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myocsfanfictions · 2 months ago

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THE WRATH OF FIRE

House of the Dragon Fanfiction

MASTERLIST

Princess Ysilla Targaryen is the only daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce. The affection that she felt for her mother was strong, while her father had never been there, acting as if Ysilla was not even his. But she was. The dragon egg that had been put in her cradle hatched. An outcast of a dragon was born. A dragon with no legs. An outcast of a dragon for and an outcast of a dragon rider. Ysilla’s hair was dark but streaked with white. She was a Targaryen, and her wrath was not different from the one that burned inside the members of the House of the Dragon.

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CHAPTER 10

The wind was blowing as Ysilla sat by the window, a book about the conquest in her hands, reading about Aegon the Conquerer and his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, for the umpteenth time. She knew those words by the heart; she did not need to read them, but she did not care. She loved those heroes from her family. Her fingers touched the drawing of Balerion the Black Dread, the biggest dragon that had ever been seen in Westeros. Ysilla wondered what he could have looked like, how fierce some he must have looked. She knew that his last rider had been her Uncle Viserys before the giant dragon passed. Ysilla had never laid upon the Black Dread; he died before she could. He must have been beautiful.

“My Darysyr is more beautiful,” she said proudly to herself. In her eyes, there was no dragon as beautiful as Darysir and his dark purple scales and violet eyes.

“This is all so boring,” She heard Aegon say. He was standing across the chamber, his arms crossed over his chest as he shook his head. Ysilla noticed Aemon next to him, glaring at his brother.

“Mother wants for us to take this lesson,” she heard her younger cousin say as she set her book aside, “It’s our duty.” Aegon did not answer. He just gave a sigh of boredom.

“Aemond is right, Aegon,” she spoke from where she was sitting. Fixing the skirts of her red gown with elegance.

“Dancing is for girls,” Aegon answered. His tone was always so dramatic every time he didn’t enjoy one of their lessons.

“Lords dance with ladies,” Ysilla said, “It is called courting.”

“Dance of fire,” Helaena muttered from next to Ysilla.

“Courting I like,” Aegon answered, ignoring his sister. Aemond scoffed from behind him.

“And what is your courting strategy, my prince?” Ysilla asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You do not wish to know, Ysilla,” Aemond answered before his brother could.

“Shut that mouth!” Aegon yelled. Ysilla stood up, walking towards her cousins.

“Lusting after servants and whores is not courting,” she stated, glaring at Aegon, “Those are interests not fit for a prince, sadly though they are common among men.” She saw Aegon look away, on his cheeks appeared a faint blush, more due to irritation than embarrassment. “You two are princes, sons of a king, members of the most powerful House in the world,” her eyes went from one boy to the other, “You need to find a woman fit for a prince. She has to know courtesy and manners. And she deserves someone who shares the same costumes.”

Aegon's hand moved to touch the white hair that brushed the side of her face. "You seem rather fit for a prince," he said with an allusive smirk that made Ysilla roll her eyes. She moved her hand so that she could free her hair from his grip.

"Will we ever be able to have a serious conversation?" She exclaimed, glaring at the prince. But he seemed to enjoy her reaction more than anything.

"I don't think I want to." He answered with a shrug as the doors opened to reveal Jacaerys and Lucaerys Velaryon. That was one of the few lessons Ysilla and Helaena shared with the four princes, usually divided to learn what was most fit for a lady and lord. Ysilla wondered how that day would have gone by, and her eyes moved to look for Aemond, hoping he was feeling better from what had happened in the Dragonpit the last time they went.

Her cousin looked stiff and uneasy as the two Velaryons shared words with Aegon. She knew that they were talking about the last lesson in the yard with Ser Criston, but Ysilla was afraid to hear a jest against Aemond sooner or later. So she decided to walk towards her cousin; his hands were behind his back as he looked at the ground.

"My prince," she spoke softly so as not to startle him. Aemond looked surprised at hearing her voice, and he moved his gaze to her with a frown.

"Ysilla?" He muttered.

She smiled, reaching out a hand for him, "May I dance with you?" She asked, trying to sound reassuring.

"I-" he muttered, looking over at where Aegon and his cousins were standing.

"Are you not dancing with me?" Aegon asked with a pout, and Ysilla shook her head.

"Later," she answered, "I'd like to have this dance with Prince Aemond." Aegon scoffed at her words while Aemond looked at her with wide eyes.

"Do you?" He asked, still unsure.

Ysilla let out a sigh. "Of course," she said, moving forward to take his hand so that she could lead him to the center of the room. Soon, the Septa told Helaena to move next to them with Jacaerys.

The light music started so that the princes could learn the steps of that dance. Ysilla smiled at Aemond, whose eyes were fixed on the ground.

"You're not going to step on me," she assured him, who gave her a shy glance.

"I still don't know the steps." He muttered, embarrassed.

"Confidence is the key, my prince," she said, gently leafting his head so that they could meet gaze. His eyes observed her as they kept dancing.

"Why are you doing this?" He asked suspiciously. Aemond was young, but he was a proud soul. And yet none of the other boys seemed to take him in account. Helaena wouldn’t do much to ease her brother’s pain, but Ysilla knew solitude. And she knew what it meant to feel like when people underestimated her. Like her father.

“Raise your head high,” she said touching his chin with her fingers, “Targaryens are proud and strong.”

“Targaryens have dragons,” Aemond answered with sadness in his eyes, but Ysilla noticed that he kept his posture.

“And you will, my prince,” she assured, “Do not think any less of yourself because you have not one yet.”

Aemond moved his gaze to the other boys, but she was quick to make him turn to her.

“Forget them,” she said with steady voice, “You don’t need their approval. Focus on yourself, on what you can become.” His eyes grew larger at her words, and she could see that he was not sure on how to answer. But he didn’t have time to figure it out, since the Septa wanted for Ysilla to dance with Jacaerys.

Ysilla was about to move, when Aemond took her hand to give it a kiss. Ysilla had not expected the gesture, and she was even more surprised by the words her cousin spoke as he raised his gaze to look at her. “This is how a lord thanks a lady for her attentions.”

He then let go of her hand and walked towards the side of the room, under the gaze of his brother. Aegon wore an irritated frown as Aemond stopped next to him. But he did not say anything.

Ysilla stood still for a moment, surprised by the sudden boldness of her cousin, but then she cleared her voice before gesturing for Jace to come closer.

Jacaerys was younger than Aemond. He was the same age as Daeron, even if the last son of Alicent had been sent to Oldtown not so long before. Ysilla found herself wondering how the boy was doing there. If he was alright. She knew how unsettling it was to change place from a day to another.

“The bow is important,” the Septa said to the boy that had a shy expression on his face, “It shows your posture, your grace.”

Jace nodded before trying to bow, but the septa was not convinced so she made him do it again. In the mean time, Ysilla observed the boy. He had no trace of lord Laenor in him. Nothing. And yet nobody addressed the two Velaryon’s with their proper status. Ysilla felt a peck of envy, because she knew that the only reason was the shield that the King had built around them. Was it possible?

Was it even possible that someone could love someone else so much?

Why did Viserys loved Rhaenyra that much? How did she manage to made her father have so deep emotions in his heart for her?

Where did I fail? She found herself wondering.

“Do not look so pensive,” Aegon’s voice came so close as a whisper, making her turn her head in surprise to find her cousin inches apart from her face. Ysilla felt like blushing at the proximity. Aegon had always been eager in touching her hair and sharing compliments, but getting closer was something he had started to do recently, and it had the power of flush the girl.

On his face appeared a little smirk, “What’s with the blush?” He asked, but she was quick to shook her head.

“It is just hot in here,” she answered, looking away from him, but she could feel his hand on her waist and the blush on her face would not disappear.

“So nothing to do with me?” Ysilla shot a glare to Aegon, that chuckled before stepping away. “I’m just jesting.”

“I see you’re getting bolder with ladies,” Ysilla said eyeing her cousin.

“There’s nothing more delighting than pleasures?” He asked with a smug expression on his face. And Ysilla found herself shook her head.

“Duties?” she said crossing her arms, looking at Jacaerys that was still talking with the Septa.

“You are my mother’s favorite,” Aegon said from behind her. Ysilla turned to him with a frown, not quite catching what he was getting at. “You are not Hightower though, and sooner or later duties will bore you as much as me.”

Duties had been something that Ysilla found getting drag into more and more as she grew up. She had become accostumed on what people expected on her. It become like a shield. Be a proper lady, doing everything it was asked of her was what she felt was the best way of getting less associated with her father. Daemon Targaryen was famous for his endeavors. He was a man impossible to tame. Ysilla had found herself clutching to duties and on what was expected of her, like her mother, lady Rhea Royce, had always wanted.

“And Vermax will be ready to fly, in a year or two,” Jace was saying as Ysilla and the two Velaryons walked through the corridors of the Red Keep. Alicent had summoned the young lady, there were important matters to discuss, that was what she had told her. And since the chambers of the King and the Queen where right above Rhaenyra’s. So Ysilla found herself listening to the lively brothers telling her about their day and news.

“When will Arrax be ready?” Lucaerys asked, looking at her with curious eyes.

“It really depends on the dragon,” Ysilla answered bowing with courtesy at some lords that walked nearby.

“When did you fly Darysyr for the first time?” Jace asked with a little frown, “Mother said you were my age.”

“Your mother is not lying.” She was not lying on this topic at least, “But Darysyr was larger at that age.” According to her studies, dark dragons, especially black, grew larger than other dragons. Darysyr was growing everyday more, and Ysilla could not wait to see what he would become. She surely would not have lived long enough to see if he would have grew as large as Vhagar, or Balerion, but she sure hoped he would have. No one was sure he would have survived, due to his legs, but Darysyr was truly a resilient dragon.

When they arrived to Rhaenyra’s chambers, Luke was quick to open the door to run to his mother. Ysilla immediately noticed that Ser Harwin Strong was there, with little Joffrey in his arms. Both Jace and Luke were to busy running around, but both adults had seen her on the door. Rhaenyra was not subtle at all. Inviting that man in the middle of the day, when anyone could walk in. Decency was not something that the future Queen was acostumed to, it seemed.

Ysilla shared a look with her cousin, before bowing to take her leave. The two Velaryons waved at her, but when she was walking in the corridor, Ysilla heard steps coming from behind her.

“Dear, cousin,” Rhaenyra’s voice made Ysilla stop on her tracks, feeling her lips turn up into a knowing smirk.

“Princess,” she said turning to look at her cousin. The woman was looking at her with a smile. But it was not that genuine, she could hide it well, but Ysilla did not miss the worry in her eyes. The young lady knew she had seen something compromising, especially because Ysilla was so close to Alicent.

“I see you are feeling well, after Joffrey,” Ysilla said with a polite tone, “With such an impressive health, you’re surely will deliver more heirs soon.”

Rhaenyra showed her best smile, yet not truthful, “If the gods are good.”

Ysilla found herself let out a chuckle. The gods had never answered to Ysilla’s prayers. She had tried, both her mother’s and the Queen’s, but Ysilla was not a devoted person. She attended the rituals, as a lady should have, but she much rather think about flying on Darysyr, or study about Valyria. That was a place she would have liked to see. With all that ancient magic and knowledge. That would have been fascinating. But the gods… the gods seemed to mock everyone. They stood high looking down at all of them, but never dared to move a hand for justice. The mother had not brought back Rhea from her hunt, and the Father had not made justice on Daemon for his actions. As he was not bringing justice to Rhaenyra’s behavior.

“I wish that we could spend more time with one another,” Rhaenyra said taking a step towards Ysilla, “We’ve been living so long under the same roof, and yet we never have time to get to know each other like two cousins should.”

“Duties takes all of our time I’m afraid,” Ysilla answered crossing her arms over her chest.

Then her cousin cocked her head to the side, observing the young lady, “You know. You look like me at your age.”

She was quite skeptical that the two of them looked anything alike at her age. Ysilla observed the woman, tilting her head, “Mayhaps we share some likeness,” she answered with a deep breath, “Very few, though. Or I’m sure my father would accept my presence more, even too much.”

She saw Rhaenyra frown at her words, “What do you mean?” Ysilla observed her silently; what she had saw at Rhaenyra’s wedding was a sight Ysilla had difficulties to forget. That had changed her liking of Rhaenyra. It was because of her father interest in Rhaenyra that her mother had been murdered, and her cousin unawareness angered Ysilla even more. But she did not indulge in such feeling, so she just laughed.

“The Realm’s Delight,” she said forcing a light tone, “If the rumours are true, it was my father who gave such a name,” she could not stop a bitter laugh to pass her lips, “He has quite the imagination with names, you’ve probably heard how he used to call me.”

The goat’s daughter…

“Ysilla…” Rhaenyra was about to talk, but the girl shook her head.

“Forgive me, cousin,” she said looking down, “I can be quite unpleasant sometimes. I know it is not fit for a lady, but if I recall my sisters name day had just passed. That makes me quite bitter.”

That was always a strange day to her. Her sisters in Quaart with their father, having the attentions he had never given to his first born. There was always someone better than Ysilla in her father’s eyes. Rhaenyra, now her sisters. Would have made any difference to him that she was fluent in Old Valyrian? That she was an excellent dragon-rider, and that all the noble men and ladies kept complimenting her on her perfect behavior? That she was studying history, politics and philosophy? Would Daemon Targaryen take Ysilla of any account if he knew?

No… she knew nothing would have changed. And still she kept pushing herself to be perfect in hopes that maybe she was wrong, that maybe her father would have cared for her sooner or later.

Stop wanting to please him, Ysilla. The girl repeated to herself. She did not need her father approval or affection. She was nearly a woman grown, she would not allow her father to hold any power over her.

Rhaenyra took a step towards Ysilla, “I just wish for us to become friends, not just relatives.”

Ysilla observed her cousin, “I think I found another likeness,” the girl said, “We’re both quite stubborn.” Then she bowed with courtesy and her best smile, “The Queen awaits. And your sons need you, they’re both quite strong in their will.” Then she looked at Rhaenyra with a smirk, before turning to make her way towards the Queen’s chambers.

Just a corridor and few steps of a staircase was between the Princess’ chambers and the monarch’s. So it didn’t take Ysilla long to meet with Ser Criston, the sworn shield of Alicent Hightower. The handsome Dornishman was taking his guard in front of the door, and he greeted Ysilla bowing his head.

“My lady,” he said, “The Queen’s waiting for you.”

“I thank you, Ser Criston,” she answered politely, then she pushed open the heavy wood door. As she stepped inside, Ysilla was surprised to see the King in the chamber. His skin was always pale and his hair had became thinner during those hears. And on his face the tiredness was visible, but he was sharing words with his wife, trying not to show.

“My King, my Queen,” Ysilla greeted the couple with a deep bow and she heard her uncle let out a happy laugh.

“Such good manner, my dear niece.” He said taking some steps towards the girl. Ysilla smiled before standing again.

“Anything that makes you happy, Your Grace,” Ysilla answered looking at her uncle.

“Come,” he said politely, “Sit with me, I really wanted to share words.” Ysilla’s lips turned up, but her eyes searched the Queen. She was not expecting for her uncle, the King, to be there that day. She thought Alicent wanted to gave her some duties.

The woman looked at her with an encouraging expression before she followed her husband to sit next to him on the couch, fixing the cushions behind Viserys, so that he could sit more comfortably. Ysilla was set last to take a sit, on the couch opposite from them. It felt a different type of encounter from the ones she was used to. Did something happen?

“I cannot express how happy I am to have you here in my court,” her uncle started to speak, on his face the smile never faded.

“And I’m grateful for your kind hospitality,” Ysilla answered.

“You are much more than a guest,” the King said with a shook of his head, “We are family.”

Ysilla felt a peck of happiness in hearing those words. The King, his wife and their children were indeed her family, and she was glad that they shared the same feeling as her. When she lost her mother and her father abandoned her, she was afraid that she would have felt lonely and afraid. She had been lucky.

“And we are very proud of the lady you are becoming,” Viserys said sharing a look with his wife. “You are almost a woman, and a discussion is needed, my dear.”

Ysilla waited for her uncle to keep with his speech. It sounded serious, and she could think of some reasons why a discussion among them was needed. One was more frightening than the other. She knew that she was the heir to Runestone, and that soon she’ll have to take her place as the lady of that castle, but she had no intention of going back. She loved her mother dearly, and her memory gave her strength and porpoise, but Ysilla was a Targaryen. She did not want to be closed in a castle in the mountains. She belonged with the House of the Dragon, with the royalty. She was not less than anyone. Her place was in King’s Landing. She wanted to stay in the Crownlands.

“Alicent and I are beginning to think that it is time for you to find a proper husband,” Ysilla took a breath at the King’s words. They did not want to send her away.

“Since your father is not present at the moment,” Alicent spoke and the young girl felt her own fingers grip at her gown as she did her best to keep a smile on her face, waiting for the Queen to continue. “We will look for the most fit union for you.”

“We think you are ready, dear,” Viserys spoke again with a kind tone, “It is most fit for a lady such as yourself to begin to think to your future.”

Ysilla knew that was what it was expected of her, and she knew that day would have come sooner than later. They had been preparing her for all this time, she was not afraid to find an husband. “As my King wishes.” She answered with a bow of her head.

Viserys chuckled, “That is good to hear,” he said with joy, “I remember how difficoult it had been with Rhaenyra when it was her time.” He searched for his wife approval, but the woman looked down with a forced smile.

Ysilla did not know about Rhaenyra, not that she cared that much. But it was not use to fight their destiny. Nobles did not wed for love, that she knew, her parents had showed it very well. But for no reason she would let her future husband to treat her as Daemon Targaryen did to her mother. They all shared the same path. But the epilogue would have been different. That she promised to herself.

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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 month ago

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The Silver Dragon (23)

To prevent Daemon from contesting their marriage, Aemond and Arianwyn proceed with the Bedding Ceremony.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: smut (vaginal fingering, oral f receiving, p in v)

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

Aemond had dreamed of saying those words to Aria for nigh on a decade, though he had desired her kiss for even longer. Her sparkling silver eyes fluttered closed as he brought his hands up to cup her face, careful not to aggravate the bruises forming along her soft jawline. She was the very image of the Maiden – pure, innocent, and celestially beautiful.

He thought that with all the fairy tales they had read together, he would know what true love’s kiss would feel like. It was the kiss shared between the hero and his lady love as they left danger far behind. The kiss that broke curses and conquered evil. The kiss that began a happy ending.

This was all that and more. With her kiss, he became whole again.

Aria’s lips were deliciously soft and thrillingly cool, sending a shiver down Aemond’s spine. He felt, more than heard, a slight sound leave her as he pressed closer, the tip of his nose digging into her flushed cheeks. Her mouth opened slightly, her arms lacing around his neck and into his hair as she pushed forward.

Was she… kissing him back? Could he ever be so blessed by the gods to not only marry the woman he loved but to have her return his affections?

He let himself believe it for a moment rather than concede that she was only doing what was expected of her. Still, he would have gladly spent the rest of his days beneath the weirwood tree with his mouth on hers, his hands on her face, and her fingers in his hair. But they were not the only ones present in the Godswood, he had to remind himself as he pulled away from her sweet lips.

She kept her arms around him as she turned to look at their sparse audience, who applauded politely. He did not let go either, for he now had every right to touch his wife whenever and wherever he wished.

When the clapping faded, Aemond asked Septon Eustace, “What do we do now?” There was no feast prepared, no wedding gifts to receive or toasts to hear. All that remained…

“The bedding ceremony,” Maester Orwyle answered, though he pointedly looked away from the new couple. Most of those gathered did. It made sense, many of them had contributed to raising them. The idea that it was now their duty to escort them to their consummation was uncomfortable. “If you should wish it, my prince – and princess.”

Suddenly consumed by timidness, Aemond looked anywhere but at his new wife. Yes, he wished for it and had for years. But he would not force Aria. It was bad enough that her choice of husband had been all but taken from her. He would not make her endure something which would undoubtedly be unpleasant for her. “It has been a trying day for all of us. I think it best – ”

“Yes,” Arianwyn interjected, and Aemond's heart nearly leaped out of his chest. “We want… the… yes, we do.”

She was nervous, so much so that he could feel her hands shaking. “Aria, we don’t have to. If you don’t want to.”

What was he doing? Had he not imagined taking her to his bed for years? Why was he fighting this?

The answer was simple: because he loved her, and he would do anything for her, even deny his instincts and desires.

Arianwyn placed a hand on his chest, and he had to take a deep, steadying breath to keep himself from kissing her again. “We do have to, Aemond. If the marriage is consummated, it will make it harder for my father to annul it.”

So, she did not want to lie with him. She only knew it was the best strategy to prevent Daemon from re-taking her.

That was fine.

He could be fine with that.

And he would make sure she was fine, too. That he did not cause her any pain or discomfort, so she would not regret this choice.

It was better than never having her, wasn’t it?

“If you’ll forgive my intrusion,” Ser Criston said as he stepped forward. His dark eyes met Aemond’s with a too-knowing worry. “I believe the Prince’s apartments in the Holdfast will be more secure come the morning.”

With a stiff nod, Aemond agreed. He hated that their protection was a concern when their wedding night should be only joyful. But so little about this night had been so, save the few perfect moments when Aria smiled at or touched him. When she agreed to marry him.

Aria squeezed his hand, pulling away from the haze his thoughts were drawing him into. Her silver eyes threatened to drag him into a deeper trance, but then they flicked toward their meager crowd.

Everyone was staring at them. Why? What had gone wrong now?

Oh, yes. He remembered now.

The bedding began with the escort to the bedchamber. Traditionally, the women escorted the groom to his chambers for the bedding. Yet now, there were no women in attendance save for the bride.

Damn, they should have sent for Brynna or Helaena. Or his mother. She would be able to help him quell the panic that was beginning to rise in his chest. Besides, they would all be sorely disappointed that they could not witness the ceremony. He would have to find some way to make it up to them.

“I will escort you, my prince,” Criston said, ignoring the slight laughter from the younger members of the Bronze Guard, as well as Ser Adrew, who Aemond thought was certainly too old for such juvenile humor.

Nevertheless, Adrew gave voice to the joke in all their minds, “No need to undress him, Cole. Best leave that to our lady, don’t you think?”

The stifled chuckling from the assembled guards faded as Aemond and Ser Criston disappeared into the Red Keep once more, and Arianwyn felt a rush of longing fill her heart. Longing for her new husband. For Aemond. Whom she had just married. Who was now her husband, and she his wife.

She needed a moment. A few moments, perhaps.

Eustace yawned. “It would seem that my responsibilities have concluded. If you will excuse me, I will happily return to my bed. My Lady, you have my congratulations.”

The old Septon did not wait for a reply before he strode from the Godswood, leaving Arianwyn alone at the base of the Heart Tree, save for her guards and Grand Maester Orwyle – not quite the procession she imagined for her bedding ceremony.

She had always expected that Aegon would be the one leading her to her husband’s chambers, laughing through his usual drunken haze as he watched an assortment of equally intoxicated young lords tear her clothing away. Never once did she picture being led to her marriage bed by a man who had taken vows of celibacy and twelve knights, half of whom had been protecting her since she was a babe.

However, as she considered the alternative, she decided this was far more appealing.

Indeed, Ser Warren’s touch was gentle as he offered her his arm to lead her from the Godswood. “I hope you will forgive us if we do not behave in the… traditional manner,” he said, avoiding meeting her eyes.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Arianwyn replied, wrapping her arm around his, grateful for the stability he provided. “At least not from me. Though I believe Aegon will be inconsolably jealous that you took his rightful place as my escort.”

They all laughed quietly at her words, the joyful sound echoing off the stone as they entered Maegor’s Holdfast.

“I doubt Prince Aegon would have ever had the chance,” Orwyle mused. “I am only aware of him mentioning escorting you once, and Prince Aemond struck him so hard in return that I had to place several stitches in his brow.”

Another round of laughter went through the party, including Arianwyn, and none tried to stifle it this time. After all, the bedding ceremony was supposed to be a time of joy and excitement; why shouldn’t they laugh?

“You and Lady Arianwyn have my most sincere congratulations, my prince.”

Aemond heard Cole’s words as if they were whispered across the length of the Great Hall. The roaring of his blood in his ears and the bruising pounding of his heart were too loud for him to truly hear the words of the man just steps behind him.

He tore off his jacket with trembling hands and threw it across the stair banister. Though he was cold to the point of shivering, he could not breathe with it restricting his chest. Still, even free from it, he gulped in air as if he’d run up every stair in the Holdfast.

Why was his mind doing this? He was happy. Perhaps happier than he’d ever been. So why? Why?

“She did not want this,” he answered with a groan as he leaned his brow against the wall, hoping it would ease the fire in his throat and relieve the weight of cold iron in his belly. She does not want me.

Cole stepped toward him, his armor creaking. “Pardon?”

Aemond was no longer in his chambers.

He was beneath their table in the library. Dozens of papers were scattered on the floor before him, the writing and drawings beginning to blur the longer he stared at them. The back of his head ached from slamming it into the thick wood of the table, and Aria sat beside him, her arms folded tightly over her chest and the beginnings of tears in her small voice.

Reality returned, though his head still ached with phantom pain.

“Aria never wanted to be married,” he whispered. “When we were children, she told me she feared it. Of being chained to a stranger.”

He promised to protect her from that stranger.

“That is an understandable fear, but you are no stranger to her,” Cole said as if it were perfectly logical, as he always did. Damn him. His unfailing logic had often eased Aemond’s worries. But not now. Not when there was such a glaring fault in it.

“I am not who she remembers me to be.”

The Aemond she remembered smiled easily. He did not.

Her Aemond was happy. He was not.

Aria’s best friend was simply Aemond. But now, he was Aemond ‘One-Eye.’

An armored hand came to rest on his shoulder. “You are the same in the ways that matter.”

“Perhaps.”

Aria was the same. Still sweet and kind, intelligent and composed, and beautiful. Gods, she was so beautiful that it made his chest ache. And despite everything, she smiled.

“Do you love her, Aemond?”

The answer was instinctive. “I do.” So much that it hurts. That she haunts my every thought. I love her so dearly that I would destroy the world just to make her smile.

“Then that is enough.”

Aemond did not believe him.

“As I understand it,” Arianwyn said, turning back to face her knights, “You are meant to make lewd jokes and tell thorough tales of your past conquests to prepare me for what I will face once we reach our destination. Or are you all as cloistered as this man of vows?”

She playfully nudged Orwyle before Warren pulled her back to his side. The Grand Maester’ flushed, but he only raised his brows suggestively.

“Our pickings have been slim as of late, my Lady,” the youngest of her guards, Ser Trevor Wren, replied. Though not slim enough to stop him from flirting with the kitchen maids whenever they delivered Arianwyn’s morning and afternoon meals.

“I doubt Trev has any tales to tell, Princess,” Ser Colren Shett said dryly. “By the time he got to Dragonstone, what few fair women there were knew to avoid bronze armor all too well.”

Nearly all the Bronze Guard laughed raucously, surprising Arianwyn. “I had no idea my sworn protectors were so notorious!”

Ser Warren sighed heavily. “Apologies, lady, but bachelors are hard to keep confined. Give me time, and I’ll find worthy wives to settle them.”

The words did not sit right with Arianwyn, as if a wife were simply a remedy, like boiled wine or milk of the poppy. “Is that the purpose of a wife?” she asked. “To settle a man?”

“Of course not!” He was stuttering as soon as he realized he had upset her. “Though, in my experience,… when a man loves a woman, he has reason to fight, survive, and return home. A married man will, therefore, carry himself with more dignity and honor than a bachelor.”

“That may even be romantic, Ser Warren.” Her desperate desire to return home to King’s Landing – to Aemond – had prevented her from doing anything to upset her father for the years she was confined to Dragonstone. She was often tempted to contradict him or spit insults at her stepbrothers, but she would never risk extending her confinement.

Remembering the long years they spent apart darkened her mood, and the procession again fell into silence as they walked through the empty stone halls. How would things have been different had they not been so cruelly separated?

By now, they could have already been married in a ceremony that befitted their station. They could already have a child, with perhaps another on the way. They could be living peacefully at Runestone, away from the chaos of court and the reach of her father’s influence.

Though it was just as possible that they could have drifted away from each other. It was likely that they both would have been betrothed to different strangers as part of their family’s diplomatic machinations. They would be hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles apart, once again relying on nothing but letters to sustain them.

But they weren’t. They had suffered immensely, but they were together.

A smile had just returned to Arianwyn’s face when she realized they had arrived at an unfamiliar door. “Where are we?”

“Prince Aemond’s apartments,” Orwyle answered. “His new apartments.”

It was strange thinking of Aemond in a new place. In her mind, he and his rooms were one. The drawings of legendary weapons that papered his walls. The cloaks and gloves thrown carelessly across furniture. Stacks of books as tall as trees beside the overstuffed bookshelves.

How empty those rooms must be now, as if inhabited by a ghost. How strange it would be to see so much of Aemond in unfamiliar places. But…

She could barely make out the faded carvings, but there they were. The same runes he had carved into his old door, now etched here. Made long ago, it seemed, for how worn they were, as though he had touched them every time he entered his apartments.

There, that was Aemond.

“When did he move?” she asked, fingers still absentmindedly tracing the runes, over and over, beginning to end and back again.

“After he was released from the Maester’s tower following Driftmark,” Ser Criston eyed the Maester as he emerged from the doorway. He smiled, but his dark eyes were strained. “He is waiting for you, Lady.”

A shiver ran through her, and she tightened her grip on Warren’s arm to steady her as she turned to the Bronze Guard. “I believe you were supposed to have me completely undressed by now.”

Ser Adrew smirked, his eyebrows raised in amusement. “Prince Aemond shall simply have to do the honors himself.”

Oh.

Of course.

Aemond would undress her.

His long, nimble fingers would unlace her dress, his skin brushing hers.

He would see her naked.

She would see him naked.

She could not decide whether she was excited or terrified. Perhaps both.

Arianwyn released Warren’s arm. Her entire body tingled with excitement and fear as he reached around her to remove the white cloak from her shoulders.

“There,” he said. “Now I have undressed you and fulfilled my duty.”

But she was too anxious to respond as he reached forward to open the door, and she stepped through.

A courtyard, one she had never seen, wide and clean and open, stretched all around her. The moon shone down from above as if it had followed her from the Weirwood tree. But there were no red leaves for the light to play in, no bone-white bark to set aglow, only –

The faint glint of silver thread on purple silk peeked out from a mass of black leather. Aemond’s jacket, carelessly discarded across a banister.

Arianwyn crossed the courtyard to grab it, carefully freeing the silk from the pocket sewn into the breast of the coat. It was still warm. Aemond was always warm, even in the cold of winter. She had fond memories of pressing into his side while they read in the library, far from any hearths or fires.

The black, silver, and bronze thread of her creation had not frayed but had lost its stiffness over the years. Now, each rune was as soft and pliable as the silk it was sewn to. For all these years, Aemond had kept it. Arianwyn had only ever intended it as instructions for the lapidarist at Runestone, but Ser Gerold had delivered the cloth along with the jewel, and Aemond had saved it.

Not only that, but he kept it with him, close to his heart.

She needed to find him.

She was at the closest door – one of four off the courtyard – before she knew she was moving. With the silk still in hand, she raised her fist to the dark wood and knocked twice.

There was a long moment of silence before she heard Aemond’s voice.

“Aria? Is that you?”

“Yes.”

When he emerged, his brow was furrowed, though he was relieved to see Arianwyn still fully clothed. He, too, was fully dressed save for his jacket, his white cotton shirt untucked and hanging loosely around his lean form.

“Why did you knock?” he asked.

“I…” Arianwyn looked down, suddenly embarrassed. “I didn’t know which door was yours.”

Aemond smiled. “I forgot you have not been here before. My apologies… wife.”

Her eyes met his, a giddy grin on her lips. “It will take me some time to get used to that, I think.”

Aemond took her hand and led her slowly into his bedchamber. “If you prefer, I will keep calling you simply ‘Aria.’”

“I would like that very much,” she replied, looking around the room.

It was well-appointed, with a couch and armchairs set before a crackling hearth, a large oaken bed clothed in silk, and plush rugs covering most of the stone floor. And there was no lack of books. Massive shelves wrapped around two corners, each bursting with hundreds of tomes.

Yet, it did not feel like Aemond. Not entirely. There was not a drawing in sight nor any carelessly discarded clothing. There was not even a single book out of place. It felt like Aemond, but subdued. Contained. Hidden.

When she had thoroughly inspected every corner and had nothing else to distract her, Arianwyn looked back at her husband.

Aemond stood only inches from her, clenching and unclenching his fists without rhythm. Slowly, he moved closer until their chests were just touching and brought one hand to the side of her face, lifting her chin towards him and the other to her waist before he leaned down and kissed her.

As fast as he had kissed her, he pulled back and turned away.

Arianwyn was left breathless, her scrap of silk falling to the floor. “Aemond?”

He dropped his head, chest heaving. “I am so sorry, Aria.”

“I don’t understand.” She stood in shock as tears began to sting her eyes.

His violet eye shone in the firelight when he looked back. “I am sorry it had to be this way,” he whispered. “You deserve so much better. You deserved a wedding as grand as you are, with more than just your guards in attendance. You deserve…” He loosely gestured between them, “To do this with a man you truly love.”

Her heart nearly cleaved in two. Didn’t he know? Had he not felt it in her kiss?

“Aemond,” she breathed, daring to bring herself closer to him. He stood unnaturally still, even as she brought her hand to his face, cradling his sharp jaw and tenderly running her thumb along the end of his scar. “I love you.”

His eye flashed to hers, wide and almost afraid.

“I love you so much,” she continued, tears finally spilling over, “that I do not possess sufficient words to express it. I believe I have for a long time, though I have only just realized it.” A laugh escaped her as she remembered every time Aemond made her smile, or laugh, or simply feel seen and safe. “That is what it has been all along, hasn’t it? Love?”

The fear did not vanish from his eye but deepened, even as his gaze softened. “Say it again.”

“I love you, Aemond.”

Aria loved Aemond.

She said so herself, then said it again.

Aemond kissed her before his mind had a chance to doubt it. Harder, deeper, and more earnestly than before. He poured all his love into that kiss, along with all the desperation with which he had longed for her.

When he had to pull back to catch his breath, one hand tangled in her hair while his other arm held her to his chest, he smiled ardently against her lips. “I have loved you from before I learned the meaning of the word.”

It was Aria who kissed him then. Too hard, too wet, and too eager. But he didn’t care. His heart was full to bursting, and the only thing he could think to do was kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her.

But more was expected of them than that.

She was the one who remembered, pulling away from him and bracing her hands on his chest to prevent him from catching her lips again. When he finally relented, a questioning look in his eye, she gave him a confident smile he could see through as easily as glass. She was nervous but pretending to be brave.

“Tell me what to do,” she said.

Aemond sighed, stroking her cheek. “I told you I will never command you.”

She put her hand over his, turning her head to place a kiss on his palm. “I am not asking for your command,” she replied, her voice teasingly soft. “I am asking what you want.”

Gods, she was the most tempting creature in the world. He wanted her so much it hurt. He wanted to press his lips to every inch of her skin, to kiss her so deeply that her taste would never leave his lips. He wanted to claim her, body and soul, until not even the gods could separate them. He wanted to hear her tell him that she loved him. Again, and again, and again.

But before that, he had one simple request.

“I want to see you,” he said, “all of you.”

Arianwyn smiled and turned around. She lifted her tangled curls over her shoulder, giving him access to the laces of her dress.

She startled slightly when Aemond nuzzled against her neck as he slowly loosened the slim straps of silk. His breath was warm against her skin, his lips soft as he traced them up to her jaw to her temple. She leaned further and further into him with every tantalizingly gentle brush of his fingers. When the dress finally fell to the floor, her head rested on his shoulder as she pushed her face into his neck.

“Hmm,” he hummed as he wrapped his arms around her, resting one hand against her belly while the other came up to cup her breasts.

Arianwyn sighed at the sensation, at the sheer intimacy of the contact, even through her chemise. None had ever touched her like that, and the sense of closeness it gave, the thrill of knowing it was forbidden to all but Aemond, was overwhelming. She whined when he removed his hands to slip the thin straps of the garment off her shoulder, and the silk puddled on the floor beneath her.

Then he stepped in front of her and, after a long moment staring hungrily at her naked form, dropped to his knees.

He wrapped his hands around her thigh, nimbly untying her garters. Even as he rolled each stocking torturously slowly down her legs, he never looked anywhere but into her eyes. His own, that lovely blue-purple color like the crown of the dawn, was hardly visible for the darkness that had consumed his gaze.

Once he had rid her of the last of her smallclothes, he pressed a chaste kiss to the soft skin just beneath her navel. Arianwyn moaned helplessly as an unfamiliar but exquisite heat pooled between her legs.

Before the sound had finished leaving her lips, Aemond rose to capture her mouth with his own. He hooked his hands around her head and neck and kissed her passionately, possessively, unyieldingly. All Arianwyn could do was hang onto him and try to answer his passion with her own.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured between kisses. “Only the gods themselves could have crafted something so divine as you.”

She blushed at his praise, running her fingers through his silken hair and hooking her thumb into the strap of his eyepatch. “May I return the favor?”

As if she had dumped a bucket of chill water upon him, Aemond pulled back, dropping his eye and wrapping his hand around her wrist, “It is… a grim sight. Are you sure?”

“I was there when it was lost,” she replied. “I did not run from you then, and I will not run from you now.”

A faltering smile. “You may not have run, but you did faint, as I recall.”

“That was only because of the blood,” she assured. “It’s not still bleeding, is it?”

“Not for many years.”

“Then I want to see,” she said, returning her hand to the eyepatch. “Don’t I deserve to see my gift?”

“Of course you do,” he finally relented, dipping his head to make it easier for her to slip the leather off his head and expose the scar.

Though he was still fully clothed, Aemond felt entirely naked.

None had seen him without his patch save his mother or Maester Orwyle in many years, the true gruesomeness of what he’d become hidden behind the dark leather. And now, he was bared before the one person whose disdain he feared most of all.

But true to her word, Aria did not recoil.

Aemond stood frozen and unbroken as she inspected him, and he shuddered, knowing too well what it was she saw.

His scar was deep, its color dark and tinged with red, running from close to his hairline through his brow and eye to the base of his cheek but an inch above his jaw. The cut had not been clean, likely due to the bluntness of the kitchen knife the bastard Lucerys had used, so the mark was jagged and wavered across his skin. But the various Maesters who treated him had done well to ensure it healed properly.

The eye, however, did not fare so well. The skin surrounding the sapphire now in its place was grey and wrinkled, so heavily scarred that what was left of the upper eyelid could only close a fraction of the way, and a large slice remained missing from the lower lid.

Aria ran a finger down his jaw, coaxing his good eye open. “It’s not quite the right color,” she whispered coyly, “but it is beautiful nonetheless.”

Aemond looked at her, silently pleading, do not lie to me.

“I mean it,” she she insisted. “You are gorgeous, Aemond. So painfully gorgeous that I cannot stand it.”

She kissed him again, slipping her hands beneath his loose shirt and running her cool fingers up the hard muscles of his chest. If she still desired him after seeing his scar uncovered, her sweet words must be true.

His hips instinctively rolled forward as he raised his arms to let her slide his shirt off. If he were not already achingly hard and straining against his trousers, the blissful chill of her touch on his skin would have brought him there instantly.

Curiously, she ran her fingers back down his chest, exploring each rise and crevice until she found herself gripping the waist of his trousers. She hesitated with her hands over the laces.

“Go on,” Aemond encouraged, brushing her wild tangle of silver hair away from her face.

She tilted her head up to look into his eye – his eyes, as she loosened the ties. At last, his trousers slumped over his hips, and Aria froze, her hands hovering in the air. Aemond bent down to remove his trousers himself, relieving his innocent wife of the responsibility and stood fully naked before her.

Her eyes were wide as she stared at the hard length of him. Perfectly innocent, as proper ladies were expected to be. Still, it pleased Aemond that he was the only man she had ever seen in this way, even if a small part of him wished she somehow had the knowledge to be impressed by his size.

Tentatively, she wrapped her fingers around his length and ran a curious thumb across a large vein. Aemond sucked in a harsh breath, nearly doubling over as he closed his eye and buried his face in her hair. Gods, it was a pleasure beyond anything he’d ever felt.

Aria swiftly recoiled her hand and pulled her hands away. “Did that hurt?” she asked with genuine concern.

Aemond only laughed, pulling her chin up to take her in another slow, passionate kiss. “No, my love,” he whispered. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Though he wanted her to take him in her hands again, an even more tantalizing prospect entered his mind. He bent down, wrapping his arms around her thighs and lifting her. “Let me show you.”

He carried her to the bed, reaching down to throw aside the blankets and furs atop it. Playfully, he tossed her onto the bed, lustily admiring how her breasts moved as she bounced on the mattress. He had grand plans for those, but for now, he was on a mission. He climbed onto the bed, straddling Aria on his hands and knees.

Gods, it was so hard to keep himself from her mouth. He caught her in another kiss, savoring the heat of her swollen lips and the blissful feel of her tongue against his.

“You were going to show me something?” She asked as she pulled away to take a breath.

He moaned as he moved his mouth to her collarbone. “Yes, I believe I was.” Never stopping suckling at her skin, he traced his long fingers down her chest, between the mounds of her breasts, and past her navel. He kept his touch light and as slow as he could manage for his eagerness.

The teasing paid off, for Aria’s hips instinctively rose, begging his fingers lower and lower. He happily complied. Pride surged in his chest as he felt the wetness of her folds. She was so eager for him as he was for her. His cock twitched as he imagined how it would feel sliding into her.

Not yet, he reminded himself.

Instead, he ran two fingers against her entrance as his thumb rose to the little spot Aegon had once told him of. He knew he had found it when she let out a desperate whimper, her legs squirming and toes clenching as she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck.

“That,” he said into her hot ear, “is what it feels like.”

She whined against his throat, “Do it again?”

“Gladly.”

He began to grind his thumb in slow circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves as he ran his fingers up and down her slick folds. The gasps and moans escaping her lips were sweeter than he had ever imagined, and he captured each and every one with a kiss.

Arianwyn was entirely lost in the bliss of Aemond’s touch. The feel of his hand on her breast was nothing compared to this. It felt as though there was nothing in the world but Aemond, his fingers, and this feeling of inescapable pleasure.

But then his hand moved, and while his thumb remained on that miraculous spot, he began to press the tip of his finger against her entrance.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured against her ear, “but this may hurt a little. Try to relax, and I promise it will feel good.”

She had no clue what he meant. Not until the pressure began to eclipse her pleasure. Pressure, pressure, pressure, bordering on pain. This couldn’t be right. That can’t be how this was supposed to feel. Gods, if that was just his finger, what would it feel like when he put his cock in her?

Aemond pressed harder on the center of her pleasure, drawing tight circles with the pad of his thumb. “I know, I know it hurts,” he said, “but it will hurt more if I try to enter you before you are ready.”

“You said it would feel good,” she cried, “when does that happen?”

“Soon, Aria,” he kissed her through his reassurance. “But you have to relax. Just focus on what feels good. Focus on this,” he tapped his thumb for emphasis. “If it hurts too much, tell me, and I will stop.”

She nodded into his neck, signaling him to begin again. He went slower this time, moving only when she relaxed her body when she was able. Though she squeezed her eyes shut every time he pushed deeper in, she never asked him to stop or pull out.

After mere moments and yet forever of pressure, relax, and pressure, relax, Aemond did something purely miraculous, and Arianwyn could not hold back a crying shout as she dug her nails into his back, her vision clouded with stars.

He chuckled, doing it again. Twisting – no, curling – his fingers to press gently toward her belly and again stealing her vision with the pleasure of it.

“I told you,” he teased, kissing the sensitive skin behind her ears.

“Am I ready now?” she asked, her apprehension completely vanished. How had she ever doubted him? He had always tried so hard to please her. He would not fail her now.

“Not quite, my love,” he whispered. “Give it time.”

He kissed her again. Gently. But where his lips were slow, his hand was not. He began to move faster, and her moans of pleasure returned, growing louder and louder until not even his kiss could keep her quiet.

Then, he slipped another finger inside her, never ceasing his movements, applying pressure both inside and out as she raised her hips higher and higher, arching her back into his sheets. With every passing moment, she was sure it could not feel better. But with every passing moment, it did.

The pleasure grew and grew until all she could see was the sparkling of Aemond’s sapphire eye, and her entire body pulsed with an overwhelming wave of bliss. Every muscle in her body relaxed as relief washed over her, and she laced her fingers through his silver hair to pull him in for a kiss.

“What was that?” she asked breathlessly.

He finally withdrew his fingers and pulled her against his chest. “Release.”

“Does it mean I’m ready?”

Aemond smiled against her lips, “Perhaps, but I would like to be sure.”

With that, he lowered his lips to kiss down the column of her throat, ever so gently with her cuts and bruises. He continued down her chest, between her breasts, and across the plane of her stomach until he reached her core.

Her cries resumed as he dove into her, lavishing her with his mouth and tongue. The thin leather strap holding his hair back from his face snapped as she clung to his hair, though whether to pull him closer or push him away, she did not know.

His long silver mane fell in a curtain around his shoulders, but he did not slow. Rather, his pace quickened as he plunged his tongue into her, and Arianwyn felt simply sublime. She could feel her heart beating in her core, her racing blood carrying heat throughout her body. Aemond was a fine warrior and scholar and, by all accounts, a truly gifted dragonrider, but as he ravenously drank the pleasure from her, she was sure that this was the reason the gods created him.

It was not long before she felt that great wave of pleasure, the ‘release’ as Aemond had called it, approaching again. With her hands still entangled in his hair, she clenched her fists and cried out, “Aemond!”

But then he pulled away, leaving Arianwyn feeling cold and empty, hanging over the edge of her release.

Aemond glanced up at her through a lidded eye and grinned wickedly. Then he dove back down, wrapping his lips around her clit, and moaned.

Arianwyn thought her vision would never return as the world went white and release swept through her once more, more intensely than before. She did not know how long she lay there, arms splayed and chest heaving as she recovered from the extraordinary feeling.

When the world reformed around her, it was Aemond’s grinning face she saw first as he lay on his side next to her, smiling blissfully and tracing shapes around her breasts with his pinky.

“Now, am I ready?” she asked.

Aemond hoped so, for he certainly was. He had never been so hard in all his life. “I believe you are, my love.”

He rolled on top of Aria, propping himself up on his elbows as he kissed her and ground his hips against hers, savoring the slick friction. All night, he had been so singularly focused on her pleasure that he had neglected his own.

He would gladly do so again.

Once Arianwyn was moaning against him and writhing her hips to try and draw him closer, deeper, he gave her one last kiss before he pulled away. He reached down to line himself up with her entrance but never looked away from her shining silver eyes.

“Say it again,” he breathed.

She cupped his face, fingers trembling against his skin. “Say what?”

“Say you love me.”

Her face softened, though her grip on his jaw was tight. “I love you, Aemond Targaryen.”

He slid into her then, pushing past her maidenhead in one eager stroke, sheathing himself to the hilt in the tightness of her velvet core. The feeling was all-consuming. His body cried for him to move, to fuck her with abandon and fill her with his seed. But he held himself still, knowing that he had gone too far too fast. Her eyes were still shut tight, and her lips, pressed against his cheek, were moving in mumbled speech.

Aemond had to strain to hear her whisper one phrase, over and over and over again: “Avy hylan.” I feel you.

“Avy sepār hylan,” he said as he burrowed into her neck, grounding himself in her smell of smoke and cold sea air. “Relax, Aria, just like before. I won’t do anything else until you tell me to.” I feel you, too.

She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, holding him close as she continued to whisper, her words morphing into something new. “Avy jorrāelan.” I love you.

They stayed like that for long moments, even after her whispering had faded into silence.

“Aria,” Aemond moaned against her throat as his self-restraint waned.

A curious whine was her only answer.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered, caressing her face, “but I need to move.”

Indeed, he trembled with the effort it took to remain still. He did not want to hurt her or cause her any more discomfort than he already had, but he could only restrain himself for so long. He could – and had – practiced in the training yard for hours without needing even a moment to catch his breath.

But this?

He did not have the strength for this.

Still, he did not move until she nodded against him. Even then, he began slowly, rocking his hips ever so slightly to ease her into the feeling.

Much to his delight, she let her head fall to the bed and began to cry out again – with pleasure, not pain. “Avy jorrāelan.”

“Avy jorrāelan,” he whispered back, letting his thrusts go deeper, longer, faster. In mere moments, he was losing himself in the sensation of her tight walls surrounding him, more wonderful than he had ever let himself imagine.

Arianwyn, too, was lost in the feeling of Aemond slamming into her over and over, faster and faster. She was sure that they were crafted by the gods specifically for each other, for this, for their joining perfectly as one.

As his pace heightened, Aemond again caught her lips in her own, claiming her just as much with his mouth as he did with his cock. The pain was gone entirely, replaced only with pleasure as he stretched her magnificently with each thrust, brushing against that magical spot inside her and sending stars bounding through her vision.

“Avy jorrāelan,” she murmured again as he began to rut into her wildly, drawing moan after moan of pleasure as the pressure in her core built higher and higher. She was not going to last much longer before her release.

But neither was Aemond, it seemed. He groaned into her mouth as the rhythm of his hips faltered. With a moan of her name, he brought his hand between them, fumbling slightly before he began stroking her as before.

Arianwyn felt absolute euphoria. Muscles she didn’t know she had tensed and relaxed as her third release of the night swept over her. Not since her first flight on Emrys had she experienced such bliss so deep in her soul, nor such exhaustion.

Aemond was still inside her, panting heavily as he came down from his high, lazily planting open-mouth kisses to the base of her neck.

“Aemond,” she whined, pulling his hair to draw his gaze back to hers. His violet eye was hazy with contentment, and the sapphire fogged by the heat of their joining.

“Mmm?”

“Do it again?”

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daenysx · 7 months ago

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Hey! Id love to request something for Modern!Aemond fluff/ hurt comfort. If you're not interested no worries at all! But maybe something where you're not together but you're also not 'just friends' and reader is kinda insecure bc they don't have a lot of experience with partners and Aemond starts to notice them acting weird and then it goes from there. But yeah idk if this is a good request or not lol, if you don't feel like writing this no worries at all! Love your writing!

thank you so much for requesting!! i hope you like it ♡ requests are open

modern!aemond targaryen x fem!reader, hurt/comfort

"what's wrong?"

sometimes you think aemond has super hero senses, how can he feel your distress when you're standing behind his chair? he can't see you but he somehow knows you are fiddling with your fingers, something eats you up inside.

he turns, still sitting on the chair in his room. he looks up to your face, still questioning what's gotten you so nervous.

"um- nothing's wrong, it's just-"

he holds your hands when he realizes your nails are hard on your skin. he separates them and keeps them in his huge palms on each side. "come on."

you take a breath. "do you remember the guy i told you about last week? he was a friend of-"

"rhaena." he completes. "yes, i remember."

"i was thinking- i don't know it sounds stupid now that i think about it but-" you start. you feel close to aemond, you're not ashamed of telling him a story about other guys. "he was acting like we're flirting you know? he was really nice and- i don't know maybe i was expecting him to ask me out after all that flirt."

your voice feels so small. "what happened?" aemond asks, he sounds like he could kill the guy for upsetting you.

"i saw him kissing a girl today." you say. "i don't know if she's his girlfriend but no matter who she is, it means i was hoping for nothing."

it's just a guy. nothing to be upset over. you're not in love with him, he could kiss anyone he wants. still, this is only a little piece of a bigger disappointment. you think no one will ever want you.

"i'm not sad, but i feel bad." you say. "why is it always someone else?"

aemond looks at your curled lips, he always thought you look cute with the frown. he keeps holding your hands, not quite knowing what to say. he's never been the best person to comfort someone but he cares. he cares about you. he doesn't want you to think you're unworthy of anything, he can see the walls of sadness and disappointment you build in your mind.

you straighten your posture when you see him say nothing. what were you thinking anyway? maybe you're looking for some reassurance from a man you're close to, you think he'll tell you you're pretty and smart, that guy should go to hell for making you feel like this. you close your eyes to take a proper breath, pull your hands back to your sides. aemond has an unreadable expression on his face.

"you know what?" you start, trying for a smile. "forget it. i mean, it doesn't mean anything right? there's nothing we can do."

aemond sees you blushing. "i'm sorry, i was just-"

"it's okay, aemond." you say gently. "i wasn't looking for pity or anything else, i'm sorry for overwhelming you with my insecurity."

you're being too honest. you don't care. it's no secret most of the guys you like don't like you back, even when they do, you don't know how to keep them. you have too little experience, the only guy you feel comfortable around is probably aemond. one of your friends said you look like a couple once and you were so surprised at her words you couldn't look at aemond for a week. you can't bring yourself to have romantic feelings for aemond even though there's a potential. you can't lose him.

"your insecurity?" aemond asks with a disbelieving voice. "i don't understand."

so he wants to hear all of it. he can deal with it then, you don't mind telling him.

"i don't think i'll ever be loved by someone i love. it's just- i'm full of half finished stories about that, i'm so sick of feeling like this." you say, taking another deep breath. "i'm not saying this because i expect anything from you. we're close and- you asked."

aemond's lips part open. you're so clearly blind to yourself, you don't even know how you make people feel. you don't know how pretty he thinks you are, how kind and sweet. he doesn't want to ruin his relationship with you- he doesn't even know what to call this thing between you two. friends? friends who secretly like each other but being too afraid of losing one another because how inexperienced you both are in relationships?

he holds your hand again, squeezes your fingers in an attempt to comfort you just one bit. you let him do that, you close your eyes when he rubs the back of your hand with his thumb. he brings your hand to his lips, brushes a tiny kiss on your skin. is that what affection feels like? you're a stranger but you could love it.

"aemond, what-"

"i know how much you hate being wrong but- you are in fact wrong, sweetheart."

he kisses your hand again, it feels nice. "you think you're unloveable? do you even see yourself?"

you can't help a tear escape. "i'm-"

"no, you don't." he answers his own question. "you don't know how pretty you are. you don't know your effect on people. your effect on me."

you try to pull your hand back. "you don't have to prove anything. i didn't tell all these to get something in return, i don't want your pity."

he is strong as he holds your hand. he looks up to you, gives you a smile. "i'm not pitying you. if there's anyone who needs pity it's me."

he promises himself that he's not gonna ruin anything. he will not mess this up. he can't. aemond targaryen's life is full of ruined relationships and sad stories, he'd be damned if you'd be one of them.

"aemond, we shouldn't-"

"no, i know." he stands up. "i know exactly what you think. i've been thinking the same things since i met you."

you look unsure. this is a dangerous game to play, you don't know if you're brave enough.

"tell me about them." you say, can't control your thoughts or your words. "tell me what we think."

aemond takes a deep breath, he places your hand on his heart. "we both think this is too fucked up. we don't want to lose each other but-"

you look deep into his eye, consequences be damned. "but?"

"we are losing the chance of a perfect pairing." he says with a low voice. "i can be better than all those guys who made you upset. you really don't know how i see you."

it feels exciting, your heartbeat goes into madness. can you let yourself accept buried feelings for him? his look is promising and confident. your brain stops thinking when you rise on your tiptoes to kiss him.

the kiss feels like true insanity. you don't know if you'll feel satisfied or regret what you did minutes later. aemond kisses you back and the clouds of madness disappear. he holds the back of your neck, a possessive kind of touch that you've never felt before.

"we still have a lot to talk about." you say, breaking the kiss.

aemond presses his forehead against yours softly. "i know." he says. "just let me kiss you one more time."

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond x you #aemond x reader #modern!aemond #hotd #aemond one eye #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon fanfic #house targaryen #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen imagine #modern!aemond targaryen #modern!aemond targaryen x reader #modern!aemond targaryen x you

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justanoasisimagines · 3 months ago

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Blurb (1)

Hey my lovelies, welcome to my heroes and villian event to celebrate Halloween! All month I'll be posting for a Hero and a Villian every single day! Credit to cafekitsune for the banner and the divider!

Summary; Aemond and you play a game of hide and seek! Warnings; The ending is slightly suggestive but nothing explicit.

"Come out love. You can't hide from me." You planted yourself firmly against the Oaktree. A hand pressed against your mouth, A branch snaps in the distance. You turned your head searching for a new location to hide. The attempt was futile, eventually, Aemond would find you. Yet it was the thrill of the anticipation knowing he'd catch you. It was all about the chase. It was a question of when. With a quickened pace, you attempted to sneak through the woods like a mouse. Light on your feet scurrying away from the unbeatable prey. "You should give up now Aemond taunted, yet you were determined not to be caught out so soon. Changing your direction, you began to zig-zag changing your direction. If Aemond were to catch you, you refused to make it easy, In a haste decision, you found a nearby tree, thick and wide appearing safe enough to climb. You grabbed hold of the branches, pulling yourself up and climbing as high as you could. You settled on a branch sturdy enough to perch yourself. Now all you had to do was wait. "You waited for some time until you saw Aemond sauntering underneath you, his head turning left and right, Once more you placed your hand over your mouth, this time to muffle your laughter. Perhaps you'd finally outsmarted Aemond. A branch snapped underneath you as if the gods decided to curse you once more. Would they ever allow you to win? Aemond snapped his head up seeing you sitting above him. A smile curled upon his lips. "Well done my love. Yet it appears I have found you." With slumped shoulders, you climbed down. The moment you were close enough Aemond lifted you into his arms. "Do not worry, I suspect my reward will be pleasurable for the both of us."

#house of the dragon one shot #house of the dragon oneshot #house of the dragon masterlist #house of the dragon imagines #aemond targayen imagines #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond targaryen one shot #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd imagines #hotd imagine #hotd oneshot #hotd one shot #blurb #justanoasisheroesversusvilians2024

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on-my-vigilante-sht · 2 years ago

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Masterlist

The Hunger Games

Finnick Odair

You’re Losing Me

Inspired by Taylor Swift’s “You’re Losing Me.” How Finnick loses the best thing he’s ever had.

Haymitch Abernathy

Capitol Punishment Masterlist

A story in which Haymitch’s lover is a plaything for the Capitol

I'm Sorry

Moments of Haymitch having to mentor his ex-girlfriend

Percy Jackson and the Olympians/Heroes of Olympus

Luke Castellan

Follow Me

Luke's girlfriend is excited to finally become a year-round camper so she can spend it with him. But Luke has other plans for them.

Delicate

"Is it chill that you're in my head? / Cause I know that it’s delicate"

Competing With Gods

When Apollo is sent to camp as a punishment, he sets his sights on Luke's girlfriend.

The Way I Loved You

"But I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain / And it's 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name / So in love that you act insane"

The Final Quest

How a quest with the love of Luke's life turned him away from the gods

Asshole Instructor

Luke has been an asshole but he can't help it until he realizes the girl he likes could be gone any minute

Mine

"You are the best thing that's ever been mine"

Apollo

Immortal Danger

Apollo marries a half-blood without realizing how dangerous it can be

Immortal Danger II

Despite an extravagant wedding, Apollo is still confronted by those who want to end his marriage

John Wick

Forced Love Masterlist

Arranged marriages aren't uncommon in the crime world but John Wick never expected to be forced into one with his boss' daughter.

Criminal Minds

Aaron Hotchner

Undercover in a Skin Tight Skirt

The BAU Chief isn’t fond of sending his scantily clad wife in as bait

That Skirt

Smutty follow up to Undercover in a Skin Tight Skirt

I Can’t Leave

When the reader is forced into hiding, she’s desperate to inform her fiancé and his son

Move On

Rossi tells Aaron he should move on

Moving on to You

Aaron finally tells his longtime crush about his feelings when he almost loses her (Sequel to Move On)

Sparring Matches

The BAU undergoes PT evaluations, that includes sparring matches. And in the ring will be the secret couple, tipping off the rest of the team

Home Sweet Home

Sometimes going home isn’t always a good thing. Especially when your hometown is obsessed with marriage and you have a secret boyfriend.

"You're Okay"

After Aaron and his agent are saved from captivity, she grapples with returning to her regular life with her husband when the only person she wants to be around is Aaron.

Spencer Reid

Erotomania

Spencer’s girlfriend has a stalker

Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon

Sandor Clegane/Robb Stark

Between a Wolf and a Hound I

Sandor Clegane was never naïve enough to think he could marry the king's daughter but it doesn't make it any easier to see her married off.

Between a Wolf and a Hound II

The new Lady of the North tries to cope with the fact that she is now married and has a responsibility to her husband.

Robb Stark

The Godswood

When the newest Lady of the North is chased into the woods, the lords of the north search for Robb Stark's wife

Cregan Stark

Wrong Person (College AU!)

Aemond's girlfriend has a group project with the man he hates the most, Cregan Stark.

Forgiveness

Cregan begs for his wife’s forgiveness when he accidentally injures her

The Wall

When Cregan is forced to bring his wife to the Wall, he tries to ensure her protection but does not hesitate to defend her honor when necessary.

Grey’s Anatomy

Mark Sloan

Haunted

Mark finally finds where his wife has been hiding

Twilight

Carlisle Cullen

Sorry to Meet You

The moral dilemma of the patriarch of the Cullen clan finally meeting his mate after 350 years

Attack on Titan

Levi Ackerman

Amnesia

When the Levi Squad goes out on a mission with a few rookies, accidents happen

Favoritism

Captain Levi wouldn't let his feelings for a scout under him get in the way of his professionalism, right?

Reiner Braun

Guard

When Reiner returns from his ten year long mission, he is assigned to protect the the woman he could never have.

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rynnthefangirl · 6 months ago

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Is it character assassination for Aemond to try to kill his brother? Lots of TGs seem to think so, arguing that Aemond loved his brother and was fiercely loyal to him in the book.

So let’s look at the evidence TG has for Aegon and Aemond having a close loving loyal brotherly bond:

1. Aemond fighting and killing Aegon’s enemies — which are also his enemies. If Nyra takes the throne Aemond’s head is the first on the chopping block, so he has a vested interest in fighting for Aegon to keep the throne and maintain a united front against Team Black.

2. Aemond not styling himself as King and only as Prince Regent when Aegon is incapacitated— he literally cannot be the king while the king still lives. By law he can only be Prince regent.

3. Aemond not murdering his brother and usurping the throne— the bar is in Hell. Maybe he didn’t do that bc Aegon was guarded, and he could’nt kill him undetected. Maybe he came very close to, but decided not to at the last minute. You know who also never murdered their brother? Aegon IV and Aemon. Who canonically despised each other.

4. Aegon building a statue of Aemond�� which is something that could be argued towards Aegon loving his brother, but not the other way around. And even then, the statues could also be interpreted as Aegon emphasizing his victory and rightful kingship by celebrating those who died for TG as war heroes.

None of these are explicit evidence of love. You can certainly headcanon that dynamic between them, but it’s just that— a headcanon. If GRRM wanted to write them as close and loving, he could have and would have. Don’t believe me? Look at how he writes Aegon III and Viserys II:

[Upon Viserys’ return to Kings Landing] “King Aegon III began to weep, throwing himself upon the boy in a fierce embrace”

“The return of his brother from the dead worked a wondrous change in Aegon III. His Grace had never truly forgiven himself for leaving Viserys to his fate… deep down, the Broken King felt himself unworthy to sit the Iron Throne. He had not been able to save his little brother…”

“As a boy, Aegon had worshipped his three elder half brothers, but it was Viserys who shared his bedchamber, his lessons, and his games. ‘Some part of the King had died with his brother in the Gullet… it is plain to see that Aegon’s affection for Gaemon Palehair was born of his desire to replace the little brother he had lost, but only when Viserys was restored to him did Aegon seem once more alive and whole.’”

“Prince Viserys once again became King Aegon’s constant companion… whilst Gaemon Palehair was cast aside and forgotten, and even Queen Daenaera was ignored.”

“Viserys [after Gaemon’s death] broke his stubborn silence to comfort His Grace in his grief, and sat with him by the Queens bedside.”

“For the rest of his days, [Viserys] was the only person Aegon ever fully trusted.”

George paints an explicit and undeniable dynamic between Aegon and Viserys— one of love, trust, and joy. George could have written such a dynamic between Aegon and Aemond. There was ample opportunity. He could have spoke of a close shared childhood, had Aegon comfort Aemond when he lost an eye, had Aemond display distress/guilt/grief when he nearly killed Aegon. But George doesn’t. Instead, what is Aemond’s only recorded response to nearly killing his own brother? “[The Crown] looks better on me than it ever did him.” Could you imagine either Aegon III or Viserys II ever responding that way to the other nearly dying. Nope.

You can certainly headcanon Aegon and Aemond as having a deep and loving brotherly bond, but George does not explicitly write them as having that dynamic. Their book dynamic is under explored and ambiguous. Comparing them to Aegon III and Viserys II, a brotherly bond that IS explicitly written to be loving, makes that apparent. GRRM had ample opportunity to add moments/quotes like the ones I showed for Aegon and Viserys, but he chose not to. The show interpreting Aemond as hateful towards his brother is not a wild deviation from his book counterpart, and is clearly based upon his recorded response to Aegon’s near death.

TLDR: Aegon and Aemond do not have a canonically loving relationship. You can interpret it that way, but looking at the text, considering authorial intent, and comparing them to an explicitly written close brother duo shows the ambiguity of their dynamic and the openness for interpretation that HOTD has fairly capitalized on.

#aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #anti team green #aegon iii targaryen #viserys ii targaryen #authorial intent #fire and blood #hotd s2 #hotd spoilers

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humanpurposes · 4 months ago

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Karma is a God, Chapter 17: Blood is Unambiguous

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood.

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Warnings for this chapter: 18+, spoilers for F&B and future seasons of HotD, canon divergence, descriptions of violence, angst, mentions of death and war

A/n: Realised I copy pasted the whole chapter rather than a snippet, and because I am that lazy, have the whole chapter.

Full chapter is on AO3

A white raven arrives from the Citadel at Oldtown; winter has begun. Luke has felt the shift of the season, the cold mornings in the training yard when she watches Joffrey swing a wooden sword under the guidance of Ser Lorent, the gloomy grey skies and piercing winds. Sometimes she can convince herself she is back at Dragonstone. Blackwater Bay roars as it tosses fishing boats and the ships of the Velaryon fleet on its surface, as it sends waves crashing against the cliff faces along the shore below the Red Keep.

In the early mornings, before she is due to rise for meetings of the Small Council, Luke watches through the eyes of her dragon as he dives for fish and eels. She feels that he is content with the familiarity of the mist and the harsher weather, and she knows that this is not merely a dream.

She’s found books in the library detailing legends from ages long gone by, of the First Men and the Age of Heroes, warring Kings, whispers of demons from the North, the children of the forest, skinchangers, greenseers, men who could see through the eyes of birds, rodents and wolves. She knows these tales from childhood; Harwin Strong knew all sorts of stories and saw lots of strange things growing up at Harrenhal, trees with faces and bleeding eyes, ghosts and living, breathing memories.

She feels the spray of the sea against her scales, the taste of fresh fish on her tongue, her wings steady through the wind as the Red Keep comes back into view…

In her moments of curiosity she hears the delicate voice of Alys Rivers in the back of her head. “Blood is unambiguous.”

When she sits before her mirror and watches her handmaiden twist her dark curls into braids, she tries to imagine herself with her mother’s silver hair, with Ser Leanor’s warm brown eyes and his sailor’s hands. When she looks at herself she sees Jace and Joffrey. She sees the man they were told not to mourn when he perished in his father’s castle. Blood of the dragon, blood of the Riverlands. A bastard in the eyes of some, a Princess in the eyes of others, now heir to the Iron Throne.

Jace had always said their parentage was of no consequence, but he had sounded unsure in that himself. Simply as a consequence of age he knew Harwin Strong better than she did and had clearer memories of him. He knew of the rumours whispered amongst the courtiers when they resided at the Red Keep. “It doesn’t matter what they think,” so long as they had their dragons, so long as they had the protection of the crown.

She’s searched the history books, mythologies and legends. Dragons are a different kind of magic, so maester Geradys says, bound to the Dragon Lords of Old Valyria with ancient blood magic, the likes of which Westeros may never know. Rhaenyra says dragons are a power men should never have trifled with, that they are not to be controlled outright. Yet Luke had been able to tell Grey Ghost to dive into the God’s Eye and pluck a body from the water. No command, no tug on his reins. She hadn’t even been sitting in the saddle, it was as if she was the dragon itself, acting on her own will.

Is that proof then? If she asked Rhaenyra if she has ever lived through the mind of Syrax would she understand? Or would she think she was mad? If she asked maester Geradys if the greenmen had ever seen through the eyes of dragons… it would be an impossibility.

Dressed in a black gown, rubies dripping from a silver necklace like splatters of blood against her skin, she determines she is ready to face the Small Council, Corlys, Geradys, Lord Bar Eammon, Lord Masey, Lord Celtigar, the Manderlys, and standing along the left side of the room, the Dragonseeds, Hugh, Ulf, Addam, Nettles.

She takes her place at the head of the table, standing above her mother’s seat. “Well met,” she says. “What news from the Reach?”

Vermithor and Silverwing had flown over King’s Landing this morning, returning from their errand.

Hugh takes a small step forward. “The Hightowers have Bitterbridge.”

The Lords murmur in concern.

“What of the Caswells?”

“Lord Caswell’s widow surrendered her castle easily enough; her children have been sent to Oldtown as captives.”

“And what of their army?”

“Some have gathered at Tumbleton, along with the Footlys. Our force there is little over half the size of the Hightower host.”

“But you did not fight?” Corlys asks.

“No,” Hugh says.

“I would have thought Silvering and Vermithor would be more than enough to match the strength of one young dragon?”

Ulf scowls. “And if the Northmen had marched when they were summoned, we might have a sizeable army by now.”

With a sharp look from Luke he is silenced.

Jace trusted Lord Cregan enough to think she would be safe with him when her body was still broken, enough to protect her. They swore oaths to each other sealed in blood. She must also trust he will come to her when the time is right.

Master Geradys speaks next. “Rather crucially, Princess, this morning I received a raven from Winterfell. Cregan Stark has begun the march south, with twenty thousand Northmen at his back.”

“At long last,” she says. It will take them a month at the very least, assuming they do not meet any resistance on their journey, which could be very well if the Riverlands are not secured. When Cregan makes it south their fates will be sealed. Armies will collide, the fields of the Crownlands will be watered with blood. The war will be won or lost. And in time she will be made his wife– the thought weighs heavily in her stomach. A month. Can we hold King’s Landing for another month?

“You will be grateful for our Lord’s support when his army comes,” Torrehn Manderly says with a pointed look to Ulf.

Luke turns to a map, upright, carved with the landscape of the continent. It marks King’s Landing, Bitterbridge, Tumbleton, Harrenhal, Casterly Rock, The Twins, Winterfell.”

“What footing are we left with in the Riverlands? Does Sabitha Frey continue to besiege The Twins?”

“She will make quick work of it now,” Lord Celtigar says, “Jason Lannister will receive no relief from the Westerlands now that the Greyjoys are attacking from the sea. By all accounts, Lady Joanna has locked the gates of Casterly Rock and will wait out the raids.”

“The path through the Riverlands should be clear then,” Luke says. While the Lannisters are overwhelmed and Criston Cole’s men are scattered, the Blackwoods and the surviving men of the Riverlands are regrouping, readying to march south.

“We’ll send a raven to Dalton Greyjoy and tell him that Queen Rhaenyra is thankful for his efforts,” Lord Corlys says.

“For raiding innocents at Lannisport?” Luke says.

“For keeping the Lannisters occupied, and so that we may focus our efforts where they are needed most.”

Her chest sinks. She cannot deny that the Greyjoy’s are doing them a service, and it surely cannot be worse than what the Triarchy did to Hull and Hightide. Fire for fire, blood for blood, an endless exchange.

She moves to the map. Her fingers ghost over Storm’s End and Bitterbridge. “Our efforts must go towards ensuring the city’s defence,” she says.

“So we will sit and wait to anticipate an attack?” Lord Celtigar asks.

Doing otherwise was Aemond’s mistake when he held King’s Landing. Without Vhagar, the city was theirs to take. She will not repeat his shortcomings. She cannot afford to. “The throne is ours to defend. We keep our strength here.”

“The dragons,” Hugh says. The eyes of the lords fall upon him as if he has stated some sort of insult.

One dragon remains against their own and armies will burn easily enough.

“Ulf and Hugh, you will go to Tumbleton and ensure the town is defended. Daeron is a capable dragonrider, but he will not make the mistake to challenge Vermithor and Silverwing together now that he is vulnerable.”

The men exchange a curious look.

“If I may be so bold, Princess,” Hugh says, keeping his hands clasped in front of him, still wearing his riding leathers from his flight on Vermithor, his silver hair pulled out of his face. “As Queen Rhaenyra now holds King’s Landing, and we all have valiantly continued to defend her throne, one cannot help but wonder about his own standing.”

“Your standing?” Luke says.

Ulf takes a step forward now. “The realm is full of traitors, Princess; Hightowers, Baratheons, Lannisters. Did Prince Daemon not say he would see an end to their lines?”

“Do you fancy yourself a new Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Ser Ulf? And you?” she says to Hugh.

His face is not so severe, a little hesitant, but he finds his boldness. “I would have Highgarden.”

“Highgarden!” Lord Celtigar cries. “Now that is an ambition, when the Tyrells have sworn to take no part in this war?”

“The Lord of Highgarden is a boy, and his mother has sat idly while her bannermen have taken up arms against the true Queen,” Hugh says, only ever looking at Luke. “Would it not serve you better to have Lords who are loyal to you?”

Now she feels the eyes of the council upon her, men who need to respect her orders, her authority, her legitimacy. She slowly traces her steps back to the head of the table. “It would disturb the order of the world,” she says.

“And is that not precisely what we are?” Hugh says, letting his insinuation linger for just a moment too long, “us Dragonseeds? The Queen has established a new order, she did the moment she called upon us to claim the dragons.”

“You would do well to remember your place nevertheless,” Corlys says.

Ulf scoffs. “What of the place of your own bastards, my Lord? Would you remind them of their place?”

Addam shifts on his feet, a man with a gentle enough disposition, a fighter nonetheless. Nettles meets his eyes and shakes her head softly. All the men at the table are getting restless.

“Only the Queen has the power to grant you what you seek,” Luke says, “and alas, I am not the Queen.”

Hugh is a man of formidable strength, a blacksmith, with well worn hands that have bent metal to his will. He rides what is now the largest dragon in the world, he has the silver hair of his mother’s house, some might say the image of a King.

Luke remains steadfast. She cannot afford to be anything less. If they all share the same blood then what distinguishes them? She is the daughter of the Queen. Out of right or circumstance, the gods, in their strange workings, have placed her at the head of this council.

Hugh’s shoulders soften. “When would you have us fly to Tumbleton, Princess?” he asks.

Luke ensures that he holds her gaze. “On the morrow. Perhaps the morning will be best.”

“Very well,” he says and strides from the room, Ulf trailing behind him like a dog.

Their business continues in a solemn quiet, as if they are gathered around a grave that no one dares to mention.

Once the council has dispersed, Corlys remains seated and catches his granddaughter’s eye. “I do not trust those men,” he says. “They will keep pushing to see their demands met.”

“They command dragons,” Luke says. He knows as well as her, this cannot be undone.

After breakfast, Luke leads Joffrey down to the entrance yard. He takes up a small wooden sword and puts all his might into swinging at a stack of straw, occasionally corrected by Ser Lorent. He often makes the promise to himself that he’ll be as fierce a fighter as Jacaerys or Daemon.

“You fight well, little knight,” Luke says when he has finally exhausted himself.

He frowns, knowing he’ll be wanted inside for his lessons, a venture he finds far more tedious than swordsmanship. “Couldn’t we stay out a while longer?”

“A Prince has other duties than battle,” she says.

“Couldn’t we go to the Dragonpit? Tyraxes must miss me terribly.”

The thought makes her heart sink. Tyraxes has spent his life on Dragonstone, by his rider’s side or roaming the Dragonmount. He is still young, grieved to be alone as all children are.

“Perhaps another time.”

“Why not now?”

It can be heard in the sounds of the city. The markets are desolate. No food has come from the Reach since the outbreak of war. The Velaryon blockade has been lifted and allowed trade in from Essos, but the sea is depleted of fish and many in King’s Landing do not have the coin to pay for food. Ser Luthor Largent of the City Watch says the people of the city are becoming like dogs tearing each other apart for scraps.

Luke leads her brother back towards the Keep. “It is safer for us inside the castle walls. These are dangerous times.”

“But you still get to ride Grey Ghost.”

“Grey Ghost is wild. I do not think I could command him to go to the Dragon Pit if I tried.”

Joffrey’s head hangs as they climb the steps to the entrance hall. “Tyraxes doesn’t like to be apart from me.”

“You’ll be returned to him soon enough, I swear it.”

A distant roar pierces the air. On the battlements and beyond the walls are cries of “dragon!”

Joffrey clings to Luke’s side. She turns her gaze to the sky, unsure of what to expect.

“It is Vermithor and Silverwing!” a voice cries from the castle walls.

There is a sense of relief amongst the men, the scorpions positioned towards the sky are eased in their aim. The panic has dispersed but Luke’s grip on Joffrey’s hand tightens. On the morrow, she said, but Hugh and Ulf have brazenly disobeyed her orders.

The doors open twice a day, once as Geradys enters, and again when he leaves. The guards watch Aemond from within their armour, hands on their swords. He stares back as if he knows he could kill them with his bare hands. At least they fear him.

Geradys sees to his wounds, brings him broth boiled from bones and gritty, dry bread. He has asked for proper meat only to be old there is none for him. He might as well starve, at least he would not have to have such a poor excuse for food pass his lips.

He is restless, pacing the room, lying in his bed, sitting on the edge of it and staring down at his hands. Sometimes he stands by the window to remind himself that there is life beyond the walls of this chamber. He counts the tiled roofs and watches people moving through the streets like Helaena watches her pets through the bars of their cages. By the time he left King’s Landing he was hated by the smallfolk. What of it? They are made to obey, to revere Kings and Princes. What sort of life can Rhaenyra offer them that he could not when he wore the crown?

Otherwise he has taken to tormenting himself to pass his hours of isolation, because all he can think of is Lucerra.

She is in the same castle as him, wandering the halls, making commands of those around her, her mother’s heir. Every time he hears footsteps outside his door he holds his breath, waiting to see if the door will open and if she will enter his room.

Days pass since that first night and she does not come.

At night, when he tells himself the gods will turn their eyes from him, he clutches his hand over his throat, imagining it is hers. He feels the weight of her on top of him and pictures her legs straddled on either side of his body. He traces his fingertips along the same path down his chest, over the array of bruises around his ribs, stomach and navel.

She had been so delicate, ghosting over his skin like a gentle breath. His lips had been so close to her. If he had not been so startled he might have kissed her. An unusual impulse, one he had entertained the night his father died, and then some.

He can picture that less clearly with time, her sighs of pleasure as she slowly gave into him, the heat of her tight, wet cunt around his fingers. It made sense, didn’t it? Everything she had taken from him, wasn’t he owed something from her? He supposes now they are far past the constant exchanging.

“How many dead?” Rhaenyra asks from her throne. She keeps her hands in her lap, shrinking into herself so no part of her skin can touch the blades she sits upon.

A matter of days into winter and the violence has already begun.

“We lost at least twenty men,” Ser Luthor says, helm under his arm and his gold cloak splattered with blood. “We anticipate perhaps a hundred smallfolk have lost their lives, either in the crush or at the hands of the city watch. There may be many more injured.”

Rhaenyra remains unchanged in the face of the tragedy, beautiful and cold.

The crown’s coffers were empty when they took the capital at the orders of Tyland Lannister, as he confessed under sharp questioning. He sent the gold to a number of Green strongholds and he is yet to admit exactly which. What does it matter where the gold is? If it is in the Reach or the Westerlands, they have no hope of retrieving it.

Daemon said from the outset, the city cannot be held without gold. The war cannot be fought without gold.

Under Rhaenyra’s orders, tithes have been taken from the people of King’s Landing and the rest of the Crownlands, gold, weapons and armour, food, livestock for the dragons, all in the name of protecting the realm, ending the war, defending the throne.

This is what it has come to. A cart containing stores of grain and enough gold to pay Rhaenyra’s men-at-arms had been brought through the city and the people descended upon it like vultures to a carcass, only there were more than scraps to be had, more than slivers of rotten flesh clinging to bones. Not even the horses had been spared, ripped apart for their meat in the frenzy.

“How can the captains of the city watch have allowed this to happen?” Corlys demands, standing at the foot of the throne. Luke stands beside him.

“My Lord, we are commanded to bring order to the city. Those who attacked the cart were not deterred by our threats. Something had to be done.”

“And you chose to deal them death,” Corlys says.

“We did what we could to protect the crown’s property.”

Corlys brings his hands in front of him in defeat and disgust. He turns to the Queen and says with no amount of subtlety, “this cannot go unanswered.”

Rhaenyra turns her head, her eyes full of fire. “I will put this right by ending the war.”

As the court is dismissed and disperses, Corlys leans into Luke’s ear and hisses, “a war she herself refuses to fight.”

An uncertain feeling flashes through her heart. Corlys’ doubt feels like a betrayal. “You would not suggest our Queen put her own life at risk, I hope,” she says gravely, carrying a warning in her voice.

He gives her a questioning look. “My ships still defend the city, my men are sworn to the true Queen.”

“And with your support, we shall prevail,” she says.

Rhaenyra descends the steps of the throne, the crown set upon her head, her gown heavy and scaled like the hide of a dragon, save for a cut of red fabric in the skirts, like a tear through flesh. “Come, daughter,” she says solemnly, reaching out her hand for Luke to take.

With a final look to her grandfather, and a check to make sure Ser Lorent was indeed out of earshot of their musings, Luke obeys her mother.

They walk through the castle and return to the Queen’s chambers. A handmaiden waits to remove Rhaenyra’s crown. She cannot get it off fast enough, nor her gold rings and her heavy necklace while Luke waits by the door.

“You sent Vermithor and Silverwing from King’s Landing,” Rhaenyra says.

“The Hightowers took Bitterbridge. They could be weeks way. Hugh and Ulf will hold Tumbleton and deter the approaching army.”

Rhaenyra says nothing, taking a seat at a desk by the window, facing the daylight.

“Seasmoke and Grey Ghost will defend the city well enough if Daeron tries to attack, but he will not risk it I think, not without an army.”

“What of our army?”

Luke hesitates, unsure of what Rhaenyra will know, how far she has been briefed by Corlys or maester Geradys. “Cregan Stark has left Winterfell, the Rivermen are regrouping. I thought I might send Nettles and Sheepstealer north to encourage our allies.”

Her mother has been silent for days, even a simple hum of agreement feels like a victory.

“And Baela remains on Dragonstone, we could easily summon her should we need another dragon.” In her mind it all comes together easily, as long as their allies do not delay, as long as the Baratheons continue to wait, as long as they have the dragons, as long as the city holds.

There’s a nauseating feeling in her stomach, the scent of blood lingering in her nose. Blood on a golden cloak. Blood stains at the foot of the Iron Throne.

“You are so like your brother,”

Something inside of her shatters, crumbling foundations. The space behind her eyes burns but her hands are cold and the grip she has learned to have on her own mourning slips through her fingers like water.

“He was like this too. When you were gone he knew what to do. How did he know what to do? He was scarcely a man, he had seen no battles or wars.” When Rhaenyra looks over her shoulder, the dying daylight burns like a fire behind her, catching in her silver hair. “The two of you, so pragmatic.”

Luke took no fall for Jace, no sword in her gut. No fire burned her to charred remains. Her skin was not left bruised after he died, but the pain has lingered for far longer than any other she has known. She can’t stand it, the anger it fuels. Why remind me? Why remind me he is dead?

“You should meet with the Small Council on the morrow, mother. Your Lords may begin to rue your absence.” They already have.

Rhaenyra’s silhouette against the light does not seem to shift.

Geradys comes as he always does. Aemond drinks the vile bone broth and forces stale bread down his throat. His bandages are changed, some strong smelling oil placed on his temples, honey lathered over the cut on his lip.

Then he is instructed to stand, to raise his arms as though a squire is about to dress him in armour. Instead he winces at the aching in his chest. Geradys pats his hands around the bandages. “You are making progress, I think. How is the pain?”

It is easing, little by little. “Tolerable,” Aemond says.

When night comes and he is alone, he waits for sleep to claim him so he can see the faces of his family, but even his dreams have abandoned him now. He is restless for hours, fading in and out of darkness until the first glimpses of sunrise.

What would Alys say to that, dreamless sleep? She might say the gods have forsaken him. She might say he is nothing now, a being of purely organic existence, mechanical like the life of an insect, an animal kept captive.

But what did any of his dreams mean to her? “Retribution will come with fire and fury,” she said, but in the end she meant it to come at the point of a knife wielded by her own hands. Why? Why taunt him with her visions? Why had he allowed himself to be tempted?

He had thought it meant Lucerra. If anyone should claim retribution in the ending of his life, surely it would be her.

He is not absolved and he knows this, but perhaps he has outlived his usefulness. Helaena and his mother are in the same castle as him and now their enduring lives are a matter of strategy, as Lucerra had made clear. In a silent prayer to the Seven, he wishes– begs that his brother can stay hidden, dead or alive. Just until Aemond can regain his strength, until he can fight his way out of this room, or to find some other advantage.

Since when did a locked door render him powerless?

There are two people left in the Red Keep who may know where Aegon is.

Alicent Hightower stays in her chambers. Rhaenyra allows her to keep a Septa in her company and the guards say she does nothing but weep and pray. Maester Geradys says her knees are bloody and bruised where she kneels on the stone floor, clutching a pendant of the seven pointed star until that too pricks at the flesh of her palms.

When Luke enters Helaena’s chambers the air is stone cold. No fire is lit despite the turning weather. Helaena sits on the floor amongst a collection of pillows and furs, deeply concentrated on a piece of embroidery. When she hears footsteps, her head lifts to the door, eyes are wide and more alert than they have been for months. “You’ve come to ask something of me,” she says.

The air of the room is fragile. Luke’s heart races in her chest knowing what her question will bring. She steps towards Helaena cautiously, smiling as kindly as she can, lowering herself to sit beside her.

Helaena’s hands are frozen in her work, sewing black thread into green and gold fabric, in a pattern like winged insects.

“I wish to know how you are,” Luke says.

Helaena tilts her head. Her lips are fallen and her brow is focused. Luke had never thought there was much of a resemblance between her mother and her aunt, and now she sees it. “Last night I dreamt that my son was in my arms. I rocked him though he was already sleeping and when I placed my fingers against his cheek, his skin was cold.”

“Do you know where Maelor is?”

Helaena presses her lips together. Her eyes have dropped to the fabric in her hands and she shakes her head.

“Did someone take him from you?”

“I cannot say,” she picks up her embroidery with trembling hands, tracing her fingers over the black thread. “He wasn’t with me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, not after– all I’d see when I looked at him was blood.”

After the twins, after she watched them die.

“Rhaenyra has called for his return to the Red Keep. It is our hope he will be returned to you.”

Helaena snatches her hand around Luke’s wrist. Her grip is fierce and unrelenting. It hurts and all Luke can do is look at her reddened, glistening eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Helaena, If it is in my power, I will see your son kept safe.”

“But I saw…” she frowns to herself, dragging her hands over her eyes to dry them. “Perhaps I have been mistaken.”

“Your dreams,” Luke says. Blood and water, green and black, blue and green, dragons and ghosts. The trail of blood.

“I cannot make sense of them sometimes. I saw the rats, I knew they’d want the boy but they took both.”

“When you dreamt of Maelor, where were you?”

“I saw Aemond’s death, I saw him swallowed up in the God’s Eye, and yet you tell me he is alive. I saw you at the Weirwood, with that woman, the Rivers woman.”

“Heleana please,”

“Do you think I would direct you to him even if I knew where he was?” she says sadly, sharply.

It takes Luke by surprise. “I swear, I would never wish harm upon him.”

“His life is a threat to your mother’s rule. Perhaps you would not seek to hurt him, he is only a child, he is your kin, but Rhaenyra has claimed the lives of two of my children already.”

“She never meant for them to die.”

“Should I not grieve them then?”

Luke can hardly find breath to speak. “Yes, yes of course you should. They were children.”

“But you didn’t come here to mourn Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. And if you seek Maelor then you seek his father.”

Luke knows she shouldn’t press her. She loathes herself, her own cruelty to torment her aunt in the face of her grief.

Helaena frowns, but then all the rage and sadness fades from her face. She looks to Luke with such honesty and sincerity. Her voice is a harsh whisper. “Aegon will be King again. He is yet to see victory.”

Luke had not thought Helaena capable of bluffing. She could be lying. Her dreams could have misled her. She could have said it in a moment of anger, of desperation. What does she have left? She doesn't even know where her last remaining child is, if he is safe, if he is dead or alive.

She leaves Helaena to her embroidery. The winged insects were flies, she realises.

What Helaena said cannot be true. Rhaenyra has seven fighting dragons at her disposal. Their allies are marching. The Hightowers may be inching closer to King’s Landing but the rest of the Green forces are scattered. Their King is missing, their Regent is her prisoner…

Her skin tightens at the very thought of seeing him again, braving that confining little chamber once more. To feel his eye burning into her.

But who would be able to make sense of Helaena’s musings better than her brother?

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#aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #aemond x fem!lucerys #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond x original female character #aemond x reader #fem!lucerys #lucemond #my fics #karma is a god

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atopvisenyashill · 3 months ago

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Do Aegon and Aemond show/have any personal interest in Rhaenyra because she exudes a nurturing presence, given that both seem to seek that type of comfort in their lives?

hmmmmmmmm.

For Aemond, in both books and show, i think the answer is no. I think Aemond is very just massively bogged down in this very black and white view of the world and unwilling to see shades of gray. Things that are part of the natural order and tradition are right and you must do anything and everything to keep things right; any wrong you do is forgiven because you are attempting to get back to The Correct Order. Any deviance from that order should be swiftly punished. And of course, he sees himself as the sole arbitrator of what is good and what is bad. This is why he's so fixated on Daemon; I think he sees Daemon's ability to be confident, to rise high, to remain influential despite being second born as incredibly impressive and wants to emulate it, but in The Good Way because Daemon Is Bad.

Aemond is play-acting at a story where he's the hero and Daemon is his shadow self and has tunnel vision; I genuinely don't think he thinks about Rhaenyra much at all beyond thinking of her as the Whore to his mother (and helaena's) Madonna. He doesn't think her of a mother any more than he thinks of her as a woman, really. She's simply The Enemy, simply Rhaenyra the Whore, the Cunny Queen.

For Aegon that's a bit more complicated. In the books, I think there's an implication there that Aegon has a bit of a latent fascination there. Most of his ire is directed at her sons and not Rhaenyra himself - he takes issue with Jacaerys dancing with Helaena, he fights with the boys during practice, etc - and the few bits of dialogue we get are often Aegon speaking about Rhaenyra:

Moreover, the prince at first refused to be a part of his mother’s plans. “My sister is the heir, not me,” he says in Eustace’s account. “What sort of brother steals his sister’s birthright?” Only when Ser Criston convinced him that the princess must surely execute him and his brothers should she don the crown did Aegon waver. “Whilst any trueborn Targaryen yet lives, no Strong can ever hope to sit the Iron Throne,” Cole said. “Rhaenyra has no choice but to take your heads if she wishes her bastards to rule after her.” It was this, and only this, that persuaded Aegon to accept the crown that the small council was offering him, insists our gentle septon.

Aegon II was two-and-twenty, quick to anger and slow to forgive. Rhaenyra’s refusal to accept his rule enraged him. “I offered her an honorable peace, and the whore spat in my face,” he declared. “What happens next is on her own head.”

“Sister,” he called down from a balcony. Unable to walk, or even stand, he had been carried there in a chair. The hip shattered at Rook’s Rest had left Aegon bent and twisted, his once-handsome features had grown puffy from milk of the poppy, and burn scars covered half his body. Yet Rhaenyra knew him at once, and said, “Dear brother. I had hoped that you were dead.” “After you,” Aegon answered. “You are the elder.” “I am pleased to know that you remember that,” Rhaenyra answered.

There's something here I think. An even more twisted version of Daemon's issues with Viserys, a sort of mirror to Viserys III and Dany. A fascination with her, at what might have been between them if they were a bit closer in age, if Viserys had been less stubborn and short sighted. There's a hatred here that I think is rooted in the fact that they could have married, that she could have been his. I suppose it's more of an implication than anything, but I do think that yes, Aegon is fascinated with Rhaenyra, drawn to her a bit, and some of his hostility towards her sons is this sort of "if she had married me they'd be trueborn and we wouldn't have this problem" idea, as a bit of a mirror to Daemon and Viserys being very aware that if Daemon was a girl they could have married.

The show is where, imo, you get into Aegon being attracted to her because Rhaenyra very much identifies herself as a Loving Mother to the outside world; she even specifically points to the rumors about her sons when she's talking to Mysaria as one of the points against her. The whole show is very focused on motherhood, especially (imo) on mothers and their sons; and again while Aemond's story is more preoccupied with his own mother, there's this implication between Rhaenyra and Aegon here. He feels like he can never measure up to Rhaenyra, who is perfect in every way - Viserys loved her more and of course he did because Rhaenyra is a kind mother to all her children, has a loyal husband willing to go batshit insane for her at a moment's notice, has this sort of easiness about her that he is incapable of emulating. During the dinner scene in season 1, there's several points where you can see Aegon clearly staring at her and Daemon. In the carriage scene with Alicent, he is very fixated on the fact that Viserys never liked him. Then, in season 2, a lot of his crumbling comes when he is unable to measure up to that Kingly Ideal (while Rhaenyra is in the middle of rising to it). There's that conversation with Larys where Aegon calls himself the realm's delight, which was what Rhaenyra is called.

I think not dissimilar to Daemon, Aegon has an incredibly hard time sorting through his feelings and drawing lines between different sorts of emotions. Married to one sister and deeply aware that he almost married the other. Constantly reaching out emotionally to a mother that is incapable of connecting to him despite her clear connection to Helaena (the sister he didn't want to marry) and her fondness for Rhaenyra (the sister he almost married). I think he looks at the way Rhaenyra's children and stepchildren all seemingly get along and support each other and feels like That Should Have Been Him. His longing is not for power but emotional intimacy, yet he is incapable of connecting to and understanding the vulnerabilities of the people he wants to be emotionally intimate with; he doesn't understand why his mother hates him for raping Dyana, he doesn't understand why Aemond hates him for all the teasing, he can't bring himself to connect to Helaena because he resents their marriage, he can barely bring himself to connect to his own kids! I think this deep longing for love really manifests itself as hatred towards Rhaenyra; the line between passion and hate is very thin after all!

#and like i don't think that first quote goes exactly that way- i think eustace is editorializing a LOT and aegon was likely #much less charitable. but i DO think there's some truth there that aegon who was known for being lazy was basically like #'let rhaenyra be queen what the fuck do i care' very similar to the show where he makes that 'viserys never liked me' comment #asks #akar3n #rhaegon

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therealslimshakespeare · 1 year ago

Text

My Mother’s Child

Fandom: House of the Dragon, GRRM’s Fire and Blood

Pairing: Alicent Hightower x Aemond Targaryen

Summary: im a sucker for any GRRM universe and setting but after the recent release of the trailer for House of the Dragon’s second season I can’t quite contain the muses. So here is my self indulgent spillage of thoughts i entertained while watching the first. Perhaps growing up obsessed with Greek Myths, Shakespeare Anti-heroes and Renaissance families took its toll on my moral fascinations but the minute I see a codependent dynamic in a brutally restricted society I go a little nutty on the psycho-analysis and then it turns to feelings and then it turns to fiction.

Timeline: I’ve entirely had my wicked way with events and outcomes, nothing is critically pertinent but Aemond’s time in the Riverlands is changed, the time of Maelor’s birth is fudged, Aemond doesn’t die but is recalled to be regent again after Aegon’s demise, I’ve really no clue which of the Blacks are alive but the gist of it is the war has gone in favor of the Greens for the most part and now Aemond can come into his Crafty Uncle Richard III Regent era while obsessing over his pretty mom. Cheers.

Authors Note: im in no way romanticizing or advocating for the universe typical incest, warped relationships, casual murder, deranged intentions or the dire outcome portrayed of a stunted mother’s dependence on her worrisomely dependable son. Not proof read, have mercy on my tired eyes. Specific warnings below the cut:

Warnings: 18+, dead dove do not eat -thematically disturbing. An exploration of Alicent’s dependence on Aemond during his regency and beyond, undertones of attraction on Aemond’s part and submission to him on Alicent’s, combined with their delusional domesticity by coparenting little Maelor may disturb some. There is some physical touch that Aemond makes weird, his impure thoughts that are blamed on Targaryen tendencies, his recollections of sleeping in her bed as a child, him fucking Alys Rivers and imagining his mom sorta? along with sending Alicent his cum stained letters, calling Maelor “their boy” as if they are his parents, open ending suggesting a potential escalation in the dynamic. I tried to keep this as in character as possible so these warnings sound far more stark and crass than I hope the actual fic reads

It was Aemond sent to fetch his wayward brother, it was Aemond relied upon to soothe his sister, it was Aemond who absorbed Ser Criston Cole’s teaching, it was Aemond who stood any chance of gaining Otto Hightower’s commendation and through it some crumb of praise for the produce of poor, weary, teary eyed Alicent Hightower.

It was little more responsibility for Aemond Targaryen to quickly become the closest thing his mother had to a bosom friend by the time of his maturity, easily adding so weighty a role to those he already held as Lord Regent, terror of the realm, kinslayer and learned heir. It came as naturally to him as had filling each of its predecessors.

Whatever hopeless compulsion, dragon bound and magic made, to be loyal to his family that already ran in his poisoned blood, it was only ever magnified by the sight of his mother’s dutiful martyrdom, year after year bleeding herself out -and all the while not a soul to staunch the wound but him. Surely her husband the King only made it larger with each neglect or attention he paid her, and Aegon had long since been the sour fruit of a painful initiation. Helaena for reasons as gentle as they were cruel could not bear her own mother’s company -nor was the realm that sweet daughter lived in that of the Seven Kingdoms, where Alicent spent her every waking moment dwelling on and maneuvering for her boy King. Helaena lived in dreams and lived to avoid dreams and all Alicent had were harsh realities and dreams so trodden under the march of time that they resembled very little to their former selves by the retelling.

Aemond lived in the bridge between the two women of his house. There were dear to him the cherished traditions of Old Valyria and also, there were crucial to him the pressing matters of harvest and uprising and famine and the throne of Westeros.

He too lived in the Seven Kingdoms, he was practically their king, and like the manner in which he had long led this family by innate authority, such a role came naturally to him, as did sitting by the hearth in his mother's antechamber each evening, a recreation of the way he had stayed with her night after night in the wake of Driftmark, and discussing with her the petitions of the day, outcomes whose decisions needed making before dawn and hopes for the future.

Aemond felt close to her then, and dismal though the Kingdom’s prospects often felt, between the two of them there was calm in these moments. For once in his life Aemond did not find himself chafing under its soothing influence, but instead he would match her in her reclining, legs spread wide in his chair and silver head tilted to rest on the gilt chair, their hands near to brushing and let the connection grow until he wondered if he too were a dreamer and could know her inner thoughts, know her bewilderment and also her relief when he took from her the weight of the day with his sober companionship.

It felt odd parting in the evenings after these talks, what had once been a ritual of her comforting his painful wound in his youth and holding him close through the nighttime terror now felt necessary to be repeated as cure from her own dejection. Only her last remaining grandson Maelor provided some support to Alicent, she herself a child grown old using her own children to soothe herself.

Aemond saw to it that Maelor was brought often to their evening chats, a docile boy with an intense interest in blocks, he was no distraction from their more weighty discussions but when the evening grew late and the moon high and Aemond’s better judgment waned at the soft sight of his mother’s tender form and unguarded appreciation for his presence by her side, there was Maelor to place in her arms in instead of himself, and there was Maelor to pat her arms and lay upon her breast and enjoy the uncomplicated devotion of a mother that Aemond had never known.

Perhaps if his father the King had even once played the role of father, Aemond would not have spent his childhood clasped to that soft bosom while pretending he were the one being comforted by it and not her. He was older now and he had read of such dynamics, he had read of myths and scandals, Maester’s studies of the codependent phenomenon that blurs the line between each familial role. Childlike herself, his mother deserved not another man to have designs on her but a child, a true child she could dote upon and cuddle at night and a good son to tell her,

“You are weary, come, I’ll walk you to bed. Nevermind his blanket, I have it.”

and so it was Maelor who lay with her, Maelor who delighted her, Maelor who took up the space that had last been Aemond’s under her left arm. Only Aemond now allowed himself the task of tucking the furs about them both and stroking the tear tracks off her cheek, leaning down to kiss her forehead as she had dreamed of her own father doing. And then, Aemond betook himself to his own chambers laden with her burdens and his own and fell into the bedding with pleasure in his heart at having been entrusted with the wearisome load.

It continued thus in a pleasurable routine until the Riverlands called for his attention. Aegon was propped up, scarred and dim, on his neglected throne and Alicent was made Protector of the Realm and immediately thereafter Aemond found himself in the courtyard, Vhaegar waiting for him to mount and lead the reinforcements.

As Aemond pressed his thin lips to mother’s forehead in farewell for the duration of a long campaign, little Maelor who was in her arms laid hold of Aemond’s silver locks and seized them tightly during the moment between mother and son, holding the prince hostage a bit longer, for a moment nearer,

“dada.” -the infant nephew babbled to his uncle Aemond for a kiss of his own and to judge by Alicent’s alarmed expression, Aemond’s enforced separation from this little family they had made of a year’s evenings could not have come a moment too soon.

It haunted him, that flash of horror on his mother’s face at an infant’s small confusion. It brought back a seething reproach against her for all the times she’d never understood him, all the times she had raged against his very nature as a Dragon, holding him up with disgust and pride all at once until his head spun with it and he had learned to dance to her every whim, now the devout follower of Old Town and now the noble Dragon whose rights were being denied.

But woe to him should he be one or the other when it did not suit her. She thought his innate longing for a dragon to be imbecilic when he was young and yet she glowed with pride when he called out those Strong bastards for being anything but pure blooded dragons themselves.

As always with her duty, she hated herself for its outcome yet chose to cloak herself in pride for her sacrifices. His very existence, those of his siblings too, was sacrifice, his very bloodline and nature was an abomination against her faith, his impulses were beastly however much he took her principles to heart, and his tastes remained strange no matter how stifled her own had long remained.

But she had made him. How dare she be repulsed by her own creation.

Prince Aemond’s ire burned through him and suited the needs of war far better than kinder feelings of pining for hearth and home, so he stayed angry with his mother at each hack and hewing of his blade, each swath of farmland he burnt and every ill organized column of traitor levys he annihilated.

Capable, he is the capable son and his mother writes to him thanking him for it and he crushes the missive in his hand before regret surges after and he strokes the parchment flat again on his desk with all the revernace of a lover for his beloved’s skin.

He is kinder the parchment than he is to Alys Rivers.

Alys who is older and smart and wicked, who never once flinches at his nature, who accepts the ruthless pace of his hips and the mauling of his mouth with her own vigor, Alys who he swears to himself is a wartime necessity, the humors most flow somewhere and if he is to bleed he must also spill and she is there and trustworthy and her aura reminds in the moments after pain, warm arms holding him tight on his right side lest he roll on his wounded eye in sleep. The eye does not throb in that raw way any longer, it is a dull and perpetual ache he can expect to remain with him for all time, but the longing for such comfort remains and he lays atop Alys’ matronly breast often for longer than his daylight-sobered self can countenance.

He writes of her to his mother, to grieve her with his sin as much as not to withhold anything from her, he has not before and why should he now? Her reply is stifled and terse in regards to his admission, barely even a line and he must squint to decipher wether it pertains to the subject he is most anxious to hear from her about. But as he thumbs the well familiar scrawl of her pen he can imagine the set of her mouth and the pleading of her eyes, so different from true distress, no, instead it is the girlish patheticness she plays at, despite its lack of success all these years and how the same years have robbed her of the youthful vulnerability that once made men take notice of it.

Only Aemond remains affected by it, and he finds it so deliciously false that he teases it out of her as a treat for himself on occasion. Aegon may have it whenever he sees fit, though being a fool he thinks every crease to her forehead is that of genuine concern. Aemond’s knows her better than that, and sees her pouting eyes come through the written admonition to “keep himself in good company”.

He smirks at Alys when she enters his tent and finds him rolling up the motherly advice. He ploughs her atop the volumes of communication his dear mother has sent him during this campaign and the parchment he sends back to her with his report next morning is stained.

Aemond doesn’t need to hope that she smells his letters for sweat and smoke the same way he smells hers for rosewater and thyme. He knows she does, he has caught them under her pillow and in her pockets when returning to the Keep, time and again, without warning. He knows she prays for him to outlive them all and he knows she will kiss the stains she mistakes for tears. A holy horror fills him at the satisfaction that thought brings, and after it has taken root he cannot find it in himself to enjoy Alys’ cheerful vigor any longer or the dark appetites they once shared. She is too eager, she is too unabashed, there is too little shame for his taste.

Alys is a whore and Aemond longs for the droopy eyed piety of his mother’s face when he tucks her abed, the melancholy contentment of his dutiful care for her and the mislaid trust that she has domesticated her little dragonling to the faith of the seven, her plaint limbed trust that the Warrior and Mother would never meet in the throes of burning want that consume him.

When his task is done, or near to done in these rebellious lands, and a call comes of his brother’s failing health, Aegon mounts Vheagar a disillusioned man, flying high and away above the wreckage he has committed and leaving behind the last Strong bastard dead as promised.

Alicent’s son is a man fully grown when he alights in the courtyard, long limbed and toned from his wartime deprivations, the set of his jaw remains firm but his gait is looser, there is a confidence in bloom now that was only budding before he left. Alicent cannot hide her joy at seeing him again, her pace is faster than is strictly proper as she breaks ranks of the welcoming party to greet him -it is her right as reigning regent.

As his mother.

She clasps his hands and feels his strong fingers engulf her forearms, tugging her nearer in an almost playful fashion -the action suits his new demeanor of confidence but it hardly suits the action of a son greeting his mother.

“Muña,” his rich voice murmurs to her as he stares down at her with not a bit of the usual softening in his sharp features, his lips quirk and his eyes sharply plumb through the depths of her own, “I am come home, as you asked.”

Unnerved by his intensity, Alicent gives him a trembling smile, watery eyes darting from one dear feature in that ethereal face to the next -it is the war terrors, perhaps, that have him so ardent in his tone and grip, men often come back from battle strung taut.

“Then we are safe.” she sighs, meaning it for their family even as her own heart quickens in vague misgiving.

“Maelor?” he questions, not even bothering to ask after the current king, his blood brother, it is the infant he has already fashioned into a surrogate son that interests him now.

“Is well.” his mother glows at the mention of the babe, “Growing and talking more each week.”

“And his mother?” Aemond asks with a soft light in his face as he ducks to meet her eye to eye, and Alicent knows he does not mean the poor Helaena gone mad in the tower, he means Alicent.

“Well enough.” She insists with all the age-old weariness that suggests, and is meant to inform him, otherwise.

Aemond’s jaw ticks in recognition of the old habit, his mother lies often for so pious a woman and she manipulates even more frequently for so devout a defender of the truth. It is a child’s tactic and he knows it, and that fury over it that had filled him in his days in the Riverlands surges back in another form, he feels a superiority in that moment even as he is being played by her weary pout and soft hands.

It is a woman’s way of asking a man to carry her load, to disarm her of her duties, to take from her the pretense of capability and taste for ruling.

Aemond’s conflict for such a role died somewhere with Alys in the Riverlands, by his own hand, in his own bed, his mother’s last letter dancing before his sightless eye. It is with confidence and entitlement that he glides his hands down her shapely arms and takes her hands in his, weighing them between them as she watches in surprise. He thumbs over the knuckles before splaying them out in his much larger palms and running a forefinger over the mangled cuticles.

“Mmm, not well enough for my liking, judging by this.” he remarks and when she goes to snatch the evidence of her worry away he clasps them stronger until it is an undeniable struggle for her to take them back -one he denies with an iron grip and a patronizing smile that she has only ever seen Aegon receive from him. “Those days are over, munta, we will have peace and plenty now.” he drags her stiff arm through his own and turns them towards the entrance of the Keep, patting the sore fingers laying on his arm, “And I’ll have no more of…this.”

Dazed, Alicent allows him to lead her through the great doors and into the colossal tomb that has been her children's home, she stares up at the familiar face of her third born in the light of the grand hall’s torches and marvels at the comfort one existence can bring another. Just as she fears the firm hold on her hand and heeds the temptation she feels to obey a man child she should be governing. These thoughts are put to flight when Aemond halts and turns to her warmly, no sneer remaining and no cold authority left when he whispers excitedly,

“Will you take me to our boy?”

The instant awareness of his meaning, that he means his nephew, that he means her grandson, that he means the future king, that he means Maelor -it sickens her how natural her impulse is to smile back at Aemond’s oddly paternal expression, to lead him back to her antechambers and reunite the little family they made before the war called him and that witch possessed the son Alicent had so lovingly made pure and noble in her belly. It is balm to hear him grown and saying that they are one again, that she is paramount in his life once more, that together they have made something gentler and better than any bastard lovechild conceived in wartime.

“Come.” Alicent urges her son, taking his scarred hand in her soft one as she had a million times before to lead him to the Sept. Yet this time, Alicent leads Aemond to her rooms and the cradle of their future King.

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