lip. You taste the faint salt from your tears. He pauses, his eye searching yours, waiting—asking without words.

More tears threaten to spill, your heart torn between bitter betrayal and the love you had buried deep within.

But agaisnt your better judgement, you allow yourself to relax.

And then his lips meet yours, soft and careful, as if there’s a possibility you’d reject him. But you won't. You exhale a quiet sigh, melting into the warmth of his touch.

The kiss holds a thousand unspoken truths. It’s not just born of passion, but of release—of grief, regret, and love. For all the war, all the bloodshed and losses, the love between you had always lingered, hidden beneath layers of denial. Now, at this moment, it rises to the surface, undeniable.

Your fingers slip into his hair, pulling gently at the roots. Aemond’s hand cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he deepens the kiss with quiet desperation.

For this fleeting moment, the storm outside the walls, the weight of the crown, and the shattered bonds of family fade into nothing. It is just the two of you, suspended in this moment where the war; your mother’s throne, and the blood between you are now distant echoes.

Aemond breaks away from the kiss and leans back. You watch carefully as he strips his top half bare. Your eyes roam over every inch of his chiseled form, taking in the smooth curve of his waist and the firm lines that make up his frame. Your gaze lingers on the wound of your doing. It sits right above his pelvis, off to the side.  It's not a deep cut, but it left specks of blood on his pale skin. 

Your fingers tremble as they reach for the strings of your top. Taking a shallow breath, you begin to remove your outer clothing. Aemond senses your anticipation and helps you out of your trousers. His touch sends shivers down your bare skin, as your naked form is fully revealed for his eyes to bare. 

Aemond slots himself between your legs and peppers kisses across your face, neck, chest, and abdomen. His silver hair tickling your skin as he continues downward. He slides his face in between your thighs, leaving soft kisses on either side.

He glances up at you for approval once more. Your cheeks flush and you give a quick nod before laying back down completely.

Aemond delicately parts your legs, his rough calloused hands gently brushing against the soft skin of your inner thighs. A low moan escapes your lips as his skilled fingers spread you apart. He begins to massage and tease at your bud. Your back arches in pleasure as Aemond flattens his tongue and slowly licks you up in a long, sensual strip. 

"Gods," you mutter breathlessly.

Both of your hands are in his hair now, tight and pushing him deeper into your heat.

Aemond is undoubtedly skilled. You can't help but feel a twinge of envy as you wonder if some woman from his past, maybe someone from his court, had taught him these tricks. He moans against you and a rush heat of heat glides up your body. Your eyes roll back, as he continues to devou you like you’re the last meal on earth.

You move a peice of silver out of his face—you want to see everything.

Your fingers tangle in Aemond's hair once more as waves of pleasure course through your body.

His tongue moves with expert precision, alternating between teasing flicks and long, languid strokes. Your hips buck involuntarily, pressing yourself closer to his eager mouth.

His hands grip your thighs firmly, holding you in place as he increases his pace. The room fills with the sound of your ragged breathing and muffled moans. You feel the familiar tension building deep within your belly, threatening to overflow at any moment.

Aemond reaches towards your breast, his hand massaging the mound. His fingers pinching and twisting at your hardened nipple. His tongue swirls and darts in and out of your wet heat, in perfect unison with his fingers. “Aemond.”

Just as you approach the precipice, Aemond pulls away, leaving you gasping and desperate for release. His mismatched eyes, one sapphire gem and one his familiar ocean blue, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race.

His lips glisten in the light with your slit.

You watch as he stands tall and wrangles himself out of his trouser. Now, completely baring himself to you as you do him. Aemond's manhood is long and thick, standing with attention and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. You note the thick veins along his shaft. Your mouth waters at the thought of tasting him.

You chew on your lips in anticipation as Aemond brings himself back down to your level and hovers above your face. You both don’t pay any mind to your centers brushing against one another as he situates himself between your legs.  Both of you are too caught in each other’s gaze.

Instinctively, your fingers reach up again to trace the scar across his eye—the one that defines so much of who he is now. 

This time, he allows it. His face melts into your outstretched palm, eyes fluttering closed as your thumb brushes the sensitive area near the socket of his lost eye.

His hair falls like a sheer veil, cloaking the two of you. “iksā gevie” You say the words so softly it’s a mere whisper. (You’re beautiful.) 

Aemond's eye soften and he gently removes your hand from his face. 

But instead of letting go, he lifts your wrist to his lips and kisses the thin skin there. His lips linger for a moment before he lowers your hand back down to rest at your side. Aemond grabs himself between you both and positions himself at your entrance. 

You mentally and physically prepare yourself for what is about to happen, knowing it is an act of betrayal. Not only to your family, but to yourself.

Slowly, he enters you with the tip of his cock, causing a simultaneous moan from the both of you. Him from feeling the warmth of your walls and you from the pleasurable intrusion. You watch as his hips move, his skin glistening with sweat as he sinks deeper into you. You watch the intensity in his gaze as he looks down at where you both meet, his face contorted with raw desire.

Your legs spread wider when your body’s are fully flushed. The sensation of being so full and heavy of Aemond is heavenly.

You cry out in bliss as he begins to move inside you. His hips rolling out and snapping into your cunt.

The rhythm of Aemond's thrusts are deliberate and powerful, each one rolling and snapping with increasing force. You feel the tension building within you, a fire that is threatening to consume you both. Your chest bounces as he growls into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

Your legs and hands cling around him, trying to hold on as his pace quickens. Your fingers claw into his back, leaving red marks in their wake. Aemond sucks at the salty flesh on the curve of your neck, biting down hard before meekly replacing his tongue and lips to ease the pain.

"sīr vok," he whispers into the shell of your ear in between thrusts, his voice low and rough. “se mirre syt nyke.” (So perfect, all mines)

You moan in response, unable to form coherent words as pleasure overtakes your senses. The world around you fades away as Aemond continues to assault your inside, each thrust bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

Aemond reaches a certain depth inside you–hitting that one spot of nerves. A wave of pleasure washes over you and you cry out his name. Your back arches off the floor as you shake in ecstasy and gasp for air.

But Aemond doesn't slow down. He continues to fuck into you, through your orgasm, his grunts becoming more guttural and primal. He leans down to capture your lips in a fierce kiss, his tongue dancing with yours . Your hands roam over his body, feeling every ripple and muscle as he brings both of you closer to the brink.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, urging him on as he pounds into you with an urgency that matches your own. Aemond buries himself between the curve of your neck, his moans loud and desperate. The familiar coil in your stomach begins to tighten once more as Aemond relentlessly drives into you.

“ivestragī ñuha—ah” You gasp at the sensitivity between your thighs. “laesi jurnegon jemome.” (let me see you). You beckon him to remove himself from your shoulder blade. 

Aemond obliges and turns his face towards yours. You stare as his features twist with pleasure. How his body tenses as he reaches his own peak, his hips stuttering against yours as he spills himself inside you. You feel the warmth of his seed filling you to the brim. You let out a sigh of satisfaction. He nearly collapses on top of you, but manages to gather the strength to withdraw from your body. You both watch as your essence coats him and his own drips between your thighs.

He falls down beside you in exhaustion.

You miss the warmth of him inside you, the feeling of him being close to you. 

The silence stretches, only your breathing echoing in the vast emptiness of the room, both of you lost in your own thoughts. 

After what feels like an eternity, you glance over at Aemond. He lies still, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

Without shifting your gaze from him, you say the words slowly, each syllable deliberate. “I’m going to kill you one day.”

It was a promise.

You expect a reaction—a sudden turn of his head, a flash of anger, perhaps even the feeling of his hand reaching for the dagger beside him, and driving it into your throat. But none of that comes.

Instead, Aemond remains as he is, his face serene, his eyes still locked on the ceiling as if it held all the answers. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink.

“I know.” His words are soft and matter a fact. 

You slowly turn your head, your eyes tracing the same path his do and stare at the ceiling above. The silence settles again, heavy and suffocating, but beneath it lies a quiet understanding– one neither of you are yet ready to confront.

[irisposts]

lord take all of their suffering & give it to criston cole

[irisposts]

#king and queen of being done

[irisposts]

words of treasons

summary | aemond needs your opinion on a matter.

paring: aemond x servant!reader

warning: kissing, aemond being forceful and an asshole who doesn’t know what he wants, spoilers for s1e10

note: this is part of a series i’ll be making and aemond is just really angsty in this okay. you’ve been warned 🗿

Aemond’s chambers are cold at night, the faint breeze slipping in through the open window, bites at your skin. You pull your sleeves down over your wrists and return your hand through Aemond’s silver hair, smoothing it at the nape of his neck. He lies curled in your lap, his head resting heavily on your thigh, tugging idly at the loose string on your trousers. You've been sitting like this for over an hour now, though sometimes it stretches longer—depending on how deep into his thoughts the prince wishes to go.

“What do you think of me?” Aemond’s voice finally cuts through the silence, low and measured.

You keep combing your fingers through his hair. “I beg your pardon, my prince?”

Aemond doesn’t repeat himself. Instead, he continues fiddling with the string, his fingers pausing momentarily. “I asked what you think of me,” he says, voice taut. "Be honest with your prince."

Your hand falters for a moment, stilling. Aemond slowly sits up, disentangling himself from your lap. He turns to face you as he rises to his feet, his single eye fixed on yours, expectant, searching. The loss of his warmth leaves a coldness in the space between you.

You stand as well, instinctively following him, your eyes locked on his as your mind races to gather your thoughts. There’s a part of you that admires him—the strength of his will, the relentless determination—but you can’t deny the truth: he can be temperamental, quick to anger, and consumed by bitterness. Time and again, you’ve been commanded to forsake your duties to brush his hair, to listen as he broods about the Iron Throne, his family, his frustrations with the realm. You find it tiresome at times. Perhaps even... dull.

“I think you are strong-willed, my prince,” you say carefully, standing a few paces from him. “And a great asset to the king’s army.” A weak smile follows your words, but the lie is thin.

Aemond’s gaze sharpens, his good eye narrowing. "You lie."

In an instant, his hand snaps up, grabbing your chin with a force that sends a jolt through you. He pulls your face close to his, his grip unrelenting. “Aōt váedros, ñuha dāria,” he growls.

Your heart pounds in your chest, fear prickling at the corners of your eyes. When he finally releases you, it’s with a slight shove. You stagger back, gasping for air, your hands trembling as they settle at your sides.

But then something hardens inside you, and your eyes narrow in defiance. “If you truly want to know what I think, then fine. I think you are clever—far cleverer than your brother, Aegon—but still, you lack decency. You are quick to cruelty, indifferent to those you deem beneath you." You take a step forward, regaining your composure. "You take a dragon that belonged to a grieving mother, claiming it as your own."

“The dragon was riderless,” Aemond snaps, his eye flashing. “They mocked me, all of them. They—”

“You killed your own nephew!” you spit, your voice rising. "You started this war—this bloodshed. You dragged the realm into chaos for your own vengeance."

"It was an accident!" he shouts, his face contorting with anger.

“He was a child,” you hiss, leaning toward him. “A boy. And yet you let your family steal the crown from its rightful heir, just so your feeble brother could sit on a throne he doesn’t even want—when he can hardly rule himself, let alone a kingdom!”

Before you can react, Aemond’s hand is at your throat, squeezing hard enough to cut off your next breath. His lips curl into a sneer as he leans in close, his eye burning with fury. “Your words are treason,” he whispers.

You smile through the pressure constricting your windpipe, defiant even as the edges of your vision blur. "Then kill me," you rasp, your voice barely a whisper. "Go on, my prince. Do it."

For a long moment, he simply stares at you, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his eye blazing with fury. Then, just as suddenly as his anger flares, something else flashes across his face—something deeper, more primal.

Before you can process what’s happening, his lips crash against yours—fierce, desperate, and hungry. The kiss is all-consuming, his hands tangling in your hair as he presses you closer, as if he can’t bear the thought of you slipping away from him. His kiss is filled with fire, a passion that leaves you breathless and gasping for air.

Your hands find his shoulders, fingers digging into the leather of his tunic as you kiss him back with equal fervor. The taste of him, the heat of his body against yours—it’s overwhelming, maddening.

He pulls back for just a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he breathes heavily. His eye, wild and intense, bores into you as if searching for something, some confirmation that you feel this too—that you are his.

“I don’t need your lies,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice ragged. “But I will have your loyalty... and your truth.”

Before you can respond, his lips capture yours again, this time slower but no less passionate, his need for you undeniable. There’s a possessiveness in the way he holds you, as if he’s afraid you might vanish the moment he lets go. 

You pull away, lowering your gaze. “I spoke out of turn, my prince,” you say quietly, trying to maintain composure. “It was anger that drove my words. I rejoiced in your brother’s coronation.”

Aemond chuckles, the sound low and cold. “Rejoiced? Did you?” His eye narrows, and his lips curl into something resembling a smile, though it holds no warmth. “You’re a servant. You do as you’re told, bend to whoever holds the crown. It’s survival. I don’t begrudge you for that.”

The air between thickens. “I-.”

You feel the shift—the walls returning, the mask slipping back over his face. Aemond Targaryen, the prince who carries his bitterness like armor, would not easily reveal himself again.

“You serve the crown that sits on my brother’s head because you have no choice. You are bound to him by duty, by fear.” His voice is sharp, though quieter now, as if he’s speaking to himself more than to you. “But do not think for a moment that I am fooled by your compliance.”

He stops, standing before you, his eye locking with yours—cold and intense, filled with something unreadable. “Understand this,” he says softly, but his voice carries the weight of a threat. “I will not forget what you’ve said tonight. Nor will I forgive it easily.”

Your chest tightens as you try to swallow the fear rising within you. There’s no point in denying the truth now, no point in backtracking. You have seen too much, said too much. The defiance still simmers within you, though you try to suppress it.

“I know, my prince.” Your words are soft.

Aemond’s eye narrows as if catching the trace of defiance still in your voice. His hand reaches out, cold fingers brushing against your cheek, the touch light but possessive. The look in his eye shifts into something deeper, more dangerous. He is not simply angered by your words. There is something about you, something in the way you’ve challenged him, that he cannot shake.

“You may play this game for your king,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your skin as he leans in closer. “But in the end, you belong to me.”

His fingers trail down your jawline before he pulls back, his gaze lingering on your face as if trying to read the thoughts swirling in your mind. His control, as ironclad as it is wavers just for a moment, but he swiftly pulls it back himself.

You swallow hard, your throat tight, unsure if it’s fear or something else entirely that knots in your stomach. For all your anger, for all the bitterness his words stirred within you, there is no denying the power he holds over you—both as a prince and something more.

And then, his voice lowers to a whisper, his lips barely brushing your own. “Ñuha gevie,” he says, his tone possessive, the Valyrian rolling off his tongue like silk. “Nyke jāhor iā ūndegon.” (My beauty, I own you now.)

The words send a shiver down your spine and you realize you’ve made a grave mistake.

[irisposts]

WHERE IS THE FLUFF?? WHERE IS THE ANGST?? WHERE IS THE HURT/COMFORT?? WHERE IS THE LOVE?? WHERE????

[irisposts]

Daemon Targaryen

Bloodlines

Aemond Targaryen

Words of treason

Embers of us

-> Fire and blood

[irisposts]

how do i like my men? miserable and aching, your honor

[irisposts]

Bloodlines

summary | daemond needs to marry and you're at the top of his list.

pairing | daemond targaryen x (f)cousin!reader

wordcount | 1k

warnings | 18+, MINORS DNI!, very light smut

edited.

You never expected your cousin to be here with you on your island of Valyria, much less dining at your table and feasting on your food. You watch as he takes another forkful, his plate nearly empty. He wipes his mouth with a cloth.

You barely touch your meal. The room feels small and intimate despite its grandeur. Heavy stone walls adorned with ancient Valyrian tapestries tell tales of dragons and conquest. While a large chandelier made of dragon bone casts a warm, golden glow across the table. The open doors allow a gentle breeze to drift in from the beach, the sound of waves crashing against the shore tightening the knot in your stomach.

You glance back at Daemon. He hasn’t changed much, though his silver-white hair is now cut short. The last time you saw him, it had fallen past his shoulders, but you find yourself liking this look more. It frames his sharp features, and the dangerous glint in his eyes.

Daemon is dressed in deep, shadowy leathers, perfectly tailored to his lean form. You watch the silver clasps and embroidered dragons shimmer subtly in the low light.

Your own attire feels too revealing under his gaze. The soft, flowing fabric of your gown clings to you, draping in ways that accentuate every curve. Deep hues of blue and green—house colors—wrap around you like a second skin. The slight chill of the evening makes your exposed shoulders prickle beneath his watchful eyes.

“Is there something on your mind?” Daemon’s voice cuts through the air. Casual as he leans back in his chair, swirling his wine. “Cousin?”

You push your plate outward. Your attendant immediately steps forward to clear it.

“Leave us,” you command, your voice steady. The servant quickly departs, leaving only the two of you.

You tilt your head, studying him for a moment, memories swirling. “It’s been quite some time since I last saw you.”

“Three, four years,” he replies with a lazy shrug, “give or take.”

You look away, a warmth growing across your cheeks. “Hm.” You lean back slightly, your fingers brushing against the smooth wood of the table. “You haven’t changed at all.”

Daemon’s eyes sharpen, trailing over you in a way that makes the air you breathe feel heavier. “You have.”

A heavy silence settles in. The moment stretching out as his gaze lingers over you. 

“All grown up now,” he muses, his voice low, almost teasing. He takes another sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving yours.

You chew your lip for a moment, holding back your retort. “You didn’t come here just to visit after four years. A Valyrian steel dagger, no less. A fine gift, even for you.”

Daemon chuckles, the sound rich. “Can’t a man visit his family without suspicion?”

“You?” You raise an eyebrow, the corners of your lips pulling into a wry smile. “Never.”

His amusement deepens as he stands, his movements fluid, every step deliberate. He paces slowly around the table, fingers gliding across its surface. As he walks, his gaze briefly flicks upward to the ceiling. There lingering, is a painting of Valaryian lovers entwined beneath dragon wings.

“You always did see through the masks people wear. I admired that about you.”

He stops in front of you, his hand lifting as if to touch your chin, but you tilt your head away.

Your voice is steady as you speak. “What do you want, Daemon?”

He lowers his hand, though the smile doesn’t fade. “I must marry.”

A small grin tugs at your lips. “I’ve heard the rumors about you and Rhaenyra. If they’re true, why not her?”

Daemon’s smirk widens, amusement flickering in his eyes as he looks back at the ceiling. “Rumors,” he says softly, “are often more fun than the truth.”

His eyes lock onto yours, sharper now. “But you and I both know what strengthens Valyria.”

“Keeping the bloodline pure?” you offer, your voice firm but tinged with curiosity.

His silence answers you.

“Hm.” The sound escapes your lips as you push your chair back and rise. Standing so close, you feel the heat radiating from him, his breath fanning your face. 

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath his armor-like clothing. His hand finds your waist, gripping you with a possessive firmness. “What if I have eyes for another?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper-- the challenge clear.

Daemon’s dark chuckle sends shivers down your spine as he leans in close, his breath brushing against your ear. “Vezof rȳbagon skoros iā rūmu zirȳ rōvon,” he whispers in Valyrian, his voice like silk and steel combined.

Don’t forget what I did to you four years ago.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips almost touching yours, his eyes burning with the same fire you’ve tried to suppress for years.

Your heart pounds as you feel the weight of his words. You remember how he deflowered you—rocking into you like a piston, kissing your lips, biting at your skin—setting your body on fire. The memory fades.

You meet his gaze head-on, your lips parting as you murmur in Valyrian, “Nyke gīmigon lo ao gīmigon…”

I could never forget.

His eyes darken, the grip on your waist tightening. Daemon’s other hand finds the curve of your neck, his touch slow and deliberate, gliding down to the material of your sleeve. With a smooth motion, he slides it off your shoulder, your bare skin to the cool air.

Your eyes flicker from his lips back to his intense gaze, the air between you electric. You feel the steady rhythm between your thighs quicken as his fingers slide down from your chest. Daemon hitches up the material of your gown. His fingers make their way between your thighs. The pads of his fingertips brush against you and you fall forward onto his shoulder. 

You breathe harshly. His fingers are cool and should be foreign. But the way they sink into you, you know it’s all too familiar. You let out a moan as he stills.

The hand on your waist moves up to your shoulder and then to your chin. He holds you, bringing your face to look at him.

“Nyke jaelā ao.” 

I want you.

You let out a soft moan as his fingers spread inside you.  “Ērīninna nyke.” 

Then take me.

Without hesitation, he closes the distance. His lips capture yours in a kiss that ignites every spark between you, consuming you both in a fire that’s been smoldering for far too long.

[irisposts]

save me lumberjack logan howlett, save ME!!!!!!

[irisposts]

ANTHONY BRIDGERTON and KATE SHARMA in Bridgerton s3e01 “Out of the Shadows”

[irisposts]

OH MY???