#{ under blue moon i saw you ; so soon you'll take me } : aemond (kinslcyer)

[pulchramsolis]

[@kinslcyer sent]: "just relax and let me take care of everything else." love me with memes ya'll

The smell of war still clings to his silky hair that brushes against her cheek as The King pulls The Queen away from her desk and into his arms. It's not as easy as it was before, when her belly was not so round and her balance off. She struggles in frustration but even as he smells of war, Aemond smells like her favorite soap, and he's warm. He's so warm, his arms comforting in a way that her bond with Silverwing cannot replicate.

"Your mother says the same thing," she grouses as his fingers start fussing with her robe. It is tender, and gentle, in a way things had not been the last time he came home. That time they'd screamed and raged and she'd kicked him out of their bedroom. His room, technically, and she'd growled at the guards to try and stop her. They had still kissed goodbye, licking into his mouth and memorizing his taste, for every time Aemond and Vhagar left their little family, could be the last.

He relieves her of her robe, handing it off to her handmaiden silently before the door shuts and it is only them. "My feet ache," she finally admits in a small voice. "And my back hurts. And my tits hurt. I can hardly sleep, the babe is so restless." Alicent had explained that was because the babe sensed her agitation, and she was meant to be back in bed. As if this would not be her third child, but ever since that terrible night, she felt like the Dowager Queen was treating her as a child, and not a queen and mother.

Abrogail's sweet voice continues babbling out everything that hurts as he leads her to the side room, where the fire blazes hot and the great bathtub is filled with fresh steaming water. The idea of a hot bath makes her knees week and she leans heavily against him with a whimper.

"Stay," she whispers as he sweeps her into his arms, his eye on her as she removes the eye patch. The embroidery is worn and fraying, but it's still the same one she gave him on their wedding day.

[pulchramsolis]

[@kinslcyer sent]: Aemond wipes the tears from beneath Abby's eyes. "How long have you been having nightmares like this?" King and Queen verse combined two memes because they worked so well together. tw: loss of a child, night terrors, grief

The distress that shakes through her body is violent enough that the sobs themselves tremble. She shakes as if she were freezing cold, but it is fear that feeds her distress and it is fear that keeps her in the hold of the terrors that plagued her. Abrogail does not give notice to her husband's tender affections as her beautiful blue eyes are bright with fear and wide with terror. The answer is unsaid but hangs in the lack of immediate acknowledgement.

Aemond is not here long enough or often enough to notice that they plague her often.

The Dowager Queen would have the answer. His mother's quiet tones would say they plague her every night he is away from their home and their loving marriage bed. Would say she cries herself to sleep in the great, empty room until she goes to retrieve their daughter who does not understand where her brother has gone and why won't her parents fetch him. When little Celeste is not with her mother, she is with her grandmother. Never alone. Not anymore.

Aemond's hands are the warmest thing she's felt next to how Silverwing's scales feel against her cheek and slowly draw her back into the present, away from the horrors of the memories. She blinks and looks into Aemond's concerned gaze. His sapphire eye captures to low light from the dying fire and the fear and concern etched on her husband's face pulls another helpless sob from her, his name cracking on her voice as she leans into him. As if her fear has manifested her savior in the way it had not been able to do before before before.

"Aemond," she sobs against the warm skin of his shoulder, sounding so much like a little girl, like their lonely daughter, like the little girl who'd sobbed after her family had died. His grief and rage spurn him and Vhager to scour the Riverlands and beyond to find the man who sent the orders, and Abrogail would not deny her husband his grief even if they are paying the price again. His name rips from her throat again. Her thin shift does little to keep her warm, or disguise how thin she feels despite being heavy with child. This little one who will be born in joy and grief of equal measure.

Vhagar's lowing roar echoes through the night, followed by the lighter, mournful answer from Silverwing.

Accusations have been hurled between them until there's nothing left. Blame and rage are left for the likes of Rhaenyra and her monstrous husband, leaving their little family bereft of their first born and filling the space instead with anger and distance.

How long have you been having nightmares like this?

His fingers are pushing the tangled web of curls sticking to her damp cheeks and she finally, finally focuses on his face. Her fingers come up to trace his scar, cold and shaking down his jaw. So different from how she'd lay in his arms, sated and sweet and trying to memorize his features by touch alone.

"Too long," is her whispered, rasping answer.

Too long. Please don't leave again.

[pulchramsolis]

a somewhat plotted starter with @kinslcyer set in eye of the storm - abrogail baratheon verse affiliated with @stormslady

The raven had come for her mother the day before.

It had only been them since that terrible man, and her mother's power and influence had grown in the face of rumors. Rumors that made the Baratheon heir quietly rage that they would speak so cruelly of her dear mother. She wished, sometimes, to snarl and snap, to rage like a storm when she overheard gossip such as this.

The last time she'd shown her true rage, well... that had ended so poorly that she'd never try again.

Lady Avila was protective, and since then, her mother had taught her to use a lady's armor. It was something that came quiet naturally to her. Courtesy wielded both for the kindness and benefit of those to make friends. Courtesy and manners wielded to turn intent around on its head, and show that she was more than just the Storm's little dear.

"It's not a terrible idea," her mother had mused at the breakfast table, smiling indulgently when Abby had grabbed the last sweet roll from under her dearest mama's nose. A storm was coming, for mama's leg had been bothering her that morning. With the letter, Abrogail wasn't sure if the storm coming was one brewing from the mountains, or one brewing from the capital, and Dragonstone beyond.

"Not a terrible idea to...?"

"Hear the offer for you." Avila's warm hand cupped her cheek and Abrogail rested her cheek in her mama's gentle touch. "You do not have to accept it, of course. It doesn't matter if he's a prince of the realm, or a penniless sitar player, you deserve the world, and no less than someone who you love, and loves you in return."

She wonders how happy they would have been, had mama been allowed to marry her true father. Unlike the rumors that ripped through the realm in relation to Princess Rhaenyra's children, Abrogail and her mother both shared the same, dragonfire red hair and sweet countenance. She may not have her mama's lovely purple eyes, but they shared enough that there was very little cause to doubt. Besides? No one cared much for little girls in Westeros. They only cared now that she was a prize for their sons. Even Avila had years left on her, although her dearest mother had not been so keen to say vows at the Sept since the last one.

Truth be told, neither did she. Not after what she saw. Not after all that happened.

Acceptance at the visit sent back after they talked it through, the storm did indeed begin to roll in as the great dragon, Vhagar, landed outside the castle's walls. She had watched from one of the windows with eyes as wide as dinner plates to see the great, terrifying mount of Prince Aemond Targaryen land. He would not be long, and she hurried down the stairs towards their throne room, where her mother already sat upon the Storm King throne, their birthright.

Out of all the houses, theirs was the closest to the Targaryens, blood of the conqueror flowing through their veins. A strong, political match, even as mama had not yet expressed any other inclination than to support Princess Rhaenyra.

Nervous energy, anticipation, something hopeful, fluttered beneath her chest as she mounted the dais beside her mother, standing at her right, the honorable position of her heir. She thought her mother looked most beautiful in their house colors, their pride and independence on display. Elegant and shimmering in black and gold, her tiara as proud as a crown. Would she be as beautiful and strong as her Lady mother?

Abrogail resisted the urge to smooth at her skirts. A beautiful cream dress, with embroidered black vines that spider-webbed along the fabric - like stag antlers and lightning, with delicately beaded gold flowers, and the golden hair net, woven with obsidian beads held her golden red curls back from her face. Her mother had called her lovely, and instructed her to watch for the sort of reactions that men had that gave their game away.

She swallowed as the guards led Prince Aemond in, her stomach flipping as he walked in with all the confidence befitting someone who rode the largest dragon alive. His leather riding jacket flared behind him like a cloak, his Targaryen white hair flowing around him and his eye patch a slash across his handsome face.

He was very handsome.

Abrogail caught herself, and curtsied as was respectful to the prince of the realm, as her mother greeted him, and introduced her. He may be handsome, but he could very well be ugly and cruel beneath that exterior.

"I am very pleased to meet you, your Grace." She held her skirt so she could step down from the dais and approach him. He was... so much taller than he first seemed from up there. Not that it was a difficult feat, for she only just passed his shoulder. "Not that this is our first time, I believe we met briefly at the wedding of your siblings."

Now? Now it was just the two of them, and a potential betrothal. She bit her plump lower lip briefly before reminding herself that this was her home, and there was no need to be nervous. "I look forward to getting to know you better. Please, come with me. I'm sure your journey was far colder than it was long. You have excellent timing, having just missed it, it sounds."

Rain had begun plinking against the windows and she offered him a smile.

[pulchramsolis]

look, I tried to get this to a reasonable amount of tracks, okay you guys?

merry holidays to @fyredreamt, @kinslcyer, and @sunfyred ! spotify link coming to your dms!

[pulchramsolis]

[@kinslcyer sent]: You're pregnant? Well they gotta get started on that football team, right? ;)

The barely contained excitement in Abrogail's face had brought a flush to her freckled cheeks, her eyes large and bright, blue as the sky they had just descended from. They'd ridden Vhagar up towards the Riverlands, escaping the oppressive heat of the capital for cooler lands. The dragon had been reluctant to stray too far, for once, and she had made a home along a hill not far off.

She'd meant to wait, but Aemond's relaxed state was so rare as of late that she could not resist the happiness that welled in her chest. They'd only been married for barely a few moons, but like every other moment, they could still barely keep their hands off one another.

"I am," she breathed against his mouth as she swooped in for another kiss, hungry and giddy and full of desire before she pulled back to meet his eyes once more. Her joy was incandescent and she drew his hand from her waist to rest on the soft swell of her belly beneath the light linen dress she wore. Less the princess he'd made her, and more the Maiden she once fit. "You put a baby in me, my prince. Well done." She giggled against his mouth and tugged his eye patch off. "Very well done," for she'd taken to begging for him to give her one lately.

[pulchramsolis]

❝  i think about anything happening to you and i— i just.  i fucking lose it.  ❞ @sparedson

Aemond had always been this way. Always possessive and protective of what was his. From his siblings, to his mother, to her now. They have been married for a moon's turn, a honeymoon in Oldtown where the pair of them could roam the Citadel for hours, exchanging kisses in the shadowy stacks and inhale knowledge just as voraciously. Where he danced with her beneath the Starry Sept - spending the night worshiping each of the seven in one another.

She turns her head to prop her chin upon his chest, the firelight catching along his sapphire eye. She has told him that he can remove it at night, she doesn't mind it but it is still a tender subject for him although she knows it's not actually about her.

A soft kiss is press to the tender flesh of his scar. Another to the corner of his mouth.

"You shall not lose me, my king," she whispers against his mouth and snuggles more into him, drags his hand between her breasts to feel the strong beat of her heart. "Nothing shall happen to me, nothing shall harm me, while you are by my side." A quiet pause. Concern furrows her brow. "Did you dream something, my Aemond?" She nuzzles against his cheek and strokes his hair. "What troubles you, so I might relieve your fears?"

[pulchramsolis]

Abrogail stands naked by the window. The curtains are pulled and the shaft of moonlight that limned her form is nearly as bright as the sun itself. Hair the color of dragon flame hangs in a tangled mess to the small of her back - a far cry from the careful, delicate updo she wore for their wedding. Skin glows pale as starlight; freckles like startdust along her skin where the red marks from his teeth and touch scatter. Bruises in the shape of Aemond's fingerprints are beginning to appear along her hips.

Deliciously, delightfully sore and aching, exhausted from the day's events and the night's activities have turned her expression soft and sleepy. A sated kitten with a belly full of milk. A belly full of his seed, she thinks with a blush to her cheeks. The evidence is still along her thighs. They'd been too exhausted to clean themselves up.

"Come back to bed," @sparedson commands with a voice thick with sleep and a gentle growl beneath his words. She turns to look at him over her shoulder, turns her body for she knows the vision she paints for him and perhaps she tries to entice him. Her husband's carefully held control is always her favorite ball of yarn to unwind.

There is nothing more satisfying than being the one to unhinge a controlled man.

"Did you miss me in your dreams?" she asks him softly, smiling and raking her own heady gaze over him. Sheets spill along his waist, his moonlit hair an equally tangled mess about his face and his sapphire eye catches the glow, making him seem otherworldly. Pink tongue darts out to lick her lower lip as she looks at the evidence of her nails scratched along his skin, the red marks on her own body mirrored on his. Abrogail shivers and slowly comes back. Her gait is a little awkward from their vigorous lovemaking and she likes the way his lavender eye traces over his conquest.

Bed dips beneath her knees as she crawls slowly up his body, groaning and mewling as muscles stretch and joints give a little crack. Her little frame crawls up him until his arms wrap around her to close the distance and mouth meets hers. Gentle and deep all the same, she sighs as he turns her back into the bed to keep her warm

[pulchramsolis]

[@kinslcyer sent]: [ panic ] for my muse to grab your arm or pull them behind mine in a moment of danger  memes memes all the time

It was a very strange thing, to look upon the king and for once see glimmers of the man she loved in him. Or perhaps it was the opposite, finding the possible source of some of the things she loved most about Aemond in a man that she did not see fit to be a father, let alone a king.

The louder Vaemond Velaryon's voice grew, the more agitated Abrogail became. She'd been in the shadowed room on Driftmark as Aemond suffered and the queen wept with rage as the king ignored those he should protect, for one that, as time passed, Abrogail did not feel deserved such protection. Not when Rhaenyra had spat on the memory of her beloved brother, and refused to take responsibility for things that she should.

It happened so fast: the king rose to his feet, drawing his catspaw dagger, and then she saw Daemon Targaryen draw his blade and swing.

Aemond's grip was immediate and tight as he pulled her into him, her face pressing against his chest, his body turned so he was between her and the bloody, gruesome sight that had members of the court shrieking. Panic settled in her chest and she burrowed deep into his chest, her whole form shaking and her fingers gripping his surcoat with a desperate touch.

Was this the sort of violence that would come when the king finally died? Would this be the sort of justice that would be wrought by Princess Rhaenyra and her husband?

"Aemond?" she whimpered, too afraid to lift her head. How she wished she could burrow inside of him, where he could keep them safe. "Oh gods."

[pulchramsolis]

@kinslcyer continued from here because I can't help myself.

Abrogail liked to think of herself as a student of people. She paid attention to words unspoken, to physical tics that expressed discomfort beneath forced smiles, or anger beneath saccharine words.

Yet somehow, that had gone over her head for years whenever Aemond looked at her. Until now. Until she caught the gaze he sent her from where he stood in the shadow between two bookcases. The gaze in his lilac eye, the tension in his jaw, the parting of his sweetly curled mouth drew her in like the dancing lights they said inhabited The Neck. The lights one must not follow, no matter how sweet their song was, and Aemond's song was the sweetest sound she'd ever heard.

Don't do what? she almost gets out, but this close, where she can smell the scent of the oil he uses for his swords, the dust of the books, a lingering touch of dragon, and something so inherently him replaces her ability to speak.

A little puff of breath escapes her as he presses their foreheads together, so much like Theraxis, so much like the way he touches his head to Vhagar. Like he could read her thoughts through the touch, like he could divine her very soul by breathing her in. Roses and red current. Patchouli and the pomegranate sugar from the dornish cakes she'd been sampling.

The girl shivers as something syrupy warm gathers in her belly at his words. He's as tense as an over-tightened harp string and she longs to ease him. It is as instinctual as breathing to reach for the hand that she spied and thread her cool little fingers with his.

"Only a little," she admits, her eyes focused on his mouth even as his eye is closed. She wants to count every faint freckle over his cheeks, the way his mouth forms words, the voice she loves to listen to. "I suspect it is not so different from what you do in return., but how I could ignite that in you as you do me? That seems like a fantasy."

The longing in his gaze has manifested in her own voice. There is no way to ignore how it trembles, how she must bite at her lower lip to keep it from quivering. The shyness in her voice contrasts with the easy boldness of her touch.